A series of poisoned pilgrims requires the services of Canterbury's most intrepid sleuth.. . Paul Doherty introduces his medieval sleuth Kathryn Swinbrooke for the first time in A Shrine of Murders, the first in a gripping mystery series from the acclaimed historical novelist. Perfect for fans of Ellis Peters and Susanna Gregory. A serial killer haunts 15th-century Canterbury. Kathryn Swinbrooke is an independent practitioner of medicine, discovering the benefits of an apple-rich diet for teeth, and prescribing herbs and vinegar for almost every known malady. Canterbury's tourist trade, already jeopardized by the War of the Roses, is further imperilled by a spate of poisoned pilgrims, each corpse accompanied by the appearance of a line or two of rough verse, in style remarkably similar to Geoffrey Chaucer's soon-to-be famous work. Suspecting the murderer is a doctor, the Archbishop asks for Kathryn's help. In a fascinating hunt that pits her against the august town physicians, Kathryn is aided only by her wits, her foul-mouthed, warm-hearted servant Thomasina, and Colum Murtagh, a powerful Irish mercenary. What readers are saying about A Shrine of Murders : 'This is well researched, well written and a good story to curl up with on a dark winter's evening' 'Paul Doherty is a superb writer' ' 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:
187
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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
Wizards and warlocks proclaimed it to be a killing time. Squatting in their damp cells, the monkish scribes dipped quills
in ink-horns and wrote a chronicle of their years, neatly cataloguing the homicides, felonies, treasons and bloody deaths.
The good monks really believed the Gates of Hell were prevailing. After all, so the gossips said, on the Eve of All Hallows
past, the necromancer John Marshall took seven pounds of wax and two ells of cloth to a deserted manor-house outside Maidstone
and fashioned there rude puppets depicting the King, his Queen, and all the great nobles of the land. Marshall had dipped
these in blood, pricked them with bodkins and left them to roast over a roaring fire. Deep in Bean Woods outside Canterbury,
other magicians clad themselves in long skins, the hides of animals with immense tails still attached; they smutted their
faces and called upon the witch-queen Herodias to come to their aid. Other sorcerers, so the chroniclers wrote, made bloody
sacrifices to the Queen of the Night and called upon the ghouls for assistance. Strange sights were seen: legions of hags
flew through the dark watches of the night, leading silent convoys of the dead to black sabbaths and blasphemous Masses.
Such whispering spread even to the city of Canterbury itself. A man with the head of a corpse and a grimoire of spells was
arrested near Westgate, and outside the city limits, a woman who had murdered her husband had a rod struck through her mouth,
a spike through her head; yet when she was buried, her flesh still quivered. Other evils swept in as spring gave way to summer.
The demon sweating sickness appeared, its victims dying in a few hours: some in sleep, some whilst walking, some fasting,
others full of food. The sickness always began with a pain in the head, then the heart; nothing could cure it. All remedies
were tried: the horn of a unicorn, dragon’s water, angelica root. Prayers were offered, relics brought, heaven beseeched,
but Death still strode the foul alley-ways and streets of Canterbury. His skull-like face grinned through the windows, his
bony fingers tapped on doors or rattled on casements in his voracious hunt for victims.
Summer came at last. The sweating sickness disappeared but the violence and blood-lust continued. Strange deaths were reported,
mysterious fatalities amongst those who flocked to Canterbury to seek the help of Blessed Thomas à Becket, whose battered
corpse and cloven skull lay under sheets of gold before the high altar of Canterbury Cathedral. Of course, the living ignored
the dead, and at first the murders went unnoticed. After all, summer was here. The streets were dry, the grass was long and
lush, the water sweet and fresh. A time for travelling, for visiting friends. Folk gathered in their orchards, sipping cool
wine or draining tankards of the ale they’d brewed during the winter months. They discussed the blood-drenched prophecies,
the failings of their betters, and above all the bitter civil war raging between the houses of York and Lancaster.
In the west the Wolf Queen, Margaret of Anjou, plotted with her generals to seize the throne for her witless husband, King
Henry VI, and their son, her golden boy Edward. Her enemies mocked her and said her husband was so holy, he had not the wit nor the means to beget an heir and that the young prince was the offspring of her secret lust
for Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. In London, Edward of York, with his silver-haired wife, Elizabeth Woodville, and his war-hungry
brothers Clarence and Gloucester, gathered in the King’s secret chamber at Westminster and drew up subtle plans against the
She-Wolfs approach. They attended Mass three times a day, sang Matins and Vespers, and all the time plotted the total destruction
of Margaret, her husband, and the entire House of Lancaster. Truly a killing time, and those who could remembered the sombre
lines of Chaucer’s poem about
‘The smiling rascal, concealing knife in cloak;
The farm barns burning and the thick black smoke.
