The Devil's Domain

truly a time of tribulation, even more so for Guillaum Serriem, formerly captain of the French man-of-war the St Sulpice, taken off Calais six weeks earlier. Serriem had been brought to Hawkmere as a captive and hostage while his friends in France tried to raise the huge ransom demanded by the English.
    Lying in his narrow cot bed, Serriem knew in his heart of hearts that he would never again see his manor house outside Rouen, stroll in its gardens, kiss his wife or play with his sons in that lovely apple orchard which ran down to the river Seine.
    Serriem was dying. He could feel the poison coursing through his body yet he had no strength to call out or crawl to the door and scream for help. His body was coated in sweat, the pain in his stomach sending arrows of agony up into his chest and making him twist and turn. He pushed back the dingy sheets and stared helplessly at the barred door. What was the use? The walls were thick, the door was locked and Sir Walter Limbright, his gaoler and custodian, would have retired to his own chambers to drown his sorrows in cup after cup of claret.
    Perhaps someone was out there along the gloomy gallery, a guard, a servant? Serriem dragged himself off the bed, rolling on to the dirty rushes. He tried to pull himself towards the door but his strength failed him and he lay gasping. Serriem realised he had been poisoned by some secret, subtle assassin but who, among his companions, would want him dead? And surely the Goddamns, the English, for all their cruelty, would not want to forfeit the ransom money? Serriem’s mind wandered. He had always hoped he would die in his own bed, his family around him or, if not there, on his ship at sea like a true warrior, sword in hand with the oriflamme of France fluttering above him. Now he was to die here in this lonely, smelly chamber, a prisoner of the English, forsaken and forgotten even by his own kind.
    Serriem rolled over on his back and stared up at the cobwebbed rafters. His mind wandered. The pain was so intense that he slipped in and out of consciousness. He was at home, the windows open, the fragrant scents of the garden filling his chamber. He could hear the cries of his servants and the shouts of his sons as they played in the courtyard below. Serriem opened his eyes. Nothing! Only a foreboding stillness. He tried to move again but he felt as if the floor were shifting under him and his mind went back.
    He was on board the St Sulpice, its sails billowing above him. He was with the Master at the wheel, watching the prow fall and rise as they raced back to port, away from the four English cogs of war pursuing them as ruthlessly as greyhounds would a deer. Serriem felt the bile at the back of his throat. Over the last few weeks he and the others had discussed how the St Sulpice , and its sister ship the St Denis, had taken up position on the sea lanes off Calais, eager to snap up the heavily laden English wine ships. Serriem groaned: it had all gone wrong! Instead of wine ships two men-of-war and, when the St Sulpice and St Denis had turned, they found two others waiting over the horizon. The race had been intense, the consequent battle bloody and ferocious. The St Denis had been taken and sunk. The St Sulpice, its crew decimated by the archers massed in the stern and prow of the leading English man-of-war, had been trapped and boarded. A bloody hand-to-hand fight ensued but, at last, to save his crew, Serriem had ordered the oriflamme to be lowered and he had surrendered to the English captain. What was his name? That young man with a boyish face and close-cropped hair. Ah yes, Maurice Maltravers. Serriem’s body arched in pain, his hands clutching the soiled rushes.
    At first he had put the defeat down to the fortunes of war. However, over the last few weeks, he and his companions had discussed how the English ships knew exactly where the St Sulpice and St Denis would be. Betrayal? Treason? Serriem’s head fell sideways. He glanced beseechingly at the stark, black crucifix nailed to the plastered wall. He wished he had a priest to shrive him. He would confess his sins. Outside came a footfall.
    ’ Aidez moi! Help me!’ Serriem groaned.
    The footsteps faded away. What was this poison, Serriem wondered? He had eaten with the rest. Had they all been killed? Their lives wiped out, extinguished like a row of candles in a lonely church? Hadn’t they all agreed to be so careful? Serriem turned once more to the crucifix. He tried to