Here are the opening lines of my third (my fav, my fav) Francis Vallemont novel, which you can buy now in digital text form, by pressing the button below:

It costs just £3.99 only and there is no P+P because it will be emailed to you- ideal for Christmas!

The Murder of Errors
The Third Francis Vallemont novel.

by Frank Almond.

For Megan

Prologue

"Don't I know you sir?"  said the young man.

They were standing in Barrel Alley, just in behind the Vintners’ Hall, which ran down to the Vintry Quay to the east side of the Worcester House tenements. The narrow cobbled lane was barely wide enough for two men to pass each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. The locals called it 'Squeeze Belly Alley', but that was because it was a well-known haunt of whores at night, giving their clients a tuppenny stand-up; though by day it was just a convenient short-cut to the quay. The other man stared at him and he could see a fear coming into his eyes.

"No. I don't think so," said the man- a shabby looking grey-haired fellow, with a weather-beaten face that spoke of time at sea- and continued on his way out  to Thames Street.

But Piers went after him and turned him round to look at him again.

"I know you!" he said.

"Take your hands off me!" said the man. "I'll call the watchman."

But Piers Lovell was not bothered about that. He knew he was right. And he grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and threw him against first one wall and then the other.

"You are Roger Deacon!" he said. "You're Roger Deacon. You're Deacon!  What are you doing here? What are you doing here?"

And his eyes were filling with tears as he was shouting in the man's face.

"No-no!" said the man, now terrified for his life. "I'm not. I'm Nathan. Nathan. Nathan-"

Lovell threw him down on the cobblestones and fell on him. "You are going to tell me what happened to The North Star!" he yelled. And he began pounding the man's body and face with his fists, as the man tried to cover his eyes and made no attempt to fight back.

And then, after taking maybe twenty blows, he started to fight for his life, and kick out, desperately trying to push the younger man off him. But it was useless. And the blows were raining down harder and faster.

"All right! All right Piers! Piers- no!" he cried.

Lovell heard his own name and stopped, his shoulders heaving as he allowed his breathing to settle down. He lifted his knee off the man's chest and the man rolled over and curled up, covering his bloody face and whimpering.

"It's been like a living death," he sobbed. "Ever since I came back. I knew I would meet you one day. Like this."

Lovell staggered to his feet and leaned against the wall, still breathing hard, and looking down at the man.

And he said.  "You’re supposed to be dead Roger. All hands they said. Lost in the storm."

"That's not the way it happened," said Roger Deacon. "It was all lies."


The Murder of Errors

Francis Vallemont was standing on the Salt Wharf, at Queenshythe, looking across to the Vintry Quays, where they jutted out into the River, at the cranes lading barrels, rolled out from the warehouses, onto barges, probably to ship them up River somewhere. He had just ferried across from St Mary Overie Stairs, in Southwark, and was waiting for a friend. The friend was late, so he hung around for ten minutes or so, then decided to go and meet her, and started walking out of the Queenshythe dock and into Thames Street, which extended all the way along the River, east and west of the Bridge.

It was a cold damp February morning, with a fair amount of mist over the River, and although it was only eight o'clock, the streets were already noisy and teeming with people, who had been up since first light. wagons, carts, horse drawn and hand, were moving along Thames Street. Market traders were setting out their fish stalls with white fish and selling all manner of shellfish- oysters, mussels,  cockles, winkles- although it wasn't at its best at that time of year. Still, it was a Friday and, therefore, it was forbidden to eat meat, unless you were exempted because you had bought a licence to eat meat. Of course people flouted the law as they always do, but Vallemont, a former naval man himself, who had served and fought against the Spanish fleet that had threatened to invade England just the previous year,  wondered how many of them knew that the continuance of fish days, even after the overthrow of Catholicism in England, had been kept on to foster the English fishing fleet and so provide crews in time of emergency for the navy.

He was starting to become anxious. She was almost half an hour late. Perhaps she had changed her mind and wasn't coming at all, he thought- but he had only received her letter the day before, and in it she clearly stated that she would come and see him, if he would come to meet her at the Queenshythe at seven thirty in the morning, because she did not wish to travel south of the River on her own. A whore came out of a house in Hugging Lane and sauntered over to him.

"Good morning, sir, Oh!" she said. Her mouth dropping open in awe as he turned to her and she set eyes on his angelic and yet still manly face. Though she still went through with her routine soliciting line: "Nice day, for it isn't it sir."

She looked about thirty-five, or forty, but was almost certainly much younger. Her skin was pale but blotchy red in places from being outside so much in all weathers, and there was some brewer's blush, fine veining beginning on her upper cheeks and nose. She was wearing a fine dress and outer cloak, but they were grubby and faded- probably bought second hand in Birchin Lane, or else up Houndsditch, some time ago - and was over-made-up, with far too much rouge and lipstick, but no ceruse to whiten her complexion, because that was expensive, as was kohl blackening for the eyes- and it would probably have been a waste of time anyway, because her flesh colour was too tanned and red.

Vallemont smiled and gave her a groat. "Move along. Not today. And don't send any of your sisters over- because they won't get any coins. I'm only giving you this groat because I'm waiting for a woman and I don't want you hanging about," he said.

She smiled and took the 'bribe'. "All right, sir. I'm going," she said. And strutted off.

