Susanna Gregory
THE SANCTUARY MURDERS
2019
About the Author
Susanna Gregory was a police officer in Leeds before taking up an academic career. She has served as an environmental consultant, worked seventeen field seasons in the polar regions, and has taught comparative anatomy and biological anthropology.
She is the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mysteries set in medieval Cambridge and the Thomas Chaloner adventures in Restoration London, and now lives in Wales with her husband, who is also a writer.
In loving memory of
Ethel, Audrey, Gertie, Food (Ada), Dusty,
Florrie, Sybil, Olive and Ma
and for
Hen, Hulda, Molly, Mabel, Hazel and Harriet
Prologue
Sussex, March 1360
Robert Arnold, Mayor of Winchelsea, had many flaws, but chief among them was an inappropriate fondness for other men’s wives. His current lover was Herluva Dover, the miller’s woman. She had agreed to meet him at a secluded spot near the sea – on a little hill that afforded excellent views in all directions, thus reducing the chances of them being caught.
Herluva was plump and buck-toothed, so Arnold was not sure why she had caught his fancy. Perhaps it was to spite her husband, Valentine Dover, whom he detested. Or maybe he was just running out of suitable prey and Herluva was the best of those who had not yet succumbed to his silver tongue and roving hands.
Although there was a little hut on the hill, Arnold had chosen to entertain Herluva outside that day. It was a beautiful morning, unseasonably warm, and the scent of approaching spring was in the air. The heather on which they lay was fragrant with new growth, while the sea was calm and almost impossibly blue. A solitary gull cried overhead, but their hideaway was otherwise silent. Arnold sighed contentedly, savouring both the tranquillity and the giddy prospect of what Herluva was about to provide.
Then she spoiled it all by sitting up and blurting, ‘What is that? Look, Rob! A whole host of boats aiming for the river–’
‘The grocers’ ships,’ interrupted Arnold, leaning over to plunge his face into her ample bosom. It smelled of flour and sweat – a not unpleasing combination, he thought serenely. His next words were rather muffled. ‘They are due back any–’
‘I know the grocers’ ships.’ Herluva shoved him away and scrambled to her feet. ‘These are different. Look at them, Rob.’
Frustrated and irked in equal measure, Arnold stood. Then gaped in horror at what he saw: a great fleet aimed directly at Winchelsea. His stomach lurched. It had been more than a year since the French had last come a-raiding, and he had confidently informed his burgesses that it would never happen again – that King Edward’s immediate and ruthless reprisals in France meant the enemy would never dare attempt a repeat performance.
He recalled with sickening clarity what had happened the last time. Then, the invasion had been on a Sunday, when Winchelsea folk had been at their devotions. The raiders had locked the doors and set the church alight, and anyone who managed to escape the inferno was hacked to pieces outside. The slaughter had been terrible.
‘Stop them, Rob,’ gulped Herluva. ‘Please! My children are down there!’
But Arnold was paralysed with fear as memories of the previous attack overwhelmed him – the screams of those roasted alive in the church, the demented howls of the attackers as they tore through the town, killing and looting. He dropped to his knees in the heather, shaking uncontrollably. He had never seen so many boats in one place – there were far more than last time – and he knew every one would be bursting with French marauders, all intent on murder, rape and pillage.
‘Rob!’ screeched Herluva. ‘For God’s sake, do something!’
Arnold pulled himself together. ‘Sound the tocsin bell,’ he ordered shakily. ‘Then take your little ones to the marshes. They will be safe there. Hurry, woman!’
‘What about you?’ she demanded suspiciously. ‘What will you be doing?’
‘I have a plan to send them packing,’ he snapped, looking out to sea so she would not see the lie in his eyes. ‘Now go! Quickly, before it is too late.’
He watched her scamper away, but made no move to follow. By the time either of them reached the town, it would be far too late to organise any kind of defence. Besides, he knew what happened to those who challenged raiders, so why squander his life for no purpose? It would be better to hide until the attack was over, then take command once the enemy had gone. It was then that a man with good organisational skills would be most useful – arranging for the dead to be buried, the wounded tended, and damaged properties repaired.
He crouched in the heather and watched the ugly, high-prowed vessels reach the mouth of the river, where they furled their sails and rowed towards the town. On a gentle breeze, he heard the first frantic clang of bells, followed by distant howls of alarm as the residents of Winchelsea realised what was about to happen. He could picture the scene – people racing in all directions, rushing to barricade themselves inside their houses, rounding up missing children, loading carts in the wild hope of escape.
Like the last time, the French could not have picked a better occasion to attack. It was market day, so wares would be laid out for the taking, while half the town was in church, listening to a special Lenten sermon by the priest. Arnold’s eyes narrowed. Was it possible that they had been told when to come by spies?
France was not only at war with England, but with herself, and two years before, a small group of displaced Frenchmen had taken up residence in Winchelsea. They were tolerated because they were generous to local charities, never did anything to offend, and regularly professed a love of all things English. But were they decent, honest folk eager to adapt to their new lives, or were they vipers in the nest? Perhaps they had sent messages home, saying when Winchelsea would be most vulnerable. Arnold had suggested as much after the last raid, but the miller, Val Dover, had dismissed the accusation as false and mean-spirited.
Arnold allowed himself a small, grim smile of satisfaction. But who had been right? He had, and the current raid was the price of Dover’s reckless support of strangers. He decided that as soon as the crisis was over, he would announce his suspicions again, and this time the foreigners would pay for their treachery with their lives.
He watched the first enemy ship reach the pier. Armed figures swarmed off it. A few brave townsmen raced to repel them – two invaders went down under a hail of kicks and punches – but a second boat joined the first, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, until the tide was impossible to stem. Then it was the defenders who were overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. In the river, ships jostled and collided as their captains struggled to find a place to land their howling, blood-crazed passengers. Then came the first wisps of smoke.
Unable to watch more, Arnold went inside the little hut and closed the door.
Hours later, when the sun had set and the shadows faded into darkness, Arnold started to walk home. He arrived to sights even worse than he had feared. The dead littered the streets, and the dying wept, cursed and begged for help as he picked his way through them. He coughed as smoke billowed from the inferno that was the guildhall, and its heat seared his face. Then someone grabbed his arm. He yelped in terror, then recognised the soot-stained, bloodied face of his old rival Val Dover.