Paul Doherty: The Devil's domain

Sir John pointed a podgy finger in Wallace’s face.

‘If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to have you thrown into the Fleet for contempt!’

‘Widow Blanchard’s dead,’ Wallace gabbled. ‘Her will has been approved. She has left this goat as her gift to you. She also asked that the gift be delivered in your court in a formal way according to the law, its customs and…’

‘Shut up!’ Sir John bellowed. ‘Shut up, you little noddle-pate!’

Wallace stood back, head bowed. Sir John could see the smirk on his face. Eleanor Blanchard had a sharp sense of humour. She had often talked of the goat but he had never met it. Now, by having the goat delivered here in court, he had no choice but to accept it.

‘I don’t want a goat!’ The words were out before he could stop them.

‘Sir John, Sir John!’ Wallace’s eyes rounded in mock hurt. ‘It is the last wish of that poor woman. If you refuse such a gift delivered in court…’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Sir John mimicked. ‘In accordance with the law, its customs and usages, I must decide what happens to it. I could give it away.’ He beamed at Simon.

‘My lord coroner.’ Simon sprang to his feet. ‘As you well know, the coroner’s court is the King’s court. If you refuse the gift here, then the goat belongs to the Crown.’

‘And if it belongs to the Crown…’ Wallace added maliciously.

Sir John wearily sat back. ‘I know, I know.’ He waved a hand. ‘The Crown will order it to be taken to the slaughterhouse and sold for the highest possible price.’ He stared at the goat.

The animal seemed docile and obedient enough. It was a fine, handsome beast; its coat was dappled gold, its small horns pointed and straight, its eyes gentle. It chewed quietly on some victual picked up from the courtyard below.

‘Sir John, I wish you well.’ Wallace bowed and walked out of the door, his shoulders shaking with merriment.

Sir John followed him and, with his boot, slammed the door shut. He walked back, slouched in his chair and studied the goat.

‘What in hell’s name am I supposed to do with you?’

‘You could take it home, Sir John.’

‘Lady Maude has a great fear of goats. By the way, what did that clever bastard call it?’

Simon sifted among some scraps of parchment on his desk.

‘Er, Judas, my lord coroner.’

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘According to this piece of paper, Widow Blanchard called it Judas.’ Simon struggled to keep his long, narrow face impassive. ‘That’s what lawyer Wallace said its name was.’

‘You’ve seen the will?’ Sir John asked.

‘Of course, Sir John. Widow Blanchard had little to give. She especially asked for Judas to be handed over to you.’

‘I should have asked Wallace for a copy of the will.’

Simon again fished among the sheets of parchment on his desk.

‘He brought one before you arrived, Sir John.’

The coroner snatched it out of his scrivener’s hand, studied the clerk’s writing, then threw it back. The parchment fell on the floor and, before he or Simon could do anything, the goat trotted forward; it seized the parchment and chewed it so quickly, the men could only stare in stupefaction.

‘I think I know why it’s called Judas.’ Simon spoke up. ‘It probably bites the hand that feeds it!’

Sir John fumbled for his miraculous wineskin where it hung on a special hook beneath the table. He opened the stopper and took a deep swig. The goat watched fascinated and took a step forward.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Sir John warned. ‘Don’t you ever come near this!’

The goat, looking rather aggrieved, stopped but he continued eating the parchment.

‘Lady Maude,’ Cranston intoned, ‘has a great horror of goats. The poppets.’ He smiled at the thought of his twin sons, Stephen and Francis, they would like it. But his manservant Blaskett, now Lady Maude’s firm ally in peace and war, would also object while those two imps of hell, the Irish wolfhounds, Gog and Magog, would tear it to pieces. Sir John took another swig of wine but kept one eye on the goat, which seemed fascinated. He was sure that the animal licked its lips.

‘Well, come on, Simon, what do you propose? None of your impertinence!’

‘Of course not, Sir John. But Brother Athelstan is your secretarius…’

Sir John’s huge face broke into a grin.

‘Of course!’ He banged the table-top. ‘Friars are supposed to love bloody animals, aren’t they? He has a cemetery, he can keep it there. There’s nothing in the will that says I can’t give it away as a gift.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I could still give it to you.’

‘Sir John, a wife and two children in a tenement in Pig’s Barrow Lane?’

‘Then the friar will have to have it.’ He patted his stomach in delight.

‘Remember, Sir John,’ Simon declared sonorously. ‘Athelstan is a Dominican. It’s St Francis and his Order who have the reputation of caring for animals.’

‘They are all the same to me,’ Sir John muttered. ‘Right!’

He eased himself out of his chair, put on his sword belt, sliding in the sword and dagger. As he threw the cloak round his shoulders he felt a nip on his thigh and glared down at the offending goat.

‘You are bloody well named!’ he growled.

‘Oh, Sir John, look, it likes you!’

Judas was now nudging his new owner’s tree-like thigh.

‘Get a piece of bloody rope!’ Sir John ordered. ‘Tie it round the bastard’s neck! It’s off to Southwark to join the rest of the goats!’

Simon, who had secretly promised himself to watch Sir John’s progress down Cheapside, hastened to obey. He fetched a piece of smooth hemp and expertly tied it round the goat’s neck. Sir John snatched the other end, glaring balefully at his scrivener, then paused at a clattering on the stairs. A young man, dressed in a leather doublet displaying the colours of John of Gaunt, burst into the room. Judging by his sword belt the visitor was a knight. The young man’s shirt was open at the neck and he wore a silver necklace with the ‘S.S.’ emblem of the House of Lancaster.

‘What do you want?’ Sir John snapped.

‘I’m Sir Maurice Maltravers.’

Sir John glimpsed the piece of parchment in his hand.

‘Congratulations! You work for my Lord of Gaunt?’

‘I’m in his household, Sir John.’

‘God have mercy on you.’ Sir John pulled at the goat. ‘Don’t look surprised, young man. All manner of things end up in a coroner’s court.’

I have a message, Sir John. My Lord of Gaunt, he wishes to see you and Brother Athelstan on a matter of urgency at his palace at the Savoy.’

Sir John studied the young man from head to toe.

‘Maltravers?’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

Sir John chewed the corner of his lip.

‘Oh, by the way, Simon.’ He licked his fingers. ‘Get it for me.’

The scrivener obeyed with alacrity. Sir John slipped the wineskin on to the hook of his belt, then tapped Sir Maurice on the chest.

‘I knew your father. Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Same colour hair, same strong face, though his eyes were larger and his nose was straight.’

The young man coloured. He tightened his jaw.

‘My nose was broken, Sir John, when I fought the French at sea.’

Sir John brought his great paw down on the knight’s shoulder.

‘By Mab’s tits!’ he roared. ‘You are the Maltravers who took the St Sulpice and St Denis! ’ He pushed the wineskin into the man’s hands. ‘A brave feat, it will teach the bloody French to take to sea!’

Sir Maurice didn’t know whether to be angry or pleased.

‘Go on, have a drink!’ Sir John urged. He gripped the knight’s shoulder and stared across at Simon. ‘You are in the presence of a hero, Simon! Just like his father. I was with him in France, you know? When the Black Prince went storming like the wind through Normandy. Like the dogs of war we were.’