Copyright © 2017 Paul Doherty
The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2017
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Front cover image: CCI/REX/Shutterstock
eISBN: 978 1 4722 3373 8
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Paul Doherty
Also by Paul Doherty
Praise
About the Book
Dedication
Character List
Historical Note
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Author’s Note
About Paul Doherty
Paul Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied History at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now headmaster of a school in north-east London and lives with his family in Essex.
By Paul Doherty
Hugh Corbett Medieval Mysteries
Satan in St Mary’s
The Crown in Darkness
Spy in Chancery
The Angel of Death
The Prince of Darkness
Murder Wears a Cowl
The Assassin in the Greenwood
The Song of a Dark Angel
Satan’s Fire
The Devil’s Hunt
The Demon Archer
The Treason of the Ghosts
Corpse Candle
The Magician’s Death
The Waxman Murders
Nightshade
The Mysterium
The Peacock’s Cry (E-Novella)
Dark Serpent
The King’s Writ (E-Novella)
Devil’s Wolf
Novels
The Last of Days
The Loving Cup
Of Love and War
The Love Knot
The Plague Laws
The Soul Slayer
The Haunting
The Rose Demon
The Masked Man
Dove Amongst the Hawks
The Fate of Princes
The Lord Count Drakulya
Prince Drakulya
The Death of a King
Roseblood
Non-fiction
The Mysterious Death of Tutankhamun
Isabella and the Strange Death of Edward II
Alexander the Great, The Death of a God
The Great Crown Jewels Robbery of 1303
The Secret Life of Elizabeth I
The Death of the Red King
Series
Hugh Corbett Medieval Mysteries
Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan
Sir Roger Shallot Tudor Mysteries
Kathryn Swinbrooke Series
Nicholas Segalla Series
The Templar Mysteries
Matthew Jankyn Series
Alexander the Great Mysteries
Canterbury Tales of Murder and Mystery
The Egyptian Mysteries
Mahu (The Akhenaten-Trilogy)
Mathilde of Westminster Series
Political Intrigue in Ancient Rome Series
Praise for Paul Doherty’s historical novels:
‘Teams with colour, energy and spills’ Time Out
‘Deliciously suspenseful, gorgeously written and atmospheric’ Historical Novels Review
‘Supremely evocative, scrupulously researched’ Publishers Weekly
‘An opulent banquet to satisfy the most murderous appetite’ Northern Echo
‘Extensive and penetrating research coupled with a strong plot and bold characterisation. Loads of adventure and a dazzling evocation of the past’ Herald Sun, Melbourne
About the Book
1296: King Edward I has led his army to Scotland, determined to take the country under his crown. But the fierce Scots have no intention of submitting to their oppressor and violent and bloody war breaks out.
1311: Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, finds himself back in Scotland and is revisited by the horrors he witnessed there fifteen years ago.
An anonymous letter was delivered to the new king. It promised information about a fatal incident that could allow England to finally bow out of the war with the Scots. Tasked with finding out the truth about the murder, Corbett is forced to take risks he would rather avoid and put his faith in the words of strangers.
But with an unknown traitor lurking in the shadows and danger around every corner, will Corbett be able to unravel the complex web of plots in time?
In memory of my beloved wife Carla.
CHARACTER LIST
Edward I The old king of England
Edward II King of England
Peter Gaveston Royal favourite
Thomas Earl of Lancaster
Margaret de Clare Wife of Peter Gaveston
Robert the Bruce Scottish war leader
Lord Henry Percy Owner of Alnwick Castle
Lady Eleanor Percy Wife of Henry
John ‘Red’ Comyn Lord of Badenoch
Sir Hugh Corbett The Keeper of the Secret Seal
Ap Ythel Welsh master bowman
Ranulf-atte-Newgate Principal clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax
Chanson Sir Hugh Corbett’s clerk of the stables
Alexander Seton Scottish hostage
John Sterling Scottish hostage
Richard Mallet Squire to Alexander Seton
Malachy Roskell Squire to John Sterling
Anthony Bek Bishop of Durham
Brother Adrian Ogilvie A Benedictine monk
Richard Twyen Prior of Tynemouth Priory
Robert Wishart Bishop of Glasgow
Brother Ailward A monk at Tynemouth Priory
Brother Oswald A monk at Tynemouth Priory, a former smith and smelter
Brother Julian Sub-cellarer at Tynemouth Priory
Brother Sebastian A monk at Tynemouth Priory
Brother John Librarian at Tynemouth Priory
Edmund Darel A northern knight
Geoffrey Cacoignes Court fop
Walter Thurston Constable of Alnwick
Kathryn Sister of Walter Thurston
Hockley Cousin to Edmund Darel
Richolda Darel’s witch woman
Ravinac A Gascon captain
Matthew Dunedin A Scottish clerk
Bavasour A captain of hobelars
Andrew Harclay Keeper of the Western March
Sherwin Ap Vynar ‘The Houndsman’
Douglas and Randolph Henchmen of Robert the Bruce
Rachaela A recluse at Tynemouth Priory
Lady Hilda Aunt to Edmund Darel
Ralph Wodeforde Master of The Golden Dove
Marissa A member of the Black Chesters
HISTORICAL NOTE
&nb
sp; A savage and cruel war broke out during the 1290s as Edward I of England, then his successor Edward II, battled to bring Scotland under the English Crown. A deep darkness settled over both kingdoms, a time of bloodshed and betrayal, and as the war clouds gathered, so did the monsters.
