The Hour of the Fox, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Previous Titles by Cassandra Clark
Title Page
Copyright
Map
England. Summer 1399
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Previous titles by Cassandra Clark
The Brother Chandler mysteries
THE HOUR OF THE FOX *
The Abbess of Meaux mysteries
HANGMAN BLIND
THE RED VELVET TURNSHOE
THE LAW OF ANGELS
A PARLIAMENT OF SPIES
THE DRAGON OF HANDALE
THE BUTCHER OF AVIGNON
THE SCANDAL OF THE SKULLS
THE ALCHEMIST OF NETLEY ABBEY
MURDER AT MEAUX
MURDER AT WHITBY ABBEY *
* available from Severn House
THE HOUR OF THE FOX
Cassandra Clark
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.
This first world edition published 2019
in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2020 by Cassandra Clark.
The right of Cassandra Clark 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: 978-0-7278-8958-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-686-9 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0411-0 (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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ENGLAND. SUMMER 1399
It started with the one they called the Fox during that strange, uncertain period when King Richard took control of his kingdom and the old century dragged everyone closer to the Apocalypse. Insufferable heat throughout May and June was followed by scything rains and an unexpected southerly. The weather confused everyone, worried the farmers, and kept the ports closed to trade.
Yet the strangest events were the deaths, one after another. Starting with the old fox himself two years previously – the duke of Gloucester – dead. Then the earl of Arundel – beheaded. And his brother, Thomas Arundel, losing Canterbury from his brooding grasp, in exile – so may as well be dead. Then John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, dead of venery and old age in the February.
Finally, to put the cap on it, for the last six months Gaunt’s son, Henry Bolingbroke, and his crony, Thomas Mowbray, Earl Marshal, were in exile. And – ominously as it turned out – not yet dead.
Despite all this, during May, in the raging sun, the entire City of London flocked to witness King Richard II set off for Ireland at the head of a vast army.
It was a day of unrivalled splendour as he rode out of London astride his magnificent, high-stepping, white destrier, Barbary, with the roar of drums and shrieking sackbuts shaking the walls and all the flags flying. Armour glittered. Pennants snapped. Cavalry horses caparisoned in gold and silver tossed their heads with pride.
The deafening cheers of the crowds lining the narrow streets sounded all the way to Ludgate and beyond. A tumult of well-wishing followed. Children ran alongside shouting the king’s name until they were breathless. Flowers were strewn under the hooves of the horses. Garlands draped the necks of the men-at-arms.
No one would have guessed how it would end although rumours began to shake through the City with the force and brevity of summer storms as soon as the last man disappeared down the road.
The first thing to hint at trouble was when ships were sighted in the Narrow Seas. People ran panicking to arm themselves against the French, believing them to be massing their warships again. Shirts of chain mail were ordered. Swords sharpened. Gangs of lads flocked to the butts to perfect their skills. Merchants stockpiled whatever they assumed would be in short supply. Fights broke out for no reason.
Then the rumours abated and everything returned to the normal squalor of buying and selling and getting by that made up the usual life of the City.
The Prophecy of the Six Kings was repeated, of course, and embellished with dire warnings. The Day of the Lamb would give way to the Mold-Warp. The realm would be split in three. The dragon, the lion and the wolf would bring havoc.
It was commonly agreed that the mystery of the death in a Calais prison of the Fox was the dark force that drove this uncertainty but you might have imagined that the great joust to settle the truth would have brought an end to speculation.
Before he led the royal army to Ireland he tried to settle the thing. Accusation and counter-accusation flew back and forth. Gages were hurled down. Neither Bolingbroke nor Mowbray would accept blame for the accusations being touted. So the king, friend and contemporary of both men, settled the matter as best he could by clearing them both out. Exile the best solution. Give them time to cool their heels in foreign courts.
With both of them out of the way he must have felt he had established a cordon of safety from assassins if what they said had a grain of truth in it. He probably felt he had given fair warning to others not to threaten him in like manner. Yet it settled nothing.
Another rumour circulated as soon as the king himself was absent. Who started it no one knew but it caught hold and went like this: it was King Richard himself who had given the order to have his troublesome uncle put out of the way.
The king!
His uncle, the duke of Gloucester!
The duke – the rumour went – could not have died from natural causes, it passed all belief.
A hale and hearty fighting man in his prime? Dying for no good reason?… except that he was cooped up under Mowbray’s supervision in a cell at Calais … Impossible!
