Dark queen watching, p.1
Dark Queen Watching, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Paul Doherty
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Historical Note
Historical Characters
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Author’s Note
Also by Paul Doherty
The Margaret Beaufort mysteries
DARK QUEEN RISING *
DARK QUEEN WAITING *
The Brother Athelstan mysteries
THE ANGER OF GOD
BY MURDER’S BRIGHT LIGHT
THE HOUSE OF CROWS
THE ASSASSIN’S RIDDLE
THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN
THE FIELD OF BLOOD
THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS
BLOODSTONE *
THE STRAW MEN *
CANDLE FLAME *
THE BOOK OF FIRES *
THE HERALD OF HELL *
THE GREAT REVOLT *
A PILGRIMAGE TO MURDER *
THE MANSIONS OF MURDER *
THE GODLESS *
THE STONE OF DESTINY *
The Canterbury Tales mysteries
AN ANCIENT EVIL
A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS
A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS
GHOSTLY MURDERS
THE HANGMAN’S HYMN
A HAUNT OF MURDER
THE MIDNIGHT MAN *
* available from Severn House
DARK QUEEN WATCHING
Paul Doherty
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Paul Doherty, 2021
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-138-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0586-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0585-8 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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To my good friend Lady Grace for all her support and encouragement.
HISTORICAL NOTE
In two brilliant victories at Barnet and Tewkesbury in the early summer of 1471, Edward of York (soon to be proclaimed Edward IV) totally annihilated the power of Lancaster. Edward became ‘Master of his House’, ably supported by his wife, Elizabeth Woodville, as well as his two brothers, Richard and George, and a host of veteran war captains, such as Hastings and Norfolk. Edward’s rule at home went virtually unchallenged. However, Edward’s victories also chilled the other great powers of Europe. France in particular was deeply worried. Once again, a powerful England might unleash invasion and war in Normandy as it had earlier in the century, before the English, under the inept Henry VI, were driven from France by Joan of Arc, the ‘Maid of Orleans’. Other powers like Burgundy and Brittany were also watchful and wary. Would Edward resurrect English dreams of pillaging France and occupying its major cities? The drama was about to unfold. Edward, however, was slightly distracted by one remaining shadow of the House of Lancaster. Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, was a living reminder of Lancaster’s claims, which had now fallen to her own son Henry Tudor. This young prince had fled to hide in Brittany in the hope of better days to come. Margaret, Tudor’s mother, was ruthlessly determined that, however long it took, that day would dawn!
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HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
House of York
Richard Duke of York and his wife Cecily, Duchess of York, ‘The Rose of Raby’.
Parents of:
Edward (later King Edward IV),
George of Clarence,
Richard Duke of Gloucester (later King Richard III).
House of Lancaster
John of Gaunt: son of Edward III, founder of the Lancastrian dynasty.
John Duke of Bedford: Gaunt’s grandson, regent of the kingdom during the early minority of his infant nephew, Henry VI.
Henry VI, Henry’s wife Margaret of Anjou and their son Prince Edward.
House of Valois
Louis XI, King of France.
Others:
Duke Francis of Brittany.
Duke Charles of Burgundy.
Joan of Arc, ‘La Pucelle’, ‘The Maid’, Saint and heroine, who played a most significant role in driving the English out of France.
Pedro the Cruel: King of Castile.
John May: Abbot of Chertsey.
Sir Thomas Urswicke: Recorder of London.
House of Tudor
Edmund Tudor, first husband of Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, and half-brother to Henry VI of England.
Edmund’s father Owain had married Katherine of Valois, French princess and widow of King Henry V, father of Henry VI.
Jasper Tudor, Edmund’s brother, kinsman to Henry Tudor (later Henry VII).
House of Beaufort
Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, married first to Edmund Tudor, then Sir Henry Stafford and finally Lord Thomas Stanley.
John Beaufort, first Duke of Somerset and Margaret’s father.
Christopher Urswicke, Margaret Beaufort’s personal clerk and leading henchman.
Reginald Bray, Margaret’s principal steward and controller of her household.
The comments before each part attest to the power and utter ruthlessness of the Garduna.
PROLOGUE
‘The Garduna were a secret army licensed by God’
Lucien Barras, a high-ranking clerk in the King’s Secret Chamber, the Cabinet Noir deep in the Palace of the Louvre, did not realise that he would die so swiftly and so barbarously that day. The words of scripture, so far as Monsieur Barras was concerned, were certainly fulfilled! ‘I shall come like a thief in the night and you do not know the day nor the hour.’
