A Feast of Poisons

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The village of Walmer near Canterbury is a small, claustrophobic place where everyone knows everyone else's business. Everyone knows the blacksmith, Elias, liked to drink and liked the ladies. Everyone knows his wife, Isabella, had been spotted many a time entering the woods with men other than her husband. And everyone knows the couple fought, sometimes violently. But could they have independently, on the same day, murdered each other with two entirely different poisons? The village's medicine woman, Mother Croul, doesn't think so. And neither does Kathryn Swinbrooke, Physician of Canterbury, who is in town with her new husband, Colum Murtagh. Kathryn and Colum are visiting on state business: Lord Henry Beauchamp is to receive the shadowy emissaries of Louis XI of France, on behalf of his own master, Edward of York. It is a tense time for the kingdom; everything hinges on the meeting between Lord Henry and the French agents. But now, as a murderer stalks the land, only Kathryn Swinbrooke can cut through the web of deceit that arrives with the Spider King's minions.

Release date: June 6, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 248

Sample

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 RED KING



The Carl spak oo thing, but he thoghte another.

—Chaucer, ‘The Friar’s Tale,’

The Canterbury Tales

Louis XI, by the wrath of God, King of France, was busy fishing. Louis was content. He’d journeyed up and down the Loire Valley stopping at his royal residences to check his menagerie; in particular, his elephant and a rather clumsy camel, not to mention the leopards, ostriches, and other beasts. Louis himself was a spider in human flesh. Paris was the centre of his web but he’d spun it so the web now covered every city and province in France. Louis was content. He had outfoxed and outmanoeuvred his enemies but, although he loved his country, he did not trust it. Its narrow, winding forest trackways had flourished long before the time of Caesar. Rebels could lurk there, plan ambushes, plot treason, and carry out regicide. So Louis, who could never keep still, continued his restless journeys more by water than horse or carriage. He sailed the great rivers of France on boats of his own design. Splendid affairs, great barges on which he built wooden houses furnished with chimneys, glass windows, and all the comforts of a palace.

Louis loved hunting, be it the quarry of the forest or some great noble or merchant who would not accept his rule. He had recently crushed a rebellion on the borders of Burgundy. A barge farther down the river carried cages in which he’d placed his principal prisoners. He would use them as he would the animals in his menagerie, show the people that he was King. No force of man or nature could escape his grasp. On the prison barge he’d erected poles to carry the severed heads of other traitors; one of them he’d hooded and lined with fur so as to distinguish it from the rest. Now Louis was resting. He stared up at the blue sky and gripped his fishing rod. The previous night a firebreak, a burning comet, a ball of flame, had cracked through the heavens. Was that a warning, he wondered? But did it matter? ‘Alea iacta est, the die is cast!’ he murmured. Whatever dangers threatened, he must confront them. He’d sent money to the nearest shrines and churches, ordering hundreds of special masses to be said to ward off any danger. He’d also promised St Martin of Tours, the patron saint of France, to buy a shiny metal trellis to enclose his tomb. A veritable work of art, the trellis would be made of eleven thousand pounds of the finest silver. He’d also sent messages to Amboise, where his infant son, the Dauphin Charles, was kept in strict seclusion, far away from would-be kidnappers as well as the grisly effect of any of the legion of diseases that prowled the roads and haunted the cities of his kingdom.

Louis was glad to be away from such places, especially Paris; the clanging of its bells was a constant source of irritation, its crowded, narrow streets an ever-living threat to his own power, a place where ideas and new fears teemed like weeds on a dung heap.

‘Your Majesty?’

Louis turned his head.

‘Your Majesty?’ the young squire repeated. ‘They say a church spire was attacked by Satan last night, burnt to a cinder. The demon’s claw marks can still be seen up and down the walls.’

