Banners of Hell

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Medieval; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Summer 1312. The brutal murder of King Edward II's favourite, Peter Gaveston, unleashes a horde of demons . . .

Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, hastens to the Dominican Priory at Blackfriars where Gaveston's corpse awaits burial. But, on arrival, Corbett discovers that a series of macabre murders has turned the priory into a mansion of death, and a killer is roaming free.

Meanwhile, rumours spread that the pirate ships of the Black Banner Fleet are intent on entering the River Thames and, if the Sea Beggars succeed in their mission, they will weaken the king's power throughout the city.

Once again, Corbett must employ his wit and ingenuity to navigate the dangerous and deadly challenges ahead and bring the culprits to justice before matters turn grave indeed.

What readers say about Paul Doherty:
'Paul Doherty's depictions of medieval England are truly outstanding'
'Another brilliant story in the excellent Hugh Corbett series by a superb historical author'
'Good plots, clever twists and mostly impossible to work out'

Release date: June 6, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Matthew Talbot, port reeve along the River Thames, made his way up to the Place of Pity, the execution ground close to Blackfriars Priory, a most sombre place with its death house, soaring gallows, stocks, pillories and whipping posts. The Dominicans of that ancient house had been granted the right of gibbet and pillory, and they often hanged felons guilty of crimes against their community. Thankfully the gallows was now empty of its usual rotting fruit.

When Talbot reached the execution enclosure, he went in and sat down on a bench that provided a good view of the priory. He relaxed. The weather was mild. The night breeze wafted away the vile stench that clung to this place of violent, macabre death, though the reek of fish remained. Talbot glanced across at the mortuary, which lay silent and dark. The bells of the priory had now ceased their constant pealing. The good brothers would be retiring to their dormitories and chambers, though lamplight still glowed at the windows of the priory church and elsewhere; small tongues of fire against the encroaching darkness. Somewhere further along the riverbank a pack of hunting dogs howled mournfully against the strengthening moon. Bats, fluttering black shapes, danced through the dying light whilst the scaffold timbers creaked and groaned as if in protest against the horrors perpetrated there. Talbot winced at how eerie it had become; even the dangling gibbet ropes seemed to be doing a macabre jig in the evening breeze.

‘I must keep my nerve,’ he murmured to himself.

He closed his eyes and recited a Pater Noster and an Ave, finishing his prayers with a Gloria. Then he opened his eyes and leant back, trying to distract himself. He knew the history of this place as he did many of the buildings that lined the Thames, especially the churches fronting the river. Oh yes, Talbot loved nothing more than searching the chronicles and muniments of the past. He was particularly interested in the history of the Thames, which nourished the city, the constant heartbeat of all who thrived there. In truth, the river was part of the present problem. King Edward had deserted his city, fleeing north to be with his favourite, Lord Peter Gaveston, the ‘Gascon boy’ with whom he was deeply infatuated. The great lords, however, had come to hate Gaveston’s influence over the king, especially when he was created Earl of Cornwall and became the recipient of a veritable torrent of lavish gifts. The king seemed unable to resist showering his favourite with lands, titles and treasure.

Once the king had left London, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, Edward’s blood cousin, had moved into the city and, through his henchman Faucomburg, quickly forged a close alliance with the riffler chieftains, the leaders of the London gangs. More dangerous was that Lancaster had used the rifflers to invite into the port of London the notorious Black Banner Fleet, a flotilla of pirate ships under their leader Flambard. Usually, the pirates, the Sea Beggars as they called themselves, remained clear of the south-east coast of England, preferring to hunt along the south-west. Matters had now changed. The Sea Beggars and their fleet were intent on passing through the Narrow Seas. They would enter the Thames and occupy the great quayside of Queenhithe.

