THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN by Mary Devlin

THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN
by Mary Devlin
ISBN: 0595264026

The second volume in the acclaimed Geoffrey Chaucer murder mystery series.

Poet Geoffrey Chaucer is always up for a challenge, and when Sir William Taggart, who has just inherited the earldom of Sussex, approaches him with a problem, Chaucer is all ears. Someone has been embezzling nearly every penny of income from one of the Sussex estates – and Sir William believes that Chaucer is the right man to discover exactly who and why. But when the suspected embezzler turns up murdered, everyone is shocked – and doubly puzzled. And it seems as if the situation is far more complex - and dangerous – than anyone had even dreamed.

Meanwhile, back in Chaucer’s own community of Aldgate Village, a mysterious villain is assaulting women who dare to walk the streets alone at night. When the attacker finally commits murder, Chaucer’s friends and neighbors realize that something must be done. But can Chaucer spare the time from his investigations in Sussex? He must – or those he loves best could well go the way of the other victims

PROLOGUE

Whitechapel, London
April, 1369
1:00 AM

The dead wagon creaked along the cobbled streets, its wheels clicking ominously against the stones. The bellringer, his head bleary with bad ale, was somewhat aware that the shops, taverns, and foundries, some of which used to be brightly lit with working people even at this hour, were dark and silent. He was so accustomed to the presence of grotesquely twisted bodies in the street that he took little notice of them unless he tripped over one ― even though it was his job to collect those who had died of the plague.

His face, half hidden by a worn and filthy hood, was gruesomely marred with heavy scars. He was one of the extraordinary souls who had actually recovered from the plague and thus were immune from its ravages. There were few like him; people either never contracted the plague at all, or they caught it and died. Most fell into the latter category. It was their bodies that he was paid to collect and toss into the common graves that were rapidly filling up every patch of open ground both inside and outside the environs of London.

The worn toe of his nearly soleless shoe struck something rigid in front of him. He looked down. The corpse of a little girl, so thin it was nearly a skeleton, stared up at him. The bellringer felt nothing. He was beyond shock, remorse, pity, or any of the other emotions people usually experience when they gaze on the body of someone newly dead. To him, it was just another plague victim to be disposed of. He reached down with thin, sinewy arms that were stronger than they appeared, grasped the body in his clawlike hands, and swung it onto the pile of corpses in the wagon. Then he picked up his bell and continued on his journey.

“Bring forth your dead!” The eerie glow of a waning crescent moon high in the sky lent little light as the bellringer’s voice echoed menacingly in the empty streets. “Bring forth your dead!”

From between two of the buildings two burly figures emerged, carrying a third one between the two of them.

“Stop!” one shouted, a voice obviously accustomed to being obeyed by all he met.

The bellringer was no exception. He stopped short in his tracks and waited expectantly.

The two men, whom the bellringer could now see were dressed in the livery of royal soldiers, swung the body they were carrying onto the pile in the wagon, then disappeared back between the two buildings from which they had come. The bellringer stood for a moment staring after them into the murky darkness, then turned towards the pile. Curiously he approached the body that had just been tossed among the others.

It was different from the others: a man, obviously no older than thirty, tall, strong, unmarked by boils. Until a few moments before, he had obviously been rather healthy. No plague victim this! But he was nonetheless very, very dead: his throat had been cut from ear to ear. A portentous chill spread through the bellringer's body. This man was a murder victim, and those who had brought him were probably murderers. And they had appeared to be royal soldiers!

The bellringer's eyes fell on the man's cloak; it was a rich violet velvet, lined with fur. Obviously it had cost a fortune, and, assuming any were still alive, there were probably clothing merchants who would pay a welcome sum for it. Quickly the bellringer unpinned the brooch ― made of beautifully wrought silver ― that fastened it around the dead man's shoulders. He bundled the cloak up and stuffed it into his own pack. The murder victim also wore a silver belt and several rings; the bellringer divested him of those as well and shoved them into his pocket.

He knew better, but he resolved to behave as though this most recent addition to his growing mound of passengers was simply another victim of the Black Death. Whoever the man had been, he too would be tumbled into a mass grave. If he had any family left alive, they would have to accept that he had disappeared. The bellringer had survived the plague. He was certainly not going to cross the royal guard by taking it upon himself to report a murder - particularly when the victim's accouterments promised to bring him enough financial security to last him through whatever years he had left.

Once more he took up his bell and began pulling the wagon behind him. His voice rang out in its mournful demand that anyone still alive to hear him bring out their dead.

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