PRAISE FOR THE WICKED
“Part mystery, part history, all spooky. . . . Read this with a well-oiled sword at hand.”
—Christopher Buehlman, author of Between Two Fires
“An almost Dickensian level of detail transports readers to medieval England in poet Douglas Nicholas’s gorgeously written novel.”
—Library Journal
“Marvelously descriptive . . . like a more profound Harry Potter for adults.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The Wicked is the rare sequel that surpasses its predecessor.”
—GeekyLibrary
“Superb storytelling.”
—SFGate.com
PRAISE FOR SOMETHING RED
“A hauntingly affecting historical novel with a touch of magic.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Rich in historical detail, this suspenseful coming-of-age fantasy grabs the reader with the facts of life in medieval England and the magic spells woven into its landscape.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“This darkly atmospheric debut novel is well worth its measured plot-building for its horrific, unexpected ending.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“This first novel is a beauty.”
—Cecelia Holland, New York Times bestselling author of The King’s Witch
“Not for the faint of heart, this pulse-pounding page-turner grabs you from the start and never lets you go. A wickedly clever and evocative combination of history, horror, mystery, and magic.”
—Booklist
“Nicholas goes for the throat with Something Red. Rich in history, ankle deep in blood, and packed with brilliant writing and whip-smart plotting.”
—Jonathan Maberry, New York Times bestselling author of Flesh & Bone
“Ably conjuring the beauties and drawbacks of the past, and with an engaging and unusual cast list, Something Red is a thoroughbred novel of nightmare terror, ruled by a force of sheer evil that seems, and may well prove, unstoppable. A Book of Shadows with a genuinely beating heart.”
—Tanith Lee, award-winning author of The Silver Metal Lover
“Nicholas’s beautiful prose, his detailed portrayal of life in medieval England, interesting characters, and underlying supernatural themes make this book a real gem.”
—BookBrowse
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Epigraph
Part I
THE APOSTATE KING
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part II
THE EYE OF THE HYENA
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part III
THE MUTTERER
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Glossary of Irish Terms
Glossary of Archaisms and Dialect Terms
for Theresa
Pronunciation of Irish names:
Maeve = MAYV
Nemain = NEV-an
A glossary of Irish terms is to be found on page 329.
A glossary of archaisms and dialect terms is to be found on page 331.
Part I
THE APOSTATE KING
The whisper wakes, the shudder plays, Across the reeds at Runnymede.
—Kipling, “What Say the Reeds at Runnymede?”
CHAPTER 1
HOB OPENED THE SIDE DOOR of the tavern, stepped out into the squalid alleyway, and threw himself violently to the right. A faint rushing sound as the shaft of the cudgel clove the air, a glimpse of movement at the lateral extreme of the eye’s ability—something had warned him, and thus the blow struck his shoulder, and that already moving away, so that he suffered no real injury, just shock and dismay.
He had a chaotic blurred vision of the wall opposite—whitewashed daub peeling away from the wattle, urine stains—dim-lit in this tunnellike passageway, the two buildings so close together, sagging toward each other at the upper storeys, the eaves almost touching. Then he was down in the mire of the alley, rolling frantically away from his attackers, toward the rear of the inn. He planted a palm in the muck and used his momentum to roll up to his feet, as Sir Balthasar had taught him, a trick of the Norman knight to recover when unhorsed, or when the horse was killed beneath him. Even as he regained his feet he was running backward a few paces. He ripped his dagger from its leatherbound birchwood sheath and staggered to a halt.
The youth found himself facing a small band of grown men. The alley—just a walkway, really, between the two buildings—was so narrow that only two could come at him abreast, and he had an instant to take in an impression of several shadowy forms behind the two leaders. The one with the club was on Hob’s left; beside him was a knifeman. Behind them were perhaps four others; perhaps five. The group, recovering from the failure of its ambush, was beginning to advance again, the ones in front gauging the danger the young man’s dagger presented, the ones behind urging attack.
Jack was inside the inn, but Hob had not had time or breath to call out, and his attackers were rapidly closing with him. A vision of Nemain flitted before Hob’s eye: she had shown him some of Molly’s battle sleights, and one involved her leaping at a boulder in a field, planting a foot, and bouncing off the stone to achieve a rapid change of direction in an attack.
Now Hob looked hard at the knifeman, on his right, and with a loud wordless cry ran at him. Three paces short of closing with the bravo, Hob sprang at the right-hand wall; his right foot struck it two feet above the alley dirt and he pushed off mightily, propelling himself leftward across the alley, landing in a crouch before the club-wielder. Hob’s left hand came up to catch the man’s wrist and check the cudgel’s downward progress; his right hand also came up, up, the dagger-point leading, sliding beneath the man’s rib cage, piercing his heart. The club-man froze, struck dead by this internal thunderbolt, and fell back, his body tangling in the legs of the men behind.
