by Paul Doherty
Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Titles From Paul Doherty
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Historical Note
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Author’s Note
A Selection of Titles from Paul Doherty
The Canterbury Tales Mysteries
AN ANCIENT EVIL
A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS
A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS
GHOSTLY MURDERS
THE HANGMAN’S HYMN
A HAUNT OF MURDER
THE MIDNIGHT MAN *
The Brother Athelstan Mysteries
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 STRAW MEN *
CANDLE FLAME *
THE BOOK OF FIRES *
* available from Severn House
THE HERALD OF HELL
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.
This first world edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 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.
Doherty, P. C. author.
The Herald of Hell. – (The Brother Athelstan mysteries)
1. Athelstan, Brother (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 3. Tyler’s
Insurrection, 1381–Fiction. 4. Great Britain–History–
Richard II, 1377-1399–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery
stories.
I. Title II. Series
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-079-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-563-3 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-710-3 (e-book)
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.
To our second beloved grandson: Aaron Paul Abrahams (‘Mr CC’), with all our love
HISTORICAL NOTE
By the early summer of 1381 England was teetering on the brink of bloody mayhem and murder. The fourteen-year-old king, Richard II, exercised the rights of the Crown but real power was firmly in the grasp of Richard’s paternal uncle, John of Gaunt, head of the house of Lancaster. The glory days of Crécy and Poitiers were over. England had been driven from most of its conquests in France and now found it difficult to combat French influence, be it in the Narrow Seas or even attacks along England’s southern coastline. At home discontent seethed, especially in London and the surrounding shires. The peasants fiercely resented the new poll taxes as well as attempts to keep them chained to the soil through legal chicanery. Revolt was being furiously plotted and the peasants’ battle chant was rising to a thunderous roar:
‘When Adam delved and Eve span
Who was then the gentleman?’
PROLOGUE
‘Et Tenebrae Facta – And Darkness Fell’
Thibault wished the night was not so black. The rain had ceased but a dense fog had now descended, swiftly falling over both the river and city, creeping along the alleyways, lurking in the narrow yards, drooping from the gables and eaves of houses to clog the eyes and pinch the skin. Nevertheless, the regent’s Master of Secrets conceded to himself, the fog also provided a cover for subtle intrigue and tortuous treason which, if discovered, could send him to the scaffold on Tower Hill. He wiped his face and sat back against the stern of the narrow boat. He could only dimly make out the snow-white hair, creamy skin and milky blue eyes of his henchman, Albinus, who was straining at the oars. The man had become his soul-sharer, his father confessor, comforter and counsellor. If their treason failed he too would join Thibault on the scaffold. Albinus lifted his head and smiled through the murk at his master.
‘We must be careful,’ Thibault murmured, ‘ever so careful and prudent.’ Albinus just nodded and went back to pulling at the oars, holding the boat steady against the swell of the river. Thibault hitched his cloak closer about him and returned to his thoughts. He and Albinus were committed to the task set them by John of Gaunt. The King’s uncle and self-styled regent had taken Thibault to a secret chamber in the heart of his magnificent palace, an ideal place to plot the deadliest treason. No windows. The one and only door was thick and heavy, fashioned out of the purest oak. The walls of the chamber were covered in quilted tapestries displaying all the colours of Gaunt’s royal claims: the lions rampant of England, the silver fleur-de-lis of France and the golden crowns of Castile. A truly ambitious man, Gaunt nursed dreams of founding a dynasty which would span the kingdoms of Europe. He faced only one obstacle: his nephew Richard, the boy king of England.
In that secret chamber, lit only by a three-spigot candelabra, with no one else present and the room secured against any eavesdropper or court spy, Gaunt had whispered the most dangerous treason. One hand on Thibault’s shoulder, the other on his pearl-encrusted dagger in its purple-gold sheath, Gaunt had asked Thibault if he too could drink from the chalice being offered? Thibault had replied, without hesitation, that he would drain such a goblet to its dregs and lick the cup clean. Gaunt had smiled with that dazzling look of friendship which always captivated Thibault’s soul. Gaunt’s fingers fell away from the dagger whilst the hand on Thibault’s shoulder became an embrace. Both men were joined in a conspiracy which could end in royal splendour, or in the most excruciating execution. Thibault had witnessed men, naked except for a loin cloth, being tied to a sled and dragged at the tail of a ragged horse through the Lion Gate and up the rocky path to the soaring gallows on Tower Hill, the hangman’s nooses dangling like loathsome garlands against the sky. If discovered, Thibault could expect no mercy. The executioners would paint red lines on his naked torso to show where they would cut, before he would be half hanged, his belly split open, his entrails plucked out even as he breathed …
The strident cry of a gull startled the Master of Secrets from his hellish reverie. He breathed in sharply, coughing on the cold, salty, fish-tinged river air. Gaunt had shown him the true path their plotting would open – a glorious path, he reminded himself. A veritable highway leading to manor lands, rich pastures, profitable licences and lordships. Thi
bault’s heart, to quote the psalmist, had leapt like a stag. He, a lord! He, the offspring of a common whore and some wandering scholar, to be clothed in silk and ermine, to have his arms emblazoned on a banner carried before him by a herald, to sit in splendour close to the throne of a king who would exalt him even higher. All he had to do was keep faith with Gaunt, do his bidding and help spin a web which would entangle the kingdom. Of course, as now, danger threatened with many a potential slip between cup and lip. Thibault had, however, been most prudent as that web began to spread. The Master of Secrets played with the chancery ring beneath his gloved finger. He suspected his own clerk, Amaury Whitfield, had begun to realize how far this web stretched and what it entailed. Nevertheless, Whitfield could be controlled and, if necessary, dispensed with. Until then, the clerk had to be watched. Thibault moved restlessly. Whitfield had absented himself from the secret chancery, he and his minion, the scrivener Oliver Lebarge. They had both pleaded for boon days so as to attend the Festival of Cokayne at the Golden Oliphant, the tavern brothel run by that queen of whores, Elizabeth Cheyne.