Lord Kynaston, the king’s admiral, had become deeply concerned by the news and the emerging threat it posed. Lancaster’s rifflers controlled London’s streets, but the Crown had always exercised authority over the Thames, enforcing that authority with a fleet of war cogs. Usually the port of London was well guarded and protected, but the king’s ships had been forced to disperse, with flotillas being dispatched either to the eastern ports or to stand off the Firth of Forth to assist in Edward’s military campaign against Bruce and his rebellious Scots. Indeed, few war cogs now remained along the Thames. Kynaston tried his best to conceal such weakness by moving ships here and there. Despite this, the Lancastrians seemed to know precisely when, where and how many royal cogs and merchantmen were being deployed. But how did they come to have this information? Collecting such valuable knowledge was a most difficult task. No one, not even Kynaston’s keenest searchers, could keep the Thames, its entire breadth and length, under close scrutiny. Sometimes cloying mists or thick banks of fog rolled across the turbulent waters, blanketing what was happening, muffling all movement and sound. Of course, royal cogs could use such weather to their own advantage, hiding here, hiding there, sailing across to Southwark or up to London Bridge. Nevertheless, whatever they did, the Lancastrians seemed to know.

At his wits’ end, Kynaston had asked Talbot, whom he called his ‘sharpest lurcher’, to investigate. Talbot had worked hard and had come to realise the importance of the fishing fleets, so busy up and down the Thames. Fishermen saw things that others missed. They would know exactly which foreign ships were entering the harbour and how many still stood off the estuary. They could collect this information, which Lancaster could use, but who did these fishermen report to? Talbot had done his best to solve this problem, then he had received a message; an offer of a meeting, where he would be given information ‘useful for his searches’, as long as he came alone here to the Place of Pity.

As instructed, he had arrived just after the priory compline bell had tolled to mark the end of the day. The port reeve hoped he would learn something, or at least remove a suspicion, a constant suspicion, that bothered him deeply. He was sure he was close to finding out the identity of Lancaster’s spy; perhaps tonight would mark the end of his search.

He heard a sound and rose as a black-hooded figure swept towards him.

‘Good evening, Master Talbot!’ The newcomer walked across, hand extended. Talbot seized this unexpected gesture of friendship, but then cried out as he was abruptly pulled closer, onto the serrated dagger his assailant held in his left hand. The blow was so swift, so sudden, he could only gaze in shock at his attacker. He tried to pull free the knife embedded deep in his belly, but it was futile. The assassin slid the blade out and thrust again. Talbot could stand no more. He collapsed to the ground, thoughts flickering like bats against the dying light of his life. As he lay gasping, he glimpsed his assailant’s face.

Time passed. Talbot turned slightly as someone came to kneel beside him.

‘No, no,’ he groaned, trying to raise his head.

‘Pax et bonum,’ the stooping figure whispered. ‘Pax et bonum. I am Brother Crispin, master of the house. Who are you?’

‘Talbot,’ murmured the dying man.

‘And who attacked you?’

‘Bayeux,’ he replied in a feeble whisper. ‘Bayeux!’

Peter Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, King Edward II of England’s beloved brother, or so the king proclaimed, was about to die. Megotta the Moongirl, a child of the sun, realised this as she sat on the cold stone slab in the narrow dungeon deep beneath Warwick Castle. Megotta fully accepted there was nothing she could do but watch events unfurl. There would be no rescue of the king’s favourite. No cavalcade, lances held high, thundering into this fortress to release the beautiful Gaveston back into the arms of his king.

A member of the Apostles, a travelling mummers’ group under their leader the Lord Janus, Megotta did hidden work for Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, Edward II’s henchman in all matters affecting the Crown. During the last few weeks, at Corbett’s insistence, she had stayed close to Gaveston as he was chased the length and breadth of the kingdom. The great barons of the realm, led by Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, and Guy Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, had forced him into Scarborough Castle. The royal favourite, separated from the king and bereft of any armed comitatus, had been forced to surrender to Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, who had placed him in his house at Deddington. Gaveston’s principal enemies had been closely appraised about what was happening. They nursed a special hatred for Gaveston, who had mocked Lancaster as a churl and called Warwick the Black Dog of Arden.

Megotta rubbed her lips on the back of her hand. Not for the first time, she wondered how Warwick had discovered Gaveston’s whereabouts. He had moved swiftly to seize the royal favourite, ignoring the protests of Pembroke and the desperate pleas of the king. Stripped of all his finery, Gaveston had been taken and put on trial in the great hall of Warwick Castle. What happened then was farcical – a mockery of justice. He wasn’t even allowed to plead, but had to face his accusers with his mouth gagged as he was charged with crimes that would send him to the scaffold. Of course he had been found guilty and sentenced to death. Today, early in the morning, he would be dispatched to judgement. He was finished: a dead man walking, a royal favourite to be brutally discarded.

