Free The Devil's Domain by Paul Doherty Page A

chin. ‘Most of it was armaments, some chests and coffers which were immediately sealed with the Regent’s insignia. The cargo always goes to the Crown,’ he added wryly.
    ‘And the ship?’ Sir John persisted.
    ‘Oh, it now flies under English colours, it’s been renamed the
Carisbrooke.
’
    Athelstan cradled his writing-bag. Something was very wrong here. Why should a man be murdered in such close confined quarters? Was it a coincidence that the sly and subtle John of Gaunt had asked him and Sir John to help, in the affairs of the heart, the knight who had commanded the ships which had brought these Frenchmen to such a poor pass? We are in the dark again, Athelstan reflected; shown bits and pieces but denied the whole picture. He glanced quickly at the coroner, who was now showing obvious signs of the generous swigs from the wineskin. He had a fixed smile on his face, and was licking his lips and patting his stomach.
    ‘Come on, Sir John,’ he urged. ‘And you, Sir Maurice, let’s visit our French guests.’
    The prisoners were assembled in the long, dingy hall below stairs. A narrow, gloomy room with rafters like a barn, its plaster walls had turned a dingy yellow from the countless fires in the crumbling, canopied hearth. Trestle tables stood about, badly scrubbed. Two thin-ribbed wolf hounds were busy licking the table-tops for morsels.
    The French were seated on a dais sharing a jug of wine and a platter of roast chicken. Athelstan suspected that Sir Walter provided this to placate his prisoners and restrain them from launching into a litany of protests about their conditions. They were a taciturn, hard-bitten crew; younger than Serriem. Their hair was cropped, their faces weatherbeaten. They were dressed in dingy clothes, shabby jerkins with frayed, faded shirts beneath. The only exception was a girlish-faced young man with thick, red lips and eyelashes any girl would envy. He had allowed his blond hair to grow and his skin was so white Athelstan wondered if he rubbed paste into it.
    They hardly bothered to acknowledge their visitors but kept talking among themselves until Sir Walter struck the table with his hand.
    ‘Ah, good morning, Sir Walter,’ one of them said. ‘We have visitors?’
    Their gaoler made the introductions. Routier, with his close face, was the first to greet them. Maneil, surly, his left eyelid drooping, constantly fingered the deep scar on his cheek. Vamier was pleasant-faced, or at least he smiled with his eyes. Athelstan took an immediate dislike to the blond-haired Gresnay who simpered in silent mockery at them. Their command of English was very good. They ignored Sir Maurice, just acknowledging his presence with nods of their heads. Athelstan was surprised but he whispered that, unlike the knights of chivalry, sea captains nursed animosities and jealousies: they regarded him as the cause of their misfortune. Sir Walter rearranged more chairs round the circular table. He offered some wine but Athelstan quickly refused.
    ‘I suppose you’ve heard about Serriem? Poor Guillaum?’ Routier glared at Sir Walter. ‘It’s all a sham,’ he railed. ‘We are prisoners, kept against our will, exorbitant ransoms are demanded. Now we are to be poisoned!’
    Sir John got up and leaned across the table.
    ‘I am no sham, sir! If murder is committed, justice must be done!’
    Routier blinked and sat back.
    ‘In which case,’ Gresnay lisped, flicking his blond hair, ‘you are going to have to perform a miracle.’
    ‘Now, why is that, sir?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Why, Brother,’ Gresnay replied, ‘all of us took an oath that we would not eat or drink anything someone else didn’t also taste.’

CHAPTER 5
    Gresnay’s words created a pool of silence.
    ‘I am sorry?’ Athelstan stammered.
    ‘Don’t you understand your own tongue, Brother?’ Vamier snapped. He tapped Gresnay on the arm. ‘Jean has spoken the truth.’
    ‘What is the truth?’ Sir John asked.
    ‘We are officers of