Vallemont was now becoming concerned for his friend, the respectable wife of a physician of Silver Street. He looked up Bread Street, which led north off Thames, because that he had worked out would be the way she would come if she came by way of Wood Street. Of course, she could have gone the other way, and made her way down Noble Street and then come down Staining Lane, but that would still have led her eventually to Bread Street, or perhaps, Friday Street, though that would also have brought her out into Bread Street, and then the short walk from there- where they joined up in Old Fish Street- down to Thames. Where could she be? Something must have happened. Vallemont felt himself becoming more tense and alert. His brow furrowed and his keen blue eyes narrowed, as he failed to see her coming down the busy street. If she had not arrived by nine, he resolved to go up to Silver Street and knock on her door to find out what had become of her, husband or no husband!

And then he heard her say his name from behind him.

"Mr Vallemont."

He spun round, his mouth now a big smile, his young brow unlined. "Mrs Clavell!" he said. "Thank God you're safe. I was just beginning too become worried for you. You are late madam."

"No." she said. "I was early. So I walked along Thames Street a little way to look around and have been sitting on Queenshythe dock for the last half an hour. I came to it by the Broken Quay."

"We must have missed each other. I know I have missed you," he said.

"I- I thought you had not come," she said. And looked about to cry. She was wearing her black lace vizard to protect her delicate milkwhite complexion from the harmful sun and weather, but he could see through the eye slits that her sea-green eyes were moistened.

Vallemont seized her in his arms and kissed her on the lips.

A good-humoured cheer went up from the gaggle of whores that had gathered at the bottom of Hugging Lane to have a look at what must have been one of the most handsome men they had ever seen. For Francis Vallemont, at just twenty years old, was a six foot tall, golden haired Adonis of a man. His fair handsome looks, with tousled blonde hair, naturally wavy and falling down to his shoulders and loosely parted in the middle, or often just nonchalantly swept back off is high brow, was a gentleman. And he wore a sword and the finest black, tailored doublet hose and breeches and a three quarter length matching cloak, and had a noble bearing.

"Never think that Ursula," he said, when they broke from the kiss.

She rested her head against his chest.

He walked her slowly back to the Queenshythe dock, where they waited only a few minutes at the stairs for a wherry to come along and pick them up. As they seated themselves on the brocaded cushions in the stern, Mrs Clavell's head rested on Vallemont's shoulder and Vallemont's arm firmly and  protectively came around her back.

"Where to sir?" said the wherryman.

"Winchester Wharf," said Vallemont.

"The Mary Stairs end sir?"

"Yes," said Vallemont. His attention now fully on the woman in his arms. He kissed her damp hair. "I'm glad you came," he whispered.

Her black gloved hand came up to his chest and smoothed him.

The ferryman's oars slid into the greyish brown  waters of the Thames and they turned away from the Queenshythe steps and were immediately picked up by the out-going tide and dragged down river. But the wherryman knew his business and set off at just the right arcing angle to bring them diagonally across the River to the St Mary Overie Steps.

"How long can you stay," said Vallemont.

"I am supposed to be staying with Bennet until Monday," said Mrs Clavell.

Vallemont lifted up her chin and smiled down into her eyes. "Three days," he said. "And nights."

He pushed her hood back a little  and encouraged her to remove her vizard.

"Come madam, take this off for me, let me see you," he smiled.

She took off her mask and slipped it into her bag.

The boatman smiled to himself, as he saw the young gallant take a kiss from her. The gentleman was a handsome young devil, but the woman looked a little older- mid to late twenties perhaps, but she was easily one of the most beautiful women he had ever carried across the River in his boat. Her skin was immaculately unblemished, unlined and palest white- though it did not look to be done by make-up, like most women achieved the look- this woman was naturally creamy skinned and her dark hair, which he could just see drawn back off her beautiful face, would have made it look even whiter he imagined. She wasn't wearing much make-up, but he could see she had plenty of vermillion on her nice full lips and fairly heavy blackening around her eyes. She had large eyelids, but her face was wonderfully and pleasingly proportioned. She was beautiful all right and probably someone's wife, but her and the gent were going at it pretty strong as they crossed to the middle of the River! And out of respect for their privacy, her turned his eyes away and looked the other way.

Suddenly, they struck something in the water- hard!

"Watch where you're going man!" yelled Vallemont, as he and Mrs Clavell were jarred from their gentle kissing and lovers' whisperings on the cushioned backseat of the wherry.

Mrs Clavell, clearly embarrassed, buried her face in Vallemont's chest.

"Sorry, sir. We hit something floating in the River. It's your side, sir. Just have a look for me would you, sir.. If it's a log, I'll drag it in out of the way," said the wherryman, his oars half-immersed and just holding the boat against the current by rolling his wrists a little.

Vallemont leaned over his side, dragging Mrs Clavell with him, in his right arm, and looked over the side of the boat down into the greenish tinged depths of the River.

The deathly white and eyeless face of a man leered up at him out of the water. And made him start back and gasp. Mrs Clavell felt him jump and turned her head to look, and saw the body floating in the water. She screamed and held her hand to her mouth.

"Row man!" cried Vallemont. "It's a body!"



Music listened to a lot during the writing of this novel: Show of  Hands: Captains and Crow on the Cradle; The Mediaeval Baebes: Scarborough Fayre.