Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

Cranston took a drink from his wineskin and glanced back up the stairs.

‘It could still be murder,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Limbright hates the French, the French hate him. The death of his daughter could be seen as a terrible act of vengeance. Master Aspinall, do you think that any of these prisoners have such malice?’

The physician shook his head.

‘They strike me as soldiers, warriors. They might pillage and burn in the heat of battle but deliberately kill a poor madcap?’ He pulled a face. ‘No.’

Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Lucy was found in her own room. The door was open. Is that not right?’

‘So the soldier told me,’ Aspinall replied. ‘The door was open and she was lying on the rushes.’

‘What is the longest time over which a poison can take effect?’ Athelstan asked.

‘In my studies,’ Aspinall shrugged, ‘certainly no more than an hour. However, if I follow your logic, it would be nigh impossible to see where Lucy had gone. She wandered this manor like a ghost.’

‘So, it would be futile to investigate her death?’

‘Yes, Brother, Lucy was frightened of both the French and the guards. She would take nothing from them and only heaven knows where she was in the time before her death!’

Athelstan glanced away. Lucy had certainly taken or been given the poison during the chaos caused by Routier’s escape. Aspinall was right: God knows where she went but, Athelstan reflected, would the girl take something from this physician?

‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John.’ Sir Maurice, arms crossed, tapped his boot against the paved stones. ‘Let us say for the sake of argument that the assassin is one of the prisoners. I know it’s hard to believe but…’

‘I know what you are going to say,’ Sir John interrupted. ‘Logic dictates that there will be two more deaths and the man left alive must be the assassin.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Athelstan said. ‘God knows what de Fontanel will do. He may have the prisoners’ ransoms ready and have them out of Hawkmere. For all we know Routier’s death could be the last. What we should do before we leave Hawkmere is search this manor from top to bottom, and that includes the prisoners’ rooms. Master Aspinall, if you would keep an eye on Sir Walter, my colleagues and I will begin our search. The guards cannot protest. I suppose Monsieur de Fontanel has left?’

‘Yes,’ Sir John replied. ‘He left the hall and walked straight out of the manor.’

Athelstan rubbed the end of his nose. ‘Let’s begin in the garden.’

In the small garret which served as his chamber as well as his cell, Eudes Maneil pulled the bolt securing his door and sat at the small table placed just beneath the arrow slit window. He stared out at the blue sky. A bird whirled by and Maneil felt a pang of envy. The same sky, the same sun as in France. He half-closed his eyes. The Paris markets would be busy now. Its taverns and the cookshops full, the narrow streets a sea of colour, thronged with merchants, their wives, students from the Sorbonne, clerks and scriveners. How nice it would be to stroll those alleyways, flirt with the courtesans then sit in a tavern and enjoy a stew of fresh meat and vegetables, a cup of malmsey or some of the best claret Bordeaux could produce. Maneil’s stomach grumbled in protest. He opened his eyes, his fingers tapping the table. Would he ever see Paris again? The St Sulpice and St Denis had been taken. He had resigned himself to a fairly lengthy and sordid imprisonment amongst the Goddamns, these tail-bearing Englishmen, but now it had grown dangerous. Maneil looked over his shoulder at the door. How on earth had Routier and Serriem been killed? He was sure that both his companions had been careful in what they ate and drank. There was no hidden supply of food. Sir Walter was a tight-fisted miser and the kitchen and buttery were kept under close guard. So was he the murderer? Maneil scratched his chin. Was that why the poor, witless Lucy had died? Had she gone into her father’s chamber? Or was it someone else? There was something he had seen this morning, out there in the garden. He recalled Routier walking up and down then he had left, gone back into the hall. Someone had followed him, he was sure, but who was it?

Maneil went and lay down on his bed. Before he had run away to sea, Maneil’s father had put him into one of the best church schools in Paris. Maneil recalled how he had been taught to collect evidence, sift it and draw a conclusion. So, if the assassin was one of them, that same person must be the spy in the pay of the English milords. But that seemed impossible. If there had been a spy among the French officers taking English gold, why should that spy now turn assassin? Maneil breathed in. Never once, and he had known the other four for a number of years, had he seen or heard anything suspicious. Indeed, his companions had all lost kinfolk to the English and were fiercely committed to the bloody war at sea. So, if there was no spy, why should one of them now turn to murder? Maneil recalled Routier sitting at table breaking his fast. He had been against his companion’s attempted escape. Routier, however, had whispered that he could stand Hawkmere no longer: he had to break out or he would become as witless as Limbright’s daughter. He had refused to listen to Maneil. He’d eaten his bread and drunk the ale Sir Walter had provided. Maneil had been sitting by him all the time. True, Gresnay had saved some of his meal for Routier to take with him. However, this had been a spontaneous gesture while Gresnay had eaten some of the bread and meat. They had then left the hall and gone into the garden. The only time Routier had left them was when he went back into the manor.

Maneil heard a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’

Again the knock. Maneil sighed and swung his feet off the bed. He pulled back the bolt, opened it and the crossbow quarrel struck him full in the throat.

Athelstan was still studying the garden; Sir John was taking some small refreshment in the arbour, mopping his brow, Sir Maurice was elsewhere when Simon Gismond, Sir Walter Limbright’s captain of the guard, came out shouting for Sir John.

‘What is it?’ he demanded crossly.

‘My lord coroner, one of the prisoners is dead.’

‘Poisoned?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Might as well be. A crossbow quarrel full in his throat. The corpse is still slightly warm. You’d best come and see.’

They followed him back into the manor and met Sir Maurice on the stairs. All three followed Gismond up along the dusty, shabby gallery. The door to the chamber was open. Maneil was lying on his back, arms out, head slightly twisted. The front of his jerkin was soaked in blood which had splashed out to form a dark red puddle around his head. A soldier stood by the window gazing out.

‘Who found the corpse?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I did.’

The soldier came over, cradling his helmet in his hand. He had a plough boy’s face, open and honest, his cheeks chapped and red. He took one fresh look at the corpse and hurried back to be sick in the small latrine pot beneath the window.

Athelstan crouched down. He pressed his hand against Maneil’s cheek. It was not yet cold. Aspinall came in. He took one look at the corpse, groaned and knelt beside it, pulling down the jerkin. Athelstan could see the great red angry hole around the crossbow bolt. He looked back at the door. The dead man had been flung at least two or three feet back into the room by the force of the quarrel.

‘He would have died instantly,’ Athelstan said. ‘The crossbow must have been held only inches from his neck.’

Athelstan went through the dead man’s wallet but he could find nothing except a few coins and a scrap of parchment. He walked over to the bed and looked down at the dirty, dishevelled blanket, picked it up and sniffed the sour, acrid smell of stale sweat. He threw it back and turned as Gresnay and Vamier were led into the room. Sir John dismissed the guard but told Gismond to stay. The two Frenchmen took one look at their colleague’s dead face and went and sat on the bed, the most woebegone expression on their faces.