Book of Shadows Read online

  THE BOOK OF SHADOWS

  Paul Doherty

  Copyright © 1996 Paul Doherty

  The right of Paul 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 2013

  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 9564 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Letter to the Reader

  About the Author

  Also by Paul Doherty

  Praise for Paul Doherty

  Dedication

  Historical Note

  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

  Author’s Note

  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 alley-ways 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 RE
D 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 a great scholar of Canterbury, Dr. William Urry: Many thanks

  Historical Note

  By summer 1471 the bloody civil war between the Houses of York and Lancaster had ended with Edward of York’s victory at Tewkesbury. The Lancastrian king, Henry VI, was quietly murdered in the Tower. Edward IV with his beautiful wife Elizabeth Woodville and their gangs of henchmen now controlled the kingdom. Nevertheless, the Civil War had left bitter memories: old grudges and scandals died hard. Grievances were recalled and scores settled; this was fertile ground for the professional blackmailers who flourished as vigorously then as they do now.

  Prologue

  Tenebrae, the great magus or warlock, sat in his velveteen-draped chamber in his house on Black Griffin Lane. Although within walking distance of many churches and the Priory of the Friars of the Sack, Tenebrae was not interested in the religion practised by the good citizens and burgesses of Canterbury. Not for him the Mass, the body and blood of Christ elevated by the priest before the crucifix. Nor would Tenebrae join those devout pilgrims who, now spring had come, flooded into Canterbury. They would make their way to the great cathedral to mount the steps on their knees to the Lady Chapel and pray before the blissful bones of Saint Thomas à Becket.

  Tenebrae believed in other, darker gods. His world was filled with goblins and sprites, for he had carefully studied the secret lore of the ancients. Tenebrae lifted the mask from his smooth, shaven face and peered around. All was dark. He preferred it that way. Ever since he was a child, skulking in the alleys of Cheapside in London, Tenebrae preferred the shadows, hence his name. He did not want to feel the sun nor did he want others to look on his face with its cloven lip and balding dome, or those eyes, which frightened children and chilled the heart of those who caught his gaze. Light blue they were, like slivers of ice, ill-matching in the soft, creamy folds of his hairless face. Tenebrae shifted his dark cloak on which pentancles and other signs of the zodiac were sewn. He heard a sound and his head rolled round, scrutinising the long chamber carefully. Everything was in order. The two doors, the entrance and the exit, which only could be opened from the inside, were firmly closed and locked. In the light of the solitary candle, which was fashioned out of wax and contained the fat of a hanged man, the floorboards, painted a glossy black, gleamed and shimmered. The velvet drapes on the wall hung solid. Tenebrae stared up at the ceiling and studied carefully the picture of the goat of Mendes, red and garish, with terrible horns and the gleaming eyes of a panther.

  Tenebrae pronounced himself satisfied but he remained seated, cross-legged in the middle of the magic circle he had drawn. He opened the Book of Shadows, the grimoire of Honorius, that great magician of Roman times. The book was bound in human skin, ornamented with red gemstones and demonic seals and, when shut fast, held secure by clasps fashioned out of the skull of a lapwing. Tenebrae studied the yellowing pages and the strange cramped writing. He leaned over and pulled the great candlestick closer. He smiled, a mere puckering of his strange lips; then the smile died. He paused in his reading as he heard a sound from the street pilgrims thronging below.

  ‘Fools,’ he murmured.

  He stroked the pages of the grimoire: here was true knowledge!

  He spoke to the darkness. ‘Why go and pray in front of a sarcophagus containing mouldy bones or pay good silver to gaze in awe at the rags of some mouldering monk three hundred years dead?’

  Tenebrae recalled his mother, her devout mumblings, her constant visits to churches and faithful obedience to priests. Much good it did her, Tenebrae reflected. She had died of the plague and her son, left to his own devices, had been drawn into darker circles. He had become a student greedy for the ancient knowledge, ambitious to become a Lord of the Crossroads, a magus, a warlock. Had he not studied the secret knowledge of the Templars and gone to Spain to divine the mysteries of the Cabala? And then to Rome and, finally, Paris where, by skill and sheer ruthlessness, he had become a Great Master of the coven and the proud possessor of the grimoire of Honorius.

