The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery Read online

  The Colour of

  Evil

  A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Mystery Book 9

  Copyright © 2021 Toni Mount

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Dmitry Yakhovsky, Copyright © 2021 MadeGlobal

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  For the fans of Seb Foxley who keep coming back for more.

  Toni.

  Why not visit Sebastian Foxley’s web page to discover more about his life and times?

  www.SebastianFoxley.com

  Prologue

  If ever there was a hell-on-earth, this was it, in the city’s very heart.

  In the rats’ nest of alleyways south of Tower Street, Furnace Court was more noisome than most. Sunlight never dared trespass among the soot-encrusted walls, nor tip-toed into the confines where fire burned, smoke choked and the din of metal on metal rang out, assaulting the ears. Yet a man made his livelihood here. Bare-armed and brawny, smut-covered, the smith toiled at his anvil in the near darkness, working by the flickering light of the devil’s flames. Sweating, he hammered and quenched, reheated and shaped, forcing his will upon the metals at his mercy. No iron could resist his power.

  But such heavy labours were not his sole employment. Elsewhere, in the secret darkness beneath the streets, he had a second, smaller furnace. A more lucrative trade was to be had here, furtive and treasonous, undermining the prosperity of a kingdom. Hamo cared not a jot. In supposed-silver coins, struck with a die stolen from the nearby Tower Mint, there was money to be made – literally.

  As the instigator, the greedy genius behind this crime, spread more of the gleaming, underweight groats and pennies throughout the city, strangers began to notice. Such coins undermined their livelihood and must be traced back to the source.

  Thus it was that two men, speaking English with a foreign sound, came to a shop, just as the owner was closing the shutters at day’s end, demanding to be told the origin of the coins at fault. When no answer was forthcoming, the pair resorted to torture: a thousand small cuts, none fatal, but each draining the victim’s strength a little more. Every time they paused, removing the rag from the victim’s mouth, they repeated the question:

  ‘Who makes these coins?’

  The victim did not know the answer. He had but borrowed them to pay what he owed - exchanging a debt to one for a debt to another.

  The cuts continued until the strangers were certain the victim spoke true, by which time only death awaited, but they would not deliver the fatal cut. Time would do that. A clear message needed to be left. And it could not be spoken by the victim. For fear he might name them, they split his tongue in twain – to warn the devious serpent lurking behind the counterfeiting business that they would hunt him down. Then, to show how much they knew of it, they covered the victim’s right hand – the guilty hand that passed the fake coins – in shiny pigment, brought for the purpose. And to confirm the warning: that there was no escaping their retribution, they nailed the dying victim’s hand to his workbench and left a bag of the false money behind.

  The new-minted coins, used to pay debts to the strangers, shone even brighter than silver: the colour of evil.

  Chapter 1

  Friday, the eleventh day of

  June in the year of Our Lord 1479

  The Foxley House in

  Paternoster Row in the City of London

  I returned home with my purchases of quills and ink, Gawain at my heel. I could have asked Kate or Nessie to buy them, although, in truth, such items were not needed in the workshop. The errand was a means of escape. I entered the kitchen but the sense of something – someone – missing assailed me, like an icy hand clutching my heart, as it always did these days.

  Rose sat stitching a pair of gloves of lavender-dyed kid leather, her work so delicate, the stitches were nigh invisible. Little Dickon was at her feet, playing some unknown game with a bunch of straws and a few twigs. Nessie stood at the board, chopping fresh sage from the garden, the kitchen filled with its earthy scent. ’Twas a scene of domestic tranquillity, yet utterly amiss.

  My Emily was not there.

  I could not get used to the lack – a black hole in my soul that I feared naught would ever fill.

  I lifted Dickon from the floor. He laughed, showing off his few perfect white teeth.

  ‘Does my little man fare well?’ I asked him. A string of dribble down my jerkin was the answer to my query.

  ‘He does very well,’ Rose said. ‘Dickon, show your Papa how you can play at peep-boo.’

  The child put his fists over his eyes then took them away of a sudden, shrieking with delight. I took up a table napkin to assist his game, covering my face with it. He pulled it aside, shouting ‘Boo!’ It was a merry jest indeed and one he seemed unlikely to tire of in the near future. I had work to do, but what of that? Merriment was hard to come by of late. Thus, I would play with my son a while. He would attain the first commemoration of his birth date in the week to come: the first significant day in his life thus far. I prayed daily that he would see many, many more, as so many infants do not.

  ‘Mercy is coming to dinner,’ Rose said, ‘That you may see Julia.’

  I nodded.

  Julia was my daughter, born two months since upon that most sorrowful of days. The widow, Mercy Hutchinson, was the infant’s wet nurse but having three sons of her own, including Edmund, who was a little older than Julia, she had taken the new babe to live with her in Distaff Lane until she was weaned. Mercy’s other children were Simon, a scholar at St Paul’s School, and that scamp Nicholas – a toddling who was trouble upon two legs. I remained uncertain of the wisdom of having Nicholas visit too often, fearing Dickon might copy the elder child’s bad habits – biting people being his most recent undesirable trait. But Mercy and my kinsman Adam were betrothed, so I had to make the best of it: Nicholas would one day become a member of the family.

