The Devil's Domain

white hair he reminded Athelstan of an ancient cherub. A short distance away three men-at-arms, wearing the royal livery, stood, hands on the hilts of their swords, their conical steel helmets gleaming in the sun, the broad nose-guards almost concealing their faces.
    ’Well I never!’ Sir John stretched out his hand. ’Brother Athelstan, may I introduce to you Gervase Talbot, a man who is not as innocent as he appears. A lover of fine claret, subtle and cunning as a fox. Once chief clerk in the chancery of Edward the Black Prince, God bless his memory.’
    Talbot stood on tiptoe and exchanged the kiss of peace with the fat coroner. He then did the same with Athelstan. The Dominican caught a fragrance of Castilian soap as well as a woman’s perfume, light and sweet. Talbot’s hand was soft but his grip was firm.
    ’Brother Athelstan, I’ve heard of you.’ Gervase spoke just above a whisper, as his eyes wandered to the destruction behind him.
    ’So, Mistress Vulpina’s gone to meet her maker, has she? Then God assoil her, she’ll need all the mercy she can. A wicked woman...’
    ’Gervase, it’s Sunday, you should be in your garden, tending your roses or singing one of your songs. A fine voice has Gervase,’ Sir John explained.
    ’I’m still choir master in the church of St Oswald .’ Gervase’s hands disappeared up his sleeves. ’But move away, Sir John, the smoke here sours my mouth and spoils my throat.’
    Sir John and Athelstan followed him across to the mouth of an alleyway. One of the soldiers immediately wandered up the runnel to ensure all was safe. The other two stood between their master and the crowd of curiosity-seekers.
    ’Gervase is Master of the King’s Secrets,’ Sir John explained. Athelstan nodded. He’d heard of such an office, staffed by chancery clerks with a house just off Fleet Street. These clerks governed the spies and agents of the English court both at home and abroad. They listened to sailors and merchants, piecing together scraps and tidbits of information.
    ’You’ve to come with me, Sir John, and you, Brother Athelstan. My Lord of Gaunt is waiting for you at the House of Secrets.’
    Sir John groaned. ’No rest for the wicked.’
    ’No, I am afraid not, Sir John. My lord Regent will tell you all. Sir Maurice!’ he called out. ’You too!’ His cherub face creased into a smile. ’I’ve heard about the death at the Golden Cresset,’ he whispered. ’Is Maltravers involved?’
    ’A farrago of lies,’ Athelstan retorted. He was curious about this little man and what the Regent should want with him and the coroner on a Sunday morning.
    Gervase took off in a quick walk, almost a trot, his bodyguards all around him.
    ’What’s this, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked, plucking at the coroner’s sleeve.
    ’I don’t know. But something has happened. Gervase loves his roses and very rarely misses an opportunity to sing in the choir on a Sunday morning. Therefore it must be serious, indeed. My Lord of Gaunt should be out with his hounds hunting the deer.’
    They left Whitefriars, entering the more salubrious areas around Fleet Street. The lanes here sloped towards the sewers in the middle. Athelstan quietly thanked God that it hadn’t rained for the slope was quite precarious and the sewers brimmed with dirt. At the same time Athelstan kept an eye on the signs which hung out over the shops and could deal the unwary a nasty rap on the head. The ’Cupid and Torch’ of the glazier, the ’Cradle’ of the basket-maker, a naked ’Adam and Eve’ for those who sold apples and ’Jack in the Green’ for the brewers. On the comer of Bride Lane the collectors of dog turds, armed with small shovels, were filling their baskets for sale to the tanners and curers of skins.
    ’For some people,’ Sir John observed, ’there is no Sunday or day of rest.’
    He stopped a water tippler and paid for a ladleful from his bucket but he threw the ladle back and spat noisily.
    ’Your water’s brackish!’ he shouted at the small, mean-faced man. ’Empty it in the sewer and obtain some fresh or I’ll have you whipped at the cart’s arse!’
    The man hurried off, the bucket bouncing across his shoulders, its water slopping out.
    ’In my treatise on the governance of the city...’
    ’Come on, Sir John!’ Gervase Talbot stood on a comer of an alleyway.
    ’Yes, quite!’ The coroner hurried on after him.
    The House of Secrets stood in Rolls Passage which ran off Chancery Lane