The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery

by Toni Mount

  Aye, and shocked, indeed, when four days after he had collected the finished book, the royal messenger returned with a letter of commendation, signed by the king in person, and… a purse of coin! Such a wonder was that, I declare I stood speechless upon its receipt and quite forgot my manners, failing to thank the messenger until Adam spoke for me. I stared at the purse in my hand in wonderment.

  As to the felons Thaddeus had in his charge, in August, Clement Mallard was tried upon a charge of treason, the coin dies, stolen from the Tower, having been found in his possession. Counterfeiting the coin of the realm carried the full penalty. The vintner was drawn upon a hurdle to Tower Hill, hanged upon the gallows tree but cut down alive to suffer the rest of his punishment. None of us went to watch the spectacle, nor to view his ugly head upon a spike on London Bridge. All his goods and properties, including that little casket of gemstones, were forfeit to the Crown.

  The day following, two of Jude’s Italian attackers were tried upon three counts of murder and three of assault upon us. Not that the assaults could add anything to the outcome – a man can die but once. They pleaded their lack of English as an excuse not to stand trial in court whilst the case was conducted in a tongue they did not comprehend. It gained them naught: the law does not care for a plea of ignorance. They were hanged until dead at Tyburn as common murderers but not afore they named the Baldesis as their paymasters.

  The third of them, sorely wounded by Chesca’s blade, lives yet. We pray he may survive for the required year and a day, as the law dictates, thus sparing Chesca any blame for his demise. He was tried, in his absence, whilst lying at St Bartholomew’s Infirmary. He was found as guilty as his fellows but too sick to go to his execution. Whatever befalls, he be a dead man, one way or the other.

  Naught could be done to prosecute the Baldesi bankers, the word of a pair of condemned felons proving inadequate evidence. But they have received written warnings from King Edward and Lord Mayor Gardyner that any future misdemeanour could result in expulsion from the city. I hope that be sufficient deterrent to save Jude’s skin and, mayhap, mine also.

  I have spoken to Master Collop concerning the chances of Jude’s reinstatement as a guild member and the possibility of his clerkship at Westminster. But those outcomes lie in the future. As do our individual hopes for happiness: Adam united with Mercy Hutchinson and Kate’s possible betrothal to Hugh Gardyner, a matter I raised with her father, Alderman Edmund Verney, a week past. He be thinking upon it but I believe he will approve and make approach to Lord Mayor Gardyner, as young Hugh’s uncle and guardian – much to Kate’s delight, if he does. Even Ralf be free at last to spend time with Mistress Alder, now she stands widowed by Hamo’s death.

  At present, Jude and Chesca have found lodgings in Fish Street. Bennett Hepton’s house, next to his fishmonger’s business, stands empty since Bennett wed Peronelle Wenham, as was, and now lives with his new wife close by Cheap Cross. Jude complains that he knows well why Bennett prefers to live elsewhere and the reason the lodgings have been empty this while, despite the low rent asked. Apparently, the stink of fish pervades all. But Jude can afford no better until he may work for his living – a situation he requires but dreads. He desires the earnings, yet taking direction and instruction from anyone but himself be not his way these days. He will have to learn that art anew.

  And what of dearest Rose and me? Only time will tell.

  Author’s Note

  Those of you who have previously read ‘The Colour of Shadows’ will have met John ‘Eleanor’ Rykener before. He really existed in medieval London but a century before this adventure is set. I have taken the liberty of moving him forward about ninety years since he is such a brilliant character. The authorities caught him posing as Eleanor, in flagranti, wearing skirts and lying with a man in a stall in a stable. They didn’t know quite what to make of him – homosexual acts weren’t illegal until Tudor times. The Church authorities might have burned him as a witch for wearing clothes unsuited to his gender – as they did to Joan of Arc – but the City of London, ever with an eye to commerce, merely fined him for ‘misrepresentation’, i.e. promising a service as a woman which he couldn’t properly provide.