Thibault glanced up as a horn blew, ringing through the bank of fog rolling across the surface of the river. Albinus rested on his oars and Thibault watched the bobbing light of a passing barge disappear into the blackness of the night. Albinus returned to his rowing and Thibault to his ruminations. Cheyne was a whore amongst whores. She reminded Thibault of his own mother, and that made him feel sick to his stomach. He loathed doing business with Cheyne yet at times he had no choice. The whore mistress, like all her kind, was a snapper-up of trifles which might contain real nuggets of political intrigue. Whitfield and Lebarge would be with her now, celebrating a world turned upside down, a bacchanalian feast where all kinds of filthy practices took place. Not that Whitfield would have joined them to the full. If the whispered gossip was truth, Amaury Whitfield, clerk of the secret chancery, was a veritable gelding in bed. Whatever, Thibault reflected, let him wallow in his sty. Soon Whitfield would have to return to the chancery and concentrate on that secret cipher. The document had been seized from the Upright Men, the leaders of the Great Community of the Realm who were plotting furiously to bring about violent revolution to topple both Church and Crown. Thibault hugged his arms close. He was playing a dangerous game, plotting against the Upright Men even as he journeyed secretly to meet one of their most prominent leaders. They both sought to foment rebellion and revolution, but to different ends. The Master of Secrets wondered how much he would learn tonight, both directly and indirectly. Would he discover more about the cipher seized from Reynard, the Upright Men’s wily courier, who was now reflecting on his sins in the grim fastness of Newgate prison? Or perhaps he would glean something about the Herald of Hell, the mysterious envoy of the Upright Men who appeared at night, all over the city, to warn those judged to be opponents of the Great Community of the Realm. Whitfield and Lebarge had been visited in their chamber in Fairlop Lane. The Herald had delivered his grim warning and disappeared, leaving Whitfield and Lebarge frightened out of their wits. Thibault had granted both men leave. Perhaps the charms of Mistress Cheyne and her moppets would soothe their humours, then Whitfield could return refreshed to the study of that mysterious document.
‘Master?’ Albinus leaned forward. ‘Master, we are almost there.’
Thibault steadied himself as Albinus pulled once more and the keel of the boat crunched on the gravel and silt surrounding the Black Vale, a small, desolate island close to the south bank of the Thames. The boat rocked slightly, embedded in the shale. Thibault rose and, once Albinus had secured the boat, followed his henchman up from the riverside. He felt the dagger in its sheath on his warbelt, on the other side a small hand-held arbalest with its quiver of barbed quarrels. At the top of the slight rise they paused and stared into the darkness. The fog had thinned. Thibault could make out the ruins which peppered this gloomy islet: jagged walls, the carcasses of ruined cottages. A bleak wilderness of dark, shiny pools, sluggish ditches and heaps of mud which fed the coarse grass, rank weeds and stunted trees which grew there.
‘An ugly place,’ Albinus whispered, ‘with an even uglier reputation. Master, we must be prudent.’
‘As always,’ Thibault hissed. ‘You have the lantern, the tinder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then spark the flame.’
Albinus crouched and opened his leather sack. Thibault heard the tinder strike then Albinus lifted the shuttered lantern against the night.
‘Make the signal.’
Albinus obeyed; three times the shutter on the lantern clattered up and down. Thibault stared into the darkness, oblivious now to the raw fog nipping his skin.
‘There,’ he breathed, pointing into the night. ‘Look, Albinus.’
Their signal had been answered by three sharp bursts of pinprick light. ‘We wait.’ Thibault walked a few paces forward. ‘Keep the lantern light turned towards them but stay behind me, Albinus. Prime your crossbow. At the first sign of trickery, loose.’
