The Devil's Domain

taproom other members fought for the takings. They hushed for a while as the flame man came down the street, ringing his bell and shouting at householders to be careful; fires were to be doused and candles made safe. Someone else bawled raucously that he had a fresh maid for sale.
    The clamour in the stable yard now being stilled, the customers swirled back. Cunning men divided their takings, professional beggars, armed with wet rags, wiped off the paint and saltpetre which they used to display fictitious wounds. Mercurius waited, his eyes constantly moving, vigilant for any sheriff’s man or one of Gaunt’s spies. He did not know whether the English knew he was in London but he could take no chances. The business at Hawkmere was going well, yet he was not responsible.
    He saw two shadows come to the door — his guests had arrived. They swaggered across, glimpsed the crossbow and recognised the sign. As they pulled across stools and sat down, Mercurius sipped from his tankard and studied them. Like two peas from the same rotten pod; they wore leggings and boots, their chests were naked except for leather jackets, the sleeves cut off, copper bands round their muscular arms. Their heads were completely shaven, their faces sharp and narrow-eyed. One of them fingered the copper ring in his ear lobe.
    ’You are the one?’
    ’I am.’
    ’And what do you want?’
    The assassin clicked his fingers and the slattern hurried across. Two more blackjacks of ale were ordered. One of the shaven-heads leaned forward, arms on the table.
    ’We cannot sit here all night. What do you want? Our horses are outside. We can take what we want and go!’
    ’If you talk to me like that again, I’ll kill both of you now.’
    ’How?’ the taller shaven-head sneered.
    ’Look under the table.’
    The man did so and glimpsed the other arbalest the assassin had placed on his thigh. It was loaded, the barb pulled back, the finger on the clasp. The shaven-head swallowed hard and looked at his companion.
    ’We meant no offence.’
    ’Of course not.’
    The slattern returned with the blackjacks. The cowled stranger put the arbalest down and tossed a small purse on to the table.
    ’Six silver pieces, Venetians freshly coined. Three for you now, three more when the task is done.’
    ’Who is it?’
    ’Sir Maurice Maltravers, henchman in the household of my Lord of Gaunt.’
    The leading shaven-head coughed over his beer.
    ’One of Gaunt’s men?’
    ’I’ve heard that name.’ The other spoke up. ’He took a ship in the Channel. A fighting man.’
    ’In his mail and armour, yes,’ the assassin replied. ’But not in the garb of a monk. You’ll find him in the priest’s house at St Erconwald’s in Southwark, you know the place, I’ll wager.’
    The shaven-heads nodded in unison.
    ’He’ll be there whenever you wish. A knife in the back, an arrow in the throat...’
    ’We don’t kill priests,’ the leading shaven-head protested. ’The friar who is also there, Athelstan. He’s well known and liked.’
    The assassin dug into his purse and brought out four silver coins which he placed on top of the small purse. The shaven-heads smiled.
    ’On second thoughts, every dog has his day!’
    The leader went to pick up the silver but the assassin seized his wrist.
    ’You don’t live here, do you? You live in St Mary Axe Street . You have a sister there, or they say she’s your sister. One thing, sir, don’t take that silver unless you intend to carry out the task.’
    ’It will be done.’
    ’Good!’ The assassin sat back. ’And, if the priest dies, the more the merrier.’
    He drained his tankard and got to his feet. He slipped one arbalest on to the hook of his belt, keeping the other in his hand.
    ’How do we tell you that your task is done?’
    ’Oh, you don’t,’ the assassin replied softly, patting the man on the shoulder. ’I’ll know and, don’t worry, I’ll come visiting you. Now, sit for a while and finish your ale.’
    Then he was gone.

    Athelstan celebrated an early morning Mass. Sir Maurice Maltravers, not yet changed into his robes, served as an altar boy. They were joined by Godbless and Thaddeus, who made an attempt to nibble the altar cloth. Bonaventure, of course, also arrived. The cat always stared at the chalice, his little pink tongue coming out as if he suspected it contained milk. Pernell the old Fleming woman, her hair now dyed a garish yellow, also attended, kneeling beside Ranulf the