The House of Shadows Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter 13

  Author’s Note

  The Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan

  THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY

  THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER

  MURDER MOST HOLY

  THE ANGER OF GOD

  BY MURDER’S BRIGHT LIGHT

  THE HOUSE OF CROWS

  THE ASSASSIN’S RIDDLE

  THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN

  THE FIELD OF BLOOD

  THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

  BLOODSTONE

  THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

  Being the tenth of the Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan

  Paul Doherty

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain in 2003

  by Headline Book Publishing,

  A division of Hodder Headline PLC

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2003 by Paul Doherty

  The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0042-6 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  In loving memory of William (Wills) Walford-Grant

  Beloved son of Michael and Annie

  of South Woodford

  Born 2 March 1989, tragically killed

  8 November 2002

  Prologue

  Eve of the Feast of St Matthew, 1360

  The courtesan known as Guinevere the Golden crouched amongst the headstones of St Erconwald’s cemetery. She had concealed her lustrous golden hair beneath a tight-fitting hood, and put on a dark cloak to cover her finery. She had taken off her ring and placed it in the small casket beside her. The autumn night was bright with a full moon, which bathed the cemetery in a silver glow and illuminated the dark mass of the church. Guinevere was fearful. That sombre pile of masonry was God’s house. The preachers claimed angels trod there, and wouldn’t the good Lord see into the very recesses of her soul? Guinevere just wished her comrades would come. She wanted an end to this fear, to give way to the excitement which made her heart skip and her blood tingle. She settled herself more comfortably. The night sky was beautiful; she watched a faint cloud drift, as if following the moon across the night sky. She started as an owl, silent as a ghost, swept above her, feathery wings beating the air as it plunged on its victim, scurrying through the high grass of the cemetery. The door to the death house creaked. A chilling sound in the darkness.

  Nevertheless, Guinevere felt safe. The old church had no priest, and very few people would come to the cemetery at night. Guinevere recalled the old story of how each cemetery, each portion of God’s Acre, possessed a watcher, the ghost of the last person buried there. He, or she, had to stay on guard in the cemetery until replaced by the spirit of the next person buried. Guinevere swallowed hard; she mustn’t frighten herself. She closed her eyes and tried to think of the cheery tap room at the Night in Jerusalem. All her friends and acquaintances would be there. A fiddler would stand by the log fire; perhaps a travelling songsman would chant a lay. The tambour and the rebec would strike up, a pulsating sound which marked the beginning of the dance. Guinevere so loved to dance; that was how she had met him, the man who had promised her wealth beyond all reckoning.

  ‘A chest full of treasure!’ he had whispered.

  At first, Guinevere had been reluctant. She’d blinked her eyes prettily and claimed she had given her heart to another, but those words, ‘a chest full of treasure’, had so enticed her. She would be rich, a princess, a great lady, like those who swaggered through Cheapside with their gauze veils and fur-lined cloaks, jewellery glittering at their throats, soft bodies smelling of sweet perfumes. She would wash her hands in golden bowls and sit before a piece of polished silver to examine her beautiful face.

  The wind moaned amongst the headstones, the breeze was strengthening; soon the fleet would sail. Guinevere clenched her fists in excitement. She had done her part. She opened the casket and took out the gold ring, turning it over in her fingers, examining it carefully. What did it matter? She slipped the ring on her finger and leaned back against the headstone. What would be happening now? Surely the alarm would have been raised, yet she had just come slipping through the streets of Southwark and seen no excitement. Nothing wrong, no torchlight flickering against the night or mailed men tramping through the streets to the clash of armour.

  ‘Guinevere!’

  She raised herself up and stared across the cemetery. She saw the signal, a shuttered lantern being opened and closed like a beacon flashed from a clifftop. Guinevere stood and moved across the cemetery. A dark shape detached itself from the death house and came towards her. The lantern was raised, the shutter slightly open. Guinevere sighed in relief. Lifting the hem of her gown, she ran towards him. The lantern was lowered. Guinevere the Golden was so excited she didn’t even hear the hiss of steel. So eager to hear the news, she almost ran on to the dagger point. She felt the fiery stab of pain, but it was too late. She was trapped, drawn close, pressed further and further on to the blade thrusting deep inside her.

  Guinevere groaned and slipped, the life light fading from her beautiful eyes.

  Chapter 1

  The hideous murders began on the Night of the Great Ratting, the eve of the Feast of the holy martyr St Wulfnoth, who had been boiled alive by the heathen Frisians. The inhabitants of Southwark, their tattered purses full of crocards and pollards, those battered and clipped coins rejected by worthy tradesmen, these denizens of the slums, hoods pulled up against the freezing cold, made their way to the spacious tavern, the Night in Jerusalem, which stood on the broad thoroughfare which swept down to London Bridge. The night was bitterly cold; the season of Advent was only a month away. The seers had prophesied snow, but the night sky was cloud-free and the stars brilliant. A full moon bathed the reeking alleyways and lanes in its ghostly light. The day’s business was done, windows were shuttered, doors locked and barred. The cats slunk away whilst the rats, as if they sensed what was going to happen, kept well clear of the frozen rubbish heaps.

