The Darkening Glass

Chapter 3

The next two days were taken up with household affairs. Isabella, alarmed at the news from the south, ordered her officers to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. I supervised the packing of the wardrobe, items such as?6 worth of silk for stitching on robes,?20 of silver thread, four dozen mantlets, thirty pairs of stockings, ten bodices, a tunic of triple Sindon, heavy linen, as well as forty tunics of Lucca. The queen’s jewel caskets were crammed with rubies, sapphires, emeralds and other precious stones then locked, sealed and placed on carts. At the same time Isabella had letters drawn up and dispatched, whether it be to her officials in the exchequer at Westminster or to the Royal Hospital of St Katherine’s by the Tower, which she so generously patronised. She wanted everyone to realise that, although exiled in the north, she still kept a sharp eye on her interests, be it in Westminster, London or elsewhere. I also had medical duties: the preparation of electuaries on a broad sheet of lead with an oak base, mixing grains of paradise with cinnamon, or the various potions for my ointment pots. Isabella herself was in vigorous health, though she remained quiet and withdrawn, as if silently brooding over a grievance she could not share with me.

A few days after Lanercost’s death, following the Aquilae’s requiem mass and hasty burial in the commoners’ side of God’s Land in the Franciscan cemetery, Edward called a meeting of his chamber council in the prior’s parlour. I remember the detail so vividly. The parlour was truly a magnificent room, with a hooded fireplace of marble built against the outside wall. Despite the late date, pine logs dusted with dried herbs crackled merrily and gave off a perfumed smell. The weather had certainly turned bitter. Icy rain pelted the small oriel windows with their painted mullions and transepts, making the brightly decorated linen curtains dance in the draught. Settles, stools and benches had been pushed away, leaving the room dominated by a great oak table with leather-upholstered seats placed around it. The tiles on the floor, decorated with heraldic devices, were covered in thick, lush Turkey cloths, whilst on the walls, tapestries and hangings extolled the joys of the chase alongside brilliantly coloured murals describing scenes from the life of St Francis. On a great open aumbry directly opposite the fireplace, jewelled plate, Venetian glass and metalwork of Damascus glittered in the light of a host of beeswax candles, as well as torches burning fiercely in cressets driven high into the wall. This was the king’s chamber, where Edward and Gaveston closeted themselves to discuss the eternal crisis. They talked and talked but did so little. They were suspicious of everybody so they preferred to lurk deep in some place they considered safe. The prior’s parlour, large and cavernous, was ideal: its walls were thick, the door heavy. There were no eyelets or gaps in the wall for eavesdroppers, whilst above was no other chamber; just brightly painted beams decorated with banners and pennants of the royal household. A huge chest near the table, its lid thrown back, was crammed with documents, most of them letters and memoranda sent to the king by his spies in the south, informing him about what was happening.

On that particular day, Edward had apparently made a decision, a rare event. Both king and favourite, as usual, were dressed alike in heavy blue and scarlet surcotes fringed with gold and lined at the neck and cuff with costliest ermine. Both had shaved and oiled their faces, their hair neatly combed and tidied. The king sat at one end of the great table, Gaveston at the other. On Edward’s right was Isabella, dressed in a sleeveless cyclas of green-gold decorated with silver-gilt love-knots over a pure white undergown; a gauze veil across netted cauls hid her lovely hair. On the other side of the table sat Lady Vesci, Dunheved and myself next to Henry Beaumont and his brother, all cloaked and muffled against the seeping cold. I watched my mistress intently; she kept looking down at the table, slipping a sapphire ring on and off the middle finger of her left hand, as Edward explained his reasons for the meeting. He had, he announced, made a dreadful mistake. He made the declaration in a slurred voice, then gazed sadly down at Gaveston.

‘His grace,’ the favourite chose his words carefully, ‘now realises that we are trapped here in the north. Our couriers report how the earls completely control the roads south as well as all bridges and river crossings.’

‘So no help can come north.’ Henry Beaumont stated the obvious. He undid the cloth button of his cloak, which displayed the royal heraldic device he was so proud of: silver lilies on a green background. He threw off the cloak, revealing a costly green jerkin underneath, then shook his shoulders and gestured at the door. ‘We have no troops. Only Ap Ythel and his Welsh archers, our own retinues and whatever local levies we can summon.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Gaveston’s half-whisper was a chilling indictment of Edward’s incompetence. He’d locked himself in York and could summon no troops; little wonder he had to tolerate mercenaries such as the Noctales, turn a blind eye to massacre and murder and ignore the death of Lanercost. I had been so immersed in my own troubles that only then did the real danger besetting the Crown and my mistress seep in like a river, swollen with rain, that abruptly rises and breaks its banks. Edward was not only a fugitive in his own kingdom but in grave danger of losing his crown.

