The Devil's Domain

’Hard of heart and hard of head Thomas, you were always the same. Never bending, never giving!’
    Parr sat down.
    ’Are we here to discuss my character, Sir John? And, by the way, where’re Hersham and Margoyle? Your bailiff, the one with the flea-ridden dog, he said both men had been detained?’
    ’He was lying. On my orders. Hersham is dead and Margoyle’s in flight.’
    Sir Thomas swallowed hard.
    ’Now, Thomas. I am going to tell you what has happened. And, before you interrupt me and start accusing Sir Maurice of being an assassin, don’t!’ He jabbed a finger. ’You know, in your heart, he’s innocent of any murder.’
    ’I was mystified by the stories.’
    ’But you still told your daughter,’ Athelstan interrupted.
    ’Enough! Enough!’ Sir John picked up his wine cup. ’Sir Thomas, there was once a wealthy merchant of Cheapside ...’
    In stark, pithy phrases the coroner described exactly what he and Athelstan had discovered: the death of the young whore at the Golden Cresset; the fight the previous evening in St Erconwald’s cemetery and the full and frank confession of Clement Margoyle. To give Sir Thomas his credit, he sat and heard the coroner out. Only occasional fidgeting, licking of dry lips and beads of sweat which appeared on his upper lip betrayed his fear.
    ’If we wanted to,’ Sir John continued, ’we could take this full matter to my Lord of Gaunt. Believe me, he would love that! He would have you arrested, your wealth seized and he would take great joy in repudiating any debts he has to you.’ Sir John drew out a roll of parchment from his pouch. ’Margoyle’s confession is enough evidence, not to mention the witness of myself and Brother Athelstan.’
    ’What about Sir Maurice?’
    ’He does not know the full facts. And, to be quite honest, Sir Thomas, I don’t think he really cares. You could tell him that the Pope is enthroned in Cheapside and it would fly over his head like a bird.’
    ’I had no choice,’ Sir Thomas said. ’You don’t know what it’s like. Jack. The rebels are all over the city.’
    ’You could have come to me,’ Sir John replied. ’In the main they are sound and fury. Think about it, Sir Thomas, they don’t want to start kidnapping young damsels or burning a man’s house. However, I tell you this: when these gentlemen, Jack Straw and the others, march on London , they won’t give a fig for any promises made!’
    ’So, what will happen?’
    Sir John got up and threw the pieces of parchment on to the weak fire burning in the grate.
    ’It’s all over, Sir Thomas.’ The coroner beckoned Athelstan to follow. ’We are leaving. Outside in the garden you have a daughter you should be proud of and a man I’d be delighted to call my son.’ He sketched a bow. ’Goodbye, Sir Thomas; in all things remember honour!’

CHAPTER 17

    Sir John was very pleased when they left Parr’s house. He was confident that Sir Thomas would do the honourable thing and the betrothal of the Lady Angelica would soon be proclaimed throughout the city. His good humour, however, soon drained as Athelstan, lost in his own thoughts, wandered up and down Cheapside , along the alleyways and runnels, visiting one apothecary after another. He came out of each shop shaking his head and muttering to himself , clicking his tongue in annoyance. Eventually Sir John, exasperated beyond belief, seized the friar by the shoulders.
    ’Troublesome priest! What in the name of Satan’s buttocks are you doing?’
    ’I don’t really know yet, Sir John. Did you find me a seller in poisons?’
    The other man shook his head.
    ’Well.’ Athelstan winked. ’It really doesn’t matter now!’
    Cranston arched an eyebrow. ’So, it’s Hawkmere is it? You little ferret. Oh bugger, here comes Leif!’
    The beggar man, however, had espied his fat quarry and was hopping along as merrily as a grasshopper.
    ’Sir John! Sir John!’ he gabbled. ’I have a new song!’ He pointed back along the street. ’And a new friend. Rawbum can play the flute and accompany me.’
    Athelstan stared in disbelief at the dishevelled beggar who stood a few yards away, a battered wooden flute in his hand.
    ’Rawbum?’
    ’He sat in a pan of boiling oil,’ Sir John explained. ’And, ever since, he prefers to stand.’
    ’Can I sing you my new song, Sir John? It’s about a law officer...’
    Sir John dipped into his purse and thrust a coin into the beggar’s hand.
    ’Just bugger off and leave me