A serial killer stalks the passages of a medieval monastery... A Maze of Murders is a thrilling murder mystery from the masterful Paul Doherty, featuring medieval sleuth Kathryn Swinbrooke. Perfect for fans of Susanna Gregory and Robin Hobb. A violent past haunts Sir Walter Maltravers of Ingoldby Hall in Canterbury. Decades before the War of the Roses, he served in the fanatical bodyguard of Constantine XI Palaeologus, the last Byzantine emperor. But instead of defending the emperor to his death, Maltravers fled, taking with him the Lacrima Christi - a holy relic of incalculable value. When the Lacrima Christi disappears from Canterbury's Franciscan monastery, Sir Walter fears he is being tracked down by the emperor's vengeful loyalists. Days later, Maltravers's head is found impaled on a pole. Apothecary Kathryn Swinbrooke and her fiancée, Colum Murtagh, are called to investigate the crime. As the investigation begins, it becomes clear that all was not as it seemed within the cosy confines of Ingoldby Hall. The death toll is mounting, and if Swinbrooke and Murtagh don't nail down the killer - or killers - soon, they could be next. What readers are saying about the Kathryn Swinbrooke Mysteries: 'The sense of menace, depth of characterization and interesting cast of characters make this book, and the series, a brilliant read' ' A great romp through medieval England' ' Superb plot and characters. Kathryn is so interesting and insight into the history of the time is so well documented. You feel as if you were there and can even smell it!'
Release date:
June 6, 2013
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
252
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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
‘Kepe wel thy tonge, and thenk upon the crowe.’—Chaucer, ‘The Manciple’s Tale,’The Canterbury Tales, 1387
The chantry chapel of St. Michael and All the Angels in the Franciscan church of Greyfriars in the King’s own city of Canterbury was described by one chronicler as ‘a jewel within a jewel.’ Greyfriars was a beautiful church with its honey-coloured brick and dark red slate roof. Its windows had been widened and filled with multicoloured glass portraying scenes from the bible. At the height of summer, dazzling in the powerful sun, these paintings took on a life of their own, bathing the inside of the church with a vivid array of glorious colour.
Greyfriars had been widened and extended over the centuries, transepts added, roofs replaced. Its whitewashed walls were now covered with breathtaking pictures and mosaics. On a balmy summer’s evening it was easy to believe such a church truly was the House of God and the Gate to Heaven. The marble high altar, with its gold candlesticks, could be glimpsed through the door of the exquisitely carved rood screen which depicted the Crucifixion of Christ and other scenes from his Passion. On that Thursday evening in August 1473, the nave of the church lay quiet, a few candles spluttering weakly in the Lady Chapel to the left of the high altar; on the other side, in a shrine dedicated to St. Francis, two large candles glowed in their red glass containers. A haven of peace except for the pickpocket occupying the Mercy Chair in the main sanctuary. Restless and ill at ease, he sat clutching the arms of the chair, staring up at the high altar, eyes fixed on the crucifix as if begging the good Lord for help.
The pickpocket, known to the bailiffs of Canterbury as Laus Tibi, literally ‘Praise-to-Thee,’ had forgotten his real name. He vaguely recalled being raised in Gravesend but he had spent most of his life travelling the dusty highways of England earning a precarious living by thieving, pilfering and, above all, cutting purses and picking pockets. Laus Tibi was a greasy-haired, rat-faced, beanpole of a man with pockmarked cheeks and dark glittering eyes. He had joined the pilgrims coming in droves, now that summer was at its height, all keen to worship before the blessed bones of the martyr St. Thomas a Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.