‘No help out of France?’ Lady Vesci murmured.

Edward just shook his head.

‘And Scotland?’ Dunheved asked.

‘To even treat with them is dangerous and treasonable,’ Beaumont bellowed. ‘So what is to be done?’

‘Your grace.’ Dunheved rose, pushing back his chair. ‘I beg you,’ the Dominican had a powerful preacher’s voice, ‘as confessor to both your grace and the queen, I can come to only one conclusion. My lord Gaveston, the Earl of Cornwall, should he not leave the kingdom for a while, shelter well away from the king?’

‘You mean exile, Brother Stephen?’ Edward glared at the Dominican. ‘For what purpose? How can I be king yet allow my subjects to dictate who sits at my council board?’

No one dared answer him. Edward’s rages were sudden and furious. I glanced at Isabella. She sat motionless, still playing with that ring, lost in her own thoughts.

‘I have,’ Gaveston stirred in his chair, ‘ordered Scarborough Castle on the coast to be provisioned and fortified. It’s only a short journey to the east.’ He paused as Dunheved quietly clapped his hands in approval. Sic tempora — such are the times! Scarborough! A place of refuge! Oh, so true are the words of the psalmist: My ways are not your ways. My thoughts are not your thoughts, yea, even as high as heavens are above the earth, so are my thoughts above yours! Gaveston had unwittingly chosen the stage for the rest of that murderous charade to be played out. At the time, however, the prospect of refuge in a castle was seized on by the Beaumonts as a compromise. Scarborough, so we thought, could be easily defended. More importantly, it boasted a small port, and if Gaveston changed his mind, it was an ideal place from which to slip into exile.

The favourite then moved to the question of supplies for the journey to the coast. He was explaining how he would use his own henchmen, the Aquilae, to scour the roads to Scarborough when the harmony of the friary was shattered by the clanging of the tocsin, a constant tolling of the church bells. Edward sprang to his feet, shouting for Ap Ythel. The Welsh captain and his company threw open the door and thronged into the chamber, swords already drawn. Beaumont yelled for his own war-harness to be brought, while his brother Louis quickly donned a stole, a sign that he was a cleric and carried no sword. For a while we thought that Lancaster and the earls had, through forced marches, secretly slipped into York and reached the friary. The parlour became a scene of shouting and mayhem. Only my mistress remained seated; she’d taken ivory and mother-of-pearl Ave beads out of her purse and was sifting them carefully through her fingers. I went and crouched by her chair. She smiled down at me and gently stroked my head.

‘My lady, you are silent?’

‘Video atque taceo,’ she murmured. ‘I watch and keep silent, as will you, Mathilde. Watch!’ A hand bell, raucously rung, stilled the clamour in the parlour. A young Franciscan, gasping for breath, forced himself through the crowd to kneel before the king, who stood, arms outstretched, as Ap Ythel strapped on the royal sword-belt.

‘Your grace.’ The friar spoke in the local patois, then changed to Norman French. ‘Your grace, there is no danger, but,’ he lifted his head, ‘one of my lord Gaveston’s squires, Master Leygrave, he’s been found in the same way. .’

The rest of his statement was drowned by shouts of consternation. Gaveston undid his own sword-belt and sat down on his chair, fingers to his lips like a frightened child. Edward glanced at me and gestured with his head to leave.

‘Go,’ Isabella hissed, not lifting her face. ‘Go, Mathilde! Vide atque tace — watch and keep silent!’

Escorted by a dark-faced Ap Ythel and three of his archers, all dressed in their leather breastplates, faces almost hidden by their deep cowls, I left the prior’s parlour. We went down hollow-sounding galleries, across the garden plots into the great yard or bailey, its cobbles sparkling in the rain. A crowd had gathered. The three Aquilae clustered around Leygrave’s corpse which was sprawled grotesquely, the blood from his cracked head mingling with the muddy rain. I forced my way through. Leygrave lay almost in the same spot as Lanercost. I glanced quickly up at the tower, those ominous windows. .

‘Mistress.’ Brother Eusebius shuffled forward. ‘I rang the Angelus bell, I recited the prayer: Angelus Domini annuntiavit Mariae — the Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary-’

‘Yes, yes,’ I interrupted.

‘Well, I had reached the seventh toll,’ he squinted up at the sky, ‘and the screaming began outside.’

