The Devil’s Diadem by Sara Douglass
Contents:
Part One – Rosseley Manor
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part Two – The Death
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Three – The Countess
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Four – The Conqueror’s Tower
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Five – Christmastide
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Six – The Bearscathe Mountains
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Seven – The Devil’s Diadem
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Eight – The Falloway Man
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The Testimony of Hugh De Mortaigne, Earl of Wessex, Known as Hugh the Wolf
Glossary
The Devil’s Diadem is set, not in the early twelfth-century England of our past, but in a fictional version of that world. While there are many similarities between our past and the twelfth-century world of The Devil’s Diadem, and many characters and points of historical reference remain the same, there are still characters and issues which render this England not quite the one you may have learned about in history books.
Where possible in The Devil’s Diadem I use contemporary place names. A list of the twelfth-century place names used in this book and their modern-day equivalents follows (an explanation of terms can be found in the Glossary).
Badentone: Bampton
Bearscathe Mountains: the Brecon Beacons in Wales
Bergeveny: Abergaveny
Blachburnscire: Blackburnshire
Bochinghamscire: Buckinghamshire
Bouland: Bowland
Brimesfelde: Brimpsfield
Cantuaberie: Canterbury
Chestre: Chester
Chinteneham: Cheltenham
Cicestre: Chichester
Cirecestre: Cirencester
Craumares: Crowmarsh Gifford
Crickhoel: Crickhowell
Depdene: Forest of Dean
Derheste: Deerhurst
Donecastre: Doncaster
Dovre: Dover
Elesberie: Aylesbury
Etherope: Hatherop
Eurvicscire: Yorkshire
Exsessa: Essex
Fenechirche: Fenchurch
Glowecestre: Gloucester
Glowecestrescire: Gloucestershire
Godric Castle: Goodrich Castle
Godstou: Godstow
Hamestede: Hampstead
Hanbledene: Hambleden
Herefordscire: Herefordshire
Holbournestrate: Holborn
Lincolescire: Lincolnshire
Lincolie: Lincoln
Meddastone: Maidstone
Monemude: Monmouth
Oxeneford: Oxford
Oxenefordscire: Oxfordshire
Pengraic Castle: this is a fictional castle, but it is situated atop Crug Hywel, or Table Mountain, at the foot of the Black Mountains in Wales.
Pomfret: Pontefract
Ragheian: Raglan
Redmeleie: Redmarley D’Abitot
Richemont: Richmond (in Yorkshire)
Saint Edmund’s Burie: Bury Saint Edmund’s
Sancti Albani: Saint Albans
Scersberie: Shrewsbury
Sudfulc: Suffolk
Sudrie: Surrey
Summersete: Somerset
Walengefort: Wallingford
Walsingaham: the two conjoined villages of Little and Greater Walsingham in Norfolk.
Wincestre: Winchester
Witenie: Witney
Wodestrate: Wood Street
Wodestoch: Woodstock
Maeb Langtofte That Was, her Testimony
In the name of our Saviour, the heavenly Lord Jesu, and of His beloved mother, the blessed Virgin Mary, greetings. Pray hear this testimony from your humble servant, Maeb Langtofte that was, on the eve of her dying. May sweet Jesu and His Holy Mother forgive my sins, and let me pass in peace, and forgive me the manner of my passing.
My faithful servant and priest Owain of Crickhoel writes down these words and in some places will speak for me when I no longer have the breath. Brother Owain has taken my confession and offered me Godly advice these past thirty years. He has been a good and faithful friend to me and I pray that his reward in the next life will reflect this.
My life has been one of sin, but no sin has been greater than that of my young womanhood. Pray sweet Jesu forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. I did what I thought best and yet I am stained with mortal sin. Pray sweet Jesu do not apportion blame on Brother Owain for what he writes. His pen may wield the words, but it was I who wielded the sin.
