A Tournament of Murders

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Fact and fiction start to entwine.... Paul Doherty relates the Franklin's tale in A Tournament of Murders - a tale of mystery and murder as he goes on pilgrimage from London to Canterbury. Perfect for fans of Ellis Peters and Susanna Gregory. Chaucer's pilgrims are sheltering in a friary as they slowly wind their way towards Canterbury. As they settle for the night, away from the darkness outside and the shadowy figures that haunt the lanes and byways of medieval England, the Franklin narrates a mysterious, bloody tale - a true story, he suggests, which not only affects his own life, but the lives of some of his fellow pilgrims... In 1356 the Black Prince has won his resounding victory at Poitiers. However, in that bloody fight, the impoverished knight Gilbert Savage received his death wound. As Gilbert lies dying in a ditch he tells his squire, Richard Greenele, that the story of his parents perishing during the plague is untrue. Richard, if he wishes to uncover what really happened, must travel to Colchester and seek out the lawyer Hugo Coticol who holds a sealed letter telling the truth of Richard's parentage and the dreadful secrets surrounding his father's disgraceful death. This document contains a most macabre confession and Richard finds himself a small step closer to discovering the truth, and compelled to avenge his father's name. What readers are saying about Canterbury Tales Mysteries: ' A Tournament of Murders kept me guessing until the end' ' You can almost feel yourself there ' ' Spellbinding '

Release date: November 27, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

In the candlelit refectory of the Friars of the Sack, which lay outside the village of Singlewell, the Canterbury pilgrims were now resting their weary bones after a hard day’s travel. The clouds had cleared. The sun had proven hot, drying the russet trackway which their horses’ hooves turned to a powdery dust that clogged their mouths and nostrils. If the heat and dust hadn’t been bad enough, a sheriff’s tipstaff had come pounding along the highway. Eyes round in fear, he’d told them to be wary of Black Hod’s gang, a group of outlaws who wandered the Weald of Kent: these villains ambushed travellers, stealing their jewellery, clothes, horses, anything of value.

‘They even,’ the tipstaff’s voice had dropped, ‘molested and ravished women!’ He glanced quickly at the prim prioress who sat daintily in her side-saddle whilst her olive-skinned, handsome priest held the reins of her palfrey. ‘Women of the Church are not safe,’ the official had whispered loudly. ‘To the Black Hod soft breasts and firm thighs are all that matter.’

‘Well, he’s in for a surprise when he attacks me!’ the wife of Bath had bellowed back, her broad-brimmed hat tipped askew over her round, red, fat face. She opened her gap-toothed mouth to continue her description of what she would do to Black Hod when the knight, his gorgeous tabard covered in dust, leaned over and squeezed her hand.

‘Madame, with me, you shall always be safe.’

The good wife of Bath simpered. The prioress looked archly at the knight, lips more pursed than ever. After all, she was a prioress conversant in French, albeit in the fashion of Stratford-le-Bow. She should have had first claim on the knight’s attentions.

‘Don’t worry, my lady.’

The summoner, drunk as a sot, had pushed his horse alongside the prioress’, his wart-covered face only a few inches from hers. Dame Eglantine smelt the stale ale fumes and the reek of his unwashed body and turned away in disgust so the summoner had raised himself in his stirrups, emitted a loud fart and returned to his wineskin.

Once the tipstaff had rode on, Mine Host, the owner of the ‘Tabard’ in Southwark, consulted with the knight and the yeoman, then organised his little troupe into what he termed ‘a military formation in the manner of Alexander the Great’. No one had a clue what he was talking about. However, after a great deal of confusion, the knight, his son the squire, the yeoman, the summoner and the friar had taken the lead; the haberdasher, dyer, fuller and others on the flanks; the franklin and the merchant were at the rear with Mine Host, surrounding the ladies of the party in the centre. In the end Black Hod did not make an appearance although they passed a gibbet where the yellowed cadaver of one of Hod’s companions hung mouldering. Accordingly, apart from a hare loping across the road, the dull songs of the birds and the rustling in the thickets on either side, their journey had been uneventful.