  Everyone knew about the Great Ratting. Those who liked to gamble or play hazard had
already laid their wagers. Others were just curious as to see what would happen. Of course, every thief could smell a profit. There’d be purses to be cut and pockets to be picked whilst enjoying a good night’s entertainment. The news had spread across the swollen black Thames, attracting the more well-to-do and genteel from Cheapside, Farringdon Ward, and even as far north as Clerkenwell. Moleskin, the boatman who sailed out of Southwark Steps, was promised a roaring trade. The Thames, however, was choppy, the river breeze sharp as a dagger, so many just slipped under the chains at London Bridge, scampering along the narrow lane between the houses and the great selds, or warehouses, built either side of the bridge. All excited, they ignored the frozen midden piles containing every type of waste heaped high along the middle, nor did they pause to stare at the severed, mouldering heads of traitors placed high on spikes on either side of the bridge. They showed a similar lack of pity for those caught stealing from stalls during the previous day’s trading; these malefactors were now fastened in the stocks by hand, head or leg, or shut up in the cages at each end of the bridge, where they would stand all night and suffer the freezing cold.

  The petty traders and chapmen, the sellers of figs and apples, the tallow chandlers, the wax chandlers, the fleshers and the tanners all forgot their trade rivalry, flocking to the Great Ratting. They were joined by doxies and the whores in their gaudy rags from Walbrook and Hounsditch. These ladies of the night hid their charms behind cowls, hoods, shabby cloaks, and masks with gaps for their eyes and mouths. Once they reached the spacious tap room of the Night in Jerusalem they removed such disguises.

  The tap room’s tables and chairs were ringed by row after row of barrels, each table being lit by a yellow tallow candle or a bowl of oil with a burning wick floating in the centre. Even though the champions hadn’t arrived, the wagering had begun, encouraged by the good silver and gold brought by the young men of the court, garbed in their tight hose, puffed jackets, protuberant codpieces and high-heeled boots. In the view of many of those who flocked to the tavern, these popinjays with their high-pitched voices, soft hands and faces, and curled, crimped hair were the real reason for the evening. They carried purses and wallets openly for all to see, and the fingers of many itched to be so close to such wealth. A few arrivals brought their own dogs, bull mastiffs, terriers, and even the occasional greyhound or whippet so as to measure up the opposition.

  They all crowded in, gathering around the grease-covered tables or going to stare at the stuffed corpses of other prized dogs who had won the title of ‘Champion Rat Killer’. Pride of place was given to the embalmed corpse of a white bull mastiff with black patches around its protuberant glass eyes. A collar about its neck proclaimed the dog as ‘The Greatest Champion of all times’. In the centre of the tap room stretched the great pit, still covered over, a broad and very deep whitewashed hole ringed with lanterns and hour candles, the flames of which were already approaching the eleventh ring. Soon the games would begin. Mine host, a great tub of a man who rejoiced in the name of Master Rolles, was already enthroned in his chair of state on a velvet-covered dais overlooking the pit. He sat there like a king, bawling for more lights to be brought. Link boys hurried up with lantern horns they’d filched from the doorsteps of houses in the wealthier parts of the City. Once these were in place, Master Rolles, his fat, greasy face shimmering in the light, stared petulantly round, small lips pursed, greedy black eyes gleaming, ready to make his power felt. The tavern was filling up. Master Rolles quietly congratulated himself on making a handsome profit. Once the game was over, he’d visit Mother Veritable’s House of Delights and, in the morning, light more candles before the Virgin’s altar in the Priory Church of St Mary Overy.

  Dishes of burning charcoal were also brought up with incense strewn on top. The taverner liked this touch – the incense gave the tap room a holy smell and helped to hide the reeking odours of the slops-strewn floor. Master Rolles felt a little guilty. One of his maids had stolen the incense from the Priory Church but Rolles quietly promised himself that, in time, he would make compensation. Glowing braziers, their tops capped, were wheeled in from the scullery and placed around the room. More logs were thrown on to the roaring fire, building up the flames under the mantled hearth. Master Rolles bellowed an order and the carcass of an entire pig, only its head and trotters removed, was spiked on a spit and placed on the wheels on either side of the hearth to be turned and basted with spices. The pig had been killed because it had trespassed into Master Rolles’ yard. In truth, two of his stable boys had enticed it there, and Master Rolles, knowing the law of the City, had been only too happy to slit its throat. The taverner watched his cooks place the spit carefully, ladling over the spiced oil whilst giving careful instruction to the dwarf who had been paid a penny, told to ignore the heat, and to turn the spit until the pig was cooked.

