The Darkening Glass

Chapter 2

Living at court was a dappled existence of colours ranging from the brightest silver-gold to the deepest black. Glorious displays of power as brilliantly hued banners and pennants flapped bravely under a searing blue sky. Tables covered with the purest damask groaning under jewelled plate, bowls and goblets all brimming with the sweetest viands, succulent fruits and the richest wines from Bordeaux and the Rhine. Brilliant, dazzling tapestries decorated walls hanging down to floors tiled in the most exquisite fashion. Along such rich galleries, princes, ladies and lords paraded all dressed in cloth of gold and costly jewel-encrusted fabrics. In the courtyards outside, powerful destriers, splendidly harnessed, reared and neighed as knights in glittering mail prepared to break lances, jousting in nearby tilt-yards where the sand glowed like amber. Trumpets blew. Horns sounded. Bells chimed. In the courtly sanctuaries, priests in splendid copes under soaring rood screens offered the risen Christ back to His Father. Light poured through windows illuminated with flashing colours. Incense, thick and white, fragranced the air. Choirs intoned ‘Christus Vincit’. Close by, clerks in oak-panelled chambers grasped pens to write important letters of state sealed with purple wax. Outside the chamber clustered mailed knights and armoured men-at-arms eager to do the king’s will. Yet there were other aspects of life at court, like the sides of fortune’s dice just waiting to be turned. Ghastly killings out on lonely heathlands or in filthy alleyways, dingy taverns or rat-infested garrets. A world where assassins, capuchined and visored, flitted like shadows through the door, dagger or garrotte at the ready. Poisoned wine served with tainted meats. Scaffolds soaring dark against the sky, heavy with corpses, whilst across the square severed heads above lofty gateways dripped blood to patter to the ground like rain. Treason and treachery, bloodshed and betrayal, hypocrisy and hubris came wandering like twin demons garbed in all the horrors of death and the anguish of the tomb. I’d seen it all, be it in gorgeous pavilions with exquisite chambers or cobwebbed closets and garrets where the vermin came creeping under the doors.

This contrast in mood weighed heavily on me when we returned to the Franciscan priory with its hallowed, peaceful cloisters all fresh with the herbal potion the good brothers used to scrub the grey flagstones. I made enquiries of Boudon the steward, to be arrogantly informed that the queen was closeted with the king and his councillors, in other words Gaveston. After further enquiries I discovered that Geoffrey Lanercost and the other Aquilae Petri were gathered in the prior’s rose garden to celebrate Lanercost’s recent return from Scotland. A lay brother led us to that serene, lovely place with its flower beds and lawns, neatly tended herb plots, garlanded arbours and shady walks. In the centre was a circle of white pavestone with cushioned benches and quilted turf seats. Close by, a fountain carved in the shape of a Jesse tree, its water gushing into a grey-stone bowl, where small golden carp darted amongst the fresh leaves. All five Aquilae were seated there, talking and laughing with Brother Stephen Dunheved, who sat plucking at a viol. The Dominican was skilfully mimicking and ridiculing the professional gleemen, who could pull their faces into a smile or a grimace depending on what song they were singing. Dunheved was most skilled in that. Others were there too. Oh yes, in those early months of 1312, I came to know more closely that unholy trinity, those imps of Satan, falseness incarnate, the Beaumonts! Henry, his brother Louis and their sister Isabella, known more popularly as Lady Vesci after her marriage, of sorts, to some hapless nobleman. The Beaumonts were the spoilt children of Europe, with the royal blood of England, France, Spain and Sicily in their veins. Rumour whispered that they also had Satan’s blood. They could be charming, courteous, chivalrous and brave — when they wanted. They were cats who would lick your face but scratch your back. They’d ransack hell for a gold piece and skin a nag for a farthing.

On that particular day, the Beaumont coven sat close together in the rose garden. Henry wore a green tunic sporting golden fleur-de-lis over a snow-white cambric shirt, its neck, cuffs and waistband of cloth of gold; black hose cased his muscular legs and Castilian boots, still spurred, his feet. Lady Vesci was dressed in a gown proclaiming the same heraldic device with silver edging, a cloak of deep murrey around her shoulders, her hair bound up in a white wimple under a light blue veil. She dressed like a nun but had the heart of a courtesan. Louis, the churchman, was slightly fatter, garbed in the black gown of an Augustinian canon, though the fabric was of the purest wool and his shoes were of soft leather, whilst the silver cord around his plump waist boasted golden love-knots. The three all looked the same: flaring red hair and white skin, their freckled faces full of impudence, slightly slanted light green eyes that made you think they were quietly laughing at you; they usually were! The Aquilae Petri lounged on either side of them, half dressed in shirts, tunics and multicoloured hose. Jerkins and cloaks, war-belts and boots lay about. Gaveston’s fighting boys, relaxing in the late afternoon sun after they’d eaten and drunk deeply. Jugs, goblets and platters were stacked on the ground. Two of Gaveston’s greyhounds nosed amongst the remnants of roast quail, slices of cooked ham and half-ripe fruit. Somewhere behind a trellis fence a peacock shrieked, whilst the first swallows of the year darted above the gurgling fountain. Dunheved smiled as we came through the wicket gate and continued with his song of nonsense.

‘When salmon hunt in the wood

And herring fly and blow the horn. .’

