by Paul Doherty
THE MAGICIAN'S DEATH
PAUL DOHERTY
headline
Copyright © 2004 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.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012
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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 5041 4
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Letter to the Reader
About the Author
Also by Paul Doherty
Praise for Paul Doherty
Dedication
Foreword
Epigraph
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
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
ISABEL
LA 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
In memory of my brother,
Francis Patrick Doherty [1950-2004]
Foreword
Philip IV of France and Edward I of England were arch-rivals. Philip saw himself as a new Charlemagne. He wanted to give France natural boundaries and, through his family the Capets, dominate the other monarchies of Europe. He therefore spent a great deal of his reign plotting against Edward of England for two reasons: to acquire the wine-rich province of Gascony in south-west France, still held by the English; and to see his own grandson crowned as King of England at Westminster. He viewed the latter as the best way of securing the former. Edward I manoeuvred to avoid such entanglement but events conspired against him. In May 1303, under extreme international pressure, particularly from the Papacy, he agreed to the Treaty of Paris, whereby he solemnly promised that his eldest son, the Prince of Wales, would marry Isabella, Philip’s only daughter.
At the beginning of the fourteenth century international intrigue was rife and ripe, as it is today. It was also a time of considerable change as the great writers of the day began to push back the boundaries of knowledge. One of these writers was the Franciscan scholar Roger Bacon, who had died some thirty years earlier, the custodian of many great secrets . . .
Consequently, we have before us the notable regions of northern Europe.
Roger Bacon, Opus Maius
Prologue
The Royal Palace at Poissy: Feast of St Barnabas the Apostle, June 1303
Philip IV of France, nicknamed ‘Le Bel’, knelt on the prie-dieu in the small royal chapel overlooking the fountain in the courtyard of the Palace of Poissy. Philip loved this little church, with its exquisitely tiled floor of black, white and red lozenges, the cushioned oak prie-dieu, the splendid tapestries depicting the exploits of his great predecessor, the Capetian Louis IX, now St Louis, proclaimed so by the Universal Church. Philip knelt before a statue to his glorious ancestor and stared up at the saintly carved face, studying it carefully. He would have words with the sculptor. He wanted Louis’ face to look like his own; that was not blasphemy, for wasn’t Philip a direct descendant? Didn’t the same sacred Capetian blood flow in his veins?
Philip knelt immobile. Despite the warmth, he had a fur-lined blue cloak embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis about his shoulders. His light blond hair, parted down the middle, fell below his ears; his moustache and beard of the same colour were precisely clipped; the light blue eyes which so many of his subjects found terrifying in their gaze moved now and again, distracted by the flames of the countless tapers and candles which surrounded this statue. The memorial to St Louis stood on the left side of the chapel altar in a chantry specially built according to Philip’s precise instructions. This was the place Philip would retreat to to give thanks to God, whom he regarded as an equal, as well as to talk to his sainted ancestor, whom he viewed as his envoy at the heavenly court.
Philip joined his hands, fingers raised heavenwards. He had so much to thank St Louis for, and putting aside his usual icy demeanour, he leaned across and kissed the base of the statue. Philip had nourished dreams, and these dreams, thanks to the intervention of St Louis, were to become a reality. He had married his sons to the daughters of the three great dukes in his kingdom, ensuring that provinces such as Burgundy would be brought firmly under Capetian rule. The only obstacle had been the wine-rich duchy of Gascony in the south-west, controlled and owned by Edward of England. Philip allowed himself a smile, for that too was changing. Philip had threatened Edward with outright war, exploiting the English king’s troubles in his campaign against the Scots. Oh, success tasted so sweet! Last month, by the Treaty of Paris, Edward of England had been forced to concede that in the matter of Gascony, Philip of France was his overlord. Edward had also solemnly sworn that the Prince of Wales would marry Philip’s only daughter, the infant Isabella, she of the light blue eyes and golden hair, a true daughter of her father.
Philip looked up in rapture at the carved face of his ancestor. ‘One day,’ he whispered, ‘my grandson will wear the crown of the Confessor, my daughter will be Queen of England and her second son will be Duke of Gascony.’ Philip could have hugged himself. He had finished what this great saint had begun; he would give France natural boundaries, the great mountain range to the south and the wild seas to the north and west. The Low Countries would become his clients and the power of France would be felt as far east as the Rhine. Philip’s smile faded at the cough behind him. He crossed himself slowly and rose elegantly from the prie-dieu. Taking the silk gloves from his belt, he put them on as he stared at Monsieur Amaury de Craon, Keeper of the King’s Secrets.