‘We were close by,’ Rosselin added. ‘In fact we were looking for Philip; he’d been with us when we broke our fast, then left.’

Rosselin’s hair and face were soaked with rain, his leather jerkin and those of his two companions drenched black by the downpour. They were agitated, frightened men. They’d donned their war-belts, though, like Lanercost, Leygrave hadn’t.

‘Where,’ I asked, thanking Eusebius with a nod of my head, ‘are his sword and dagger?’

‘God knows.’ Rosselin abruptly got to his feet.

He and the others were expressing their fear by yelling at the curious to stand back. Dunheved came bustling through, stole around his neck, a jar of holy oils in his hand. I let him administer extreme unction over the corpse and stared back towards the church. Demontaigu stood in the doorway. I beckoned him over as Brother Eusebius whispered hoarsely in my ear, ‘They were the ones!’

‘What?’ I asked.

The lay brother pointed a bony finger across to the main door leading into the yard, where the Beaumonts sheltered against the rain.

‘What did they do?’ I asked.

‘Talked to the dead man.’

‘You mean Leygrave?’ I drew closer, aware of Dunheved’s voice murmuring the absolution.

‘No, the other one, the first to fly like an eagle.’

I glanced at Eusebius’ foolish face and realised his wits were sharper than had first appeared.

‘Saw them speaking to him, the morning he fell,’ Eusebius added, ‘out in the apple orchard.’ His voice grew hoarser. ‘Sees a lot, does Brother Eusebius, and for some coins, he could tell you much more.’ Then he scuttled away.

Dunheved finished his anointing, then he rose, smiled and hurried off. The Aquilae clustered around the battered corpse. I inspected it carefully: a gruesome mass of bruises and shattered bones, cracks to the skull and ghastly wounds disfiguring his face. One arm was no more than a coil of thick hardening flesh, his right leg horribly twisted.

‘Did anyone see him fall?’ I asked.

Rosselin called across a young lad clutching a bundle of sticks. By the flour on his apron, he was the fire boy from the nearby bakery, sent out to the wood stall to collect kindling. I beckoned him closer and spoke to him. In halting phrases and an accent I could scarcely understand, the fire boy explained how he collected wood for the master baker. He’d left the wood stall and glanced up at the tower because of the gossip and chatter, then he’d seen it. I offered a coin; it was snatched away. The boy grew animated, chattering like a sparrow. I had to urge him to speak slower as he described how he saw something black, ‘like a monstrous raven’, fall from the tower. The body dropped like a stone. No, declared the boy, he saw no movement of the legs or arms. He heard no scream. All he saw was the body spin, hit the sloping roof of the church then bounce like a ball along the tiles and over and down into the cobbled yard. I tweaked his cheek, thanked him and said his kindling might get wet, so he hurried off.

The Aquilae had also heard the boy’s tale. They could tell me little about Leygrave except that he was Lanercost’s close friend, deeply downcast at the death of his comrade. Accompanied by Demontaigu, I led them away from the eavesdroppers up into the deep porch of the church. As I did so, I glimpsed the Beaumonts sloping across to watch a group of lay brothers lift Leygrave on to a stretcher brought from the infirmary. I ignored them. We sheltered from the rain beneath the tympanum showing Christ on the Last Day carrying out judgement above the phrase carved in stone: Hic est locus terribilis! Domus Dei et Porta Caeli: This is a terrible place! The House of God and the Gate of Heaven.

‘Mistress,’ Rosselin rubbed a thumbnail around his lips, ‘we must attend to Leygrave’s corpse. What do you want?’

‘An assassin is hunting you,’ I replied. ‘Who it is and why, I don’t know. Two of your comrades have been barbarously murdered. All of you may well be marked for slaughter. So I ask you, I beg you, why?’

Those three young men, who’d flown so high and basked in all of Gaveston’s glory, could only stare sullenly back. Rosselin handed across a piece of parchment.

‘I found that, tucked into the rim of Leygrave’s boot.’

I knew what it contained even before I undid the small roll of vellum.

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

‘Is that all?’ I asked. ‘Is that all you can offer me?’

‘It is all I can say; it is all we can tell you.’ Rosselin tucked his thumbs into his war-belt gleaming with glittering studs. ‘True, we are frightened, mistress. The case against us presses hard. We take your warning, we heed your advice. This is a matter, A l’outrance — to the death.’ He bowed and, followed by the rest, left the porch.

I took Demontaigu deeper into the church. There I stopped and leaned against a pillar, staring down at the gorgeously decorated rood screen.

‘Is this the work of the Templars, Bertrand?’

