Authors: Alys Clare
The Winter King
Table of Contents
The Hawkenlye Series
FORTUNE LIKE THE MOON
ASHES OF THE ELEMENTS
THE TAVERN IN THE MORNING
THE ENCHANTER’S FOREST
THE PATHS OF THE AIR *
THE JOYS OF MY LIFE *
THE ROSE OF THE WORLD *
THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE *
THE WINTER KING *
OUT OF THE DAWN LIGHT *
MIST OVER THE WATER *
MUSIC OF THE DISTANT STARS *
THE WAY BETWEEN THE WORLDS *
LAND OF THE SILVER DRAGON *
*
available from Severn House
A Hawkenlye Mystery
Alys Clare
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 published in Great Britain 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
First published in the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59
th
Street, New York, N.Y. 10022
eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Alys Clare.
The right of Alys Clare 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
Clare, Alys author.
The winter king. – (A Hawkenlye mystery; 15)
1. D’Acquin, Josse (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Helewise, Abbess (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
3. Great Britain–History–John, 1199-1216–Fiction.
4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9‘2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8349-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-498-1 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-494-2 (ePub)
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 living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
In memory of my mother,
Joan Harris,
8th August 1917 – 3rd July 2013
with my love
All Saints’ Eve, 1211
I
n the dark years, the last day of October was reserved for the honouring of the dead. The coming of the churchmen meant that the name had been altered; craftily, they grafted a new feast day on to one that the people would have been celebrating anyway, and they dedicated it to their endless panoply of saints.
The fat man presiding over his own feast in his own hall suppressed a belch and reflected that, call it what you will, people always flocked to the promise of free food and drink. If he’d said he was honouring the devil himself, they’d still have come, and they’d still have raised their mugs and goblets when he called for the toast.
The fat man let his intense dark eyes run slowly along the double row of tables that lined his hall, either side of the central hearths. Each table was flanked by benches, and they were so tightly packed that you couldn’t have found space for a sparrow. His gaze moved on, lingering here and there, and with part of his mind he totted up the approximate cost of what he had supplied for the men and women tucking so single-mindedly into their dinners.
He reached for his goblet – it was a beautiful piece; solid silver, gracefully shaped, decorated around the base with gemstones – and, discovering it was empty, he gestured in irritation for the nearest serving boy. With a nervous smile, the lad half-filled the goblet. The fat man took the slender wrist in a savage grip and, forcing the boy’s hand, made him tilt the wine jug until the silver goblet overflowed.
Now which one of the arse-lickers in my hall
, he mused,
had the audacity to tell my own servants how much of my own wine I was to be allowed?
Once more, he moved his eyes down the long lines of revellers. He had his suspicions; not a few of the important lords present depended on the fat man, in more ways than one, and he was not deaf to the mutterings and whisperings that spread the pernicious rumours of his failing health. His narrow obsidian gaze fixed on two likely culprits.
Him? Or what about him?
From somewhere nearby he heard a light, fluting laugh, swiftly suppressed. He put up a hand, as if to wipe his brow – it was very hot in the hall – and beneath it turned his eyes to the beautiful young woman in the rose-pink silk dress. He liked to observe her when she was unaware of his gaze; it gave him a sexual thrill, for he perceived that, in some way, it symbolized his power over her. He had made a spy hole in the wall of the small space where she performed her ablutions. Sometimes, watching her, he had to stuff his fist in his mouth to stifle the sounds that would otherwise have burst out of him.
Tonight she was placed to his left, in what would have been a position of honour, except that the table where she sat was not on the elevated dais upon which his own throne-like chair stood. He, in fact, was the only person present to have that honour, and he had bestowed it on himself.
My hall, my feast, my meats and my wine
, the fat man thought.
I’ll seat my kin and my guests as I please.
Openly now, his eyes bored into the young woman in rose-pink silk. Her gown was low-cut and savagely laced – she was, he observed, having difficulty drawing a deep breath – and the white flesh of her breasts swelled out above the neckline. She was clearly embarrassed by this, for she kept putting up her hand to try to raise the gown a little higher. He’d tell her about that, later. He’d inform her that the damned gown was intended to display her, and he’d administer a reminder or two to force the lesson home; women, in his view, were like puppies, and needed regular physical punishment to teach them to obey without question. And those plump breasts were, after all, his to do what he liked with.
Later …
Deliberately he conjured up an image of her naked body, spread out for him on the furs of the wide bed, pale flesh turned gold by the fire in the hearth. He closed his eyes, emitting a soft groan of desire, and, just for an instant, he felt his flesh respond.
Then the moment was gone.
He stared down at the great swell of his belly. Somewhere beneath the jutting overhang, his useless manhood lay, pathetic, small, soft. He swore, quietly, repeatedly. He
had
to have a son; what was the use of all this new wealth – the jewels, the garments of fine wool and smooth silk, the glossy furs, the supple leather work, the pure-bred horses, the swift hounds, the food, the wines, even the extensive improvements to the very dwelling in which he now sat – if there was no heir to pass it on to?
His first wife had died in childbed, together with the girl child she was trying to bring into the world. The second had done better, although only slightly; her infant son had survived two winters, then died, together with his mother, of a sudden springtime fever. After that, he’d found it harder to find a woman prepared to take him on – God alone knew why – and he’d been alone for too many years, growing older, fatter, unhealthier. Then this heaven-sent opportunity had come and, like many other men who kept their wits about them and their eyes wide open, he had found it all too easy to make the money come rolling in. It had quite surprised him how many mothers and fathers were suddenly eager to throw their daughters at his feet.
The girl in rose-pink silk was his wife of three months. She had come unwillingly to the marriage bed and, despite his initial efforts to persuade her with
very
generous gifts, her reluctance had only increased. He had managed to consummate their union – a feat he’d repeated twice – but, recently, everything he’d tried, or made her try, had resulted in the same dismal failure.
His heavy brows drew together in a ferocious scowl as he recalled the humiliation of his attempt to find advice. He had not wished to broadcast his shame to his own household; to a man and to a woman, they were terrible gossips, not deterred for long even when he made an example of one or other of them with a brutal beating. Instead he had gone, stealthily, at dusk and alone, to consult the infirmarian who tended the Augustinian canons in Tonbridge. The word was that the best healers were to be found among the nuns up at Hawkenlye Abbey, but he could not face discussing his problem with a woman, even if she hid herself behind veil and habit.
In the end, he wondered if that would have been the better option. The monk he saw – a tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled fellow who didn’t look as if he’d ever have difficulty getting and maintaining an erection, and wasn’t
that
ironic? – made him drop his hose, and then proceeded to inspect him minutely, humming to himself as he did so. Then, as if he were addressing some lowly serf, the damned man had said, ‘Your trouble is that you carry far too much weight. The blood that is required for the task you have in mind is too busy keeping you on your feet to do anything else. You eat too much, and your body is constantly working to digest the intake. Do you get breathless? Do you sometimes feel your heart’s trying to burst out of your ribs?’ Before the fat man had a chance to respond, the monk had answered his own questions. ‘Hmm, yes, I thought so. Your swollen, discoloured nose and that purplish tinge to your face are reliable signs.’ He frowned. ‘You also drink too well, and drink is known to be the sworn enemy of potency in a man.’