Текст книги "The Devil's domain"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 16

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.

‘Athelstan, it’s urgent! It’s from Blackfriars!’

The friar hurried across to take the parchment and walked into the house. It was cool and quiet after the frenetic activity of the church. He examined the seal, broke it and quickly read what Simeon the archivist had written. Athelstan smiled to himself.

‘At last!’ he said.

‘Good news, Brother?’

‘Good news, Sir Maurice.’

‘Are we going to visit the nuns of Syon?’ the knight asked hopefully.

‘I think not.’ Athelstan leaned over and grasped the young knight’s wrist. ‘Why should we go there, Sir Maurice?’

‘Why, to see the Lady Angelica.’

‘I do worry about you, Brother Norbert,’ Athelstan teased. ‘Sometimes I think that all you can think of is Angelica!’

‘I love her. I go to sleep thinking about her. I dream of her. I see her face in crowds. Haven’t you ever loved, Brother?’ The knight bit his lip. I am sorry.’

Athelstan sat down on a stool. The knight stared at him.

‘I–I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Brother.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and thought of Benedicta.

‘Is it hard?’ Sir Maurice asked, intrigued by this olive-skinned little friar who seemed so sharp and kept his emotions under such firm control.

‘Is it hard? When you are a priest, Sir Maurice, it’s not the love act you miss, though the demands of nature do make themselves felt.’ Athelstan laughed quickly. ‘But that passes. It’s the terrible loneliness, the feeling that you are watching the world go by and cannot become part of it. Sometimes, just sometimes, you meet someone! Thank God, not often, but you can see it in her eyes or face, the way she looks at you. Your heart beats quicker; your blood drums a little faster in the brain; your mouth becomes dry.’

‘And what do you do?’

‘You get on your knees, Sir Maurice, and you pray that you never ever fall in love. That you are never put to the test because, if you are, there’s every chance that you’ll be found wanting.’

‘And do you envy men like me, Brother?’

Athelstan smiled up at the knight.

‘You are a good man, Sir Maurice, you would have made a good priest, an excellent Dominican.’ The smile widened. ‘Particularly when it came to counselling young nuns.’

Sir Maurice laughed and fastened on his war belt.

‘Believe me,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You will marry the Lady Angelica but keep praying! Pray,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘that your love never dies, never wavers but grows stronger by the day.’

‘Oh it will’

‘Yes, I am sure it will. Now, go and find Sir Jack and tell him to wait for me at Parr’s house but Sir Maurice, do not now or in the future tell Sir Thomas, or indeed anyone, what you learned last night.’ Athelstan went to the door. ‘I’m going to talk to Godbless about his adventures in Venice and a man who should have died but didn’t.’

Maltravers left as fast as a greyhound. Athelstan went across to the death house, chattered to Godbless then returned to collect his writing-bag and slipped out of the house down to the riverside.

He found Moleskin with other boatmen on the quayside watching the executioners despatch a river pirate from the gibbet which stood like a great black finger poked up against the sky. The felon had been pushed up the ladder. A huge, burly oaf, he kept threatening the hangman and spitting out at the waiting crowd. Athelstan sketched a blessing in his direction. The pirate saw this and made an obscene gesture with his middle finger.

‘Come away, Moleskin!’ Athelstan called.

The boatman swaggered across, his cheery, leathery face dour, his eyes hard.

‘You shouldn’t watch such sights,’ Athelstan said. ‘It’s terrible to see a man such as he about to fall into the hands of the living God.’

Moleskin looked over his shoulder at the gibbet.

‘I couldn’t think of a better place, Brother. That bastard is responsible for the deaths of three boatmen to the north of London Bridge. You know the marshes? Well, he kept a wherry there. He poled out, took their money and slit their throats.’

Athelstan followed his gaze. The rope was now round the felon’s neck. There was a shout from the crowd. The executioners slithered down. The ladder was pulled away and the felon began his dance of death.

‘It’s over!’ Moleskin said. He clapped the friar on the shoulder. ‘Now come on, Brother, tell me what happened last night and where do you want to go?’

‘I’ll let the others tell you about all the excitement, Moleskin. I want you to take me along the Thames and find a Venetian ship.’

Moleskin led the friar down the green mildewed steps and into his stout wherry.

‘Why a Venetian? Are you going to flee Southwark?’

‘No, I want to ask the captain a few questions.’

