The Deadliest Sin Read online

  Also by The Medieval Murderers

  The Tainted Relic

  Sword of Shame

  House of Shadows

  The Lost Prophecies

  King Arthur’s Bones

  The Sacred Stone

  Hill of Bones

  The First Murder

  The False Virgin

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © The Medieval Murderers, 2014

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of The Medieval Murderers to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-47111-436-6

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-47111-437-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-47111-439-7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  The Medieval Murderers

  A small group of historical mystery writers, all members of the Crime Writers’ Association, who promote their work by giving informal talks and discussions at libraries, bookshops and literary festivals.

  Bernard Knight is a former Home Office pathologist and professor of forensic medicine who has been publishing novels, non-fiction, radio and television drama and documentaries for more than forty years. He currently writes the highly regarded Crowner John series of historical mysteries, based on the first coroner for Devon in the twelfth century; the fourteenth of which, A Plague of Heretics, has recently been published by Simon & Schuster.

  Ian Morson is the author of an acclaimed series of historical mysteries featuring the thirteenth-century Oxford-based detective, William Falconer, a series featuring medieval Venetian crime solver, Nick Zuliani, and many short stories set in various historical periods.

  Philip Gooden is the author of the Nick Revill series, a sequence of historical mysteries set in London during the time of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. He also writes nineteenth-century mysteries, as well as non-fiction books on language, most recently Idiomantics and World at War, a study of the the impact of World War Two on language. Philip was chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association in 2007–8.

  Susanna Gregory is the author of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mystery novels, set in fourteenth century Cambridge, the most recent of which are Murder by the Book and The Lost Abbot. In addition, she writes a series set in Restoration London, featuring Thomas Chaloner; the most recent book is Murder in St James’s Park. She also writes historical mysteries with her husband under the name of Simon Beaufort.

  Karen Maitland writes stand-alone, dark medieval thrillers. She is the author of Company of Liars and The Owl Killers. Her most recent medieval thrillers are The Gallows Curse, a tale of treachery and sin under the brutal reign of English King John, and Falcons of Fire and Ice, set in Portugal and Iceland amid the twin terrors of the Inquisition and Reformation.

  Michael Jecks gave up a career in the computer industry to concentrate on writing and the study of medieval history. A regular speaker at library and literary events, he is a past Chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. He lives with his wife, children and dogs in northern Dartmoor.

  The Programme

  The Prologue, in which the pilgrims arrive at the Angel Inn

  The first sin:

  Michael Jecks tells a tale of Lust

  The second sin:

  Ian Morson tells a tale of Greed

  The third sin:

  Ian Morson tells a tale of Gluttony

  The fourth sin:

  Susannah Gregory and Simon Beaufort tell a tale of Sloth

  The fifth sin:

  Philip Gooden tells a tale of Anger

  The sixth sin:

  Bernard Knight tells a tale of Envy

  The seventh sin:

  Karen Maitland tells a tale of Pride

  The Epilogue, in which the pilgrims depart from the Angel Inn

  In fond memory of Dot Lumley (1949–2013), general agent and first editor for all the Medieval Murderer books.

  Thanks for keeping us all in line.

  Contents

  Prologue

  The First Sin

  The Second Sin

  The Third Sin

  The Fourth Sin

  Interlude

  The Fifth Sin

  The Sixth Sin

  The Seventh Sin

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The English say that April is the best month to make a pilgrimage. Once winter is over, the roads and tracks become passable again. The skies lift and the days draw out. People begin to grow restless.

  But this particular spring, in the year of Our Lord 1348, was different from other springs. True, the days were growing lighter and longer as they always do, yet the people of England were not so much restless as terrified.

  For a time at the end of the previous year it had been possible to ignore the rumours as mere invention, stories created to frighten children. Extraordinary tales were coming out of the east, tales of poisonous clouds that overwhelmed whole cities and even countries, with scarcely a human being left alive to tell the horrors he had witnessed. But because there were often reports of fantastical things out of the east it was not so hard to dismiss these new alarms.

  Then the accounts of mass dying began to arrive from nearer at hand. The cloud of pestilence reached out of the Levant and crept round the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, from Greece to Sicily to Genoa. According to some, it had already taken hold of the port of Marseilles and the city of Aix and even Avignon, the seat of the Pope. His Holiness commanded penitential processions and prayers, to no avail. The citizens of that holy site fell as rapidly as the inhabitants of the most pagan places beyond Christendom.

  The pestilence had not yet reached England and many comforted themselves with the notion that the sea would keep them safe. Or they believed that God would not permit them to be afflicted precisely because they were English. (After all, hadn’t He provided them with a great victory over the French at the battle of Crécy less than two years before?) But the better informed or the more hard-headed knew it was only a matter of time before the sickness reached their island shores. Indeed, as the spring of 1348 turned to summer there were rumours that the infection had already taken hold at the ports in the far west of the country.

