The Devil's Domain

but then he had gone. Secondly, the young woman who had arrived late in the afternoon and hired a chamber above stairs had hardly shown her face. Tobias the tap boy had tried the latch but the door was secure and, when he rapped, no answer was made. Margaret went across to where her father the taverner stood beside the butts.
    ’What is it, girl?’
    ’Our lady guest,’ she replied. ’It’s been some hours now, Father.’
    The taverner wiped his greasy fingers on his apron. It was late Saturday evening and the taproom was beginning to fill. Young fops with their doxies, travellers staying over till Monday.
    ’We’ll be busy soon.’ He sighed. ’Oh, very well, come on.’
    He followed her upstairs and rapped on the door.
    ’What name did she give?’ he asked.
    ’Mistress Triveter.’
    ’Mistress Triveter!’ he called, feeling slightly ridiculous. ’Mistress Triveter, are you well?’
    No answer. He knocked again.
    ’Mistress Triveter, I beg you, I must open this door!’
    He jangled the keys which swung on a cord from his belt. He fingered through them looking for the master, but when he slipped this into the lock he groaned: the chamber key was still inside,
    ’Father,’ Margaret appealed. ’I think there’s something very wrong.’
    ’We can’t force the door.’
    They went downstairs out into the cobbled yard. Tobias the tap boy brought across a ladder and, at his master’s bidding, gingerly climbed up.
    ’Go on!’ the taverner urged. ’Open the window!’
    Tobias drew back the shutter; the casement window beyond was slightly open and he climbed into the gloomy room. At first he didn’t believe it. The bed looked as if it had been slept in, at least the blankets had been disturbed. Later, he told customers in hushed tones, he first thought Mistress Triveter was standing on a stool but then he gave a low cry. The stool had been kicked away and the young woman, her lustrous red hair falling round her face, was swinging by a rope lashed to one of the rafters above.

    Athelstan took off his robes, placed them on the table in his small sacristy and bowed to the crucifix. He then knelt on the prie-dieu and recited a short prayer of thanksgiving.
    ’Brother Athelstan!’
    He turned. Crim the altar boy was dancing from foot to foot.
    ’Go outside if you want a pee, boy. I’ve told you not to drink from the water butts before Mass. It’s cold and it’ll go straight through you.’
    ’It’s not that, Brother.’ Crim crinkled his face. He’d washed it but the dirt was simply pushed up around his ears. ’Is it a sin to belch in church?’
    ’Why, Crim?’
    ’Because I was doing it during Mass. Mother made a stew last night...’
    ’It’s no sin.’ Athelstan patted him on the head. ’Always remember, Crim, sin comes from the will. You must mean evil or disrespect and God has mercy on a rumbling stomach. Are you well now?’
    ’I will be soon, Brother.’
    And the boy dashed out of the side door, heading for the enclosed privy on the outside of the church.
    Athelstan walked back into the sanctuary. He ensured all was well and went down the nave; most of his parishioners were thronging in the porch. Watkin’s and Pike’s wives had put up a trestle table and were busy selling church ales drawn from small kegs and barrels placed on stools. Athelstan wondered how much of the money would eventually find its way into parish coffers. Yet he was resigned to such losses. His parishioners weren’t thieves, just very poor and, as he’d remarked to Sir John, it’s easy to be virtuous when you are not tempted.
    ’Morning, Brother.’ They all raised their battered, leather blackjacks of ale.
    ’It’s a beautiful day, Brother.’ Pernell the Fleming woman spoke up.
    Athelstan agreed; he had been out for a walk before Mass. He’d left Godbless and Thaddeus in the cemetery and checked on Philomel. The old war horse never seemed to age and ate as if his life depended on it. Athelstan walked to the door of the church. Parishioners sat on steps enjoying the sunlight. Children ran around, dogs yapped. Ursula the pig woman’s huge sow came rumbling up, heading straight for Ranulf the rat-catcher who had a stack of apples between his feet. He was snapping them with his hands, sharing them out to his brood of a family, all dressed the same in their little black jackets with hoods and cowls like their father’s. Athelstan went back into the church where a small crowd now thronged round