Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

Sir John ruffled his hair and twirled his moustache.

‘In my day.’ He slurped from the tankard. ‘In my day, I was truly a lady’s man, fleet of foot, sharp of eye and keen of wit. I could dance. Oh, I could dance, Athelstan! Those were the glory days when the great Edward held his court. I mean no offence, but men like Sir Maurice were as many as pebbles on the beach. Slim as a greyhound.’ Sir John wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Fast as a swooping hawk!’

Athelstan gazed affectionately at this great mound of generous, laughter-filled man with a body as big as his heart.

‘You did very well, Sir Maurice,’ Sir John said approvingly, then bawled for another tankard. ‘And the Lady Angelica is most beautiful. You could lose your soul in those eyes. If I were younger.’ He tapped his fleshy nose. ‘Never tell the Lady Maude but, if I were younger, Sir Maurice, I’d enter the lists against you. Oh the days!’ he sighed. ‘Oh, the passing of time!’

‘One thing I did notice,’ Athelstan said, putting his tankard back on the table. He watched a young boy sitting in the doorway, a pet weasel in his lap. ‘Lady Angelica knew nothing of that business at the Golden Cresset. Now, if that had been the work of Sir Thomas Parr, he would have let his daughter know immediately.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Sir John said, nose in his tankard. He put it down and smacked his lips. ‘I’ve asked my scrivener, Simon, a veritable ferret of a man, to seek out among the bawds and whores, the brothels and the courtesans, to discover if any young woman is missing.’

‘Sir John?’ A shadow darkened the door.

‘It’s magic. I speak the man’s name and he appears! Simon, come here!’

His spindly-shanked scrivener tottered across. Sir John offered him his tankard, which the fellow drained in one gulp. Then he smiled at Sir John’s glowering glance.

‘A message arrived for you at the Guildhall. You are needed at Hawkmere.’ He stared quizzically at Sir Maurice. ‘Don’t I know you?’

‘Mind your own business!’ Sir John snapped. ‘What’s happened at Hawkmere?’

‘One of the prisoners has escaped and Sir Walter Limbright’s beside himself with rage!’

They arrived at Hawkmere Manor dishevelled and dusty, hot and perspiring. Sir Maurice had taken off his Dominican robes and was now dressed in brown woollen leggings and white shirt, his military cloak slung over his shoulder. He had left his friar’s robes with Simon who, for a penny, had agreed to take them back across the river to St Erconwald’s.

Sir John had led them at almost a furious charge up through Farringdon Ward and across Holborn. Only now and again would he stop to catch his breath and loudly declaim, ‘A French prisoner escape! Limbright has got a lot to answer for.’

Hawkmere Manor was in uproar. The yard was thronged with soldiers and archers. Huntsmen had great mastiffs which strained at their leashes, their barking echoing round the grey ragstone walls. Horsemen came and went. Sir Walter strode up and down shouting orders, wiping the perspiration from his face. On the steps of the Great Hall his moon-faced daughter sat, picking at the ground. The three French prisoners stood nearby, closely guarded by men-at-arms. Beneath a tree, which afforded the only shade in the sun-filled manor yard, Monsieur Charles de Fontanel sat with his back to the trunk, sipping at a cup of wine and eating from a small napkin laid out on his lap. Beside him his horse, held by a greasy-haired squire, cropped at the sparse grass. As soon as he glimpsed them, Fontanel jumped to his feet and strode across as if to reach the visitors before Sir Walter Limbright noticed that they had arrived. He took off his small cap and gave the most mocking bow.

‘My lord coroner, Brother Athelstan. We meet again.’ He gestured round the yard. ‘According to the rules of war, Sir John, prisoners are supposed to be protected and well guarded. I will protest most resolutely to my Lord of Gaunt.’

‘It is not my fault,’ Sir Walter came up, his puce-coloured face covered in sweat, ‘that the prisoner has escaped!’

‘How do we know that?’ Sir John countered. ‘How do we know the poor fellow isn’t dead and his body hidden somewhere in this benighted place?’

‘Philippe Routier has escaped,’ Sir Walter insisted, not even bothering to glance at de Fontanel.

‘Show me!’ Sir John ordered.

Sir Walter led them through the manor and into the small garden behind the main house. He pointed to the far wall.

‘If you notice, Sir John, there are footholds there. Two soldiers were in the garden. A quarrel broke out among the prisoners. Routier used this to climb the garden wall.’

He led them through the garden gate and into the dusty yard beyond where he pointed to an outhouse.

‘He went through there, unobserved by the sentries, climbed through, loosened a shutter and escaped across the heath.’

‘Wouldn’t the soldiers on the wall have noticed?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, they wouldn’t,’ Sir John replied, feeling rather sorry for Sir Walter, who was so agitated. ‘Sentries tend to look in: their job was to ensure that no one left the castle rather than broke in.’

‘Thank you, Sir John. They were also lazy. In fact, they were sitting on the parapet, Routier must have known that. Once you’re out, the land dips and falls and there are gorse bushes to hide behind.’ He shrugged. ‘But we are wasting time.’

They returned to the main manor yard. The three visitors, together with de Fontanel, joined Sir Walter and his men as they fanned out over the hot heathland. Ahead of them the grooms released the mastiffs which now ran about trying to detect the scent. Eventually one did and, followed by the rest, bounded over the sun-scorched grass towards a copse of trees in the far distance. The hounds stopped for a while where the land dipped. When Sir John reached the place, he squatted down, Sir Maurice with him. The grass here was scuffed, bread crumbs lay scattered about.

‘He paused here for a while,’ the coroner murmured. ‘But then pressed on. He ate…’

A loud howling cut him short. The soldiers were now running towards the copse of trees where the mastiffs were bounding about. A sound of a horn rose above the shouts and yelps.

By the time they reached the copse the dogs had been whipped in, leashes attached. Sir Walter was kneeling beside the corpse sprawled on the grass beneath the tree.

‘He’s dead. The poor bastard’s dead as a nail!’

The others grouped round. Athelstan knelt down. One look at Routier’s corpse was enough. The man’s skin was now a dirty white, the eyes rolled back, the open mouth stained, the tongue slightly swollen. Athelstan undid the leather jacket then the tattered shirt beneath. Purplish stains blotched the stomach and chest. The hands were cold and waxen to the touch. Beside the corpse was a water bottle and a linen cloth containing some bread and a little dried meat. Athelstan leaned across and picked them up and sniffed at them: he could find nothing amiss.

‘He could have died of apoplexy,’ Sir Walter said hopefully.

De Fontanel shook his head. ‘Routier was an accomplished sailor. A man of good physique.’

‘I am afraid I must agree with Monsieur de Fontanel,’ Athelstan said, getting to his feet. He sketched a blessing over the corpse. ‘Routier was poisoned before he left the manor.’ He pointed back over the heathland. ‘He would feel weak, perhaps the first early symptoms, so he paused where the land dips, and took some sustenance. But, by the time he reached the trees, the full effect of the poison made itself known. The poor man collapsed here and died.’

‘It’s disgraceful,’ de Fontanel said. ‘These are citizens of the French Crown. Prisoners of war, they honourably surrendered, they should be honourably treated.’