Now they could relax: their horses were stabled and the good Friars of the Sack had provided accommodation in their guest house. Beds had been inspected and all were full of praise for the crisp, white sheets, the absence of any fleas or sign of any rat-dung amongst the rushes on the floor. They had supped well on turbot grilled over charcoal, fresh manchet loaves with honey cakes afterwards. Mine Host had organised a collection to pay the good brothers. True to his nature, he kept some of this back, in recompense, so he told himself, for organising everything and putting his companions at their ease.

After the meal, they sat around the refectory on stools or in the window embrasures drinking their wine, quietly gossiping with each other. Mine Host, sitting by himself in a corner, felt fresh and invigorated. He cradled his tankard of malmesy and studied his companions. By God’s little toe, he thought, they are a motley lot.

‘A penny for your thoughts, sir.’

The taverner looked up into the cheery face and merry eyes of Geoffrey Chaucer, poet and diplomat, a man who kept to himself. He also amused himself by watching his companions, studying their every mannerism, tone and speech. The taverner was convinced that Chaucer was making careful note of every one of the pilgrims and the stories they told each day. The taverner waved to the stool beside him.

‘Sir Geoffrey, as always, you are most welcome.’

Chaucer sat down, stroking his snow-white beard and moustache.

‘I have the penny, Mine Host.’

‘My thoughts are free,’ the taverner teased back though he tapped the side of his tankard, ‘I’d like to see this brimming.’

Chaucer called across to a servant who stood beside the door and pointed at the landlord’s tankard. The boy came across, carefully avoiding the summoner who leered and lurched forward, one hand out to clasp his buttocks. The young lay brother was as quick as a whippet and the summoner fell flat on his face to a roar of appreciation from his companions. The servant, slightly out of breath, filled their cups then hurried back, stepping on the prostrate summoner’s fingers and making him howl with pain.

For a while Chaucer and the landlord watched as the pardoner and the miller, not too steady on their feet, helped the summoner back on to his stool.

‘He’s never sober,’ Chaucer remarked.

‘He likes his drink,’ Mine Host replied. ‘Though he’s not the fool he pretends to be.’

‘That,’ Chaucer commented, ‘could apply to everyone in this room, Mine Host. Have you noticed,’ he continued, ‘how they all seem to know one another? The knight is wary of the monk. Ever since Sir Godfrey’s story about the Strigoi, the blood-drinkers of Oxford, the monk constantly watches him but never dares draw him into conversation.’

‘Aye,’ Mine Host replied. ‘And whenever the monk comes near the knight, the squire’s hand falls to his dagger.’

‘Then there’s the prioress,’ Chaucer declared. ‘A lady of the Church, though very aware of her rights and privileges. Prim and proper she is, pert as a peacock, except where that lawyer is concerned.’ Chaucer nodded to the far corner where the man of law was talking in grave, hushed tones to the franklin and merchant. ‘When she looks at him, the prioress becomes all coy and hot-eyed.’ Chaucer supped from his cup. ‘God knows but I’d wager they were lovers many years ago. I have seen them both whispering together.’

‘The man of law told a grand tale,’ Mine Host replied, ‘of secret passions and long-lost love. Sir Geoffrey, you may well be right. I wonder if people only came on this pilgrimage because others were present?’

They stopped talking as the miller lurched to his feet and gave a strident blow to the bagpipes he always carried under his arm.

‘That’s what I think of reeves!’ he bellowed. ‘I hate bloody reeves!’ the miller continued, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘The bastards always want this or that for the master!’

The gentle-eyed village priest tried to intervene but the reeve, despite having the look of a frightened rabbit, sprang to his feet, his hand going to the dagger at his belt.

‘Aye, pull your hanger, bully boy!’ the miller shouted. ‘And I’ll knock the shit out of you!’

‘Time for another story,’ Chaucer whispered.

Mine Host sprang to his feet and banged his pewter cup against a brass plate hanging on the white plaster wall.

