The hanging tree, p.1
The Hanging Tree, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Also by Paul Doherty
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Historical Note
The Prologues
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Author’s Note
Also by Paul Doherty
The Margaret Beaufort mysteries
DARK QUEEN RISING *
DARK QUEEN WAITING *
DARK QUEEN WATCHING *
The Brother Athelstan mysteries
THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY
THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER
MURDER MOST HOLY
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 *
* available from Severn House
THE HANGING TREE
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 2022
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.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Paul Doherty, 2022
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: 978-1-78029-139-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0895-8 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0896-5 (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.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To Rose Lavin, a woman who loves history, intrigue and a good murder, this book is dedicated to you.
You are a wonderful Nan and I would like to thank you for all you do.
Love Thomas.
HISTORICAL NOTE
By the early winter of 1382, London and the surrounding shires had recovered from the chaos and turbulence caused by the Great Revolt the previous summer. Law and order had been reimposed and London, which had borne the brunt of the uprising, returned to its usual business of making money. England was a prosperous nation. The wars in France had ended and trade was flourishing.
England possessed a most treasured commodity, its beautiful wool, needed by the great textile industry of Europe and no more so than the wealthy cities of Northern Italy. English wool was most prized and Italian bankers flocked to London, creating their own quarter, as they did business with the English Crown. The Lombard bankers became an integral part of London society so that even streets and highways were named after them.
Of course where there’s money, there’s also murder. Greed and the desire to seize what was precious lay at the heart of city life and the business carried on there. Vast sums of money were to be had and everybody wanted a share, be they those dwelling in the underworld of Whitefriars or in the stately mansions along Cheapside. Fortunes were to be had, fortunes to be made, even though the consequences of failure could be too hideous even to contemplate …
(The quotations before each part or chapter are from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales: ‘The Pardoner’s Prologue’).
THE PROLOGUES
‘The Love of money is the root of all evil.’
Magister Henry Beaumont of Colchester, Custos or Keeper in the Exchequer of Coin, gazed around the small antechamber just within the doorway of the House or Mansion of the Exchequer. Beaumont needed no reminding, being a trained clerk for many years, that this was England’s great treasury. The personal property of young King Richard II. Of course, that was the theory. For on that day, the feast of St Hilary, 13 January in the year of our Lord 1382, such treasure was also the property of the King’s uncle, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and self-styled regent to the kingdom during ‘the minority of his beloved nephew’. Gaunt, however, was like the other great lords. He never, in the words of St Paul, allowed his hands to be stained with ‘filthy lucre’. Such matters were best left to the likes of Beaumont.
‘Magister?’
Ralph Calpurne gently tapped the table as he peered through the gaps of the shuttered window.
‘Magister,’ he repeated. ‘It will be Prime soon and then we begin to move the treasure.’
‘We certainly do.’ Beaumont stared around at his small company, the Clerks of the Light gathered about him. They were all waiting for the first sliver of dawn; this would be greeted by a peal of bells from Westminster Abbey nearby, summoning the Blackrobes, the Benedictine monks, to chant the lilting melodies of the Office of Prime.
‘Oh yes an important day.’ Beaumont scratched at his close-shorn head, his lean, sallow face with its sharp eyes and determined mouth and chin, all tense and anxious. Despite the troubles the day might bring, it was also his birthday. Beaumont steeled himself against what the future might hold. He was about to reach an important crossroads in his life.
‘Magister, will the Tower archers be here soon?’
Beaumont smiled at Luke Whitby, the young clerk, fresh-faced though sharp as a razor.
‘Of course, my friend. We are going to move tens of thousands of pounds sterling in gold and silver. It’s to be carted to Queenshithe.’
‘And then?’ Philip Crossley, the oldest of the clerks, thin as a whippet with the face of a lean, hungry weasel asked. ‘What then, Magister?’
‘There’s a great fighting cog, the Ludovico, brought in by the Frescobaldi.’ Beaumont half smiled and wafted a hand to still the usual moans and complaints about the Frescobaldi. The Italian bankers were notorious for loaning the English Crown vast sums, then milking the profits accrued through high interest charges. ‘Anyway,’ Beaumont continued, ‘the treasure will be taken to the Ludovico. It will be safe there; the cog’s a veritable floating fortress.’
‘So there will be a formidable escort?’
‘Well of course.’
‘Where’s Adrian?’ Whitby demanded. ‘We’ll have to move soon, so where is Adrian?’
‘Master Adrian Bloxhall,’ Beaumont replied caustically, ‘is on a most vital errand.’ He grinned as the three clerks stiffened. ‘He’s gone to the buttery. It’s going to be a long, arduous day. I have asked Bloxhall to fetch us morning ales, fresh bread, rissoles and a pot of butter.’ Beaumont spread his hands. ‘We shall celebrate my birthday both at the beginning and at the end of our day.’ Beaumont’s declaration was greeted with murmurs of approval. Further discussion ended as the bells of Westminster boomed out the summons to Prime. All four clerks hurriedly rose to their feet, preparing themselves for the climb up to the treasury. They adjusted belts, fastened cloaks, making sure their boots were securely pulled on.