  Tenebrae touched the broad platter before him: a black cock lay there, its throat severed, a bundle of pathetic feathers as its life-blood poured out into the gold-encrusted bowl Tenebrae had held beneath its neck. The magus had made his prayers to the Great Lord. He had fasted for three days to prepare his powers, to ask protection. Tenebrae was no charlatan. He did not indulge in conjuring tricks. Could he not fill a house with the intangible darkness? Had he not in his own private temple summoned up, at least in his mind’s eye, all forms of terrible spirits? Great devils in the shapes of horses with men’s faces, lions’ teeth and hair like writhing serpents, crowned with circlets of gold, armoured with breastplates of cruel barbed iron? Tenebrae ran his tongue over his blackening teeth. Had not the Archbishop of Toulouse said that around every great magus demons gathered, a thousand on the right, ten thousand on the left? And had not the same cleric reckoned that over 133 million angels had fallen with Lucifer from heaven? Tenebrae closed his eyes and began slowly to chant his praises to these secret, dark lords. He closed the grimoire and, picking it up, stroked it carefully. Tomorrow he would be busy. The pilgrims would flock to the cathedral but there were others who would come secretly here to have consultations with him. Everything was ready: the stool where his visitors would sit was placed before the great table and, behind it, his throne-like chair. Tenebrae would scatter the bones and draw aside the curtains of the future, his visitors would pay good gold for that. Some, the great ones, would even pay more because Tenebrae was no fool. There were those high in the church who would like him investigated, arrested, put on trial for witchcraft. Tenebrae grinned; they dare not. The magus had discovered how the powerful have two weaknesses: their ambition for the future and their secrets from the past. Tenebrae always found the latter most useful. He had a network of friends and acquaintances, tittler-tattlers at court, hangers-on, gossip collectors from the Great Council. Tenebrae would listen to these carefully, pore over this letter, study a manuscript, sniff like some good hunting dog until the juicy morsels of scandal were dragged out. The magus would then salt it away in his prodigious memory until he needed it, either for his own protection or greater profit.

  Indeed, Tenebrae’s sacrifice this morning was an act of thanksgiving for the years that had been good to him. The civil wars between York and Lancaster had led to the revelation of many secrets and scandals. Now that the House of York was in ascendancy, and golden-haired Edward IV sat on the throne at Westminster, there were many nobles and merchants eager to conceal which side they had supported in the recent civil war. Alongside these were bishops and priests, eager for enhancement, who had broken their vows and the sanctity of their lives in order to outdo a rival. There were retainers who had betrayed their masters, noble wives who had cuckolded their husbands.

  Tenebrae had listened, sifting through all this information as a good apothecary would herbs and potions. The magus pursed his lips in satisfaction. And so who could touch him? Did not even Elizabeth Woodville, Edward IV’s queen, consult him? Had she not called on Tenebrae’s powers to achieve what she wanted? Offering her white, satin body to the King so she could master him in bed and thus control the Crown of England. In helping her, Tenebrae had found out a lot more about Elizabeth Woodville and her husband.

  The magus
got to his feet, his bulky body swaying as like some priest with his breviary, he clasped the grimoire to his chest. This was not only a Book of Shadows, but the keeper of secrets. He tapped the gold bowl with his foot and stared down at the rich, dark red juice congealing there. He would clear the room and, tonight, break his fast on roast swan, carp cooked in spicy sauces and goblets of wine. Tomorrow he would return here with his visitors, open the Book of Shadows, predict the future, hint at the past and spin gold for himself.

  Elizabeth Woodville, Queen of England, rested in the pleasaunce, which her husband the King had specially built for her in the lee of a small hill, which ran down from the palace of Sheen to the Thames. Elizabeth sat back in the small, flower-covered arbour; the sun was unexpectedly strong and Elizabeth prided herself on the whiteness of her skin. ‘My Silver Rose!’ her hot-blooded husband Edward whispered in her ear. ‘My jewel of great price!’ Elizabeth pulled down the white gauze veil in front of her eyes and carefully stroked the sheer satin of her tawny dress. Behind her, on a garden seat, she could hear her ladies-in-waiting giggling and whispering around the royal nurse holding baby Edward, her eldest son: Elizabeth’s final clasp over the affections of her husband. The Queen studied the swans swimming serenely along the Thames like galleys of state. She admired the curve of their necks, the sheer majesty of these great birds and recalled Edward’s promise that the appointment of a keeper of the swans was within her power.

  Elizabeth smiled and put her head back against the cushioned wall. Indeed, she had all the power in the realm. Edward the King ruled England and she ruled Edward. Perhaps not in public when Edward sat enthroned but, in the boudoir, between the sheets of their great four-poster bed, Edward was her slave and Elizabeth was determined to keep things that way. A year had passed since the end of the civil war and she had come out of sanctuary in Westminster Abbey to receive the adulation of the crowd and the loving embraces of her husband. Henry VI, the old Lancastrian king, was dead, his skull cloven in two whilst the holy fool prayed in his death chamber in the Tower of London. All the Lancastrians were dead, except for thin-faced Henry Tudor, but he was a mere shadow against her sun.