The Devil's Domain

sword and went down. One of the cats, the rat dangling from his mouth, hurried off hotly pursued by his companion.
    ’Death is all around us,’ Maneil observed.
    ’And it may strike again,’ Athelstan replied. ’We are not here, sirs, to play a part and walk away. The Regent himself has intervened. If there is a traitor among you, he may want you all dead. Or, there again, you may know who the traitor is? Was it Serriem? Did you carry out lawful execution of him? After all, you have just assured us that none of you eat or drink anything one of your companions does not partake of. Nevertheless, Serriem was poisoned.’
    ’Are you saying we forced something between Serriem’s lips?’ Maneil asked.
    ’It’s possible.’
    ’But we dined together last night, Sir Walter’s guards all about us. We talked, we played chess, there was no feeling of resentment. Serriem was a good companion, a born sailor. If there is a traitor it certainly wasn’t him.’
    Athelstan took out his ink horn, a sharpened quill and a square of parchment. He used a pumice stone to ensure it was smooth then he quickly wrote down their names and a short description and what he had learned. When he glanced up, the coroner was now sitting slouched in his chair, head back, mouth open, sleeping peacefully. Athelstan could tell the French were not impressed.
    ’Sir John does not regard Serriem’s death as important,’ Gresnay quipped.
    ’My lord coroner,’ Athelstan replied, putting his quill down, ’is a hard working, very tired man who should be back in his own court, not listening to a pack of lies.’
    ’Lies!’ Routier yelled.
    ’Yes, sir, lies! Someone is lying here.’
    ’Then why not ask him?’ Routier pointed at Sir Walter. ’Brother Athelstan, we have no poisons. Our noble gaoler has already searched our possessions.’
    ’Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.
    Sir Walter nodded. ’I found nothing,’ he confirmed. ’Nothing at all.’
    ’What about the garden?’ Sir John opened his eyes, smacking his lips.
    Routier gasped, open-mouthed. Athelstan hid his amusement. Sir John seemed to have the ability to sleep and listen at the same time.
    ’What about the garden?’ The coroner rubbed his face. ’There are plants growing there.’
    ’Why not test us?’ Routier retorted. ’We are sailors, my lord coroner, not gardeners. I speak for the rest: unless someone told us to the contrary, I wouldn’t know one herb from another.’
    This drew murmurs of agreement from his companions. Athelstan stared down at the square of parchment. Nothing, he thought, we are learning nothing here.
    ’One last question. Serriem was with you all the time?’
    ’I’ve told you that,’ Routier replied wearily. ’We supped here. We walked in the garden. We played chess, dice, other games. Nobody saw Guillaum drink or eat anything after he had left the table.’
    ’You are sure of that?’
    ’When the guards came to take us to our chambers, Serriem was alive and well. He took his wine cup up but it contained nothing we, too, hadn’t drunk.’

    ★ ★ ★

    A short while later Sir John, Sir Maurice and Athelstan left Hawkmere Manor.
    ’I’m glad we are out of there!’ Sir John exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot. ’A godforsaken place!’ He paused for a drink from his wineskin.
    ’What do you make of it?’ Sir Maurice asked.
    Athelstan stared back at the high, grey curtain wall and repressed a shiver. Many of the deaths he and the coroner had to deal with were the results of accidents or sudden fights. Now and again, as today, they would enter a different world, what Athelstan privately called the ’Devil’s Domain’. Hawkmere was one of these. A place seething with malice, resentment, lies and bloody-handed murder.
    ’I feel angry,’ he muttered then regretted his words.
    ’What do you mean?’
    ’Nothing.’
    Athelstan waved his hand. He didn’t wait for the rest but left the pathway and walked across the wasteland. It dipped; at the bottom was a small mere or lake. The sun had begun to dry it up, the water receding, leaving a round, muddy circle where plants and undergrowth died through lack of nourishment. A desolate place. Athelstan sat down under the cool shade of a tree. Above him a thrush sang its little heart out. Sir John came and stood over him.
    ’What’s the matter, Brother?’
    ’I don’t know, Sir John. It’s just a feeling, a premonition of danger.’
    ’For yourself?’
    Athelstan shook