The Devil's Domain (16 page)

‘In my treatise on the governance of the city . . .’

‘Come on, Sir John!’ Gervase Talbot stood on a corner of an alleyway.

‘Yes, quite!’ The coroner hurried on after him.

The House of Secrets stood in Rolls Passage which ran off Chancery Lane. It was a tall, narrow house with a red-bricked base, black beams and plaster on the upper stories. The windows were glazed with iron bars protecting the outside. The door was narrow but reinforced with great iron-studded nails. Gervase pulled at the bell. The door swung open and a clerk ushered them in. Inside the passageway was paved and clean swept. The walls were covered with polished panel work, above which coloured cloths and painted canvas sheets hung. The air smelled sweet with the smell of parchment, candles, sealing-wax and ink. On the ground floor were small chambers, most of them closed; but one was open and Athelstan espied the high stools and desks of the clerks, the latter covered in green baize cloth.

John of Gaunt was lounging in a room at the back of the house. He was sitting on a stool, sifting among the manuscripts on the floor. He smiled as they came in.

‘My lord coroner, my apologies, and you, Brother Athelstan. However, as you can see,’ Gaunt indicated his hunting jacket, leggings and boots, his spurs clinking at his every move, ‘I, too, was preparing for other business but Gervase here said that he had matters to share with me.’ He looked across at the hour candle beneath its glass. ‘Come then, let’s not waste time.’

Gervase called a clerk, more stools were brought in, their seats covered in quilted cushions. White wine was served, with fruits and nuts in small silver dishes. While Gervase was making his preparations Athelstan looked at his surroundings: there was a small mantelled hearth but virtually every wall in the room was covered in shelves and on these leather pouches, neatly tagged, were arranged in tidy piles. The large window at one end provided light. The candles in bronze brackets on the wall had hooded caps, protection against any spark.

‘This is my second home,’ Gervase remarked, following Athelstan’s gaze and sitting down. ‘Here, Brother, we have the gossip of the courts. Who’s in favour at Avignon? Which cardinal will take bribes? Who’s been elected to the Council of Ten in Venice? Which courtier is in the ascendant in Paris?’ He lifted his goblet. ‘I give you secrets.’

‘Before we begin,’ Gaunt interrupted, ‘Sir Maurice, I heard about the business at the Golden Cresset.’ He smiled. ‘Or rather, Master Gervase told me. Sir Jack, you’ve been there?’

‘I have, my lord, and Sir Maurice is as innocent as a newborn babe. A subtle, nasty trick to bring him into ill favour with his beloved.’

‘That is not the style of Sir Thomas Parr.’ Gervase spoke up. ‘I have heard of your troubles, Sir Maurice.’ He smiled sympathetically.

‘It may have something to do with this,’ Gaunt said. The Regent wagged a finger playfully at Sir Maurice, his handsome face crinkled into a smile, eyes narrowed. ‘You are not in favour with the French, Sir Maurice. The
St Sulpice
and
St Denis
were two of their finest ships.’

‘Do you think the French could have arranged the business at the Golden Cresset out of spite?’ Sir Maurice asked hopefully.

‘Perhaps, perhaps. But let’s listen to what Master Gervase has learned.’

‘I was disturbed early this morning,’ Gervase began. ‘Pompfrey was so excited. My spaniel,’ he explained. ‘A merchant had arrived from France, his name and status do not concern you but he’s a good limner, a sniffer out of secrets. He often drinks in the taverns in the Ile de France and brushes shoulders with the clerks from the French chancery.’

‘He’s also well paid,’ Gaunt interrupted harshly.

Gervase forced a smile which never reached his eyes.

‘Of course, my lord. However, the man does risk life and limb. Silver and gold do not make up for legs and arms broken on the wheel at Montfaucon or bring you back from the gallows when your neck has been wrung.’

Athelstan lowered his head to hide his own smile. He rather liked this soft, gentle-spoken man who seemed as wary of the Regent as himself.

‘Now, my friend from Paris was all excited. He’d left that city some days ago and travelled to Boulogne then on to Calais. We have a truce with France but he had to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. Now the French have a master spy. We know something of him. He calls himself Mercurius, after the Greek god. He’s well named. Secretive, sly, able to change his appearance. He’s not only a spy but a very good assassin. We have heard of his exploits in the north Italian cities, Pisa, Genoa, Venice. Last year he was in Germany performing certain tasks for his masters back in Paris.’