And – the rumour-mongers continued – look what happened to Gloucester’s ally the earl of Arundel, lured to his death by King Richard who, to be fair, had resorted to the law to make sure the man was punished for his treason. And it was treason, no doubt about that, came the rejoinder. The conspirators had dined at Arundel’s castle to discuss their grievances and later it was Bolingbroke himself who told his father what Mowbray had said and Mowbray, calling Bolingbroke a liar to his face, vowed that it was Bolingbroke all along. And then came the joust that-never-was – followed by exile.
What was sure, the cynics pointed out, was that by getting rid of his warlord uncle Gloucester, the Fox, the way was also cleared for young Bolingbroke’s advancement. What about that?
When there was no answer, they pressed the point. Who, they asked, stood between Bolingbroke and the throne? Apart from his cousin King Richard of course there was only the Mortimer child whom nobody reckoned and, added with a knowing wink, the duke of Gloucester, a foxy prince of the blood still young enough to harbour ambitions to be king.
It was obvious what a hopeful nephew would do, they said. He would get his uncle with the annoyingly similar ambition out of the way. Quick sharp.
The joust to prove the truth of these suspicions was announced. Crowds flocked to the jousting ground at Coventry to see how God in his wisdom would arrange things. The jousters, accoutred and helmed, steeds pawing the raw earth, four hearts beating and eager to engage … And then what? King Richard calls a halt!
One of the jailers was dragged over from Calais and forced to take the blame for Gloucester’s death. Shouting his innocence and that all he did was hold the cell door, he was quickly hanged after a perfunctory trial.
But the rumours persisted.
Fuel to the fire, enter Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury!
Veiled accusations thundered from his Canterbury pulpit, warning of hell-fire and the eternal damnation to befall any who did not side with him. When his brother, the earl, met the executioner he himself fled into exile despite the fact that, as Archbishop, nobody would touch him.
At least, with King Richard on the throne, it was unthinkable that anyone would deal physical harm to an archbishop! They were not living in the bad old days of martyred Becket, were they?
But that was then.
Three enemies of the king in exile: cousin Bolingbroke, his friend Mowbray, and the archbishop.
King Richard himself overseas with an army.
And the summer broiled on.
Times of a darker hue than anyone would ever suspect lay ahead. In truth, no one was safe, not even a king.
ONE
Chandler checked himself in at the Tower gatehouse, was briefly wearied by their deference when they noted Henry Bolingbroke’s seal on his letter of admittance then, bowing his head so as not to look up at the corvids flying in sinister clouds above his head, he made his way across the bailey in the lengthening shadows to the White Tower.
The guardroom was crammed with armed men, brutish fellows who communicated in grunts. One of them was delegated to lead him deeper into the prisoners’ quarters. The guard’s steel boots echoed in the narrow stone corridor and when they reached a door at the far end he muttered, ‘He’s all yours, brother, God help him,’ and Chandler was abruptly left on the threshold.
He hesitated with his hand on the door. There was a sensation of movement on every side like rats gnawing through the stonework, a susurration of prisoners weeping, of ghosts, their sighs and whispers, the sounds of terror accumulating over time and repressed.
Bracing himself he turned the ring-bolt and found himself in a chamber no more than eight feet by six. There was no window. Light from a single flare propped in a bracket on the wall revealed the body of a man stretched on the rack in front of him.
Three others were in attendance. Two hid their identities under leather masks. The third, a young priest, white-faced, dark-robed, was mumbling nervously through his Latin with his head down.
So powerful was the concentration of the three on their victim that a moment passed before they became aware of their visitor. Chandler moved further into the chamber until he was standing over the racked man and, himself suddenly attentive, found he was staring directly down into his face.
He searched it for a familiar sign but he had never seen him before.
The prisoner lay on his back, manacled limbs extended, a rag thrown over his genitals. Best not to ask, thought Chandler. Sweat began to trickle down inside the neck of his undershirt. He took a cautious step forward.
The only sound apart from the priest’s mumbling was the creak of the screws as the rack was tightened once more.
‘You work late, lads,’ he murmured as a prelude. There was a shift beside him as his words were acknowledged.
The prisoner was a shaven-headed fellow of about thirty, his own age. His lips were drawn in a rictus so that he seemed to be smiling at some fixed and private pleasure. The stench of human ordure was strong around him. Chandler resisted the urge to cough up the foul fumes from his throat.
‘Not said anything then?’ he asked the priest.
The youth’s head jerked up.
His skin, already pale, seemed to blanch even more when he shifted his attention to Chandler. A bead of sweat on his upper lip swelled, burst, and ran down to his ill-shaven chin. ‘Nothing, dominus …’ Mumbling. Fear in his voice.
Chandler brought one ear down to the prisoner’s lips. They were moving, but scarcely, a sound no louder than the flutter of a moth’s wing starting, ceasing, then starting again.