‘By St Tristram and St Isolde!’ he roared, advancing on the two would-be combatants. ‘Whoever starts a fight here will feel my fist. The good brothers and their servants are not used to such discord.’

He looked so fierce and threatening that both the miller and the reeve hastily took their seats. Mine Host slurped from his tankard.

‘Gentle pilgrims,’ his harsh voice now a soft purr. ‘Are we not good friends and companions united in devotion to the Blessed Thomas? We have had a good day’s travelling, good rest, sweet food and fine drink. So now, before the hour becomes too late, let’s hear another story.’ He pointed to the window where the shutters were thrown back. ‘Look, the sun is beginning to set.’ He paused as a dog howled as if to emphasise his words. ‘Even though the day be ever so long,’ the landlord intoned. ‘At last the bell rings for evening song.’

‘And, after the struggle, the turmoil and the fight,’ the franklin finished the poem for him. ‘At last will fall the gentle night!’

The landlord smiled and beckoned the franklin forward. The worthy in question surprisingly obeyed. He stepped into the pool of candlelight, his dark brocaded robe, lined with fur, thrown elegantly over his shoulders, only partially concealing the white cambric shirt, dark-green, velvet hose and black riding boots of moroccan leather. The franklin looked a merry soul, with his twinkling eyes, nut-brown face and white beard. A man with a good knowledge of food and drink: how to cook a capon; how to grill a trout; and what piece of venison was the most tender and succulent. Now he cradled his own drinking cup, a gold, jewel-encrusted goblet; the eyes of the summoner and the pardoner flared with greed. Nevertheless, the franklin seemed a shrewd man; as he brushed by the summoner and his party, he kept his hand on his purse of murrey velvet which, two or three times, the summoner had tried to cut. The landlord watched him curiously as he approached.

‘Sir, you wish to tell a tale?’

The franklin removed his velvet cap and bowed mockingly.

‘Sir, I have eaten and drunk well and the stories of Black Hod have sent my mind racing.’ The franklin surveyed his companions. ‘Now the sun is setting,’ he declared. ‘The shadows grow longer. I will take up Mine Host’s challenge to tell a tale to puzzle the mind and stir the blood. I have such a story, one laced with sorcery.’

‘Is it true?’ the carpenter shouted out from where he sat leaning against the wall.

‘That’s not fair,’ Mine Host intervened. ‘Each pilgrim must tell a tale, one to suit the night. He need not say whether it be true or not.’

‘I was only asking,’ the carpenter, resentful of Mine Host’s superiority, bellowed back.

‘Now, now!’ The franklin raised his hand. ‘Listen, all of you: as I talk, you decide whether my tale is fact or fable.’

He paused as the door suddenly swung open, making the wife of Bath jump and squeal. The friar swept into the room, his robes slightly awry, his face flushed and sweaty.

‘I have just been to say my beads,’ he slurred, as he slid along a bench.

‘More likely in the stables with a wench,’ the seaman whispered darkly, making his companions all snigger.

Mine Host, watching the friar brush his robes, could only agree. Lecherous as a sparrow the fellow is, he thought. He’d seen how the friar had scarcely slipped from his brown-berry palfry before he’d begun to sidle up, feeling the buttocks of the young goose girl. Yet, the landlord sipped from his tankard, it wasn’t his business to tell men of the church how to run their houses or remind friars about their vows. Instead, he grasped the franklin by the hand and took him across to a high-backed chair which stood in the inglenook of the huge fireplace.

‘Sit yourself down, sir,’ the landlord grandly announced. He snapped his fingers at the servant to come across to refill their cups. Mine Host then looked around the refectory. ‘There will be no more interruptions, not unless you want them. So come, sir, let’s hear your dark tale.’

‘My story,’ the franklin began, ‘happened many years ago. It had its roots in macabre murder. It came to full flower at the end of a bloody battle.’ His face grew soft. ‘And yet it was tinged with love, loyalty and a little magic. So, listen to me now.’