Laus Tibi hadn’t been bothered about relics, St. Thomas’s bones or acquiring an indulgence which, after death, would release him from the pains of Purgatory. Laus Tibi had slipped through Canterbury’s gates like a wolf into a sheep pen. He had come to thieve, to cut purses, filch from the stalls and make a profit before winter set in. He would need money to rest up at some tavern until spring came: pilgrims were like coneys in the hay: they had to be flushed out and caught. It was easy. Pilgrims were so concerned about finding a tavern or a guest house, or staring, mouths agape, at the churches and fine buildings of Canterbury, that they would often forget about the bundles they carried or, more importantly, their purses, wallets and pockets. At first Laus Tibi couldn’t believe his good fortune. He took a priest’s purse in the marketplace, then a tailor’s wallet in a tavern after the man had drunk too deeply of the strong Kentish ale. A young merchant’s wife, an embroidered purse hanging from the decorated belt round her slim waist, had been easy prey: the purse had yielded a harvest of one gold coin, freshly minted by the King’s treasury in London, some silver pennies and a set of ave beads. Laus Tibi had sold the latter as a sacred relic to a reeve from Devon. Eventually Laus Tibi had been able to secure a garret in the Grey Weasel tavern just off the marketplace: bed and board, pots of ale, and even the attentions of a comely chambermaid.
In the end, however, Laus Tibi had stayed too long; the alarm was raised and the marketplace watched. Laus Tibi closed his eyes and ground his yellowing teeth in anger, his tongue seeking out the abscess just beneath his upper lip.
‘I should have taken better care.’
He opened his eyes, stared at the crucifix and felt a stab of guilt. Yet what could a man like him do? He had no trade, no home, no family; it was either steal or starve.
‘I should have been more careful,’ he repeated.
Laus Tibi’s hand stole beneath the filthy linen shirt he had filched from a garden, where it had been drying out over a fence. The pickpocket’s dirty fingers traced the outline of the brand mark, ‘F’ for felon, scorched onto his right shoulder three summers ago when he had been caught cutting purses near Smithfield Market in London. If the King’s sheriff saw that, little mercy would be shown: Laus Tibi would hang from the crossroads! He had passed such gibbets with their tarred, grisly remains, a chilling warning to lawbreakers. Nevertheless, Laus Tibi had believed, like the gambler he was, that the dice would always fall in his favour – until a week ago.
Laus Tibi had watched that fat priest moving like a bloated carp amongst the stalls of Canterbury marketplace, a fur-lined cloak over one arm, a heavy purse jingling like a bell from the leather belt round his portly waist. Like a hungry fox stalking a fat goose, Laus Tibi had followed. He’d cast his usual cautious cunning to the wind. He never had liked priests. They had no time for him. Very few showed him care, even fewer any compassion. Laus Tibi was determined to take both the cloak and the purse, a crowning achievement! He must have followed his quarry for at least an hour. The priest kept stopping at certain stalls displaying costly hangings and tapestries from abroad. Some hung in front of the stall, others were rolled up and protected under a canvas cloth. The priest was very careful. He would examine the texture, running it between his fingers, and ask the eager trader a spate of questions.
‘Was this genuine silver thread?’
‘From which mill?’
The priest could not make his mind up. He moved backwards and forwards. Laus Tibi edged closer. At one stall offering cloth from the looms of Brabant, the priest put down his cloak and moved his belt slightly so the purse which had been hanging on his side was now pushed round to the back. Laus Tibi drew a needlelike knife from the leather sheath strapped to his arm beneath his battered jerkin. The priest was haggling with the stall owner. This was the time! The priest was about to make a purchase, he was oblivious to everything except beating the trader down to accept his price.
Laus Tibi was no longer aware of the chatter and babble of the marketplace, the raucous shouting of the apprentices, the smells from the middenheap, the fragrances of the cookshops and bakeries, the bells clanging or the faint sound of singing from a nearby church. Like a hovering hawk he studied his prey. He quickly stared round: no one was watching him, he could see no bailiff. Laus Tibi decided to close with his victim. He stealthily walked across the mud-grimed cobbles, knife at the ready. One quick cut to sever the thongs holding the purse, he would take that, grab the cloak and escape amongst the crowds in the space of a few heartbeats. . . .
Laus Tibi rose from the Mercy Chair, walked to the entrance of the rood screen and stared down the nave. He could still see the two Franciscans kneeling on their prie-dieus before the Chapel of St. Michael and All the Angels. One of the brothers had taken him down to inspect the chapel and Laus Tibi had marvelled at its beauty. The chantry chapel was really a church within a church. Built against the wall of the north transept, it was screened off from the nave by three intricately carved oaken screens with small windows on either side. The front of the chantry chapel soared up to meet the roof of the transept; it had two oval-shaped windows above a narrow, wooden door, now locked and bolted. Brother Simon the sacristan had let him peer through the grille at the sacred relic hanging in its receptacle from a silver chain.
