The Darkening Glass

Chapter 10

I returned to Warwick Castle but was not allowed entry. A kindly chamberlain agreed to go to my chamber above the hall and brought down all my belongings. He even gave me a linen parcel of food and a small wineskin. I thanked him and took lodgings in a spacious tavern in the town. I used the gold and silver pieces stitched into a secret pocket on my belt to hire a well-furnished chamber. I also went out into the marketplace and bought some new clothes, for I felt dirty, soiled, polluted by what I’d seen. I returned to my chamber, stripped, washed, anointed my body and dressed.

Afterwards I took my old clothing in a bundle down to a beggar at the corner of an alleyway and thrust it into her hands. I stayed at the tavern three days, resting and eating. I gave the tavern master a coin to advise me who was staying there and where they were going. On the fourth day I met a group of wool merchants travelling to York; they kindly agreed that I could join their company.

Three days later I reached York and made my way to the Franciscan house. Father Prior made me welcome but assured me that the court, both king and queen, had now moved to the more grand furnishings of St Mary’s Abbey, though I was most welcome to stay in their guest house. Master Bertrand Demontaigu had also visited but was now absent on business elsewhere. The prior added that he was surprised at Demontaigu’s requests but had conceded to them in the hope that the mysterious deaths that had occurred in his friary church could be resolved. God bless those friars: they welcomed me as if I was their sister. I was given the most comfortable chamber and savoury food. The following morning Demontaigu returned.

We met in the same rose garden where Lanercost and all the other Aquilae had sprawled laughing and drinking when we brought the news about the massacre out on the moors. Now it seemed a lifetime away. The garden was silent, heavy with summer fragrance, a change from the stark bleakness of Scarborough, that horrid line of trees on Blacklow Hill, Gaveston’s corpse saturated in its own blood, the severed head of a once splendid earl lying in the undergrowth like a piece of pork on a flesher’s stall. I confided in Bertrand all the fears haunting my soul, the images and dreams, the phantasms and nightmares that plagued my mind. Bertrand sat on the turf seat beside me, clutching my hand, watching my face, very much like the confessor he was. Once I’d finished, he informed me of how the king was distraught at his favourite’s death yet strangely unwilling to move against the assassins of his beloved brother Gaveston. Rumours, Demontaigu confided, were flying as thick and fast as feathers in a hen coop.

‘God knows, Mathilde,’ he declared, ‘perhaps the king is secretly relieved that Gaveston is gone.’

Demontaigu then referred to other matters I’d asked him to investigate on his return to York. What he told me simply confirmed my own suspicions. He had visited the friary library and, much to the prior’s surprise, had taken the ‘man of straw’, as he put it, dressed in clothes, up to that lonely haunted belfry. He laughingly described what had then ensued, and as if in gentle mockery of his words, the great bells began to toll the call to Vespers. Demontaigu waited until they’d stopped.

‘You know the truth, Mathilde. Will you not tell me?’

‘Soon.’ I gently touched him on the cheek. ‘Soon I will, when these things done in the dark have been brought to light. Eventually they will, but in the meantime, Bertrand, for your sake and that of my mistress, it is best if silence is observed. Gaveston’s death has achieved little except to define where everyone stands. The pieces have moved on the chess board and they’ll move again. A period of calm will ensue,’ I murmured, ‘until the furies gather once more. In the meantime, I follow my mistress’ advice: video atque taceo — I watch and stay silent.’

Bertrand teased me for a while. He made me repeat the macabre details about Blacklow Hill. Perhaps he wanted to exorcise my soul as well as learn more about Gaveston and about the massacre of his Templar brethren out at Devil’s Hollow.

‘But that is not the root of this evil, is it, Mathilde?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘The malicious, murderous mischief plotted in Scotland is the cause of a great deal of what has happened since. The Beaumonts, God save them, were a mere irritation. They rightly suspected villainy was being planned but they thought it concerned their estates, that Edward was in some secret pact with Bruce to surrender all claims in Scotland. They were wrong. Gaveston was plotting greater villainy.’

‘And now you know the truth?’

‘Oh yes.’ I let go of his hands. ‘I wanted you back here and you have done what I asked.’ I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Trust me. I was no fair damsel in peril by land and sea. God knows, Warwick and the rest were courteous enough. They were just hawks who selected their quarry, Gaveston. They have made their kill. They are satisfied, at least for the moment. Our king is fickle. He will wait and watch, grieve and shout. He will hide his secret feelings because he will never let Gaveston’s death rest. Eventually he will remember me and summon me to account, but I shall simply tell him what he wants to hear. Now, Bertrand, is the time of danger. I must, in some secret form, allow the truth to emerge, and you must leave. I have sent urgent messages to her grace to meet me — God knows when she will reply.’

In the end, Isabella, as I suspected, replied swiftly. Bertrand and I had kissed and parted. The good brothers were gathering in their incense-filled choir stalls when Isabella, with little ceremony or advance warning, accompanied only by her few trusted squires, slipped into the friary. She looked radiant, dressed in dark blue with a silver cord around her bulging stomach, a jewelled cross on a silver chain about her neck, her face almost hidden by a thick gauze veil. We met, kissed and exchanged the courtesies in the prior’s parlour. Beside the queen stood Dunheved, his olive face a serene mask of contentment. He knew what had happened to Gaveston’s corpse and openly praised my diligence as a great act of mercy. I just stared coldly back. Isabella caught my glance but chattered on merrily as if I had just been on a courtesy visit or shopping for her in the nearby market. Only when we three were alone in that rose garden, with the light beginning to fade, the perfume from the flowers thickening the air, did she drop all pretence. Her Fideles, as she called her household squires, those same young men who had resolutely defended her at Tynemouth, sealed all entrances to the garden. Isabella sat on a turf seat so her back could rest against the flower-covered trellis; she lovingly rubbed her stomach, caressing the child within.

