The Devil's Domain (17 page)

‘As God lives!’ Sir John exclaimed, staring across at the motley crew. ‘Just listen to that, Brother.’

Athelstan had to agree that Leif as a singer left a great deal to be desired. As if in answer to a prayer, a window of a shop above Leif was thrown open.

‘For the love of heaven!’ a voice bawled and the contents of a chamber pot splashed out, but Leif was quicker, hopping like a squirrel from the stocks. He turned and shook his fist.

‘I must be home,’ Sir John said. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir Maurice, will you join us to eat?’

‘Sir John, I thank you,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But today I must have words with Sir Maurice here. Perhaps it might be safer at St Erconwald’s than elsewhere. Sir John, I will ask for your assistance tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow is tomorrow. But, today is Sunday. My poppets await and I want to be home before they miss their daddy too much.’

He stomped off, gathering speed as Leif suddenly caught sight of his great fat friend. The beggar gave a screech of welcome and staggered towards him.

‘Poor Sir John,’ Athelstan said. ‘Come.’

They made their way down Cheapside and across London Bridge. Southwark was empty, sleeping under the hot summer sun. Athelstan found the church quiet, the front door locked, Godbless and Thaddeus dozing on the steps. Benedicta had seen to Philomel and left a pot of stewed meat and some fresh rolls. So Athelstan, Sir Maurice, Godbless and Thaddeus, not to mention Bonaventure, dined like kings that afternoon. Afterwards Godbless returned to the cemetery taking Thaddeus and the mercenary Bonaventure with him. Athelstan opened the great chest beneath the small window and took out the garb of a Dominican monk.

‘My brothers at Blackfriars always send me fresh robes at Easter and Christmas. Some are longer than others.’

Sir Maurice’s jaw dropped. He looked even more concerned when Athelstan dipped again into the chest and brought out a pair of long, sharp shears.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Brother,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are no longer Sir Maurice Maltravers but Brother Norbert of the Dominican Order. You are going to let me crop your hair, form a small tonsure, teach you how to walk and talk like a Dominican, if that’s possible.’

The grin spread across the young knight’s face.

‘Tomorrow, we are going to visit that child of God, Lady Angelica Parr, at the convent of the nuns of Syon.’

Sir Maurice jumped to his feet like a boy who’s been promised a much-prized reward.

‘Is that possible, Brother?’

‘Provided you keep your wits about you and Lady Angelica doesn’t betray us, who will know?’

‘What happens if Sir Thomas has a guard there?’

‘Fighting men are not allowed in convents and the nuns of Syon are a law unto themselves, as you will find out.’

‘But, Brother, won’t you get into trouble?’

Athelstan closed the lid of the chest. ‘Sir Maurice, I am always in trouble. And, for the love of God, what is wrong with what we are doing? It’s all for love! That will be my defence!’ He gripped the shears more securely. ‘But, for everything under the sun, there’s a price. Brother Norbert, loosen your jerkin.’

An hour later Sir Maurice Maltravers quietly confessed that he had been transformed. His dark hair was cropped, a small tonsure at the back. He was now garbed in the black and white habit, a knotted cord round his middle. He practised walking up and down the kitchen, hands up his sleeves, eyes downcast. Bonaventure had returned and curiously watched this strange transformation. Athelstan laughed and clapped his hands.

‘And they will allow us in the door?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.

‘Oh, not us,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But there’s not a door in London Sir Jack Cranston can’t get through.’

‘And what will happen inside?’

‘Well, I don’t expect you to go down on one knee and make a confession of love,’ Athelstan said, stroking Bonaventure, who had jumped on to his lap. ‘But you can talk.’ He pulled a face. ‘About love in general, spiritual terms. However, you must observe the disguise and the secrecy I have given you. If you break that I will leave and give no further help.’

‘And what will come of this?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.

‘Sir Maurice, I am a Dominican and this is St Erconwald’s. I am not a miracle-worker, so we’ll take each day as it comes. Stay there!’

Athelstan went into his bed loft and brought down a gilt-edged tome bound in calfskin.

‘These are the writings of St Bonaventure.’ He handed the book over. ‘No, not the cat. A great Franciscan, a doctor of theology. His writings on love, particularly that which should exist between a man and his wife, make refreshing reading. There’s a favourite passage of mine where he says that the best friendship which exists must be that between husband and wife. You sit there and read it.’ Athelstan moved towards the door. ‘I am going to pray in church, for a little guidance and some protection. Afterwards, we’ll visit Godbless and make sure he is the only living person lying down in our cemetery!’