Somewhere deep in the castle a bell began to toll. A sombre, ominous pealing. A summons perhaps to both the living and the dead to witness what was about to happen. Today, peace would be shattered. A path taken that would dominate the kingdom for years to come. Edward loved his favourite beyond all reason. If Gaveston died, the king would never forget nor forgive those responsible.

Megotta realised she must memorise what happened today. Edward would expect that and, above all, above all, so would Sir Hugh Corbett. She crossed herself, offered a prayer, a plea to God to help her through this day, then swung her legs to sit on the edge of the stone slab and stared across at the fallen royal favourite. Gaveston was garbed in soiled rags, yet despite his situation, he lay fast asleep, contented as a babe. The threadbare blanket his guards had given him was wrapped close about him. Megotta studied his truly beautiful face under its mop of golden hair, now stained, streaked and straggly. ‘The handsomest man in the kingdom’ was how Sir Edmund Mauleon had described the Gascon, and he was correct. Gaveston had flawless skin, regular features, full red lips and deep blue eyes with lashes so long any woman would envy them. He was, in the king’s own words, a man he could not live without.

During the last few weeks, Edward and his favourite had become separated. The king had desperately tried to draw Gaveston into his protection, but the barons had created a formidable barrier between the pair. They had now seized the favourite and imprisoned him in the very heart of their power. Edward had not threatened but had turned to pleading, begging the earls not to hurt Gaveston but to release him, offering all kinds of bribes. Yet it was all in vain.

Desperate, the king had turned to Holy Mother Church for help. The bishops, however, replied that Gaveston, because of his obdurate refusal to go into exile, had been formally excommunicated by bell, book and candle, his soul now damned in this world as well as in the world to come. Moreover, they had added, if anyone assisted such a public sinner in any way, they would face similar sanctions. Megotta, however, ignored all this. She was a moon-girl, a child of the sun. She was free to do anything she wanted, and provided she hurt no other soul, what she did was right. She truly believed that the greatest virtue was loyalty. She owed Corbett her life, so what she was and what she did would be governed by him.

Corbett had instructed her to keep as close to Gaveston as possible, and she had complied. When the favourite was taken at Deddington, he was allowed to choose three of his household to be with him. He had chosen two grooms and Megotta, declaring that the moon-girl was a mummer and would keep him both amused and distracted. The great earls had barely acknowledged her, Warwick nodding his agreement as he crumbled some fresh bread seized from the buttery of Gaveston’s residence. The two grooms soon fled, leaving Megotta to her own devices.

She recalled the sharp features of the Keeper of the Secret Seal as he leant close to her, his silver-streaked raven-black hair tied in a queue behind his head, his olive-skinned face fragrant with the scent of Castilian soap. His deep-set hooded eyes were slightly crinkled, as if he was always ready to smile at what he called ‘the trials and tribulations of the times’.

‘Megotta.’ He had grasped the moon-girl’s hand. ‘When the end comes, and it will, stay close to Gaveston. He is more sinned against than sinning, yet everyone will desert him. Remember exactly what he says, what he does; the king will need this.’

‘I kept my promise,’ Megotta whispered now to the dark. However, there were other matters still outstanding, and she had prayed for a miracle. She knew that the royal steward Sir Edmund Mauleon, like Sir Hugh Corbett, hoped that Gaveston might still be rescued, plucked from the clutches of the earls. Megotta’s own acting troupe, or guild of mummers, the Apostles, were close by. She had used them to communicate with Corbett and Mauleon, informing both men that Pembroke was going to lodge the fallen favourite in his house in Deddington then leave to visit his wife. Corbett had replied that he could do nothing against the armed might of the baronage. She did wonder if Mauleon might try to lead a comitatus of his mercenaries into Deddington, but that never materialised. Mauleon, a true fox of a man, would be wary of being trapped and taken himself.