‘Is that correct?’ Louis muttered. He turned back as the rod jerked. Was it a demon, he wondered, or just lightning? That was what a scholar had once told him, how buildings that pointed to the sky always attracted heaven’s fire. Nevertheless, he had to be sure. Louis always took precautions. He’d told the envoys dispatched to check on his son that an iron knife must always be hung over the child’s cradle and pots of salt placed in every corner. Iron and salt, not to mention the many saintly relics hanging from the beams of the nursery, would keep away demons. Louis grimaced with annoyance. He thought he’d lured a fish but the rod was now slack, like so many things in life. The King moved restlessly, spurs jingling on his boots. He stared across the river. The mist was lifting. The day would prove fine even if the seasons were changing. Already he could glimpse the gold through the green. The morning breeze was cold but this would fall as the sun rose. Nevertheless, the King was warm enough. On either side of him glowed capped braziers, their fiery charcoal red and crackling, now and again hissing as drops of river water splashed through the grille.

Louis flexed his fingers. He was booted and spurred, ever ready to leave his barge and ride to face any danger or confront some rebel. He was dressed in his usual grey gown, furred with white lambskin, over his head a monk’s cowl. On top of this Louis wore a large broad-rimmed hat, which weighed heavily due to the many silver medallions, all depicting his favourite saints, closely stitched there. Louis picked up a piece of cheese and munched noisily. He’d spent the previous day plotting, before travelling to a nearby castle where envoys from Spain had brought red-skinned pigs for him to look at, not to mention a host of goldfinches, magpies, turtle doves, as well as two greyhounds wearing collars of Lombardy leather and leashes of dried wolfskins. Louis breathed out, the steam hanging in the morning air. In the mist farther down the river were barges packed with his bodyguard and, on either bank, troops of Norman cavalry kept pace with the royal barge, The Glory of the Lilies. Louis heard shouts, a slight thump as a boat came alongside the barge. He smiled. His visitors had arrived. He passed the rod to a valet. ‘Hold it firm,’ he ordered. ‘If the fish bite, draw in quickly.’

Louis, spurs jingling, the mother-of-pearl rosary beads around his neck clicking and glittering, walked up the leather-rimmed steps into the royal cabin. The chamber boasted a window high on each wall, the walls themselves covered in thick draperies woven in a series of eye-catching colours – fiery reds, deep blues, glittering golds – all depicting the life of the King’s saintly ancestors. The floor was of polished wood and covered against the cold with the skins of bears and wolves. A royal scribe was seated on a high stool copying out the letter Louis had dictated just after he had attended his third Mass. The King took off his gloves and spread his fingers over a dish of smouldering charcoal. It was still cold in here.

‘Take a letter,’ he ordered, ‘to the Treasurer – tell him to bring me an animal skin, like that the Bishop of Valence gave me. It covered my back completely, and could spread out over my horse’s rump.’ Louis’s finger tapped the end of his pointed nose. ‘When it rained,’ he continued, ‘I had no need of a cloak, while in the hot weather it was as good as a cooling breeze. You understand that?’

The scribe nodded.

‘Good!’ The King clapped his hands. ‘Then get out and bring my visitors in.’ Louis crossed to the throne on the small dais, set against the far wall under a blue awning, displaying the golden fleur-de-lys. He made himself comfortable, pulling across the lambskin coverlet. He’d spent too much time fishing, he was freezing! The door opened and three men entered. They gathered in the shadows before coming forward. All were booted and spurred, heavy woollen military cloaks across their shoulders. They approached the dais, pulled back their cowls, and sank to one knee. Louis let them remain so while he studied them. The rather short, redheaded man in the middle, the Vicomte Sanglier, was Louis’s personal envoy to England.

‘My Lord Vicomte!’ Louis leaned forward. ‘You had a good journey?’ The envoy lifted his pale face, the green eyes red-rimmed, russet moustache and beard neatly clipped. Louis noticed how the Vicomte used his beard to hide his pitted cheeks, the ravages left by the pox.

‘Your Majesty.’ Sanglier wetted his lips. ‘We have travelled like dogs and slept like dogs. The food was either burnt or undercooked, whilst the wine tasted like vinegar.’