Moleskin concentrated on manoeuvring his craft, for the river was busy with barges and fishing smacks. They reached the far side and Moleskin began to go slowly by the sterns of the moored ships: massive, fat-bellied cogs from the Baltic, merchantmen from the Low Countries and royal warships getting ready to put to sea. At last he found a Venetian galley which lay low and rakish in the water. Its raised, gilded red and gold stern was surrounded by bum-boats selling fruit, sweetbread and other items from the city markets. There was even a boat full of whores who stood shrieking up at the sailors, trying to entice them with their charms to get aboard. Moleskin, skilled in the ways of the river, managed to catch the eye of the officer responsible for maintaining order along the decks. The boatman jabbed a finger at Athelstan and, making a sign, asked to come on board.

The officer agreed. A rope ladder was lowered and Moleskin, his boat bobbing beneath him, helped the little friar up. Such attention provoked the jealousy of the others milling round the great Venetian war galley. There were shouts and imprecations, rotten fruit was thrown. Athelstan yelled at Moleskin to wait. The boatman took his craft away and sat watching the scene. Now and again a friend or acquaintance would pass in a hail of good-natured abuse and raillery. Moleskin undid the little chest in the stern of his craft, took out a linen cloth and gnawed on a piece of salted bacon, taking deep draughts from the water bottle which he had filled with ale. He sat wondering what the little friar wanted with a Venetian war galley, but there again he shrugged, for Athelstan was a strange priest. If he wasn’t looking after those rogues at St Erconwald’s, he was scurrying around after Sir John Horse-Cruncher, the great and high lord coroner of the city. Moleskin narrowed his eyes. He must remember that. He loved baiting the coroner, and next time Sir John hired him, Moleskin would charge him double because of his weight.

He finished his bacon, growing slightly impatient because the swell of the river was becoming more pronounced. Then he noticed movement on board the galley and glimpsed the black and white robes of his parish priest. Moleskin turned his craft and brought it in, using the oars to fend off rivals. At last he was beneath the rope ladder. Athelstan clambered down with a sigh of relief and took his seat in the stern.

‘What was all that about, Brother?’ Moleskin asked as he pulled away.

Athelstan smiled contentedly. ‘Do you know, Moleskin,’ he said, leaning back, ‘there are certain pleasures in life one feels truly good about.’

Moleskin pulled a face.

‘Oh, not that!’ Athelstan laughed. ‘I think I’ve just trapped a red-handed assassin! Moleskin, you are my champion among boat-men. Our next stop is the holy nuns at the convent of Syon!’

Moleskin bent over the oars. Nuns, assassins, Venetians, he thought. What on earth was this little Dominican involved in? It was all Sir Jack’s doing! Everyone along the waterfront said where Lord Horse-Cruncher went, trouble always followed.

They swept upriver and Moleskin brought his boat along the quayside steps.

‘Do you want me to wait, Brother?’

‘No. you’ll be pleased to know after this I am going to meet Sir John’

Athelstan offered some coins but Moleskin shook his head.

‘For you, Brother, it’s free. Just remember me and my boat at Mass. I mean, if you can bless a collection of rat-catchers, cats and ferrets…’ He looked hopefully up at the friar.

‘I think it’s a very good idea. Moleskin,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What we’ll do is wait for the feast of some sailor, or a Sunday when the gospel mentions Jesus going fishing with His apostles, then I’ll come down and bless you and your craft. Perhaps we can give it a name?

Moleskin’s smile widened.

‘What about St Erconwald?’

Moleskin’s smile faded.

‘Or,’ Athelstan added quickly, ‘ the Rose of Southwark?’

‘I like that, Brother. I knew a sweet girl called Rosamund. The only problem is so did half the boatmen along the Thames!’

‘Then we are agreed.’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and walked up the steps.

A young novice ushered him into Lady Monica’s presence. The abbess rose, as stately as a queen, though her face was slightly flushed.

‘Ah, Brother Athelstan. Where’s Brother Norbert?’ Her eyes darted around. ‘And Sir Jack?’

‘They are not here, my lady. I have only come to collect the Lady Angelica.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ Lady Monica clasped her hands together, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘My good Brother, you don’t walk into a nunnery and demand that I hand over one of my girls!’

‘Lady Monica, I am a Dominican friar. Holy Mother Church and my Order have entrusted me with saying Mass, preaching the gospel and looking after Christ’s faithful. I am parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark where, as God knows, I have more precious charges than I can handle. I am also secretarius to Sir John Cranston, lord coroner of this city, personal friend of the late and glorious Edward. He is one of my Lord of Gaunt’s most trusted counsellors and a personal friend of the young King. So, I believe I can look after a young maiden entrusted to my care!’

Lady Monica’s shoulders sagged. ‘I don’t really…’ she stammered and looked under lowering brows at Athelstan. ‘Sir Thomas Parr will…’

‘Sir Thomas Parr is a London merchant,’ Athelstan continued forcefully, ‘who has more wealth than he has sense. Now, my lady, do I have to go down to the King’s Justices at Westminster and get a writ? Collect soldiers from the Regent’s palace at the Savoy?’ Athelstan held his hand up. ‘I assure you, my lady, that the Lady Angelica must come with me to her father.’

