Dark Queen Rising (Margaret Beaufort Mystery, 1, Band 1) - Softcover

Doherty, Paul

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1780295871 ISBN 13: 9781780295879

Verlag: Severn House Publishers Ltd, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

First in a brand-new historical mystery series featuring Margaret Beaufort, mother of King Henry VII and matriarch of the Tudor dynasty.

May, 1471. The Wars of the Roses are reaching their bitter and bloody climax. Edward of York has claimed the English throne, and his supporters are extracting a savage revenge on all who supported the Lancastrian cause. Surrounded by enemies wherever she turns, the position of Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and mother to Henry Tudor, the last remaining hope of the House of Lancaster, is precarious to say the least.

Determined to protect her son whatever it takes, Margaret must rely on her sharp-witted clerk Christopher Ulswicke to be her eyes and ears. When four bodies are discovered in a London tavern, their throats slit, and Margaret herself is suspected of being behind the crime, it’s up to Ulswicke to prove his mistress’s innocence and unmask the real killer.

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Paul Doherty has written over 100 books and was awarded the Herodotus Award, for lifelong achievement for excellence in the writing of historical mysteries by the Historical Mystery Appreciation Society. His books have been translated into more than twenty languages and include the historical mysteries of Brother Athelstan and Hugh Corbett.

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Dark Queen Rising

By Paul Doherty

Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2018 Paul Doherty
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-78029-587-9

CHAPTER 1

PART ONE

'When both armies were too exhausted and thirsty to march any further, they joined battle near Tewkesbury.'

Crowland Chronicle

'Bless me, Father, for I have truly sinned. It is a month, yes, it was on the second Sunday of Lent that I was last shriven of my sins.'

Margaret of Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, widow of Edmund Tudor, mother of Henry, their only son, and now wife to a very frail Henry Stafford, paused in her prayers. Margaret crossed herself and desperately tried to recall her examination of conscience. She had sat in the lady chapel judging herself, weaning out her faults, but now she could not recall them.

'My Lady?' Brother Ambrose, priest-monk of the Benedictine community of Tewkesbury Abbey, was now quite alarmed. He moved the shriving veil which hung between the mercy pew where he sat and the prie-dieu against which the young countess leaned. Ambrose scrutinised Margaret's thoughtful face. She was not beautiful or even pretty, but she had a look of considerable charm; her complexion was pale and clear, her eyes grey as a morning mist beneath dark, arched brows. She was full lipped and generous mouthed; other monks judged her to be solemn, even severe. Brother Ambrose, however, could detect good humour, even merriment beneath that studious face, ever ready to smile even as the world turned against her. Ambrose realised that was now happening as Fortune's fickle wheel was about to be given another cruel spin.

'My Lady,' he whispered, 'I shall pray for you.'

The countess abruptly rose. She clutched a pair of doeskin gloves and used these to smooth down her fur-trimmed red dress. She touched her dark-auburn hair, as if to make sure it was almost hidden by the exquisitely bejewelled and embroidered headdress.

'My Lady?' Brother Ambrose rose but then fell silent as Lady Margaret raised a hand.

'Can you hear it,' she whispered, 'the noise of battle?'

'My Lord Edward of York and his brothers, Richard of Gloucester and George of Clarence are moving swiftly,' Brother Ambrose replied. 'Abbot John receives a constant flow of intelligence from the battlefield. York intends to put Queen Margaret of Anjou, the Angevin she-wolf and her son Edward to the sword. My Lady, our prayers are with you. I understand that your kinsman, Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, also intends to end all troubles and bring this war, short and cruel, to an end.'

Lady Margaret, however, was no longer listening, but moved to the window of the guesthouse chapel deep in the enclosure of Tewkesbury Abbey. Margaret pulled back the shutters; she turned slightly. 'What date is it?' she murmured.

'Saturday the fourth of May. The feast of St Pelagia and Florian ...'

'... The year of our Lord 1471.' Margaret finished the sentence. 'Truly a day of destruction,' she added.

The countess broke off as a chapel door was flung open. Reginald Bray, accompanied by Margaret's chancery clerk, Christopher Urswicke, hurried into the small chapel. They paused just within the doorway and Margaret heard the distant but chilling sound of mortal combat; the vengeful, vicious crash and clash of steel. Sharp bursts of cannon echoed above the murmur of men roaring their hate and screaming their pain on this hot, early summer's day around the village and abbey of Tewkesbury.