‘Such as?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Spying, trading in secrets and, above all, murder. A clerk from the French chancery ostensibly went on pilgrimage to the shrine of the Three Wise Men at Cologne. What he didn’t tell his masters in Paris was that he took certain secrets with him and sold them to the burghers of Cologne. These were trade secrets: information which could allow someone to control the market in wines. Great rivalry exists between the vineyards of France and those of Germany. The clerk was well rewarded. Of course, he couldn’t return to Paris but, on the receipt of his ill-gotten gains, he set himself up in some estate, a pleasant house overlooking Cologne Cathedral. One afternoon he was found swimming in his own carp pond, a garrotte string round his neck. The city council had no proof, but the whisper in the merchant community was that Mercurius had paid this French traitor a house visit.’ Gervase sipped at his wine. ‘Now, Sir Maurice here caused a great stir when he took the
St Sulpice
and
St Denis.
The French believed that we had a spy high in their councils. No, no.’ He held out his hand. ‘I must be more precise. They believed that one of the senior officers on board ship was in the pay of the English court.’

‘And is that true?’ Sir John barked.

‘Jack, Jack.’ Gervase shifted his head. ‘You may ask but you know I won’t answer. Suffice to say the French believed that.’

‘And they have sent Mercurius to London?’

‘Precisely: that’s the news our merchant brought.’

‘But there are always French spies in London.’ Cranston’s face showed his annoyance at these subtle, silken treacheries. ‘And a Frenchman is a Frenchman wherever he goes.’

‘I didn’t say he was French,’ Gervase replied. ‘We know a great deal about Mercurius. He’s not French or Gascon but English. A clerk in the Bishop of Norwich’s household, he joined a free company and went to France. He was captured. Now the French have a way with freebooters, they just hang them out of hand. Mercurius, whose real name was Richard Stillingbourne, entered into a deal with his new masters: in return for his life and a bag of silver he was released. He led the French back to where his free company was quartered and organised their slaughter. Mercurius has a passion and skill for killing as other men do for riding a horse or singing a song. Now, my belief is that the French have sent him into England and that he is responsible for the death of Serriem at Hawkmere.’

‘And so he could be anyone?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He could be one of the parishioners. He might even be Aspinall, the physician. One of the servants, a chapman, a tinker, a guard. He’s a master of disguise. He can appear stooped and aged, the beggar on the corner, or haughty and arrogant.’ Gervase grinned at Sir Maurice. ‘Even the young knight with a falcon on his wrist.’ He spread his hands in mock innocence. ‘Even a humble clerk.’

‘Would de Fontanel know of this?’ Athelstan asked.

Gaunt shook his head. ‘The French envoy has taken a house in Adel Lane; it’s watched day and night. No stranger has approached it:

‘And de Fontanel?’

‘He never goes out.’ Gaunt smirked. ‘He might be frightened. My guard dogs know him, the foppish way he dresses, the ridiculous hat!’

‘He’s only a minor envoy,’ Gervase added. ‘Sent to vex and irritate. Mercurius will answer only to the Chancellor in Paris.’

‘If the French believe,’ Gaunt continued, ‘that there is a traitor among those men at Hawkmere, Mercurius will kill him.’ Gaunt leaned forward, his face drawn with excitement.

For a moment he reminded Athelstan of a wolf he had seen in the Tower, the sharp, pointed face, the hooded, unblinking eyes, the hunched shoulders.

‘I have prayed,’ Gaunt said, ‘that one day, Mercurius will enter our web. The French have whistled up a dance and dance we must but, Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, and you Master Gervase, I want Mercurius’ head. He is more important than all the ships the French can muster in the Narrow Seas.’

‘But he’s not only here for that, is he?’ Athelstan pointed across at Sir Maurice. ‘They also hold you responsible for the loss of their ships. I am not threatening you,’ Athelstan continued, Gervase now nodding his head. ‘Mercurius could also be in England to kill you.’

‘I agree,’ Gaunt said. ‘But these men at Hawkmere are his real prey.’

‘Why not move the prisoners?’ Sir John asked. ‘Take them out of Hawkmere, up river to the Tower?’

‘It’s tempting,’ Gaunt replied, ‘but I don’t think we’ll achieve much. The capture of Mercurius is important. We have a better opportunity if they are kept in the more, how can I put it, open surroundings of Hawkmere? Moreover, if Mercurius is one of them, it will make little difference. At this point of the dance, the French have it all their own way. If the prisoners die, they’ll appeal to the Pope in Avignon, depict us as breakers of the truth, violaters of the Papal peace. Of course, the murders will continue but the French don’t really care. They hope to kill the traitor. Perhaps make an example of him and, for all I know, slay one of my principal household knights.’ Gaunt sniffed. ‘Mercurius may have slain Vulpina to close her mouth.’ He slapped his leather gauntlets against his thigh. ‘You, Sir Maurice, should be very careful. This business at the Golden Cresset may well be the work of Mercurius. Well, Gervase, now we have Brother Athelstan here, there is one other matter.’