‘Gaveston is dead,’ she declared. ‘God give him true rest, but God be thanked.’ There, in that short phrase, Isabella confessed the truth. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at me, then gently patted Dunheved, who sat silently beside her.

‘Mathilde, ma cherie, my friend, you said in your note that you wished to have urgent words with me and Brother Stephen.’

‘My daughter,’ the Dominican smiled, ‘you have much to say?’

I stared hard at that sanctimonious killer.

‘Much to say,’ I whispered, ‘much to judge and much to condemn! Your grace,’ I turned to the queen, who was still leaning back, her thick veil pulled away from her face so she could see me clearly. Never had she looked so glorious. Regina Vivat! Regina Vincit! Regina Imperat! — The Queen Lives! The Queen Conquers! The Queen Rules!’ Isabella had come into her own.

‘Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘I wait.’

‘When you came to England, your grace,’ I began, ‘you were a child, thirteen summers old but with a heart skilled in politic and subterfuge.’

Isabella laughed girlishly, covering her mouth with her bejewelled fingers, the silver froth of her cuff snow white against her golden skin.

‘Your husband entertained a deep passion for his favourite. God only knows the truth about their relationship, but you, your grace, did not object. You bent before the storm lest you break, and so you waited. One crisis followed another. Your husband the king was baited and harassed, and so were you, yet you remained faithful, loyal and serene. Earlier this year, four years on from your marriage, you became pregnant, the bearer of an heir. The possibility that you could produce the only living grandson of both Edward I and Philip of France became a reality. Your husband was delighted. Through you, he had silenced all the taunts and jibes of those who mocked his manhood. He was a prince who had begotten an heir on his loving wife. The dynasty would continue. Gaveston, however, had always viewed you as a threat. Even more so now. What did the king call Gaveston? Brother, but also son. You were about to change that.’

Isabella wafted her face with her hand. ‘Continue,’ she demanded softly.

‘By the spring of this year, Gaveston had emerged as a real threat to the Crown. Because of him, from the very first day of his succession, Edward had known no peace. Did the king, your husband, despite all his love for Gaveston, come to regard his favourite as increasingly irksome, especially when his love for you deepened and you became pregnant? Did Gaveston turn on the king, reminding him of those secret, malicious rumours about Edward being a changeling, the son of a peasant?’

‘Nonsense,’ Dunheved intervened. ‘Such stories do no harm to the king. Gaveston would not dare-’

‘Nonsense, Brother,’ Isabella mockingly echoed. ‘I must correct you. At this moment in time, such stories would do great damage to his grace. Gaveston would have done anything to save himself, to protect his position with the king. Four people knew the true Gaveston: the king, and we three. Mathilde, do continue.’

‘Gaveston grew desperate. He had isolated the king. No help came from the earls, France or the papacy. Only the Beaumonts, for their own selfish reasons, planted their standards close to Gaveston’s camp, but they could not be trusted. In the end, Gaveston was captured because he was defenceless. He was imprisoned and executed because he lacked any guard. More importantly, during the last months of his life he was reduced to treating with the likes of Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales. Gaveston was desperate for troops. Lisbon could be useful, whilst it would also be a sop to both your father and the pope. In return the Portuguese would help — as long as there was no real threat. At Tynemouth that changed. The castle came under threat from both within and without. Lisbon left to meet his fate, but by then, the real damage had been done. Gaveston had given Lisbon secret information about a troop of Templars coming out of Scotland to York: specifically the day they would reach Devil’s Hollow. Lisbon set his trap. He massacred those Templars then plotted to murder those who went out to meet them.’

‘And Gaveston learnt that through Lanercost’s brother, a Templar serjeant?’ Isabella asked.

‘Of course. Lanercost the Aquilae gave his master such information, never dreaming it would be used to kill his brother. We, of course, told Lanercost what had truly happened. Undoubtedly he confronted Gaveston, who was horrified, probably for the very selfish reason that he had alienated one of his closest followers. Matters might have stopped there. Lanercost was furious; he became inebriated. He confided in his close comrade Leygrave how he felt betrayed.’ I pointed at Dunheved, who sat so placidly, hands tucked up the sleeves of his gown. ‘He also confided in you, Brother Stephen. Mere chance, yet on the other hand, what better person? A Dominican friar, the king’s own confessor, a man who could be trusted. The shrewd, ever-listening priest! Where did you meet him, Brother? Here in a lonely garden, a corner of the cloisters, with only the gargoyles, babewyns and stone-faced angels and saints as your silent witnesses?’

Dunheved removed his hands from his sleeves and threaded the tasselled end of the cord around his waist. For a heartbeat I wondered whether he’d ever used that to strangle a victim.

‘You are an accomplished man, Brother Stephen. Demontaigu made enquiries about you here in the Dominican house in York. You are the brother of Lord Thomas Dunheved from the West Country, a former squire, a man once harnessed for war.’ I paused. ‘A scholar deeply interested in the peal of bells. You wrote De Sonitu Tonitorum — Concerning the Peal of Bells. Understandably you became a visitor to the belfry here. You befriended poor Brother Eusebius, whom you later murdered.’

