The Devil's Domain

doing in my court with that bloody thing?’
    He pointed at the goat and glanced dangerously at his scrivener, hunched over his desk, shoulders shaking, pretending to sharpen his quill.
    ’I have identified you as Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city,’ Wallace continued lugubriously. ’I have brought into your court, in accordance with the law, its customs and usages, the will of one Eleanor Blanchard, widow of this parish. I am her legal executor as approved in the Court of Chancery!’
    Sir John pointed a podgy finger in Wallace’s face.
    ’If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to have you thrown into the Fleet for contempt!’
    ’Widow Blanchard’s dead,’ Wallace gabbled. ’Her will has been approved. She has left this goat as her gift to you. She also asked that the gift be delivered in your court in a formal way according to the law, its customs and...’
    ’Shut up!’ Sir John bellowed. ’Shut up, you little noddle-pate!’
    Wallace stood back, head bowed. Sir John could see the smirk on his face. Eleanor Blanchard had a sharp sense of humour. She had often talked of the goat but he had never met it. Now, by having the goat delivered here in court, he had no choice but to accept it.
    ’I don’t want a goat!’ The words were out before he could stop them.
    ’Sir John, Sir John!’ Wallace’s eyes rounded in mock hurt. ’It is the last wish of that poor woman. If you refuse such a gift delivered in court...’
    ’Yes, yes, I know,’ Sir John mimicked. ’In accordance with the law, its customs and usages, I must decide what happens to it. I could give it away.’ He beamed at Simon.
    ’My lord coroner.’ Simon sprang to his feet. ’As you well know, the coroner’s court is the King’s court. If you refuse the gift here, then the goat belongs to the Crown.’
    And if it belongs to the Crown...’ Wallace added maliciously.
    Sir John wearily sat back. ’I know, I know.’ He waved a hand. ’The Crown will order it to be taken to the slaughterhouse and sold for the highest possible price.’ He stared at the goat.
    The animal seemed docile and obedient enough. It was a fine, handsome beast; its coat was dappled gold, its small horns pointed and straight, its eyes gentle. It chewed quietly on some victual picked up from the courtyard below.
    ’Sir John, I wish you well.’ Wallace bowed and walked out of the door, his shoulders shaking with merriment.
    Sir John followed him and, with his boot, slammed the door shut. He walked back, slouched in his chair and studied the goat.
    ’What in hell’s name am I supposed to do with you?’
    ’You could take it home, Sir John.’
    ’Lady Maude has a great fear of goats. By the way, what did that clever bastard call it?’
    Simon sifted among some scraps of parchment on his desk.
    ’Er, Judas, my lord coroner.’
    ’I beg your pardon!’
    ’According to this piece of paper, Widow Blanchard called it Judas.’ Simon struggled to keep his long, narrow face impassive. ’That’s what lawyer Wallace said its name was.’
    ’You’ve seen the will?’ Sir John asked.
    ’Of course, Sir John. Widow Blanchard had little to give. She especially asked for Judas to be handed over to you.’
    ’I should have asked Wallace for a copy of the will.’
    Simon again fished among the sheets of parchment on his desk.
    ’He brought one before you arrived, Sir John.’
    The coroner snatched it out of his scrivener’s hand, studied the clerk’s writing, then threw it back. The parchment fell on the floor and, before he or Simon could do anything, the goat trotted forward; it seized the parchment and chewed it so quickly, the men could only stare in stupefaction.
    ’I think I know why it’s called Judas.’ Simon spoke up. ’It probably bites the hand that feeds it!’
    Sir John fumbled for his miraculous wineskin where it hung on a special hook beneath the table. He opened the stopper and took a deep swig. The goat watched fascinated and took a step forward.
    ’Don’t you dare!’ Sir John warned. ’Don’t you ever come near this!’
    The goat, looking rather aggrieved, stopped but he continued eating the parchment.
    ’Lady Maude,’ Cranston intoned, ’has a great horror of goats. The poppets.’ He smiled at the thought of his twin sons, Stephen and Francis, they would like it. But his manservant Blaskett, now Lady Maude’s firm ally in peace and war, would also object while those two imps of hell, the Irish wolfhounds, Gog and Magog, would