‘Very well, if you put it like that.’ Lady Monica was now quite flustered. She picked up a small handbell and shook it vigorously. ‘Tell the Lady Angelica,’ she announced to the young novice who almost burst through the door, ‘to get herself ready to leave. She’s to wait in the guest house.’ She waited until the door closed. ‘Brother Athelstan, I would like you to sign that you have taken the Lady Angelica to her father and that you accept full responsibility.’

The abbess ushered Athelstan to a small writing-desk in the far corner of the room. Athelstan wrote out exactly what she wanted, signed it, waited until it dried and then handed it over. Then he rose and made to go towards the door.

‘Brother Athelstan.’ Lady Monica had retaken her seat. ‘Please sit.’ Her tone was almost wheedling.

Athelstan noticed Lady Monica’s face had become more flushed, her eyes glittering. He sat down.

‘How can I help you, my lady?’

The abbess sifted amongst the pieces of parchment on the desk.

‘It’s your Brother Norbert.’ She kept her head down. ‘I… I..’ She looked up, blinking quickly. ‘Brother, he spoke so eloquently of love. Since his departure, I have had strange dreams… fantasies…’

Athelstan quietly thanked God that Sir John wasn’t here. Lady Monica had now picked up a sheet of parchment, using it to fan her face.

‘I wondered if Brother Norbert would visit me, to continue his talks? To give me spiritual counsel?’

‘My lady abbess,’ he replied mournfully. ‘Brother Norbert is no longer with us.’

Lady Monica let the parchment drop. ‘Where has he gone?’

‘It’s a great secret,’ Athelstan confided, lowering his voice. ‘But he has gone to do God’s work in another place. So, I ask you to remember him in your prayers.’ Athelstan glanced away. The disappointment in Lady Monica’s face was so apparent. ‘However,’ he added quietly, ‘and I assure you of this, Brother Norbert thought as highly of you as you did of him. Indeed, until he received orders to go elsewhere, he could scarcely contain his eagerness to return here.’

‘Oh, thank you, Brother.’ Lady Monica leaned back in her chair. ‘I shall remember him. Oh yes I shall!’

A short while later Athelstan, accompanied by the Lady Angelica, still dressed in the robes of a nun of Syon, her sandalled feet slapping on the cobbles, left the convent and took the road into the city. Athelstan had hardly bothered to glance at her, never mind explain, while the young woman had enough sense not to ask any questions until they were well away from the convent gates. At the corner of an alleyway she stopped and grasped Athelstan’s arm.

‘Brother, what on earth’s happening? Where are we going? Why did Lady Monica release me? Is my father well? How is Sir Maurice?’ She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I heard about that business at the Golden Cresset.’

Brother Athelstan grasped the young woman’s smooth hands. He ignored the curious looks of two beggars crouched in a doorway.

‘Lady Angelica, you are going back to your father’s house. Sir John and Sir Maurice are already there. Sir Maurice loves you deeply. He is a valiant, noble knight who wears his heart on his sleeve and that heart is yours for as long as it beats.’

‘You should have been a troubadour. Brother. But that poor woman?’

Athelstan swore her to secrecy then explained all that had happened. The change in Angelica’s face was wondrous, reminding Athelstan of the old adage about the ‘steel fist in the velvet glove’. Her face paled, her blue eyes became ice-cold, like hard pieces of glass, while her generous mouth tightened into a thin line.

‘My father?’ she asked.

‘I believe your father is innocent. I do not think Sir Thomas would stoop to murder to blacken a man’s name.’

‘I believe you.’ Angelica gazed over Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘I think we should walk, Brother, otherwise we might both be reported to the Bishop as a friar and a nun who fell in love and conducted their amour in public!’

They walked slowly up the street, Angelica asking questions, Athelstan doing his best to reply. Indeed, so engrossed was the friar that he hardly noticed the sights and sounds of the city, the busy frenetic cries of the market, the shouts of the apprentices, the clatter of horse and cart. Before he realised it, they were standing on the corner leading down to Sir Thomas Parr’s mansion.

‘I always despised Hersham.’ Lady Angelica ran a finger round the rather tight coif about her chin. I used to catch him watching me. He reminded me of a cat stalking a pigeon.’

‘Some pigeon, my lady. More like a hawk, as my good friend Sir Maurice will find out.’

Angelica grasped his hand and squeezed it.

‘What you did, Brother, what you did was noble.’ Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘And when I marry Sir Maurice, I don’t care what Father says, I want you to meet us at the church door and witness our exchange of vows.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend St Erconwald’s,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Especially with a ferret on the loose.’

