Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘We are going to die,’ Gresnay announced. ‘We are going to die in this awful benighted manor. Killed by some tail-bearing Englishman. Do you understand me?’ He got to his feet, his face mottled in fury.

He turned to Sir John but Gismond stepped in between them.

‘I think you’d best sit down,’ he said softly. ‘The coroner is not responsible for your friend’s murder.’

‘Well, who is?’ Vamier expostulated. He flapped his hands around. ‘Where’s the arbalest? Where’s the crossbow? Gresnay and I haven’t got a pin between us!’

‘Master Gismond,’ Sir John barked. ‘Take Maltravers here. I want this place searched for anything suspicious: knives, daggers, cross-bows, anything!’

Ordering Vamier to take the corpse by the feet, he shifted the body on to the bed. Athelstan knelt down, whispered the words of absolution and made the sign of the cross. He had barely finished when Sir Walter staggered into the room, clutching his stomach. He took one look at the corpse and crouched down just inside the door. His face was pale, flecks of vomit stained the corner of his mouth.

‘Another one dead!’ he grated. ‘I’ve lost everything.’ He began to sob quietly, head down, shoulders shaking.

Even the prisoners looked pityingly at their keeper.

‘I swear to God I had no hand in the deaths of any of them. While my daughter’s death is a punishment from God for my hateful heart!’

Sir John walked over and crouched beside him.

‘Come on, man,’ he urged. ‘Take a drop of wine. It will settle your stomach, not too much.’

Sir Walter obeyed.

‘Now, get to your feet.’ Sir John pulled him up by the elbows. ‘You are an English knight, you are distraught and, like us, you are in the Devil’s Domain. A killer walks the galleries of Hawkmere. Now, it could be one of those.’ He pointed across to the two Frenchmen. ‘Or, indeed, anyone here.’

‘It can’t be the Frenchmen,’ Sir Walter muttered, glancing shame-facedly at them. ‘Not even my own men carry crossbows. They are locked away in the armoury and that’s padlocked twice over. Gismond keeps one key, I keep the other.’ He spread his hands beseechingly. ‘Sir John, what am I to do?’

‘I have a suggestion.’ The friar spoke up. ‘And it may save more lives. Our two French prisoners should be separated and locked in their chambers. A guard inside and one without. They are to be served food direct from the kitchen. They are not allowed to meet anyone except the soldier who is in the room with them.’

Vamier went to protest but Athelstan held his hand up.

‘No, no, it’s the safest way.’

‘He speaks the truth,’ Gresnay said. ‘It should have been done before. I am sorry, Pierre.’ He glanced at Vamier. ‘But, until our ransoms are paid, even if the assassin strikes again, such measures might trap him.’

‘But why be kept separate?’ Vamier protested. ‘Whoever killed poor Maneil there carried a crossbow and quarrel. Whoever killed him must have been a member of the garrison here or a visitor. And,’ he added finally, ‘Monsieur de Fontanel left long before poor Eudes was slain.’

Sir Maurice came back into the room.

‘The armoury is still sealed and locked,’ he announced. ‘Gismond told me that no man carries arbalests, the guards have long bows and quivers.’

‘Sir Walter.’ Sir John snapped his fingers. ‘Have these two men put in their chambers immediately! The guards must be posted. Care must be taken with their food.’

‘I’ll taste it myself,’ Sir Walter offered, eager to assert his authority.

Sir John and Athelstan made their farewells and, a short while later, they and Sir Maurice left the manor.

The day was drawing on. Athelstan reckoned it must be close to Vespers time, for the blue sky was scored with red. A breeze had sprung up and clouds were massing over the city. He looked at the scorched grass.

‘It will be good if there’s a storm,’ he remarked. ‘The earth needs to drink and we, Sir John, need to trap an assassin.’

‘I am not going back into the city. I suppose, Sir Maurice, you’ll accompany Brother Athelstan. I am going to search out my friends the scrimperers,’ the coroner said, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘I wonder if they know about some poor whore who has gone missing?’

‘Ah, the business of the Golden Cresset?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘They’ll be able to help,’ Athelstan said. I know their reputation. But, Sir John, while you are busy with that could you seek someone else who deals in poisons?’

‘Vulpina was the best,’ he grumbled. ‘But I’ll search and see.’

They walked for a while towards St Giles, where Sir John left them. Athelstan felt tired so he and Sir Maurice hired a ride in a cart which made its way down through Portsoken around the walls of the city and down to the Tower. They then walked on to the Woolquay and hired a barge to take them across the now choppy waters of the Thames into Southwark.

By the time they reached St Erconwald’s, the storm Athelstan had predicted was beginning to gather. The breeze had grown strong, the clouds, blocking out the setting sun, now massed low and threatening. They found Godbless in the church fast asleep with one arm round Thaddeus. Huddle had been busy on the wall and, in the fading light, Athelstan could make out the charcoal lines. He told Sir Maurice to wake Godbless and take him and Thaddeus back to the priest’s house while he crossed the cemetery.

The ditch Watkin and Pike had dug was growing longer. Athelstan studied the hard-packed earth around the foundations of the cemetery wall.

‘That was built to last,’ he said to himself. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that wall.’

Still slightly suspicious, Athelstan was about to climb in to examine it more closely when the first large drops of rain changed his mind. He went back, closed the death house door and returned to the kitchen where Sir Maurice had already built up the small fire. The knight tapped the cauldron hung on a tripod.

‘Someone has left you a stew.’ He sniffed at it. ‘The meat and vegetables are fresh.’

Athelstan knelt beside him.

‘It’s Benedicta,’ he said. ‘The widow woman.’ He gestured round. ‘She keeps the place clean as a pin. Where’s Godbless?’

‘He’s still in church. He says he likes it there.’

Athelstan went to the buttery where he filled a bowl of water and washed his hands and face. He went up into the bed loft and found the Dominican robes Simon the scrivener had brought back. Below the door opened and Godbless came in.

‘Stir the stew!’ Athelstan shouted down. ‘You’ll find a ladle in the buttery! When it’s piping hot, call me down!’

‘I like stews,’ Godbless called up. ‘Master Merrylegs gave me a pie free but I’m still hungry!’

‘Good.’

Athelstan lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He said a short prayer but, distracted, his mind went back to Hawkmere. How did those men die? Routier like some wretched dog out on the heathland. And Maneil with a crossbow bolt in his throat. Sir Walter and Aspinall had access to poisons but, although he had no real evidence, he believed that the physician’s explanation was satisfactory. So, where did the poisons come from? And who had the crossbow and the bolt? Surely not one of the French prisoners? He heard Sir Maurice laugh at something Godbless had said. Was Maltravers innocent? Or, despite his protestations, Limbright? Or was there someone else in the manor? Some secret assassin hidden away? Was Mercurius one of the guards?

‘It’s possible,’ Athelstan whispered, his eyes growing heavy. He fell into a deep sleep and woke confused when the knight shook him by the shoulder.

Athelstan pulled himself up.