At Poitiers, the bloody struggle between the massed armies of England and France was now drawing to a gory close. Ever since early evening, phalanx after phalanx of massed French knights had thrown themselves on the English position, only to be driven off by arrows which fell like a constant, angry rain from the darkening sky. The lines of English archers had not broken. Time and time again, behind their protective line of stakes, they had stood or knelt and loosed arrow after arrow into the gorgeously garbed French knights whose shining armour and glorious livery now turned a bloody red mixed with mud and slime. In some places the French dead lay two, three feet deep: horse and rider cast down by the accuracy and sheer fury of the English archers. The Black Prince, Edward III’s eldest son and premier general, had stood and watched the carnage before ordering a general advance into the depleted French ranks. The carnage had continued. King John of France, clothed in his Milanese armour under a blue and gold surcoat emblazoned with the silver lilies of France, had been taken prisoner. Other French lords, his counts and generals, had surrendered. Those who didn’t, died, pricked with arrows or lay gasping on the muddy soil. Some choked to death, others were despatched by English men-at-arms who pushed their misericord daggers through the cracks in their armour between visor and hauberk and slit their noble throats.

Nevertheless, the English, too, had suffered casualties. In a muddy ditch beneath a hedgerow, Sir Gilbert Savage, a poor knight, lay gasping as the blood seeped through his armour, forming a dark-red pool around him. In the gathering darkness, his squire, Richard Greenele, tried to make him comfortable.

‘I should undo your straps, Sir Gilbert,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘At least tend the wound.’ He peered down at the knight’s sad, weather-beaten face. ‘Shall I fetch an apothecary or leech?’

‘Damn all their eyes!’ Sir Gilbert whispered. ‘Let me at least die with dignity in my armour.’ He caught Richard’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grip and raised himself up. ‘Listen,’ the dying man hissed. ‘No priest, no apothecary. Richard, you are to leave the battlefield now!’

‘Now?’ the young squire retorted. ‘But, Sir Gilbert!’

‘The battle is finished,’ the older man replied. ‘The Black Prince has his victory. I was commissioned to serve for six months and a day. My term is finished and my time is up. Sir Gilbert Savage is for the dark. Who will now care about an impoverished squire?’

Greenele looked at Sir Gilbert’s face in surprise. He’d always thought his master was old. However, looking at him now in the pale moonlight, the noise of battle still echoing around them, the squire realised Sir Gilbert must be no more than forty summers old.

‘I shouldn’t have left you,’ he confessed. ‘But when the French broke through . . .’

‘I sent you for help,’ Sir Gilbert gasped. ‘You only did my bidding.’ He stopped and held his side. ‘A French knight,’ he continued, ‘I thought I’d taken prisoner. Instead,’ Sir Gilbert’s hand went to the gap between his breastplate and the battered piece which protected his back, ‘he thrust his sword in me. Now I have my death wound.’

‘I should stay with you,’ Richard insisted.

Sir Gilbert shook his head. ‘Once I have finished with you, go. Send a leech back to tend me.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Though I’ll not keep him long. Now, listen,’ his grip on Richard’s wrist tightened. ‘You are not what you think you are.’

‘What do you mean?’ Richard asked.

‘Never mind.’ Sir Gilbert shook his head. ‘Time is short. You are to return to England. Go to Colchester in Essex. Seek out the lawyer Hugo Coticol.’ He paused and made Richard repeat the name at least five times.

‘Who is Coticol?’ Richard asked. ‘Sir Gilbert, what does this all mean? You took me into your care when I was a baby, surely, after my parents died of the plague?’

Sir Gilbert’s head went back as if he was listening to the fading sounds of battle around him.

‘The Prince has won a great victory,’ he whispered. ‘They say the French king has been captured. Never again will the power of France make itself felt.’

‘Aye,’ Richard added bitterly. ‘But it has cost me the life of my master, my father and my friend.’

He leaned over. In the dim light he found it difficult to make out Sir Gilbert’s expression. He glanced up, pinpricks of light were appearing in the darkness as the English, now masters of the field, sent out archers carrying torches to search amongst the dead. Richard wondered whether to go across to seek assistance, at least a torch to dispel some of the darkness around him.