‘Would you agree with that, monsieur?’ Louis turned to Francois Cavignac, keeper of the Outer Chamber, a young man with neatly cropped black hair and a rounded face. He always reminded Louis of a choirboy, with his innocent eyes, smooth cheeks, and rather affected ways. Nevertheless, Cavignac had proved himself to be a most able spy, responsibly controlling Louis’s agents abroad. A scholar of the Sorbonne, Cavignac was sly, cunning, and ruthless in dealing with Louis’s enemies. A commoner promoted by Louis, his loyalty to the Crown was second only to his ambition for himself. Despite Louis’s best efforts, Vicomte Sanglier had discovered little that was extraordinary about Cavignac’s personal habits except that he was a most dedicated man of letters. Cavignac was a scholar who had studied for the priesthood, and he loved to send secret messages in cipher based on quotations from the Bible. Yet Cavignac’s private life was of no real interest to Louis, who was only concerned about one thing: was Cavignac loyal? There was no doubt of that! Cavignac knew the rules of the French House of Secrets. Any betrayal, even the slightest, meant sudden, violent death.

‘Monsieur.’ Louis leaned forward. ‘I asked you a question.’

‘Your Majesty, I apologise.’ Cavignac stirred. ‘My knees are sore. The Vicomte is correct. My only solace on our journey was the companionship of my colleagues and the prospect of entering your presence.’

Louis smiled. At least half the statement was true. It also reflected how the intense rivalry for his affections dominated the lives of these three men.

‘And you are well?’ Louis turned to the man on his right. Beneath the military cloak Claude Delacroix, keeper of the Inner Chamber, was dressed in the black-and-white garb of a Dominican, yet he was not a friar, let alone a priest. Delacroix dressed like this because of a vow he had taken to his parents that he would become a Dominican friar. However, as soon as his parents had died, Delacroix had left his priestly training to study medicine at Montpellier. A lean, gaunt-faced man with furrowed cheeks, jutting mouth, and hollow, deep-set eyes, Delacroix reminded Louis of a favourite whippet he’d once owned, sinewy, swift, and vicious. Delacroix had a skill in tongues, not only English and Norman French but also classical Latin, German, and even the lingua franca of the Italian cities. Delacroix was responsible for Louis’s agents in France, as well as hunting down and destroying those of other powers. Delacroix was as determined as his master to keep Edward of England and his warlike brothers, Richard of Gloucester and George of Clarence, out of France. One day they would recover the only French town held by the English, Calais, and drive a wedge between England and France’s mortal enemy – the one great lord who threatened the unity of the kingdom, Charles of Burgundy.

‘The journey must have been especially hard for you, monsieur,’ Louis declared. Delacroix lifted his head, eyes wrinkling in amusement. Louis prided himself on knowing the little secrets of all who served in the inner household. Thanks to Sanglier he certainly knew Delacroix’s, who had left the Dominicans because of his hungry passion for soft, perfumed flesh. Delacroix was a constant visitor to the courtesans in the House of Joy, which stood in its own orchards and gardens not far from the Gate of St. Denis.

‘Your Majesty.’ Delacroix’s voice was as soft and melodious as a gentle priest’s.

‘We have journeyed, now we are here to listen to your will.’

‘Aye.’ Louis straightened. ‘So stop kneeling there as if you’re statues.’

For a while there was some confusion as they brought forward leather stools to sit before their King. Louis made them wait for a while, plucking at the lambskin rug that covered his knees.

‘Later today,’ he began, ‘you leave for England. You are my envoys to the Court of Edward of York. You have your instructions?’

‘To journey to London?’ Cavignac asked.

‘No, to Walmer on the Kentish coast,’ Louis answered as if speaking to himself.

‘Lord Henry Beauchamp, your old adversary, keeper of the Secret Seal, waits to welcome you to his manor. He will be joined by an Irishman, one of Edward’s own company, Colum Murtagh.’

‘Ah!’ Sanglier unclasped his cloak and let it drop to the floor.

‘You have met Murtagh before?’ Louis smiled.

‘I have,’ Sanglier replied. ‘Murtagh is a warrior, a mercenary, keeper of the King’s stables, at Kingsmead, outside Canterbury. I have spoken about him before, Your Majesty.’

‘He is dangerous?’

‘He can be.’

‘Do you fear him?’

