The Winter King--A Hawkenlye 13th Century British Mystery

by Alys Clare

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Alys Clare

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Family Tree

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Postscript

  Recent Titles by Alys Clare

  The Hawkenlye Series

  FORTUNE LIKE THE MOON

  ASHES OF THE ELEMENTS

  THE TAVERN IN THE MORNING

  THE ENCHANTER’S FOREST

  THE PATHS OF THE AIR *

  THE JOYS OF MY LIFE *

  THE ROSE OF THE WORLD *

  THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE *

  THE WINTER KING *

  The Norman Aelf Fen Series

  OUT OF THE DAWN LIGHT *

  MIST OVER THE WATER *

  MUSIC OF THE DISTANT STARS *

  THE WAY BETWEEN THE WORLDS *

  LAND OF THE SILVER DRAGON *

  * available from Severn House

  THE WINTER KING

  A Hawkenlye Mystery

  Alys Clare

  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 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  First published in the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Alys Clare.

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

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Clare, Alys author.

  The winter king. – (A Hawkenlye mystery; 15)

  1. D’Acquin, Josse (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Helewise, Abbess (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  3. Great Britain–History–John, 1199-1216–Fiction.

  4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8349-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-498-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-494-2 (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 memory of my mother,

  Joan Harris,

  8th August 1917 – 3rd July 2013

  with my love

  PROLOGUE

  All Saints’ Eve, 1211

  In the dark years, the last day of October was reserved for the honouring of the dead. The coming of the churchmen meant that the name had been altered; craftily, they grafted a new feast day on to one that the people would have been celebrating anyway, and they dedicated it to their endless panoply of saints.

  The fat man presiding over his own feast in his own hall suppressed a belch and reflected that, call it what you will, people always flocked to the promise of free food and drink. If he’d said he was honouring the devil himself, they’d still have come, and they’d still have raised their mugs and goblets when he called for the toast.

  The fat man let his intense dark eyes run slowly along the double row of tables that lined his hall, either side of the central hearths. Each table was flanked by benches, and they were so tightly packed that you couldn’t have found space for a sparrow. His gaze moved on, lingering here and there, and with part of his mind he totted up the approximate cost of what he had supplied for the men and women tucking so single-mindedly into their dinners.

  He reached for his goblet – it was a beautiful piece; solid silver, gracefully shaped, decorated around the base with gemstones – and, discovering it was empty, he gestured in irritation for the nearest serving boy. With a nervous smile, the lad half-filled the goblet. The fat man took the slender wrist in a savage grip and, forcing the boy’s hand, made him tilt the wine jug until the silver goblet overflowed.

  Now which one of the arse-lickers in my hall, he mused, had the audacity to tell my own servants how much of my own wine I was to be allowed?

  Once more, he moved his eyes down the long lines of revellers. He had his suspicions; not a few of the important lords present depended on the fat man, in more ways than one, and he was not deaf to the mutterings and whisperings that spread the pernicious rumours of his failing health. His narrow obsidian gaze fixed on two likely culprits. Him? Or what about him?

  From somewhere nearby he heard a light, fluting laugh, swiftly suppressed. He put up a hand, as if to wipe his brow – it was very hot in the hall – and beneath it turned his eyes to the beautiful young woman in the rose-pink silk dress. He liked to observe her when she was unaware of his gaze; it gave him a sexual thrill, for he perceived that, in some way, it symbolized his power over her. He had made a spy hole in the wall of the small space where she performed her ablutions. Sometimes, watching her, he had to stuff his fist in his mouth to stifle the sounds that would otherwise have burst out of him.

  Tonight she was placed to his left, in what would have been a position of honour, except that the table where she sat was not on the elevated dais upon which his own throne-like chair stood. He, in fact, was the only person present to have that honour, and he had bestowed it on himself.

  My hall, my feast, my meats and my wine, the fat man thought. I’ll seat my kin and my guests as I please.

  Openly now, his eyes bored into the young woman in rose-pink silk. Her gown was low-cut and savagely laced – she was, he observed, having difficulty drawing a deep breath – and the white flesh of her breasts swelled out above the neckline. She was clearly embarrassed by this, for she kept putting up her hand to try to raise the gown a little higher. He’d tell her about that, later. He’d inform her that the damned gown was intended to display her, and he’d administer a reminder or two to force the lesson home; women, in his view, were like puppies, and needed regular physical punishment to teach them to obey without question. And those plump breasts were, after all, his to do what he liked with.

