The King's Writ

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

With the stakes so high, can Sir Hugh prevent a jousting tournament turning deadly? An exclusive digital novella featuring Sir Hugh Corbett, the medieval sleuth of acclaimed historian Paul Doherty's most popular series. Includes an exclusive extract from his next novel in the series, the follow up to Dark Serpent. Perfect for fans of Robin Hobb and Michael Jecks. In the summer of 1311, a jousting tournament is about to commence in the Tower of London, supervised by Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal. Two powerful lords have come forward with writs from the late king, promising them both the inheritance of a lucrative estate. To settle the dispute, they are submitting their quarrel to the judicium Dei : the Judgement of God. But when a third claimant comes forward, Corbett suspects that something is awry. Corbett launches an investigation to uphold the reputation of the late king as treachery looks set to spread. But it soon becomes clear that more than one person in the Tower has secrets to keep... What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: ' A magical author ' 'Paul Doherty has the rare talent of making you feel as though you are there, be it medieval England, or battling with Alexander. The sounds and smells of the period seem to waft from the pages of his books' ' Doherty has a gift for bringing distant ages alive and for populating his books with endearing, believable characters '

Release date: November 2, 2017

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 70

Sample

Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, King Edward II’s most senior clerk, murmured a prayer against being killed that morning. He was buckled for war; even if it was only breaking lances in a tournament, matters could still turn nasty. Once the trumpets brayed, the heralds whirled their banners and the warhorses charged, it was really in God’s hands. Corbett’s heavy steel helmet closed about him; it not only protected his head but virtually cut off smell, hearing, sight and speech. The helmet reduced his world only to what he could see and sense through that narrow slit.

He stirred in the heavy, high horn saddle and the powerful, raw-boned destrier moved with him. The clerk stroked the animal’s neck with one gauntleted hand whilst the other tightly clutched the ashwood lance, its pointed tip now free of the corandel that kept it blunted. The weight of chain mail and pieces of plate armour on Corbett’s chest, back, arms and thighs seemed to press even closer. He blinked the sweat from his eyes as he peered along the list, the high canvas-covered barrier that seemed to stretch for an eternity down the middle of the tilt yard at the Tower of London. He wondered idly about the ghosts that allegedly thronged this sinister, blood-drenched fortress. Would the prospect of violence, the sudden shrieking clash and clatter of arms, disturb them as they crouched like spiders, or so the stories described them, against the walls and ancient doors of this ill-favoured place?

Corbett’s warhorse, black as night, snorted and tossed its head, the plume between its ears moving vigorously, a sure sign that the destrier was eager to charge. Corbett lifted his shield, emblazoned with a great crow, his family insignia. According to legend, the Corbetts took their name and title from a crow sent by God that had nourished a famous – or infamous, according to your perspective – ancestor during the dramatic siege of Rouen almost three hundred years earlier. Hence the family motto: ‘Deus pascit corvos’ – ‘God feeds the crows’. Corbett wondered about the truth of such legends. Or was it just that his family had once been a part of that great marauding army of Northmen who regarded both crow and raven as war birds, the scavengers of corpses killed in battle?

A bell rang, its chimes echoing from the steeple of the Tower’s parish church of St Peter in Chains, summoning the faithful to recite the Ave Maria. Corbett quickly murmured the prayer. When he reached the phrase ‘nunc et in hora mortis’ – ‘now and at the hour of our death’ – he paused. He fervently hoped that his hour had not yet arrived.

He blinked, finished the prayer and stared around. Daylight had not fully broken. The sun was still climbing. The summer heat would soon rise and cloak the Tower in its warm, sweaty embrace. Hearing a noise, he stared down the tournament field and heaved a sigh of relief. Sir Giles Middleton, Constable of the Tower and Corbett’s jousting opponent, was now preparing at the far end of the lists, moving slowly towards the canvas barrier in a blaze of colours: red, argent, vert and azure. He wore a ridiculously plumed helmet, whilst the jupon or tunic covering his armour and mailed torso boasted a host of heraldic insignia and devices.

Corbett watched intently as his opponent guided his warhorse into place. The animal was restless, skittish, impetuous, head constantly tossing, moving slightly to its rider’s left. He moved his own destrier slightly away from the barrier, so that when they clashed, he would be that little bit further from his opponent.

‘Master, are you ready?’

Corbett peered down through the slit of his helmet at Ranulf-atte-Newgate. The red-haired, green-eyed, pale-faced clerk was trying not to grin.

‘Ranulf, have you wagered on me? To win or to lose?’ Corbett’s voice sounded hollow and sepulchral. ‘I am sure you have placed a wager that I will end up on my arse in the dust.’

‘Never, Master! I see you as a greyhound in the slips, ready to charge; the victor of the games, the champion who will carry all before him.’

‘Liar!’ Corbett retorted, readying himself. As he lifted the tilting lance, he could feel the full weight of the buckled armour: the padded back and breastplate encasing his body; the armoured vambraces, gauntlets and greaves protecting his arms, hands and thighs. He opened the mouthpiece on his helmet.

‘Whatever you have wagered, let’s pray we win. Let’s pray even more that we begin before I drown in my own sweat.’ He moved his horse slightly. ‘Middleton will be charging into the sun. His mount is fast, strong and powerful but ill trained.’

‘Seriously, why, Master?’ Ranulf moved so that Corbett could see him clearly through the helmet slit. ‘Why this?’

‘You know why, Ranulf. I am the king’s own clerk. I have been sent here by His Grace and Lord Peter Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, to supervise a tournament. Along the Welsh March, twenty miles west of Shrewsbury, lies the rich and fertile valley of Eden: it possesses woods, streams, arable land and rich meadows, a place specially created by God.’ He paused and stared down the tournament field. Middleton was his friend, his comrade, but Corbett was beginning to wonder if his opponent, a slightly younger man, was trying to tire him out by his dilly-dallying.

‘Master?’

‘Oh yes, Ranulf, you know some of this, but not all. The valley of Eden is a matter of dispute between two powerful Marcher lords, Roger Mortimer of Chirk and Hugh Despenser. His Grace the king does not want a private war being waged along the Welsh March. Due to the good offices of the Church, His Grace has persuaded Despenser and Mortimer to submit their quarrel to the judicium Dei, the judgement of God – in this case a tournament between Mortimer’s champion, Robert Ufford, and Despenser’s nominee, Edmund Pastonal. Whoever wins the tournament will have his claim to the valley of Eden upheld. You and I are h. . .