The Master of Secrets looked away and cleared his throat.

‘Ah yes, yes, there is. You know, Brother, the doings of the Great Community of the Realm?’

‘All London does.’

The Master of Secrets undid his white shirt. Athelstan noticed with amusement the hare’s-foot slung on a chain round his throat. Gervase caught his gaze.

‘It’s to ward off the colic,’ he explained, rubbing his stomach.

‘Continue!’ Gaunt ordered harshly. ‘My falcons and dogs await, the day draws on.’

‘I have it on good authority,’ the Master of Secrets went on, ‘that the Great Community of the Realm is very active in Southwark and may well have agents who are members of your parish.’

‘I know nothing of that,’ Athelstan replied quickly.

‘There are many priests, hedge-parsons among its leaders,’ Gaunt intervened silkily. ‘They lard their talk with quotations from the Scriptures on the equality of man.’

‘Then, my lord, they quote most accurately.’

‘In reality,’ Gaunt retorted, ‘they are as devoid of Christ as they are of grace.’

‘In which case, my lord, they have a great deal in common with the people against whom they plot.’

Sir Maurice’s head went down. Sir John’s hand covered his eyes while Gervase looked up at the ceiling as if searching for cobwebs. Gaunt held Athelstan’s gaze.

‘One day, Brother.’ He got to his feet. ‘One day, all of this nonsense will come to a head. I’ll hang every man jack of them!’

‘They are only hungry,’ Athelstan said. ‘They eat hard bread. They give rags, soaked in wine, for their babies to suck. Sometimes in winter the only meal they have is the snot they swallow.’

‘Brother!’ Sir John intervened warningly.

Gaunt’s expression abruptly changed. He smiled and brought his hand down on the little Dominican’s shoulders.

‘Only an honest man speaks the truth, Brother.’ He opened his purse, shook out some silver coins and thrust them into Athelstan’s hand. ‘Buy your poor some bread. Tell them to pray for John of Gaunt.’ He put on his gauntlets. ‘But tell them, if they are caught in arms plotting against the Crown, they’ll hang.’ He walked to the door and turned, his hand on the latch. ‘I set you a hard task, Brother,’ he said quietly. ‘I want you to help Sir Maurice here for he is a man I’d like my own son to grow into. I want these murders stopped. I want to see Mercurius’ head on a pole over London Bridge. Do that and, I swear, the streets of Southwark will run with wine. Now, as I have said, my dogs wait. I bid you adieu.’

He closed the door and sauntered down the passageway. Gervase put his face in his hands and sighed.

‘Brother, you go too far.’

‘It’s the only time I’ve been frightened.’ Sir Maurice spoke up, grabbing his cup and drinking greedily from it.

Cranston had finished his and was now helping himself to a generous swig from his wineskin.

‘What on earth possessed you, Brother?’

‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied. He sat down because his legs were now shaking and a sweat had broken out all over his body. He looked at the silver coins in his hands. ‘I suppose I get tired of seeing the poor starve. You’ve met my parishioners, Sir John, Watkin and Pike. Lord save us, plot against the Crown! They can hardly piss straight! Master Gervase, do you have names of those involved in Southwark?’

The Master of Secrets shook his head. ‘Only tittle-tattle,’ he replied. ‘Gossip from the market place. Shadows and shapes glimpsed at the dead of night!’

‘And Mercurius?’ Sir John asked. ‘Is there anything else we should know? A description?’

Gervase shook his head. ‘What I know you now do.’ He grasped the wrist of the young knight. ‘But, Sir Maurice, you should walk carefully. I know you are not frightened, a man of war, bold and brave. However, this is no fight on board a ship, the clash of arms on some battlefield. Mercurius will come like a thief in the night and ye know not the day nor the hour. More importantly, he may not even come himself but send others. Be on your guard!’

They left the House of Secrets and walked up through Newgate into Cheapside. The broad thoroughfare was empty apart from Leif the beggar and others of his ilk. The red-haired bane of Sir John’s life was standing on the stocks. He balanced himself precariously, holding the great wooden post, the other hand on his chest, head thrown back, eyes closed, entertaining his companions with a song.