A missing royal relic and a shocking murder draw Kathryn into dangerous climes... Kathryn Swinbrooke pits her wits against enemies of the crown in, The Eye of God, the second of Paul Doherty's gripping mysteries featuring the medieval sleuth. Perfect for fans of Michael Jecks and Robin Hobb. As the bloody confusion of the War of the Roses rages through 15th-century Canterbury, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, gives the precious royal relic the Eye of God to his trusted soldier Brandon, just before being killed. Ordered to take the priceless Eye of God to the monks at Canterbury, Brandon is captured and held prisoner in the city. When Brandon dies under mysterious circumstances and the Eye of God is nowhere to be found, soldier Colum Murtagh is summoned by King Edward IV to find the relic and physician Kathryn Swinbrooke to assess the death. Resuming their unlikely partnership, the two find themselves in an increasingly dangerous situation. A corpse is pulled from a river and another murder takes place in Canterbury, while Colum is tracked by threatening pursuers. As all signs point to an intrigue involving enemies of Edward IV, Colum and Katherine must rely on each other's wits for protection... What readers are saying about The Eye of God : ' Enjoyable romp through murderous times' ' Eminently readable, extremely enjoyable ' 'The twists and turns of the plot that kept me reading late into the night'
Release date:
June 6, 2013
Publisher:
Headline
Print pages:
198
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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
Easter Sunday, the Fourteenth of April, 1471
Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, strode out of his tent and peered through the fog-bound darkness. From all over the camp he could hear the sound of his men arming for battle. Warwick saw the thick fog rolling up from Deadman’s Bottom near Wrotham Wood, blanketing the field of Barnet and making the small culverins he had brought no use at all. The fog made his armour clammy to the touch whilst, outside his pavilion, the Ragged Staff banners hung limply against their poles. A sign of things to come? Warwick touched the jewelled pendant hanging round his neck, stroking the sparkling sapphire. He looked down at it and muttered a prayer. Men called the jewel the Eye of God, but was God’s eye on him today? In the distance, Edward of York with his bloodthirsty brothers Richard of Gloucester and George of Clarence were advancing up from Barnet to bring him to blows and utterly destroy him.
Warwick gulped and tried to steel himself against a fit of fear. If he won, the road to London would be open. He would re-instate the saintly Henry VI or, if the Yorkists had already killed him, perhaps put another on the throne? A trumpet sounded. Warwick, gripping his helm with its great black-and-yellow plume, strode into the darkness. Knights and squires of his household gathered round him. A page brought his horse whilst messengers from his captains awaited orders. Warwick signalled with a gauntleted hand and his armed retinue moved farther into the darkness. Away from the camp he mounted and inspected his troops already in battle formation: lines of armed men stretching away into the foggy darkness. Warwick’s army was organised into three great phalanxes: his younger brother John Neville, the Marquis of Montagu, in the centre; the Duke of Exeter on the left; and the Earl of Oxford on the right.
A trumpet sounded, followed by shouts and jeers of derision as a group of horsemen broke from the darkness, galloping towards them. Warwick glimpsed the wooden cross the riders carried and the white sheet draped around it. He looked towards his men busily stringing arrows to their bows.
‘At peace!’ he roared. ‘They are envoys and unarmed!’
He, Montagu, and Exeter rode towards the group of Yorkist horsemen clustered under their sign of peace. Warwick let his horse amble forward. How many were there? he wondered. Four, five? Or was it some trick? Perhaps, behind them, some skilful archers already had arrows notched to bow. Warwick reined in his great destrier and stood high in the stirrups.
‘You are envoys?’ he called.
‘We come in peace,’ the leader of the small group shouted back. ‘We bear no arms but messages from His Grace the King.’
‘I did not know you had King Henry with you!’ Warwick taunted, his eyes searching the darkness behind the group of men.
‘We come from the Lord’s anointed, King Edward the Fourth, by God’s grace, King of England, Ireland, Scotland and France!’
Warwick caught the faint Irish accent of the speaker and smiled to himself. He knew this man: Colum Murtagh, whom Edward of York’s father had saved from a hanging. Now a marshal of the Yorkist household as well as Edward’s principal scout and messenger, Murtagh was no assassin. Warwick dug in his spurs and his great war horse ambled forward, the Lancastrian generals behind him. He stopped within hand’s reach of Murtagh, studying the Irishman’s dark face, his raven-black hair damp under its chain-mail coif and brown protective hood.
‘You are well, Irishman?’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘And your message?’
‘Honourable terms from His Grace, profitable to you, my lord earl, if you accept them.’
Warwick heard the angry murmurs of his companions. They understood the message. In former times, in a more golden age, Warwick and Edward of York had been closer than David and Jonathan, sworn brothers bound by amity and solemn oaths. Now all that was shattered but, even now, York still hoped he could win Warwick over.
‘And my companions?’ Warwick spoke up. ‘These men who have been with me in my great cause? What does the King offer them?’
‘He offers them nothing, my lord.’