Megotta wondered who had betrayed the royal cause. Somebody must have informed Lancaster and Warwick about Gaveston’s arrival in Deddington. Pembroke had brought him there, then left to visit his wife at Bampton late in the afternoon of 9 June. Early the following day, Warwick had arrived with his comitatus. Someone must have informed him that the favourite was alone and vulnerable. Gaveston had certainly been betrayed, but by whom?

She shivered as a cold breeze seeped beneath the door. She pulled the brazier closer, its wheels squealing. Gaveston woke, pulling himself up, talking to himself in a Gascon patois Megotta could not understand. The royal favourite smiled bleary-eyed before rising to relieve himself over a dirty bucket in the corner. He then returned to sit on the ledge, staring expectantly at Megotta, who secretly wondered if this man so beloved by the king was not slightly fey witted. Gaveston ran his fingers through his hair, sighed and licked dry lips. Megotta pointed to the wine jug and pewter cups on the table just inside the door.

‘Please,’ he whispered.

She got up, filled one of the cups and thrust it into Gaveston’s hand. The favourite drank greedily, then sat cradling the cup.

‘So today,’ he murmured, half smiling at Megotta. ‘Did you know that a witch once prophesied how I would die at dawn? So I will! Ah well, I am shrived, my soul is purged, and no doubt when I am gone they will sing hymns and chant psalms. They will wish me gone; they’ll pray for that. No one will grieve.’

‘Surely not, my lord.’

‘Surely so, my Lady Megotta. Listen,’ Gaveston continued hurriedly. ‘Megotta, for the love of all that is holy, when they are done with my body and my soul has left, look after my poor corpse.’ He stared up at the grey dawn light piercing the lancet window high in the wall. ‘There is so much I need to tell you so you can inform the king. But I dare not. Not here, where the walls truly have ears. Nor can I put you in danger. These earls would surely press you cruelly. They would ask about this document or that document, these letters and those letters.’ He smiled again. ‘But they are all hidden away, kept safe by a host of riddles.’

‘My lord, what do you mean? You make no sense.’

‘No, I do not, and perhaps that is best for both of us.’

He paused as a bell began to toll, a mournful sound to mark the passing hour. Mailed footsteps echoed outside. Gaveston and Megotta sprang to their feet as the dungeon door swung open with a crash and two Welsh archers, Morgan and Radnor, burst into the cell, their bushy whiskered faces almost concealed by their deep hoods. Garbed in Lincoln green, the red and gold escutcheon of Lancaster sewn high on their sleeves, they immediately seized Gaveston. The fallen favourite pleaded that they not be too harsh, a plea Megotta echoed. Both archers ignored such cries, and without even acknowledging Megotta, they dragged Gaveston out of the dungeon and up the steep spiral staircase.

Megotta stayed to fasten on her stout sandals and to wrap her thick sea cloak about her. Then she grabbed her small fardel, a leather bag containing a few possessions, and followed the archers up the steps and into the castle bailey.

A thick mist swirled as if the yard was a cup of ghosts. A place where the dead gathered so they could watch the doings of the living. Certainly a place ready for war and violence. Mailed riders on their destriers milled about, the powerful warhorses snorting as they scraped their iron-edged hooves across the cobbles. Torches flared, blazing against the poor light. From the chapel, which stood on the other side of the bailey, a powerful voice declaimed the psalm for the dead, the De Profundis. ‘Out of the depths do I cry to thee, O Lord. O Lord, hear my voice.’ Megotta wryly concluded to herself that the good Lord would have very little to do with the tempest of passions that swirled through and around these armed men so desperate to kill another human being.

Voices shouted above the creak of harness, the scrape of steel and the neighing of horses. A rider, masked and cowled, broke free from the rest and approached the prisoner. Gaveston recognised Lancaster and fell to his knees, begging for mercy.

‘Enough, enough,’ Lancaster bellowed, turning in his saddle to address the others, shouting that they were to leave immediately for Blacklow Hill.

The great gate to the castle bailey swung open. A trumpet shrilled. A horn brayed. Gaveston was dragged to his feet, his wrists lashed together, the end of the rope being tied around Radnor’s saddle horn, while Morgan rode on his other side with Megotta stumbling beside him. The cavalcade left the castle, wending its way along a coffin path up to Blacklow Hill. When they reached it, the earls, all hooded and cloaked, reined their horses aside so the two archers, their prisoner and Megotta could continue on their way. Gaveston whimpered like a child being beaten. Megotta recalled a prayer she had learnt when playing the role of Mary Magdalene in the York mystery play.

