The Devil's Domain

it! Gaunt had a way of dealing with traitors: hanged like rats on the gallows at Smithfield or on the other side of London Bridge . Spies abounded in Southwark, more than fleas on a mongrel’s back.
    ’Take care!’ he warned. Joscelyn retreated into his taproom closing the door firmly behind him.
    Watkin and Pike had stumbled along to the church, gone through the lych gate and taken up residence beneath the yew tree at the far end of God’s acre, the broad cemetery which bounded the old church of St Erconwald ’s. They had drunk and waited, watching the sun set and the stars come out. Then they had seen it, on the top of the church tower, a slight glow from a charcoal brazier.
    ’He’s up there,’ Pike said, referring to their parish priest the Dominican Brother Athelstan. ’He’s up there watching his bloody stars! Him and that cat of his. What’s its name? Eh? Benedicta?’
    ’Benedicta!’ Watkin laughed. ’That’s the widow woman, you know, dark-faced and dark-eyed with a softness for Brother Athelstan.’ He leaned conspiratorially closer. ’The name of his one-eyed cat is Bonaventure.’
    ’Do you think it’s true?’ Pike continued.
    ’What is?’
    ’That he left St Erconwald’s...’
    Watkin felt a chill of apprehension, which almost sobered him up. Such rumours and stories had been rife in the parish, fiercely discussed on the church steps or in the Piebald Tavern. Watkin knew he was a sinner. He drank too much, he swore, he fought, he lusted after other men’s wives. Nevertheless, he feared God in heaven and the Lord Jesus; but Watkin loved their small parish priest with his olive-skinned face, dark, soulful eyes and brain as sharp as a razor. Athelstan made Watkin feel good about himself . Every so often, the Dominican would pat the fat dung-collector on the shoulder.
    ’What you do, Watkin, cleaning the muck in filthy alleyways, is loved by God. You are like the Holy Ghost.’
    Watkin had seen the laughter in the Dominican’s eye.
    ’You make things clean and fresh! Therefore, Watkin, in God’s plan, you are very important!’
    Watkin had never forgotten that. He had been frightened by the rumours that John of Gaunt had taken a savage dislike to the little friar and arranged for his transference to the Halls of Oxford. They claimed Athelstan had got as far as Cripplegate before Prior Anselm had intervened and sent a message ordering the Dominican back to his parish. Athelstan had never said anything but, there again, he was unlikely to do so, Watkin mused. And Watkin, although leader of the parish council, dare not challenge him. Athelstan had a dark side. If he lost his temper, his tongue was like a lash. Watkin loved him yet he was more frightened of Athelstan than he was of the Regent’s men-at-arms or even the great coroner Sir Jack Cranston who’d come swaggering into Southwark, one hand on his sword belt, the other clutching a wineskin.
    Watkin often reflected on the relationship between Cranston and his secretarius Athelstan but he couldn’t reach any conclusion. Cranston was as big as Athelstan was little. He could, and often did, drink the entire taproom of the Piebald Tavern under the table. He could swear like any soldier. He had the ear of many powerful men in the city. They even said the young King deferred to him but Cranston could do nothing unless Athelstan was by his side.
    ’How long do you think we’ll wait?’ Pike broke in.
    Watkin stretched out his legs and cursed. The ale in his belly was turning sour. He had seen the warning look in Joscelyn’s eyes and quietly cursed his growing involvement in Pike’s madcap schemes. All of Southwark knew about the Great Community of the Realm! The Secret Council of peasant leaders and their ruthless agents who slipped like shadows along the wards, bringing in messages and instructions which could not be defied. Once you were part of the Community, you either supported it or you died.
    ’Do you think this is wise?’ Watkin asked. ’I mean to be waiting here? If Athelstan found out he’d lash us with his tongue or worse,’ he added morosely. ’Just stare at us so sorrowfully until we confessed everything.’
    ’I am a part of it,’ Pike declared defiantly, looking up at the sky. ’And, Watkin, so are you!’
    Watkin moved his great rump and scratched his bulbous nose. He and Pike used to be rivals on the parish council but now Pike had drawn him into these secret matters. Had he done it deliberately? A