The Meadows of Murder, page 1
Contents
Cover
A selection of titles by Paul Doherty
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for the Brother Athelstan Mysteries
About the Author
Historical Note
Prologues
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Author’s Note
A selection of titles by Paul Doherty
The Margaret Beaufort Mysteries
DARK QUEEN RISING *
DARK QUEEN WAITING *
DARK QUEEN WATCHING *
DARK QUEEN WARY *
The Brother Athelstan Mysteries
THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY
THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER
MURDER MOST HOLY
THE ANGER OF GOD
BY MURDER’S BRIGHT LIGHT
THE HOUSE OF CROWS
THE ASSASSIN’S RIDDLE
THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN
THE FIELD OF BLOOD
THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS
BLOODSTONE *
THE STRAW MEN *
CANDLE FLAME *
THE BOOK OF FIRES *
THE HERALD OF HELL *
THE GREAT REVOLT *
A PILGRIMAGE TO MURDER *
THE MANSIONS OF MURDER *
THE GODLESS *
THE STONE OF DESTINY *
THE HANGING TREE *
MURDER MOST TREASONABLE *
MURDER’S SNARE *
The Canterbury Tales Mysteries
THE HANGMAN’S HYMN
A HAUNT OF MURDER
THE MIDNIGHT MAN *
* available from Severn House
THE MEADOWS OF MURDER
Paul Doherty
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.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2026
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
This eBook edition first published in 2026 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Paul Doherty, 2026
Cover and jacket design by Jem Butcher Design
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Paul Doherty 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: 978-1-4483-1313-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1878-0 (paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1312-9 (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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Praise for the Brother Athelstan Mysteries
‘Rip-roaring … A deeply satisfying puzzle’
Publishers Weekly on Murder’s Snare
‘The often-unpleasant sights, sounds, and smells of London come alive as a harrowing backdrop to a complex mystery’
Kirkus Reviews on Murder’s Snare
‘Doherty doles out clues shrewdly and decorates the narrative with his characteristically sharp period details. This long-running series has yet to show signs of slowing down’
Publishers Weekly on Murder Most Treasonable
‘Unsettling historical detail enhances a story of hate, revenge, and multiple murders’
Kirkus Reviews on Murder Most Treasonable
‘As always, Doherty makes a past century come alive’
Publishers Weekly on The Hanging Tree
‘Hair-raising descriptions of life in the Middle Ages enhance a challenging puzzle’
Kirkus Reviews on The Hanging Tree
About the author
The author of more than a hundred highly acclaimed historical mysteries, Paul Doherty studied History at Liverpool and Oxford Universities, and is now headmaster of a school in Essex. He lives with his family in north-east London.
www.paulcdoherty.com
Historical Note
It is 1383, and England and the city of London lie quiet, at least on the surface. Winter is dying, spring is beckoning and the parishioners of St Erconwald’s in Southwark are preparing for the season of Lent and the great feast of Easter. Nevertheless, there are tensions both in the city and elsewhere. The Great Revolt has been fully crushed. The hangings and decapitations are finished. The names of those proscribed have been published in every shire. There is no escape for the former rebels. Lord John of Gaunt, uncle to the young King Richard, has returned from the North. Gaunt soon became immersed in what he is so skilled at: plotting against his rivals, be they the great lords of England or the powerful guilds of London. Gaunt resents their power and they reply in kind, bitterly opposing Gaunt whenever they can. Such hatred and fear curdle the body politic so, for some, murder is the only solution to dealing with a rival. The assassins gather. They stand on the edge but, in time, they too will enter the Meadows of Murder.
PROLOGUES
‘Brothers united are as a fortress’
– Proverbs 18:19
Segovia, the Kingdom of Castile – 1370
The two boys stood on the gravel-strewn parapet of the many turreted castle of Segovia in Castile. They peered down through the crenellations at the knights gathering to leave for the jousting meadows where they would run lances, albeit blunted ones, in a series of tourneys and tournaments. The knights would process down across the broad drawbridge, through the yawning mouth of the castle’s main gate and into the surrounding fields. They had already pitched their different pavilions with their gorgeous standards, banners and pennants; these boasted their glory and emphasised their magnificently hued coat of arms and family insignia. The knights moved off, their gaily caparisoned destriers snorting and whinnying as their iron-shod, dagger-sharp hooves scraped the wood of the drawbridge. Trumpets and horns brayed their clarion call and the war horses caught the mood. The clash of battle was imminent. The knights would arm. They would all be buckled for that most thundering charge which would, eventually, deter-mine which knight would be the champion of the day. The jousters were accompanied by their squires and pages, the finely spun silver threads of their jerkins and hose catching the light of the rising sun. The knights’ cavalcade was followed by that of the castle retainers: sooty-faced blacksmiths, tanners in their stinking leathers, gaudily dressed whores, cripples on their crutches, the shaven-headed monks of different orders. They all surged across the inner bailey; a torrent of would-be spectators, scattering the pigs, dogs, chickens and goats which wandered the shit-strewn, cobbled courtyards. The pounding feet of these booted, sandalled or not, raised a haze of smelly dust to mingle with the rich sweet smells from the nearby orange groves. The younger boy tugged on the sleeve of his elder half-brother.
