Also by Susanna Gregory
The Matthew Bartholomew Series
A Plague on Both Your Houses
An Unholy Alliance
A Bone of Contention
A Deadly Brew
A Wicked Deed
A Masterly Murder
An Order for Death
A Summer of Discontent
A Killer in Winter
The Hand of Justice
The Mark of a Murderer
The Tarnished Chalice
To Kill or Cure
The Devil’s Disciples
A Vein of Deceit
The Killer of Pilgrims
Mystery in the Minster
The Thomas Chaloner Series
A Conspiracy of Violence
Blood on the Strand
The Butcher of Smithfield
The Westminster Poisoner
A Murder on London Bridge
The Body in the Thames
The Piccadilly Plot
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-74812-606-4
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Susanna Gregory
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Also by Susanna Gregory
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Historical Note
To Stephen Lees
PROLOGUE
Poitiers, September 1356
On a warm autumn morning, two armies faced each other across a gently rolling plain. A pretty wood lay behind the English troops, its trees already turning from green to gold. There was a river nearby, too, where a heron stalked, hunting fish in the gurgling shallows. The sun shone, bees hummed and the air was full of birdsong. The scene was peaceful and idyllic.
Suddenly, trumpets brayed to announce a French attack, and the sounds of innocent morning were lost amid a thundering tattoo of charging hoofs and bloodcurdling war cries. Arrows hissed from Welsh and English longbows, quickly followed by the screams of the wounded. Eventually, there was another sound, too, one that startled the French warhorses, and made them buck and rear. It was the staccato bark of the Prince of Wales’s newfangled artillery.
The Sire de Rougé watched from the French right flank, cursing as smoke billowed across the field, making it difficult for him to see what was happening. He had heard of the device known as the ribauldequin, which used exploding powder to discharge several missiles simultaneously, but he had never seen one in action. He had hoped he never would – he considered them an abomination beyond belief, and so did every other right-thinking warrior.
There was a bright flame in the wood, followed by a much louder boom. He narrowed his eyes, straining for a glimpse of the things, but they were too well concealed. There was a fire, though, and he could see the English rushing to put it out. It burned only briefly, but that particular weapon did not speak again. Rougé assumed it had blown up – the cursed inventions might be terrifying to the opposition, but they were equally capable of killing their operators.
He itched to join in the affray. Unfortunately, the previous day, King Jean had informed him that he was unlikely to be needed – a French victory was a certainty, because they outnumbered the enemy three to one. They would, Jean had stated confidently, kill or rout them all, and the English would never set hostile feet in France again. Rougé and his small unit of horsemen were to remain in reserve, and not to deploy unless specifically ordered to do so.
The French army had three main divisions. The strongest and best was commanded by Jean himself, while his son the Dauphin and the Duke of Orléans led the others. When the smoke cleared, Rougé saw that the Dauphin had attacked first, but it had been a long dash towards the English position, especially wearing heavy armour and under a constant hail of arrows, and their bold charge had lost its impetus by the time they reached their goal. They had turned to retreat, but immediately became entangled with Orléans’s troops, who were marching up behind. Panic and chaos ensued, and now both units were stumbling from the field in disarray.
Rougé gripped his reins so hard that his knuckles were white, and his heart thudded wildly as King Jean stood up in his stirrups and raised his arm to signal the advance of his own division. Immediately, the great mass of knights and men-at-arms began to trot forward. They were the cream of the French army, and a splendid sight with their streaming pennants and the sunlight glinting off their polished helmets. Rougé began to relax. No grubby English rabble could withstand such a powerful force, and Jean had been right to brag of success that day.
To quell an almost overwhelming urge to race into the affray regardless of orders, Rougé pondered the English artillery again. First, there were the squat, malignant ‘bombards’, which sent stone balls careening into enemy lines. And second, there were the newer, lighter ribauldequins. These were wildly inaccurate, and their spluttering fire was making no difference to the battle one way or the other, yet Rougé could see their potential. Not only were the flames, noise and smoke unnerving, especially to horses, but it would not take much to adapt them into something truly deadly.
His musings were interrupted by a flurry of activity along the English lines: the archers had run out of arrows, and were snatching up hammers and daggers instead. Rougé sneered his disdain. It was an act of desperation, as such paltry weapons were no match for the great broadswords wielded by the French knights – and there were a great many of those in the proud wave that was pounding magnificently forward. But he detected another movement, too, in the woods to his left, where the Prince of Wales had stationed his Gascon cavalry.
There was a tremendous clash as the two armies met, followed by an indescribable cacophony of screams and howls. The spiteful clap of the ribauldequin sounded again, and more smoke drifted across his line of vision. Rougé leaned forward in his saddle, straining his eyes against the billowing whiteness. Just when it thinned, the ribauldequin cracked out yet again and Rougé gave up trying to see what was happening. To distract himself, he thought about the circumstances that had brought the two countries to war in the first place.
