The Devil's Domain

quietly confessed that he had been transformed. His dark hair was cropped, a small tonsure at the back. He was now garbed in the black and white habit, a knotted cord round his middle. He practised walking up and down the kitchen, hands up his sleeves, eyes downcast. Bonaventure had returned and curiously watched this strange transformation. Athelstan laughed and clapped his hands.
    ’And they will allow us in the door?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.
    ’Oh, not us,’ Athelstan replied. ’But there’s not a door in London Sir Jack Cranston can’t get through.’
    ’And what will happen inside?’
    ’Well, I don’t expect you to go down on one knee and make a confession of love,’ Athelstan said, stroking Bonaventure, who had jumped on to his lap. ’But you can talk.’ He pulled a face. ’About love in general, spiritual terms. However, you must observe the disguise and the secrecy I have given you. If you break that I will leave and give no further help.’
    ’And what will come of this?’ Sir Maurice asked anxiously.
    ’Sir Maurice, I am a Dominican and this is St Erconwald’s. I am not a miracle-worker, so we’ll take each day as it comes. Stay there!’
    Athelstan went into his bed loft and brought down a gilt-edged tome bound in calfskin.
    ’These are the writings of St Bonaventure.’ He handed the book over. ’No, not the cat. A great Franciscan, a doctor of theology. His writings on love, particularly that which should exist between a man and his wife, make refreshing reading. There’s a favourite passage of mine where he says that the best friendship which exists must be that between husband and wife. You sit there and read it.’ Athelstan moved towards the door. ’I am going to pray in church, for a little guidance and some protection. Afterwards, we’ll visit Godbless and make sure he is the only living person lying down in our cemetery!’ Athelstan left the house. He checked on Philomel who was standing up, leaning against the side of his stall fast asleep. The Dominican crossed to the church. Engrossed in his thoughts, he failed to see the shadow at the bottom of the alleyway watching him intently, a malignant, dark presence. Once the priest had gone inside, the watcher crouched down again to continue his close study of the church and the little house beside it.

CHAPTER 10

    Dusk was falling, cloaking Whitefriars in darkness. At this time its main streets and offal-filled alleyways came to life. Cunning men and beggars swarmed like rats over a midden-heap looking for plunder, for the unwary, for the vulnerable, ready to turn on each other at the slightest hint of weakness. A place of mean houses, narrow lanes and even meaner hearts. Mercurius knew it all.
    He had been here years ago skulking from the law and the way he walked, the swagger, dagger and knife pushed into his belt, were sufficient warning for those who lurked in doorways or peeped from behind broken shutters. He entered the Ragged Standard, a large, evil-smelling tavern only a stone’s throw from the Carmelite monastery from which the quarter took its name. The taproom was lit by thin, weak tapers which gave off an acrid stench.
    Mercurius pulled his vizard closer around his face and ensured the cowl was full across his head. He sat by the window and looked out at the gathering dusk. The taverner had made a pathetic attempt at laying out a garden, a patch of sun-scorched weeds fenced off from the dusty, tawdry herb plots by sheepshank bones and the skulls of different animals. A slattern came over. Mercurius pulled out a silver piece.
    ’Ale,’ he ordered. ’Properly drawn and the blackjack had better be clean!’
    He removed a small arbalest from the hook of his belt and placed it on the table. The slattern hurried off. Outside in the stable yard, two stallions jigged at the ostler and reared neighing, lashing out. Some of the customers went across to watch the fun. One rogue shouted that he was prepared to accept wagers that the ostler would be hurt. The taverner, a greasy barrel of a man, shoved them aside and walked out, a flaming brand in his hand, to separate the two stallions.
    Mercurius eased himself in the comer. In the middle of the floor sprawled a member of a troupe of travelling actors, drunk as a sot. The man lay spread on his back, the devil’s mask still clasped to the top half of his face. A little boy crouched next to him wiping away the pool of spittle filling his slack mouth. Across the