‘Alessandro, Alessandro,’ he pleaded. ‘Let us go down to the meadows.’
‘One day, Roderigo, we shall go down to the meadows, me and my baby brother.’
‘I am not a baby.’
‘No.’ The elder brother crouched down tugging at Roderigo’s jerkin. ‘You,’ he declared, ‘are my much beloved younger brother. I am always with you. I always will be. But today we cannot go down to the meadow. Father is constable of this castle and we must do what he says. In two days’ time, both of us will leave here to become pages or squires in another nobleman’s household. We must prepare for that; we must pack. Father should not have to worry about us, he has enough problems as Constable of Segovia. Look on the bright side, Roderigo, you are going to a household full of music.’
‘And you, Alessandro?’
‘A military order which puts its sword at the disposal of both God and the King. I will be a soldier.’< br />
‘But you will never really leave me, will you Alessandro? Not ever? Will you?’
‘Roderigo,’ the elder brother held up his right hand, ‘Roderigo, I swear, I am yours, body and soul, in peace and in war, both now and for ever. So come now, little brother. Give me a hug.’ Roderigo almost leapt into his half-brother’s embrace.
‘So, you will never ever really leave me?’
‘Never, Roderigo, never!’
The Tower of London – December 1381
Joan, widow of the fearsome Black Prince and mother of the ever so elegant King Richard, was deeply perturbed. She knelt on her prie-dieu in her chamber deep in the Tower of London and wondered how ancient sins might emerge to trap her. She moved restlessly, aware of her corpulence, which sharply reminded Joan of her once great beauty. The Black Prince, her husband, had often praised her smooth, soft, alabaster-white body, perfect in every way. Edward the Black Prince was now dead, however, riddled with disease contracted in Spain during his bloody campaigns there.
Joan was the leading figure in the royal family, a person who maintained its harmony. Nevertheless, she had received a rude awakening during the peasants’ revolt six months ago. A number of them had broken into the Tower and caught her in her chambers. They’d offered no threat but they had caressed and kissed her, an experience she’d never forget. Now fresh dangers were surfacing. The revolt had been crushed. The gibbets of London were heavy with their macabre fruit as her brother-in-law, John of Gaunt, together with the great lords of the soil, meted out judgement: that did not really concern her. She stared at the tapestry on the wall facing her, which depicted a young fresh nun, smooth of face and ever so pious, praying before a statue of Mary, Mother of God. Joan loved to surround herself with such paintings because it helped curb her constant anxiety that the truth of her situation might ever become known. Joan got to her feet. She was deeply concerned about St Osyth’s Priory. She’d received reports and these had deeply agitated her soul. She walked up and down then paused at a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ she called, then immediately regretted that. She should be more careful. Then the door was flung open. Joan relaxed and smiled to herself as Thibault, Master of Secrets for my Lord of Gaunt, swaggered into the chamber. Joan’s heart skipped a beat. Thibault was as handsome as ever, even more beautiful perhaps. Nevertheless, she had to be careful about what she said, what was whispered even here in the Tower.
‘Madam,’ Thibault gave the most elegant curtsey, ‘you wish to see me? I have informed my Lord of Gaunt that I am coming here to carry out certain messages, but what is the truth? Why am I here?’
‘Ostensibly to do my will, as you always must, Master Thibault. Remember,’ she held up a hand, her two forefingers twisted together, ‘we are as one, as once we were and now must remain so to protect ourselves.’
‘I am more than aware of that, madam. So, what is it you want?’
‘You know full well what I want. The north bank of the Thames is now festooned with gallows and gibbets. We, Master Thibault, could end up like those rebels if anyone discovers our long-kept secret. A public display of our disgrace. So, the young country boy you found living at St Osyth’s Priory when you arrived there to crush the rebels. The labourer calling himself Tallien. Are you sure it is he?’
‘Madam, I am. Tallien wandered into the priory. He made himself useful and when the rebels broke in, he sided with them.’
‘Why?’
‘Madam, God knows. However, as I was walking up and down the line of prisoners, I noticed him. It was obvious to me, even in a glance, who he really was.’
‘And now?’
‘And now, mistress, he will stay there and I will watch him. As yet he is no threat to you or me.’
‘I must know what is happening at St Osyth’s. I must find out why that young man is really there. Some time ago, I asked for certain letters and petitions to be made out for me by the nuns. They have provided me with a key to get into that priory and discover the truth.’
