Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘Brother, Godbless has been cooking, it’s ready now.’

Athelstan savoured the sweet smell wafting up from the kitchen.

‘I am starving,’ he said and followed Sir Maurice down the ladder.

Bonaventure had returned and was nestling up to Thaddeus beside the hearth. Godbless had set the table with three bowls, horn spoons, jugs and pewter goblets and a jug of ale from the buttery. Athelstan, still half-asleep, murmured grace and they sat down. He broke the bread, blessed it and gave pieces to his companions. Outside he could hear the rain drumming and the distant rumble of thunder. He ate slowly, for the stew was delicious but boiling hot. Godbless chattered like a squirrel and Sir Maurice, rather bemused, just stared and listened as this old beggar man described how he had fought in the Low Countries, in France and even Northern Italy. Athelstan was still distracted by what had happened at Hawkmere. He could make no sense of it. Now and again he stole a look at the young knight, who could speak so elegantly about love. Was he as innocent as he claimed?

‘What are you going to do about the ghosts, Brother?’ Godbless put his spoon down and stared hungrily at the cauldron above the fire.

‘Eat some more,’ Athelstan told him. ‘And there’s another manchet loaf in the kitchen wrapped in a linen cloth.’

‘What’s this?’ Sir Maurice asked as the beggar man hurried off.

‘He believes that we have ghosts in St Erconwald’s cemetery. Now, I believe in ghosts but not in Southwark. I think it’s some game or a jest, or probably one of my parishioners up to mischief.’

‘There are ghosts.’ Godbless shook his head and returned to the table.

‘You said something else,’ Athelstan recalled. ‘About a man in Italy who should have died but you saw him alive?’

Godbless looked bleary-eyed and Athelstan wondered how much he had drunk that day.

‘Yes, yes.’ Godbless scratched his chin. ‘I don’t really remember now. It will come back to me. Are you Dominican or are you not?’ he asked Sir Maurice, abruptly changing the conversation. ‘That smirking scrivener who brought the robe back, he said it belonged to you.’

‘I was a Dominican for a short while,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘And it’s a great secret and you must not tell anyone, Godbless.’

They paused as the thunder cracked directly above them. Outside the window the lightning flashed, the rain now bouncing off the roof.

‘I had best check on my death house,’ Godbless said, putting his spoon down. ‘No, no,’ he said as Athelstan went to restrain him. ‘I want to make sure there are no holes in that roof.’ He grabbed his cloak, put it over his head and left.

‘A strange fellow.’ Maltravers filled his goblet. ‘Brother, can we return to the convent tomorrow?’

‘No. I am sorry, Sir Maurice, Lady Monica might become too suspicious. Perhaps Wednesday after I have celebrated the Guild of Rat-Catchers’ Mass.’ He jumped at a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘Brother, for the love of God, please help us!’

At the door, a man stood in the darkness, supporting another, his head down, arm across his shoulder. Athelstan glimpsed an unshaven face and a brass ring glinting in an ear lobe.

‘We’ve been attacked, Brother! For the love of God, can we come in?’

Athelstan stepped back. The man, grunting and groaning, brought his companion into the house. Athelstan was closing the door when he heard Sir Maurice’s exclamation. He turned round to see both men were now on their feet, cowls back, the crossbows in their hands lowered and primed. They were both shaven-headed with lean, vicious faces, made all the more so by the brass rings hanging from their ear lobes. Athelstan glimpsed the sword and dagger belts beneath their cloaks.

‘I am a priest,’ Athelstan said, coming forward.

Both men stood back.

‘You have no right to come here! This is God’s acre and you commit the terrible sin of sacrilege!’

‘It’s years since I’ve been to church,’ the taller one declared. ‘So, no mealy-mouthed homilies though, if you wish, you may say a prayer.’

He gestured at Athelstan to move away from the door, to the far side of the table where the knight moved restlessly, his gaze straying to the inglenook where his war belt hung on a hook, the hilt of his sword glistening enticingly in the candlelight. The shaven-head leader followed his gaze.

‘You may, if you wish.’ He grinned, running his tongue round cracked, yellow teeth. ‘You have eaten and drunk well. You’ll not be as lithesome as you might like.’

‘Why are you here?’ Athelstan asked.

He could see both men were bent on murder yet there was nothing else he could do. He recognised the types, killers from the alleyways, professional assassins.

‘Like you, Brother, we have a task to do.’

‘And that is?’

The taller shaven-head pointed quickly at Sir Maurice.

‘He has to die. I am afraid you must die with him because we cannot leave a witness.’

He glanced down at the fire where Thaddeus, crouched on his haunches, was basking in the heat; Bonaventure beside him had risen, back arched, tail up, as if he sensed these men were threatening.

‘Who sent you?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Why, the devil himself.’

Athelstan gazed at the knight, who gestured with his eyes towards the fire. Athelstan swallowed hard. He knew the knight was asking that he cross between the two assassins and himself. Athelstan took a step forward.

‘Where are you going, Brother?’

‘I’m going to douse the fire,’ Athelstan said. ‘If I am to be killed, I don’t want the house burned down. They are poor people I serve. The Bishop would expect them to build a new house for the next priest.’

He saw a flicker of puzzlement in shaven-head’s eyes, as he went forward.

‘Come on now, Bonaventure!’

Athelstan stooped, picking up the cat. He heard a movement and turned quickly, throwing the cat at the shaven-head’s feet. Sir Maurice had moved, his speed taking Athelstan by surprise. A crossbow bolt whirred and smacked into the plaster at the far end. Athelstan felt himself pushed. He went staggering back and, by the time he regained his balance, Sir Maurice was among the killers. Both men had loosed their crossbows and that was their undoing, for they didn’t have time to draw sword and dagger. The knight’s sword sliced into the shoulder of one, sending him screaming back. The other threw his crossbow at Sir Maurice, hitting him on the arm as he turned. The knight stopped, flinching with pain, giving the taller shaven-head time to draw his weapons, throwing his cloak back over his shoulder. Sir Maurice moved in, sword cutting the air. The assassin was quick-footed and blocked the thrust with sword and dagger. The other assassin was now crouched near the door. The elder one yelled at him. He forgot his pain, and getting to one knee he drew his sword, glancing at the melee then at the Dominican. Athelstan picked up a stool. The assassin clambered to his feet. Athelstan threw it, the man ducked, the stool missed but then Godbless came in, throwing the door back. It struck the assassin and sent him staggering forwards.

Bonaventure was now on the table, hair up, spitting in fury. Thaddeus had got to his feet and fled to a far corner. Sir Maurice and the shaven-head were now in close combat, sword and dagger locked, each trying to seek the advantage. Athelstan picked up another stool but Godbless snatched it from him. The wounded assassin turned and, as he did so, Godbless brought the stool down. Athelstan closed his eyes; the stool hit the assassin with a resounding thwack full in the forehead. The man collapsed. Before Athelstan could do anything, Godbless, dagger in hand, was standing over the man and in one quick swipe, he slit his throat from ear to ear. As he did this, Sir Maurice stepped back. Athelstan thought the struggle was still continuing. The shaven-head was crouched, a look of puzzlement on his face, his lips slightly parted. He came forward, sword and dagger still gripped. Athelstan saw the great dark patch under his heart; a froth of bubbles appeared at the corner of his mouth.