by Paul Doherty
Copyright © 1997 P.C. Doherty
The right of P.C. 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 2012
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
eISBN: 978 0 7553 0412
Cover illustration by Linda Gray
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.headline.co.uk
www.headline.co.uk
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About the Author
Praise for Paul Doherty
Also by Paul Doherty
About the Book
Dedication
Letter to the Reader
The Prologue
Part I
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Words Between the Pilgrims
Part II
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Words Between the Pilgrims
Part III
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Words Between the Pilgrims
Part IV
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
The Epilogue
About the Author
Paul Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied History at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate at Oxford 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. Paul’s first novel, THE DEATH OF A KING, was published in 1985 and since then he has written prolifically, covering a wealth of historical periods from Ancient Egypt to the Middle Ages and beyond. He has recently published his 100th novel, THE LAST OF DAYS.
To find out more, visit www.paulcdoherty.com
Praise for Paul Doherty
‘Teems with colour, energy and spills’ Time Out
‘Paul Doherty has a lively sense of history . . . evocative and lyrical descriptions’ New Statesman
‘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
‘An opulent banquet to satisfy the most murderous appetite’ Northern Echo
‘As well as penning an exciting plot with vivid characters, Doherty excels at bringing the medieval period to life, with his detailed descriptions giving the reader a strong sense of place and time’ South Wales Argus
‘Deliciously suspenseful, gorgeously written and atmospheric. A great read’ Historical Novels Review
‘First rate; Doherty has a formula which works every time’ Nottingham Evening Post
‘Medieval London comes vividly to life’ Publishers Weekly
‘The best of its kind since the death of Ellis Peters’ Time Out
’Resurrectionist magic’ New York Times
’I really like these medieval whodunnits’ Bookseller
’Historically informative, excellently plotted and, as ever, superbly entertaining’ CADS 20
‘This rich tale . . . seeps authenticity and is written with wonderfully efficient style. A gem of an historical thriller’ Huddersfield Daily Examiner
‘The maestro of medieval mystery’ Books Magazine
By Paul Doherty
Canterbury Tales by Night
An Ancient Evil
Tapestry of Murders
A Tournament of Murders
Ghostly Murders
The Hangman’s Hymn
A Haunt of Murder
Hugh Corbett 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
Assassin in the Greenwood
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
Sir Roger Shallot mysteries
The White Rose Murders
The Poisoned Chalice
The Grail Murders
A Brood of Vipers
The Gallows Murders
The Relic Murders
Mathilde of Westminster mysteries
The Cup of Ghosts
The Poison Maiden
The Darkening Glass
Templar
The Templar
The Templar Magician
Mahu (The Akhenaten trilogy)
An Evil Spirit of the West
The Season of the Hyaena
The Year of the Cobra
Egyptian mysteries
The Mask of Ra
The Horus Killings
The Anubis Slayings
The Slayers of Seth
The Assassins of Isis
The Poisoner of Ptah
The Spies of Sobeck
Constantine the Great
Domina
Murder Imperial
The Song of the Gladiator
The Queen of the Night
Murder’s Immortal Mask
Kathryn Swinbrooke mysteries
(as C L Grace)
Shrine of Murders
Eye of God
Merchant of Death
Book of Shadows
Saintly Murders
Maze of Murders
Feast of Poisons
As Vanessa Alexander
The Love Knot
Of Love and War
The Loving Cup
Nicholas Segalla mysteries
(as Ann Dukthas)
A Time for the Death of a King
The Prince Lost to Time
The Time of Murder at Mayerling
In the Time of the Poisoned Queen
Mysteries of Alexander the Great
(as Anna Apostolou)
A Murder in Macedon
A Murder in Thebes
Alexander the Great
The House of Death
The Godless Man
The Gates of Hell
Matthew Jankyn mysteries
(as P C Doherty)
The Whyte Harte
The Serpent Amongst the Lilies
Standalone Titles
The Rose Demon
The Haunting
The Soul Slayer
The Plague Lord
The Death of a King
Prince Drakulya
Lord Count Drakulya
The Fate of Princes
Dove Amongst the Hawks
The Masked Man
The Last of Days
Non-fiction
The Mysterious Death of Tutankhamun
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
About the Book
As Chaucer’s pilgrims shelter in the ruins of a church, the Poor Priest narrates his mysterious tale of ancient evil, greed, devilish murder and chilling hauntings . . .
Young Philip Trumpington, newly appointed as Scawsby parish priest, finds that the old church harbours shocking secrets. Years earlier, a group of Templars were massacred on the marshes, their attackers led by Romenal, a former Scawsby priest. Philip discovers the old church is haunted – both by the former wicked priest and the mysterious ‘Watchers’ – and the villagers are scarred by a terrible curse. An ancient evil must be resolved and reparation made. But the price will be great.
