The Devil's domain smoba-8 Read online

  ‘Avenge me!’ Serriem whispered.

  The pain in Serriem’s belly grew more intense. He couldn’t breathe. Something was closing off his throat as if a noose were tightening around his neck. Serriem’s body jerked, legs lashing out, and he died, his sightless eyes staring across at the crucifix on the wall.

  Sir Maurice Maltravers, knight banneret in the household of John of Gaunt, waited in the shadows of the Austin Friars church. In the far distance he could see the Abbot of St Albans inn and, along the lane, the main thoroughfare leading down into Cheapside.

  The church of Austin Friars was old and crumbling. Its door had long been barred and locked, no candles glowed in the windows. It was night; a time of darkness when stealth and subterfuge were the order of the day. Sir Maurice was ill pleased with this. He was a knight, a warrior. He recalled the words of the Gospel, how men of honour should do things in the light of day and not scurry about in the dark like some felon or housebreaker. Yet what else could he do?

  Sir Maurice stepped out of the shadows and, going down the side of the church, pushed open the battered lych gate leading into the cemetery. The two horses, saddled and ready, patiently cropped at the grass. He checked the bulging leather panniers placed behind each saddle. Everything was in order but would she come? Sir Maurice knelt down and stared in the direction of the sanctuary.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ he prayed. ‘Help me! And, if you do, I will go on pilgrimage to Compostella. I will be the most faithful of husbands. I will dedicate my children to you and your Blessed Mother.’

  Sir Maurice opened his eyes. He felt slightly ridiculous kneeling here in the darkness but he had no choice. He loved Angelica, daughter of the great merchant Sir Thomas Parr, with all his mind, heart and soul, more than life itself. Yes, and if he was honest, more than God.

  He had met Angelica weeks ago. Since then his life had been changed. He thought of her every second of the day: that beautiful face, the alabaster ivory skin, cornflower-blue eyes, lustrous golden hair. Yes, she was well named Angelica. At seventeen summers old, her beautiful body was vibrant with life — and those eyes! Sir Maurice had never seen a woman’s face reflect so clearly her shifting moods. Angelica possessed strong and fierce will coupled with a biting sense of humour and yet a sense of merriment, a wonder at life and all it held.

  Sir Maurice had paid court, at first shyly because he was more used to the routine of the camp and the affairs of war. He was frightened of no man living: only twentyfour years of age, he had distinguished himself in battle both in France and at sea. Oh, he had been a clumsy suitor; he knew Angelica was laughing at him. Nevertheless, far from refusing his advances, she had lowered her eyes and, on occasions, dropped, as a token of affection, a piece of silk, a flower she had been carrying and, finally, a small silver ring.

  Sir Maurice could not believe his good fortune. He had expected refusal. Sir Thomas Parr was one of the richest men in London yet Angelica had been as smitten by Sir Maurice as he by her.

  He had planned his wooing as he would the siege of a castle. Sir Thomas would bring his daughter to court, at Gaunt’s palace of the Savoy. Sir Maurice would shyly wait and, sure enough, the occasion would present itself. A few whispered endearments, lingering looks, fingers brushing as they passed, only fanned the flames. Sir Maurice would find himself outside Parr’s great half-timbered mansion in Cheapside, staring longingly up at the mullioned glass windows. One night his patience had been rewarded when a red rose had been dropped, a small note tied by a piece of pink silk to its stem.

  They had met in the shadowy corners of churches along Cheapside or the Poultry. Angelica’s maid, Rosamunda, would stay just beyond earshot though close enough to intervene. At first Sir Maurice thought Angelica was teasing him, full of spite, of malicious glee. He was wrong. Her heart was as pure and as beautiful as her face. Sir Maurice did not think of himself as a fop or a gallant; he was a soldier with a warrior’s face and blunt mannerisms. Though tongue-tied he’d confessed to Angelica that she was the love of his life. She had touched his fingers, those blue eyes scrutinising his face and, at last, towards the end of July, she had confessed that her love was as great as his: a fierce flame of passion which would never be extinguished. After that Sir Maurice felt as if he had been walking on air. A few more clandestine meetings and then, armed with letters from John of Gaunt himself, he had presented himself at Sir Thomas’ house in Cheapside.