‘So I understand, mistress. You have despatched your great friend and confidante, the Lady Isabella Beaumont, to be abbess there, have you not?’
‘Abbess, prioress,’ she shrugged, ‘I don’t really care. We need to know, Master Thibault, if Tallien is simply a passing shadow or a threat to us. Why are you looking at me so coldly, Master Thibault?’
‘Because, mistress, I am surprised at your coldness towards me. You lack any passion.’
‘That was in the past, Master Thibault. That’s gone now.’ The Queen Mother walked slowly towards Thibault. She clutched him by the shoulder and pulled him close. ‘We must be,’ she whispered hoarsely in his ear, ‘no longer loving. We walk a dangerous path. We must be careful. We must watch that young man Tallien. We must keep the secret which we have for all these years. Either that, or we go down. You, me and my beloved son Richard.’ She took her hand away then poked him sharply in the chest. ‘Remember that, Master Thibault.’
‘Mistress, don’t worry, I surely shall.’
‘Do you wish me to despatch an assassin?’
‘No, no, that might provoke suspicion. My Lord of Gaunt is also intrigued about who Tallien really might be, but he lacks any proof or evidence of what is the truth. He knows of the young man but has shown no further interest in him.’
‘He certainly would if he knew the truth,’ the Queen Mother replied. ‘Thank God he hasn’t. Pray God he never will.’
St Osyth’s Priory, The Thames – May 1382
Isabella Beaumont, Abbess of St Osyth’s Priory, which lay halfway between Westminster and the broad estuary, was terrified. Truly terrified. She paused in her pacing around the priory’s narrow-laned cloisters and sat down on a ledge jutting out from the wall of the priory chapel. She tried to pull her robe and gown closer, but gave up as she was really too weak to bother. She plucked the starched coif from her head, shaking her hair free. She then stifled a scream as her belly contracted once again in a searing stab of pain. Lady Isabella crouched forward, waiting for the next piercing stroke, which was usually succeeded by a surge in the numbness which seemed to affect every muscle in her body. She gazed up, mouth half open in a silent scream of protest. She recalled a verse from the liturgy.
‘Look to the mountains,’ she whispered, ‘from where your salvation comes.’ The abbess, however, knew such comfort would not be coming; her situation was worsening. She would take the same deathly path as those other poor nuns. They had died in pain and Lady Isabella now realised all her humours seemed to be in a similar revolt. Sister Veronica, the infirmarian, had offered her potions and powders which, in fact, seemed to only make matters worse. So, what was it? The pestilence? The return of that great killer which had once swept entire communities off the face of God’s earth? A constant shadow threatening the villages and towns of England. The plague had reappeared here, dealing out death and despair. The abbess gripped her belly again, a ripple of pain which made her cough and gag. She murmured a prayer as she gazed up at the sky.
‘Not even a star in sight,’ she murmured. She drew a deep breath. She had come here to St Osyth’s around six months ago at the behest of the Queen Mother, ostensibly to reform and refurbish this small but beautifully laid-out priory. More importantly, Lady Isabella had the Queen Mother’s secret instructions to study Tallien the Labourer: to find out why he was really here at St Osyth’s, and anything else suspicious regarding him, but not for now. She must recover. She must break free of her nightmare-ridden sleep. All those dreadful dreams about black, fiery forests, bitter wintry winds all created by blade-wielding, yellow-haired, swiftly moving, ravenous demons.
Lady Isabella staggered to her feet, pulling her dark blue robe closely about her. She would walk for a while and leave the priory, maybe just for an hour or so. The abbess, staggering and stumbling, made her way towards the postern gate at the rear of the priory. She now knew the layout of the surrounding countryside. She also wondered how the rest of the community were faring. Eight nuns in all. They would probably still be asleep and would remain so until the bell rang for Matins; that was still some time away. The darkness cloaking the priory still held fast. The buildings and open spaces lay empty. A savage hoar frost had whitened everything. Lady Isabella didn’t know if she was awake or dreaming. She stumbled around the priory buildings, following the trackway down to the narrow postern gate. The abbess paused, fumbling for her keys in the pouch fastened to her leather waist belt. She heard a sound and glanced towards the low stone wall which cordoned off the small priory cemetery. She recalled the dead and especially that handsome young man who had been brought here during Shrovetide, some months ago now. Sister Veronica, together with Chaplain John, had tried to help him. They had lifted the wounded youth from a river barge onto a wheeled cart which the good sisters, together with Tallien the Labourer, had moved down to the infirmary. Sister Veronica had done her very best, but all for nothing. Within the week the injured man succumbed to his wounds and, according to common report, had died peacefully in his sleep. The abbess tried to cross herself. At least Chaplain John had given the poor man the last rites. Isabella wondered if she should confide in the priest even though he seemed more interested in the lady prioress, that madam of madams.
