Realm of Darkness

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Medieval

Synopsis

Paul Doherty's twenty-third medieval mystery featuring Sir Hugh Corbett is a gripping and gruesome tale of murder and mayhem sure to appeal to fans of C. J. Sansom and Bernard Cornwell.

Spring, 1312. Edward II of England is absorbed with his favourite, Peter Gaveston, while his young wife, Isabella, is about to give birth. Isabella's father, the ruthless Philip of France, dreams of a grandson wearing the Crown of the Confessor and starts to meddle - even if that means murder...
Amaury de Craon, Philip's Master of Secrets, is despatched to carry out his deadly deeds and Edward II summons Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, to intercept. Both master spies lodge at the Benedictine abbey of St Michael's in the forest of Ashdown. Supposedly a house of prayer, the abbey holds sinister secrets and treasures which include the world's most exquisite diamond, The Glory of Heaven. However, shortly after their arrival, the diamond is stolen and its guardian murdered. Other macabre incidents follow, Satan is seen walking through God's Acre and a nearby tavern is burnt to the ground and no one escapes. Corbett, assisted by his henchmen, prepares to navigate this hazardous maze of murder...

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: July 7, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

By late spring 1312, Edward II of England was hurtling towards a bloody confrontation with his leading earls, led by his cousin Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. The great barons fiercely resented Edward’s favourite, the humble Gascon, Peter Gaveston, whom Edward had promoted to be Earl of Cornwall, even marrying his cousin to the hated favourite. Lancaster and the others regarded Gaveston as the King’s catamite and, in a word, they wanted him dead as swiftly as possible.

Across the Narrow Seas, Philip of France closely watched events in England. He was pleased to see the division and dissent as he knew this would give him a chance to meddle and interfere in England’s affairs. Philip also quietly rejoiced that his one and only beloved daughter, Isabella, Edward II’s young wife, was now enceinte and would in due course give birth to what Philip truly believed would be a male child. Philip was convinced that his vision of Europe was becoming a political reality. He had married his three sons to Europe’s richest heiresses and now his daughter would give birth to his grandson, who would wear the Confessor’s crown and sit on his throne at Westminster. Philip was determined to meddle even further. He wanted Edward of England at his mercy and the French king even nursed dreams that England would fall fully under his power. However, everything had to be in due order. Philip had destroyed the Templar Order and tried to seize a great treasure once held by the Templars: the Glory of Heaven. Philip wanted this exquisite diamond once owned by Charlemagne, fitting treasure for Philip who viewed himself as Charlemagne’s true successor, Emperor and Pope of Europe. In pursuit of his dream, Philip despatches Monseigneur Amaury de Craon to England and, when he does, the darkness begins to gather . . .

The quotations before each part are from The Life of Edward II, a contemporary chronicle by the so-called Monk of Malmesbury, covering the period of this novel.

‘Neither man nor beast, more a statue.’

The Bishop of Pamiers

 

 

 

Philip, king of France allowed himself a faint smile, which played about his full lips but never reached his icy light-blue eyes. He secretly conceded that the Bishop of Pamiers had neatly caught the character, mood and disposition of his King. Philip deeply rejoiced in that. He always wore a mask so as to appear the most inscrutable of monarchs. He prided himself on being able to observe the rest of the world through slits in that mask without betraying any emotion. Philip sat back on his throne, carved out of the costliest oak, polished and embroidered with glistening silver leaf. The French king pulled his blue silk robe, adorned with golden fleur-de-lis, closer about him. One hand stroked the purple-dyed ermine that lined this cloth of state. Philip then stretched out both hands as if to admire the jewelled rings which adorned his long, claw-like fingers. Lost in his own thoughts he twisted his hands. He watched the jewels catch the light from the host of pure beeswax candles fixed in their gleaming spigots and placed down the centre of the long, oval council table. Philip glanced quickly at his Keeper of Secrets, the principal clerk in the Chambre Noire which housed all of Philip’s most confidential matters, a place of constant darkness at the very centre of Philip’s fortified Palace of the Louvre. The clerk was now busy, deciphering a document using a key known only to him and his royal master. Philip glanced once more at his bejewelled rings.