‘No.’ He drew closer, crossing himself. ‘I understand your suspicions, Mathilde, but no.’ He glanced away. ‘I don’t think so. We should leave.’

I winked at him. ‘We’ll have other visitors soon.’

‘Who?’

I lifted my finger to my lips, even as the door latch snapped and the Beaumonts came into the church, stamping and shaking the rainwater from their cloaks and boots.

‘We meet again, mistress.’ Henry Beaumont swaggered forward. He sketched a courteous bow and glanced sharply at Demontaigu. ‘The queen’s clerk,’ he murmured, ‘deep in conversation with the queen’s shadow.’

‘We are all shadows under God’s sun,’ I retorted.

The Beaumonts simply stared back.

‘So why have you followed me here?’ I asked. ‘To discover what I know? That is very little! Or to tell me what you and Lanercost were discussing out in the apple orchard on the morning he died?’

Lady Vesci’s smile faded. Louis coughed and turned away. Henry remained ebullient as ever.

‘Direct, mistress, so I will be equally direct back.’ He gazed quickly at Demontaigu. ‘Take your hand away from your dagger, Templar; you are only here by the queen’s grace.’

‘And God’s,’ Demontaigu retorted.

‘Perhaps,’ Beaumont replied, ‘but God seems to have deserted your order. Now, Mistress Mathilde, I’ll be honest.’ He was standing so close I could smell the wine on his breath. ‘I met Lanercost because I wanted to know what he took into Scotland, what the king truly intends. Rumours about possible Scottish help buzz around like bees.’

‘In which case, that’s the king’s business, secret to him.’

‘Is it?’ Beaumont snapped his fingers. ‘I wonder. Think, woman! Gaveston is in great danger. The hawks circle. Your mistress, God save her, is enceinte. Does Gaveston politic for her, for the king or just for himself? Gaveston’s business could be a threat not only to me but to us all.’ He stepped back, bowed and, followed by his kin, sauntered out of the church.

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Demontaigu said thoughtfully, ‘if Bruce will help or not.’

I nodded and glanced down that sombre nave. The vigorous wall paintings, proclaiming the punishments of hell and the glories of heaven, seemed to press in on me. My mind was caught by the depiction of a king and queen thronged in glory.

‘Court life is like a body,’ I replied, ‘full of all sorts of strange humours. I want to study the particular symptoms of what is now happening.’ I crossed over and opened the door to the bell tower. Inside it was deserted. Asking Demontaigu to accompany me, I grasped the ladder and was about to climb when I caught the glint of a stud. I picked it up and recognised that I’d seen the same on the ostentatious war-belts the Aquilae liked to wear. I handed it to Demontaigu.

‘Why should it be lying here?’

Demontaigu grinned. ‘Because,’ he unstrapped his own belt, tossed it to the floor then indicated the ladder, ‘it is hard enough to climb through so narrow an opening; sword and dagger would make it very clumsy.’

‘So that is why Lanercost and Leygrave weren’t wearing theirs.’ I stared around. ‘Brother Eusebius has more to answer for.’

We climbed the ladder into the bell tower. We searched and probed, but that dusty ancient chamber refused to yield its secrets about the mysterious deaths of those two young men. I scrutinised the slippery, sloping window slab very carefully. I found no trace of blood, but I did detect very clearly the marks of boots, the broad sole and narrow heel of the Cordovan type much favoured by Gaveston and his Aquilae. The slab was smooth and the imprint of drying mud in the centre of the ledge quite pronounced. God forgive me, I should have been sharper. I put aside any closer scrutiny and reached the obvious conclusion that Leygrave must have stood on that ledge and then. . what? If he had stood there then he must have been contemplating suicide. Or was he pushed, forced, blackmailed? Yet why did he come up here in the first place, unarmed, to this lonely, stark belfry where his close companion and comrade had also died so mysteriously? Someone else had definitely been involved in their deaths; hence that cryptic, jibing message. I looked over my shoulder. Demontaigu was staring at me strangely. I voiced my suspicions. He walked around the wooden platform and stretched out a hand.

‘I cannot help you, Mathilde, but come, come.’ He grasped my fingers and escorted me back to the ladder.

We reached the storey below, but instead of continuing down, Demontaigu took me into a shadowy, crumbling corner that stank of wetness and bird droppings.

‘Bertrand, what is it?’

He let go of my hand and stared at a point beyond me. I suppressed the shiver that prickled my spine and shoulders.

‘You asked whether any of my brethren could be involved in these mysterious deaths.’ He rubbed his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I said we were not, but I speak for the brethren, not for any individual. There could be one, mingling in disguise amongst the good friars.’

