The Winter King (A Hawkenlye mystery, 15)

The Winter King (A Hawkenlye mystery, 15)

The death of an unpopular nobleman brings trouble to Sir Josse’s family, in the latest Hawkenlye mystery All Saint’s Eve, 1211. An overweight but wealthy nobleman, desperate for an heir, dies at the celebration feast he’s thrown in his own hall. A natural death . . . or at the hands of his reluctant new wife? Sabin de Gifford, an apothecary and healer of note, is called to examine the body, and concludes that he died of a spasm to the heart. But she is troubled, all the same, and beset by suspicions. Did the man really die of a heart attack? Or was something more sinister to blame? There is only one person Sabin can turn to for help: fellow healer Meggie, daughter of Sir Josse d’Acquin. But what she requires of her is dangerous indeed . . . “Outstanding period detail, an intriguing plot, engaging characters and suspenseful twists make for an excellent read.” ― Booklist “Convincing depiction of King John’s England” ― Publishers Weekly "The ninth in the Hawkenlye series continues the saga with the mixture as before: historical facts, colorful characters, a touch of mysticism and a soupcon of mystery" ― Kirkus Reviews Alys Clare lives in the English countryside, where her novels are set. She went to school in Tonbridge and later studied archaeology at the University of Kent. The Winter King A Hawkenlye Mystery By Alys Clare Severn House Publishers Ltd. Copyright © 2013 Alys Clare All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-84751-498-1 CHAPTER 1 In King John's England, suffering the results of the monarch's petulant squabble with Pope Innocent and under an interdict these four years, several diverse elements were slowly moving together. When, inexorably, they would collide and combine, the outlook was stormy. It was a time of frightening portents. In the royal hunting preserve of Cannock Forest, a herd of deer had been discovered with a terrible disorder of the bowels. The wildest of the rumours claimed the deer had fled halfway across the country and thrown themselves into the sea at the mouth of the River Severn. A two-headed, eight-legged animal had been born and, although nobody was entirely sure what sort of animal it was, or where this abomination had occurred, everyone accepted it as a sign of nature's – and, far more importantly, God's – extreme distress at the ways of the world. The moon had been observed coloured deep red, as if bathed in blood; a sure sign, if ever there was one, of strife. War, or at least some terrible disaster, it was generally agreed, must surely be coming ... In a small Kentish village a dozen miles up from the coast, an elderly woman was basking in sudden notoriety. Some said she was a witch; others that she was just plain daft. She had an uncertain grip on reality, but this was possibly no more than a clever act. She appeared to be even more agitated than most by the alarming portents that were regularly occurring and, one mild autumn evening, according to witnesses, she emitted an ear-piercing scream and fell into a deep and very public trance in the middle of the village green. In her trance state – and opinion was equally divided between her being inspired by God or the Devil – she began to proclaim frightening and dangerous predictions. 'Darkness will prevail all the while this Winter King rules,' she began. 'Winter King? Who's that, then? What's she on about?' her audience muttered. As if she had heard – possibly she had – the crone obligingly elucidated. 'The Oak King rules in the months of light,' she wailed, 'and the Holly King takes over at the autumn equinox, for he is made of darkness and belongs to the winter.' She paused, her wide, pale eyes ranging round her audience. 'He is the Winter King!' she cried. A few flecks of spittle dotted her lower lip. 'Does she mean King John?' a bold soul demanded. 'His peers will try to bring him down,' the old woman went on, her tone high and quivery, and not, according to witnesses, her normal speaking voice, 'demanding that he signs a great document that will call him to account, but it will be to no avail. He will suffer disaster on the water, losing all he holds most dear. He will die an untimely death, leaving his realm in grave jeopardy, beset by the enemy from across the seas.' The crone's eyes were wide and staring. Once or twice she put a hand up to her brow, as if her head pained her. It seemed to some that she was listening to words that nobody else could hear. A nervous frisson went through the villagers. Men and women turned to each other, searching for reassurance. On the outer edge of the now sizeable crowd, men looked anxiously over their shoulders. It did not do to be observed listening to such dangerous talk, and Heaven help the poor sap making the comments. One man, more sensible than most, hurried off to find the most respected of the village elders. 'His successor will be weak and untrustworthy,' continued the crone, either unaware of or ignoring her audience's unease, and well into her