‘Amaury, Amaury! The Glory of Heaven! God’s most precious jewel.’

‘Your Grace?’ The clerk, Monseigneur Amaury de Craon, raised his head as he placed his quill pen neatly back into the chancery tray on the table beside him. ‘Master,’ he murmured. ‘Do not worry. The diamond will soon be ours.’

‘If Reboham plays his part.’ Philip hissed like an adder ready to strike. ‘Why?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Why does he assume such a name?’

‘I believe there’s good cause, your Grace, but what does it matter as long as he plays his part? Either he does, or Thomas Didymus will never see the light of day. Rest assured, your Grace, Reboham has been bought, both body and soul.’

‘And The Apostles?’

‘Reboham has these all organised. They will strike at the appropriate time. Once the pawns have been removed, the bishops, knights and castles, not to forget the queen, will be taken.’ De Craon pointed across at the gleaming, ivory chess set laid out on its specially designed table. ‘All is ready, your Grace. Perhaps we could indulge ourselves with one more game? The day is not yet done and we have time before your evening prayers?’ De Craon gazed round the dark, tapestried chamber. ‘Though it would be good to rest from here. Perhaps we could play our game in some other room?’

‘No, no, Amaury, we still have so much to do. Now, is all set for fair sail to England?’

‘Your brothers Charles and Louis are ready, as are their retinues. The gifts and documents for your son-in-law, the esteemed Edward, are safely stored aboard The Temeraire, our most powerful and majestic war cog. Your Grace, I repeat, you should not worry.’

‘I do not worry.’ Philip snapped back so sharply, de Craon winced and quietly cursed his mistake. Philip of France openly proclaimed he had no fear of anyone. Indeed, he had spent most of his life proving that to the rest of the world. Only recently, Philip had seized and held captive that tub of lard, Pope Boniface VIII, at Anagni, whilst Philip’s assault on the Templars had been most successful. He had destroyed that fighting order with a farrago of lies as well as the threat of the gibbet, the rack, the gallows and the stake. Philip believed that no one could resist him or his dreams. The House of Capet was the most sacred in Europe, its blood was pure, its destiny laid out by God himself. Philip was simply God’s representative on earth. The French king abruptly sprang to his feet. De Craon meant to follow, but Philip gripped his henchman firmly by the shoulder, so tight that de Craon winced at the pain.

‘Sit and listen, my friend, whilst I express a thought which I have shared with you before.’ Philip released his grip and began to pace up and down the chamber, its floor tiled with gorgeous stone proclaiming the royal arms of the King and those of his ancestors, the Capets. Philip’s velvet-slippered feet made no sound as he walked up and down. This was his sanctum locum, his holy place, where he could sit and share his most secret thoughts. The chamber slightly frightened de Craon, its dancing pools of light made the shadows judder so it seemed a whole host of ghosts had assembled for conclave. Perhaps they had, de Craon ruefully reflected. King Philip had good cause to fear the multitude of souls he had despatched into the silence of eternity. De Craon swiftly crossed himself as he recalled how he had been Philip’s accomplice in the French king’s most subtle schemes and crafty plots. Men and women had died by their thousands, sacrifices made to slake Philip’s thirst for glory and his lust for power. The present situation was no different. Philip was plotting. De Craon watched as his master walked up and down, a favourite habit when the French king was preparing to draw together the threads of some tangled web.