  And when it did arrive at the place where you lived . . . what then?

  Neither prayers nor practical measures had any effect. You might bar the gates of your town and turn visitors away, but the pestilence, in all its cunning, found ways to circumvent every precaution. It was said that people could contract it merely from the glance of an infected victim. Some who had been nowhere near any sufferer fell sick nevertheless and died. And how they died!

  Death took two equally dreadful forms. In this it might be likened to a pitchfork, for though you might avoid being impaled on one of its prongs you would most surely find yourself squirming on the other. Many vomited up copious quantities of blood from the lungs and died very soon afterwards. The rest endured fever a
nd delirium before great swellings erupted in their necks or armpits or groins; after several agonising days they too perished.

  If death by pestilence was like being impaled on a pitchfork, the question was: who was wielding it? Everyone knew that this familiar implement was one of the tools of the demons in Hell. Now it seemed as though the Devil himself were ranging across the earth, twitching his tail and flailing about with his pitchfork. More thoughtful, religious individuals were aware that such things happened only with God’s permission. And since God was permitting His people to be punished with these terrible forms of death, then it could only be because they had committed terrible sins, and then committed them again and again. Deep-dyed in wickedness. they rejected with laughter or contempt every opportunity for repentance provided by a generous, forgiving God.

  If some individual had the temerity to ask whether all the citizens of Genoa or Aix or Avignon – down to the last man, woman and child – had committed sins deserving such terrible punishment, the answer given by the thoughtful and religious was that God’s purposes were inscrutable.

  The only recourse for those English waiting in fear for the pestilence was to pray more earnestly and live yet more devoutly. Of course, not everyone was pious. Some carried on as usual, either because they were resigned to events or because they believed themselves to be God’s favourites and immune on that account. A surprisingly large number decided that, if the end was really coming, they might as well enjoy themselves and blotted out their remaining days on earth by drinking and gambling and whoring.

  And then there were those who hoped that God’s wrath might be averted by going on a pilgrimage. Even had they the leisure and means, there was no question of travelling overseas; for example, to the holy cities of Jerusalem or Rome. So it was fortunate that there were shrines and sacred places closer to hand.

  Not far from the north coast of Norfolk stood a famous shrine to Our Lady. Inside the priory at Walsingham was a chapel that sheltered an image of the Virgin and the Holy Child. The light of many candles was reflected in the offerings of gold, silver and jewels that bedecked the image. Though made only of wood, she was capable of working miracles. Everyone knew that prayers at Walsingham were especially efficacious, for the shrine possessed relics beyond compare, such as the Virgin’s milk preserved in a phial on the high altar of the priory church, or a finger joint belonging to St Peter. The Virgin herself had commanded a healing spring to flow forth near the chapel. It was not only ordinary folk who journeyed to pay their respects there; it was often visited by Edward III and the kings of England before him. If there was any single shrine in England that might be propitious for those hoping to ward off the pestilence, then it was surely Walsingham.

  So it was that, in the spring and summer of 1348, streams of people made their way from all over England to this sacred site. Most made careful preparations before embarking on their pilgrimage to ensure their families and homes, their farms and other businesses were in good hands. In return, they promised to pray for those left behind and to bring back some protective token. Routes had to be planned and stopping-places decided in advance; the devotion of the pilgrims would be increased if due reverence was paid at the churches and lesser shrines on the way to Walsingham. There were even a few, particularly among those dwelling not far from the shrine, who declared they would walk the entire distance on bare feet.

  If you could view these pilgrim parties from high above, you would see them moving along different tracks with a single-minded discipline and shared sense of purpose, moving like currents of water until they converged in larger streams and then in still larger ones before turning into a river that, flowing in from the south, overwhelmed the little town of Walsingham.

  But if you were to come down and observe them at eye-level, if you were actually to walk with them and listen for a time, you would soon realise that not all of these good people were driven by a sense of devotion. Indeed, not every man and woman was going to Walsingham but simply happened to be travelling in the same general direction and was staying with a group of pilgrims for companionship and safety on the road. Among the pilgrims, not every man or woman’s purpose was a holy one. Even at this moment of great peril, with the pestilence beginning to stalk across the land, there were those who treated the pilgrimage as a fair-weather jaunt or a chance to escape their domestic obligations, or perhaps an opportunity to keep company with a neighbour’s wife under pious cover. And the many groups of pilgrims would, for certain, have included a few individuals hoping to profit by the whole enterprise, since souvenirs brought back from Walsingham – or supposedly brought back – would have an especial value to those who stayed behind at home.