Beaumont approached the door and glanced through the eyelets. He then opened the door built into the wall of the antechamber and led his entourage into the stairwell of Flambard’s Tower, an ancient edifice built with hard granite blocks. The walls of the tower were at least a yard thick and expertly built. Iron-hard cement had held the slabs fast ever since the time of Flambard, William the Conqueror’s master mason, who had personally supervised the tower’s construction. Flambard’s skill was unique, so much so that legend had it that Flambard had been taught the masons’ art by the demon lords of the air. The tower was at least three hundred years old, yet it showed no signs of wear. The stones, the cement, the wood, seemed as strong as when they were first laid. The tower certainly reflected its creator: dark, forbidding and foreboding. Cold, even on a hot summer’s day. A gloomy, damp place. Cresset torches blazed against the murk, braziers glowed fiercely, yet to no avail. The chill from the stones hung like a veil enveloping the clerks, who shivered as Magister Beaumont produced his unique set of keys and approached the heavy , iron-barred, metal-studded door. Above this, carved into the stones, its letters picked out in scarlet, ran the verse ‘And the Gates of Hell shall not prevail against thee’. The clerks privately prayed that this was so. Beaumont opened the top lock and, with another key, the bottom one. He swung open the heavy door and stepped into a stairwell about three yards across. To the left, built under the bulk of the twisting, narrow, spiral staircase, was a door leading to an ancient cellar or crypt. The door to this was firmly bolted.
Beaumont paused before walking towards the staircase. Above the first step hung a bell under its coping, fastened securely against the wall. Beaumont gave three vigorous tugs in honour of the Trinity, so the bell pealed noisily through the cavernous stairwell. Once the peals died away, Beaumont began his climb up the steep, sharp-edged steps. He moved cautiously. This was truly a treacherous stairway, deliberately so, a sure defence against any fleet-footed thief. Some safety was afforded by the stout, coarse guide rope fastened to the wall. Beaumont gripped this tightly and paused to glance over his shoulder at his three companions, following close behind.
‘Never trust this place,’ Beaumont rasped. ‘And never forget the traps.’ He climbed one more step, then glanced to his right at the small red cross painted on the wall just above the guide rope. Beaumont stretched out, moving his hand until he touched the trip cord still tautly fastened across the eighth step. A simple, but very clever device, to bring any unwary intruder crashing down. Beaumont moved his hand, following the cord to its end, looped through a small metal peg driven into the wall. Beaumont undid this then left the loosened cord for his comrades to see before moving on. He continued his climb patiently, now and again pausing to release further trip cords. The three clerks, trailing cautiously behind, quietly cursed Flambard and all his devilish machinations to protect this tower. Beaumont eventually reached the thirty-ninth step and loosened the last trip cord.
‘Magister!’
Beaumont turned, wiping the sheen of sweat from his face. ‘What is it, Whitby?’
‘The bell! Magister, you sounded the bell but there’s been no response! Our plainchant,’ Whitby murmured, ‘has been sorely disturbed.’
The others behind Whitby also expressed their surprise. Beaumont, quietly cursing, nodded in agreement.
‘We take it for granted,’ he murmured. ‘But you are correct. Despencer should have pealed his bell in reply so, let us see. Let us see.’
He climbed onto the fortieth step, which led into a narrow stairwell dominated by a heavy, iron-barred door very similar to the one below. Once again Beaumont, using two separate keys, opened the top and bottom locks. He pushed at the door and it swung back to be caught by the thick, blood-red sheet of the finest Moroccan leather. The draught excluder, held down by small weights sewn into its hem, blocked his way.
‘Strange,’ Whitby murmured. ‘The arras has not been pulled back. Surely Despencer knew we were on our way up?’
‘I know, I know.’ Beaumont turned and struggled with the heavy leather curtain. He glanced over his shoulder. The treasure chamber was shadow-filled. The torches and most of the candles had petered out. Beaumont, however, concentrated on pulling back the arras, dragging it free of the door. He now swung this open so the other clerks could join him. Once inside, however, all four clerks just stood staring around in amazement.
‘Where are they?’ Whitby gasped. ‘In God’s name.’ Whitby pointed to the five window embrasures, each partially cordoned off by a sheet of Moroccan leather similar to the arras hanging before the door.
‘Magister, what should we do?’
‘I must lock us in,’ Beaumont retorted. ‘That’s what the protocols stipulate.’ Beaumont then shook his head. ‘Oh, never mind the protocols, let’s open these.’
The clerks hastened to obey, pulling back each curtain to exclamations of horror and surprise. The treasure chamber was a paved roundel. Facing the door were five window embrasures, small chambers in themselves, each with a chancery desk and leather-cushion-backed chair. Small coffers stood stacked either side of the chancery desks. The window in each embrasure was a long arrow-slit, filled with stiffened horn polished to a sheen. All the lancets were heavily barred both within and without. The little light they afforded was augmented by a huge lanternhorn hanging on a chain above each desk. This now shed a dancing glow over the horrors perpetrated in each chamber. Indeed, none of Beaumont’s retinue could break free from the terrors which now assailed them. They’d pulled back the arras stretching across each enclave, as well as that over the middle embrasure; this enclave was much larger than the rest and sealed off by a heavy iron-barred gate, which stretched from floor to ceiling.