  Later …

  Deliberately he conjured up an image of her naked body, spread out for him on the furs of the wide bed, pale flesh turned gold by the fire in the he
arth. He closed his eyes, emitting a soft groan of desire, and, just for an instant, he felt his flesh respond.

  Then the moment was gone.

  He stared down at the great swell of his belly. Somewhere beneath the jutting overhang, his useless manhood lay, pathetic, small, soft. He swore, quietly, repeatedly. He had to have a son; what was the use of all this new wealth – the jewels, the garments of fine wool and smooth silk, the glossy furs, the supple leather work, the pure-bred horses, the swift hounds, the food, the wines, even the extensive improvements to the very dwelling in which he now sat – if there was no heir to pass it on to?

  His first wife had died in childbed, together with the girl child she was trying to bring into the world. The second had done better, although only slightly; her infant son had survived two winters, then died, together with his mother, of a sudden springtime fever. After that, he’d found it harder to find a woman prepared to take him on – God alone knew why – and he’d been alone for too many years, growing older, fatter, unhealthier. Then this heaven-sent opportunity had come and, like many other men who kept their wits about them and their eyes wide open, he had found it all too easy to make the money come rolling in. It had quite surprised him how many mothers and fathers were suddenly eager to throw their daughters at his feet.

  The girl in rose-pink silk was his wife of three months. She had come unwillingly to the marriage bed and, despite his initial efforts to persuade her with very generous gifts, her reluctance had only increased. He had managed to consummate their union – a feat he’d repeated twice – but, recently, everything he’d tried, or made her try, had resulted in the same dismal failure.

  His heavy brows drew together in a ferocious scowl as he recalled the humiliation of his attempt to find advice. He had not wished to broadcast his shame to his own household; to a man and to a woman, they were terrible gossips, not deterred for long even when he made an example of one or other of them with a brutal beating. Instead he had gone, stealthily, at dusk and alone, to consult the infirmarian who tended the Augustinian canons in Tonbridge. The word was that the best healers were to be found among the nuns up at Hawkenlye Abbey, but he could not face discussing his problem with a woman, even if she hid herself behind veil and habit.

  In the end, he wondered if that would have been the better option. The monk he saw – a tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled fellow who didn’t look as if he’d ever have difficulty getting and maintaining an erection, and wasn’t that ironic? – made him drop his hose, and then proceeded to inspect him minutely, humming to himself as he did so. Then, as if he were addressing some lowly serf, the damned man had said, ‘Your trouble is that you carry far too much weight. The blood that is required for the task you have in mind is too busy keeping you on your feet to do anything else. You eat too much, and your body is constantly working to digest the intake. Do you get breathless? Do you sometimes feel your heart’s trying to burst out of your ribs?’ Before the fat man had a chance to respond, the monk had answered his own questions. ‘Hmm, yes, I thought so. Your swollen, discoloured nose and that purplish tinge to your face are reliable signs.’ He frowned. ‘You also drink too well, and drink is known to be the sworn enemy of potency in a man.’

  As if those bitter words had not been sufficient, the wretched man had smiled. Then he’d added, ‘If you really wish to know how to bed your new wife and get a son in her, my lord, I suggest more exercise – rather a lot more – and a great deal less on your plate and in your cup.’

  The fat man, trying to gather his shreds of dignity around him even as he laced up his hose and straightened his tunic, had ventured to ask if there were not some herbal concoction he might take, or some more exotic substance … was there not some sort of magical horn from faraway lands which, ground into a mug of wine, made a man regain his youthful vigour?

  The infirmarian had given a hearty laugh. ‘Oh, my lord, if there were an easy way out of your little problem, don’t you think everyone would take it?’ Still chuckling, he had turned away to wash his hands in a basin. ‘No, take my word for it,’ he added over his shoulder, ‘restrict your diet and get yourself moving, and those rolls of fat will drop off you. Then, anything will be possible – you’ll see!’

  The fat man had tried. Oh, he’d tried, all right. To no avail. He might have succeeded in tightening his belt a notch and, once or twice, he’d experienced a definite twitch in his loins, but that was all.

  And there was that ripe girl, his own wife, his for the taking, and he could manage no more than a twitch …

  Impatiently the fat man reached again for his goblet. Once more, he found it empty. This time, the serving boy filled it to the brim. It afforded the fat man some satisfaction to see that the lad’s wrist was dark with bruising.

  He drank deeply. The kitchen women were sending in more food and, eagerly, the fat man watched as they piled his platter high. He might not be able to service his wife, he reflected, his mouth so full that he could barely chew, but, by God and all the precious saints, he could still eat and drink. And, damnation take it, I shall, he thought, while I am left up here in peace.