Isabella sat up straight. She’d taken a set of coral Ave beads from the silken purse on her waist cord and was fingering the cross. Dunheved, God save him, stared at me as if relishing every word I uttered.

‘Lanercost came to you,’ I pointed to the Dominican, ‘to confess, to confide, I don’t know which. He gave vent to his anger and sadness. Gaveston had betrayed both him and his brother, so in revenge, Lanercost betrayed Gaveston. He would wax hot and lyrical about what he and the others had done for the favourite in Scotland.’

‘Which was?’ Isabella intervened sharply.

‘A blasphemously murderous plot!’

‘To which my husband was not party.’

‘I don’t think so, your grace. Lanercost was sent into Scotland ostensibly to seek help against the earls. Secretly, Gaveston and his Aquilae proposed thier own plot: the capture of Edward’s queen, to be held to ransom or even,’ I paused, ‘killed.’

‘Bruce, a prince?’ Isabella murmured. ‘Party to that?’

‘Mistress, I have heard the same before, yet how many of Bruce’s ladies, as well as those of his generals, Stuart, Murray and Randolph, have not been seized, violated or killed? Bruce himself may have baulked at it, but his commanders would not have. War by fire and sword rages in Scotland. What would they care? It could have happened, as it nearly did at Tynemouth: a stray arrow, an unknown swordsman. After all, one of your grace’s ladies died in that bloody affray.’

My mistress simply tightened her lips and glanced away.

‘Ostensibly,’ I continued, ‘Gaveston negotiated on behalf of the king. Secretly he and his coven were plotting the removal, perhaps even death, of his queen, Edward’s wife.’

‘Why?’ Dunheved’s voice was sharp and taunting.

‘You know that, Brother, as I do. Gaveston was now truly jealous of her grace. He saw her and her child as supplanting him in Edward’s affections. He fiercely resented the expected heir. Gaveston was a spoilt, pampered fop. He wanted to return to the old days when he and Edward were together, isolated from everyone.’

‘And how was this to be done?’ Isabella demanded.

‘Why, your grace,’ I replied, ‘easy enough with the court vulnerable in the north and Bruce’s forces ready to cross the border in lightning raids as they did at Tynemouth. But I hurry on. Did Dunheved tell you, your grace, what he’d learnt from Lanercost?’

Isabella stared glassily back: no smile, no coquetry, just a hard, cold look. Beside the queen, Dunheved shifted rather nervously.

‘You, Brother Stephen, were furious. Determined that these men who threatened her grace would pay for their treason. You relished that: judge and hangman. Your cause was certainly right. What Gaveston plotted was horrid murder and heinous treason.’

‘To which my husband was not party,’ Isabella repeated.

‘My lady, no, I do not think so, and neither do you. Gaveston just wanted to rid himself of you and your child. You, Brother, decided not to strike directly at the favourite but to weaken him, as well as to punish him and his coven for their crimes. Lanercost was first. He had to be removed swiftly lest he had a change of heart and confessed to his master about what he’d said and to whom. Above all, punishment had to be carried out. Brother Stephen, you have a mordant sense of humour. You decided to bring Gaveston and his so-called eagles crashing to the ground. Just like Simon Magus, the magician who could fly, cast out of the sky by St Peter. You referred to that legend. What better place for it than the belfry of this friary, supervised by the witless Brother Eusebius, whom you had befriended? You could go up and inspect the great bells, the chimes of which you listened to. Do you remember, I was sitting here? You came over to discuss matters and made some passing remark about the chimes not being in accord, but that does not concern us now. You had decided the belfry was the ideal place for punishment: isolated, a sanctuary haunted only by someone you regarded as fey and witless.’

‘And Lanercost would go up there?’ Dunheved jibed.

‘Of course! Why shouldn’t he go with his father confessor, the friendly Dominican priest who only wanted to help? He trusted you so much he took his war-belt off to climb those steps.’

‘I was celebrating mass when he fell.’

‘I know that, Brother, I was also there, but you killed Lanercost much earlier that morning, just after Brother Eusebius had scuttled off to break his fast in the refectory or buttery. You and Lanercost went up to the bell tower, an ideal place where no one could see you or eavesdrop on a conversation. You struck him a killing blow to the back of his head that shattered his skull. By the time his corpse fell, bouncing off the brickwork and the roof of the nave to smash against the ground, it simply became one injury amongst many.’

‘And how was that done,’ Isabella asked, ‘if Brother Stephen was celebrating mass?’

‘The ledge of the belfry window overlooking the friary yard is broad, slightly sloping. It had been raining, so it would also be slippery. Lanercost’s corpse was laid there, an easy enough task that cannot have been observed from below. Dunheved then left. Later the bells were tolled at the end of mass. Brother Eusebius told me to be careful when I climbed into the belfry. He explained how the belfry shuddered with the noise and the echo. That alone would make the corpse slide. More importantly, the thick rim of one of those great bells skims the ledge.’ I used my hand to demonstrate. ‘Sooner or later that bell, together with the sound and the shaking, would shift Lanercost’s corpse along that slippery, sloping edge to fall in a hideous drop, hitting the roof of the nave before crashing on to the cobbled yard. I agree, you were with us when that happened. As you were when the same fate befell Leygrave.’ I glanced quickly at the queen; she sat staring at the ground. Dunheved turned slightly away, face screwed up in concentration as he listened to me.