The bravo in the lead with the knife now swung backhand at Hob, a weak blow, an awkward blow, and dealt the young man a shallow cut on the shoulder. But Hob was already moving back, resetting his feet, weaving his dagger this way and that, seeking an opening against the lead attacker, as Sir Balthasar had taught him. His youth, his strength, and his reach of arm, coupled with intense instruction from one of the most formidable knights of the North Country, had made Hob a match for even a grown man, even a hardened thug.
But there was no chance of h
is living through an encounter with a half-dozen men. “Jack!” he bellowed, as loud as he could. At that moment the rearmost of his enemies gave a truncated yelp; his head was snapped partway around, and he toppled over onto his back. The group halted its advance, and the bravos turned to see what threatened them from the alley front, all except the lead knifeman, who did not dare take his eyes from Hob’s blade, swaying this way and that, an adder preparing its strike.
Another man went down toward the rear. Hob heard the thud but was himself unable to take his eyes from his immediate adversary. A moment later the inn door banged open and Jack, a horrid gargling roar erupting from his ruined larynx, crashed into the group, pounding the first man he met into unconsciousness with a giant fist to the back of the neck, scooping the dropped cudgel from the ground, laying about him with irresistible fury.
Hob’s attacker, unnerved, allowed himself to be distracted, a fatal mistake. Hob lunged. His right leg went out before him, his knee bent; his right foot planted itself well ahead of his body; his right arm speared straight toward the man’s throat, the outstretched dagger tearing into muscle, artery, windpipe: an irreparable injury, the door to death flung open. The bravo’s eyes widened in horror; he dropped his own knife to grasp his neck; he sank down, dying.
Hob looked about him. Jack stood in the middle of several men, one unconscious, the rest dead or dying in the mud of the alley. Beyond him, holding a cord of gray silk on which hung a gold coin, stood the grim form of Sinibaldo, “the shadow of the shadow of Innocent III,” whom Hob and Jack had met only that morning.
CHAPTER 2
EARLIER THAT DAY, HOB HAD been acutely aware of the other Italian, who sat well back in the dark corner. He could make out only the indistinct shape of a head and shoulders, and, catching the light from the hearth fire, the figure’s lower legs, clad in the finest gray wool, shod in the supplest red-brown leather.
“Sir Odinell?” asked Molly.
“Yes, Sir Odinell; he has recommended you to me, and I have heard that you are to the market, here in Durham, and I have somewhat to discuss with you. I trust that you will find it as helpful to you, my lady, as I hope it will be to me.”
An elegant, well-spoken man, Monsignor Bonacorso da Panzano, a sprinkling of white amid his dark hair like that of an aging dog, lean, swarthy, with intelligent dark eyes and an expression that managed to be amused and chilly at once. Despite a pronounced accent, which resulted in “I have heard” sounding to Hob like “I ’ave ’aired,” the priest’s English was nearly flawless; the young man found it an extremely pleasant voice, a dark tenor, musical, somewhat nasal, the accent giving the familiar words an unfamiliar spice.
Monsignor da Panzano had sent a page to Molly’s wagon with a message that was an exquisite blend of courtesy, enticement, and threat. The summons had specified all four of the members of Molly’s troupe: herself, her lover Jack Brown, her granddaughter Nemain, and Molly’s former apprentice Hob, now Nemain’s husband. Molly had swiftly weighed their choices, and accepted the invitation gracefully, although not without misgivings.
They had come to Durham Priory, a stronghold of the North England Benedictine monks, and been shown to a small windowless study, furnished with a quiet wealth that showed in the oak paneling, the richly carved table that served as a desk, the silver candelabrum on that table, its seven branches casting a warm but wavering light. Behind the table sat the monsignor, who identified himself only as “a humble agent of His Holiness,” come to England as quietly as possible in these times of acrimony that lingered between King John and Pope Innocent III, despite their apparent reconciliation; da Panzano was not quite hiding here among the monks of Durham Priory, but he was certainly calling no attention to himself.
And the times called for discretion from everyone: no one knew where the center of power would be from month to month. In that late spring of 1215, the seventeenth year of King John’s reign, the king and the barons were circling one another like stiff-legged, ears-flattened fighting dogs. Rebellion was in the air, especially in the North Country.
There were negotiations: the banished and reinstated Archbishop of Canterbury, Stephen Langton, and the great knight William Marshal both tried to bring the parties together. There seemed to be progress, but here and there were clashes, skirmishes, small battles between partisans of the two factions. In particular the barons’ men clashed with King John’s foreign mercenaries—Flemings, Poitevins, and others—who were generally disliked. And now this agent of Pope Innocent III, one of the most dominant politicians of the age, had shown an unwelcome interest in Molly’s troupe.
From the beginning of the interview, another Italian had sat in the shadows of the corner farthest from the candles, and made no sound except to answer curtly when addressed, nor indeed had he moved. Monsignor da Panzano had not introduced him, and only asked him a question or two, as one who seeks to confirm a memory, but the two had spoken in Italian.
