An Ancient Evil (Canterbury Tales Mysteries) Read online

  AN ANCIENT EVIL

  PAUL DOHERTY

  headline

  Copyright © 1994 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.

  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 written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  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.

  eISBN 978 0 7553 5051 3

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Letter to the Reader

  About the Author

  Also By

  Praise

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  PART I

  Words between the pilgrims

  PART II

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Words between the pilgrims

  PART III

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Words between the pilgrims

  PART IV

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Words between the pilgrims

  PART V

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  The Epilogue

  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

  About the Author

  Paul Doherty is one of the most prolific, and lauded, authors of historical mysteries in the world today. His expertise in all areas of history is illustrated in the many series that he writes about, from the Mathilde of Westminster series, set at the court of Edward II, to the Amerotke series, set in Ancient Egypt. Amongst his most memorable creations are Hugh Corbett, Brother Athelstan and Roger Shallot.

  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 wife and family near Epping Forest.

  Also by Paul Doherty

  Mathilde of Westminster

  THE CUP OF GHOSTS

  THE POISON MAIDEN

  THE DARKENING GLASS

  Sir Roger Shallot

  THE WHITE ROSE MURDERS

  THE POISONED CHALICE

  THE GRAIL MURDERS

  A BROOD OF VIPERS

  THE GALLOWS MURDERS

  THE RELIC MURDERS

  Templar

  THE TEMPLAR

  THE TEMPLAR MAGICIAN

  Mahu (The Akhenaten trilogy)

  AN EVIL SPIRIT OUT OF THE WEST

  THE SEASON OF THE HYAENA

  THE YEAR OF THE COBRA

  Canterbury Tales by Night

  AN ANCIENT EVIL

  A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS

  A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS

  GHOSTLY MURDERS

  THE HANGMAN’S HYMN

  A HAUNT OF MURDER

  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

  Hugh Corbett

  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

  Standalone Titles

  THE ROSE DEMON

  THE HAUNTING

  THE SOUL SLAYER

  THE PLAGUE LORD

  THE DEATH OF A KING

  PRINCE DRAKULYA

  THE LORD COUNT DRAKULYA

  THE FATE OF PRINCES

  DOVE AMONGST THE HAWKS

  THE MASKED MAN

  As Vanessa Alexander

  THE LOVE KNOT

  OF LOVE AND WAR

  THE LOVING CUP

  Kathryn Swinbrooke (as C L Grace)

  SHRINE OF MURDERS

  EYE OF GOD

  MERCHANT OF DEATH

  BOOK OF SHADOWS

  SAINTLY MURDERS

  MAZE OF MURDERS

  FEAST OF POISONS

  Nicholas Segalla (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 (as P C Doherty)

  THE WHYTE HARTE

  THE SERPENT AMONGST THE LILIES

  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

  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

  To my baby son Mark and his vivid imagination

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  By the mid-14th century, Oxford University had developed basically along the same lines as today. The halls or colleges and the faculties for different subjects were in existence. There was a central university administration where the proctors, as now, were responsible for student discipline.

  One final note; in medieval demonology the term ‘Strigoi’ could be used to describe either the living dead or a powerful, evil spirit who takes possession of a living soul.

  P.C. Doherty

  The Prologue

  The warm April showers had done little to clean the dirty cobbles and mud-packed runnels of Southwark. Nevertheless, the heavy rain was sweet to those who tended apple orchards, flower banks, herb gardens or just grass for grazing; the shower had also kept travellers safe as it confined the night hawks to mere grumbling in the taprooms of the shabby ale-houses that stood at the mouth of every street and alleyway in Southwark. The black, long-tailed rats, however, knew the rain had softened the mounds of refuse piled high in the sewers and now, their red eyes gleaming, were busily foraging for tender scraps. A cat keeping in the shadows of an alley wall also hunted, though it suddenly stopped, ears cocked, one leg raised, outside the cobbled yard of the Tabard inn which lay across the street from the Abbot of Hyde’s manor. The cat stared across the deserted stable yard, quickly noting that the doors were all locked and barred; no chance there to catch the soft mice shuffling among the straw or greedily filling their small bellies in the bins of bran, oats and other feeds. Instead the cat looked amber-eyed at the light and listened to the raised voices and laughter that poured through the glass of the great mullioned bay window at the front of the tavern. Above the cat, the Tabard’s sign creaked and groaned in the soft April breeze. Somewhere a horse neighed; a sleepy-eyed ostler opened the small barn door to ensure all was well and so the cat slunk on.

  Inside the cavernous taproom of the Tabard, mine host Harry sat at the top of the great, long table and studied his twenty-nine customers and fellow pilgrims, his hands itching at the thought of the profit he would make both tonight and on their return from Canterbury. Harry picked up his great blackjack of ale, its froth bubbling round his mouth and nose while his wide, popping eyes once more surveyed his companions. Early tomorrow morning, before even cock-crow, they would start their long journey down the Rochester road to pray before the blessed bones of St Thomas à Becket in Canterbury. By the cock, Harry thought, a motley crew. On his left was the knight, his steel-grey hair falling to his shoulders, his face marked by lines of severity, his dark hooded eyes half-closed as he loosened his belt after a meal of partridge, quail and golden plover turned on the spit until the flesh became succulent white. The knight had said little; he had drunk and eaten sparingly, as had his son who sat next to him – a curly blond-haired squire, with face and manners as pretty as any maid’s. He had talked even less than his father but had hung on the knight’s every word, now and again stretching across with his knife to carve and dice his father’s meal. A dutiful squire as well as a son, mine host Harry thought, and one who knows full well the rules of courtesy at table.