‘Ausel!’ I exclaimed. ‘But you said he’d gone into Scotland?’

‘I was sworn to secrecy, Mathilde.’ Demontaigu held my gaze, then sighed. ‘But you are also my secret. Ausel defied the master’s instructions. He said he would not leave England until he was avenged on Lisbon for that massacre. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life; you know Ausel. .’ He squeezed my hand. ‘You saw him out on the heathland. He will not rest, not until he’s had blood.’ He walked to the ladder and stared down. ‘Ausel believes that Lanercost told Gaveston about the meeting at Devil’s Hollow, and that Gaveston, for God knows what reason, told Alexander of Lisbon.’ He grasped the sides of the ladder. ‘Ausel could be responsible for these deaths.’

We reached the bottom of the tower. Demontaigu collected his war-belt and declared he would search out Ausel. I grasped him by the arm. ‘Bertrand, let us walk a while.’ We left the church. A chamberlain, all flustered, came hurrying over to announce that the council meeting was adjourned but that her grace the queen needed me. I thanked the chamberlain and waited till he left.

‘Mathilde?’

‘Bertrand.’ I took him over to stand in the shelter of a porch. ‘That message left on each of the corpses? It mocks Gaveston, it declares he is finished — bought and sold.’

‘And so he is.’ Demontaigu squinted up at the sky. ‘Oh, I’ve heard the rumours about possible help from the Bruce. Publicly Gaveston says he is negotiating with Edward’s allies in Scotland.’ He pulled a face. ‘What allies? Secretly he may, on behalf of the king, be pleading for help from Bruce, but none of that will be in writing — too dangerous.’

‘And?’

‘It shows how desperate Gaveston is. Mathilde, this mummer’s play will end, but how?’ He shrugged, kissed me full on the lips and left.

The rest of the day was taken up with my mistress, who was silent but forceful. She had written a number of letters that I did not see, though I had to supervise their dispatch to Hull and other ports. Isabella was intent on leaving, so the rest of that day and the following morning were taken up with preparations. Only after the Angelus bell was I free to return to the mysteries confronting me and what I should do next. I remembered Eusebius. I left messages for Demontaigu about where I was going and went back into the church. The bell tower was empty, so I crossed the nave and went up the transept towards the shrine to St Francis. Sounds echoed through that vaulted space. I passed altars and chantry chapels all ghostly in the dim light. Occasionally a host of burning candles would pick out a wall painting of angels ascending into heaven, or St Francis embracing a leper, a disgusting figure depicted in all the horror of flaking snow-white skin, red mouth and blood-rimmed eyes. Statues and carvings glared sightlessly down at me. I became a little flustered, even frightened.

I recalled Eusebius telling me that the entrance to the charnel house lay directly beneath a mural depicting Christ’s Harrowing of Hell. I found that: a scrawling but vigorous depiction of Le Bon Seigneur standing on the shores of hell, hands outstretched to the legion of souls awaiting resurrection. The entrance was easy enough to find: a trap door of oaken slats smoothed to run level with the flagstones. Two hooks, through which a wooden bolt was passed, kept the trap door locked to its frame. The bolt had been withdrawn and lay to one side. I lifted the door. A glow of light from a lantern horn on the bottom step greeted me. ‘Eusebius,’ I called. ‘Eusebius?’ I went down the steps. I reached the bottom, lifted the lantern and stared around that macabre hall. A long passageway stretched before me. On either side were shelves crammed with the dead, tightly packed together. Row after row of skulls, some shiny white, others yellowy-black with decay, and beneath these, bones stacked like bundles of fire sticks. ‘Eusebius?’ I called. The charnel house held a chill that bit the flesh. My voice rang loud, echoing off the heavy stone. A rat scurried across my path, screeching at this intrusion on its hunting run. I walked down, raising the lantern, passing alcoves and recesses full of darkness. I did not stop. I was drawn by the glint of metal at the end of the passageway. On either side, stack after stack of skulls gazed at me. I reached the end, lifted the lantern and stared. Brother Eusebius was propped against the wall, his skull smashed by the thick bone tossed on to his lap, his grotesque face masked by blood through which sightless eyes glared bleakly at me. I crouched beside him. One hand still gripped a sword, the other a war-belt. On a shelf to my right the bones had been cleared away; there were oil lamps, which had guttered out, as well as a baking tin heaped with scraps of ribbon, coins, small medals and crosses.