‘Surely,’ the Dominican turned back, joining his hands, ‘Leygrave would be suspicious, especially after the death of his close comrade Lanercost?’

‘Why should he be, Brother? Lanercost trusted you; so did Leygrave. Perhaps Leygrave knew all about the ghostly comfort you’d given his comrade. I cannot say how you sprang the trap. Did you tell Leygrave you wanted to see him privately — the same reason you gave Lanercost — in a place where the crowded court could not learn what was going on? Why should Leygrave suspect the holy-faced Dominican, so earnest in his help, so comforting in his words? An innocent invitation, a visit to the place where his comrade died, perhaps to search for something suspicious?’ I studied that hard-hearted priest, who betrayed no shame or guilt, not even a blink or a wince. ‘You lured Leygrave to that belfry. You killed him and arranged the corpse as you did Lanercost’s. You made one mistake. To create the impression that Leygrave might have committed suicide, once you had killed him with a blow to the back of his head, you pulled off his boots and made a muddy imprint on that ledge. You then put the boots back on the corpse and left it as you did Lanercost’s. At the next peal of bells the corpse would slip over silently like a bundle of cloth. That’s how the fire boy described it: no scream, no yell, just dropping like a bird stunned on the wing.’ I turned and gestured at that fateful tower rearing up against the evening sky. ‘My good friend Demontaigu, much to the surprise of Father Prior and the brothers, took up a man of straw clothed and cloaked. He left it on that ledge.’ I smiled thinly. ‘Eventually, during a bell-tolling, it fell, confirming my suspicions. Indeed, it’s the only logical explanation. As I said, who’d fear an innocent unarmed Dominican? But of course, Brother, you weren’t always that, were you?’

Dunheved grinned as if savouring some private joke.

‘You told me how you performed military service as a squire. You are as much a warrior and a killer as any of those you murdered.’

‘You said I made a mistake,’ Dunheved asked, ‘about Leygrave?’

‘I never told you,’ I declared, ‘about the muddy imprint left by Leygrave’s boots on that ledge, not in such minute detail. Yet when I discussed his death with you and Demontaigu, you mentioned it. How did you know?’

‘I. . I think you did. .’

‘Mathilde.’ Isabella’s voice held a sharp rebuke. ‘Finish what you have begun.’

‘And so to Duckett’s Tower at Tynemouth,’ I declared. ‘A place of intrigue and terror. I always wondered, Brother, why the king’s confessor should accompany us. Undoubtedly you persuaded the king that his queen needed you. His grace was so distracted, he would have agreed to anything.’ I paused. ‘I understand your concern, but murder was your principal motive. Undoubtedly at Tynemouth the Aquilae, unbeknown to any of us, had been in secret, treasonable communication with Bruce’s raiding party. They were responsible for those signals sent from the night-shrouded walls of the castle, as they were for loosening the postern gate. They looked shamefaced enough on that war-cog, and so they should have been. They’d plotted to be safely aboard when the Scots launched their ambush. You had already moved against those malignants. You would have loved to have killed them all, but that was not possible. So you struck at Kennington, one cold, windswept morning long before dawn. Rosselin and Middleton had completed their watch; they’d be cold and tired, even fearful. They and their retainers would be fast asleep.’ I shrugged. ‘God knows if you drugged their drink and food.’

‘I tell you. .’ Dunheved seemed angry, not so much at being accused but more that it was by me a woman. I recognised that arrogance in his soul. I’d glimpsed it before in men who regard women as the weaker in every respect. ‘I tell you,’ he repeated, ‘I know nothing about your potions and powders.’

‘Hush, hush.’ Isabella lifted her hand.

‘I will certainly answer that,’ I replied. ‘You were in the friary library. You told me you were studying Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo — Why God Became Man. That was a lie; it was nothing of the sort. The archives of the library clearly described the manuscript you borrowed, a copy of Hildegard of Bingen’s Causae et Curae.’ I paused. ‘You had also consulted that before we left for Tynemouth. Such a treatise is a rich source of knowledge you could use against your enemies, be it Kennington, Middleton or the wells of Scarborough Castle. You learnt what sleeping potions or powders to buy, which you undoubtedly did at some apothecary or herbalist here in York. Now, during those early hours of that morning, you slipped as stealthily as a hunting cat into Duckett’s Tower. You quietly mounted those steps. As you passed each door, you slipped the hook into its clasp, sealing anyone within. Oh, they could eventually get out, but it would take time and alert you. You reached the top of that windswept tower-’

‘And Kennington and his retainers welcomed me like the prodigal son?’ Dunheved sneered.

‘Undoubtedly! Why should they fear the kindly Dominican who could not sleep? Who’d brought up a wineskin to share with them during their lonely, cold, bleak watch? At Scarborough I glimpsed you do the same, edging along the parapet giving the defenders a drink from your wineskin. On Duckett’s Tower you would be most welcome. You’d seal the door, slipping the hook into its clasp, then offer these trusting, tired men a gulp of rich claret, blood-warming and comforting. They’d drink, and within a short while, be fast asleep. How long would it take to hurl those bodies over the battlements? A strong man like you, Dunheved — not long? You callously lifted each wine-drugged body over and let it drop.’ I paused. ‘What, in no more time than it would take a scholar to count to ten.’

