The Devil's Domain

instruct his daughter in obedience and love for her father. You, Brother Athelstan, are the chosen one.’ He lowered his voice. And that’s the problem. You are I also to use all your powers to advance the cause of Sir Maurice.’

CHAPTER 4

    Cranston and Athelstan, with a woebegone Sir Maurice in tow, left the Savoy Palace . They took a barge further along the Thames to Fish Wharf and threaded their way along the narrow runnels which wound through houses and shops towards St Paul ’s. At first they had been too nonplussed to speak. They were accustomed to accepting the Regent’s commissions to investigate this or that, but the prospect of becoming heralds for this knight of the doleful countenance sitting opposite them in the barge truly confounded them. Athelstan’s mind teemed. How could he do anything? His knowledge of women, and he smiled to himself, well, the least said the better! Sir John broke the silence and leaned over and grasped the young man’s knee.
    ’I know what it’s like, lad,’ he growled. ’Years ago, when I pursued the Lady Maude, I wasn’t like this; sleek as a greyhound I was, fast as a swooping hawk, my heart and soul on fire. It was just poor old Jack Cranston then but courage and tenacity will achieve the desires of your heart.’
    Sir Maurice thanked him. Athelstan could see the mirth in the young man’s eyes at the picture of a sleek and swooping Sir John.
    Ah yes, those were the days,’ Sir John repeated as they made their way through the alleyways. ’What a siege of love, and I tried every stratagem.’
    Athelstan had to hang behind them because he’d begun to laugh so much his shoulders were shaking. He couldn’t really think of Lady Maude as a castle while the prospect of Sir John deeply in love was a thing of wonder.
    Sir John, one hand on Sir Maurice’s shoulder, steered him through the crowds. Athelstan, trailing behind, realised that he had been sheltering in St Erconwald’s so long the crowds, the smell, the press made him feel uneasy. The sun was strong and the heat made his rough serge gown cling to his sweat-soaked skin. Sir John loved the city but Athelstan always found it strange, filled with images, pictures, which reminded him of scenes on a painted wall.
    Two men on a comer of Old Bowyers Row were teaching their pet weasels how to kill a rat. Further along two beadles were making a whore fumigate herself by standing over a dish of burning coals, her dirty skirts pulled up under her breasts. Apprentices came out from behind stalls to catch Sir John’s arm. He shook them off as he did the greasy fingers of the owners of the cookshops who always regarded Sir John as a generous patron. The dung carts had not yet reached this part of the city and the lanes and alleyways were still full of rubbish from the previous day. The sewers down the streets brimmed with dirt. Cats, dogs, pigs and even a few chickens scrambled among the muck looking for tidbits. Street signs creaked in the light breeze which had sprung up. Above them, windows of the lean-to houses had been thrown open. People talked and shouted to each other. Now and again, if the street scavengers weren’t looking, they tossed out refuse on to the growing piles.
    At Paternoster Row they had to stop. Sir John even paused in his advice to Sir Maurice as a strange procession of men and women, dressed in bright yellow, made their way up Newgate. These wore their hair long and untended and walked in unison; every so often a bell would ring. They would stop, clap their hands and leap into the air shouting ’Hosanna!’
    ’The Joyeurs.’ Sir John spoke over his shoulder at Athelstan. ’Just look at the silly buggers!’
    The Dominican did, fascinated. He had heard of these men and women who believed that the Second Coming was near and patrolled the city in feverish expectation. According to them, Jesus would appear at Blackheath and found the new Jerusalem.
    ’There must be sixty of them!’ Sir John muttered.
    The Joyeurs heightened Athelstan’s sense of unreality with their strange uniform walk, abrupt stops, the clapping of hands and raucous shouts.
    Once they had passed, the three continued. They entered the Shambles, the beaten paving-stones awash with blood and gore from the butchers’ stalls and slaughterhouses. Outside Newgate, the stocks had been set up and the beadles were inviting citizens to throw rotten vegetables at the unfortunates fastened there, hands and heads clasped tightly