Lucien rode towards his death, spurring his horse along the winding highway between Paris and the embattled town of Provins. Lucien had a meeting at The Salamander, a lonely auberge deep in the woods which fringed the highway on either side. At the crossroads Lucien immediately turned his horse off the main thoroughfare, guiding it along a coffin path which snaked between the ancient oaks. Lucien sighed in relief when the oppressive green darkness gave way to the auberge’s high curtain wall, its iron-studded gates pulled back in welcome. Lucien dismounted, led his horse into the stable yard and handed the reins to a cheery-faced ostler. The royal clerk then stood for a while staring around. Nothing was amiss. Nothing out of place. No hint of danger. Lucien stared up at the light blue sky. Despite the freezing winter cold, the day was a good one for travelling. No rain, no blustering breeze, only meagre wisps of crawling mist whilst the air was clear and bracing, the ground underfoot ideal for riding.
Lucien realised he was early but he still had to break his fast. The clerk walked through the main door and along a stone-paved passageway. He entered the taproom, which smelled deliciously of cooked salted ham, ripening onions, fresh vegetables, the fragrance mingling with those from the great bowl of potage suspended neatly over the flames in the taproom’s massive hearth. Other customers were there. Four gamblers arguing over the hazard cup and a group of ferreters with their cages, traps and sacks. These sat cheek by jowl with labourers from the fields and cottages which ringed the tavern. The floor was clean and clear, the tables well-scrubbed.
Lucien took one of these in the far corner beneath a shuttered window. A scullion hurried across. Lucien ordered some wine, a platter of hot spiced meats and a bowl of potage from the great cauldron. He glanced around. No one seemed interested in him. Good! He glanced at the tall tallow candle; its flame had not yet reached the agreed hour ring. He still had time to relax. Lucien sipped the wine and pulled his warbelt closer. He was a member of the Luciferi. François, his captain, always insisted on constant vigilance, especially now. The Luciferi, busy in the Cabinet Noir, had receiv ed good intelligence that a battle group of the Garduna, that legion of professional killers, had left Toledo, hired by Heaven knew who, to carry out some malevolent mischief across the Narrow Seas. Edward of England might well be no friend of France, but the Garduna were deeply hostile to the French Crown and the House of Valois. The Garduna were a cancer in the body politic. A coven which constantly conspired against France, be it within or without. Had not the Garduna been instrumental in the assassination so many years ago of the Duke of Orleans on the streets of Paris? A murder which divided France, leaving it vulnerable and exposed to the Goddams and all the power of England. Rumour had it that the Garduna were also responsible for the capture of the saintly Joan of Arc at Patay, which had led to La Pucelle being publicly burned in Rouen. The Garduna had meddled in all of this; hired by the Duke of Burgundy and, at his insistence, the Holy Maid had been handed over to the English, who were determined on her death.
François had no real information about the battle group except that they were moving to England where they would set up camp. Little more than that, François could not say, except to add that someone very powerful and very rich must have hired them. The Garduna were not cheap. They fielded a highly organised battle group, organised in different ranks and divided by specific functions. The Luciferi had been ordered to seek out any information they could. Lucien had cast his net far and wide, desperate to discover any scrap of information from his many informants, men and women across Paris and beyond. One of these, Etienne, a merchant who plied his wine trade between the city and Provins, had written to him urgently about a conversation he’d overheard in this very tavern. How the person he’d been watching had spoken fluently in Spanish in the rash belief that no eavesdropper would understand what he was saying. He was wrong. Etienne’s mother hailed from Castile and Etienne could speak and understand the Spanish tongue easily enough. He had eavesdropped on the conversation of the two travellers, apparently journeying to meet comrades. Apparently they were all involved in some bold enterprise which would inflict great hurt to France, England, and above all the House of Lancaster.
‘Monsieur?’
Lucien broke from his reverie and stared at the taverner, garbed in a thick leather, blood-stained apron.
‘Are you Monsieur Lucien?’
‘Perhaps, why?’
‘My apologies, Monsieur Lucien, but I did not want to make a mistake. You are expecting to meet someone called Etienne?’
‘Certainly.’
The taverner pointed to the ceiling.
‘Your friend arrived an hour ago. He said he was early. He hired a small chamber where he could rest until he met with you. I am sorry, monsieur; I should have spoken earlier.’
‘Never mind, never mind.’
Lucien rose and picked up his cloak and warbelt. The taverner gestured across to the stairs on the far side of the taproom.
‘Go up there and look for the chamber with the letter “A” painted on its door.’
Lucien thanked him and climbed up onto the dusty, dimly lit gallery. He found the chamber easily enough and knocked. No answer, so he pressed on the latch and quietly opened the door. In the murky light, Lucien glimpsed Etienne sprawled face down on the bed.