  ‘Don’t go to sleep!’ the taverner roared.

  The dwarf, who had once been a jester until he had been mauled by a bear, nodded and sat down, turning his face against the blast of the fire. The air turned sweet with the smell of spiced, roasted pork. Customers were now shouting for ale and beer. Scullions and slatterns hurried across with brimming tankards, stoups and blackjacks filled by tap boys from the great barrels. The taverner rubbed his stomach. In an hour, most of his customers would be too drunk to tell how much water he had added to the beer and wine.

  The Night in Jerusalem was now almost full. In the garish light it looked like some antechamber of hell. The underworld was there; the taverner knew each and every one of them: the pimps and the pickpockets, the quacks, the dice-codgers, house-breakers, bully boys and roaring lads. Where they went, prostitutes of every age and description followed, their hair dyed, faces painted, garbed in cheap finery and smelling richly of the perfumes they used to cover their illwashed bodies. The taverner promised himself to keep a sharp eye on these, as he would the tinkers and petty traders, those who dared to make a profit in his tavern: the sellers of bird eggs, horse bread, old fish, or whatever else they had filched from the stalls in the market across the City. The cranks and the counterfeit men had also arrived. The professional beggars, all surprisingly nimble as they washed off their scars; the leg they had claimed to have lost now miraculously appeared as they undid the straps and heaped their crutches in a corner.

  The taverner’s own keepers, ruffians from the alleyways armed with cudgels and knives, moved amongst what Master Rolles called his ‘congregation’ to ensure the peace was kept; ankles were kicked, fingers rapped, and shoulders punched as a warning to observe the proprieties. A relic-seller, who had become drunk and attempted to urinate in the middle of the tap room, was given a beating and thrust into what the taverner termed ‘outer darkness’. Customers lined up for a strip of pork, served on a piece of wood and garnished with stewed leeks and a piece of hard rye bread, liberally covered in a cheap hot pepper which Master Rolles hoped would inspire their thirst.

  The ‘congregation’ clustered around the pit. A roar went up as Ranulf the rat-catcher from the parish of St Erconwald, where Brother Athelstan the Dominican was parish priest, appeared in the doorway, carrying his two favourite ferrets, Precious and Pretty, in a reed basket. Ranulf was accompanied by fellow parishioners: Pike the ditcher, Basil the blacksmith, Crispin the carpenter, Mugwort the bell clerk, Mauger the hangman, Moleskin the boatman, Bladdersniff the bailiff and finally, in all her glory, her blonde hair falling around her face like a halo, Cecily the courtesan, one hand resting on Huddle the painter, the other on Crim the altar boy, who was Pike the ditcher’s son. The rear was brought up by Pernel the Flemish woman, her hair dyed a garish black and red. Cecily was greeted with catcalls, whistles and lecherous offers; she just curtsied prettily and made an obscene gesture in the direction of her tormentors.

  Ranulf walked to the edge of the pit and sat on a stool whilst the rest of the tavern gathered about. Ranulf the rat-catcher had a pinched, narrow face with bright button eyes, a sharp nose and bloodless lips. Some whispered the
re was more than a passing likeness between him and the rodents he hunted. Now he sat like a prince, black-tarred hood pulled close to his head, under which his oiled black hair was neatly combed back and tied in a queue. This self-proclaimed scourge of London’s rats cradled the basket in his lap, whispering to the two ferrets inside. Another roar echoed as Master Flaxwith, with his two mastiffs, Samson and Satan, entered the tap room. He too was greeted like a conquering hero, those who had wagered on his dogs crowding round to offer encouragement and advice. Mine host watched the proceedings. He had to be careful with Flaxwith, who was chief bailiff of Sir John Cranston, Lord Coroner of the City, a man with a fearsome reputation for fingering the collars of those who broke both the King’s law and the City ordinances.

  ‘That’s certainly happening tonight,’ the taverner whispered to himself.

  Master Rolles had crossed swords on many occasions with Sir John, an old soldier but a fierce one, with his red face, piercing blue eyes and luxuriant beard and moustache which he would comb with his fingers whenever he questioned the likes of Master Rolles. Cranston acted the bluff, hearty old soldier, the pompous City official, but he had nimble wits and a sharp brain. He was just as quick with sword and dagger, even though he seemed to spend most of his life drinking the best claret from his miraculous wineskin. Even more dangerous was the small, dark-faced Dominican Friar Athelstan, with his soulful eyes and searching looks. Athelstan was Cranston’s secretarius, or clerk, and often accompanied the coroner to his investigations of hideous murders, subtle thefts or, indeed, any infringement of the King’s Peace along the dark lanes and alleyways of Southwark. Master Rolles glanced quickly around the tap room; he just hoped and prayed nothing would go wrong tonight, no mistake occur which might provoke the curiosity of those two sharp-eyed hawks of the law.

  ‘Let the festivities begin,’ Rolles roared.