Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

Sir John burst out laughing. ‘When Adam delved and Eve span,’ he taunted. ‘Who was then the gentleman? So one set of laws are going to be replaced by another, are they?’

Margoyle nodded.

‘Do sing on.’

‘The Great Community recently held a council at St Albans. They believe their army will march within twelve months but they need to seize London Bridge. The men have bows but no arrows. If these were made in the city, Gaunt — I mean, His Grace the Regent,’ Margoyle added hastily, ‘would soon discover it.’

‘And his guards at the city gates,’ Athelstan observed, ‘would hardly let cart-loads of arrows go trundling through.’

‘The arrows were made by peasants,’ Margoyle continued. ‘In south Essex and Hertfordshire. They were then brought to an agreed assembly point and distributed. They were to be brought into Southwark. Valerian and I were to find a place as close as possible to London Bridge, and St Erconwald’s was chosen.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because it is a poor parish, Brother. None of the great ones live here.’ Margoyle’s eyes fell away. They say you are a good priest. Busy about the care of souls. Many in the council of the Great Community believe you are sympathetic’

‘I am not,’ Athelstan said. ‘And I object to men like you drawing simpletons like Watkin and Pike into your deadly game!’

‘We were given their names,’ Margoyle continued. ‘We met them by night and told them what to do. They were to dig a trench and pretend to be examining the foundations of the cemetery wall. We put the arrows in, covered them with a layer of earth.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest you know.’

‘But you are missing one important fact,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Arrows cost money. Wood has to be bought. Sacks and carts provided. Arrow heads fashioned. Glue, not to mention goose feathers.’

‘Sir Thomas provided that. Hersham was given bags of silver. Sir Thomas keeps a private account.’

‘So he’s a traitor?’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘He had little choice.’ A note of defiance crept into Margoyle’s voice.

‘What do you mean?’

The man’s eyes moved to Sir Maurice.

‘Do you think the Lady Angelica was moved to the nuns of Syon just because of Maltravers?’

Sir John clapped his thigh. ‘Of course! We thought she was there to protect her from Sir Lancelot here; but she had been marked down by the Great Community of the Realm, hadn’t she?’

Margoyle nodded. ‘I’ve told you the truth, Sir John.’

The coroner lumbered to his feet. ‘Brother Athelstan, your church is locked and secure, yes?’

‘Of course, Sir John!’

‘And the windows are too narrow for anyone to crawl out?’

‘Of course, my lord coroner.’ Athelstan smiled as he caught the drift of the questions.

The coroner went over to Athelstan’s writing-desk where he picked up two quills, an inkpot and a large square of rubbed parchment. He then went across and pulled Margoyle up by the scruff of his neck.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Sir John said, beaming. ‘Do open the door of your church. Master Margoyle is going into the sanctuary to sit at the small table there and write out his confession. When he has finished, if I am satisfied, I am going to let him run away. On one condition.’ He turned the hapless Margoyle round to face him. ‘If I ever catch you in London again, I’ll hang you out of hand!’

‘He’ll implicate Parr,’ Athelstan warned. ‘Gaunt will have Sir Thomas’ head.’

‘No he won’t. He’ll write what I tell him to.’

‘But the bailiffs?’

‘Men like Sir Thomas are not easily impressed. Hersham’s dead, Margoyle here won’t mention the name Parr and Sir Thomas will simply say he had nothing to do with this villainy.’ Sir John winked. ‘But, he’ll know that we know and that, my dear friar, is very important!’

The following morning the parish was in uproar. News of what had happened in the cemetery had swept through the alleyways leading down to the Thames. St Erconwald’s was truly packed, not just for the Guild Mass for the Rat-Catchers, but also by those eager to listen to the chatter and the gossip. Watkin and Pike looked woebegone. They stood on the sanctuary steps shuffling their feet. Athelstan, vesting in the sacristy, closed his eyes and quietly thanked God that things had gone well. Sir John had worked like a true soldier: the arrows had been removed, loaded on to carts and taken across London Bridge. Watkin and Pike had slunk away in the darkness while Margoyle had written a full confession, surrendered his arms and fled like a shadow in the night. Sir Maurice was beside himself. Godbless had danced like an elf shouting: ‘I told you so! I told you I saw shapes in the cemetery!’

It had been long after midnight before Athelstan had quietened things down and snatched a few hours’ sleep.

‘Ah well,’ he said, crossed himself and went into the sanctuary.

The Mass was a great success. The rat-catchers with their ferrets, cats, small dogs, cages, traps, mallets and spikes, nets and leather sacks were all piled together in the sanctuary. The ceremony was one of the liveliest Athelstan had ever conducted. One dog howled throughout the entire ceremony as if singing its own divine chant. Bonaventure slunk in and, if Crim hadn’t intervened, the most horrendous fight would have broken out as this prince of the alleyways’ one good eye alighted upon a rival. Two ferrets escaped and were pursued by a dog into the cemetery. One was caught but Ranulf came back, just as Athelstan finished the consecration, shaking his head and announcing in a loud whisper that ‘the little bastard had gone for good’.

At the end of the Mass Athelstan preached a homily on all God’s creatures being a delight in His sight. Ranulf stuck his hand up.

‘Does that include rats, Brother?’

‘Rats have their purposes, Ranulf,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But God knows why.’

‘They clear away rubbish,’ Ricauld, a rat-catcher from the priory of St Mary’s, announced.

‘You’ve got the makings of a theologian,’ Athelstan told him. ‘But, truly, you all do a great service for the community. I appeal to you to do it honestly and as kindly as possible.’ His eyes caught Ranulf’s. ‘And not charge too much.’

After the homily Athelstan had blessed the different animals. On reflection this was very dangerous. Some of the ferrets lunged for his fingers. Bonaventure’s rival curled its lip in protest. If it had not been for a well-aimed kick from Crim’s boot, one of the dogs would have cocked its leg against Athelstan. The friar moved among the different pets, sprinkling them with water and afterwards blessing them with incense. The dog, which had been thankfully quiet during his sermon, now decided to renew his chant. Athelstan just thanked God Sir John wasn’t there.

At the end of the Mass all the rat-catchers, together with the parishioners, thronged into the porch of the church and the open area in front. Stalls and booths had been set up to sell ales and cakes. Benedicta had cooked pies. Watkin’s wife had brought fruit. Everyone announced it was a success and Huddle, ecstatic that the Rat-Catchers’ Guild had hired him, loudly announced that soon he would be putting a fresco on the wall to honour the new confraternity.

Boso, a one-eyed cleric with a slit nose and one ear missing, who Athelstan secretly thought was a defrocked priest, set up a small table and unrolled the Articles of the Rat-Catchers’ Guild. Each member signed their name or made their mark. A cat, a rat, a trap or a cage. Ranulf solemnly took out from his pouch the new seal of the Guild and Boso poured hot wax on the parchment. Ranulf sealed this and Athelstan did the same with the parish insignia. Fresh copies were produced and the same process repeated. Athelstan, feeling rather bemused by the whole affair, quickly conceded that a copy should be placed in a case and stored in the parish archives in one of the tower chambers of the church. He tried to catch Benedicta’s eye but she just smiled, busy in making sure the revelry went smoothly. Watkin, Pike, Hig the pigman, Mugwort the bell clerk and others stood in a corner, heads together, whispering darkly among themselves. Athelstan was about to join them when he heard his name called. Sir Maurice, who had excused himself from the Mass, was standing in the doorway of the church holding a piece of parchment in his hand.