Sweet Lord forgive me my lack of trust, and forgive me my lack of learning, for in both I have failed you in this life. I pray that in my next life I can redeem both sins and failures to you. I thank you from my heart for the gift of the Falloway Man, for without him I could have no hope of redemption. Your grace and love of this sinner, this womanly fool, is unending.
But I waste time, Owain, for I do not think I have long left in this mortal life. So we shall begin, and it is fitting I begin with that day I met he without sin, the one, shining, uncomplicated love of my life, Lord Stephen of Pengraic.
Part One
Rosseley Manor
Chapter One
His footsteps tripped down the great stone staircase as if from heaven — their passage rich with joy and authority. Their lightness and pattern told me he was tall, athletic and undoubtedly young; happy, for those footsteps surely danced in their delight of life; confident, and therefore a member of the great nobility who lived in this manor house, for no one else would have dared to so skip through the majesty of the central vestibule.
He would be one of the older sons, a prince in bearing if not quite in rank.
There was a flash of gold and silver as he passed the doorway of the little shadowy alcove in which I sat, waiting. He was tall and golden-haired, bedecked with jewels and vibrant fabrics and with a glint of steel at his hip.
I was dazzled, even by this brief glimpse of a member of the Pengraic family.
Then, unbelievably, he was back at the doorway, and stepping into my alcove.
I rose hastily from the rickety stool on which I had waited and dipped in brief courtesy. I kept my eyes down, and surreptitiously pressed my hands into my skirts so that they may not betray my nervousness.
I prayed my French was gentle enough to sound sweet to his ears. I had spent too much of my childhood practising my English with the village children, and not enough perfecting my courtly French with those of more seemly rank.
‘What have I found hiding in the doorkeeper’s alcove?’ he said, and the warmth in his voice made me dare to raise my eyes.
He was of my age, perhaps nineteen or twenty years, and therefore must be the oldest son, Lord Stephen. His hair was light wheaten gold, his fine beard similar, his eyes a deep cornflower blue. His clothes were of a richness I had never seen before, his tunic all heavy with gold and silver embroidery that his noble mother must have stitched for him.
‘Rumour has it that doorkeeper Alaric has only rats in here for company, not beautiful young maidens.’
‘My lord, I am Mistress Maeb —’
‘Mistress Maeb Langtofte!’ he said, and I was amazed that he should know of my name. ‘My mother told me she expected a new woman to attend her. But what do you here? In this dark hole? Has no one announced you yet?’
‘The man at the door —’
‘Alaric.’
‘Yes, my lord. Alaric. He asked me to wait here while he sent word to your lady mother.’
‘Alaric has always been the fool … or maybe not, for if I had found you suddenly at my door I, too, might have secreted you away in my bedchamber.’
I glanced at the tiny cramped bed nestled into a hollow in the thick stone wall — the alcove had not the floor space for both bed and stool — then met Stephen’s eyes.
And then, the Virgin help me, I flushed deeply at the import of his words.
‘I only jest, Maeb,’ he said gently, and at the care in his voice, combined with my overall awe at his presence and kindness, I felt my heart turn over completely. ‘My mother has been resting this afternoon and thus you have been kept waiting, for foolish Alaric must not have wanted to disturb her. Had he told any of us you were here, we would have seen to it you were welcomed far more warmly, and far sooner. Alaric is a fool, indeed.’
Lord Stephen paused to study me, and the gentleness in his eyes and face increased even more, if that were possible.
‘You cannot wait here,’ he said. ‘I shall escort you to my mother myself —’
‘Stephen,’ said a voice, and we both jumped.
‘My lord,’ Stephen said, and half bowed as he turned.
A man stood in the alcove doorway — he could not have entered unless he had wanted to completely fill the tiny space of this alcove with the crush of our bodies — an aged and wearied form of the youthful vitality which stood before me.
It could only be Lord Stephen’s father, Raife de Mortaigne, the Earl of Pengraic.