‘I fear the woman he is betrothed to, Kathryn Swinbrooke. She is a physician hired by the Court as well as by the Archbishop and City Council of Canterbury to investigate certain matters.’

‘I have heard of her.’ Louis waved a hand. ‘As I have heard that she and Murtagh are to be married, yet I can’t see how they might interfere in what you have planned. You must travel to England; Lord Henry will be your host. You are to use what you know to ensure that they will stay out of France and give no help or sustenance to Burgundy.’

Louis abruptly rose and his henchmen did likewise. The King crossed to a small ornamentally carved coffer with three locks. He took the small key ring that was hanging on a hook on his belt, undid the three locks, pulled back the lid, and brought out a similar coffer, much smaller, no more than a polished square. Sanglier noticed the three miniature keys inserted in their locks. Louis first ensured that each of these would turn before drawing out the keys, and gave one to each of his envoys. He then handed the polished coffer to Sanglier.

‘Keep it safe. Let the English know that you could have it. Edward of England would give all the jewels of his chamber to own it.’ Louis laughed at Sanglier’s puzzlement.

‘Do you know what this coffer contains?’

Sanglier shook his head.

‘It’s the English Book of Ciphers,’ Louis whispered, fearful his voice would carry any farther than it should. ‘This book will allow us to understand any secret messages sent by Edward of England to his agents in France, as well as the true names and whereabouts of the same agents.’

‘Where?’ Sanglier stammered. ‘Your Majesty, how did you obtain this? We have been searching for it . . .’

‘It does not matter.’ Louis stroked the top of the coffer as he would some hunting bird. ‘Just let Edward of England know you have it. Indeed, I have already dropped hints.’

Louis sucked on his teeth, his tongue feeling out the sore points in his gums. He studied his three envoys. He’d caught the confusion of Delacroix, the darting glance between Sanglier and Cavignac. There was some mystery here but Louis could not grasp it. After all, Sanglier was the one who had reported how the real Book of Ciphers, together with its keeper, the Englishman Marshall, had disappeared along the Seine. The King sighed and gestured at the tray of wine cups on the table near the dais.

‘Refresh yourselves, taste the wine, it’s the best Burgundy can offer. I must go back to my fishing.’

The three men hastily bowed as Louis, humming a hymn beneath his breath, left the chamber, shouting at the squire to ask if he had been able to catch anything. Once the door closed the three men relaxed. Delacroix splashed the wine into three goblets and served it. They toasted each other, warmed their fingers over the dish of charcoal and, like children eager to unwrap a present, inserted their keys into the coffer. Sanglier turned them and pulled back the lid. Inside was a small book, it looked like a psalter with its shiny cover studded with precious stones. He undid the clasps and gasped. The pages within were blank, page after page of cream-coloured vellum, all neatly stitched together but devoid of any mark, symbol, or picture. Sanglier sifted through the pages, the parchment crackling, then he pulled off the leather cover and carefully studied the pieces of hardboard beneath.

‘There’s nothing.’ He handed it to his two companions, who likewise searched. Cavignac took it over to a candle to scrutinise it more carefully. Delacroix then snatched it from his hands. Sanglier began to laugh. Cradling his goblet of wine, the Vicomte sat back on his stool. He tried to drink, only to splutter, coughing the wine onto the floor. Delacroix stared crossly at him. Had Sanglier been aware of their King’s little riddle? Had he shared it already with his good friend, Cavignac? Delacroix hid his fury. There was, as he’d whispered to Louis, some mystery here. There had been ever since Marshall’s disappearance. Was this precious pair trying to exclude him? Sanglier the fox, with his secret knowledge about the Lord Henry Beauchamp? Sanglier, who quietly boasted about having a spy even in Walmer Village? Delacroix glanced quickly at Cavignac but he’d stepped back into the shadows as if to hide his face.

‘Go on.’ Sanglier waved a hand. ‘Pull that book to pieces. Smell its every page. There’s nothing. No Book of Ciphers!’

Delacroix stared at him; he had no choice but to join in the laughter. Sanglier turned and bolted the door through which his master had left.