‘Nothing,’ Crossley exclaimed, ‘nothing’s out of place, except that.’ He gestured towards the enclaves. In all of these, a Clerk of the Dark sat slumped in his chair.
‘Even the Magister.’ Whitby pointed to the central embrasure, where Despencer slouched in his treasury chair.
‘I don’t …’ Calpurne’s voice died away as the entrance bell below echoed noisily through the tower. Beaumont strode back to the door and tugged hard at the bell rope to send a peal of acknowledgement. A short while later, Adrian Bloxhall, face all sweaty, bustled through the door carrying a large food hamper.
‘In heaven’s name.’ Bloxhall exclaimed. ‘What …’
‘Put the hamper down.’ Beaumont became all assertive. ‘Adrian, put the hamper down and come with me. The rest of you stand back.’
The other three clerks were only too pleased to remain stock still. This chamber, their daily workplace, now terrified them. The deathly silence and those five comrades, Clerks of the Dark, sitting so eerily at their desks, their very posture proclaiming something truly heinous had occurred here. The clerks watched as Magister Beaumont and his henchman Bloxhall moved from one embrasure to the next. On one occasion they had to pause when Beaumont put his face in his hands, as if to control his stomach. The inspection continued. Beaumont and Bloxhall eventually walked over to the great central pillar. The Magister leaned against this, staring down as he tried to control his breathing. Bloxhall hurried off to the jakes cupboard in a narrow enclave close to the door. After some noisy retching, he staggered back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘They’re dead.’ Beaumont lifted his head. ‘They are all dead.’
‘How?’ Whitby gasped. ‘In heaven’s name, Magister, how?’
‘And there’s more.’ He gasped. ‘The treasury boxes have been emptied; the coins are gone. Nothing there but bags of spent charcoal.’
His companions could only gaze fearfully back.
‘I will check again but undoubtedly,’ Beaumont flailed a hand, ‘all of our comrades have been murdered, garrotted, and the treasure plundered. We must leave this now and send for Master Thibault.’
Clement the Key-Master, once a leading figure in the Guild, a true craftsman, was, on that day, 13 January, the Year of Our Lord 1382, absorbed by depictions of the power of Hell. He stood hidden deep in the shadows to the right of the main door of St Erconwald’s Church in Southwark. Clement had become totally distracted, fascinated by the freshly painted fresco which now covered that stretch of wall between the door and the shadow-filled north transept. Clement knew all about the parish of St Erconwald, as well as one of its leading parishioners, the Hangman of Rochester. This most notable of executioners had been held over the font and baptized Giles of Sempringham, his true name. Giles, however, had followed a tortuous path through life to become Southwark’s leading hangman. An executioner who could despatch a felon in the twinkling of an eye, a sheer drop from the gallows’ ladder so the condemned fellow’s neck snapped as sharp as that of a chicken bound for the oven. The hangman was also a most gifted painter. What fascinated Clement on this particular occasion was the fresco entitled by a scroll spat out of a demon’s mouth. It proclaimed one word, ‘Murder!’ The nightmare painting reflected Clement’s own dark mood and deep anxieties. The fresco was a graphic, vivid depiction of a meeting between Lord Satan and Cain, Adam’s son and the world’s first murderer, who had slain his own brother Abel out of sheer jealousy. In the painting Satan was flanked by three henchmen, Murder, Lust and Greed. The person Satan wished to do business with was a handsome young man with golden hair, garbed in a silver-blue robe studded with diamonds. Cain, the master of murder, was also protected by evil spirits. The first was a ferocious cat-faced demon with a curled tail and clawed feet. The demon’s monstrous head was turned slightly to glare out of the painting, so his globulous white eyes, with no pupils, seemed to be staring at Clement, as if wondering whether he should pounce and drag Clement’s soul down to a hellish banquet where he could sit and sup with demons. Clement peered closer at a second evil spirit, a demon assassin with spiked hair and pointed ears, its black tongue thrust out through yellow, rotting teeth. The demon was garbed like a knight for combat, with a peaked helmet nestling in the crook of his arm. The demon wore a long daggered surcoat, gloriously festooned with skulls, whilst long-toed sollets sheathed the demon’s claw-like feet. Behind this master of Hell, half concealed in the murk, stood more of the devil’s squires: grotesque, horned, pot-bellied demons all armoured for war. Above this hellish host hovered Death, an evil-looking crone with a dire face and dreadful body. The crone, undoubtedly the Angel of Death, was sharp-kneed and sharp-elbowed, her skin roughly crinkled. The crone’s shift was pulled back to reveal long, ghastly shanks. Now absorbed in this story from Hell, Clement wondered where the hangman had learnt his art. Did this fascination with the dead and the life beyond the veil have its roots in his work as a hangman? Clement closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. He must remember why he came here.