  He stuffed a honey cake between his lips. It tasted good, so he had another.

  For, soon, the eating would be over. The tables would be cleared of the debris, and then it would start. One by one, they’d come sidling up to him, smiles stuck on their greasy faces, hands clasped over their wine-splattered garments, and they’d all have some variation of the same refrain. A sumptuous feast, my lord, and may I say what an honour it is to be here? Then, hard on the heels of the sycophantic words, while their echo still filled the air: Might I be forgiven, my lord, for taking this opportunity to ask one small favour?

  The fat man sighed. He wished he did not have to endure it, but there was no choice. He was making money, yes – a great deal of it – but he could not do it alone. Although he hated to admit it, he needed these men. His extravagant wealth and high position had not come without making enemies, and, apart from his men’s other uses, he required their strength of arms for protection. He must at all costs keep them loyal, and if that meant listening to their ingratiating little speeches and waving a careless hand to grant their pathetic little requests, then so be it.

  Soon they’d come, mounting the dais one by one, leaning over him, whispering in his ear, so close that he’d breathe in the fumes of garlic, onion, half-digested meat and sour wine issuing out of their foul mouths.

  The fat man gave a sigh and reached for another honey cake.

  It was nearly over. Soon he would be alone again. Almost all the petitioners had returned to their seats, and the pot boys were busy replenishing the mugs, tankards and goblets. Ale, mead and wine; perhaps he had been too generous …

  Suddenly he felt a pain. Oh, oh, not a pain – this was agony; stopping his breath, shocking his whole body, his entire being, with its intensity.

  His heart laboured. It beat once, twice … then the pain doubled. He could not be sure, but he thought he might have cried out.

  Then something inside him seemed to burst.

  He sat in his great chair, his head back, his eyes half-closed, his hands clasped across his stomach. Most of the people in his hall were at least a little drunk, including the pot boys and the serving men and women, for there were always opportunities for a quick swig when no one was looking.

  Here and there along the length of the tables, one or two pairs of eyes glanced surreptitiously up at the fat man on his dais. Otherwise, his guests – all too aware of his lashing tongue, his unreasonable and swiftly roused temper, his cruelty – preferred to leave well alone. If the fat lord was content to let them go on drinking at his expense without demanding anything in return, they weren’t going to argue with him.

  In time, guests began to take their leave. In ones and twos, and in family groups, they approached the dais, bowed to their lord and backed away. Nobody thought it odd that he failed to respond to them. It was his habit to ignore those who stood below him, unles
s there was really no alternative.

  The young wife in the rose-pink silk, appreciating all of a sudden that the hall was now almost empty, gave a small, sad sigh of resignation. Wishing a polite goodnight to the two men still seated near her, she got to her feet and, moving with her usual grace, approached the dais.

  ‘Have I your permission to retire, my lord?’ she asked politely, risking a quick look at him from under her long eyelashes. ‘I am rather tired and have a slight headache,’ she added, more in hope than in expectation; very occasionally, if she said she had a headache, he left her alone.

  He did not reply.

  She took a step closer. ‘My lord husband?’

  Still he neither spoke nor acknowledged her.

  He must have fallen asleep. She was tempted to slip away and leave him to be woken by one of the servants, but he wouldn’t like that. He’d probably tell her she’d dishonoured him by her desertion, and by allowing someone other than her to wake him up, and then he’d find some way of making her pay. Whatever it was, she knew it would hurt or humiliate her, and probably both.

  She reached up a timid hand and grasped the hem of his tunic, pulling at it. ‘My lord!’ she said, speaking more loudly.

  His hands slowly unclasped. One of them, dropping by his side, touched hers. Considering how hot it was in the hall, the flesh felt rather cool. Clammy, even …

  A sudden wild hope surged through her. Could it be? Oh, surely not, she had only hoped to …

  Eager now, the fierce joy threatening to burst through her carefully maintained self-control, she leapt up on to the dais. Crouching beside him, she stared down into his face. The full lips and the swollen, bulbous nose still had their usual deep reddish-purple colour, but otherwise his skin was ash-grey.

  She put her cheek up to his open mouth. She waited. Then she slid her hand inside his tunic, feeling for the heartbeat.

  Nothing.

  Nothing!

  Remembering who and where she was, she held herself firm. Looking around, she caught sight of her husband’s steward. He stood at the far end of the hall, and his deep, hooded eyes were on her. She beckoned him.