The House of Shadows

Prologue

    Eve of the Feast of St Matthew, 1360

    The courtesan known as Guinevere the Golden crouched amongst the headstones of St Erconwald’s cemetery. She had concealed her lustrous golden hair beneath a tight-fitting hood, and put on a dark cloak to cover her finery. She had taken off her ring and placed it in the small casket beside her. The autumn night was bright with a full moon, which bathed the cemetery in a silver glow and illuminated the dark mass of the church. Guinevere was fearful. That sombre pile of masonry was God’s house. The preachers claimed angels trod there, and wouldn’t the good Lord see into the very recesses of her soul? Guinevere just wished her comrades would come. She wanted an end to this fear, to give way to the excitement which made her heart skip and her blood tingle. She settled herself more comfortably. The night sky was beautiful; she watched a faint cloud drift, as if following the moon across the night sky. She started as an owl, silent as a ghost, swept above her, feathery wings beating the air as it plunged on its victim, scurrying through the high grass of the cemetery. The door to the death house creaked. A chilling sound in the darkness.
    Nevertheless, Guinevere felt safe. The old church had no priest, and very few people would come to the cemetery at night. Guinevere recalled the old story of how each cemetery, each portion of God’s Acre, possessed a watcher, the ghost of the last person buried there. He, or she, had to stay on guard in the cemetery until replaced by the spirit of the next person buried. Guinevere swallowed hard; she mustn’t frighten herself. She closed her eyes and tried to think of the cheery tap room at the Night in Jerusalem . All her friends and acquaintances would be there. A fiddler would stand by the log fire; perhaps a travelling songsman would chant a lay. The tambour and the rebec would strike up, a pulsating sound which marked the beginning of the dance. Guinevere so loved to dance; that was how she had met him, the man who had promised her wealth beyond all reckoning.
    ‘A chest full of treasure!’ he had whispered.
    At first, Guinevere had been reluctant. She’d blinked her eyes prettily and claimed she had given her heart to another, but those words, ‘a chest full of treasure’, had so enticed her. She would be rich, a princess, a great lady, like those who swaggered through Cheapside with their gauze veils and fur-lined cloaks, jewellery glittering at their throats, soft bodies smelling of sweet perfumes. She would wash her hands in golden bowls and sit before a piece of polished silver to examine her beautiful face.
    The wind moaned amongst the headstones, the breeze was strengthening; soon the fleet would sail. Guinevere clenched her fists in excitement. She had done her part. She opened the casket and took out the gold ring, turning it over in her fingers, examining it carefully. What did it matter? She slipped the ring on her finger and leaned back against the headstone. What would be happening now? Surely the alarm would have been raised, yet she had just come slipping through the streets of Southwark and seen no excitement. Nothing wrong, no torchlight flickering against the night or mailed men tramping through the streets to the clash of armour.
    ‘Guinevere!’
    She raised herself up and stared across the cemetery. She saw the signal, a shuttered lantern being opened and closed like a beacon flashed from a clifftop. Guinevere stood and moved across the cemetery. A dark shape detached itself from the death house and came towards her. The lantern was raised, the shutter slightly open. Guinevere sighed in relief. Lifting the hem of her gown, she ran towards him. The lantern was lowered. Guinevere the Golden was so excited she didn’t even hear the hiss of steel. So eager to hear the news, she almost ran on to the dagger point. She felt the fiery stab of pain, but it was too late. She was trapped, drawn close, pressed further and further on to the blade thrusting deep inside her.
    Guinevere groaned and slipped, the life light fading from her beautiful eyes.



Chapter 1

    The hideous murders began on the Night of the Great Ratting, the eve of the Feast of the holy martyr St Wulfnoth, who had been boiled alive by the heathen Frisians. The inhabitants of Southwark, their tattered purses full of crocards and pollards, those battered and clipped coins rejected by worthy tradesmen, these denizens of the slums, hoods pulled