Now da Panzano said something to the shadow, and that person stood and came into the light. The man went to the door, opened it, and spoke to one outside. He turned and put his back to the door, folding his hands in front of him. Hob looked at him with frank curiosity.
He saw a man of middle height, broad of torso and shoulder but flat-stomached, with long arms and hands that seemed to belong to a larger man. A thick neck, a cap of dark-brown hair, and features that were blunt-cut, almost to the point of brutality. A large nose, with a pronounced curve, presided over a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His eyes were darkest brown, perhaps even black, and looked back at Hob with the flat emotionless menace of a reptile.
Over a cotehardie of gray-brown wool was a coat of black linen, its laces left undone so that it hung open at the front. On the left breast of the coat had been embroidered two crossed keys, one in silver thread and one in golden.
“But what a beast I am!” said da Panzano. “I have not presented my associate: this is Sinibaldo, more precious to me than my own right hand. He is a man of many accomplishments, and is an invaluable agent to me, and to the Holy Father.”
The Italian against the door gave a brief bow that managed to convey, if not arrogance, certainly a measure of stubborn pride.
A very short while later there was a diffident knock at the door. Sinibaldo turned, put a foot near the bottom of the door to guard against an attempt to burst in, and opened the door a little way. He looked out; Hob saw his head turn this way and that, a suspicious inspection up and down the hallway, then he stepped back and opened the door fully. A novice came in with a tray holding a glass bottle in the Venetian style, and a set of small silver cups. Sinibaldo, his eyes narrowed, his expression one of keenest vigilance, divided his attention between the novice and the partially open door. The young man placed the tray on the desk before Monsignor da Panzano and withdrew.
Sinibaldo closed and locked the door behind the novice, crossed to the desk, and plucked the glass stopper from the bottle. Hob saw with fascination that he did everything with his left hand—was his right hand enfeebled? But both hands were large, square, and heavily muscled, the veins prominent: hands that might belong to a professional strangler. Sinibaldo lifted the bottle, sniffed at it, stood a moment with an abstracted expression, as though thinking or remembering. Then he nodded and began, working left-handed, to fill and distribute cups to the company, first to Molly and then to the others, and then to Monsignor da Panzano. He moved with the surefooted economy of an athlete, or of a dancer, always on balance: a man who would be braced, as Marcus Aurelius advises, against assault from unexpected quarters. He did not pour a cup for himself, but turned and went back to the obscurity of his seat in the corner.
But when he turned toward the corner, the motion spun his coat open, just a little, and Hob could see, slung to a leather belt, on the right side, a long Italianate dagger, wasp-slim, wasp-malignant, with an ornately turned hilt made of what seemed to be a dull copper. Just before the coat swirled closed again, Hob caught a glimpse of a leather strap that
fastened to his belt and ran up and over his left shoulder beneath the coat. There seemed to be loops in this strap, seven or so, that held—Hob could not tell what they held: small complicated items of some sort.
Hob took a sip from his cup. A deliciously sweet taste, in which he could detect cinnamon and clove, and an aftertaste as of nuts, but with the sting of alcohol, strong as the uisce beatha that Molly produced from the portable vessels slung from her wagons. A delightful warmth settled in his stomach and ease spread out along his limbs. He smiled with the pleasure of it.
“You enjoy it, I hope?” Monsignor da Panzano said to the company in general. “I am bringing several bottles with me, all the far way from Rome herself, and before that from Venice to Rome.”
“ ’Tis a grand taste,” said Molly, who enjoyed a drink as well as anyone, “but ’tis not for this you’ve brought us here, and it’s unable to rest easy that I’m finding myself, and we not knowing if ’tis some danger we’re slipping into.”
The priest made a supple motion with outspread hands and lifted shoulders, not quite a shrug, that seemed to say I understand your concerns completely. “A thousand apologies, madam, you have the right of it. I am thinking to set you first at your ease with my poor refreshments, but perhaps we should be—what is the word?—blunt, yes, blunt. Or is it direct? Well. We—myself, and through me the Holy Father, and through him Holy Mother Church—we are needing your help against the king.”
He sat back and watched for the reaction to this startling and mortally dangerous set of words.
Molly sighed and made as if to rise. “If it’s treason you want to speak, I’ve no wish to be hearing of it. He’s not my king, but I am to understand that it’s a dim view that’s taken of such loose talk, and I’ve no wish to be drawn and quartered, and you with a man in the shadows there, and he a possible witness against us.”
“Hear me, hear me, dear lady, but a moment. You are in a frail ship in tempestuous seas: on one side are the rocks of King John’s enmity, on the other the great cliff that is the Church, and already you have sailed far too close to the cliff. I am offering to bring you to safe harbor, if you can render us the type of service you rendered to Sir Odinell. You have my guarantee of safety in perpetuity from prosecution by the Church against your . . . unusual practices and abilities. And later, when you come to set foot again on your native shore, you will have the Holy Father as your patron against your enemies, and against the Church in Ireland itself.”
Throne of Darkness: A Novel Page 1