Athelstan left the house. He checked on Philomel who was standing up, leaning against the side of his stall fast asleep. The Dominican crossed to the church. Engrossed in his thoughts, he failed to see the shadow at the bottom of the alleyway watching him intently, a malignant, dark presence. Once the priest had gone inside, the watcher crouched down again to continue his close study of the church and the little house beside it.

Dusk was falling, cloaking Whitefriars in darkness. At this time its main streets and offal-filled alleyways came to life. Cunning men and beggars swarmed like rats over a midden-heap looking for plunder, for the unwary, for the vulnerable, ready to turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness. A place of mean houses, narrow lanes and even meaner hearts. Mercurius knew it all.

He had been here years ago skulking from the law and the way he walked, the swagger, dagger and knife pushed into his belt, were sufficient warning for those who lurked in doorways or peeped from behind broken shutters. He entered the Ragged Standard, a large, evil-smelling tavern only a stone’s throw from the Carmelite monastery from which the quarter took its name. The taproom was lit by thin, weak tapers which gave off an acrid stench.

Mercurius pulled his vizard closer around his face and ensured the cowl was full across his head. He sat by the window and looked out at the gathering dusk. The taverner had made a pathetic attempt at laying out a garden, a patch of sun-scorched weeds fenced off from the dusty, tawdry herb plots by sheepshank bones and the skulls of different animals. A slattern came over. Mercurius pulled out a silver piece.

‘Ale,’ he ordered. ‘Properly drawn and the blackjack had better be clean!’

He removed a small arbalest from the hook of his belt and placed it on the table. The slattern hurried off. Outside in the stable yard, two stallions jigged at the ostler and reared neighing, lashing out. Some of the customers went across to watch the fun. One rogue shouted that he was prepared to accept wagers that the ostler would be hurt. The taverner, a greasy barrel of a man, shoved them aside and walked out, a flaming brand in his hand, to separate the two stallions.

Mercurius eased himself in the corner. In the middle of the floor sprawled a member of a troupe of travelling actors, drunk as a sot. The man lay spread on his back, the devil’s mask still clasped to the top half of his face. A little boy crouched next to him wiping away the pool of spittle filling his slack mouth. Across the taproom other members fought for the takings. They hushed for a while as the flame man came down the street, ringing his bell and shouting at householders to be careful; fires were to be doused and candles made safe. Someone else bawled raucously that he had a fresh maid for sale.

The clamour in the stable yard now being stilled, the customers swirled back. Cunning men divided their takings, professional beggars, armed with wet rags, wiped off the paint and saltpetre which they used to display fictitious wounds. Mercurius waited, his eyes constantly moving, vigilant for any sheriff’s man or one of Gaunt’s spies. He did not know whether the English knew he was in London but he could take no chances. The business at Hawkmere was going well, yet he was not responsible.

He saw two shadows come to the door – his guests had arrived. They swaggered across, glimpsed the crossbow and recognised the sign. As they pulled across stools and sat down, Mercurius sipped from his tankard and studied them. Like two peas from the same rotten pod; they wore leggings and boots, their chests were naked except for leather jackets, the sleeves cut off, copper bands round their muscular arms. Their heads were completely shaven, their faces sharp and narrow-eyed. One of them fingered the copper ring in his ear lobe.

‘You are the one?’

‘I am.’

‘And what do you want?’

The assassin clicked his fingers and the slattern hurried across. Two more blackjacks of ale were ordered. One of the shaven-heads leaned forward, arms on the table.

‘We cannot sit here all night. What do you want? Our horses are outside. We can take what we want and go!’

‘If you talk to me like that again, I’ll kill both of you now.’

‘How?’ the taller shaven-head sneered.

‘Look under the table.’

The man did so and glimpsed the other arbalest the assassin had placed on his thigh. It was loaded, the barb pulled back, the finger on the clasp. The shaven-head swallowed hard and looked at his companion.

‘We meant no offence.’

‘Of course not.’

The slattern returned with the blackjacks. The cowled stranger put the arbalest down and tossed a small purse on to the table.