‘You, Amaury, and your dagger man Malpas, are off to England together with my brothers and their retinues. You will take the Sacred Six, those skilled clerks of our Secret Chamber. Now, once in England, you will lodge not at Windsor Castle with the rest, but at a nearby Benedictine abbey, St Michael in the Woods, under the rule of Abbot Maurice. The abbey holds one item I certainly want, and you know it – that lustrous diamond, the Glory of Heaven. The jewel was seized by the English Crown from the Templar Treasury in London. This diamond, once the property of the great Charlemagne, belongs to me, and I shall have it. Amaury, you know the history of that stone. Your task is to bring it home, which should not be hard, should it?’ Philip paused in his pacing and stared down at this most cunning of henchmen. ‘And how will you do that?’

‘Edward of England needs you, sire, he will be amenable.’

‘He certainly might be,’ Philip mused. ‘The Scots under Bruce threaten his northern borders. They make ferocious incursion into those shires along the Scottish march. However, the enemy within is much more dangerous. As you know, Edward has fallen madly in love with a Gascon nobleman, Peter Gaveston. Edward has promoted his darling Peter to be Earl of Cornwall, the King’s principal and only councillor. The other great lords hate Gaveston and have sworn to hunt him down. They will show no quarter, it will be to the death. True, you can see what advantage this gives us over the diamond, but you can also detect the danger, yes?’

‘Of course, your Grace. King Edward and Gaveston might be swept away, leaving your one and only daughter Isabella prey to the noble wolfpack.’

‘Precisely, my friend.’

De Craon sighed with relief at the lighter tone in Philip’s voice, but then started once again as the King grasped his shoulder in another steely grip.

‘Isabella,’ Philip breathed. ‘My darling, darling daughter is Queen of England and is expecting a child.’ Philip released his grip. ‘I believe the child will be a boy. Indeed, I know it will be.’

Amaury repressed a chill. Philip of France could process up and down the central aisle of Notre Dame. He could make offerings to this church or that. He could kneel on his silk-cushioned prie-dieu and have statues and medallions around his bedchamber, but Philip was also a practitioner of the dark arts. Outside in the gardens of the Louvre there was one plot sealed off from the others. So, when Philip wanted to know the future, the King would go there to meet Paris’s most skilled sorcerer, simply known as Tenebrae – Darkness. She would perform the midnight rites, sacrifice a cock hen to the dark and, if necessary, human blood. She would throw the dice then sit rocking herself backwards and forwards as she whispered in a language de Craon could not understand. Nevertheless, her predictions were invariably true. She had promised Philip that Isabella would give birth to a stout, merry boy, and so enhance the power of France and the glory of the Capets.

Philip abruptly released his grip on de Craon’s shoulder as he bent down, his face only inches from that of de Craon. ‘Think, Amaury, my grandson, a Capet, will wear the crown of the Confessor and sit on his throne at Westminster. Isabella will then have a second son, and he will be created Duke of Gascony, and in time this province will be returned to its rightful owner, the French Crown. Oh, yes.’ Philip continued his pacing only to pause and stare at a painting which adorned the far wall, of Philip’s ancestor, the sainted Louis. This depiction reminded him that the House of Capet was not only regal, but sacred, and he had to enforce that. ‘No dream,’ he muttered loudly. ‘Oh no, Amaury, no dream but the return of empire! I will be a new Charlemagne. My writ shall run from England, east to the Rhine and south to the Middle Sea. God’s will be done.’

Philip sat down in his chair and closed his eyes as he became lost in the dream of empire. He seemed asleep but then opened his eyes abruptly and lunged across, grabbing de Craon’s arm.

‘Amaury, Amaury,’ he whispered. ‘All is ready. Tomorrow you must take the road to Dieppe. I talk of grandeur and glory, but you will confront dangers both within and without. Your retinue houses a veritable Judas, yes?’ De Craon groaned at the pain in his arm. Philip released his hand. ‘You yourself,’ the French king pointed at his henchman, ‘believe that’s true, yes? One or more of your clerks, the Sacred Six, is a traitor bought and bribed by that legate of Satan, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal. It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘I believe so, your Grace.’ De Craon chose his words carefully. ‘I have established,’ he continued slowly, ‘that Corbett appears to know more than he should.’