  One day in early July, a certain group of pilgrims, made up of several smaller bands and numbering altogether about three dozen people, was still several days’ journey away from Walsingham. Some had come from places to the south and west, such as Cambridge and Newmarket and Bury, but others had travelled much further.

  Now they were not so far from the town of Thetford, which is just over the southern Norfolk boundary. The pilgrims were at a point in their journeying when many would have welcomed the chance to stop for rest and refreshment, particularly as they were on the outskirts of a town that, though not large, still boasted an inn. This establishment, called the Angel, was known to two or three of the group, who were busy recommending it to their companions. The food and drink were reliable, they said, and the landlord was honest and friendly. Another reason for making a halt was that a storm might be on the way. For some time, the travellers had been aware of whispers of thunder beyond the level horizon.

  Yet, because several hours of daylight remained, others in the group wanted to press on to Thetford, which was much larger than this place – called Mundham – and therefore offered more possibilities for overnight lodging. Thetford was also a desirable spot in itself because, like Walsingham, it contained a shrine to the Our Lady at the Cluniac priory.

  As they entered Mundham, a bank of dark cloud suddenly welled up above the forest that lay on the far side of the straggling town. Thunder boomed, this time from nearby. The day was warm, and the pilgrims were dusty and sweaty, but within moments their garments and exposed faces were buffeted by gusts of colder air and drops of rain driven sideways. In a few more moments, it was as if a dark blanket had been thrown across the sky and the drops turned into a downpour. The few people loitering in the main street of the township and idly observing the arrival of the pilgrim party had already run for shelter, together with the dogs that had been enjoying the late afternoon sun.

  There was no discussion now about whether to stop or continue walking and, as one, the pilgrim group made for the Angel inn whose wooden sign rocked in the wind. The company scrambled beneath the arched gateway and into the courtyard, already turning into a mire, and then inside the shelter of the hall that lay on the far side of the yard. A couple of locals were already sitting drinking at the long trestle table that occupied one side of the high, spacious chamber. They looked up from their mugs with a mixture of smugness and annoyance at these new arrivals.

  The landlord, whose name was Laurence, was a cheerful man, not only for professional reasons but by nature. He and his wife made the pilgrims feel welcome straight away, congratulating them on their piety in making the trip to Walsingham and saying that after a long day’s journey they must be ready to take the weight off their feet and to sit down and be refreshed. The couple ushered the pilgrims to the long trestle table, indicating to the two local drinkers that they should budge up, and swiftly pressed a second table into service because there were so many guests. The newcomers were served bread and cheese and wine or ale by a boy and girl whose resemblance to the landlord and his wife showed plainly enough whose they were. All the while the rain rattled against the high-beamed roof and draughts of wind penetrated ill-fitting shutters to lift the rushes strewn across the floor. A fire was going and some of the travellers clustered near it to dry off their clo
thes.

  Now Laurence was faced with a problem, even if it was quite a desirable one for an innkeeper. This was not the first party he had hosted on its way to Walsingham and he welcomed this influx of potential overnight guests but could not accommodate them all in the timber-framed wings that flanked the courtyard of the Angel. How to encourage some of the pilgrims to stay, others to go? In this situation, Laurence thought of business and not of the purpose of the pilgrimage. Like everyone else he feared the pestilence and its effect on trade, if it struck, to say nothing of whether it might touch him and his family personally. But so far the plague had worked to his advantage because the general alarm it produced somehow seemed to shake people up and to provoke more coming and going than usual.

  As they helped to serve the food and drink, Laurence and his wife swiftly sensed which of the pilgrims were inclined to turn this halt into an overnight stay and which of them wanted to brave the weather and reach Thetford before darkness fell. With hints and nods, the husband and wife – well-practised in this kind of quiet persuasion – agreed with the desires of each group. Yes, madam, it does make good sense to remain here at the Angel in Mundham where your comfort and security are guaranteed. Indeed, there have been recent whispers of thieves and outlaws operating in the woods between here and Thetford. And to others they said they admired their devoutness in wanting to get on with their journey to Walsingham as speedily as possible.

  Sometimes it was possible to tell just by looking at people which ones were not likely to stir any further that day. For example, there was a white-bearded man in the company of a younger one and, though the older man seemed very alert, something about the way he turned his head to catch at sounds suggested to Laurence that his eyesight must be very imperfect. He surely would need to stay the night. Then there was that attractive woman – not English, Laurence thought – who definitely wouldn’t wish to expose herself or her well-cut clothes to the mercy of a violent summer storm. And there was a hatchet-faced churchman – a prior, no less – who looked unlikely to put up with a moment’s more discomfort than he had to.