‘Your Grace asked to see me?’ De Craon did not like the harsh look on his master’s face.
‘Amaury, Amaury.’ Philip’s face broke into a smile, and striding across, he grasped de Craon’s face between his hands and squeezed tightly. ‘We have matters to discuss, Amaury.’ He led this red-haired, most secretive of councillors over to a small bench halfway down the chapel in a narrow enclave, where he usually met his confessor to whisper his sins and seek absolution. Philip didn’t really believe he needed absolution; after all, God was a king and he would understand. Nevertheless, this was an ideal place to meet and plot where no eavesdropper could lurk or spy take note.
‘Well, Amaury.’ Philip sat down, pulling his robes about him, gesturing for de Craon to sit next to him. ‘I read your memorandum.’ He played with the red tassels on the silken glove. ‘You have insisted,’ he whispered, ‘that I face two problems.’
‘The first, your Grace, is Sir Hugh Corbett.’
‘Is he a problem, Amaury, or the result of your hatred for him?’
‘Your Grace.’ De Craon bowed imperceptibly. ‘You are as astute as always. I hate Corbett for what he represents, for what he leads, that Secret Chancery with its legion of spies.’
‘True, true.’ Philip nodded.
‘And the University of the Sorbonne.’
De Craon kept his head down, but he knew from the long sigh from his master that he had hit a mark.
‘The lawyers,’ Philip hissed. ‘Those men from the gutter who believe my will does not have force of law.’
‘Your Grace, there are measures we can take.’
Philip leaned closer, like a priest listening to a penitent, as there, in that House of God, the French King and his Master of Spies spun their bloody tangled web to draw Edward of England deeper into the mire.
The King, being in Oxfordshire, at a nobleman’s house, was very keen to learn about this famous friar.
The Famous Historie of Fryer Bacon
Chapter 1
Paris: August 1303
Walter Ufford was good at peering through keyholes. He claimed to have a natural talent for it, and on that Friday, the eve of the Feast of St Monica, the Mother of St Augustine, he was using his talents on behalf of his master, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal of Edward I of England. Ufford was enjoying himself. In fact, when he visited the shriving pew to confess his sins at the beginning of Advent, he would confess to this. Walter Ufford was busy spying on Magister T
hibault, Reader in Divinity and Master of the Schools at the University of the Sorbonne in Paris. He glanced quickly up and down the gallery. It was deserted. Only the creak of floorboards and the scampering of vermin echoed along that gloomy passageway. Magister Thibault would not want any distraction; after all, it was his house, a soaring three-storey mansion in the Rue St Veuve, only a walk away from the stinking, turbulent Seine. Ufford strained his ears. From below he could hear the sounds of revelry, the music of the rebec, flute and tambour. The dancing had begun. Those dark-eyed moon girls would be cavorting like Salome, drawing lustful glances and rousing the hot passions of the spectators.
‘There’ll be little schooling done tonight,’ Ufford whispered to himself. He pressed his eye against the keyhole. He was so pleased that Magister Thibault had removed the key. The gap was large and provided Walter with a clear view of the old lecher’s bedchamber, a grand place with its polished floor and woollen rugs, the walls covered in costly drapes. A fire crackled merrily in the mantled hearth, whilst the candles placed around the chamber lit up the tableau taking place on the blue-draped four-poster bed. Magister Thibault, naked as the day he was born, was busy cavorting with Lucienne, fille de joie, one of the best the House of Joy could provide. Ufford groaned quietly to himself. Lucienne was a thing of beauty, with her lustrous red hair and snow-white skin. She had the figure of a Venus and the face of an Aphrodite. He watched in quiet surprise at the agility of this old master of the schools. He could hear his groans of pleasure and Lucienne’s cries of joy.
‘He is occupied?’
Walter whirled round, hand going for the hilt of his dagger, then relaxed. Despite the scarlet robe and the gilt mask covering his face, he recognised his companion, William Bolingbroke, like Ufford an eternal student of the University of Paris, a man who immersed himself in the scientia naturalis.
‘He’s truly enjoying himself,’ Ufford whispered.
‘Put your mask on!’