  The young knight clambered to his feet. Even now his face went red with embarrassment at what had happened. He had knelt before Sir Thomas Parr and confessed his love. Sir Thomas had gazed speechlessly back, his face turning puce as he gave vent to the most terrible rage.

  ‘How dare you!’ he had bellowed, striding up and down the solar, leaving Sir Maurice on his knees. ‘How dare you even look at my daughter? What are you but some penniless knight!’

  ‘I have a manor and lands in Berkshire,’ Sir Maurice had retorted.

  ‘What! A paltry cottage and a few pigsties!’

  Sir Maurice’s hand had dropped to the hilt of his sword but Parr had remained unabashed. His henchmen standing in the doorway came forward. A group of city thugs, bully boys led by the squire Ralph Hersham, a mealy-mouthed character with a narrow pointed face and sly eyes. Parr had leaned down, eyes blazing with fury.

  ‘Go on!’ he had grated. ‘Draw your weapon! Let us end it now!’

  Instead, Sir Maurice had scrambled to his feet and, with Parr’s strictures ringing in his ears, had fled the mansion. He’d drowned his sorrows in a tavern and, when he returned to the Savoy Palace, summoned up enough courage to see his lord. John of Gaunt had been sympathetic but unhelpful. The Regent had slouched in his chair, his sharp, hard eyes keenly observant. As he listened, he would stroke his silver moustache and goatee beard. Now and again he would nod or intervene with a question.

  ‘But there’s nothing I can do,’ he concluded sadly.

  ‘My lord, you are the Regent!’

  ‘I am the King’s officer,’ Gaunt replied with a smile. ‘I can command his armies, issue writs, but I have no power over Sir Thomas and what he wishes to do with his daughter.’ He held his hand up, emphasising the points on his fingers. ‘First, my good knight, our opponents in the Commons would love that. John of Gaunt, the King’s evil Regent, forcing one of his knights into the bed of the daughter of a powerful London merchant! How the scurriers and the gossips would relish it! They’d depict me as an even greater tyrant than Nero or Caligula!’

  Sir Maurice didn’t know who these were but he stared bleakly at Gaunt.

  ‘Secondly,’ the Regent continued remorselessly, ‘Sir Thomas Parr is a very, very wealthy man. Oh, he comes from nothing but he virtually owns the wool trade to the Low Countries. He has ten ships which he has put at our disposal. Thirdly, the Crown owes him monies. Fourthly, and more importantly, Sir Maurice, so do I. If Sir Thomas called in these loans…’ John of Gaunt drummed his fingers on the table-top. ‘Well.’ He sighed. ‘It’s best not to think about what might happen.’ He got up and grasped the young knight’s hands. ‘Maurice,’ he continued kindly. ‘You are my man in peace and war as your father was. In battle I couldn’t ask for a better soldier. You took those two ships, the St Sulpice and St Denis and, for that, you will always have my favour. In time I will grant you lands, manors, fields, meadows but not now. In this matter of Sir Thomas Parr’s daughter I can do nothing.’

  Crestfallen, Sir Maurice had withdrawn. He had not seen Angelica after his confrontation with her father. He thought his cause was doomed but, a short while later, Rosamunda brought a short letter.

  ‘Are you a lackey to leave the field?’ the note had read. ‘Is your love so shallow that it breaks at the first obstacle?’

  Full of fire, he had returned to his wooing though this time it was more difficult. Nevertheless, thanks to Rosamunda, he and Angelica had met, sworn oaths of love and agreed to elope this very night. He had no real plan. They would ride into Berkshire and hire some hedge-priest to marry
them and be their witness when they exchanged vows at the church door.

  Sir Maurice stepped back into the lane. Further down, cats fought rats among the ordure piled on either side of the open sewer. A mongrel cur came snarling out, but the cats drove it off. In the pool of light thrown by the sconce torches, Sir Maurice stared in pity at the tarred figure swinging from the makeshift gallows: a house-breaker who had been caught red-handed and executed at the scene of his crime. The gibbeters had coated the body in pitch which gleamed eerily in the dancing torchlight.