‘I could have been discovered.’

‘How, Brother? Each door was clasped, as was the one at the top of the tower. If anyone saw you come up, you would have changed your plan. If anyone disturbed you, you would have enough time to pose as the innocent who’d climbed to the top of Duckett’s Tower to find that all were gone. If you were seen as you went down, you could so easily dissemble, an innocent Dominican who’d climbed Duckett’s Tower to discover its guards had disappeared. Naturally,’ I added, ‘there was danger, a risk in that short space of time when you hurled those bodies to their death. Reflect, Brother Stephen! What real danger did you face apart from that brief killing time? Everything else could be so easily explained away.’

The sound of Isabella’s squires politely requesting one of the brothers not to enter the garden made me pause.

‘Kennington’s death,’ I resumed, ‘broke the spirit of the Aquilae. They looked for protection from their lord, but Gaveston himself was under threat from the earls. Middleton was your next victim. A superstitious, scrupulous young man, hounded by guilt, he received little comfort or sustenance from either Rosselin or Gaveston. Subject to all forms of soul-disturbing fancies, he took to visiting the Chapel of Our Lady in Scarborough Castle very early in the morning. You noticed that and, once again, assumed the role of the sympathetic friar, the trusted priest, the ascetic confessor. One morning you were waiting for him. You moved the mercy chair round — which you never put back — you drew him into conversation even as you decided on his death, whatever regrets Middleton confessed. The rope was ready, whilst beneath your cloak you carried that small wineskin of tainted claret.’

‘The door was locked from within.’ Dunheved’s interruption was more of a jibe than a question.

‘Patience,’ I retorted. ‘You locked the door. You gave the agitated Middleton words of comfort and a few gulps from that wineskin to calm his humours. I doubt if Middleton had had a good night’s sleep since Tynemouth. He was agitated. The wine and potion you’d distilled would soon soothe him, and a drugged man is easy to hang. The noose was slipped around his neck as his body slumped in the chair. You climbed the ladder, looped the other end of the rope round the beam and hauled him up slowly but surely. If Middleton revived, what hope did he have? If he did wear a war-belt you removed that, hid it under your cloak. Whatever, he had no dagger, nothing with which to cut himself down, whilst any struggle would only tighten the noose further. You mentioned the locked door, Brother?’

Dunheved just blinked and glanced away.

‘I shall tell you how you did that. You took the key from the sacristy door. You placed it on the floor as if it was from the door to the church; that one, however, you kept. You waited until Middleton was dead, placed the usual mocking message on his corpse and left, locking the door and taking the chapel key with you.’

‘I could have been discovered.’

‘When?’ I demanded. ‘You could have hastened to the door and unlocked it. You could claim you came in only to discover what had happened. Terrified lest the assassin return, you locked the door whilst you tried to assist poor Middleton.’

‘Those keys?’ Isabella asked. ‘They were changed?’

‘Oh yes. Brother Stephen, you gave extreme unction to your first two victims but you left Middleton to Demontaigu. Whilst he administered the last rites you became extremely busy inspecting the main door as well as that to the sacristy. I recall the scene distinctly. That’s when you picked up the sacristy key, which looked so much like the one to the church, and changed them over. In all the chaos and mayhem, no one would notice you slip the sacristy key back because no one really cared.’

‘I could have been seen leaving.’

‘Again a risk — but you’d open that door a crack. Peer out. The path to the chapel was a mass of pebbles that would betray sound. The morning sea mist provided a cloak of secrecy. You could slip out and lock that door in the blink of an eye.’

‘Someone might have noticed the sacristy key was missing from its lock.’

‘For the love of God, who’d notice that when all eyes were on poor Middleton? Who’d even remember there was a sacristy key?’ I shrugged. ‘After all, you returned it swiftly enough!’

‘And Rosselin?’ Isabella demanded. I wondered how much of this she knew. Had she been party to all these deaths? I decided that would have to wait.

‘Rosselin,’ I continued, ‘was by now a broken man. Gaveston had neglected him.’

‘Why?’ Isabella broke in.

‘Because Gaveston, in the last resort, cared only for himself. The best he could do was to provide poor Rosselin with one of Ap Ythel’s archers, but you, Brother Stephen, took care of that. Rosselin hid away, particularly from any high place. The night the tocsin was falsely sounded and the beacon fire lit? You were responsible for that, as you were for everything else that went wrong in that castle: the pollution of the wells and food stocks. An easy enough task. Poison in the rat runs, some oil and kindling in those bone-dry cellars.’

‘And Rosselin?’ Dunheved remained unabashed.

‘Oh, the tocsin was sounded. The alarm raised. Everyone flocked to the battlements. You acted swiftly. You called Ap Ythel’s guard away.’

‘I am not Welsh.’

‘Who said the voice was Welsh?’

‘I heard. .’