The lines were greeted with laughter. Dunheved was about to continue when, sharp-eyed as a hawk, he sensed our grimness.

‘Like ghosts at the feast,’ he murmured. ‘Why, Mistress Mathilde, Master Bertrand, what is it? News about Lancaster?’

Henry Beaumont leapt to his feet, head slightly tilted back. ‘Is that whoreson on the march?’ He glanced at his sister and brother; the family were the king’s body and soul. Thomas of Lancaster wanted them exiled because they exercised ‘a perfidious and malignant influence over the king, providing evil council on affairs of the Crown’. In truth, they simply revelled in basking in the royal sun and snatching whatever trifles came their way.

‘Lancaster is not on the march,’ Demontaigu replied wearily. ‘Not yet. We look for Geoffrey Lanercost. I have news about his kinsman John.’

‘I am Lanercost.’ One of the Aquilae rose lazily to his feet. He was dark-haired, thickset, with a slightly hooked nose in a full, wine-flushed face. Shadows ringed deep-set eyes and sweat glistened above the points of his loosened shirt. A man who had travelled far and fast, then drunk deep to refresh himself. I studied him. I recalled the horror-struck face of one of those dead Templars and saw a close likeness.

‘Well, sir.’ Lanercost lifted his hands. ‘You have news about my brother?’

‘Perhaps in private, sir?’

‘Here is private.’ Lanercost’s reply provoked laughter. ‘My friends are private. What news?’

‘Your brother John.’ I spoke up, wishing to end this nonsense. ‘Your brother John,’ I repeated, ‘God have mercy, is dead.’

All the arrogance and hauteur disappeared. Lanercost’s face sagged. Such a stricken look, it cut me to the heart. One of the others, I think it was fair-haired Rosselin, sprang to his feet as Lanercost, hand to his head, swayed slightly.

‘No, no,’ Lanercost whispered, ‘no, no.’ He gestured at us. ‘You’d best come away.’

We left the glories of the rose garden for a grey-stone porch in the prior’s cloisters. Demontaigu tried to be gentle, but murder is murder. Violent death shatters everything. Lanercost heard him out, head in hands; when he glanced up, his face was soaked with tears.

‘You’re a Templar, Demontaigu, aren’t you?’ He forced a laugh. ‘Your secret is not really a secret, but who cares? Many in court have kin in that order. Poor John.’ His voice grew stronger as anger curdled his grief. ‘Alexander of Lisbon,’ he breathed, ‘and his Noctales. I’ll provoke the blood feud. I’ll see them all hang.’

‘Hush now.’ Demontaigu drew closer. ‘Leave Lisbon to the Templars. He is tainted and marked for the sword. More importantly, your brother was of these parts, a citizen of York, yes?’

Lanercost nodded.

‘He was guide for the others,’ Demontaigu continued. ‘Ausel, one of my comrades, told me that. Your brother knew Devil’s Hollow; did he tell you what he was doing?’

Lanercost bit his lip, his mind swirling like a lurcher. A look of anguish as memories came flooding back. He realised the implication of what Demontaigu was saying. He should have told us the truth, but of course he felt deeply ashamed, guilty.

‘He told,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, he told me.’

‘And did you tell anyone else?’

‘No, no.’ Lanercost sprang to his feet, all agitated. ‘I. . I. .’ he stammered, ‘I may have told someone, one of the others. I cannot. .’ He made to walk away. I caught his arm; he did not resist. He just stared in rank despair at me.

‘Did you tell. .?’

‘Tell?’ he muttered. ‘I told no one.’ He broke free of my grip and strode away.

There was little more we could do. Demontaigu and I kissed in the shadows and went our separate ways. I rarely saw him over the next few days. He withdrew from the queen’s chancery with this excuse or that, busy with his brethren, or so I learnt later. Most of them had escaped the Noctales, but three of their companions simply vanished, never to be seen again. God have mercy on their poor souls. They must have been trapped and their corpses tossed into some peat bog. The other cadavers out in the hollow also disappeared, an act of malignant vindictiveness by Lisbon, who had used them as bait. Lanercost returned to ask Demontaigu about his brother’s corpse, and when he learnt the truth became even more sorrowful. Such tragedies, however, were drowned by other news. The great earls had mustered their troops, both foot and horse, moving slowly north. My mistress was rarely seen, being closeted with Edward and Gaveston. We would meet in the evening, when I would anxiously enquire of her health, but Isabella, though beautiful and graceful, was sturdy as an oak. Sixteen she was, of full height, sophisticated and elegant in all her mannerisms. Pregnancy had brought a fresh bloom to those blue eyes and that golden face; her hair seemed more like spun gold, and her body, when I bathed it, glowed with health. The queen’s abdomen grew swollen to ‘a slight thickness’, as she laughingly described it. She was more concerned at the dangers threatening. Only once did she lose her temper, snapping at me like an angry crow as she ranted about Edward’s fecklessness and Gaveston’s futile attempts to resist exile.

‘My lord Gaveston,’ Isabella whispered through clenched teeth as she sat on the edge of the great bed one evening, ‘should go once more on his travels and stay there. Now listen, Mathilde.’ She plucked at the gold-fringed tassels of the counterpane. ‘The earls will try to trap us. We must, at all times, be ready to flee.’

‘Your meetings with the king?’ I asked.