The treachery of murder done in bed,
The open battle and the wounds which bled.’
A few weeks later Robert Clerkenwell, a physician from Aldgate in London, was busy conversing about the fortunes of such a
war in the Checker Board Tavern near the stocks in the centre of Canterbury. Robert was a rich man; the physic he’d sold during
the sweating sickness, rose-water and honey, may not have cured many of his patients, but it had earned the good doctor clinking
purses of gold and silver. Robert thought he’d had a good year.
‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ he would murmur piously as he collected his fees and left his patients to die.
Now that summer had come, Robert had decided to thank God for such favours with a pleasant ride to Canterbury to pray before
Becket’s tomb. The journey had been peaceful, the countryside quiet and sweet, as if the land held its breath whilst kings
and princes manoeuvred to fight. Clerkenwell had been in Canterbury three days; he’d visited the cathedral twice, eaten good meals in the cook-shops and taverns of the city and even paid for the service
of a comely wench who, upstairs in the tavern’s most spacious chamber, had obliged him in every way he wished. Tomorrow he
would leave; his bags were packed and the good doctor had just eaten his last meal at Canterbury or anywhere else: roast quail,
golden, succulent and tender to the taste-buds; fresh vegetables, and clear white wine cooled in the tavern’s spacious cellars.
Now Robert sat back, burping gently, and beamed at his companions seated on either side of him in the great taproom.
‘You mark my words,’ he said, squeezing his pert lips together and patting his expansive stomach. ‘Queen Margaret will be
victorious: she has sturdy Bretons in her retinue, and Somerset and Wenlock are capable generals. Edward of York will be hard-pressed
to keep what he has grasped.’
Clerkenwell’s blue watery eyes glared round, but the other pilgrims were too tired or too drunk to care. Moreover, their companion
the doctor was a tight-fisted man. They’d all hoped that before the evening was ended, he would ask the landlord to broach
a new barrel of wine or at least order plates of roast meat or dishes of comfits to share among his still hungry and less
fortunate companions. The physician smacked his lips and looked around. He picked up his goblet, ponderously swirled the lees
and drained them in one gulp. He sat forward and glared.
‘I want more wine! Hell’s bones! Where is that boy?’
A servitor, his apron stained with particles of food and slops of wine, hurried up, his greasy, uncombed hair masking his
face.
‘You’re not the fellow who served me last time!’ the doctor bellowed. ‘Hell’s teeth, I want more wine!’
The servant nodded, took the cup and hurried away. A few minutes later he returned, the goblet brimming and bubbling, and
sat it down carefully before the doctor. The other pilgrims glanced at each other and some began to stir restlessly. Obviously the physician was not to be their benefactor. Robert sipped the white wine, relishing its coolness
on his tongue and the back of his mouth. He drank again, licking his lips, unaware of the deadly poison now seeping into his
stomach, aiming like an arrow for his heart and brain. The doctor stirred; he felt uncomfortable, his belly churned, his heart
began to flutter, his breath came in short gasps. He stood up, scrabbling at his collar, his whole body now in pain, as if
licked by some invisible flame. The other pilgrims stared in open-mouthed horror as this loquacious physician, eyes popping
out, face bright red, gasped, choked and fought for his life before falling dead on the spot.
As Clerkenwell died in Canterbury, so did his prophecies about the war at Tewkesbury in the West Country. The struggle had
lasted all day, leaving Edward of York the victor. The Lancastrians had been broken, and the red-coated soldiers of Queen
Margaret and the Duke of Somerset were fleeing from the blood-soaked battlefield. They surged up past Tewkesbury Abbey, across
the meadows, desperately seeking a ford or bridge across the river Severn. Behind them the Yorkists howled like wolves and
streamed in pursuit beneath the flapping blue banners bearing the Gold Sun of York or the Red Boar Rampant of the King’s brother
Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Cursing and growling, the Lancastrians pressed into the river. Drowned bodies began to choke
the shallows, and the living trod upon them in their hope of escape. All around them swept their killers, screaming and shouting,
thrusting with spear or hewing with sword, mace and club, sparing no one until the river shallows and the reeds growing there
turned crimson-scarlet with bright gushing blood.
Colum Murtagh stood on the brow of a hill and watched the massacre. He turned his rowan-berry horse, took off his helmet and
threw it down, cursing at the sweat which soaked his dark hair and blurred his vision. He kept well away from the fighting. He was lightly armed with leather jerkin, sword and dagger and, Deo gratias, it was not
his task to kill. The King had insisted on this. He and the other royal messengers were to stay clear, to carry orders between
the different battles and, if the enemy broke, to spy out where their leaders would flee. Murtagh stared at the river glinting
in the sunlight and gently patted his horse’s neck.
