The Devil's Domain

integrity, a warrior, bluff and truthful, who didn’t even spare the Regent his strictures. He grasped the older man’s hand.
    ’None taken, Sir John. My Lord of Gaunt will tell you the reason for his summons.’
    Sir John snatched the rope from Simon’s hand and stood listening to the young knight go down the stairs.
    ’A veritable hero, Simon,’ he repeated dreamily. ’Perhaps England still produces the like, its crops of heroes, brave men. Have you ever heard that line?’
    The scrivener shook his head.
    ’I don’t know who wrote it,’ Sir John continued as if speaking to himself. ’Anyway, it goes something like this.’ He threw his head back and put one leg forward, like a chanteur. ’Ah yes. That’s it. “Since the beginning of time two things are constant: the greenness of the earth and the courage of man.” ’ He wiped a tear from his eyes. ’Beautiful poetry! Oh, Satan’s arse!’
    Judas the goat had sidled up and was now nibbling at the wineskin. The coroner stared down at the goat which, as if he had taken a great liking to his new owner, stared innocently back.
    ’Haven’t you read the Scriptures?’ Sir John bawled. ’Judas went out and hanged himself. If you’re not careful, my lad, the same bloody thing will happen to you! That’s my wineskin.’ He held the precious object up. ’You never, ever touch it!’
    And, dragging the goat by the rope, Sir John left the chamber and went out into Cheapside .
    If he had known what was going to happen, Sir John would never have done what he did that morning. The broad thoroughfare of Cheapside was thronged with people swirling like shoals of coloured fish among the many stalls. He was hardly out, pushing his way through the crowds, before people noticed.
    ’There goes Sir Jack and his goat!’ someone shouted. ’A penny for the man who can tell the difference!’
    Sir John gazed round, eyes popping.
    ’Tadpole!’ he bawled at a scrawny beggar boy. ’Did you shout that?’
    ’Me, Sir John?’ The dirty face was as innocent as an angel’s, eyes rounded. ’Sir John, would I say such a thing?’
    Muttering under his breath, he continued on his way. The sun was strong and the stall-owners were doing a roaring trade: leather goods, silks and tapestries, pots and pans, vegetables and fruits from the outlying farms and villages. The air was rich with the smell of horse dung mingling with the sweeter smells from the cookshops and bakeries. Young gallants from the court paraded in their long, gaudy jackets, tight hose and high-heeled leather riding boots, and protuberant codpieces: round slim waists hung brocaded war belts with sword and dagger pushed in. Their hair was prinked and crimped. The coroner looked away in disgust. He was sure some of the men even wore make-up.
    ’Pretty bum-boys!’ he mumbled. ’No wonder the French have it all their own way.’
    Everyone seemed to have thronged into Cheapside . Merchants in their costly robes, their wives in samite dresses, their ornate headgear created out of wisps of veils which threatened to catch signs hanging over the shops behind the stalls. Apprentices scurried, seeking custom. A farmer was trying to get two bullocks up through the crowds to the slaughterers at Newgate. Outside the Peascod Tavern, men were wagering on a fight between a badger and a dog. In the open space before St Mary-Le-Bow, a blind bear danced while beggar children played a reedy tune on pipes. Felons from the Marshalsea and Fleet prisons, manacled together, clattered and clashed their chains as they were marched up to the courts, the tipstaffs keeping order with their white willow wands. Windows and doors were flung open, people were shouting and talking to pass-ersby. A dung cart had turned over, spilling its messy contents out. Some of the ordure had landed on a fruit stall and bailiffs were desperately striving to prevent a fight breaking out between its owner and the dung-collector. Everyone fell silent as a funeral procession passed. The corpse was laid out on a stretcher covered by a sheet, carried by four friars who mumbled the prayers of the dead; an altar boy ran in front of them, holding a candle and ringing a bell.
    Sir John kept his head down as he pulled at Judas who really needed no second bidding but trotted along as obediently as any trained dog. A group of whores came out of an alley, heads bald as pigeons’ eggs, coloured wigs clutched in their hands. They espied Sir John and followed him,