‘According to legend,’ Brother Simon had whispered, ‘this is the Lacrima Christi, an exquisite ruby formed when our Good Saviour was scourged by the Romans: tears of blood fell to the ground, and these miraculously congealed to form this brilliant stone.’
Laus Tibi had just nodded and peered openmouthed. Oh, to seize such a prize! The ruby was the size of a large pigeon’s egg. The good brothers had placed it in a blood-red, golden receptacle: this, in turn, hung on the end of a long silver chain which stretched from the concave roof of the chantry chapel to hang between the door of the chantry and the altar built against the far wall. The receptacle was three-sided, in the shape of a square C so as much as possible of the relic could be viewed; a metal loop on top of this receptacle was used to attach it to the stout silver hook on the end of the chain.
‘Why is it here?’ Laus Tibi had whispered.
‘It belongs to Sir Walter Maltravers.’
The garrulous sacristan had explained while chomping on his gums; he’d felt sorry for this poor felon who had sought sanctuary in his church. When Brother Simon glimpsed him standing so forlornly at the entrance to the rood screen, he’d invited him down. The other Franciscan had not been so friendly but gone and knelt on his prie-dieu, bony face hidden in his hands as if he wished to hide all signs of Laus Tibi.
‘You know Sir Walter Maltravers?’ the sacristan whispered.
The fugitive thief shook his head.
‘He owns Ingoldby Hall on the south side of Canterbury, a very rich lord, a close friend of the King. As a young man,’ the sacristan gabbled on, ‘Sir Walter was a member of the Emperor’s bodyguard at Constantinople.’
Laus Tibi screwed his eyes up and nodded as if he understood, though he had no knowledge of any Emperor or the city with the long sounding name.
‘The Lacrima Christi?’ he grated. ‘How did it get here?’
‘Oh, the Empress Helena,’ Brother Simon had chattered on, ‘mother of the great Constantine, found the Lacrima Christi in Palestine and took it to her son’s city. However, when the Turks captured the city over forty years ago, Sir Walter was forced to flee. Rather than allow such a precious relic to fall into the hands of unbelievers, he took it with him.’
‘But what’s it doing here?’ Laus Tibi had insisted.
‘Sir Walter bought Ingoldby Hall over three years ago, just as the war between Lancaster and York drew to an end. Prior Barnabas heard about the relic and begged Sir Walter to loan it to the priory for public veneration.’
Aye, Laus Tibi reflected, and so fleece the pilgrims even more than I did!
‘Is it safe here?’
‘Look around.’
Brother Simon’s sharp reply clearly revealed how he mildly regretted inviting Laus Tibi to view the treasure. The jewel was a temptation but well guarded. The chapel was very secure, its high wooden screens were of thick polished oak, its roof had no aperture, the only way in was through the heavy oaken door, secured fast by both clasp and lock. A desperate thief might try and enter through the stained glass window, just above the chantry altar, depicting Michael casting Satan into the fires of Hell, yet the window was held in place by reinforced lead and who would break such beautiful glass? The sound would certainly alarm the priory, and the thief might be able to get in but find it more difficult to get out. Burly lay brothers, armed with stout cudgels, patrolled the cloister garth which the window overlooked; not even a mouse could squeeze into that chantry chapel. Two members of the community were constantly on vigil nearby, either kneeling at the prie-dieus not far from the chantry door, or standing in front of it, allowing the pilgrims to process by, taking their coins for a peep through the narrow grille. Oh no! The Lacrima Christi was secure. . . .