It was all to do with who should be King of France. Edward III of England thought it should be him – his great-grandfather had held the title, and Edward was the only legitimate offspring of that particular bloodline. Unfortunately for him, no French noble wanted an Englishman as his monarch, and most of the country supported the House of Valois. The dispute had dragged on for almost three decades already, and although Edward now preferred the comfort of his palaces to a campaign tent, his son was full of fervour for his birthright. For months now, the Prince of Wales had been leading a ragtag army across France, leaving a trail of death and destruction wherever he went. It was, thought Rougé bitter
ly, high time that bellicose pup was sent packing with his tail between his legs.
Suddenly he became aware that battle cries had given way to cheers. He smiled: Jean had won, and France would soon be free of the brutal marauders. Then the smoke thinned, and his grin faded. The victory had been won at a terrible price – the ground was littered with French dead, their pennants trampled and filthy underfoot, and their bright armour foul with dirt and blood. Then he frowned, as more of the smoke blew away.
The tight, glorious mass of Jean’s division was gone, and in its place was disorganised, shattered confusion. A few knights fought in isolated clumps, but the majority were running for their lives. With a shock that made him gasp his horror, Rougé saw that it was not the French who were cheering, but the English! Worse, he could see Jean battling for his life, virtually alone and beset on all sides by the enemy.
Appalled, Rougé called his men to order and galloped towards him. All around, English, Welsh and Gascon warriors were howling their triumph, but he thundered on, riding over anyone who tried to stop him. An arrow killed his horse from under him, but he rolled away from its body and continued on foot, sword in one hand and shield in the other. His men, he realised dully, were no longer with him; they had seen that the situation was hopeless, and had quit the field while they could.
He stumbled forward. Jean was not far away now, a sharp flash of silver armour amid a sea of rough brown leather jerkins. Then the unthinkable happened. Jean put up his sword, and handed his glove to some minor knight in a grimy surcoat. The King had surrendered! Stunned, Rougé staggered to a standstill, and was too shocked to resist as he was relieved of his weapons and bundled away to sit with the other prisoners.
That evening, there was a great deal of celebration in the English camp – songs, feasting, laughter and boasting. The mood was very different in the cramped corral to which the French prisoners had been herded, where disbelief was turning slowly to despair and shame. Rougé sat dejectedly with the Archbishop of Sens and the Count of Eu.
‘This is a black day for France,’ Sens was saying. He wore full armour under his religious habit, and his hawkish face was taut with anger and humiliation. ‘There cannot be a noble family in the country that has not lost a son in today’s slaughter.’
‘No,’ agreed Eu numbly. He had been wounded, and owed his survival to the English medicus who had been on hand to sew him up. He was not yet sure whether to be grateful. ‘I still do not understand why we lost. We outnumbered them, for God’s sake!’
‘It was Orléans’s fault,’ said Sens bitterly. ‘When he and the Dauphin fled, the Prince of Wales thought he had won, and ordered his troops to put the rest of us to rout. Filled with triumph, even his archers surged forward to fight, and they slammed into us with such force that we could not hold them. And then there were the Gascons.’
‘Why?’ asked Eu tiredly. ‘What did they do?’
‘They sneaked through the woods and struck our left flank. Their timing was perfect, because it threw us into utter confusion. Many of our warriors ran to take refuge in Poitiers, but the townsfolk refused to open their gates, so the Gascons slaughtered them all outside the walls.’
‘Worse will follow,’ predicted Rougé, speaking for the first time since he had been taken. His voice was hoarse, and he did not think the terrible ache in his heart would ever ease. ‘The Prince will march on Bordeaux next, killing and looting as he goes.’
Sens sighed gloomily. ‘This disaster was our own fault. First, we underestimated them, which was foolish. Second, the lie of the land was in their favour, which we ignored. Third, there was a lack of cohesion among our leaders – the Dauphin should never have become entangled in Orléans’s division, and neither one should have retreated. And last, we certainly should have predicted that Gascon trick.’
‘They had ribauldequins, too,’ added Eu, somewhat defensively. ‘It conferred an unfair advantage on them, because using such evil devices is tantamount to cheating, not chivalrous at all. Look – they have left one standing over there. Have you ever seen a more diabolical creation?’
Rougé turned to stare at the weapon. It comprised a row of slender tubes, each with its own powder-pot at the opposite end to the muzzle. There was a ratcheted lever behind them, curving upwards like the tail of a scorpion, so that the barrels could be aimed higher or lower, and the whole thing was on wheels, allowing it to be trundled from place to place.
‘I saw it spit out its deadly missiles,’ Eu said with a shudder. ‘It made a lot of noise and produced a hellish stench. It terrified the horses, and caused many of my men to take flight – they thought it was some manner of witchcraft.’
