The Devil's Domain

please her customers.’
    ’I beg your pardon, Sir John?’
    ’Oh believe me, Brother. In that part of the city, if you have the silver, a whore can act any part you want: nuns, countesses, even Dominicans!’
    ’Don’t blaspheme, Jack!’
    ’Dear Beatrice disappeared a few days ago,’ Sir John blithely continued. ’Or so the scrimperers told me, Anyway, I’ve been to St Mary Axe Street and spoken to Peterkin the pincher. He’s a pimp, a salacious rogue, who entices young women on to the streets and arranges for them to sell their bodies while he provides protection. Now Peterkin didn’t want to speak to me. But, after I had banged his head a couple of times against the alley wall, he did recall two strangers approaching him. Hooded and cowled, he couldn’t say who they were but they paid him good silver for Beatrice and took her away.’
    ’Two men?’ Athelstan asked.
    ’Two. But, listen to this, Brother: their voices were disguised by mufflers but they were well accoutred, definitely English. Anyway, they took Beatrice away and that’s the last Peterkin saw of her. After that I went to see my Lord Regent at the Savoy . I told him what had happened at Hawkmere. Do you know something, Brother? Gaunt held a hand over the lower part of his face. I am sure he was laughing at me.’
    Athelstan leaned back against the wooden panelling and gazed out over the garden. He recalled his earlier suspicions about Gaunt. Was the Regent quietly rejoicing over what was happening? Was this all part of some game that subtle, wily mind was playing? Making him and Cranston dance like puppets?
    ’Is it possible, Jack?’ Athelstan picked up his tankard and cradled it in his hand.
    ’Everything’s possible, Athelstan. You said that.’
    ’No, I mean, could Gaunt be killing those prisoners to draw Mercurius out into the open?’
    ’Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!’
    The friar turned. Godbless, holding an arrow, came trotting into the taproom, Thaddeus behind him.
    ’Oh, Satan’s tits!’ Sir John growled. ’What does he want?’
    Godbless looked at the tankards and licked his lips.
    ’Three more tankards!’ Sir John shouted out. ’No, on second thoughts, make it four, one for the bloody goat!’
    The arrival of Thaddeus caused a stir. A mongrel came in from the garden but when the goat lowered its head the dog changed its mind and disappeared.
    ’Where did you get the arrow, Godbless?’
    The beggar man handed it over. It was just over a yard long, the wood smooth and white, the arrow head bright and sharp, the goose quills dyed a dark orange. Godbless waited until the tankards had been served and squatted on a stool. He drank from his while allowing Thaddeus to sup at the other.
    ’Goats are not supposed to drink from my tankards!’ Joscelyn came over.
    ’I wouldn’t say that too loud,’ Godbless retorted. ’If that’s the case, you wouldn’t have any customers!’
    Joscelyn looked at Athelstan.
    ’He’s a clean goat,’ the Dominican explained. ’I give you my word, Joscelyn.’
    The taverner strode away, grumbling under his breath. Sir John leaned down, his face only a few inches from Godbless.
    ’Where did you get the bloody arrow? And why is it so important?’
    ’Well. Do you know the cemetery around St Erconwald’s? Well, Thaddeus here likes picking things up. You know how curious he is.’
    The little goat lifted its head and stared affectionately at the fat coroner.
    ’And Thaddeus found it there?’ Athelstan asked.
    ’Yes, just near the sycamore tree.’
    ’Right. I’ve had enough of this!’ Athelstan drained his tankard and got to his feet. The friar grasped the arrow and walked out of the tavern, a disconcerted coroner, Godbless and a slightly tipsy Thaddeus following behind him. Athelstan threaded his way through the alleyways and runnels of Southwark until they entered the small market area down near the riverside. Athelstan stood on tiptoe and gazed about.
    ’Ah, there he is!’
    He went across to a stall. Its owner was a tall, thickset man with white hair, beard and moustache. The sign above the stall declared he was Peter the Fletcher.
    ’Good morning, Brother Athelstan.’ The fletcher’s cheery face lit with a smile. He came from behind the stall, wiping his fingers on his leather apron. He gazed mournfully down at his hands. ’It’s the glue, it’s always the glue!’
    ’Sir John Cranston, one of my parishioners, Peter Megoran, a Yorkshireman: arrowsmith,