Albinus stepped back into the darkness as Thibault watched the bobbing light approach. A figure emerged out of the murk, cowled and cloaked. The stranger walked purposefully, the lantern swinging in his right hand, and in his left Thibault glimpsed a small crossbow, probably primed and ready. The figure stopped about a yard from Thibault and lifted the lantern. The Master of Secrets glimpsed an oval face, clean-shaven, a hairlip mouth and beetle brows: this fitted the description Gaunt had given him. Thibault pushed back his own cowl for the stranger to glimpse his face.
‘You choose a peculiar place to do business, Master Thibault, nothing more than blighted heathland with old charcoal burnings. They say the soot still falls like snowflakes garbed in mourning.’
Thibault recognized the prearranged greeting. ‘Safe enough,’ he replied in kind, ‘for men swept up in a carnival of bloodshed. You are what you call yourself, Master Tyler, Wat Tyler?’
‘I am Wat Tyler, I am Jack Straw, I am every man and I am no man.’
‘Yet you are leader of the Upright Men?’
‘One of a few.’
‘How do I know that this is not a device to trap me?’
‘Fear not, Master Thibault, except that you are here and so am I. In the darkness beyond you Albinus waits ready. Behind me stands my escort with his warbow, also primed.’
Thibault nodded in agreement.
‘Then let us do business, Master Thibault. Tonight, at this witching hour, you can call me Tyler, for that is what I am. My true name and identity will only be revealed when we end this game together.’
‘And the game you propose?’
‘Master Thibault, I am a leader amongst the Upright Men, a chief in the Great Community of the Realm which plots to topple prince and prelate and build a New Jerusalem here in London, you know that. We conspire against you, you and your master reply in kind. We despatched the Herald of Hell to haunt your adherents in the city; who he is and where he comes from is my business, not yours. If you caught him you would cut his heart out at Smithfield just as you intend a similar death for our courier, Reynard, seized by you and lodged in Newgate until he hangs.’
‘Or confesses and throws himself on our mercy.’ Thibault regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. He could almost see Tyler smile through the dark. ‘Whatever the case,’ Thibault added hastily, ‘we have your cipher, and my clerk Whitfield, a peritus, skilled in cryptic writing, will break it to reveal the truth.’
‘Will he now?’ Tyler mocked.
‘And Reynard will hang for the murder of Edmund Lacy, bell clerk at St Mary Le Bow.’
‘And he deserves to,’ Tyler jibed. ‘He allowed himself to be caught. Reynard can rot in Newgate or dance in the air at Tyburn for all I care.’
‘We are not here for him,’ Thibault declared sharply, eager to gain control of this midnight meeting.
‘No, we certainly are not, Master Thibault. We are here as the deadliest of opponents. The Great Community of the Realm, the Uprigh
t Men and our soldiers the Earthworms, hunt you as you do them. Our all-seeing eye watches you as you watch us. Let us face the facts, the revolt is coming. You cannot prevent it and neither can I. The peasant armies will march. London will be stormed, its bridge seized and the Tower besieged. The Earthworms intend to burn Newgate and drag out its keepers by the hair of their heads. Men will die barbarously. I must make sure that I do not, and you too should take great care that you are not swept up in the great slaughter.’ Tyler paused. ‘And your daughter, Isabella. I understand you will lodge her with Athelstan, the Dominican priest at St Erconwald’s …?’
‘He has promised to protect Isabella. We rarely mention it, but he has given his word. I believe he will be her safest refuge.’
‘The Upright Men are strong in St Erconwald’s. You know that, Master of Secrets, you have your own spy there.’ Tyler laughed softly as Thibault abruptly stiffened. ‘Do not worry, Master Thibault, we know there is one, but not his or her identity or name. Fret not, the priest Athelstan and your daughter have nothing to fear. Both will be protected most closely by our representative, someone who sits very high in the Council of the Upright Men.’
‘Enough,’ Thibault snapped. ‘What are our conclusions?’
‘You know what they are. The revolt will occur but its outcome can and will be controlled by you, your master and myself. To achieve that, certain conditions must be met, yes?’
‘My Lord of Gaunt, together with his elder son, Henry, is about to leave for the Scottish March,’ Thibault declared. ‘He will take with him a host of mailed men, mounted and on foot, engines of war and an array of bowmen and hobelars. And for yourself, have you chosen the day?’
‘Very close,’ Tyler replied. ‘As for you, Master Thibault, you must remain ensconced in the Tower along with that bitch of a Queen Mother, Princess Joan. She and her whelp must be kept there whilst we – I – must be allowed entry to their gilded cages.’ Tyler let his words hang in the air. Thibault, even though he was committed to this, felt a chill of deep fear.