‘A dialogue with fools,’ Isabella retorted. ‘Schemes to bring the great earls to battle, to ally with the Scottish rebels, even. .’ She paused. ‘Yes, Edward has even asked my beloved father for troops from France. Nonsense!’ She waved a hand. ‘Mathilde, I am enceinte. I should be relaxing in flowery bowers at Sheen, Windsor or Westminster, not scuttling across the heathland like some rabbit darting from hole to hole.’ She glanced directly at me. ‘The glass is darkening; we must bring an end to this foolery.’

So she said it, that brief remark. The dice, cogged or not, had rolled and Isabella was committed. Little did I realise then how the game might end. Now my duties at the court were to advise and protect my mistress. Sometimes this involved sinister secrets and murderous shadows, but these swirled through a tangle of other ordinary matters that filled my days, for my mistress now ruled a great household. She was domina of extensive estates, be it the manors of Torpel and Upton in England or the county of Ponthieu in France. She presided over an exchequer, a chancery and accounts chambers. The great departments of her household were headed by royal clerks such as William Boudon, John de Fleet and Ebulo de Montibus. She employed three cooks, two apothecaries, a number of butlers, pantlers, spicerers and marshals of the hall, grooms for the stables, laundresses and washerwomen. The large coffers, chests and caskets of her household were crammed with precious items, be it the ring of St Dunstan or exquisite embroidered cloths from Flemish looms. Isabella owned falcons, lanniers, hawks, greyhounds and a string of horses: sumpter, palfreys and destriers. My task was not to get involved in petty details but to survey and assist as my mistress directed. I ensured that after Easter Sunday no fires were lit, that the hearths be cleared and decorated with garlands, whilst linen curtains were to be hung over windows to keep out the spring draughts. I kept a particularly sharp eye on the kitchen, buttery and spicery. The most serious threat to Isabella’s health was tainted food or practices. I insisted that all who served the queen above the Nef, that gorgeous gold salt-cellar carved in the shape of a ship, regularly clean and scrub both their hands and all vessels and cutlery intended for her table.

Other tasks outside the household also concerned me. The arrival of the court at the priory attracted a legion of beggars, some genuine, others counterfeit. They would cluster at the gates pleading for alms. I was responsible for disbursements of ‘queen’s bread’ and ‘queen’s pence’. I would often supervise such charity after the Angelus bell; other times I would delegate it to others. One beggar, however, caught my attention. He called himself ‘the Pilgrim from the Wastelands’, a grim, dark-featured, slender individual, easily noticeable because of his wild staring eyes and the birthmark on the right of his face, a large mulberry-coloured stain. He’d definitely been in Outremer under the scorching sun of Palestine, deep-voiced with a commanding presence. I glimpsed him on a number of occasions, especially as the queen’s almoner reported how the Pilgrim had the audacity to petition ‘to see the queen or one of her ilk’. Of course, he was refused. Other urgent business dominated our days, nevertheless I could not forget his pleading eyes and strident voice. However, at the time, I did not know what part he had to play in the murderous mystery play unfolding around us, whilst the busy routine of each day left little time for such petitions even to be considered.

Such ordinary tasks kept me busy for the first few days after my return from the moors, but that day had not been forgotten. A harvest of evil had been sown, and sin is a fertile shoot. My mistress and I were attending the Jesus mass in the friary church. We knelt on prie-dieus just within the rood screen. Brother Stephen Dunheved, resplendent in the robes of the Easter liturgy, was bringing the mass to an end. The tower bells were tolling; Dunheved was raising his hand in benediction. I was lost in my own thoughts, staring at the carved wooden statue of Judas used to hold twelve candles that were extinguished during Tenebrae on Maundy Thursday, a symbol of the Apostles’ desertion of Christ, when piercing screams from the cobbled yard outside carried through the church. Dunheved quickly finished his blessing. I glanced at the queen; she nodded and I joined the others who hurried through the corpse door out into the great courtyard that stretched alongside the church. Lanercost lay there in a tangle of cloak, boots sticking out, head eerily turned, skull shattered so that the blood seeped out in rivulets. A serjeant-at-arms came hurrying over. I ordered him to keep back the crowds while I approached the grisly scene. Of course Lanercost was dead, his neck broken, his skull smashed.

‘What happened?’ I stood up and walked away as Dunheved, who’d been informed about the incident, came hurrying out of the church still in his vestments, a phial of holy oils in his hands.

‘What happened?’ I repeated.

Dunheved was kneeling by the corpse, swiftly anointing the stricken man. I murmured a requiem and glanced around. A crowd was now gathering to gape at the corpse. Some were pointing to the top of the steepled bell tower built on the south side of the church. According to the serjeant, Lanercost had fallen from there. I glanced up. The tower rose sheer above me. Small arrow-slit windows on its sides, and in the bell chamber itself, two great oblong windows on each of the four walls. The bells had ceased tolling but the birds nesting in the tower still fluttered noisily. I glanced down at Lanercost. He was dressed in a brown cloak over shirt and hose; his boots were unspurred and he wore no war-belt. The serjeant-at-arms pushed back the crowds. I glanced over my shoulder, to where Isabella and two of her ladies-in-waiting clustered at the church door. The queen stared bleakly across. I quietly gestured with my hand that she should not approach. She nodded, turned and went back into the church. I abruptly realised then how my mistress’ mood had recently changed, to become more withdrawn and reflective. A trumpet sounded, a sharp, braying blast that brought everyone to their knees, myself included, as Edward and Gaveston came striding across, Father Prior hurrying behind them.