PROLOGUE
‘Then the Lord King set out for Scotland and came first to Berwick.’
Life of Edward II
The Rogation Days, March 1296
Berwick was burning! The most valuable port on Scotland’s east coast, just across the border from England, was no longer the Jewel of the North. The Scots had risen once more against their oppressor, the devastator of their lands, Edward I of England, whose influence now swirled like a black cloud over the northern kingdom. A mist of murder had engulfed its valleys, glens, towns and churches from Coldstream to the Northern Isles. The Scots, provoked beyond measure, had risen against the English tyrant; a sudden, savage eruption of popular discontent and resentment at Edward’s constant interference in Scottish affairs. They knew he would not rest until he made himself king and master of their realm.
Berwick had protested and paid the price. The once bustling port now reeked of death, stinking and smouldering, with blood snaking down its narrow wynds like wine from cracked vats. The English had unleashed horror upon horror against its citizens. Edward was determined to make an example of the town and so terrify into subjection anyone foolish enough to rebel against him. On land he had brought up his great war machines: trebuchets, catapults and battering rams with names that reflected the devastating damage they inflicted. Most terrible of them all was the Wolf, a massive catapult that hurled faggots of flaming wood and straw bound by chains, followed by smouldering beams soaked in pitch and tar, to smash against Berwick’s makeshift defences. At sea Edward’s ships had suffered badly, which only provoked the English king to greater fury. Even worse, just before the final assault on the port, one of the king’s kinsmen had lifted his visor to cool his face and a Scottish defender had loosed a crossbow bolt to shatter the Englishman’s skull. Edward, enraged beyond measure, had unfurled his standard and issued the order: ‘No quarter, no mercy, no prisoners.’ There were to be no exceptions.
Berwick became nothing more than a slaughterhouse; its citizens, penned like hogs in the narrow streets and lanes, were cut down by hack and thrust so that the very air crimsoned with a bloody mist. Armed knights moved like black storm clouds through the town, slashing with axe, mace and sword until the cobbles ran red, whilst the knights’ horses, frantic with fear or fury, slipped on the hot wet stones and greasy slivers of human flesh. Horrible cries and screams echoed like a constant hymn as skulls were smashed and bellies ripped open. Men, women and children were sacrificed to Edward of England’s blood-fed vision of taking Scotland under the English Crown. No one was spared; even the Flemish merchants who sheltered in their own enclave, the Red Hall, were shown no quarter when they resisted. Edward’s troops, beaten off in their frantic assault, simply brought up catapults and sacks of oil. They drenched the hall and a volley of fire arrows turned it into a raging inferno in which all thirty of its defenders gruesomely perished.
By the second day of the sack the pillaging was completely out of control. Edward set up his standards outside Berwick’s stately Guildhall: this would become his throne room, ringed by hobelars, archers and Knights of the Body. The royal banners, glorious and gorgeous, billowed and snapped in the smoke-drenched wind, proclaiming the snarling golden leopards of England; the red lion rampant of Scotland and the dragon displayed as a blood-red nightmare against a snow-white background. In Edward’s own words, ‘The dragon had been unfurled and the dragon displayed’ to herald a season of bloodshed in which no compassion would be shown or mercy given.
The destroyer of Berwick had commandeered the once comfortable solar at the Guildhall. All of its treasures – the resplendent tapestries with their precious brilliantly coloured thread; the triptychs painted so skilfully in an array of eye-catching hues by artists of Hainault and Flanders; the richly carved furnishings, the ornate crucifixes and soft Turkey rugs – had been seized and piled into the war carts drawn up in the cobbled bailey outside. The English were determined to strip Scotland of its treasures, sacred relics and royal regalia.
On that particular Rogation Day Edward, the self-styled ‘Hammer of the Scots’, slouched in the solar’s high chair, the table before him strewn with manuscripts: muster rolls; lists of supplies as well as goods seized; above all, the names of those rebels killed, captured or in flight. He scratched his grizzled cheek, then one spotted, vein-streaked hand clawed at his iron-grey hair, tugging at the sweaty knots, whilst the other combed his tangled beard and moustache. Perspiring and wearied, he stared down at the royal armour on the floor beside him, his gaze caught by the richly woven royal tabard stained with gore. Outside, the hellish hymn of conflict, screams, yells, cries and battle chants, echoed constantly. Edward, his throat bone dry, gulped from a goblet and glared at Anthony Bek, Bishop of Durham, who had led the second column of the English army across the Tweed. The king beat a hand against the arm of his chair.