  Sir Maurice returned to the church path. What would happen to him once Gaunt found out? Would he be favoured or punished? The Regent had a vile temper and those who betrayed him received no forgiveness.

  The bells of St Mary-Le-Bow now began to chime the hour of Compline. Sir Maurice tensed. Would Angelica keep her word? He heard the sound of horses and stepped out but the figures who came out of the darkness were not what he expected: no Rosamunda, no Angelica. Instead he recognised Sir Thomas Parr’s henchmen led by Ralph Hersham. They left their horses and walked forward, drawing sword and dagger, fanning out in a semi-circle.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He felt his heart would break with disappointment.

  ‘Don’t be foolish.’ Hersham edged forward. ‘There are five of us and more coming. We do not wish to cross swords with you, Maltravers. We bring you messages. My master says he knows you and rejects you. You are forbidden to see his daughter again. And do not bother,’ Ralph’s sly face broke into a smile, ‘to come and wheedle beneath the windows of his house. Angelica is now with the holy nuns at Syon on Thames. They have strict orders to keep you at the gates!’

  CHAPTER 2

  Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, lowered his massive body into the high-backed chair in his small chamber at the Guildhall. Simon, his scrivener, thought Sir John looked in fine fettle. He was dressed in a doublet of burgundy, white cambric shirt, hose and soft leather Spanish riding boots. Sir John’s hair was swept and oiled back, his moustache and beard fair bristling with expectation.

  ‘Why are we here, Simon?’ Sir John patted his stomach. He unhitched his thick leather war belt and threw it over the corner of the chair. ‘When I leave make sure I put my sword and dagger in my sheaths. The King’s coroner cannot be too careful in this vale of wickedness.’

  ‘Of course, Sir John.’ Simon dared not raise his eyes. He fought to keep his face straight at what was coming. Sir John Cranston was not a man of easy temper, though kindly and big-hearted, but, as Simon told his wife, when he was surprised, Sir John’s rubicund face was a veritable tapestry of moods and emotions.

  ‘Well!’ He leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair. ‘Where is Adam Wallace? He said he had something important to tell me. I’ve heard Mass, broken my fast. I’m just in the mood to listen to a lawyer.’

  ‘I’ll fetch him in now.’ Simon rose and went down the stairs.

  Sir John leaned back in his chair and scratched his head. Wallace had sent him a message yesterday afternoon, saying he had something important to tell Sir John and that he was bringing a bequest of old Widow Blanchard who lived in Eel Pie Lane. Sir John had spent the evening wondering what it could be. Blanchard had been a merry old soul; Sir John had often called in to ensure that all was well with her. Blanchard’s husband had fought with Sir John in France. Perhaps she wished to give him some keepsake? Or…? He heard a creaking on the stairs. Simon came back into the chamber at a half-run, hands hanging by his side. Sir John’s light-blue eyes blazed. He could always tell when Simon was laughing at him: the scrivener would become all humble, stoop-shouldered, chin tucked in, face down.

  ‘What is it, Simon?’

  ‘You’d best see for yourself, Sir John.’

  Wallace waddled into the room, followed by a little goat.

  ‘In heaven’s name!’ Sir John half-rose out of the chair.

  Wallace was a small, self-important man, his hooked nose perpetually dripping, little black eyes ever searching for a fee or a profit. His smile was smug as he hitched his cloak about his shoulders. He held a scroll of parchment in his hand and approached Sir John’s desk.

  ‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’

  ‘Of course I am, you bloody idiot! Who do you think I am, the Archangel Gabriel?’

  ‘Now, now, Sir John. I am only performing my duty in accordance with the law, its customs and usages.’

  ‘Shut up! What are you doing in my court with that bloody thing?’

  He pointed at the goat and glanced dangerously at his scrivener, hunched over his desk, shoulders shaking, pretending to sharpen his quill.

  ‘I have identified you as Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city,’ Wallace continued lugubriously. ‘I have brought into your court, in accordance with the law, its customs and usages, the will of one Eleanor Blanchard, widow of this parish. I am her legal executor as approved in the Court of Chancery!’

  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.’