‘Such as?’

‘Your Grace, I have already informed you. Remember?’ de Craon continued hastily. ‘We are to lodge at the Abbey of St Michael in the Woods, and so, I understand, will Corbett.’

‘Is that a coincidence?’

De Craon shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Corbett is the King’s representative. He should, according to all protocols, lodge close to the Queen at Windsor Castle. I am intrigued that he isn’t. In addition, your august brothers, the leaders of your embassy to the English court, will also be staying at Windsor. Corbett should join them. We have also learnt that Corbett has demanded all keys to the chantry chapel, the Silver Shrine and its tabernacle in St Michael’s Church be handed over to him immediately upon his arrival. Corbett must be assuming custody of the diamond, the Glory of Heaven. So, what does he intend?’

‘It certainly means,’ Philip replied, ‘that Corbett and his royal master must know we want that diamond back. We could take it by force or we could offer troops to assist King Edward against those great lords who are intent on destroying Gaveston. One of our conditions for doing so would be that Edward hands over the Glory of Heaven to its rightful owner, namely myself. Two choices,’ he murmured. ‘A quid pro quo or we just take it and face the consequences.’

‘Indeed, sire. Corbett may well have learnt of your secret instructions to me that, if necessary, I seize the diamond on the legal principle that it is our rightful property.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Philip replied. ‘It is more than a coincidence that Corbett has decided to pitch camp in St Michael’s.’

‘He may even know more.’ De Craon rubbed his bruised shoulder. ‘We have Thomas Didymus under close guard. We have used him to advance our cause. Now, because of Thomas Didymus, we have a spy in Corbett’s entourage: Reboham. You and I know all about that. Who he is and what he will do for us?’

‘And?’

‘Your Grace, Corbett seems to have discovered that we have such a spy.’ De Craon laughed quietly. ‘Our English clerk has made enquiries whether the community at St Michael’s knows anything about Reboham or a sect or coven known as The Apostles. They do not, but we certainly do. Corbett is like a dog, he is snouting about looking for a scent and, I believe, someone in our service has given him a lead. I shall find out who.’ Once again, de Craon pointed across to the chessboard. ‘Your Grace, Corbett seems to sense our moves before we make them. One of the Sacred Six, or even more, could be in Corbett’s pay, deep in his pocket. So, your Grace, the board must be swept clear.’

‘So it will, so it will.’ Philip pushed back his chair and got to his feet. De Craon hastened to follow. Philip rubbed his hands together and pointed at de Craon. ‘Once back in England you will also meet your long-lost brother, yes? He may well help you at St Michael’s.’

De Craon just stared bleakly back.

‘Ah well, we are finished here.’ Philip stretched out bejewelled fingers. De Craon knelt and pressed Philip’s hand against his lips before getting to his feet. He bowed and was about to leave when Philip called out. De Craon turned.

‘Your Grace?’

‘My friend,’ Philip pointed to his henchman, ‘whenever you can, wherever you can, however you can.’ Philip fell silent.

‘Yes, your Grace?’

‘Kill Corbett.’

‘Of course, your Grace.’

‘How full of perils is avid discord.’

 

 

 

