Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

‘I know why you are here,’ he said. ‘But you must leave. You are not to come near the church nor the cemetery today and that’s the end of the matter.’

‘What about my painting?’ Huddle cried from the back of the crowd.

‘Huddle, my lad! Don’t lie to your parish priest. The day is drawing on, the light is fading. It will wait until tomorrow.’

The crowd dispersed; Athelstan was at the lych gate when he heard his name called. Sir Maurice came striding across and thrust a scroll of parchment into Athelstan’s hand.

‘Your brothers at Blackfriars send you greetings.’ He patted his stomach and grinned at Sir John. ‘You should have come, my lord coroner: ale thick and rich and pastry soft in the mouth.’

Athelstan opened the letter.

‘What’s wrong, Brother?’ Sir John caught his disappointed look.

‘Simeon says it will take some time. However, he hopes that by tomorrow morning I can have an answer. I was going to look at these arrows but perhaps, Sir John, I’ve done enough for the day.’

‘I think it’s time,’ Sir John declared, ‘we prepared for our visitors tonight. If you don’t mind, Henry Flaxwith and my buckoes will stay? The noddle-pates are locked in the church?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘Good!’ Sir John rubbed his hands. ‘Maltravers, I’ll explain later what’s happening. Anyway, I am leaving you on guard. No one goes into that church or cemetery. You’ve had refreshment and it’s time Athelstan and I did the same.’ He clapped the knight on the shoulder. ‘You can stay and write a love poem, Brother Norbert. And I’ll be raising my goblet to you in the tavern!’

Darkness had fallen over Southwark when the two men, caped, cowled and hooded, sword and dagger clinking in their war belts, led the two sumpter ponies up along the trackway into Southwark. Valerian and Domitian had met the carter in the fields beyond the Tabard Tavern. The sacks had been taken from the cart and loaded on to the ponies. Now they made their way through the gloomy runnels and alleyways. The hovels, the dilapidated houses, rose dark and forbidding on either side, blocking out the night sky. They pulled their mufflers up over their noses against the stench from the midden-heaps and unclean sewers. Cats fought and screeched; rats slithered out from crevices in the walls. Beggars whined on corners. They thrust out their clatter boards but received little comfort from these two dark shadows. Now and again, from behind a closed shutter, faces peered out, eyes glittering, but Valerian and Domitian were known to the gangs who plagued Southwark, who were more terrified of these two men than they were of all Gaunt’s spies and agents. Valerian pulled at the rope and glanced over his shoulder at his companion.

‘It won’t take us long.’

‘How many more?’

‘Perhaps another four or five nights’ work and then we’ll be finished.’

They walked on, the sumpter ponies docile, their hooves muffled in rags. Valerian and Domitian had also wrapped wool round their boots, so that they seemed to glide like shadows from one dark alleyway to another.

At last the line of houses ended. They crossed the barren wasteland which stretched to the cemetery walls of St Erconwald. Valerian stopped, his hand going to his dagger; he could make out the dark mass of the church, the tall tower soaring up against the starlit sky. He peered at the crenellated top but could see no flame or light which meant that the little friar was not gazing at the stars. He was about to go on but paused. Was something wrong? Last night the fierce thunderstorm would have prevented the friar going up the tower. Surely, on a clear night like this, he would seize the opportunity? Valerian licked his lips; he had to be careful, very careful.

‘What are we waiting for?’ his companion hissed.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it safe?’

‘Why shouldn’t it be? We can’t very well go back.’

Glaring into the gloom, Valerian led the sumpter pony forward. They crossed the small brook now drying up in the summer heat. They reached the wall. Valerian took a rope and climbed on. He flung one end of the rope round a branch of the sycamore tree, pulled it down, fashioned a slipknot and lowered himself into the trench. Was something wrong? Those fools usually dug to a certain depth; now it seemed shallower. He wished he had a cresset torch. Had the earth been disturbed? Did those two oxen-heads have the temerity to search for what was buried here?

‘Come on!’ his companion urged him.

A sack came over the wall. Valerian grasped it and put it into the pit. A second one then suddenly the darkness was seared with a light. Valerian scrambled out of the trench.

‘What the…?’ he exclaimed.

From behind the wall he heard the scrape of steel. Figures, shapes loomed out of the darkness. Valerian recognised the little friar. He drew his dagger, adopting the stance of a fighting man, and peered at the rest. These weren’t soldiers! They were city bailiffs, beadles, men with families, timid as mice. Valerian tried his luck. He leapt forward and the bailiffs scattered. He looked over his shoulder. The wall was out of the question but if he could slip through the cemetery, he would soon be lost in the alleyways of Southwark. He was about to step forward again when a broad, massive figure moved out of the darkness. In the torchlight Valerian glimpsed a red, moustached face, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger in the man’s hands.

‘Out of my way, you tub of lard, and I’ll not prick you!’

‘I recognise that voice,’ Sir John boomed. ‘Put down your sword and dagger, my bucko, and surrender to the King’s coroner, Sir John Cranston!’

‘Piss off!’

Valerian darted forward. Cranston was old and fat, he’d prove no obstacle, but the coroner suddenly shifted. Valerian stopped and turned, lashing out with his sword. The coroner blocked this. Valerian drew away, prickles of cold sweat on the nape of his neck. Sir John seemed light as a dancer. In he snaked again, sword and dagger looking for an opening, locked in a whirling arc of steel. Valerian’s dagger was knocked from his hand. He gripped his sword with both hands and came rushing in. Perhaps he could frighten the coroner? His sword sliced the air; Valerian knew he had made a mistake, only seconds before Cranston’s blade dug deep beneath his heart. Valerian felt hot spurts of pain, blood bubbled at the back of his mouth. He fell to his knees; the night sky was whirling, the voices were like a faint roar and, spitting blood, he tumbled to the ground.

Sir John Cranston, chest heaving, wiped his sword on the dead man’s cloak then sheathed it. He told the bailiff to come closer with the torch, turned the corpse over and pulled down the vizard.

‘Satan’s bollocks!’ he swore. ‘It’s Ralph Hersham!’

Athelstan knelt down and pulled back the hood and cowl. He recognised the surly, close-set features of Sir Thomas Parr’s henchman. He gave the man the last rites and, even as he felt for the pulse in the neck, realised the soul had gone out to meet its judgement. He rose at the cries coming from the far end of the cemetery. Sir Maurice and other bailiffs were bundling a figure across. The man’s head was exposed, the vizard pulled off. As he was pushed into the pool of torchlight, Athelstan could see he was badly bruised and terrified out of his wits. The man took one look at Hersham’s face and fell with a groan to his knees, hands extended in supplication.

‘Oh, God have mercy!’

‘What’s your name?’ Sir John barked. He came over and dragged the man’s head back by the hair.

‘Clement, Clement Margoyle!’

‘And are you Valerian?’

‘No, I’m Domitian. Hersham was Valerian.’

‘You brought arrows to St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan accused. The friar drew close and pressed his finger against the man’s lips. ‘Are you in a state of grace, my son?’ Athelstan glanced over at the coroner and winked.