Dunheved finished his ministrations. He murmured about changing his vestments and hastily left. Both king and favourite had apparently dressed hurriedly in long purple velvet sleeveless robes over shirt and hose, their feet pushed into soft buskins. They slipped and slithered on the muck-strewn yard. Both men were unshaven, hair bedraggled, their eyes bleary as if they’d spent the previous evening deep in their cups. Gaveston crouched beside the corpse. He moved Lanercost’s head and fingered the ghastly bruises on the face, neck, chest and legs. I had already concluded that Lanercost must have fallen sheer from the tower and hit the sloping roof of the church before tumbling over for the second long fall to the ground. Gaveston stretched across and tipped me under the chin; tears brimmed his eyes.

‘A fall?’ he asked.

‘Presumably, my lord.’

‘Presumably!’ Gaveston sneered. ‘Or murder, or suicide? I suppose I will have to accept whatever that coxcomb of a coroner Ingelram Berenger decides.’

I stared back. I shared the same low opinion of Berenger as he did but I had the sense to keep a still tongue in my head. The king’s coroner was the king’s coroner; he would do what he had to and so would I.

‘My lord,’ I whispered, ‘can you tell me why Lanercost should be in the bell tower?’

Gaveston glanced up. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I haven’t talked to him for the last two days.’

Gaveston could be a liar, but I sensed he was telling the truth. Yet there was something else, a look of guilt mingled with his compassion. As if to avoid my scrutiny, he returned to the corpse. I got to my feet. Two knight bannerets from the king’s chamber arrived, fully harnessed and armoured, as if the Scots had attacked, to disperse the crowd. The morning was chilly after a long night’s rain. Lay brothers had wheeled fiery braziers into the great yard. The charcoal crackled noisily, the sparks flying up. A bell tolled deep in the friary. Oveners from a nearby bakery drifted across whilst I studied the mangled corpse of that young man who’d fallen, been pushed or jumped. Gaveston rose to his feet. I caught a look of profound sadness in those beautiful eyes, lips twisted as he fought back his grief. I sensed the Gascon’s deep desolation. Here he was, ‘the king’s own brother’, Earl of Cornwall, royal favourite, yet he was hiding deep in a Franciscan friary in York. Nevertheless, even here he wasn’t safe. I had no proof, just a suspicion that murder had followed Lanercost into that tower and sent him whirling to his death. Gaveston sensed the same. Three years ago he had been cock of the walk, Lord of Westminster, a man who could bring anyone down, but now even his own squires were not safe. Isabella was correct: the glass was darkening. God knows what the future held!

A scurrier came hurrying across. He knelt on the rain-soaked cobbles before the king and whispered his message.

‘My lord.’ Edward stepped closer, one ringed hand extended to grasp his favourite. ‘Peter, my brother.’ His voice carried an urgency. ‘Other matters await; we have news from the south. Mathilde, ma coeur.’ Edward’s face grew soft, smiling, full of that lazy charm that could so easily disarm you. ‘For me, Mathilde,’ he whispered. He fumbled in the wallet beneath his coat, drew out a small cast of the secret seal and handed it to me. ‘Your licence. Search, Mathilde, find the truth behind this. Now, Peter. .’

Gaveston crouched down again. He pressed his lips against Lanercost’s blood-splattered hair, a mother’s kiss. He stroked the side of the dead man’s face, smiled tearfully up at me, rose and followed the king across the yard. Father Prior agreed to have Lanercost’s corpse taken to the corpse house. I slipped the wax seal into my gown pocket and walked back into the church. As far as I could see, the nave stretching up to the sanctuary was deserted. Isabella and her companions must have left by the coffin door. I walked deeper into the darkness and stared round. An ancient, hallowed place, the shadows lurking in the corner ready to creep out once the light faded. The incensed air was full of memories of plainchant, bells and the sacred words of the mass. All now lay deathly quiet. Battered statues of angels and saints, their faces bathed in candle-glow, stared stonily down at me. Gargoyles grimaced through the gloom. I closed my eyes. Earlier today Lanercost came into this church. He walked across into the gloomy recess and up those tower steps to the belfry. Why? Did he feel guilty at his brother’s murder and committed suicide? Or had he been enticed in, trapped and hurled to his death? But why should someone murder Lanercost, one of the Aquilae Petri? I started. The squeak and slither of mice scurrying in the shadowed light echoed eerily.

‘Good morrow, Mistress Mathilde.’

I whirled round, hand to my mouth, as the Beaumonts sauntered out from the gloomy corner where the baptismal font stood. All three were swathed in rich green cloaks. I realised they must have been meeting secretly in that deserted nook of the church.

‘My lords, my lady.’ I bowed, using courtesy to mask my alarm.

‘We were here in the church.’ Henry pulled the muffler down from across his mouth.

‘Of course you were, my lord. Praying?’

‘We all must pray, Mathilde.’

‘Some more than others, my lord?’