  Neither was I able to determine for certain quite how I felt about Julia. Born too soon, she was the cause of my beloved Emily’s death. Yet she was an innocent. My father once admitted that he had found it difficult, at first, to forgive me because my mother had died of a fever some days after my birth. I refused to blame my tiny daughter in like manner but realised now how hard it was to form an affection for the cause of so much grief. But Mercy and Rose were determined I should learn to love the child. Hence the nigh-daily visits when they expected me to take the babe in my arms and hold her close, whether I wished it or not.

  When Mistress Hutchinson arrived with three children – the two babes being in slings, one upon each hip – with Nicholas held firmly by the hand, I had hardly begun my morning’s work. In truth, since the completion of Duke Richard’s coat-of-arms, which had engrossed me and filled the bleak days after Em’s passing, I found enthusiasm lacking
for any new project. This was an experience quite new to me and one I prayed would end swiftly.

  A man with a household and children to provide for cannot afford to shirk his duties, idling away the hours, wasting his efforts on inessential tasks. I had tidied the storeroom and checked the inventory so many times. I dusted shelves and swept the shop and workshop – tasks for the lowliest apprentice – rearranged my desk over and over and compiled endless lists. How frequently I sat down to work, all determined, prepared the ink, dipped the pen or brush and then… did naught. I could not settle. Inspiration was there none; my imagination dried up and shrivelled as last autumn’s leaf-fall.

  I greeted Mistress Hutchinson in the kitchen. As usual, she smiled and handed my tiny daughter into my arms.

  ‘She’s grown, has she not, Master Seb? She feeds and sleeps well. You should be pleased with her progress.’

  ‘Aye. You be doing right well in caring for her, mistress. I be grateful indeed.’ The mite in my arms looked plump enough but what did I know of babes?

  ‘She’ll be waking soon for her feed. Nicholas! Let the kindling wood be, for heaven’s sake.’

  As usual, Nicholas was up to his tricks. The wood stacked by the kitchen hearth had caught his eye and before anyone could prevent it, he grabbed a piece from the bottom of the pile and brought the heap tumbling down upon himself. There was not so much that he was harmed, merely startled, but began to bawl. The noise roused both babes, Julia and Edmund, as well as upsetting little Dickon, all of them joining in, howling.

  How did women ever put up with such din without running mad?

  My daughter was wailing now with great enthusiasm, so I handed her back to Mistress Hutchinson right eagerly.

  ‘If you could distract Nicholas, Master Seb, that would help,’ she said. ‘He likes you.’

  I was unconvinced that Nicholas liked anyone and wished Adam would come rescue me from his future stepson but my kinsman was working. It was as well that one of us yet earned his bread and disturbing him would serve no purpose. Thus it was I had two toddlings to keep amused and out of harm’s way.

  Dickon was ever biddable and easy to distract with clapping games, foolish songs or his favoured rag ball. Nicholas was another case entirely: cast your glance elsewhere for an instant and he would be causing mischief. Only yesterday, he had succeeded in opening the gate into the pigsty. It took Adam, Kate and me – much hampered by Gawain who thought it a right merry game, barking and getting underfoot – to catch the escaped piglet, keep Nicholas from playing with the dung and prevent Dickon from copying the elder child. Nicholas’ face and hair were plastered in pig ordure and it seemed all too likely he had eaten some of it. I did not envy his mother having to clean him up after and wondered at the possible consequences of swallowing dung. As it was, he seemed none the worse for it this morn.

  During my earlier inventories of the storeroom, I had espied the old sand tray. It had not been used since I first attempted to teach Jack his letters, writing them out in the damp sand with a finger, to learn the shapes and the correct order of strokes in their formation. A waste of effort that had been; Jack was never meant to be a scrivener. But now it might serve to amuse the little ones. Their attempts could hardly be any worse than Jack’s, even at their young age.

  Having first checked that the pigsty gate was secured, having learned a lesson yesterday, I set the tray down in the yard and tipped the fine sand into it. Nicholas began flinging it around even afore I had moistened it with water from the trough. Dickon received a face-full and some got in his eye, causing him to weep – the best thing since it would wash out the sand but he required consoling. Finally, the sand was evenly spread and dampened and I demonstrated how to draw marks in it with my finger and make imprints with my hand.

  Dickon became quite enthralled, poking his finger into the sand, making numerous holes, chuckling all the while. Gawain joined in – whether he intended to or no – making a large pawprint and a noseprint in the midst of the tray. But Nicholas surprised me, drawing circles and swirls and patterns of lines, all most pleasing to the eye. What a revelation that the little scamp could be creative! I regarded him anew.