Matthew Barclay, master of the single-masted cog, The Swallow, out of Harwich, stood high in the prow of his ship as she cut through the turbulent waters just off the Thames Estuary. The sea roads were fairly deserted, most mariners still waiting for spring to reach its ripeness. Barclay, however, was industrious and daring; there were still profits to be made. He stared up at the sky; at least March, the month of spring, had come. Barclay just prayed that softer weather would soon follow. Winter was receding and he could soon resume full, profitable trading between the Cinque ports along the Narrow Seas and those ports of south-east England, Harwich, Walton and the rest, a string of safe harbours. The year of our Lord 1312 might well prove to be profitable. However, like other merchants, Barclay was growing deeply concerned at the news he had received from London. How the young King Edward was refusing to give up his beloved favourite, the Gascon Peter Gaveston. Indeed, the king had continued to shower honours on his friend, whom others openly called his catamite. The great barons, led by the king’s blood cousin Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, were arming for war, and that meant the likes of Barclay had to be most vigilant. If the king was busy elsewhere, all kinds of monsters slunk out of the darkness. Sheriffs and other royal officials, busy collecting troops for the king, would neither have the time nor the energy to enforce penalties against the wolfheads – those outlaws who constantly prowled the roads. Matters would grow even worse if the king’s ships were ordered to stand off this port or transport troops to that harbour or the other. The pirates would seize their chance. They would slip out of their inlets and hoist the red and black banners of anarchy. This blood-drinking pack of sea wolves would be only too quick to prey on the likes of The Swallow.

Barclay stared out across the foaming waters, bracing himself against the biting salty breeze. Above him the seagulls whirled and shrieked hungrily, their clamour almost hidden by the creak and groan of cord and timber as The Swallow plunged through the waves, tipping from side to side now and again, shuddering as the sea clawed at her hull. Barclay pulled up the muffler to protect his face. He would love to go back to his little cabin beneath the stern. He would warm his hands, wipe the sweaty salt from his face and sip mulled wine carefully prepared by Ignato the cook. However, Barclay had been alerted by cries from the falcon’s nest where Delit, the lookout boy, had sighted something in the water. Barclay just hoped it was nothing threatening while he prayed that the mist would continue to thin. The Swallow, sail billowing, cut through the water as sharp and as swift as the bird she was named after. They were making good progress.

‘Again, I see something.’ Delit’s cry carried strong and clear, stilling all sound on the deck below.

‘I see it too!’ Barclay, crouching in the prow, gripped the taffrail tighter. He stared and sighed in relief as the mist abruptly shifted and thinned like smoke against the sky. Barclay blinked and stared again at the devastation the mist had concealed. Large sections of some unfortunate ship bobbed and moved on the water; a battered mast with trailing rope and netting, a huge rail which must have topped some majestic stern. Other pieces of wreckage tipped and turned as the waves crashed into them, sweeping them backwards and forwards. Barclay glimpsed a damaged figurehead with shards of sail. He turned and shouted orders at the tillermen and sail trimmers. Delit was yelling about what he could see. Other pieces of the ill-fated ship were being swept up and hurled back again. Eventually Barclay imposed order. The sail was loosened so it could only flap bravely against the wind while the tillermen found it easier to guide The Swallow slowly forward to nose her way through the debris. Matlock, Barclay’s henchman, joined his master.

‘What do you make of it?’

‘Heaven knows, Matlock. Some unfortunate ship, no doubt, but look, open the weapons chest. Distribute swords and clubs, as well as bows and arrows for those who can at least loose straight.’

‘You fear attack?’

‘I don’t know, Matlock. Just what is this? The result of some pirate attack? Is it a trap for us to loosen sail and tread water?’ Barclay wiped the spray from his face and grinned at Matlock in a display of rotten broken teeth. ‘Or is it something else? An accident? The aftermath of a storm? In which case, there must be salvage, and if there is . . .’

‘It’s ours,’ Matlock shouted. ‘Finders, keepers!’

‘Mist clearing completely,’ Delit shouted out. ‘More flotsam in the water.’

Barclay urged Matlock to hurry and open the weapons chest as he went up onto the last step in the prow. He caught his breath. More debris from the stricken ship now clustered close. One piece of timber hit the bow of The Swallow causing her to turn. Barclay glimpsed the painted scrollwork along the other side of the plank. He could clearly see the name The Ragusa, the letters picked out in glaring red against a snow-white background.

‘Matlock!’ The henchman came hurrying back. Barclay pointed down to the floating debris. ‘It’s The Ragusa,’ he said. ‘Out of London; a Venetian galley. Heaven knows what happened here, but there must be salvage. A rich cargo ship, The Ragusa’s holds would have been crammed with goods.’