‘True.’ Lady Vesci smiled. She came forward and grasped my hands tightly as if in friendship. In truth she wanted me to stay. She pulled her face into a look of concern. ‘That poor squire, one of Gaveston’s henchmen?’ Her voice betrayed duplicity; she was in the same camp as Gaveston, but I doubted if she was his friend.

‘What happened?’ Louis asked in that sanctimonious voice some priests adopt, as if they consider the laity as witless as a flock of pigeons.

‘Domine,’ I replied, freeing my hands. ‘Lanercost apparently fell from the belfry.’

‘Why was he there?’ Louis whispered.

‘He did not tell me,’ I retorted. ‘I have yet to search, but surely, if you were in church, my lords, you must have seen him enter the bell tower?’

All three shook their heads in unison. On any other occasion I would have found it amusing, but the Beaumonts were never amusing, just dangerous in their vaulting ambition. I bowed.

‘I must go.’

‘My lady.’ Sir Henry moved closer, green eyes sharp and unsmiling. ‘Is my lord Gaveston secretly treating with the Scots?’

‘For all I know,’ I replied, ‘he could be treating with the lord Satan. He does not discuss such matters with me. I have other duties.’

‘So do we all.’ Henry smiled. ‘But. .’ He just shrugged and gestured dismissively at me.

Again I bowed and walked over to the darkening recess leading to the door of the bell tower. I paused, my hand on the latch, then turned and glanced back. All three Beaumonts had followed me and were now standing close, scrutinising me carefully. I recalled certain information Isabella had given me. The Beaumonts were powerful lords north of the border. During the old king’s time they’d been given extensive estates, manor houses, castles, barns and granges. I realised why they were interested in Gaveston. If Edward settled with Bruce, what would happen to their estates?

‘I recognise your interest, my lord, about Gaveston and Scottish affairs, but that does not concern me.’

Henry shrugged. ‘One day, Mathilde, it might! My lord Gaveston’s hours are surely numbered. His grace the king cannot wander up and down the roads of this country like some witless pilgrim or hapless mendicant. He should be in the south, at Westminster.’

‘Then, my lord,’ I retorted, ‘that is a matter for you to tell him, not me. I bid you adieu.’

I pressed down the latch, the door swung open and I walked in. The stairwell was so dark I almost screamed at the shape that rose out of the gloom. I stepped back. The grey-garbed lay brother looked like a gargoyle come down from the wall: a long, thin, bony face, popping eyes, a mouth that never kept still and ears sticking out from the side of his head like the handles of a jug. He scratched his bald head.

‘My lady, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Again the mouth moved as if he was talking to himself.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, stepping closer.

‘Brother Eusebius. I am the bell man. I ring the bell of the church. I always do. I always have.’

‘So you know what’s happened?’ I asked. ‘Why did you not come out?’

‘I was frightened.’ The man’s voice trembled. ‘I was truly frightened, my lady. I did come out. I peered through the door. I saw the king and my lord Gaveston. I realised that the fallen man was one of theirs. They might suspect I had done something. I’m sorry.’

‘Hush now.’ I stretched out and touched one vein-streaked, spotted hand. ‘You are the bell-keeper, Brother Eusebius?’

‘No, the assistant bell-keeper.’ Eusebius gestured at the heavy, thick ropes that hung down. ‘I ring these before the Jesus mass.’ He smiled foolishly. ‘Peter and Paul we call the bells. I’m also,’ he declared, ‘keeper of the charnel house, which you can find in the transept. Look for the wall painting, the Harrowing of Hell.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘You are most welcome to come in. I have few visitors here.’

I closed the door and looked around. Eusebius’ chamber was really nothing more than a closet containing a pallet bed, a stool and a rickety table. A dingy, shabby place, its corners laced with dust-laden cobwebs. I gave him a coin; he chattered like a magpie, describing his duties. I peered up at the thick wooden flap pulled down to reveal a square opening in the middle of the roof for the ropes to hang through. Access was provided by a stout wooden ladder. The tower was ancient, a soaring four-sided edifice. The floors were of hard oak. Five levels in all, with the sixth serving as the belfry. Eusebius explained how the masons had dispensed with a stone floor as too unwiedly. I nodded in understanding. Such constructions were highly dangerous. Stone platforms were heavy and difficult to construct, and if one collapsed, the consequences would be hideous. He then described how he rang the Jesus bell, the bell at the end of mass and other peals, as well as the calls for Vespers and Compline. No, he shook his head as he used his foot to shove away a beer jug peeping from the beneath the cot bed, he did not live here, though he often used the tower to rest and meditate. He explained how earlier that morning he’d arrived just before mass, but had found nothing untoward. He had tolled the bell at the introit and the consecration, as well as to mark the final blessing. He’d kept the door open because he knew enough of the Latin rite to hear Brother Stephen (no, Eusebius assured me, he did not really know the Dominican) pronounce the ite missa est — the mass is ended. The tolling of Peter and Paul was coming to an end when he heard the screaming outside.

‘Pax et pax et pax — peace and peace and peace — all shattered. Fly he did, like poor Brother Theobald.’

‘Theobald?’

‘Theobald was a novice here many, many years ago,’ Eusebius gossiped on. ‘He fell in love, he did, with a moon-maid who became his leman. When she left him, Theobald climbed to the top of the tower and tried to fly like an eagle. Before he fell, he carved some words in the belfry. You can see them there.’

‘You mean he committed suicide?’