‘Perhaps you did, Brother Stephen. I am French, but I can still mimic Ap Ythel’s Welsh accent. I often do when I tease him. Her grace has witnessed that.’ I pointed at Dunheved. ‘You did the same that night. You are a good mimic, Brother. I heard you here in the rose garden imitating the troubadours and jongleurs. Indeed, you are a true mummer. You put a mask on and take it off depending on the circumstances. You called that guard away. He would not need much encouragement; after all, everyone was in high expectancy. Had the earls arrived? Had the king? Once he was gone, you hurried up the steps to Rosselin’s chamber. In your wallet you have a key. It may have been from Middleton’s chamber or elsewhere in the castle; they all look alike. You intended to pose the same mysterious riddle as you had in the lady chapel. You knocked on the door. Rosselin, sodden with drink, was befuddled. He peered through the grille and saw the kindly face of the Dominican priest. What did you tell him? Good news, that the king was approaching?’ Dunheved just smiled faintly. ‘Rosselin trusted you enough to open that door. You bustle in all friendly. You urge him to join the rest on the battlements. You pick up his cloak and war-belt as if to help him. Rosselin turns to receive his cloak, but you drop that, pluck the dagger from his war-belt and plunge it into his side, a killing blow up under his ribs, into his heart. You drag him to that open window, pull him on to the ledge and hurl his body into the night. A brief time, no more than a few breaths. You then place the false key on the table and take the chamber one. You lock the door from the outside and join us on the battlements, where you are careful to single me out.

‘The next morning you ensured that Demontaigu gave the corpse the last rites while you joined us in Rosselin’s chamber. You pretended to collect his possessions into a basket. Once again, in the blink of an eye, you changed one key for another. Your vengeance was now complete. All five Aquilae had been executed in a way that suited their lives, falling from glory to a grisly death. The siege began. You found it simple enough to break the bruised reed. The garrison was unnerved by strange calls and sounds. It was an easy task for a Dominican knowledgeable about witches and warlocks. The well was polluted, the food stocks burnt — all your doing. Who would suspect a Dominican priest, a royal confessor?’

‘You did!’ Dunheved taunted. ‘Surely the Aquilae would have?’

‘No, no!’ I retorted. ‘The Aquilae, in Rosselin’s words, were broken. They had been involved in the most horrid treason. They were trapped in it; there was no going back. Resented by most, deserted by their lord, who could they turn to? Rosselin was even reduced to begging for my help. They were like sheep without a shepherd, alone, vulnerable to the ever-watching wolf: you!’

‘And afterwards,’ Isabella asked, ‘the capture of Gaveston?’

‘God knows, your grace. I have little proof. I believe Pembroke was honest and true enough. Beauchamp of Warwick and the others needed little encouragement to seize Gaveston. Did you, Brother, send an anonymous message to Warwick telling him to follow us? You had the opportunity for such mischief when you took Gaveston’s acceptance to Pembroke. Did you leave similar messages at taverns where we paused before arriving at Deddington to lodge for the night? Warwick would do the rest. He lured Pembroke away, leaving Gaveston vulnerable, but there again, you realised, as I did, that once he’d separated from the king, Gaveston was finished. I am sure you secretly worked to achieve that. Did you advise or encourage the king to choose Scarborough as the best place for refuge, when in fact it certainly wasn’t?’ I glanced quickly at the queen. ‘Though God knows what further encouragement persuaded him to separate himself from his favourite.’

Isabella did not flinch. Ah, I thought, when will she reveal her own role in all of this? Dunheved, tapping his sandalled feet dramatically against the paving stone, abruptly rose and smoothed out his robe.

‘I’m a priest,’ he cleared his throat, ‘a cleric. I claim benefit of clergy. I cannot be tried by the king’s courts.’

‘His grace can certainly be informed.’

Dunheved smiled patronisingly at me.

‘About what?’ He sat down, hands clasped. ‘Did I not tell you, mistress?’ He smiled. ‘I heard the lord Gaveston’s confession.’

‘Which cannot be revealed,’ I taunted.

‘On the night before he was taken, he confessed to me after absolution that he’d killed all the Aquilae in the very same way you have described to me.’ Dunheved chewed the corner of his lip.

‘Check and check again,’ I whispered. ‘Every piece I move, you block. Oh, I know you, Brother. You’ll demand to be tried by Church courts, which are more lenient. You’ll claim your innocence and point to Gaveston, using the very evidence I have now supplied you with. You’ll cause enough confusion, sow enough doubt to nullify proceedings completely, and of course, the king would not like to see his confessor being exposed to public shame.’

‘More importantly, mistress,’ Dunheved pointed at me, ‘you could become a laughing stock, the wench who laid false accusation against the king’s own confessor.’

‘Be careful, Brother,’ Isabella whispered hoarsely. ‘Be very, very careful.’

‘Your grace,’ Dunheved murmured, ‘I’m simply saying what others would say. Gaveston killed his own for his own selfish reasons. He was totally bound up with himself. We all agree on that. He was evil and has now gone to his just reward. A man, your grace, let me remind you, who tried to betray you to the Scots, the king’s mortal enemies; who put your life and that of your unborn child at risk.’

‘And how will you account for Brother Eusebius?’ I accused. ‘Strange,’ I gestured at him, ‘in all our meetings you rarely asked me about him. At Tynemouth when I mentioned his death, you ignored me and abruptly asked about Kennington. Why, Brother? Did you feel guilty, or were you cautious lest any discussion might betray a mistake on your part? After all, you were nearly trapped when I went down to the charnel house. You had to flee, locking that trap door behind you. Brother, you were dismissive of me; I was someone to be patronised. A stupid snooping maid who could be frightened, as you tried to do when I went into the belfry after Lanercost’s death. You began to sound those bells.’

‘Brother!’ Isabella hissed. ‘Mathilde is of my household, my chamber!’