‘You poor, poor magpie.’ I crossed myself. Eusebius had apparently used this place as a hideaway for the little items he’d been given or found in the church, including the war-belts of the two Aquilae. I found the second one behind his back. This half-witted lay brother had apparently been surprised by his killer; he’d made some pathetic attempt to defend himself, all to no avail. He’d been trapped in this macabre place and his skull staved in. God knows the reason why. I murmured a prayer, then spun round, alarmed at a sound behind me. I grabbed the lantern and raised it high, my other hand searching for my dagger. My imaginings deceived me, then I saw a shape move. At first I thought it was hurtling towards me, but that was a trick of the light. In truth it was moving away. I shouted at it to stop, but the wraith-like figure sped into the gloom. I pursued it as fast as I could, lantern in one hand, dagger in the other. It was fruitless. There was a pounding on the steps, then the trap door was raised and came crashing closed. Sweat-soaked, I put the lantern down and hurried up, but the door had been bolted shut. I crouched on the steps and stared across at the mounds of bones. The dead did not frighten me. I was more concerned about Eusebius’ murder. I went back to search again, but found nothing new. I returned to the steps, listening for the brothers. A short while passed. I heard footsteps and called out. Demontaigu replied. He drew back the bolt and helped me out. As he did so, I glimpsed a piece of fabric with a green and gold button attached to it. The device embroidered on it was a silver-gold fleur-de-lis against a dark green background, the one so proudly worn by the Beaumonts. I put that into my wallet and went and crouched at the foot of a pillar. The lantern horn created a pool of light before me. Demontaigu joined me, full of questions. I told him what had happened and what I’d found.

‘Not now!’ I protested at his questions. ‘I see no sense in all of this.’ I clambered to my feet. ‘Ausel?’

‘Disappeared,’ Demontaigu replied. ‘Gone into hiding. Ausel is adept at disguise; he will show himself when he wants to.’ He pointed across at the trap door. ‘I don’t think he had anything to do with that.’

I made no answer. We left the church, and I immediately informed the prior about what I’d found. Then Demontaigu and I helped the brothers remove Eusebius to the corpse house. I also collected the war-belts of the two dead Aquilae and had them dispatched to Rosselin with a message that they’d been found in a shadowy nook in the church. Father Prior had the good sense to realise that Eusebius’ murder was connected to the deaths of Gaveston’s henchmen. He wisely informed his shocked community that poor Eusebius had been killed by some wandering intruder and left it at that.

It was late in the day by the time I was free. The king and queen had left the friary for a banquet at the Guildhall. Demontaigu returned to his search for Ausel, whilst I adjourned to my own chamber close to the queen’s. I washed and changed and rested a while to calm my humours, then distilled some powders and potions. I remember beating egg white in preparation for a treatment for open sores and wounds, mixing musk and amber for heavy coughs, theriac and valerian for agitation and finally preparing hellebore for fumigation, a potion that was constantly in use. As I worked, memories floated through my mind. Gaveston’s fear. Edward’s agitation. Isabella white as a statue. Leygrave, his broken corpse sprawled like some animal carcass. Eusebius’ busy whispers and sly, knowing smile. The bootprints on that slab so clear for me to see. The gloomy charnel house where Eusebius’ cunning had been silenced for ever. That shadow flitting through the murk, and finally the scrap of cloth and the ornamental button displaying the coat of arms so beloved by the Beaumonts. A series of images with no logic to them.

Once I had finished distilling the herbs, I sat at my small writing desk and began to list everything I knew. I chose a large sheet of costly vellum, the type Isabella used for her letters, and wrote down what I’d seen, heard and reflected upon. The great Trotula maintains that the fundamental syllogism of medicine is that if the human body was perfect, all its senses would be keener. We would, for example, have the power of smell of a dog or the eyesight of a cat. The human body, however, is not perfect, so we can observe what is wrong in the symptoms of all its functions, be it the twenty-nine for the urine or the five signs of approaching death. Now, the detection of murder and the diagnosis of disease have a great deal in common. I decided it was time to list these symptoms and study them carefully.

Primo: The massacre at Devil’s Hollow was carried out by the Noctales, but who had told them that a party of Templars fresh out of Scotland would be there at that time? Was it Geoffrey Lanercost, who’d learnt it from his brother? Or someone else who knew the precise details? Yet who could that be?

Secundo: Lanercost himself. He took his war-belt off and went up into that bell tower. Why? Whom did he meet? If the person was his murderer, how could he, or possibly they, overcome a young, vigorous warrior and throw him to his death. And why there?

Tertio: Leygrave. Why did he go up to the same place where his comrade had been killed? Apparently he too felt safe enough to leave his war-belt behind. Again, a young warrior. If he’d stood on the edge, why? Was he forced? Did he jump, or was he pushed? Yet the fire boy from the bakery heard no scream; he simply saw Leygrave fall like a stone.