  The knight’s other companion, the cropped-headed, sun-browned yeoman in his coat of green, was listening patiently to the merchant on his left – a large braggart of a man with a proud face and forked beard under a large Flemish beaver hat which he refused to doff even when eating. Across the table, on Harry’s right, the crafty-eyed lawyer was describing to the wealthy franklin a meal served to him at the Inns of Court. This lover of good food, with his daisy-white beard, listened carefully, licking his lips at the lawyer’s description of the baked meats, fattened peacock and tangy fish sauces. Harry grinned to himself. He was glad he was not sitting next to the tousle-haired cook, who boasted he could prepare the sweetest blancmange. As the cook had sat down, thrusting one leg over the bench, Harry had glimpsed the open sore on the man’s bare ankle. ‘He will prepare no blancmange for me,’ Harry quietly vowed to his old friend the shipman.

  The host was also keeping an eye on the summoner with his fiery red face, black scabby brows and scanty beard. The man was covered with pustules, white and red, and his nose was fiery as a coal from Hell. He had, since his arrival at the Tabard, downed as much strong drink as all the other pilgrims put together. The summoner did not care a whit but, like the god Bacchus, wore a garland on his head. Nevertheless, he was still a man to watch for; Harry had twice glimpsed him trying to lift the trinket bag of silk that dangled from the franklin’s belt. The other pilgrims were just as mixed. The lean-visaged pardoner, with his pouches full of rubbish to sell as relics, was a veritable scarecrow with his long yellow hair falling lank as a piece of flax around his shoulders. Beside the pardoner sat a reeve, thin as the pole he carried, hot-eyed, red spots of anger ever present on his high-boned cheeks. The miller was next – built like a battering ram, he was bald as an egg though his beard was red and long as a tongued flame. Harry looked once more at the miller and closed his eyes. He only hoped the loud-mouthed bastard would not pick up his bagpipes and start playing again. This would surely scandalize Dame Eglantine the prioress, who talked only in nasal French as she sat fingering the love locket around her neck or feeding slops of milk to the lapdog she carried everywhere.

  ‘You are quiet, Master Harry?’

  The taverner looked down at the monk and friar, bald-headed, brown as berries, their faces glistening with good living; Harry would not trust either of them as far as he could spit.

  ‘I was thinking,’ the landlord replied.

  ‘About what?’ demanded Alice, the broad, red-faced wife of Bath. ‘Come on, sir, what were you thinking about?’ She turned and winked lasciviously at Dame Eglantine’s soft-faced chaplain.

  ‘I was thinking how pretty you were,’ Harry laughed.

  The wife of Bath clapped her hands and her face broke into a gap-toothed grin. ‘I have danced with five husbands, I am always prepared to step out with a sixth!’ She moved her bottom, broad as a buckler, on the bench and flirtatiously adjusted the embroidered cloth around her shoulders.

  Harry just stared down the table.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘how we have agreed that each should tell at least two tales. One will be for the day, but what about the nights?’

  ‘I can keep you busy enough there.’ The wife of Bath simpered to the laughs and catcalls from the others.

  ‘No! No!’ Harry banged on the top of the table and unhitched a small bag of coins from his belt. ‘There’s good silver in here and, by the cock, if any man disputes it I’ll break his head with a quarterstaff! So, when we move out tomorrow to St Thomas’s watering hole, let us tell a merry tale to instruct or amuse. But, at night,’ his voice fell, ‘let it be different.’ He stared around the now quiet
company. ‘Let us tell a tale of mystery that will chill the blood, halt the heart and curl the locks upon our heads.’ He looked slyly at the miller. ‘Or, if you wish, your beard. The winner, the best tale, will receive this purse!’

  The assembled pilgrims murmured quietly, now fascinated by their host’s change of mood.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ The pardoner’s shrill voice broke the silence. ‘Let us tell a tale of murder and death and let it not be too fanciful but spring from the heart, the life-blood, of each one of us!’

  The rest of the pilgrims, full of hot food and strong wine, heartily agreed, eager to experience a tale of mystery as they sat, well fed, before the roaring fire of this or any other tavern on their way to Canterbury.

  ‘So,’ Harry asked, getting to his feet, ‘who shall begin?’ He glanced to his left where, throughout the conversation, the knight had hardly stirred but only gazed heavy-lidded into the darkness. Harry hoped the knight would tell the first tale tomorrow morning as they took the road out of Southwark; perhaps etiquette dictated that he should also be the first to tell a night story.

  ‘Sir knight!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘Do you agree?’

  The knight looked up, stroking his iron-grey beard. He wiped away the crumbs from his jerkin, which was still stained from the armour he had worn. He glanced sideways at his blue-eyed, fresh-faced son.

  ‘I agree,’ he replied quietly. ‘And I shall speak first!’

  Harry waved him to his own chair at the top of the table.

  ‘Then, sir, of your kindness, take my seat and I shall serve you this tavern’s best, a deep-bowled cup of the richest claret from Bordeaux.’

  The knight obliged, moving silently as a cat. He sat in Harry’s great high-backed chair, his elbows resting on its arms.

  ‘I will tell you,’ he began, ‘a tale of terror and of mystery.’ His voice rose. ‘Of evil greater than that which prowls in the mid-day heat. About an ancient evil, spawned by the Lord Satan himself, which had its roots during a time of war when Saturn ruled the stars and loosed his son, red-armoured Mars, to stalk the green meadows of England. A time of terror when even Pluto himself, Lord of the Underworld, paled at the horrors that entered the affairs of men.’ The knight leaned back in the chair. ‘My tale begins hundreds of years ago, just after the great Conqueror came here. So, gentles all, your attention as I describe these horrors sprung from the very pit of Hell.’ And he began.