‘Poor Eusebius,’ I continued. ‘You considered him a fool, but he was sharper. He, in fact, gave you the idea for that mocking verse about the Aquilae flying so high. He mentioned to me how Theobald the lovesick novice tried to fly like an eagle. You befriended Eusebius, but he glimpsed things out of place. He nourished his own suspicious about you. Perhaps he hoped for more silver from you. He referred to himself as the bat and asked his prior if a bat could be more cunning than a dog. He was making a play on the name of your order: Domini Canes — Dogs or Hounds of the Lord. He also talked of lux et tenebrae — light and darkness — a reference to your secret ways, as well as to the black and white garb you wear. Eusebius thought he was safe. He revelled in the game. He etched a drawing on the wall of his closet in the bell tower: a bat and what looked like a hairy dog or leopard. In fact it was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A reference to you, because Eusebius was sure he’d glimpsed you hurrying through the Galilee Porch on the day Leygrave was killed. He turned menacing. You gave Leygrave the last rites. Eusebius was close by. He babbled to me, intimating that he knew more than he’d confessed. In fact he was secretly threatening you. You overheard and decided to silence his chattering tongue. You followed him down into the charnel house and crushed his skull with a bone. You removed from his tray any coins or medals you’d given him, including a button on a shard of cloth from the livery of the Beaumonts, and left that as a distraction.’ I shrugged. ‘The Beaumonts were a mere irritation, fearful of being distanced from the king and what he might be plotting regarding their precious estates in Scotland. They were only concerned about themselves. I nearly caught you that day down in the charnel house. Little wonder you joined me and Demontaigu to judge what progress I was making. Very subtle! To be the hunted who could join the hunters whenever he wished and discover what was being plotted.’ I sighed. ‘So, Brother, how do you plead about poor Eusebius?’

‘You have no real proof.’

‘True,’ I conceded, ‘as I have no real evidence you murdered the Pilgrim. He came here disguised as a Franciscan. He wanted to tell me a secret. You saw me talking to someone garbed as a friar. We later left the Priory and went down Pig Sty Alley to the Pot of Fire. Believe me, Brother, the murder you committed that evening was most callous. You considered the slaying of the Aquilae as just punishment. Brother Eusebius had to be silenced because of what he might have seen and heard, but the Pilgrim was mere chance. You were concerned lest some Franciscan here, apart from Eusebius, might also have seen or heard something untoward. You dared not strike at me or mine because of her grace, but the Pilgrim was a different matter. You took a crossbow and waited for us to return, to step into that pool of light. You killed the Pilgrim and slipped away. You murdered another human being for no other reason than just in case. .’

Dunheved shook his head and made to leave. Isabella whispered something hoarsely in a patois I could not understand, but I am sure she told him to go. The Dominican had lost some of his quiet arrogance. He rose and bowed to the queen.

‘Your grace, I beg you to excuse me.’

‘You are certainly excused, Brother.’

‘I would like words with Mistress Mathilde.’

‘If she wishes words with you alone, Brother, you may both withdraw, but Mathilde must return unscathed.’ She gestured quickly at me as a sign to go with Dunheved.

I did so, following him into the next enclosure of the rose garden. Behind me I heard the queen calling for her squires. Dunheved walked over to the wicket gate leading towards the Galilee Porch of the friary church. It was twilight, the hour of the bat. Flittering black shapes darted through the half-light. Dusk time, when the demons walk and the gargoyles and babewyns allegedly turn to flesh so as to prowl through the world of men. A fitting time to confront an assassin with a fair face and foul heart. Dunheved turned abruptly at the gate and peered at me.

‘What I did,’ his words came as a hiss, ‘was for the king, the Crown and the welfare of this realm.’

‘True, Brother, but it could have also been done by usage of law. The Aquilae might have provoked God’s vengeance, but helpless Eusebius, the poor Pilgrim, Kennington’s two retainers? More importantly, Brother,’ I stepped closer, ‘you relished your role. You enjoyed it. I doubt if this was the first time you’d killed. I am sure it will not be the last.’

‘The king would never believe you.’ Dunheved was now blustering. ‘Nor will any court, be it the king’s or the pope’s.’ He shook himself as if casting away any doubt or guilt. ‘I did God’s work.’

‘Which makes you truly dangerous, Brother. No man is more sinister than when he decides that God has selected him to deal out death and judgement according to His whim. You can go,’ I continued. ‘The king will not know, but God knows. You, Brother, revelled in wielding the power of life and death. You have moved from strength to strength, exulting in what you do and what you have done. You walk a gorgeous path of power, or so you think, but those you murdered glide through the dusk either side of you. One day they will hold you to account.’

‘Mathilde,’ Dunheved smirked, ‘you should have been a religious.’

‘Like you, Brother?’

Dunheved shrugged, mockingly blessed me and was gone.

I walked back to the queen. She dismissed her squires and patted the seat next to her.

‘Mathilde. You do have questions? I know you are brimming with them. Did I know? Dunheved told me in confidence what he’d learnt from Lanercost. He said for me to watch, as God would punish the Aquilae. I did not really care.’ Isabella played with a ring on her finger. ‘I could not voice, even to you, my worst suspicions. Was Gaveston really plotting my destruction? Above all,’ tears brimmed in those beautiful eyes, ‘was my husband? I decided to resist, to turn the king’s heart from Gaveston and his coven.’

‘They admitted as much,’ I intervened. ‘Both Rosselin and Gaveston said you were more subtle than a serpent. Gaveston confessed I had saved him from great sin, namely your death and that of your unborn child. Rosselin and the rest also came to regret their plotting, but it was too late. They must have been mystified as to who was their hidden enemy. You? Gaveston? The king?’