Laus Tibi sighed and leaned against the rood screen door. The sun was beginning to set, Vespers had been sung and the church closed for the day. Nevertheless, the brothers would sustain their vigil until the bell tolled for Compline. Laus Tibi sniffed. Two friars still knelt on their prie-dieus. The felon squinted down the nave to see that one was Prior Barnabas, a sinewy, harsh-faced man with the eyes of a hunting mastiff. The other was Ralph the infirmarian. They would stay until the appointed hour when the Lacrima Christi would be stowed safely away. Laus Tibi felt tempted to go down and have one more look. The brothers had turned the chantry chapel into a gorgeous shrine: thick red turkey rugs covered every inch of the chapel floor. Even the altar cloths, candleholders and candles were of the same ruby red so the entire chapel seemed to glow with some unearthly light. Laus Tibi prided himself on having an eye for beauty, and could have stared through that grille for as long as the brothers had allowed him. The chantry chapel of St. Michael represented everything Laus Tibi had missed in his life: comfort, opulence and luxury. The very air was fragrant with incense and beeswax candles as well as the herb-scented oil used to polish the gleaming woodwork.
‘I wonder how much the ruby’s worth?’ Laus Tibi whispered to himself. ‘But where could one sell a jewel such as that?’
Brother Simon had explained how the Lacrima Christi would stay at Greyfriars for the duration of the pilgrim season. Laus Tibi stared down at his battered boots and groaned. The pilgrim season! He felt the brand mark on his shoulder. Where would he be at the end of the pilgrim season? He walked back to the Chair of Mercy in the sanctuary niche, sat down and picked up the wooden platter, absentmindedly drawing the crumbs together. If it hadn’t been for that priest – no, no, that wasn’t correct: the thief had been greedy and walked into a trap! . . .
Laus Tibi’s intended victim wasn’t a priest but a market bailiff in disguise. He and his companions had been watching Laus Tibi for days and so the hunter had become the hunted. Laus Tibi had just been about to cut the purse from his quarry’s belt when he heard the horn sound behind him, the alarm being raised.
‘Harrow! Harrow!’ a voice shouted. ‘A thief! A thief!’
The false priest had swerved round, a smile on his face, and gripped Laus Tibi’s arm, forcing him to drop the knife.
‘I have you, sir,’ he rasped, his fat, ruddy face laced with sweat. ‘I arrest you in the King’s name!’
Laus Tibi gave a vicious kick to his shins. The man loosened his grip and, quick as a weasel, Laus Tibi had run, not away from the crowds, but into them. All around horns were blaring, the cry of ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ being raised. Laus Tibi had knocked people aside. He’d grabbed a cleaver from a flesher’s stall, threatening anyone who tried to block his way. He’d run like the wind, slipping and slithering on the cobbles, whilst behind him a posse of bailiffs followed like a pack of yelping hounds. Panting and gasping, heart pumping, his body wet with sweat, Laus Tibi had broken away from the marketplace, but he was a marked man. He had been through such an ordeal before and recognised the signs. People instinctively drew away from him, marking him down as a lawbreaker. A number of apprentices came dashing out from a side street but the sight of the raised cleaver and Laus Tibi’s mad, staring eyes forced them to draw back.
‘Harrow! Harrow! A thief! A thief!’
Laus Tibi had fled on down alleyways and runnels, the sweat blinding his eyes, the pain in his left side becoming more and more sharp. He could not be taken! Not for him the journey in the hanging cart to the gallows outside the city. He turned blindly, ran down an alleyway and through a half-open gate into a fragrant garden. At first Laus Tibi thought it was some merchant’s house but, as he sank to his knees and stared around, he realised he was in the grounds of a priory or convent. Laus Tibi knew the law. He had been caught in York four years earlier and been able to quote the opening lines of Psalm 50: ‘Have mercy, Oh God, have mercy, and in your compassion blot out my offence.’ He had managed to recite this quotation, the infamous ‘hanging verse’ which allowed him to claim benefit of clergy. Laus Tibi had been handed over to the church courts for punishment. If he was arrested now, the bailiffs of this great city would make diligent search. He had claimed benefit of the clergy once and escaped scot-free; he could not do so again.
Exhausted to the point of desperation, Laus Tibi had staggered to his feet and begun to run. He felt dizzy, light-headed. He’d knocked a lay brother aside, reached the door of the church and thrown himself inside its cool, welcoming darkness. Pilgrims were milling about; a hand caught at his shoulder, but Laus Tibi shoved this away and staggered up the nave through the rood screen into the sanctuary. He could have cried with relief. At the far side of the sanctuary built into a recess in the wall was a heavy Mercy Seat. Laus Tibi had crawled on all fours towards it, pulled himself up and pressed his hot cheek against the cold stone of the alcove. Simon the sacristan had appeared, eyes wide, toothless mouth gaping in astonishment.