Quarto: Why the bell tower, that dirty, narrow chamber, those bells swinging out? I had been in danger there. So who had watched me go up? Was it out of mischief or malice that those bell ropes were pulled? Eusebius or the assassin?

Quinto: Eusebius. Why was he murdered? Someone followed him down into that charnel house and shattered his skull to silence his gossiping mouth for ever. Why? What did the lay brother know?

Sexto: The cryptic message to the Aquilae about Gaveston being bought and sold. The writer was warning Gaveston’s henchmen that their lord was finished. Was the assassin punishing the Aquilae, or was it part of a devious plot to destroy Gaveston and all his coven? If so, when would the assassin strike at Gaveston himself?

Septimo: The Beaumonts. That rent of cloth and the button pointed to their possible involvement in Eusebius’ death, but why? And what did Beaumont really discuss with Lanercost?

Octavo: Isabella and her stony-still attitude. What was she plotting?

Nono: Edward and Gaveston, trapped here in York with the earls closing in. What could they do? What would happen if both king and favourite were apprehended by the earls?

I reviewed what I’d written whilst from outside drifted the sounds of the friary as the brothers prepared for prayer and the onset of darkness. My own eyes grew heavy, my mind tired, my body begging for sleep. I rested easy that night; it was just as well. The following day, Edward and Gaveston began their own descent into hell. Scurriers, coated in mud, their horses dropping with exhaustion, galloped through the friary gatehouse. The news they brought was dire. The earls were much closer to York then the king had ever suspected. Lanercost and Leygrave’s deaths were swept aside by the thunderous roar of that hurling time. The court fell into a panic. Edward and Gaveston had no choice but to flee. Carts were hitched, sumpter ponies and pack animals trotted out. The great hunt had begun. The earls were determined to trap Gaveston and send him into eternal night. In their proclamations there was no tolerance, no mention of compromise. If Gaveston was taken, Gaveston would die. Hell opened its maw to spit out all forms of troubles. The weather turned changeable. Rain storms and lashing winds clogged the muddy roads. Gaveston and Edward were forced to move swiftly, leaving Isabella to follow slowly behind. A long trail of carts and horses moved across desolate moorlands in weather that had abruptly changed from the sweetness of spring to the icy memories of winter, with sleeting rains and biting winds. A harsh time. We were caught out in the open like tired, dispirited troops fleeing from a battlefield. We warmed ourselves before weak camp-fires, wore sodden clothes and groaned and itched at our saddle sores. We gobbled ill-cooked food and drank brackish water and wine more bitter than vinegar. We were like deer trapped in a hunting run. Isabella and the remains of her household desperately followed the king, whilst to the rear and flanks our pursuers crowded us like hungry hounds: the retinues of Lancaster, Hereford, Warwick and Pembroke, their banners and pennants displaying the various coats of arms. The hunting pack were in full flow. They did not close in but waited to see what would happen. Chaos descended.

Edward and Gaveston eventually decided to wait for the queen. A hasty council was convened in some wayside tavern. The die was cast. There, in a dirty tap room, its windows covered with filthy rags, rotting onions hanging from the blackened rafters, the tawdry settle stools and tables glistening with grease, a smoky fire shooting out foulsome fumes, the decision was made. Around the tavern were camped Ap Ythel and his comitatus loyal to the king; there was no one else. The great earls were winning the day; their outriders clashed with our scouts, whilst the sheriffs and great manor lords of Northumbria either did not receive the royal writs summoning troops or pretended they hadn’t. Worse news came hot on our heels. A powerful Scottish war band had crossed the northern march: mounted mailed men and a host on foot. Bruce was not only winning in Scotland but was ruthlessly determined to exploit Edward’s weaknesses. My mistress looked exhausted, and to be fair to Edward, he sensed that she could no longer continue. In the dim light of that tavern it was agreed. Edward and Gaveston would continue north. Isabella and her retinue, guarded by the Aquilae and their henchmen, would shelter at Tynemouth. Alexander of Lisbon was already there to bolster the garrison. All non-combatants, household retainers, priests and chaplains, including Dunheved, would accompany the queen.

