First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW
Copyright © 2014 by Alex Connor
The moral right of Alex Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN 978 1 78206 507 4
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78206 508 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Contents
Book One
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Book Two
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Book Three
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Book Four
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Seventy-Four
Seventy-Five
Seventy-Six
Seventy-Seven
Seventy-Eight
Seventy-Nine
Eighty
Eighty-One
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Three
Eighty-Four
Eighty-Five
Eighty-Six
Eighty-Seven
Eighty-Eight
Bibliography
Also by Alex Connor
The Caravaggio Conspiracy
Isle of the Dead
The Goya Enigma
Legacy of Blood
The Rembrandt Secret
‘The Garden of Earthly Delights’ [detail]
After Hieronymus Bosch
‘The like of which was never seen before
Or thought of by any other man.’
Albrecht Dürer, 1471–1528
‘Who will be able to tell of all the weird and strange ideas which were in the mind of Jeronimus Bos, and his expressions of them by his brush? He painted gruesome pictures.’
Karel van Mander, 1548–1606
London
The pain of the hammer blow cut through his sleep and he slumped back against the door of St Stephen’s church. Alarmed, he struggled to open his eyes, smelt burning, then jerked his legs up. His trousers were on fire. Someone had poured petrol on him; he could see the man standing over him with a can, emptying the last drops on to his body. Terrified, the victim screamed, writhing in pain, the flames soaring up his legs and into his groin.
Stumbling to his feet, he was suddenly engulfed, the fire eating into his chest and face. He could feel his skin melting, slipping off his bones, his eyes boiling in his skull. Hysterical, desperate, he screamed again, the flames licking around and inside his mouth as he staggered down to the gravel path. But he was going nowhere in the darkness as he shrieked and spun like a firework and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air, smoke rising from the blackening shape. He was still screaming as his attacker watched him fall forward on to the path, flames flickering over the dying, stinking body. Finally the screaming stopped. His flesh crackled and the flames died down, the smoke thick and cloying.
Moving over to his victim, the attacker kicked at the body. It didn’t move. Then, dropping the petrol can beside the corpse, he calmly walked away.
Book One
Prologue
’s-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, 1460
It is a fallacy that killing a bird brings ill luck. For the members of the Swan Brethren, it was a form of tribute. On an early evening, barely into a bitter November, two men carried in the swan on an ornate silver plate. Its feathers were clotted with blood from the arrow point, its head lying listless, its throat ice-white, long, fragile, leading to the open ebony eyes. Its closed beak, redly defiant, seemed like a full stop.
Ten years old, he watched his father, Antonius van Aken, receive the offering. He was wearing the insignia of the order, his position as artistic advisor to the Brotherhood of Our Lady marking him out from his peers. The order had been established in the religious Netherlands to venerate the mother of Christ, but Hieronymus knew of the politics involved. Even a religious sect had a pecking order. There were the ordinary members of the Brotherhood and the sworn members – the glorious ‘Swan Brethren’ who donated a swan for the yearly banquet.
Glossy-faced and perspiring, Antonius studied the swan and nodded approval. Applause broke out among the assembled company, clerics, nobility and magistrates clapping the tips of their elegant fingers in muted appreciation.
Hieronymus gazed at the dead bird. He thought it was a little like him, overwhelmed by circumstances just as he was overwhelmed by family. His father, two grandfathers and five brothers were all painters, all gifted men, healthy and dismissive of a sickly runt of a child. Suddenly he saw the bird move and he blinked, leaning over the banisters and staring down into the hall beneath. Without warning the swan rose up, webbed feet stamping on the silver tray, threatening to topple off as the men beneath panicked and struggled to hold on to their charge.
Hieronymus could see his father’s eyes widen in terror as the bird opened its bloody wings and turned towards him. Its tremendous span seemed for a moment to envelop the entire Brotherhood in shadow, the men cowering beneath. And then the swan’s beak – that molten arrow – jabbed into Antonius’s skull. The bone cracked and Antonius van Aken was thrown upwards, landing bloodied and mangled on the silver platter where the bird had previously lain.