‘Six silver pieces, Venetians freshly coined. Three for you now, three more when the task is done.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Sir Maurice Maltravers, henchman in the household of my Lord of Gaunt.’

The leading shaven-head coughed over his beer.

‘One of Gaunt’s men?’

‘I’ve heard that name.’ The other spoke up. ‘He took a ship in the Channel. A fighting man.’

‘In his mail and armour, yes,’ the assassin replied. ‘But not in the garb of a monk. You’ll find him in the priest’s house at St Erconwald’s in Southwark, you know the place, I’ll wager.’

The shaven-heads nodded in unison.

‘He’ll be there whenever you wish. A knife in the back, an arrow in the throat . . .’

‘We don’t kill priests,’ the leading shaven-head protested. ‘The friar who is also there, Athelstan. He’s well known and liked.’

The assassin dug into his purse and brought out four silver coins which he placed on top of the small purse. The shaven-heads smiled.

‘On second thoughts, every dog has his day!’

The leader went to pick up the silver but the assassin seized his wrist.

‘You don’t live here, do you? You live in St Mary Axe Street. You have a sister there, or they say she’s your sister. One thing, sir, don’t take that silver unless you intend to carry out the task.’

‘It will be done.’

‘Good!’ The assassin sat back. ‘And, if the priest dies, the more the merrier.’

He drained his tankard and got to his feet. He slipped one arbalest on to the hook of his belt, keeping the other in his hand.

‘How do we tell you that your task is done?’

‘Oh, you don’t,’ the assassin replied softly, patting the man on the shoulder. ‘I’ll know and, don’t worry, I’ll come visiting you. Now, sit for a while and finish your ale.’

Then he was gone.

Athelstan celebrated an early morning Mass. Sir Maurice Maltravers, not yet changed into his robes, served as an altar boy. They were joined by Godbless and Thaddeus, who made an attempt to nibble the altar cloth. Bonaventure, of course, also arrived. The cat always stared at the chalice, his little pink tongue coming out as if he suspected it contained milk. Pernell the old Fleming woman, her hair now dyed a garish yellow, also attended, kneeling beside Ranulf the rat-catcher. Once Mass was over Ranulf came shambling into the sacristy. He waited patiently until Athelstan had divested.

‘Brother, we are all ready.’

Athelstan remembered just in time. ‘Oh, of course, the Mass for your Guild.’

‘Can it be Wednesday morning, Brother? About ten o’clock?’

Athelstan swallowed hard but Ranulf looked beseechingly at him, a gaze which reminded Athelstan that he had promised this on many an occasion.

‘What will it entail, Ranulf?’

‘Well, Wednesday is good for rat-catchers, Brother. We’ll have Mass and bring our animals.’

‘Which are?’

‘Ferrets, cats, dogs, our traps and cages.’

‘And how many will there be? I mean, rat-catchers?’ Athelstan added quickly.

He glanced at Sir Maurice who was staring nonplussed at this strange parishioner in his black tarred jacket and hood. The belt round Ranulf’s waist carried hooks, small traps and coils of wire, all the implements of a rat-catcher’s trade.

‘There’ll be sixteen or eighteen. Afterwards we’ll break our fast on a table in the porch. We will supply the food and ales. We’d like you to bless us and give a special blessing to our animals.’

‘Agreed!’ Athelstan said. ‘But have a word with Benedicta. Now, clear the church, Ranulf, and lock the door! I’ve sent Crim the altar boy across to Sir John. When he returns would you help him with Philomel, just clean the stable. Afterwards, you may finish the oatmeal in the kitchen.’

Ranulf quickly agreed and sped out of the sacristy.

‘A Guild of Rat-Catchers?’ Sir Maurice asked.

Athelstan smiled. ‘It’s a wonderful life, Brother Norbert. Yes, it’s time you changed. Put on the garb I gave you but wrap your cloak firmly around you.’

The knight hastened out and Athelstan walked back into the church. He knelt on the sanctuary steps to say a short prayer of thanksgiving followed by an invocation to the Holy Spirit asking for his help and guidance that day.

Sir Maurice had spent most of the night reading the tracts by St Bonaventure; Athelstan had woken to the young knight seated before the hearth, reciting to an owl-eyed Godbless and a rather feisty Thaddeus certain love poems he had learned. Athelstan, eager to begin his Mass, had simply cautioned the young knight on not being too impetuous.