‘A ferret?’

‘I jest. Come on, Lady Angelica, let us first see your father before you arrange the marriage feast.’

The manservant who opened the door glanced at Athelstan then Angelica and his jaw sagged.

‘Lord save us!’ he gasped. ‘Oh, what doings! What a morning! The bailiffs have been here closeted with Sir Thomas. Now, Sir John and Sir Maurice are kicking their heels in the parlour.’

‘This is my house,’ the Lady Angelica said. ‘Richard, let us in!’

‘Of course, my lady.’ The manservant stood back and ushered them into the parlour.

Lady Angelica took one look at Sir Maurice and, in a manner that would certainly not have been approved by the Lady Monica, hastened across the chamber and threw her arms round his neck. Sir John, sitting in a window seat cradling a large goblet, shrugged and smiled.

‘Sir Maurice!’ Athelstan hissed. ‘Lady Angelica! The waters are troubled enough!’

He heard footsteps along the gallery outside. Lady Angelica and Sir Maurice hastily stood away from each other and Angelica sat down. Sir Thomas Parr swept into the room. He scowled at his daughter and glanced angrily around.

‘What is this nonsense? Angelica, who brought you here? And you sir!’ He flung his hand in the direction of Sir Maurice. ‘I’ll have you driven from my home!’

‘Father!’ Lady Angelica sprang to her feet. ‘I have told you not to scowl, it doesn’t suit you. You are in very, very serious trouble! I think you should listen to Sir John and Brother Athelstan.’ Angelica stepped forward, wagging her finger. ‘Father, I am your dutiful daughter but I am very angry with you.’ She turned. ‘Sir Maurice, I believe we should adjourn. Don’t worry, Father, I won’t be ravished; I am taking Sir Maurice into the garden and I’ll ask my maid to accompany us.’ She glanced at Sir Maurice. ‘Though not too close.’

She swept out of the room, Sir Maurice trailing behind her. Athelstan closed the door.

‘Sir Thomas, I suggest you sit down.’

‘This is my house, friar.’

‘Sit down!’ Sir John roared. ‘Or I’ll haul you off to the Fleet immediately!’ The coroner lumbered to his feet. ‘Hard of heart and hard of head Thomas, you were always the same. Never bending, never giving!’

Parr sat down.

‘Are we here to discuss my character, Sir John? And, by the way, where’re Hersham and Margoyle? Your bailiff, the one with the flea-ridden dog, he said both men had been detained?’

‘He was lying. On my orders. Hersham is dead and Margoyle’s in flight.’

Sir Thomas swallowed hard.

‘Now, Thomas. I am going to tell you what has happened. And, before you interrupt me and start accusing Sir Maurice of being an assassin, don’t!’ He jabbed a finger. ‘You know, in your heart, he’s innocent of any murder.’

‘I was mystified by the stories.’

‘But you still told your daughter,’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘Enough! Enough!’ Sir John picked up his wine cup. ‘Sir Thomas, there was once a wealthy merchant of Cheapside…’

In stark, pithy phrases the coroner described exactly what he and Athelstan had discovered: the death of the young whore at the Golden Cresset; the fight the previous evening in St Erconwald’s cemetery and the full and frank confession of Clement Margoyle. To give Sir Thomas his credit, he sat and heard the coroner out. Only occasional fidgeting, licking of dry lips and beads of sweat which appeared on his upper lip betrayed his fear.

‘If we wanted to,’ Sir John continued, ‘we could take this full matter to my Lord of Gaunt. Believe me, he would love that! He would have you arrested, your wealth seized and he would take great joy in repudiating any debts he has to you.’ Sir John drew out a roll of parchment from his pouch. ‘Margoyle’s confession is enough evidence, not to mention the witness of myself and Brother Athelstan.’

‘What about Sir Maurice?’

‘He does not know the full facts. And, to be quite honest, Sir Thomas, I don’t think he really cares. You could tell him that the Pope is enthroned in Cheapside and it would fly over his head like a bird.’

‘I had no choice,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, Jack. The rebels are all over the city.’

‘You could have come to me,’ Sir John replied. ‘In the main they are sound and fury. Think about it, Sir Thomas, they don’t want to start kidnapping young damsels or burning a man’s house. However, I tell you this: when these gentlemen, Jack Straw and the others, march on London, they won’t give a fig for any promises made!’

‘So, what will happen?’

Sir John got up and threw the pieces of parchment on to the weak fire burning in the grate.

‘It’s all over, Sir Thomas.’ The coroner beckoned Athelstan to follow. ‘We are leaving. Outside in the garden you have a daughter you should be proud of and a man I’d be delighted to call my son.’ He sketched a bow. ‘Goodbye, Sir Thomas; in all things remember honour!’