The Devil's Domain

between the wooden slats. Further up another crowd was waiting to visit relatives in the city prison. Turnkeys in their shabby leather aprons were moving among them taking bribes, choosing who should go in first.
    At last they were free of the press, making their way up through the city gates and across Smithfield . Athelstan sighed with relief. The stench and the heat were not so intense and the great open expanse was deserted, although stall-holders were getting ready for the great horse fair the following day. They crossed some waste ground. Sir John paused to take a few gulps from his wineskin. Sir Maurice refused but Athelstan was only too grateful to wash the dust from his throat. They continued along dusty trackways which wound between the hedgerows, the noise and bustle of the city giving way to the chirping of birds and the hum of crickets. At last they reached Hawkmere Manor. The grey, forbidding curtain wall was dominated by a high timbered gatehouse. Archers stood there, men-at-arms along the ramparts. Athelstan pulled at the great bell.
    ’Piss off!’ one of the archers shouted down.
    ’I’m Sir John Cranston!’ the coroner bellowed. ’And, if you don’t open this bloody gate, I’ll hang you from the gatehouse!’
    There were muttered curses followed by the sound of footsteps. A small postern door in the great iron-studded gate swung open and a shame-faced archer ushered them in. Sir John poked him in the chest.
    ’Don’t ever tell me to piss off, lad!’ He pulled back the archer’s hood, revealing a mangled left ear. ’Who did that?’
    The narrow-faced archer forced a grin, revealing his black and bleeding gums.
    ’The French caught me outside Calais .’
    ’You are a bloody liar! The French would have taken two of your fingers off, not your ear!’
    The archer looked crestfallen. ’I stole a goose outside Calais ,’ he muttered.
    ’That’s better.’ The coroner glanced across the cobbled yard which stretched up to the main door of the manor. ’Now, lad, run ahead and tell Sir Walter Limbright that Sir Jack Cranston is here.’
    Athelstan opened his pouch and gave the archer the commission they had collected from one of John of Gaunt’s clerks. The archer hurried off. Athelstan looked up at the manor.
    ’A gloomy place to live in,’ he commented. ’And a gloomy place to die!’
    Hawkmere was built out of grey ragstone, four stories high. Chimneys had been added on at each end of the sloping, red-slated roof. The front door was black and forbidding. The steps leading to it were choked with weeds and crumbling. The windows were either arrow slits or small squares of wood, not filled with glass but protected by shutters from within and iron bars on the outside. It reminded Athelstan of the great block houses in France , built by the English to control crossroads, bridges and fords over rivers.
    The archer had disappeared round the back. Athelstan could see now why Hawkmere had been chosen as a prison. On the other three sides of the house ran a great curtain wall which probably defended the outhouses and buildings behind it. He glanced at his companions; Sir John was standing, legs apart, eyes half-closed. Sir Maurice looked as if he were a thousand miles away and, once again, Athelstan wondered how they could possibly help this young man’s futile pursuit of his beloved. Sir John knew Sir Thomas and so did Athelstan. Sir Thomas had a reputation for being hard-fisted and stony-hearted. A man who lent monies to everyone and always demanded a good profit in return.
    ’Come on, Athelstan,’ Sir John growled. ’I’m not standing here baking in the sun.’
    He marched across and up the steps, the other two close behind, and hammered on the great oaken door. It swung open and a servant ushered them in.
    The inside of Hawkmere Manor was as gloomy as its exterior. The hallway was so dark, cresset torches spluttered in their iron holders. They were taken down a shabby passageway, their boots ringing hollow on the hard grey paving-stones. Sir Walter Limbright was waiting for them in his chamber just near the Great Hall. A small, surly-looking knight, he had thinning grey hair, eyes close-set, a cynical cast to his mouth. He was unshaven and his dark-brown doublet was stained. He rose to greet them.
    ’I was told of your arrival, Sir John. I was coming...’
    ’We decided not to wait,’ Sir John snapped. ’It’s hot outside.’
    ’Would you like something to drink?’ Sir Walter