‘Etienne, Etienne?’
Lucien went and leaned across the bed. He gripped his informant’s shoulder, his fingers brushed Etienne’s face. Lucien felt the wet sticky blood and abruptly turned to confront the two cowled figures who slipped out of the shadows. Lucien fumbled with his warbelt but it was futile. One of the hooded shapes lunged with his own dagger; a killing blow to Lucien’s throat, slashing it open in a few heartbeats. Lucien crumpled to the floor, jerking and shivering as he choked on his own blood. His two attackers watched him die. Once he had, they crouched down, emptying Lucien’s pockets and purses before taking the dead man’s cloak and warbelt. They did the same to Etienne and, using the light from the small table lantern, carefully searched the chamber for anything else of value.
‘So, Manelato, everything comes in full circle.’ The speaker, a tall, thick-set man with long black hair, his heavy, swarthy face almost concealed by a thick moustache and beard.
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Sit down,’ the other declared, pointing to a stool. Manelato did so. The Master, as he called himself, picked up another stool and squatted close. He leaned forward, staring into Manelato’s eyes. ‘As I said,’ he declared, ‘everything comes full circle and here we are back at this tavern. They are the Luciferi,’ he pointed at the two corpses, ‘but we are the Garduna, sacred to ourselves, devoted to our cause. Now, my friend, we shall wait.’
‘For whom?’
‘For Juan, yes? The comrade you were talking to when this one,’ he pointed to the corpse Lucien had found, ‘when this one overheard you. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I have summoned him here along with you. There was no one else, was there?’
‘No, Master.’
‘You are certain, you are sure?’ The Garduna leader grasped Manelato’s hand and squeezed hard. ‘You are certain about that?’
‘Master, I am. So why are we here?’
The Garduna leader withdrew his hand to comb his moustache and beard with his fingers, time and again as he held Manelato’s gaze. ‘Manelato, we have business here, and then we are done.’
‘And we leave for the coast?’
‘We certainly do, followed by swift passage to England. Exciting days, Manelato!’
‘Why are we going?’ Manelato fought to keep the tremor out of his voice. Yet, try as he must, he could not hide the secret dread sweeping over him as he sat in this dark, dank chamber with those two corpses, cold and stiffening, and this enigmatic leader, the Master of his battle group, sitting so calmly yet so menacingly. A man of hot temper, ruthless and ferocious. Yet that was true of all of the Garduna, especially its leaders.
‘To England, Master?’
‘We are going there because we are needed. Our services have been purchased.’
‘For what?’
‘Manelato, have you ever heard of the topsy-turvy world?’
‘Where dogs fly and birds chase cats?’
‘Precisely, Manelato, well said, for that is the world of the Garduna. We turn everything like a wheel. We have no allegiance to prince, prelate or people. We have our own laws and customs and we tolerate no other. You must know this? You are a recent recruit?’
‘Only last Michaelmas …’
The Master lunged forward to press a finger against Manelato’s lips.
‘Michaelmas, All Saints,’ he snarled, ‘All Souls, Corpus Christi, and all the other nonsense of the Catholic Church does not concern us. We do not measure our time as they do because we are Garduna. Am I not right?’ The Master turned slightly, watching Manelato out of the corner of his eye. He then gently rubbed the furrowed scar – long-since healed – behind his right ear. ‘A slash,’ he explained in answer to his comrade’s stare. ‘The thrust of a dagger from an assassin despatched by the so-called Holy Inquisition. Holy indeed!’ He grinned. ‘The Catholic Church is our enemy, as are all the princes of this world. We are the Garduna and we answer to no one. So my friend,’ he leaned over and patted Manelato on the shoulder, ‘make no reference to Catholic feasts and practices.’
‘Very good, Master, I agree, but forgive my ignorance, I have only been a member of our order since September last.’
‘I know that.’ The Master continued. ‘You are in the lowest rank, a chivatos, a goat. We always hoped you’d be a nimble one. As for what we intend? Yes, our battle group is bound for England and the power of Edward of York. We have been hired to provoke the very terrors into an ageing countess, and so we shall. However, we Garduna are hired for our cunning as well as our ferocity so, as always with us, there is a plot within a plot.’
‘Master?’
‘Oh, let me put it this way. You unlock one casket and there’s another one sealed inside. And so it is with this business. We have our plans. We will adhere to the two compacts we reached in Arras.’
‘Two, Master?’
‘Oh yes I can tell you that,’ the Master smacked his lips, ‘because you can tell no others. Yes, we reached two compacts, one with Edward of York’s emissary and the second with Duke Charles of Burgundy.’