‘They burnt my ships,’ he roared, ‘they slaughtered my crews. They have renounced their allegiance. They are deserving of death. I will break these rebels. I will burn this land and sack its cities. I will turn it into a wilderness until I have my way.’ His furrowed face suffused with rage. ‘I do not trust any of them,’ he spat out. ‘Not even those like Bruce who plant their banners next to mine.’ He clenched and unclenched his fist. ‘I will take his head, I’ll gut his insides. Has he forgotten Wallace being cut up at Smithfield? His belly opened, his genitals hacked off . . .’
Edward paused as the door opened and a girl of no more than twelve summers slipped like a ghost into the solar and walked slowly towards him. She was dressed in a dark-green smock, drenched in blood, which also stained her hands and wrists. She paused before the king, her eyes dark rings in a face as white as snow, mouth opening and shutting like that of someone being strangled, fighting for breath. ‘St Oswine,’ she murmured. ‘St Oswine, pray for me!’
‘What is it, child?’ The king recognised the daughter of the Guildhall bailiff, whose life, along with those of his family, had been spared provided he disclosed the whereabouts of the Guildhall treasures. For a brief moment the girl reminded Edward of his own beloved daughter Eleanor.
She shook her head and held up her badly scorched wrist for the king to see. Edward was about to speak again when a knock on the door made him look up. He smiled as Hugh Corbett, the youngest yet most able clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal, came into the chamber with his escort, the Welsh master bowman Ap Ythel.
‘Hugh.’ The king forgot the girl. He rose, walked across the solar and threw his arms around the clerk to exchange the kiss of peace before holding him at arm’s length. ‘It is so good to see you. You’ve brought messages from the Chancellor?’ He turned to Ap Ythel and winked. ‘A good, safe journey, there and back?’
‘We came by sea. The roads north are dangerous.’
Edward broke free of Corbett and clasped hands with the Welshman, who had proved to be the most loyal and skilled of bodyguards. Then the king stepped back. He’d caught a look in Ap Ythel’s eyes. The archer seemed agitated, dark eyes questioning, bearded face pale, mouth slightly open as if surprised. Edward noticed the stains of vomit on his jerkin. The king glanced at Corbett. The clerk seemed equally tense. His raven-black hair was tied in a queue at the back, his olive-hued face taut, the skin stretched tight over the high cheekbones, whilst his deep-set eyes brimmed with tears. Corbett clawed at the neck of his dark-russet leather jerkin. He undid the cord, rubbing a finger beneath the collar of his cambric shirt, scratching at his sweat-soaked skin.
A hideous scream echoed from outside, followed by the neigh of a horse and the clatter of hooves. Someone, somewhere was sharpening a sword, a harsh jarring sound to set the teeth on edge. Edward breathed in. He caught the stench of smoke and the salty iron
tang of blood. He studied these two men whom he trusted with his life.
‘Hugh? Ap Ythel? What is the matter? Have you been attacked?’
‘Your Grace.’ Anthony Bek had been standing in one of the window embrasures. He now came forward and pointed at the young girl, who had crumpled to the floor. Ap Ythel and Corbett hastened to assist her. The king crouched down to face Corbett, who stroked the girl’s face, brushing her hair back. She was still praying to St Oswine and nursing her blackened wrist. Corbett took a goblet of wine from the bishop and tried to force it between her lips.
‘Hugh?’ the king demanded. ‘In heaven’s name what is the matter?’
‘Sire, she saw what we did as we entered the Guildhall bailey. Berwick has become a flesher’s yard. There’s more blood outside than in the slaughterhouses of Newgate and the Shambles on Lammas Day. As we came in through the gates, so much blood was swilling about it wetted the fetlocks of our horses. Body parts litter the ground, great hunks of steaming flesh. Corpses being nosed and gnawed by dogs. The broken bodies of children, girls and boys with sightless eyes . . .’
‘They are rebels, Hugh. They are all rebels.’
Corbett gazed coolly back and pointed at the girl. ‘Is she a rebel, sire? Is her little brother who is crouching outside a traitor?’
‘Hugh, you have been in battle.’
‘God forgive me, sire, I have, but not like this, not like what I have just seen.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Your Grace, we came upon it too late. There was nothing we could do.’
‘Tell me what you saw.’
‘A pregnant woman giving birth, and as she did, one of your mercenaries stabbed both her and the child.’
Edward groaned and turned away, putting his face in his hands.
‘In the name of God, sire,’ Corbett whispered, ‘this is not war but mortal sin. I understand it’s been going on for two days. I have spoken before and I will speak again. You are sowing a dreadful seed; what is being done here is truly evil. I beg you . . .’