  Did you enjoy Mistress Joan Alder’s medieval turns of phrase to describe her one-time husband, Hamo: ‘wallidrag’, ‘skabbit skarth’, etc? They’re all genuine Middle-English words and mean… well, exactly what you think they ought to mean. Great fun!

  If you have read Seb’s earlier adventure, ‘The Colour of Murder’, you will know about the maze of tunnels beneath the Tower of London. I can’t find any mention of them in the history books and they don’t appear on plans of the Tower. I only know they exist because an elderly lady who worked as a secretary for the Vintners’ Company of London during World War II told me about them. The vintners kept their casks of wine in the tunnels that run under the Tower for safety from bombs during the Blitz and staff sheltered down there during air raids. One day, for a dare, the secretaries decided to explore the tunnels further and discovered an ancient network with blind alleys and hidey-holes. They didn’t go too far for fear of getting lost but what they found was a novelist’s gift. The Tower of London was once a royal castle and it’s known that Windsor Castle and Nottingham Castle – and probably others – had escape tunnels constructed so the king could make his escape, if necessary, and that may explain this secret of medieval London.

  In this current adventure, while in the tunnels, Seb, Adam and Thaddeus probably suffer the symptoms of carbon monoxide [CO] poisoning. CO is produced when fire burns in insufficient oxygen, so their own torches could have caused this. The bright red skin tones are produced by inhaling CO and the amber colour of the torch flames is also indicative. Reduced oxygen levels would have affected our heroes too. To medieval folk, who knew nothing of the chemistry, witchcraft would seem to be a likely explanation for the invisible assailant and possible killer.

  Important Characters

  featuring in ‘The Colour of Evil’

  There follows below a list of characters that readers may find helpful.

  The Foxley Household

  Sebastian [Seb] Foxley – an artist, illuminator and part-time sleuth

  Adam Armitage – Seb’s cousin [actually his nephew] from Foxley, Norfolk, a scribe

  Rose Glover – Seb’s house-keeper, a glover [rescued by Seb in a previous adventure]

  Dickon & Julia – Seb’s children by his late wife, Emily Appleyard

  Kate Verney – Seb’s apprentice

  Nessie – Seb’s maid-servant

  Jack Tabor – once Seb’s apprentice, now Appleyard’s

  Gawain – Seb’s ‘colley’ dog [medieval spelling of ‘collie’]

  The City Authorities

  Thaddeus Turner – city bailiff and Seb’s friend

  Angus the Scot – a constable

  Thomas Hardacre – a constable

  Seb’s Fellow Stationers

  Richard Collop – Warden Master of the Stationers’ Guild and Seb’s one-time master [real]

  Hugh Gardyner – one of Collop’s current apprentices, the lord mayor’s nephew

  Guy Linton – a stationer, once Collop’s apprentice with Seb

  Ralf Reepham – Linton’s journeyman scribe, from Norfolk

  Unexpected Arrivals

  Jude Foxley – Seb’s errant elder brother

  Francesca-Antonia Baldesi-Foxley [Chesca] – Jude’s Venetian child-bride

  Friends and Neighbours

  Stephen Appleyard – Seb’s father-in-law [Emily’s father], a carpenter,

  Mercy Hutchinson – a widow from Distaff Lane, Julia’s wet nurse & Adam’s intended

  Simon Hutchinson – Mercy’s eldest son, a school friend of Will Thatcher

  Nicholas & Edmund [Mundy] – Mercy’s younger children

  Dame Ellen Langton – once Seb’s landlady and Emily’s mistress
as an apprentice silkwoman

  Edmund Verney – an alderman, Kate’s father

  John/Eleanor Rykener – a cross-dresser [real]

  Jonathan Caldicott – Seb’s neighbour in Paternoster Row

  Mary Caldicott – Jonathan’s wife

  Joan [Joanie] Alder – a washerwoman and friend of Ralf Reepham

  Peronelle [Pen] Wenham-Hepton – a silkwoman, used to be Emily’s co-worker

  Bennett Hepton – Pen’s new husband, a well-to-do fishmonger

  Beatrice [Beattie] Thatcher – a silkwoman, used to be Emily’s co-worker

  Harry Thatcher – a thatcher, Beattie’s husband

  Will Thatcher – Beattie and Harry’s son, rescued by Seb and Adam in a previous adventure