‘Now, you hush!’ Eusebius raised one black-nailed finger to his lips. ‘You hush! Theobald’s ghost haunts this place, so be careful what you say.’

I thanked him and took heed of his warning about how the swinging bells could be dangerous. I climbed the ladder to the first floor. A grim, chilling experience, the cold air seeping through the arrow-slit windows. Eusebius, his voice like that of a ghost, echoed up, reminding me to be careful and telling me that he was now leaving for the buttery to break his fast. Each of the floors of the tower was the same: dirt-filled, cobwebbed, nothing but shards of rubbish and heaps of bird droppings. At last I reached the bell chamber. The ceiling rose to a cavernous vault above me. The heavy bells, and the wood and cordage to which they were attached, looked like some grim engine of war. There was hardly any room to move. The windows in each of the four walls now looked much bigger than the apertures glimpsed from the courtyard below; each was about two yards high, the same across, the brickwork on either side about two feet in thickness. The slate ledges, slightly sloping away to drain any rainwater, were broad enough to allow a man to stand on. The sills were at the same level as the two bells hanging side by side, so if these were swung, anyone standing between them and the ledges would be struck. Had this happened to Lanercost? I walked carefully around, examining the floor, studying the droppings and clumps of rotting feathers as well as spots of oil, paint and polish used to grease the bells and the apparatus that carried them. The bells themselves were massive, their yawning bronze mouths tinged a greyish-blue due to the elements. The sharp rims of both were decorated with the lettering of their names, carved by some ancient smith above the date on which they had been consecrated.

I can still recall that bell chamber. A lonely, sinister place made even more so by some bird, wings splayed, swooping in to dim the light, only to wheel away with raucous screeching. Was it also an abode of murder? Had someone been up here with Lanercost? What had truly happened here? Using my hand to rest against the wall, I edged carefully around to the window that Lanercost must have fallen from. I examined the slippery, sloping ledge but could detect nothing untoward. I leaned over to inspect the heart-stopping drop, first to the black-slated roof of the nave, then to the great courtyard below, where the occasional friar hurrying across looked so small. I eased myself back and stared at the rough, undressed walls of ashlar, those bells hanging so silently, the corners choked with the dust of centuries. I recalled Eusebius’ remark about Theobald. I found nothing until I returned to the window from which Lanercost must have fallen. High on the smooth lintel stone, I detected some letters carved so many years previously: ‘Theobald, who loved so much and lost so much’. My fingers traced the inscription. I wondered if Lanercost had known of such a story. Had he been so overcome with guilt at the death of his brother that he’d climbed up here and committed suicide? Yet Lanercost was a young warrior hardened in the service of Gaveston — so was it murder? Yet again, he was a man of war and would have defended himself vigorously, and if murder was the explanation, why had he scaled the ladder up into this narrow forbidden room in the first place? Surely he wouldn’t have come up here with an enemy. This was the root of the mystery.

I startled at a creak, steadied myself then gazed in horror — the bells were moving slightly, swinging backwards and forwards. I was still standing at the window where Lanercost must have fallen. The bells were slowly swaying as if in a dream, like monsters roused from their slumber. They swung, dipped and came out towards me; their sharp rims seemed more like teeth. I glimpsed the heavy metal clappers even as I realised that if I stayed there, as Lanercost might have done, the bells would tip me over the rim. Why were they moving? It was about Nones, yet no peals should mark such an hour. I edged around the wall even as the bells began to move faster, their heavy metal edges skimming the air like deadly sharpened blades. They did not move in accord but one in either direction. I was in no real danger as long as I did not panic or make a mistake. I reached the opening and clambered down the ladder to the floor below.

‘Brother Eusebius!’ I screamed.

The first faint toll struck, then fell silent. I glanced at the ropes that fell through the gap to the floor below. Whoever was pulling them had now stopped. I reached the bottom breathless, the sweat on my coarse woollen kirtle cooling in the icy air of the tower. For a brief moment memories surged back of running down a ladder in my father’s farm while he urged me to be careful, shouting so loudly my mother came rushing out of the house, clothes flapping. I blinked. I felt feverish and agitated. I drew my dagger from its concealed sheath on the belt beneath my cloak. I turned to the left and right but no one was there. The ropes were still moving slightly. The door leading back into the church hung half open. I went through. The nave held so many gloomy corners a host of enemies could lurk there unseen. I opened the main door of the church and went out on to the porch. The Aquilae Petri stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up at me.

‘Have you been in the church?’ I accused. I gazed around. The great cobbled square was busy with the good brothers going about their usual duties. Barrows stood piled high with vegetables; a cart of manure from the stables trundled across. A lay brother, raucously singing a hymn, pushed bracken into the braziers. I could see no one hurrying away. I felt unsteady, as if I was in a dream. The horrors of that lonely belfry contrasted so sharply with the normal duties of a busy friary and those four young men staring up at me curiously.

‘Mistress what is wrong?’ Rosselin, blond-haired and ruddy-faced, his thickset body swathed in a cloak, stepped forward. The others had their cloaks thrown back. They were all harnessed and armed, wearing leather breastplates, war-belts strapped on as if ready for combat. ‘Mistress,’ Rosselin walked up the steps, spurs clinking, ‘we came to see where Lanercost died. What is the matter? We have not been in the church.’ He pointed back at Middleton, whose head was completely shaven. ‘Nicholas believed he heard the bell chime.’ I stared at Rosselin’s companion, the strangest of the Aquilae. Middleton’s jerkin was festooned with medals and amulets, a pair of Ave beads twined round his war-belt.