‘My fears haunted me,’ Isabella murmured. ‘In the end it came down to power. Edward had to decide to save either himself, me and our child, or Gaveston. He made his choice.’

‘Your grace could have taken me into her confidence.’

‘What about?’ Isabella whispered. ‘That Dunheved was a killer? I only began to suspect him after Scarborough. For a while I thought Gaveston was killing his own. I became absorbed with him. I could not believe he would plot such wickedness; well, not till Tynemouth, and that was proof enough. I questioned Dunheved on his return from Warwick about whether he had had a hand in the death of the Aquilae. He denied it, blaming Gaveston. Dunheved will never admit his crimes, not to me or to the king. You he despises as some kitchen wench not worth bothering about. I did not really care for the Aquilae. After Tynemouth I was concerned only about my child. I confronted Edward.’ She turned blue eyes brimming with tears. ‘He did not deny that it was possible Gaveston might wish to hurt me.’

‘Did you threaten the king?’

‘Yes, Mathilde, I threatened the king my husband, the father of my child. I taunted him with the allegation that Gaveston knew about the changeling story. Was Gaveston, I screamed, blackmailing him? Edward remained silent.’ She sighed. ‘Now, as you know, French ships, alerted by the growing crisis, appeared off the coast. In Whitby I communicated with the seigneur of the flotilla; the master of the The Wyvern was my emissary. He brought letters from my father offering assistance. I responded that, if necessary, I would flee England on board a French ship.’

‘But you decided against that.’

‘Yes, Mathilde, I travelled to York. I pleaded with my husband to separate from Gaveston and allow him to go to Scarborough Castle. Anywhere, just away from us. I urged Dunheved to support me, and he did. I also told my husband that if Gaveston did not go into exile, I would.’

She smiled at my surprise.

‘I threatened to take sanctuary in Holcombe church, then ask to be escorted to the nearest port to take ship to my county of Ponthieu. Once there, I would don widow’s weeds, enter a nunnery and claim that, until Gaveston left England, I had no husband.’

‘And Edward would have been publicly humiliated?’ I declared.

‘True,’ Isabella agreed. ‘Both I and his son would be beyond his power. What else could I do? Gaveston had been with us for four years, Mathilde.’ The queen’s lips grew tight, her words coming out in a hoarse whisper. ‘For four years I put up with his foolishness, his arrogance, his provocation of the earls. I let him wine and dine, dance and strut, but I watched his eyes. As I grew older, he began to resent me. He feigned great pleasure that I was pregnant, but he didn’t hide it so well. Lanercost’s confession to Dunheved simply confirmed my own deep suspicions. My husband was deeply shocked. Mathilde, his love for Gaveston never really threatened me, but when he saw it might. .’

‘So the king let Gaveston go to his fate?’

‘Yes, Mathilde, you have it in one. I begged him to let God dispose. Edward grew more malleable after Tynemouth. To be truthful, he was also tired, eager for change, for a respite, wary of Gaveston’s growing obsession. In the end,’ Isabella pulled a face, ‘the king simply did nothing. He let events manifest God’s will.’

‘But now Gaveston is dead, the king may change?’

‘No, no,’ Isabella declared. ‘Edward takes great comfort from the thought that Gaveston wove his own fate. He recognises that, as he does the fact that I had no choice but to defend myself. So. .’ She turned away.

‘And Dunheved?’ I asked.

‘Brother Stephen will no longer be my confessor, Mathilde. I never suspected he was a killer until I heard what happened in Scarborough and afterwards. I shall distance myself from him. He remains the king’s confidant. God knows, no action will be taken against him. Edward will simply not want to know. Moreover, the king will be eager to test his new freedom, rejoice in his power, exult that his lovely wife bears his heir. As for the future. .’ She grasped my hand. ‘Mathilde, ma fille, finish your business here, then join me at the abbey early tomorrow after the Jesus mass. Let this matter rest.’

Then she was gone, in a swirl of fragrant perfume, calling for her squires. I walked out of the rose garden into the darkened friary church so full of brooding memories, haunted by the ghosts of those slain. I made my way up to the lady chapel and lit tapers for those murdered souls and for my own beloveds. The flames danced against the darkness. I glanced up at the serene, beautifully carved face of the Virgin and intoned a poem my mother had taught me: Tu as mis au monde le Sauveur de l’Univers. Benie sois-tu, Marie. .

Ah well! Now sheltering here in another Franciscan house, I gaze down through the murk of years past. I glimpse in a glow of golden light the beloved faces of those long dead. I also see Dunheved’s. Oh, Brother Stephen Dunheved! We like to think of God’s justice as in some miracle play, shooting out like an arrow or flashing like a barb of lightning. Of judgement falling immediately. Of sentence being imposed swiftly. Life isn’t like that. Time creeps, and so does God’s judgement. Dunheved’s day of doom eventually arrived, as it did for all the others: Lancaster, Pembroke, Hereford and Warwick. The murdered dead caught up with Dunheved at Berkeley Castle some fifteen years after those hurling times at York. I was there when he was brought to judgement. My face was the last he saw before they bricked him up, sealing him into a living tomb, where his body now rots. But that was for the future, when the furies once again massed like black clouds, low and threatening, before God’s judgement lashed down like rain to wash away more of man’s sin.