  Other Londoners

  Philip Hartnell – a cutler and thief

  Clement Mallard – a wealthy vintner

  Edward Phelps – Mallard’s manservant

  Giles Honeywell – a purveyor of stationery in St Paul’s Cathedral

  Thomas Kempe – the Bishop of London [real]

  Geoffrey Wanstead – the bishop’s man of letters

  John Dagvyle – a surgeon [real]

  Hamo – a smith, once Joan Alder’s husband

  Meet the author

  Toni Mount earned her Master’s Degree by completing original research into a unique 15th-century medical manuscript. She is the author of several successful non-fiction books including the number one bestseller, Everyday Life in Medieval England, which reflects her detailed knowledge in the lives of ordinary people in the Middle Ages.

  Toni’s enthusiastic understanding of the period allows her to create accurate, atmospheric settings and realistic characters for her Sebastian Foxley medieval murder mysteries.

  Toni’s first career was as a scientist and this brings an extra dimension to her novels. It also led to her new biography of Sir Isaac Newton. She writes regularly for both The Richard III Society and The Tudor Society and is a major contributor to MedievalCourses.com.

  As well as writing, Toni teaches history to adults, co-ordinates a creative writing group and is a popular speaker to groups and societies. Toni is also a member of the Crime Writers’ Association.

  This novel is Toni’s the ninth in her popular “Sebastian Foxley Murder Mystery” series.

  Prologue

  The Palace of Westminster

  By listening at doors, lurking in dark corners and hiding behind faded tapestries, the espier had learned much to his master’s advantage. He was now alone in the clerks’ dormitory, foregoing a decent dinner to compose the letter. His hands were cramped with cold, no fire being lit in the hearth until the day’s work was done. He kept stirring the ink to prevent it freezing. In the guise of a complaint about the English weather and the foolishness of the people with whom he had to live and work, whilst longing to see home, the intelligencer encoded his secret information for his master, Ludovico Sforza, Regent of Milan.

  It was complicated to explain. Not that the use of Italian was a problem, being his native tongue, nor even the use of a cypher. The difficulty was the convoluted politics of kings, princes and dukes – how to explain the situation. Milan had had its eye on the Principality of Piedmont for years, lying as it did in a strategic position between France and the Italian City State. But Louis of France had similar intentions for Piedmont. The King of France was ever a thorn in Milan’s side, thwarting any possibility of expansion.

  But now King Edward had in mind a plan that would play well into Milan’s aspirations – not that the stupid, bellicose English monarch would realise it. The espier had overheard a Privy Council meeting yesterday and learned this juicy morsel of intelligence. In his message, he revealed that King Edward was grown tired of his troublesome neighbour, the King of Scots and, since the treaty signed with them at York ten years before had now expired, he was determined to make war upon Scotland during this coming summer of 1480. By the terms of some Old Alliance, apparently, such action would require Louis of France to come to the aid of his Scots allies, distracting his attention to the northern end of his kingdom, far away from Piedmont. The espier did not dare to presume to tell his master that this would be the perfect opportunity to march the Milanese forces into Piedmont but Ludovico Sforza was an intelligent man: he would understand.

  Having made a fair copy of his draft, the intelligencer signed it: per mano dello Scudiero del Rubino; ‘by the hand of the Esquire of the Ruby’, folded and sealed it. He would now deliver it to the courier in Lombard Street, in the City of London. As for the original draft copy, he tossed the paper into the hearth as kindling for the fire when it was lit, later.

  The servant came to prepare the clerks’ dormitory for the evening. His first task was to get the fire going, to warm the large chamber. But what was this? It looked to be a letter lying in the hearth. One of the clerks had been careless indeed. The servant could not read, so the words meant nought to him but he was a conscientious soul. He would give it to the Chief Clerk, whom he knew by sight. That should solve the problem. He would know what to do with the letter.