‘Don’t go,’ Sir Gilbert rasped, as if reading his thoughts. ‘I’ll answer your questions. Richard, your parents did not die of the plague. They were murdered, terribly and most mysteriously.’ He coughed. ‘I do not know the details but Coticol will hand over to you all the necessary documents.’

Richard sat back on his heels. He gaped, open-mouthed, into the darkness. He’d begun the day as Sir Gilbert Savage’s squire. Oh, he knew he was an orphan, taken in by Sir Gilbert’s generosity. In time he hoped to advance himself, perhaps receive knighthood from some great lord. Now that sword thrust to Sir Gilbert had shattered his life. He had no master and he was being told that the story he’d believed for eighteen years masked a greater mystery. Richard rubbed the side of his face.

‘Don’t be angry with me,’ Sir Gilbert whispered. ‘I took a great oath that before I died, or once you had passed your eighteenth year, I would tell you the truth.’

‘What will happen to you?’ Richard exclaimed, pulling the cloak around him against the biting wind chilling his sweat-soaked body. ‘Your possessions, your. . . ?’

Sir Gilbert laughed softly. Pulling himself further up the ditch, he gasped, holding his side.

‘What possessions, Richard? Battered armour? A horse that’s now dead? A few pennies in my purse?’ He reached down and, grasping the battered saddlebags which Richard had brought with them, thrust these at his squire. ‘After years of duty,’ he continued, ‘in one castle after another, that’s all I have. As the writer says, “we came out of the darkness naked, we go into the darkness naked”. I would want no other. Now, boy, for the love of God, go! Take a horse, God knows there are many rider-less. Make sure it has good harness. Ride to the coast.’

Richard, suddenly frightened at being alone, shook his head.

‘You need help,’ he whispered. ‘I can obtain the services of a leech.’

Sir Gilbert raised his sword in a surprising show of strength and brought the flat down on Richard’s shoulder, the sharp blade only an inch away from his neck.

‘I am your knight,’ he rasped. ‘It is the first duty of a squire to obey. Now, in the name of God, go! That is my last command!’

‘And if I don’t?’ Richard asked.

‘Then you are a base-born rogue and a caitiff, disloyal, no longer my squire, my friend or the son I wished I’d had.’

Savage’s face softened. ‘Please, in the name of God, go and go now!’

Richard leaned forward, pressing away the sword and gently kissed Sir Gilbert on his weather-beaten cheeks and sweat-soaked forehead. As he did so, the tears started in his eyes, hot and scalding.

‘Go on, boy!’ Sir Gilbert ordered gruffly. ‘Leave me to God.’

Without a backward glance, Richard scrambled out of the ditch. Clutching the saddlebag beneath his cloak, Richard Greenele, the poorest squire in Edward of England’s army, staggered across the battlefield of Poitiers. Early in the day, the field had been a lush green meadow maturing under the late autumn sun. Now it was a hell on earth. A thick mist was beginning to roll across as if Nature itself was trying to hide the horror: decapitated corpses, horses threshing about in pain, battering, with their iron-shod hooves, the wounded and the dying piled thickly as leaves around them. The cold night air was turned horrid by the cries and moans of the wounded. Here a Frenchman cried for his mother. Next to him an English archer moaned for his wife and children.

The sound of fighting had now died away. The French were in full retreat, the English too exhausted to pursue. An occasional friar or priest moved across to give what consolation they could. Greenele sent one of these hastening in the direction of Sir Gilbert because the prospect of plunder had brought all the camp followers scurrying about with their little daggers to finish off the wounded and plunder the dead. Sometimes Richard would meet a party of these but the sight of his naked sword and the grim expression on his face afforded safe passage. Occasionally he’d meet a group of English archers who’d hail him and ask his name and title. Richard’s accent soon quietened such enquiries and he was left to his own devices. He would have liked to have stopped; twice he did, to offer his water bottle to men shrieking for a drink. As he did so, he collected weapons; a better sword, a buckler, a dagger, food and drink from a saddle. . .