‘Master, be prudent, be cautious. Ask yourself what truly happened to The Ragusa, a powerful Venetian galley, well provisioned and armed? Most pirates would steer well clear of it – true?’ Matlock scratched the stubble on his chin and stared up at the icy-blue sky. ‘We had a storm last night, but the weather’s now settled.’

‘You’re saying the wreck is a mystery?’

‘I am. Look.’ Matlock pointed to the rolling waves. ‘The surge of the sea hides whatever is out there. God knows, master. We need to find out more. We must be careful; but we should take a closer look.’

‘We should lower the bumboat?’

‘Yes, master . . .’

‘Body!’ Delit screamed from the falcon’s nest. ‘I see a body in the water! To port, to port!’

Barclay and Matlock hurried across the water-soaked deck. Barclay grasped the rail, Matlock holding on to him as he leant over to view the bloated corpse which the sea and wind kept nudging towards The Swallow.

‘By the rood,’ Barclay hissed. ‘Matlock, get the bumboat ready.’

Eventually the two-oared boat was lowered. Barclay and three of the crew clambered down the thick rope ladder, balancing themselves quickly. Barclay sat in the stern, Ignato the cook perched in the prow, whilst the two oarsmen took their seats. Barclay, gripping the boathook, ordered them to push away. The rowers bent over their oars, trying to keep the boat as steady as they could. Barclay could now see other items shifting about on the water, but he was fascinated by the corpse. They drew closer just as a wave abruptly shifted and the corpse rolled over. Barclay yelled at the rowers to ship their oars as they closed in. The master used the boathook to pull the corpse nearer, then stared in horror at the gruesome sight. The dark-haired, dead man’s face was bloated; Barclay had seen hundreds like him before; the flesh of the drowned always showed this grisly swelling. What horrified him, however, were the malignant black buboes that peppered the dead man’s flesh. It seemed the blackness had seeped to the hands, neck and feet of the corpse. Barclay, who had seen service in the Middle Sea, recalled sighting similar horrors. He recognised what some called the ‘Fiercest of Fevers’ or the ‘Perpetual Plague’.

‘A real demon out of hell,’ he whispered.

‘Master, what do you mean?’ one of the rowers asked. ‘What is this?’

‘Hell’s own offering,’ Barclay replied. ‘We do not touch anything. We must return.’

Once he’d clambered over the taffrail and the bumboat had been raised and stored safely away, Barclay beckoned Matlock to stand by him.

‘We do not look for salvage, master?’ Matlock asked.

‘We certainly do not. We don’t take anything from that wreck. The Ragusa,’ he continued, ‘truly became a plague ship. I suspect the crew died violently.’

‘But why was that corpse naked?’

‘One of the effects of the raging fever: that poor man must have stripped, desperate for coolness. He was not weighed down which is possibly why he floated. The rest of the crew, thank God, must have sunk to the bottom.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘The Ragusa must have become a living hell. Her master, officers and crew were stricken by the plague and left too weak to do anything. Once free of the estuary, the galley must have been hit by a storm. I suspect when she left port there were still people able to do something but, by the time they had reached the estuary, they were incapable of helping themselves. Once out in the open sea, the vessel was battered by both wind and wave. There was no one to man her, no direction given. One furious wave or a surging wind would topple her over, and the angry sea did the rest.’

‘There may be survivors.’

‘There are never survivors from the pestilence; if there are, let the sea have them and may the good Lord rest their souls. Believe me, Matlock, we cannot touch those unfortunates or their property; that is one lesson I learnt from the physicians. Death at sea is a mercy. I just wonder . . .’

‘What?’

‘Who else confronted this living death? But,’ Barclay turned and glanced up at the falcon’s nest before turning back to his henchman, ‘when we dock, my friend, be it in Harwich or Dover, say as little as possible.’ Barclay pushed his face closer. ‘I do not. . .