The Devil's Domain

from the manor garden. We are not even sure whether anything poisonous grows there. And, even if it does, such poisons have to be prepared. You don’t just pluck a little foxglove and give it to someone to eat. Now, the prisoners were searched, probably many times after their capture: a powder, poisons would have been noticed.’
    ’So?’
    ’So, Sir John, logic dictates that either the poison was brought into the manor and given to one of those Frenchmen to poison Serriem, and perhaps others, though God knows the reason why...’
    ’Or,’ Sir John finished for him, ’the poison was obtained by someone who can enter and leave that manor at will.’
    ’Exactly! Which brings us to Limbright. Perhaps his daughter, fey though she be, our good and glorious physician Aspinall or, perhaps, even Sir Maurice.’
    ’I don’t think Maltravers is a poisoner. He’s a soldier and a warrior.’
    ’No, no, Sir John, he’s a servant of the Regent. Maltravers in war may be a different person: caparisoned for the fight he will go out and smite his enemies. At home, however, he’s like a restless war horse, sent hither and thither on this menial task or that.’
    ’And?’ Sir John asked angrily. ’Speak your mind, Brother.’
    ’We have a powerful merchant in London , Thomas Parr. John of Gaunt could bribe him by offering him the hand of a prince in marriage but he does not. Instead, he advances the claim of this brave but penniless knight.’
    ’In return for which Maltravers will agree to do whatever Gaunt wants?’
    ’Perhaps.’
    ’But why, my good monk?’
    ’Friar, Sir John.’
    ’Same bloody thing! Why should Gaunt want these Frenchmen dead? He’s going to gain a great deal of money from their ransoms, as well as keep them off the sea, well away from English shipping.’
    ’That would be reason enough,’ Athelstan countered, but he could tell that the coroner didn’t believe him.
    ’Come along, my good friar, let’s visit Sir Thomas Parr.’
    They walked across the wasteland, leaving the trackway as a group of courtiers thundered by on their horses, laughing and joking, their gaily decorated clothes bright in the sunlight. They chattered among themselves, hardly sparing a second glance for the fat coroner or the little friar. They held hawks and peregrines on their wrists; the birds were hooded, their jesses clinking like fairy bells. Behind them padded dogs, lurchers and mastiffs under their whippers-in. Sir John narrowed his eyes and watched them go.
    ’They are going down to the marshes,’ he said. ’I feel sorry for the poor herons. That’s what wrong with this city, Athelstan: the rich don’t give a fig while the poor, they sit in their hovels and watch narrow-eyed and think about the weapons they have hidden beneath their mud-packed floors.’
    Athelstan looked in alarm. ’Sir John, you sound fearful?’
    ’You would as well, Brother, if you’ve read what I have.’
    As if to match the coroner’s words, the sun slipped behind a cloud and a racing shadow sped across the fields.
    ’You believe the great revolt is coming, don’t you?’ Athelstan asked.
    ’I know it is, Brother, but Gaunt and his cronies won’t listen. You remember France .’ He led Athelstan back on to the trackway. ’The English, Athelstan, do not put their trust in knights but in the yeomen, the farmers and the peasants with their long bows. Now we are driven out of France , except for Calais , all these soldiers have returned home to eat hard crusts and drink brackish water. The shadow men, those who spy for the Regent, claim that weapons and arms are being brought into the city. Worse still, the peasant leaders have allies here, men who should know better: these believe they can win the race by dividing their wager and placing equal amounts on each horse.’
    ’Meaning?’
    ’If the revolt fails they will support Gaunt. However, if the rebels seize the city, capture the Tower and march on Westminster , there are those who will come out of their hiding holes, ready to support the “Great Community”.’
    Athelstan stopped walking. He watched the riders retreat into the distance. He always feared this. He was a priest in Southwark and tended to his parish. Along the narrow, filthy alleyways, he’d heard the rumours, the whispered talk beneath the gaiety and bustle of life; a sense of deep grievance and, time and again, that slogan, that chorus of the working man: ’When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then