  Had I been unjust in thinking him ungovernable? Mayhap, he misbehaved for why he had naught else to do. His mother was much concerned with his younger brother, Edmund, and now Julia. His elder brother, Simon, had school to think on. Without a father, none had much leisure nor interest in Nicholas. Could that be the cause? I vowed to give the toddling greater consideration. In truth, he looked to be earning it: an hour passed and still he sat content, making marks in the sand, long after Dickon had turned his attention to ants among the cobbles of the yard and Gawain had gone to investigate the denizens of the hedgerow at the nether end of the garden plot.

  The difficulties arose in persuading Nicholas to leave the sand when we were summoned to dinner. Then battle ensued over the washing of hands. Oh, well, a man can only achieve so much in a single morn. I thought I had not done too badly, playing my part as a mother hen.

  After dinner, as I was ruling margins in readiness for some project, at yet undetermined, Kate came hastening to call me into the shop. Her eyes were wide as Sunday platters, her fingers knotting themselves in her apron.

  ‘Whatever is it, lass?’ I asked. ‘I heard no commotion.’

  ‘A messenger, master, asking for you in person. An-and he wears the king’s livery.’

  I was into the shop faster than a cat with its tail afire, then paused. It would not do to appear flustered. I smoothed my hair ’neath my cap and pulled my jerkin straight. My sleeve-ends were ink-stained but ’twas no time to remedy that. I entered the shop at a measured pace, much belied by my racing heart.

  ‘Sir.’ I bowed to the messenger, removing my hat.

  He greeted me likewise.

  ‘You are Master Sebastian Foxley?’

  ‘I am, sir. How may I serve you?’

  ‘The King’s Grace, the Lord Edward, has a commission for you. He has seen your work and approves of it. He would have a book to send as a gift to the Lord of Florence, Lorenzo de’ Medici. A trustworthy merchant is to serve as the English ambassador in Florence and he must impress this Medici, who is said to be learned and cultured, as well as much interested in the fine arts of war.

  ‘Therefore, the King’s Grace would have a luxurious and elegant Latin copy – and accurate, of course – of Vegetius’ De Re Militari to be presented upon arrival. The merchant sails at the end of July. The book must be ready well in advance, that the king may inspect and inscribe it. You will oblige His Grace?’

  Oblige, I thought? As if I dare refuse the king?

  ‘I shall be honoured, sir, to serve King Edward in any way.’

  ‘That is well. And here are the requirements…’ The messenger took a small roll of parchment from his official pouch and passed it to me. It was tied with red ribbon. ‘I bid you good day, Master Foxley.’ With that, he touched his cap, turned upon his heel and departed the shop.

  Supposing the requirements were unclear? What if an unforeseen difficulty arose? Of whom should I enquire? I undid the ribbon and unrolled my set of instructions.

  At first glance, they appeared sufficiently comprehensive but one matter remained unmentioned. Neither had the messenger broached the subject: money. How and when would I be reimbursed for my expenses, the cost of materials and the hours of labour needful to complete the commission? The Duke of Gloucester always paid me at least half the agreed sum in advance and the remainder was ever settled swiftly when he received the finished piece. It appeared that his royal brother did not do likewise. In truth, no remuneration whatsoever was referred to in my instructions, no sum agreed beforehand. It gave me pause, considering how best to proceed. I should discuss the matter with Emily…

  Oh. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I had forgotten for a moment. Mayhap Adam could advise me? Or Rose? Or my old mast
er, Richard Collop?

  In the workshop, Adam set down his pen and looked to me, an eager glint in his eye.

  ‘A king’s messenger, eh? What did he want, Seb? You’re not in any trouble, are you?’

  ‘Nay.’ I gave him the instructions. ‘We have received a commission from King Edward.’

  ‘Well! What a fine feather in our caps that will be. The name and reputation of Foxley can go no higher. We must celebrate.’ He read the parchment. ‘Vegetius… in Latin… do we have an exemplar for this?’

  ‘We do not.’

  He watched me for a moment.

  ‘Is that the reason for your expression of woe, cousin? Aren’t you delighted to be working for the king himself? Or do you not approve of Vegetius? Do you fear the Latin will be difficult?’

  ‘My old master, Richard Collop, has a Latin version of Vegetius and I be certain he will permit us to borrow it since we have so illustrious a customer. And I had copied parts of that same treatise when I was Master Richard’s apprentice: the text presented few problems, as I recall.’

  ‘Then why the long face?’

  ‘Payment, Adam: neither the messenger nor those instructions make any mention of how or when or by whom we will be paid for our work.’

  ‘But it’s the king… he can afford any and every luxury he has a fancy for. Paying us will be no hardship.’

  ‘Ah, Adam, mayhap you have not lived in London long enough to have heard the merchants, the grocers, the vintners and the fishmongers all griping and moaning about the Exchequer, the Royal Wardrobe and the Privy Purse failing to settle their reckonings. ’Tis well known that the king’s coffers are ever bare and he be the worst debtor in the city… in England, for all I know. Many merchants truly fear receiving an order for goods from Westminster, knowing they may wait years for payment, and yet they do not dare refuse. ’Tis as if the king believes the honour of being of service to him be compensation enough to atone for loss of coin.