'What is it?' Brother Ambrose demanded.

'Madam,' Urswicke ignored the Benedictine, 'madam, you must come now. We have news from the field. Somerset has broken. He and his army are in full flight.'

Margaret swallowed hard, the pain at what she'd just heard, despite her own secret dreams and ambitions, was a blow to both body and soul.

'How can that be?' she demanded.

'Urswicke is correct,' Bray declared, his harsh voice rasping and loud. 'Madam, do not busy yourself in prayer, but come.'

'To do what?' Ambrose protested.

'What can be done?' Margaret glanced to all three men. 'What can be done when worlds collapse and chaos sweeps in?'

'Come, madam.' Urswicke grabbed his mistress's hand: he nodded at Ambrose and hurried the countess out of the guesthouse chapel. They hastened along paved alleyways where stone-faced saints and angels peered down at them from corners and enclaves. On the tops of pillars, the gargoyles, with their monkey-faces and snarling mouths, seemed to mock Margaret's mood. She decided not to look but kept her gaze down on the ground as they swept around the small cloisters. Here the air was sweet and heavy with the constant tang of incense and the flow of fragrant smells from the abbey kitchens. The day was drawing on and the abbey bells would soon toll, summoning the brothers to break their hunger before returning to the church for another hour of prayer. The battle raging in the fields around the great abbey was certainly making itself felt. Black-garbed monks, hoods pulled close, hurried backwards and forwards, caught up in a panic-growing fear. Margaret glimpsed Abbot John Strensham, deep in conversation with other senior monks in the small rose garden which stretched in front of the chapterhouse.

'Ignore them,' Urswicke whispered. 'Mistress, ignore them! Play the part! Play it now, for the game is about to change if York carries the day.'

Margaret stopped. She squeezed Urswicke's arms and stared into his face. He always reminded her of a choirboy, an impression heightened by his soft, precise speech. Urswicke was smooth-shaven with pale, almost ivory, feminine skin, light-blue eyes as innocent as any child's, merry-mouthed with a mop of dark-brown hair which he apparently never combed. 'A simple- faced clerk' was how someone had described Christopher Urswicke, son of Thomas Urswicke, Recorder of London. Margaret smiled faintly as she held Urswicke's innocent gaze. She looked at him from head to toe. He dressed like a clerk garbed in a dark-brown gown over a jerkin and loose-fitting hose, yet beneath the gown were dagger and sword, and the boots on his feet were spurred as if he was ready to ride at a moment's notice.

'My Lady?'

'I must remember,' she replied. 'There is more to a book than its cover, and that certainly applies to you, Master Christopher. But come ...'

All three hastened down the cloistered walk and out into the warm sunshine. They approached the abbey church and entered through a postern gate, climbing the rough-hewn steps leading up into the great tower. Bray was insistent that they reach the top to see precisely what was happening. The steward's sallow, close face, pointed nose, thin-lipped mouth and square chin were laced with a fine, sweaty sheen. Hot and exasperated, Bray plucked at his chancery robe, running a finger around the neckline of his cambric linen shirt to clear the sweat coursing down his neck. Margaret noticed the cut marks on Bray's cheeks, a sure sign of her steward's agitation when Bray had shaved that morning. Margaret paused on the first stairwell.

'The page boy, Lambert, who brought messages from kinsman Tudor,' she whispered, 'how goes he in all of this?'

'Safely ensconced with the grooms in the abbey stables. Ignore him,' Bray hissed, 'and everyone else will. Start fussing and the world will fuss with you. Isn't that right, Christopher?'

Urswicke just pulled a face. Reginald Bray, chief receiver and principal steward in the countess's household, was regarded as most skilled in his trade, but his dark humour and blunt speech were equally well known. They continued to climb, becoming more...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Severn House Publishers Ltd
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2019
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1780295871
• ISBN 13: 9781780295879
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 224
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Authorised Rep Compliance Ltd, Sarah Hall; +35315133758; sarah.hall@arccompliance.com; ; 71 Lower Baggot St; Dublin; D02 P593; Irland