The Devil's Domain

into the palace. The floors were of shiny wood, which smelt richly of polish, and almost covered in great thick woollen rugs of different colours. Statues stood in niches, small portraits of former kings and princes hung in thick, black, wood-edged frames on the walls. Soldiers were everywhere. They guarded staircases, the entrances to chambers and thronged about them as they waited to be taken up to the first gallery where the Regent had his own chambers.
    Athelstan recalled Sir John’s monologue as Moleskin had rowed them along the Thames . How popular resentment against the Regent was growing, particularly in the shires and around the city: his tax-collectors, in particular, were being attacked, their demands refused. Even in the House of Commons, protests had been drawn up; the members demanded a reform of government and a thorough investigation into the war against France which had resulted in a recent truce due to the intervention of the papacy.
    ’We live in hard times, Brother Athelstan.’ Sir John had shaken his head and looked out across the river at the ornate, high-pooped Venetian galleys, the war cogs of England and the great, fat-bellied merchant ships from Lübeck. Around these swarmed wherries, bum-boats, barges and fishing smacks.
    ’All this could end,’ he had mournfully declared.
    ’What do you mean?’ Athelstan had asked, just wishing Cranston would keep his voice down. Moleskin, although bent over the oars, always listened intently to the conversations of his customers. Cranston had taken a slurp from his wineskin.
    ’ London ’s unprotected. We have a garrison in the Tower. Gaunt and the great lords have their retainers but, if a rebel army marched south, they could take London in a day.’
    ’Rebels?’ Athelstan had asked.
    ’Peasants — the Great Community of the Realm. They are traitors.’ Sir John had sighed. ’But many of their grievances are just. The peasants are taxed to the point of rebellion, they are tied to the soil. Their duties are fixed, their wages are paltry. If they can produce a leader, then God help us all.’ He nudged Athelstan. ’And, if you read my treatise on the governance of the city, Southwark is our weakest point. The north is defended by walls but, once they sweep into Southwark and take the bridge, London will be at their mercy.’
    Athelstan understood the coroner’s disquiet. He knew some of his parishioners, particularly Pike, were members of the Great Community of the Realm and, although he had never said it, Athelstan believed Sir John was the only royal official able to walk unharmed through the narrow alleyways of Southwark. The coroner had a reputation for honesty while his friendship with the parish priest of St Erconwald’s also afforded protection.
    ’Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’
    The Dominican shook himself from his reverie.
    The young knight on the stairs was not one of Gaunt’s foppish retainers. Athelstan recognised a fighting man, in his dour, drab clothes, the buttoned sword belt clasped round his waist.
    ’Why bless me, if it isn’t Sir Maurice.’
    Sir John made the introductions. Athelstan shook the young knight’s hand. He took an immediate liking to this knight with his blunt features and honest eyes. A soldier, Athelstan concluded, a man direct in speech and action. As he followed Sir Maurice up the stairs, Athelstan reflected on how contrary John of Gaunt could be. A silken courtier, a man born to plot, Gaunt was still the son of Edward III, with the strength and the courage to attract warriors to him as well as the young fops and dilettantes. The latter constantly preened themselves, drenched their bodies in perfume, crimped their hair and dressed more fastidiously than high-class courtesans. Athelstan had seen them in their ornate, long-toed shoes and fantastic head-dresses and had observed the lisping way they talked. He tried not to judge but, often, he secretly agreed with Sir John that the warriors of England were no more than gelded palfreys, all show, with little mettle or fire.
    Sir Maurice led them into the Regent’s private chamber. A small, narrow room, it had wainscoting against the walls; the white plaster above was decorated with banners of Leon , Castile , France and England . Gaunt was sitting behind a great black desk. He sifted among the manuscripts as he talked in hushed tones to a clerk sitting on a writing stool beside him. Then he glanced up.
    Athelstan couldn’t decide whether