The Devil's Domain

runnels and alleyways. The hovels, the dilapidated houses, rose dark and forbidding on either side, blocking out the night sky. They pulled their mufflers up over their noses against the stench from the midden-heaps and unclean sewers. Cats fought and screeched; rats slithered out from crevices in the walls. Beggars whined on comers. They thrust out their clatter boards but received little comfort from these two dark shadows. Now and again, from behind a closed shutter, faces peered out, eyes glittering, but Valerian and Domitian were known to the gangs who plagued Southwark, who were more terrified of these two men than they were of all Gaunt’s spies and agents. Valerian pulled at the rope and glanced over his shoulder at his companion.
    ’It won’t take us long.’
    ’How many more?’
    ’Perhaps another four or five nights ’ work and then we’ll be finished.’
    They walked on, the sumpter ponies docile, their hooves muffled in rags. Valerian and Domitian had also wrapped wool round their boots, so that they seemed to glide like shadows from one dark alleyway to another.
    At last the line of houses ended. They crossed the barren wasteland which stretched to the cemetery walls of St Erconwald. Valerian stopped, his hand going to his dagger; he could make out the dark mass of the church, the tall tower soaring up against the starlit sky. He peered at the crenellated top but could see no flame or light which meant that the little friar was not gazing at the stars. He was about to go on but paused. Was something wrong? Last night the fierce thunderstorm would have prevented the friar going up the tower. Surely, on a clear night like this, he would seize the opportunity? Valerian licked his lips; he had to be careful, very careful.
    ’What are we waiting for?’ his companion hissed.
    ’I don’t know.’
    ’Is it safe?’
    ’Why shouldn’t it be? We can’t very well go back.’
    Glaring into the gloom, Valerian led the sumpter pony forward. They crossed the small brook now drying up in the summer heat. They reached the wall. Valerian took a rope and climbed on. He flung one end of the rope round a branch of the sycamore tree, pulled it down, fashioned a slip-knot and lowered himself into the trench. Was something wrong? Those fools usually dug to a certain depth; now it seemed shallower. He wished he had a cresset torch. Had the earth been disturbed? Did those two oxen-heads have the temerity to search for what was buried here?
    ’Come on!’ his companion urged him.
    A sack came over the wall. Valerian grasped it and put it into the pit. A second one then suddenly the darkness was seared with a light. Valerian scrambled out of the trench.
    ’What the...?’ he exclaimed.
    From behind the wall he heard the scrape of steel. Figures, shapes loomed out of the darkness. Valerian recognised the little friar. He drew his dagger, adopting the stance of a fighting man, and peered at the rest. These weren’t soldiers! They were city bailiffs, beadles, men with families, timid as mice. Valerian tried his luck. He leapt forward and the bailiffs scattered. He looked over his shoulder. The wall was out of the question but if he could slip through the cemetery, he would soon be lost in the alleyways of Southwark. He was about to step forward again when a broad, massive figure moved out of the darkness. In the torchlight Valerian glimpsed a red. moustached face, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger in the man’s hands.
    ’Out of my way, you tub of lard, and I’ll not prick you!’
    ’I recognise that voice,’ Sir John boomed. ’Put down your sword and dagger, my bucko, and surrender to the King’s coroner, Sir John Cranston! ’
    ’Piss off!’
    Valerian darted forward. Cranston was old and fat, he’d prove no obstacle, but the coroner suddenly shifted. Valerian stopped and turned, lashing out with his sword. The coroner blocked this. Valerian drew away, prickles of cold sweat on the nape of his neck. Sir John seemed light as a dancer. In he snaked again, sword and dagger looking for an opening, locked in a whirling arc of steel. Valerian’s dagger was knocked from his hand. He gripped his sword with both hands and came rushing in. Perhaps he could frighten the coroner? His sword sliced the air; Valerian knew he had made a mistake, only seconds before Cranston ’s blade dug deep beneath his heart. Valerian felt hot spurts of pain, blood bubbled at the back of his mouth. He fell to his knees; the night sky