For Richard, Nijolé and Thomas (O’Brien)
History has always fascinated me. I see my stories as a time machine. I want to intrigue you with a murderous mystery and a tangled plot, but I also want you to experience what it was like to slip along the shadow-thronged alleyways of medieval London; to enter a soaringly majestic cathedral but then walk out and glimpse the gruesome execution scaffolds rising high on the other side of the square. In my novels you will sit in the oaken stalls of a gothic abbey and hear the glorious psalms of plain chant even as you glimpse white, sinister gargoyle faces peering out at you from deep cowls and hoods. Or there again, you may ride out in a chariot as it thunders across the Redlands of Ancient Egypt or leave the sunlight and golden warmth of the Nile as you enter the marble coldness of a pyramid’s deadly maze. Smells and sounds, sights and spectacles will be conjured up to catch your imagination and so create times and places now long gone. You will march to Jerusalem with the first Crusaders or enter the Colosseum of Rome, where the sand sparkles like gold and the crowds bay for the blood of some gladiator. Of course, if you wish, you can always return to the lush dark greenness of medieval England and take your seat in some tavern along the ancient moon-washed road to Canterbury and listen to some ghostly tale which chills the heart . . . my books will take you there then safely bring you back!
The periods that have piqued my interest and about which I have written are many and varied. I hope you enjoy the read and would love to hear your thoughts – I always appreciate any feedback from readers. Visit my publisher’s website here: www.headline.co.uk and find out more. You may also visit my website: www.paulcdoherty.com or email me on: [email protected].
Paul Doherty
The Prologue
The pilgrims were lost. They had passed St Thomas’ well on the ancient route to Canterbury but, late in the afternoon, a sudden mist had come swirling in over the flat Kent countryside. At first this had caused laughter and a little merriment as the Summoner took advantage of the confusion to clutch the generous thigh of the Wife of Bath. The Man of Law and the Prioress hung back in the confusion and, when Mine Host turned round, he was sure the lawyer and the nun were kissing each other, albeit chastely.
‘By Satan’s cock!’ he growled to the Knight. ‘We must not become separated.’
The Knight shifted in the saddle, easing his sword out of his scabbard. He did not like such mists. They awoke nightmares in his soul from when he had campaigned in Anatolia: they’d be crossing the floor of some heavily wooded valley when the devil’s fog boiled up. He would ride ahead of his troops listening for any strange sounds: the clink of steel, or the creaking of harness. The only signs that the ghostly silence was to be broken by blood-curdling screams just before the Turckopoles, on their nimble horses, burst like demons out of the swirling mists.
‘We must keep together,’ the Knight declared. ‘Yeoman!’ He turned to his bodyguard. ‘Sound the horn!’ The Knight stood up in his stirrups. ‘Listen now!’ His voice boomed through the mist. ‘Follow the sounds of the horn!’
The Yeoman rode up to the head of the column.
‘Oh, pray we don’t get lost!’ Mine Host moaned. He raised his voice. ‘Let’s pray,’ he said, ‘to St Thomas à Becket whose blessed bones we go to venerate at Canterbury!’
The Miller gave a loud fart in answer, making the Carpenter snigger and giggle. Nevertheless, the pilgrims grouped closer. The Summoner moved his fat, little horse behind that of the Franklin. He was not just interested in the Franklin’s costly silk purse, white as the morning milk. Oh no, the Summoner smiled to himself: he, like some others, was increasingly fascinated by this motley group of pilgrims making their way to Canterbury in the year of Our Lord 1389. All seemed to be acquainted with each other and he definitely knew the Franklin. They had met many years ago on a blood-soaked island. He was sure of it, as he was that the Franklin had had a hand in his father’s death. He would have liked to have talked to his colleague the Pardoner but he was now suspicious for the Summoner had recently discovered that the Franklin and the Pardoner were close friends. Indeed, this cunning man, with his bag full of relics and the bones of saints slung on a string round his neck, was certainly not what he claimed to be.
Behind the Summoner, the Friar, nervous of the cloying mist, plucked at the harp slung over his saddle horn. As he played, the Friar glanced furtively at the Monk, riding alongside him. The Friar closed his eyes and strummed at the harp strings, calling up a little ditty he had learnt, anything to drive away the fears. He did not like the Monk sitting so arrogantly on his berry-brown palfrey: that smooth, fat face, those dark, soulless eyes and that smile, wolfish, the eye-teeth hanging down like jagged daggers. Who was the Monk? Why was the Knight so wary of him? And the latter’s son? The young, golden-haired Squire, he always kept an eye on the Monk, hand on the pommel of his sword, as if he expected the Monk to launch a sudden assault upon his father the Knight. Was the Monk, the Friar wondered, one of those Strigoi mentioned by the Knight in his tale? Did the Monk belong to the Undead? Those damned souls who wandered the face of the earth, finding their sustenance in human blood?