  Chapter 1

  Friday, the twenty-seventh day of

  January in the Year of Our Lord 1480

  Westminster

  What a bloody miserable way to celebrate his nine-and-twentieth birthday.

  He should never have come to work as a royal clerk. Secretary Oliver, who now ruled his days, was an utter bastard, sitting there, snug, amid cushions with the chamber’s solitary brazier warming his feet whilst his eight clerks shivered at their desks before him.

  The pen wavered unsteadily in Jude Foxley’s chilled fingers. Pellets of snow beat against the glazed window such that candles were needed to work by even at mid-morn. Jude was unsure whether the ink was drying or freezing on the page as he wrote. It was hours since he last felt his toes, the cold leeching into his shoes from the bare flagstones of the King’s Scriptorium.

  Jude cursed Oliver and thought longingly of the Foxley workshop in Paternoster Row, back in London, where his brother Seb would also be cosy beside a glowing brazier, sipping mulled ale when he liked, taking time to leave his desk, stretch his back and walk about to thaw his feet. He should never have left.

  He reached for a fresh sheet of parchment – the eighth or tenth, was it? He’d lost count of how many summonses to Parliament he had copied out, leaving a blank space for the name of the lord to whom each would be sent. Couldn’t King Edward simply send out heralds to announce it? Damn it all. He’d never had such a tedious task, his mind as numb with boredom as his fingers with cold, aye, and his arse with perching on this misshapen wooden the stool with the split seat that pinched his buttocks. The draught blowing in the door gnawed at his ankles like a starveling rat every time it opened. That was the penalty he paid for being the newcomer to the scriptorium: the worst stool by the door. Mind, to sit by the window with icy airs rolling down the wall from the glass panes above wasn’t much of an improvement, though there was more light to see what you were doing. Flickering candlelight glimmered off the wet – or frozen – ink of his last few words.

  At the desk beside him, Piers Creed’s teeth were chattering loud enough to be annoying. But then everything about Piers was irritating. Worst was his constant foul farting. God knew what he ate to cause such noisome stinks that so frequently disturbed his fellow clerks. The ominous purring rumble of another assault on the senses had Jude covering his nose with his sleeve in good time.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, can’t you cease that?’ Jude muttered from behind his sleeve which proved inadequate. ‘Stop eating bloody horse-beans or whatever...’

  ‘Silence!’ Secretary Oliver bellowed from his exalted cushioned chair at the far end of the scriptorium. ‘I’ve warned you before, Foxley. You speak again and your payment will be reduced by two pence since this is your second offence. Now get on with your work.’
/>
  Piers Creed is the bloody offence, Jude thought, stabbing his pen into the inkwell over hard and ruining the nib. But he knew better than to answer back to Oliver, the pompous bastard who served as the King’s French and Italian Secretary. In truth, there wasn’t much work for this particular royal office through the winter months, when ships weren’t voyaging to foreign lands to collect or deliver correspondence. Hence, their current employment in helping out the clerks of the Lord Chancellor’s office who were supposed to write out the innumerable summonses to attend Parliament before Easter.

  Jude’s much-exaggerated knowledge of Italian tongues had gained him this position – with his brother’s aid – and now he wished most heartily that he hadn’t bothered to lie about his skills. Still, the clerkship earned him coin in his purse. Besides, a month since, King Edward had celebrated Christmas in fine style, including everyone who worked at Westminster Palace in the feasting and entertainment. Jude had appreciated that, as did his young bride, Chesca – Francesca-Antonia Baldesi. She had made quite an impression at court, wearing her one remaining Venetian gown of silk and bits of finery, making quite a show. Men had been so envious of him with her on his arm, dancing with him, laughing at his wit. He grinned at the memory, reshaping his quill with his penknife. But Christmas seemed long ago now as he sat, freezing his bollocks off, scribbling endlessly even as the ink turned to ice in the well.