Warwick forced a smile and nodded. He moved and the Irishman caught the brilliant glint of the sapphire on the golden pendant. Warwick caught his glance and fingered the pendant carefully.
‘Gold and jewels, Irishman,’ he murmured. ‘Gold and jewels, I’d give them all for an honourable peace.’
‘Then throw yourself on the King’s mercy, my lord.’
Warwick gathered the reins of his horse into his hands and shook his head. ‘I refuse!’
‘Then, my lord,’ the Irishman continued, raising his voice for all to hear, ‘the King calls you traitors, rebels, and promises, if you’re caught in the field, bloody death!’
‘Is that all, Irishman?’
Murtagh turned his horse away. ‘What more did you expect?’
Warwick urged his horse forward and the Irishman turned in alarm, his hand going to where his sword hilt should have been.
‘Peace, peace, herald!’ Warwick whispered. ‘I bear you no ill will, Murtagh. You have your task and you performed it well.’ He seized the Irishman’s hand and pressed a gold piece into it. ‘Take that!’ he urged. ‘And, if the battle goes against York, show it to one of my captains. Your life will be spared.’
The Irishman studied the gold coin carefully.
‘If it goes badly for you,’ he replied, ‘as it will, my lord, I’ll spend it on masses for the repose of your soul.’
Murtagh turned his horse and led the small Yorkist party back down the road towards Barnet.
Warwick watched them go. He turned and smiled cheerily at his generals. He hoped his genial reassurance would cure their sombre thoughts and anxious faces.
‘They will come on fast,’ he declared. ‘My lords, it’s best if you take your positions.’
He took off his gauntlets and shook the hands of his generals, watching each ride off until only he and his brother John remained.
‘You must fight on foot,’ his brother declared abruptly. ‘The men are uneasy, they talk of treason and treachery. They say . . .’ His words faltered.
‘I know what they say,’ Warwick continued evenly. ‘How the great lords of the land will remain on their horses so, if a battle goes against them, they’ll ride like the wind to the nearest port, leaving the peasants to their fate.’
Warwick heaved his armoured bulk out of the saddle, drew his great sword from the scabbard lashed to the saddle-horn. He threw the reins of his destrier at his brother.
‘Give the order, John! All of us must fight on foot. Take mine and the other horses back to the lines!’
John rode off, Warwick’s destrier galloping behind, its sharpened hooves stirring up a splatter of mud. Once more Warwick walked along the three great armoured phalanxes, then took up his command, surrounded by household knights, just behind Montagu’s central division. He peered over their heads; the wall of fog still hung, shifting but thick. Warwick ordered silence; resting his hands on the great hilt of his sword he strained his ears, listening for any sound from the darkness beyond. He heard nothing, so he closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. A page ran up, telling him it was only eight o’clock in the morning, when suddenly Warwick heard, vague and muffled, the enemy marching towards him. Warwick ordered his war banners to be unfurled, but they hung limp and damp. He nodded at his trumpeters, lifted his hand and shouted.
‘For God, King Henry and Saint George!’
The trumpets brayed brazenly into the darkness and the three battle phalanxes, archers and gunners, fired into the wall of fog. The Yorkist trumpets shrilled fiercely back; there were shouts and Warwick’s heart lurched as, out of the fog, charged rank after rank of mailed men.
‘Advance!’ Warwick shouted.
Moresby, the captain of his guard, repeated the orders: the standard-bearers went forward and, with a crash which shattered the eerie darkness, the two armies clashed into a furious melee of twisting, whirling swords, spears and battle-axes. The air dinned with curses, prayers, cries of the dying, shrieks of horror and pain, as men fought in the misty darkness, drenching the soft earth ankle-deep in blood. Warwick wiped the sweat from his brow, peering into the darkness to glimpse his brother’s banner. Beside it, the great blue-and-gold banner of York displayed a sun in splendour. Shouts and cries from the left made him whirl. Warwick watched in horror as a great white standard bearing a Red Boar Rampant appeared on the ridge, driving Exeter’s men back towards him. York’s brother, Richard of Gloucester, was trying to take them in the rear. Warwick rapped out orders, instructing the bulk of his reserve to go to Exeter’s aid. The Red Boar Rampant disappeared. Warwick heaved a sigh of relief, grasped the Eye of God and prayed his patron saint, Archangel Michael, would come to his aid. He heard a shout from the melee in front of him and glimpsed more Yorkist banners around that of his brother. King Edward himself was leading in his reserve, hacking a path through to confront Montagu. Warwick moved his own small force forward. Within minutes he was part of that wall of steel, helmet on, visor down, hacking and hewing at anything which appeared through the slits of his helm. The Yorkists began to give. Warwick withdrew, drenched in sweat, his silver, gold-chased armour, the personal gift of Louis XI of France, now a rusty colour, spattered with blood and bits of bone. Warwick, his squires and pages around him, took off his helmet and stood gasping for air. He turned to the squire beside him and grasped the man by the shoulder.
‘Brandon!’ he shouted, ‘Brandon, victory is ours!’