‘Nothing, nothing.’ I leaned against the stone pillar of the church door and glanced up at the babewyn glaring down at me; it had the face of a monkey, with pointed ears, protuberant eyes and popping tongue.

‘Come away,’ I murmured. I turned and walked back into the church. The Aquilae followed in a jingle of spurs, a creak of leather and a slither of steel as two of them unsheathed their swords and daggers. I sat at the foot of a squat, drum-like pillar. Further up the church I heard a door open and the patter of sandalled feet as the sacristan and his assistants pruned the candles in the sanctuary. I gestured at the squires to join me. Despite their wariness and war-like appearance, they squatted down. Gaveston must have told them about the king’s commission to me under the secret seal.

I made myself comfortable. It was so strange to discuss such matters like farmers gathering in the nave of a church to do business, but the order, harmony and etiquette of the English court had been violently shattered. The king and his favourite were like fugitives fleeing from one sanctuary to another. Fortune had turned her wheel yet again. The Aquilae also sensed such a change, a sense of loss that their days of power, of strutting around the throne, were over. They too were marked men, hotly pursued by the forces of the earls, and now one of their coven had been mysteriously killed. They were both curious and highly nervous.

‘How did Lanercost die?’ Rosselin voiced their thoughts. He spoke louder than he intended, his words echoing through that cavernous place.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied wearily. ‘He may, God forbid, have taken his own life.’ My words were greeted with shakes of the head and loud objections.

‘Or he may have been murdered.’

They fell silent.

‘If so,’ I continued, ‘why, how and by whom? Did someone invite him into that belfry? If so, why did he go? Whom was he meeting? In addition, was it one attacker or more? Yet,’ I shrugged, ‘I have examined the belfry; it is narrow and close, a place where more than one assailant would find it difficult to hide. You see the problem, sirs: why, how, who?’ My voice trailed away. I was tired, and could make little sense of what I’d seen and heard.

‘He carried no arms,’ Kennington murmured. Small and wiry, Kennington reminded me of a fighting dog, with his pugnacious jaw and close-set eyes. His black hair was cropped short, and he had a scar on his right cheek. He was nervous and ill at ease, fingers never far from the hilt of his dagger.

‘And?’ I asked.

‘So, if he met someone, it must have been someone he trusted. I mean, to take off his war-belt. .’

‘And whom would he trust?’ I asked. ‘Whom do you trust?’

Kennington didn’t answer.

‘Lord Gaveston?’ I offered. ‘His grace the king?’ I paused. ‘And, of course, you, his brothers in arms?’

Again silence. I stared beyond the Aquilae at a faded wall panel ridiculing the idiocy of life. From the neck of a white lily sprouted the head of a crane with a fish between its teeth; from its feathers protruded a monkey’s face sporting horns and spitting fire. Murder, I suppose, is life’s supreme idiocy, especially murder of a friend by a soul turned Judas.

‘Well?’ I asked.

‘We know nothing!’ Philip Leygrave, his girlish pink face framed by wispy blond hair, grasped his war-belt and clambered to his feet. ‘Remember, mistress, we were in the rose garden when you brought news of poor John Lanercost’s death. After that. .’ He shrugged and buckled on his war-belt, making a sign for his companions to do likewise.

‘After that what?’ I snapped.

‘Geoffrey withdrew from our company, mouthing threats against Alexander of Lisbon. He kept to himself. He came here to pray. Well,’ he pulled a face, ‘what does it matter?’

The rest also rose, those who’d taken off their sword belts strapping them on.

‘Do you fear an attack?’ I asked. ‘Here in this friary that has become the king’s own chamber? What do you really fear, masters?’

‘Nothing,’ Leygrave replied over his shoulder.

‘I am trying to help,’ I pleaded. ‘Sirs, I am not your enemy!’

‘You’re a woman.’ Kennington’s foppish remark provoked a few sniggers.

I recalled the gossip that the Aquilae Petri were homosexuals, imitating David in scripture, whose love for Jonathan ‘surpassed that of any love for a woman’.

‘A woman?’ I conceded. ‘Like your mothers, your sisters, her grace the queen? What does that matter? My heart is good and my will is sound. Woman or not, I offer you this advice. If Lanercost was murdered, could not one of you be next? Is that why you are all harnessed for war like bully-boys in Cheapside?’

Rosselin swaggered across and stood over me. The others called him back. I shaded my eyes against the light pouring in through the coloured pane window on the opposite wall. I was determined to show no fear. I expected Rosselin to be aggressive but his face was full of fear. The others kept calling him away. He took a small scroll from his wallet and handed it to me. I unrolled it.

‘Aquilae Petri,’ I mouthed the words, ‘fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been both bought and sold.’

The letters were perfectly formed. I did not recognise the script, nor, when I asked, did Rosselin or the others.

‘When was this delivered?’