‘The poor die there,’ he muttered, ‘the poor, sodding commoners!’ He studied the melee, trying to seek out banners, colours
and liveries of great Lancastrian lords, but he could glimpse none. He turned and stared back towards the great abbey. ‘Where
was Somerset and the rest?’ He strained his green, cat-like eyes, trying to distinguish between the different movements along
the winding country lanes. Murtagh shifted his gaze as a flash of colour caught his attention. Yes, he saw them: a small party
of horsemen carrying no banners, wearing no livery, with helmets and armour tossed aside, were riding across the abbey grounds
away from the battle. Any other spy would have dismissed them as a group of common knights seeking refuge in flight, but Murtagh
knew horses, and these were the best. He turned his own mount and spurred it quickly down the hill to a group of Yorkist commanders
who stood clustered at a small crossroads round their golden-haired King. They turned at the rider dashing wildly towards
them. Murtagh jumped off his horse, and falling to one knee before the King, pointed to beyond the hedgerows.
‘Your Majesty,’ he gasped, ‘the Lancastrian commanders and their henchmen are fleeing west, away from the river.’
Under his crowned helmet, Edward of York’s hard face broke into a grin. He flicked his fingers and issued a series of curt
orders to a knight banneret of his household before turning to pat Murtagh on the shoulder.
‘You’ve done well, Irishman,’ he murmured. ‘The reward is yours.’
By late afternoon the killing at the river had stopped. The Lancastrian commanders, seeing their escape route cut off by Yorkist
forces, had turned, seeking sanctuary in the dark cool nave of Tewkesbury Abbey. But, as the chroniclers wrote, this was a
killing time and the Yorkist soldiers followed them in. The serene silence of the abbey was broken by the clash of swords,
the shouts of fighters and the groans and shrieks of wounded and dying men. The Lancastrians at last reached the sanctuary
and, grasping the corners of the altar, claimed the protection of the Church. The Abbot himself appeared, carrying the golden
cross of his office, thundering out excommunication at any who spilled blood on sacred ground.
The Yorkist soldiers sullenly withdrew, but King Edward gave the Abbot a warning: either the prisoners were handed over, or
the abbey would be besieged. At last the Lancastrian commanders emerged, haggard, dishevelled, a mass of wounds from head
to toe. They did not beg for the pardon they knew would not be theirs. The King’s own brother, the wire-haired, slightly hunchbacked
Richard of Gloucester, was appointed their judge. He set up a summary court just outside the abbey gates. One by one the King’s
enemies were taken before him for summary condemnation, and as the evening sun set, the Lancastrian commanders were hustled
to the block on a makeshift scaffold in Tewkesbury market-place and their heads lopped off.
Colum Murtagh watched the first execution from a tavern window and turned away in disgust. He had played his part. There was
further work to do, but it would be well away from the carnage of the killing ground. He put his hand into his wallet and
felt the two warrants neatly folded there. The first made him custodian of the King’s horses in the meadows outside Canterbury.
The second gave him powers to investigate and report on the dreadful poisonings being carried out in the city. Murtagh lay back on the cot-bed, trying to close his ears to the thud of the executioner’s
axe. He would go to Canterbury; he’d be free of war, and safe, perhaps, from the Hounds of Ulster and their constant plots
against him.
‘What you need is a man.’
‘I have a man. I am married.’ Kathryn Swinbrooke glared at Thomasina’s fat white face.
The latter wiped the sweat from her brow and mopped her plump cheeks with a cloth. She put down the gutting-knife amongst
the giblets of the chicken she had been cutting and smiled knowingly.
‘I have known you since you were thumb-high to a buttercup, Mistress. Aye, you are married, but your husband’s gone, fled
to the wars, and the ugly bastard won’t be back.’ She sniffed.
‘You need a man. A woman is not happy unless she has got a man between her thighs. I should know; I have been married three
times.’
Kathryn looked away and smiled. It was hard to imagine anyone between Thomasina’s tree-trunk thighs.
‘Did they wear chain-mail?’ she muttered.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing, Thomasina.’
Kathryn gathered her black hair, lightly streaked with grey, and edged it under her white linen veil, adjusting the red cord
which kept it in place. She stared round the stone-flagged kitchen. Thomasina must have been up early, for already the place was scrubbed, the stone floor gleaming white,
the table-top soft to the touch after the buckets of hot water poured across it. Even the hooded mantel above the fire glowed
white, whilst the bronze skillet and fleshing-hooks hanging above the fire gleam. . .
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