Suddenly, from the misty fog to Warwick’s right, came screams and sudden movement. Bowmen were breaking away, loosing arrows at the horsemen appearing before them. Men were shouting, ‘Treason! Treason!’
‘In heaven’s name!’ Warwick screamed. ‘Brandon, Montagu’s men, they are attacking Oxford!’
Warwick ran across the battlefield, but the damage was done. Oxford, who had driven one party of Yorkists from the field, had now unexpectedly returned. Montagu’s men, thinking they were the enemy, loosed a volley of arrows. Oxford’s soldiers, sensing betrayal, cried ‘Treason!’ broke and fled. The shouts were now taken up by Montagu’s troops. Panic rippled along the battle line, which began to break as men turned to flee. Messengers ran up, breathless, hot-eyed. Montagu was down! John Neville was dead! Warwick groaned but he had not time to listen. The trickle of fugitives was swelling. Men running away, throwing down their arms, ripping off their armour.
‘Aidez moi!’ the Earl shouted.
He pointed his sword to the battle line, urging the last of his household forward whilst he and a few squires stood beneath his banner, but to no avail. The now buckling battle lines shuddered and broke. Any semblance of order disappeared, even the household knights were shouting the day was lost. Warwick, grasping the Eye of God, stared round, he opened his mouth to shout but no words came out. An arrow whipped by his face as foot soldiers, wearing the livery of York, broke into view. Brandon, Moresby and the rest began to run. Warwick too, his breath coming in short, choking gasps. He was weighted down by steel, the prospect of death and defeat seemed to coil like serpents about him.
‘Tout est perdu!’ he whispered.
The horse line came into sight. Oh, thank God! Brandon was leading his horse forward but Warwick tripped, squelching in the mud, rose and lumbered forward. Behind him the Yorkist foot soldiers leapt and yelped like dogs. He reached the horse, grasped the bridle and found he hadn’t the strength to mount.
‘My lord.’ Anxious-eyed, Moresby took the Earl’s hand, gesturing at Brandon next to him to control their restless horses.
‘My lord, you should flee.’
Warwick plucked the Eye of God from round his neck and thrust it into Brandon’s hands.
‘Take it!’ he gasped. ‘Go to the monks at Canterbury. My last gift. Ask them to pray for my soul!’
Moresby and Brandon were about to protest but Warwick shoved them away. The young men hurriedly mounted as a band of Yorkists reached Warwick. The Earl turned, struggling, but he was pushed to the ground, his visor clawed up. A foot soldier, sitting on his chest, thrust a knife into the Earl’s throat. The Earl jerked once, twice, as his life and ambitions were snuffed out like candlelight. In the darkness, Brandon and the other horsemen rode away even as Colum Murtagh, the King’s messenger, reached the group of soldiers now greedily stripping the rich armour from Warwick’s body.
‘He’s dead!’ one of them screamed. ‘The enemy’s dead! The great Warwick is cut short!’ He peered up at Colum. ‘You are too late for the riches. Rules of war! We got him! We killed him, his armour’s ours!’
‘I came to save his life,’ Colum muttered, staring pityingly down at Warwick’s white corpse, now naked except for a loincloth.
‘What’s the use of that?’ another soldier shouted, now cavorting with Warwick’s richly gilt helm on the end of his spear.
Colum shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘But His Grace the King demands the pendant with its priceless sapphire.’
‘What pendant?’ the soldiers shouted. ‘Before God, master, there is no cross or jewel!’
Colum insisted that they empty their wallets and purses. At last, convinced of their truthfulness if not their honesty, he turned his horse and returned to the King with the news that the Earl of Warwick was dead and the Eye of God had vanished.
The crossroads were bathed in the light of a hunter’s moon and the chains of the gibbet glowed silver-like in the ghostly moonlight. The corpse dangling from the rotting rope hung motionless, as if listening for some sound from the desolate moorland which bounded the coastal road out of Canterbury. The woman waiting in the shadows found it difficult to keep still. She wetted her lips anxiously and peered into the darkness. The message was quite simple. She had to be here before midnight and yet she wished she could flee. She pushed her red hair back and felt the sweat coursing down her cheeks.
‘Of course I could have refused,’ she murmured to herself. She bit her lip. But what then? If I didn’t come here, they would come for me, she thought. She heard a soft shuffling sound in the grass behind her. A twig cracked. She whirled round, her hand going to the dagger pushed into her belt. No one was there, only a silver-dappled fox trotted across the glade fringed by a line of bushes from the crossroads. The fox abruptly stopped, ears cocked, one foreleg slightly raised as it looked towards her. The animal’s head turned, its eyes glinted a dullish red and the woman moaned in terror. Was it an animal? Or some malevolent ghost of the night? Some demon in the form of an animal? The fox looked at her once more, twitched its nose and then trotted on. The woman closed her eyes; she let out a deep sigh and turned back to look at the gibbet. She cut off her half-strangled cry of shock at the hooded, cowled figure now standing beside the scaffold. She would have crouc. . .
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