‘Let us toast the Spider!’ He grinned. ‘Six months ago’— Sanglier wiped his mouth on the back of his hand—‘Sir Henry was in Paris. We know he met Edward of England’s principal spies there. Now Lord Henry’s clerk, William Marshall, allegedly carried a Book of Ciphers. Well, to bring my story to an abrupt end, Marshall disappeared, and so did the Book of Ciphers.’

‘Of course,’ Cavignac stated. ‘I remember this. He went boating on the River Seine? An accident, they say, he drowned.’

‘His corpse was never discovered,’ Sanglier continued. ‘According to all reports, Marshall was carrying the Book of Ciphers, and that too disappeared. Now our master wants to threaten Edward of England . . .’

‘That we have the Book of Ciphers,’ Cavignac answered.

Sanglier nodded and raised his goblet. ‘Just think of the confusion that will cause.’

Old Mother Croul was not born in Walmer but many miles to the north. She’d come to the village as the bride of Crispin the carpenter. When he died of the sweating sickness, Mother Croul had married Ambrose, her husband’s apprentice, but he’d been steeped in wickedness and was hanged. Mother Croul had grown old alone in her two-room thatched cottage with its packed-mud floor and bed loft, near Blacklow Copse, a small wood on the edge of Walmer Village. The cottage possessed a derelict workshop and a makeshift stable, though both were now empty. Mother Croul depended more on her stick than some expensive palfrey. On that day, the eve of Michaelmas, when the first horrid poisonings took place, Mother Croul was already uneasy. The sun had begun to set. She’d wandered out into her herb garden to be amongst the maleficia, those deadly herbs, nightshade, foxglove, and water hemlock, plants that could stop a man’s heart in a few breaths. Mother Croul did not grow them for that reason but because, in small doses, such herbs could be beneficial to the stomach and the heart. Mother Croul was truly wary of such plants. She fully believed in the Christ Jesus yet she was very conscious of those demons, evil sprites and goblins who haunted muddy wastes and woodlands. Mother Croul was particularly careful when she dug up the mandrake. She only pulled that herb out of the ground with a piece of string tied to her stick.

Mother Croul’s two cats came with her into the garden, Gog and Magog, two furry tabbies, hunters in the dark, the terror of local birds, not to mention the vermin swarming in from the fields. The old woman was glad of their company as the unease seethed within her. She’d had dreams and nightmares. She’d glimpsed fiery devils on the road and, at night, she’d heard the ghosts gibbering from darkened corners. Mother Croul was not frightened easily. She could read and write. Many years ago she’d possessed a hornbook, she’d even been along the road to Canterbury and gone to wonder at London Bridge with its many arches that supported houses and shops, not to mention those long poles bearing the skulls of executed traitors. Nor was Mother Croul fanciful. She was careful of what she ate. She’d talked to enough leeches, apothecaries, and cunning travelling men to recognise that certain herbs could turn the heart to strange imaginings. So, what was the source of her deep anxiety? She walked down the garden path and opened the shabby wooden gate. Mother Croul turned round and stared back at her cottage and the few scrawny hens bathing in the dust before the door. The cottage didn’t look like much; she’d saved a few pennies and often thought of hiring a mason or thatcher to make it look more homely but what was the use? ‘Corrupt and mouldy’ was the way she described her cottage.

‘Corrupt and mouldy,’ she spoke out loud. ‘And riddled with wormholes, just like me.’ The old woman smiled. Yet, many years ago on a balmy night, with the birds singing and the air soft with rose scent, she’d lain there with her only true love, Crispin, the finest carpenter in the shire! Crispin, with his sinewy body and hot passionate kisses . . .

‘So long ago,’ Mother Croul murmured, and started as a weasel darted across her path, so swift even her cats didn’t stir. But, there again, they’d leave the weasel alone; wasn’t it a sign of ill luck and wasn’t the breath of the weasel stale and corrupting? Mother Croul stared up at the blue rain-washed sky. The sunset was now hidden by clouds. The autumn day was dying and Blacklow Copse was coming alive with the sounds of the night. A cold breeze blew and the crows, circling above the trees, cawed noisily. Mother Croul crinkled he. . .