‘We share chambers in the friary guest house.’ Rosselin crouched down. ‘Lanercost, as was his custom, rose early and left long before dawn. We were still in bed when the Jesus mass bell sounded.’ He glanced away, embarrassed. ‘We are more concerned, mistress, about our bodies than our souls. Anyway,’ he gestured at the parchment, ‘that was pinned to our chamber door. God knows who sent it. Ah well, you may keep it.’ He rose, bowed and sauntered out with the rest.

I stayed to collect myself. The morning was drawing on. Eventually I felt calmer, more resilient. I left the church and crossed the yard to the buttery to collect some milk and bread. Brother Eusebius was there, face almost hidden in a huge bowl of oatmeal. He quickly finished, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, assured me that the church and bell tower were deserted when he left, then volunteered to show me to the corpse house, where Lanercost’s body had been taken. I forgot the food and gladly accepted. Eusebius chattered all the way as he led me along grey flagstoned passageways, around the great cloisters and the small, through the apple yards and baking yards, past the scriptorium and library, the prior’s chancery and the almoner’s chambers, then through a small orchard ripe with sweet-smelling white blossom to the corpse house, a one-storey, red-tiled, barn-like building with a rough-hewn crucifix nailed to its door. Inside, the whitewashed walls were decorated with herbal sprays pushed into crevices. The beaten-earth floor was clean and sprinkled with flower petals. In the centre stood a huge table, with smaller ones around the walls. On some of these lay corpses under their shrouds, from which feet and arms dangled. Eusebius handed me over to the corpse dresser, Brother Malachi, a burly Franciscan, head bald as an egg, his face almost hidden by a thick white moustache and beard. A jovial soul, Malachi, with a wave of his hand, proudly introduced me to his ‘visitors’, as he called them. At my request he took me over to the centre table and removed the shroud to reveal Lanercost’s naked body beneath. Brother Malachi had done his best to clean and anoint the corpse, but a mass of ugly wounds and bruises marked both the head and body, eloquent witness to Lanercost’s horrific fall.

I inspected the cadaver most closely. I noticed how the back and sides of the head were staved in. I heard a sound and turned. Demontaigu stood in the doorway. I lifted a hand and beckoned him over. He walked across, stared at the corpse, crossed himself and said he would wait for me outside. I inspected the corpse once more, whispered the requiem, thanked Brother Malachi and joined Demontaigu. He simply shook his head at my questions about where he had been and, clutching my wrist, led me across the friary grounds to his cell in the Sienna gallery, which lay near the refectory. The cell was a small whitewashed chamber with a bed and a few sticks of furniture, its only luxury being a painted wall cloth displaying a golden cross against a red background. Demontaigu had emptied the contents of his saddle bag on to the bed. He now sat down and sifted amongst these. I watched him curiously as he listed them, mementos of his previous life. A small relic; a psalter embossed with the five wounds of Christ displayed in silver; little leather pouches containing a medal his mother had given him, a lock of her hair and that of his long-dead sister. Next to these a flute, a childhood toy, as well as badges and amulets from the various shrines and Templar houses Demontaigu had visited.

‘My heirlooms,’ he declared without glancing up. ‘I heard about Lanercost’s death but I had to face more pressing matters. Ausel and the rest have gone to Scotland. They’ve accepted the Bruce’s writ and his claim to the Throne of Scone. The Noctales have severed any loyalty and fealty my brethren had for the English crown. They’ve taken everything with them, including all my possessions except these.’ He scooped them up and placed them in a pannier. ‘Memories,’ he murmured, ‘of a former life, as a boy in a farm near Lilleshall, as a novice at the New Temple, of service in Outremer.’ He rose to his feet and grasped my hands. ‘Now you have my full obeisance.’

I smiled at his chivalrous play-acting. Demontaigu, however, gazed sadly back.

‘I’m not leaving, Mathilde, but the world has changed. My life as a Templar is no longer a secret. People may have suspected before, but now they know the truth. I enjoy the queen’s protection. Lisbon might wish me harm, but whilst I am here, I am safe. Moreover, his massacre out on the moors is now well known. In his heart, his grace cannot be pleased at such an abuse of his authority. In the old king’s days, Lisbon would have been hanged out of hand.’

‘There again,’ I added bitterly, ‘in the old king’s days, Lisbon would never have been allowed into the realm.’

‘True.’ Demontaigu heaved a sigh. ‘He is certainly not welcome at court.’

‘Where is he now?’ I asked.

‘Before he left, Ausel discovered that the devil and his minions shelter at Tynemouth Priory, further up the coast.’ Demontaigu paused. ‘I’ve just come from the city. Rumour runs like flame through stubble. The earls are advancing fast. God knows what will happen next. Now, as regards to Lanercost, my brethren have asked me. .’

I told him succinctly what had happened, voicing my suspicion that somehow Lanercost had been inveigled up into that tower and murdered. I did not add what had happened to me. I wanted to remain cold and alert as deep suspicions gnawed my heart. Lanercost had been murdered soon after we informed him about his brother’s death. We had raised the suspicion that Geoffrey had, unwittingly perhaps, passed information he’d learnt from his brother John to someone else, who’d informed Lisbon and so provoked that bloody massacre. Did a mysterious unknown party blame Lanercost and decide to carry out vengeance? Was it the Templars? Had they sent an assassin into the friary to exact summary justice? I stared into Demontaigu’s face; those lovely eyes gazed shrewdly back. God forgive me, for a while I wondered about the Templars, until a second Aquilae fell to his death.