She was still mumbling the words when they reached the brow of the hill. They entered a copse ringed with fresh green grass and sprouting wild flowers. A place of mystery, Megotta reflected; no birdsong, no scurrying noises in the bracken, nothing but the clop of hooves, the creak of battle harness and the noisy breathing of both the prisoner and his escort. Morgan and Radnor dismounted. They hobbled their horses, then confronted the kneeling Gaveston. Megotta stood behind the doomed man, muttering snatches of prayer. Gaveston tried to be brave, but his shoulders shook as he bowed his head to hide his choked sobbing. The mist seemed to have followed them into the copse. Or was it a mist? Perhaps it was a gaggle of ghosts being wafted in to watch the bloody finish to this once powerful man’s life.

Radnor and Morgan threw their cloaks back over their shoulders. Morgan drew his dagger.

‘You’ll not sever my head,’ Gaveston tried to joke. ‘I am too beautiful and fair for that.’

‘True, my lord.’ Morgan lowered his dagger.

He walked towards Gaveston, hand outstretched for the fallen favourite to grasp. Gaveston, however, raised his bound wrists in supplication. Morgan nodded, stooping as if to sever the bonds, only to shift swiftly to the left and lunge. A perfect dagger thrust straight through Gaveston’s heart. The condemned man choked as he swayed backwards and forwards, but then Radnor, who’d also drawn his sword, swift as a dancer, swung back its broad, shining blade. With one sweeping, powerful cut, the Welsh archer severed Gaveston’s head, which rolled away, spilling blood to drench the ground, while his torso spouted a fountain of hot, splashing gore before tumbling sideways.

Both archers stood as if frozen by what they had done. The iron tang of freshly spilt blood hung heavy on the air. A thrush suddenly began its lucid hymn to the dawn. The mist thinned. The hobbled horses moved and snorted. Radnor said something in Welsh. Morgan nodded, sheathed his blade and picked up the severed head with its half-open eyes and gaping, bloodied mouth. Leaving the copse, he shouted down to the waiting horsemen and lifted the head three times like a priest would the host during mass. Someone shouted back, and the horsemen, harness jingling, moved away. Morgan brought the head back and laid it gently next to the torso, which now seemed to float in a widening pool of shimmering blood. The two archers then made to leave.

‘Will you not come?’ Radnor demanded in a singsong voice.

‘No, I will stay and continue the corpse watch.’ Megotta pointed to the pathetic remains of the dead Gaveston. ‘Yes,’ she repeated, ‘I shall keep watch. I shall murmur requiems; who knows if his soul has yet left his body.’ She walked around the corpse, then stared at the two archers, now mounted and ready to leave. ‘God speed you,’ she murmured. ‘Radnor and Morgan, yes? Those are your names?’

‘Yes, mistress, why do you ask?’

‘To warn you both. If you ever fall into the hands of the king, you will certainly die.’

Sancerre, a Gascon and once a leading henchman of the fallen favourite, Lord Gaveston, was very pleased with himself. If the truth be known, and thank God it wasn’t, after a very publicly staged quarrel with Gaveston, he had been admitted into the household and service of Master Hamol Chigwell, leader of the powerful fishmongers’ guild and principal alderman at the London Guildhall, which housed the chanceries and exchequers of virtually all the important trades in London. Hiding in a shadowy enclave on the first gallery of Chigwell’s splendid London mansion, Sancerre knew the full truth. He had not deserted his dear lord, friend and even lover. No! He had volunteered to publicly act the traitor so as to gain admission into Chigwell’s household, for the man was one of the Crown’s – and by implication Gaveston’s – most implacable enemies.

Of course, everything had changed. Gaveston had been forced to flee north, desperate to secure the protection of the king, who was himself finding it difficult to confront his enemies. The great barons had formed themselves into a formidable force calling themselves the Lords Ordainer. These powerful men wanted to dominate the co. . .