Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘According to the love of Christ!’ Athelstan angrily interrupted. ‘I am their parish priest!’

Sir John held his hand up in a sign of peace.

‘Brother, Brother, I am not bothered about Watkin and Pike…’

‘What’s happening?’

Godbless poked his head round the door and stepped gingerly into the room.

‘I have just put Thaddeus in the stable with Philomel. They seem to like each other.’

‘Godbless.’ Athelstan opened his purse and pushed across some coins. ‘Take these to Master Flaxwith. Tell him to leave the bailiffs in the cemetery but go down to the tavern and buy some jugs of ale. You go with him, tell no one what is happening.’

Godbless disappeared.

‘You were saying, Sir John?’

‘I am not interested in Watkin and Pike. They are just noddle-pates.’ Cranston played with the ring on his small finger. ‘But the Great Community of the Realm, now Brother, they are different. I sympathise with them. Many of the peasants are driven to desperation but, when they invade London, they’ll be traitors, rebels against the King. They’ll have no compassion on people like me and the Lady Maude. It’s a war, Athelstan. No pardon will be given and none asked.’ He breathed in noisily. ‘And the same goes for you, Brother. If you are not with them you are against them.’

‘As you would say, Sir John, I couldn’t give a fig! I don’t care if they’ve got the solemn blessing of the Holy Father in Avignon! They don’t use my cemetery as a place of war!’

He paused at a knock on the door. Watkin and Pike shuffled in, their boots caked with mud, their faces grimy and sweating.

‘You sent for us, Brother?’ Watkin licked his lips nervously.

‘Yes I did. Close the door. Lock it behind you!’

Pike did so quickly. Athelstan took the small wooden cross which hung on a cord round his neck and held it up. His face was pale and tight as he glared at these two rogues of the parish.

‘I am going to ask you questions,’ he began. ‘And, if you tell me one lie, I never wish to see you again this side of heaven!’

Watkin and Pike did not take long to confess. They stood, hang-dog expressions on their faces, mumbling and muttering. Eventually the truth came out.

‘It’s like this,’ Watkin said lugubriously. ‘Everyone in Southwark knows the Great Community of the Realm. It’s like autumn, everyone sees it coming. One day the rebels will march on London.’ He spread his hands. ‘What can we do? If we refuse to co-operate we will all die.’

‘Co-operate?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Do you know what it means?’ He’d caught the stumble in Watkin’s voice.

‘That’s what the Great Community of the Realm told us: co-operate or die.’

‘They are bully boys,’ Sir John broke in. ‘And they used you two noddle-pates to store arrows in a churchyard. I suppose there are plots all over Southwark just like this. And, when the graveyard was full, I suspect you’d start storing them elsewhere.’

‘Not in our houses,’ Pike warned. ‘You can’t hide quivers of arrows in the hovels of Southwark.’

‘Do you realise you could be hanged out of hand?’ Sir John barked. ‘Do you realise that, my buckoes? I could take you out, put a rope round that sycamore tree and hang you out of hand as rebels!’

‘But my lord…’

‘My lord coroner won’t!’ Athelstan said.

‘They are coming back, aren’t they?’ Sir John continued. ‘There was a storm last night so I suspect these envoys from the Great Community stayed at home. Now the soil is soft, they’ll return tonight, won’t they?’

‘We don’t know,’ Pike mumbled. ‘All they said was to dig the trench.’

‘But you knew what they were hiding there?’ Athelstan demanded.

Watkin nodded and dried his sweaty hands on his leather jacket.

‘We dug the trench then we’d always leave it open. When we came back, we’d fill a part in and continue along.’

‘Did you ever examine the arrows?’

‘I did,’ Watkin replied. ‘I took a sack out one morning when you were saying Mass, Brother. I opened the rope at the top and shook them out.’

‘That’s how we discovered it,’ Athelstan told them.

Both men were now shuffling their feet, wiping their hands and licking their lips.

‘I want to pee,’ Pike muttered. ‘I am sorry, but…’

‘Go outside,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘And, when you are finished, both go into the church and stay there. What time will these men return?’

‘We don’t know, Brother! After dark. One night Pike and I, well, we hid outside the cemetery and watched. There were two of them with sumpter ponies. They call themselves Valerian and Domitian. Yes, that’s their names, or so they say.’

‘Educated men.’ Athelstan scratched his chin.

‘What will happen to us?’

‘Well.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands. ‘You two have helped the coroner with his enquiries. We will not betray you to the Great Community.’ He glanced quickly at Sir John who nodded. ‘Nor will we hand you over to the authorities. Nevertheless, you betrayed my trust. In the church you’ll find some brooms and a little oil. They’re kept in the basement of the tower. I’ll lock you in and you’ll clean the church till this matter’s finished!’

‘Can I have a pee first?’ Pike moaned, jumping from foot to foot.

‘Oh, get out! I’ll unlock the church in a few minutes.’

Both men scampered out. Athelstan slammed the door behind them.

‘They are stupid,’ Sir John observed. ‘Yet, they could be hanged.’ He rubbed his face. ‘But, there again, they are poor, their hovels are smoke-filled; they eat hard bread and drink coarse ale. What I’d like to know is who Valerian and Domitian really are? And, more importantly, I want to check on something.’

He hurried out across the cemetery. Athelstan went to the church, where Watkin and Pike stood in the porch. Athelstan gripped each of them by the wrist.

‘Look at me!’ They did so. ‘Nothing is going to happen,’ Athelstan reassured them. ‘However, I want this church swept and I want you out of harm’s way. You must never do that again!’ He unlocked the door.

‘Brother?’

Athelstan turned.

‘We are very sorry, Brother,’ Watkin said contritely. ‘We truly are.’

‘If you get really thirsty,’ Athelstan told them, ‘go into the sacristy, you can each have a little drink of altar wine.’

He closed the church door and locked it behind him. Sir John had returned to the priest’s house, where he was refilling his jug of ale.

‘There must be dozens of sacks there, literally thousands of arrows. I wonder who has the wealth to pay for that? Certainly not peasants.’ Sir John clicked his tongue. ‘You see, what your two noddle-pates said is true. There’s a storm coming. Two or three years ago the Great Community of the Realm was a jest, a little demon who lived out in the countryside, lurking in the woods or the bottom of wells. A creature of the hedgerow and the hay rick: a figure of ridicule and scorn.’

‘And now the demon’s grown?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, into a figure of fear and terror. The lords of the soil and the men of power no longer laugh but sit in their counting houses; they scratch their chins and wonder what will happen when this storm breaks.’

‘I must see these arrows,’ Athelstan said.

Both he and the coroner walked out. Athelstan noticed how quickly rumour had spread; some of his parishioners were congregating in front of the church: Ursula the pig woman, Pernell the Fleming, Mugwort the bell clerk, Amisias the fuller and others. They were pretending to talk to each other and looked guiltily up when Athelstan approached them.