JamesBill - The Devils Domain

Table of Contents

THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY

THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER

MURDER MOST HOLY

THE ANGER OF GOD

BY MURDERS BRIGHT LIGHT

THE HOUSE OF CROWS

THE ASSASSINS RIDDLE

THE DEVILS DOMAIN

THE FIELD OF BLOOD

THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

BLOODSTONE

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First published in Great Britain in 1998

by Headline Book Publishing,

A division of Hodder Headline PLC

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint

of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright 1998 Paul Doherty.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0040-2 (epub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are beingdescribed for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

A time of bloody tribulation! Of horrid sights! The season of murder and subtle trickery! is how the chronicler of Westminster described the late summer of 1380. The old monk sat in his carrel overlooking the cloister garth, scratching the edge of his quill against his unshaven cheek. How could he truly describe these times? The King was only a boy; the Regent, his uncle John of Gaunt, that bloody man of war, ruled the kingdom. Some even whispered he wanted it for himself. The French were at sea, their war fleets attacking the English galleys and cogs along the sea lanes from Bordeaux to Calais. At home, the summer harvest had been good; prices, however, still climbed out of the reach of the poor who swarmed along the highways over Southwark Bridge and into the city.

The kingdom was waiting! All the signs and portents were there. A coffin had been seen in the skies above St Pauls: draped in a ghostly pall, it had moved from east to west before disappearing into the low, threatening clouds to the north of the city. Many said that was where the danger would arise, from the fields and villages north of Cripplegate. The men of the soil, the earthworms, who laboured and spun so the great ones could clothe themselves in silk and ride great destriers, drink deep of the blood-red claret and count their silver and gold coins. In the streets of London, sepulchral voices were heard crying woe, prophesying disaster. Black-draped barges, rowed by ghostly hands, were glimpsed on the river shooting the turbulence under London Bridge. Were these, the gossips chattered, the ghosts of men who had defied the Regent and lost their heads which, salted and pickled, decorated pikes along the rail of that same London Bridge?

The chroniclers brothers and monks at Westminster said such signs were mere trickery and foolish chatter. The peasants, now well organised and calling themselves the Great Community of the Realm, were despatching troublemakers, traitors, inciters to rebellion and treason into the city, stirring up trouble along its foul alleyways and runnels. Others, less worldly, shook their heads. These signs, surely, were warning of horrors yet to come? Had not a holy man, who claimed to have wandered in the deserts of Palestine, had visions which he preached, at a penny a time, from the cross of St Pauls? How God was planning to sweep London with fire? To bring it as low as hell, to leave not one stone upon another?

In the cemetery of St Erconwalds, Pike the ditcher and Watkin the dung-collector reflected on these rumours. They sat beneath the old yew tree sharing a wineskin and staring up at the starlit sky. They were both drunk as hogs. They should have gone home. However, a few blackjacks of ale in the Piebald Tavern, followed by a cup of canary, a gift from Joscelyn the one-armed taverner, and Pike and Watkin had rolled out into the streets feeling like great lords of the land. They shared their pennies and, before theyd left, bought a bulging wineskin.

Be careful, the taverner had warned, watching these two fellow parishioners sway backwards and forwards on their feet. Youve drunk enough. You should go home and sleep it off!

We are not thrunk! Watkin scoffed. I just wisth your bloody floor would stay still. This is a tavern, not one of your bloody cogs of war!

Joscelyn had sighed in exasperation. The two men had wished him good night.

Where are you going to? Joscelyn called curiously as he followed them to the doorway.

He smiled at Cecily the courtesan who, arm in arm with a young fop, was strolling down towards the fields south of the Bishop of Winchesters inn: a famous trysting place for the likes of Cecily and her customers. Cecily waved her fingers. Pike the ditcher watched her go and licked his lips even though his wife had warned him off.

If I catch you with that trollop again, shed screeched, youll be nothing more than a gelding!

Pike swayed and put one mud-covered hand on Watkins shoulder.

Wed best be going, he slurred.

Go where? Joscelyn repeated.

Watkin tapped his fleshy nose and winked. Secrets, he slurred. Great secrets.

Joscelyn stepped back and glanced round nervously. Were the rumours true, he wondered? Were these two rapscallions members of the Great Community of the Realm? Plotting treason and rebellion against John of Gaunt? If that was the case he wanted no more of it! Gaunt had a way of dealing with traitors: hanged like rats on the gallows at Smithfield or on the other side of London Bridge. Spies abounded in Southwark, more than fleas on a mongrels back.

Take care! he warned. Joscelyn retreated into his taproom closing the door firmly behind him.

Watkin and Pike had stumbled along to the church, gone through the lych gate and taken up residence beneath the yew tree at the far end of Gods acre, the broad cemetery which bounded the old church of St Erconwalds. They had drunk and waited, watching the sun set and the stars come out. Then they had seen it, on the top of the church tower, a slight glow from a charcoal brazier.

Hes up there, Pike said, referring to their parish priest the Dominican Brother Athelstan. Hes up there watching his bloody stars! Him and that cat of his. Whats its name? Eh? Benedicta?

Benedicta! Watkin laughed. Thats the widow woman, you know, dark-faced and dark-eyed with a softness for Brother Athelstan. He leaned conspiratorially closer. The name of his one-eyed cat is Bonaventura.

Do you think its true? Pike continued.

What is?

That he left St Erconwalds...

Watkin felt a chill of apprehension, which almost sobered him up. Such rumours and stories had been rife in the parish, fiercely discussed on the church steps or in the Piebald Tavern. Watkin knew he was a sinner. He drank too much, he swore, he fought, he lusted after other mens wives. Nevertheless, he feared God in heaven and the Lord Jesus; but Watkin loved their small parish priest with his olive-skinned face, dark, soulful eyes and brain as sharp as a razor. Athelstan made Watkin feel good about himself. Every so often, the Dominican would pat the fat dung-collector on the shoulder.