The Yeoman issued another loud blast on his hunting horn. The sound was not comforting; it pierced the mist like the wail of a lost soul.
‘The mist is getting thicker!’ the Reeve exclaimed. And so it was, billowing like clouds around them.
‘Where does it come from?’ the Merchant asked.
‘It’s the devil’s fog!’ the Pardoner screeched.
‘It’s a sea mist,’ the Sea Captain interrupted. He held up his hand. ‘Kent is flat, smooth as a piece of well-shorn wood bounded by the sea and, after rain or when the wind shifts to the east, the mist boils in like steam from a cauldron.’
‘I wish I was with my cauldron now,’ the Cook moaned. ‘Stirring some sweet pottage.’
The Reeve looked away in disgust as the Cook pulled up his hose and scratched the ulcer on his shin.
‘I could make a lovely blancmange,’ the Cook continued.
The Reeve hawked, spat and spurred on.
Another wail from the hunting horn.
‘Stop!’ the Yeoman shouted. ‘No further, look!’
Mine Host, joined by the Knight and the cheery-faced, merry-eyed customs collector Sir Geoffrey Chaucer, rode to the front of the column.
‘What’s the matter?’ the Knight asked.
‘Listen!’ the Yeoman replied.
The Knight did. ‘I can hear nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Exactly!’ the Yeoman declared. ‘There should be bird song, even the crows and rooks will not be silenced by a mist. What is more, the path has petered out.’
The Knight looked down: the beaten trackway had vanished. He dismounted and walked tentatively forward. Immediately he felt as if the earth was giving way beneath him: his high-heeled hunting boots became stuck in the cloying mud.
‘It’s a marsh!’ he yelled.
Already the mud was creeping up his leg. Chaucer took off his broad leather belt, threw one end at the Knight and, turning his horse round, moved backwards, scattering the pilgrims as he dragged the Knight out of the mire.
‘Thank you.’
Sir Godfrey ran his fingers through his iron-grey hair.
Even then, despite his narrow escape from the marsh, he glanced quickly around making sure where the Monk was: his enemy just sat upon his horse, face hidden deep in the cowl of his cloak. Nevertheless, Sir Godfrey glimpsed the sinister smile: those eyes gleaming at him, lips bared like a dog. I’ll kill him, Sir Godfrey thought. God be my witness, he is a Strigoi. When we reach Canterbury, perhaps before we go to the shrine, I’ll challenge him.
‘Where to now, Sir Godfrey?’ Mine Host shouted.
The Knight, helped by his son, remounted. He raised himself high in the stirrups.
‘We cannot go on,’ he declared, ‘whilst to move sideways could invite disaster.’
‘Oh, my goodness, look!’ The Miller pointed where the mists swirled over the marsh. ‘Look, there’s a light!’
All the pilgrims turned, their hearts beating a little faster, mouths dry. At first they thought the Miller had been drinking. The Carpenter was about to tell him to go and play his bagpipes when the mist swirled again and he glimpsed the pinpricks of light, like torches shimmering through the mist. The Carpenter was about to go forward but the Poor Priest, that gentle-eyed man, caught him by the shoulder.
‘Don’t be foolish!’ he said. ‘They are not human lights.’
His words only increased the pilgrims’ fears.
‘What are they?’ The Wife of Bath turned, fingers fluttering to her generous lips.
‘Corpse candles!’
The Ploughman, the Poor Priest’s brother, clutching the bridle of his brother’s skinny horse, stared anxiously up at the Priest.
‘Corpse candles?’ the Miller asked. ‘Bugger that!’ He drew his rusty sword.
‘They are called corpse candles,’ the Poor Priest explained. ‘According to some, they are gases from the marsh which ignite like fire-flies above a pond. Others claim they are the Devil’s lights, candles lit in hell and brought by the fiends to lure poor souls to their deaths.’
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ The Wife of Bath pushed down her broad-brimmed hat more firmly on her head. Her cheeks were no longer red but pale. She forced a gap-toothed smile at the Knight. ‘Oh, Sir Godfrey, save us!’
The Knight gently dug his heels into his horse. The pilgrims parted though none of them wished to be forced off the trackway.
‘Follow me,’ the Knight ordered. ‘Ride in single file. Mine Host, Sir Geoffrey, keep to the back. Yeoman, at my signal, blow your horn!’