‘That is no excuse,’ said Rougé sourly. ‘They should have stood firm. France needed us all today, and we failed her.’
‘Perhaps we did,’ sighed Sens. ‘And it galls me to think that our capture will earn a pretty penny for King Edward – money that will be used to advance his claim on our throne, no doubt.’
‘What?’ asked Rougé, uneasily. ‘How?’
‘Ransoms,’ explained the Archbishop. ‘We shall all be taken to England, and I have already been told that my freedom alone will cost eight thousand pounds. Eu’s will be six, and you will not fetch less than one and a half. God only knows what price will be put on King Jean.’
Rougé was silent. He knew about the practice of ransoming, of course, but he was suddenly stricken with the realisation that his desperate attempt to rescue his monarch would ruin his family – and ruin them it would, because years of war had taken their toll on his estates, and fifteen hundred pounds was an impossible sum. He closed his eyes in despair. The conflict had brought famine and poverty to France already, and the ransoms would exacerbate the problem beyond endurance. The common folk would refuse to buy their masters’ freedom, and there would be rebellion and anarchy.
It was then that he knew he hated England with every fibre of his being, and would do anything humanly possible to avenge himself on the nation that had wreaked such havoc on his own. In the fading light, he could see the carnage of the battlefield, the once-proud banners fluttering forlornly in the evening breeze, and the undignified piles of corpses set ready for mass burial the following morning.
‘I shall avenge our dead,’ he vowed, his resolve strengthening by the moment. ‘I shall ensure that France never suffers a rout like this again. Not ever.’
His companions regarded him askance. ‘How?’ asked Sens. ‘You are a guest of the English now, and there is not much you can do from the Tower of London.’
‘I have a plan,’ replied Rougé. ‘It entails me learning a secret.’
A gleam of hope flared in the Archbishop’s eyes when he heard the conviction in the younger man’s voice. ‘What secret?’
Rougé’s face became cold and hard. ‘One that will change the world for ever.’
Cambridge, early May 1358
It was not often that the University at Cambridge called a Convocation of Regents – a gathering of all its masters – but one was certainly organised when Sir Eustace Dunning offered to finance a Common Library. It was a contentious matter, and while some scholars were delighted by the prospect of unlimited access to books, others thought the concept was fraught with dangerous precedents, and argued that the gift should be politely but firmly declined.
The Regents, who were the University’s governing body and so responsible for deciding what was best for it, began to arrive at the church of St Mary the Great long before noon, when the meeting was scheduled to begin. As it was a formal occasion, they wore their ceremonial robes: scarlet gowns and hats for the seculars, and best habits for the monks and friars. Tensions were high, and spats had broken out long before Chancellor Tynkell called for silence, intoned some prayers, and declared the Convocation officially open.
There was an immediate clamour as virtually every man present strove to make his views known. Tynkell, a timid, ineffectual man wholly incapable of controlling hundreds of opinionated schola
rs, could only wave his hands in feeble entreaty, and it was left to his Senior Proctor, the plump, charismatic Brother Michael, to take charge. Once he had stilled the commotion, Michael indicated that Philip de London was to speak first.
‘Books are expensive,’ London began in a quiet, dignified voice. He and his brother were scribes, employed by the University’s stationer. ‘And only the wealthiest foundations can afford them. A Common Library will ensure that even our poorest scholars will see texts that—’
‘There are more important issues at stake here than the education of paupers,’ interrupted John Teversham, a Fellow of Bene’t College, whose exquisite robes suggested that money would never come between him and the tomes he wanted to study. ‘And I believe that such a foundation will endanger our University.’
‘How?’ asked London irritably. ‘Oxford has had one for the past thirty years, and no harm has befallen it. Indeed, its scholars say it is an excellent addition to—’
‘What that rabble does is not always sensible,’ interrupted Teversham. ‘Besides, where will this collection go? We do not have a suitable building for it.’
‘Actually, we do,’ interjected Tynkell. He smiled nervously, knowing that his news would receive a mixed reaction. ‘Sir Eustace Dunning has given us Newe Inn in Cholles Lane.’
Half the scholars cheered their delight, while the others booed and hissed, and it was some time before Michael was able to restore calm again. Once the church was quiet, he let Principal Coslaye of Batayl Hostel speak first, because the man was scarlet with apoplectic rage, and Michael was afraid he might have a fatal seizure if he was not permitted to have his say soon.
‘The University cannot have Newe Inn,’ Coslaye bellowed furiously. ‘Dunning promised that building to us. To Batayl!’
‘I beg to differ,’ countered Prior Etone of the Carmelites, startled. He was a serious, unsmiling man said to be better at administration than scholarship or religion. ‘He promised it to me, and—’
‘Lies!’ screamed Coslaye. ‘Dunning would never break his word to us.’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 1