‘Do you claim sanctuary?’ he’d gasped in Latin.
Laus Tibi had shaken his head.
‘Do you claim sanctuary?’ Brother Simon leaned over him so the thief could smell the altar wine on his breath.
‘I claim sanctuary,’ Laus Tibi stuttered. ‘I seek the protection of Holy Mother Church!’
He had performed the ritual just in time. The door of the rood screen filled with angry-faced bailiffs, staves in their hands; one even jangled a set of manacles. They jabbed their fists in Laus Tibi’s direction but none dared to cross the sanctuary and lay hands on him. Laus Tibi had sprawled like a dog until Prior Barnabas appeared. Severe and haughty, shoulders back, the Prior had swept out of the sacristy accompanied by a crucifer and confronted the bailiffs.
‘You know the law!’ Prior Barnabas intoned. ‘This man . . .’
‘This thief!’ the chief bailiff bawled back.
‘This child of God,’ Prior Barnabas interrupted, ‘has, according to statute, and the law of Holy Mother Church, sought sanctuary. If you break that law, you will not only incur the anger of the King but the wrath of Holy Mother Church. Excommunication by bell, book and candle, to be cursed in your eating, your drinking, your sleeping and waking!’
‘I know the law!’ the chief bailiff rasped.
‘Then abide by it!’ Prior Barnabas snapped. He brought up the cowl of his brown habit to cover his balding head, slipping his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his robe. Exhausted as he was, Laus Tibi could see the good Prior enjoyed his power, and that there was little love lost between this proud churchman and the city bailiffs.
‘Then abide by the law!’ Prior Barnabas repeated. ‘This man can stay here for forty days. He then has a choice: to surrender himself to your power or take an oath to abjure the realm. I doubt,’ he added sarcastically, ‘that he will surrender himself, so I will give him a crucifix, two coins, a pannikin of wine, some bread and meat wrapped in linen, then he will have safe custody to Dover.’
‘If he ever reaches it!’ a bailiff yelled.
‘That is not my concern,’ Prior Barnabas retorted. ‘Now, sirs, this is the House of God. We have pilgrims waiting to see the Lacrima Christi.’
‘We all know about that!’ the chief bailiff jibed.
‘Good!’ the Prior remarked. ‘In which case you will know of the generosity shown to this church by Sir Walter Maltravers, lord of Ingoldby Hall, close friend of our King.’
The bailiffs decided to retreat. Laus Tibi received some dark glances but the hunting pack withdrew. The thief knew he was safe and settled down to plot what he should do next. . . .
The thief broke from his reverie and turned to stare towards the sanctuary chair. Seven days had passed. He had been given a clean pair of breeches and the friars had been kindly enough, though Laus Tibi suspected the source of this generosity was more antipathy towards the city bailiffs than any compassion for himself. He rubbed his eyes. Prior Barnabas was right. He would have to leave here. But how could he get to Dover? What guarantee did he have that the bailiffs would allow him safe passage? Laus Tibi wandered back across the sanctuary, now awash in gold-red colours as the rays of the setting sun poured in brilliant shafts through the stained glass windows. The marble altar steps glowed in the resplendent light which dazzled in the golden pyx holder. Yet this brought little comfort to Laus Tibi. Night would soon be here. The felon shivered and rubbed his arms. Darkness was already creeping in like a mist. The gargoyle faces at the tops of pillars appeared to spring to life, grotesque images shifting in the twilight. Laus Tibi stared up at the central window displaying Christ in judgement; the late evening breeze, piercing some crack or vent, sent the candle flames dancing.
Laus Tibi returned to his post near the door of the rood screen. The two friars were still kneeling at their prie-dieus. Soon the vigil would be over, the Lacrima Christi would be taken down and ceremoniously locked in its iron coffer. Prior Barnabas shifted on his prie-dieu and whispered something to Brother Ralph the infirmarian, who struck a tinder and lit the sco. . .
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