We approached Tynemouth late the next morning. A long line of carts and horses moving along a narrow track-way up towards the great castle built round a Benedictine priory, which perched on a sheer headland overlooking the Tyne estuary and the sullen northern seas. Tynemouth! A great craggy, jutting monument of stone with its high curtain wall on the land side, the rest guarded by sheer cliffs. The western approach was heavily fortified, not only by the curtain wall but by a three-storey fortified gatehouse and barbican. A fearsome, brooding place of war, which dominated the surrounding countryside and kept a sharp eye on the coastal routes. Stark in its purpose, Tynemouth was no country manor or royal palace, but a place built for strife. The day we entered was bright and clear, yet even this could not dispel a sense of brooding menace. I glimpsed archers high on the crenellated walls, and the tops of mangonels and catapults alongside the royal standards and pennants flapping vigorously, their colours bright against the light morning sky. As we entered the castle, we passed one of those ancient crosses covered in mysterious symbols and carvings. A local anchorite, hearing of our approach, had come out to lecture us as we passed.

‘What is man but snow under the sun, dust in the breeze, a flurry upon the water? We flash like an arrow through light to dark! A short-lit spark! A common reed! Frail grass! A delicate flower! Mist on the ground! Smoke in the air! Foam on the wave!’

Oh, I remember those words as we cantered on under the yawning gatehouse and into the great bailey, where dark-garbed Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales, together with the Castellan and his retinue, were waiting to greet us. I had to curb my tongue, control my feelings at the sight of these mercenaries, some three score in all, lounging around in their half-armour, all harnessed and ready for war. These men, warming themselves around braziers as they fed their faces, had tried to kill me. I avoided their arrogant gazes and tried to ignore their golden-black war pennants and banners attached to poles stuck in the ground. Beneath these sprawled their war-dogs, lounging in the weak morning sun. The Castellan a veteran soldier from the old king’s days, hastily stepped forward, as if aware of Isabella’s distaste for Lisbon and his ilk. The queen was welcomed in a brief but courteous speech. Afterwards we were quickly escorted out of the bailey and up to what used to be called the Prior’s Lodgings, high on the south wall. The Castellan, God bless him, tried his best to make the queen comfortable, but it was an eagle’s eyrie. On the land side it overlooked the castle; on the other three sides the lashing waves and dark swollen sea groaning under a lowering sky. Around the arrow-slit windows seagulls and other birds provided a strident chorus from dawn to dusk. The wind, when it swung from the north, was bitter, sharp and heavily salted, keen to penetrate the thickest shutters or heaviest hangings. Outside the castle stretched wild moorlands you would be only too happy to escape from and, inside, pressing in, curling and twisting, a thick veil of mist which could deepen swiftly to cover Tynemouth like a heavy shroud, dulling sound, turning that castle and its turrets, walls and towers into a place of shifting shapes.

Messengers came and went, clattering across the drawbridge. Edward and Gaveston had totally misjudged the situation. The earls had, like some vengeful river, swept by York and were pursuing the king north to Novo Castro. Neither the Crown nor the earls seemed concerned about the Scottish war party still moving south, whilst Bruce’s allies, a fleet of Flemish privateers, threatened the coastline. The Castellan heard all this, so Tynemouth was put on a war footing. The Beaumonts, who had accompanied us, tried to exercise their authority, but the Castellan refused to bow either to them or the Aquilae. Instead he encouraged the royal favourites to participate in the constant watches, in the end they had no choice but to agree. The Noctales chose the gatehouse and barbican; the Beaumonts were given the Prior’s lodgings; whilst the Aquilae and their retinues stationed themselves in Duckett’s Tower, which stood above the eastern cliffs overlooking the sea.

Days passed. Isabella rested secure in her chamber. Demontaigu believed that Ausel was one of those who crowded into the castle: tinkers, traders, wanderers, as well as local people fearful about what was happening. Then it happened: the great silence. No more couriers or messengers. No further carts heaped with fresh supplies. No wandering preachers, tinkers or traders. Scouts were dispatched but they never returned. At night the dark was lit by fires glowing eerily across the heathland as well as through the heavy mist out at sea. The Castellan sought an audience with Isabella. She received him in her private apartments, swathed in woollen robes, fur boots on her feet, a mantle around her neck and chest. The stark chamber was warmed and lit by flickering cressets, chafing dishes and sparkling braziers. These kept back the cold, ghostly wraiths of the ever-seeping mist. Despite Isabella’s invitation, the stern-faced old soldier insisted on kneeling before her footstool. He gazed beseechingly at me, standing behind the queen, then at Dunheved, who sat on a stool to Isabella’s right.

‘Your grace.’ He paused. ‘Your grace, some great force lurks out on the moorlands. I also believe Flemish pirates are off the coast. In a word, we are cut off. I am fearful.’

‘About what, sir?’

‘Whoever the enemy are,’ he replied, ‘we can withstand an assault.’

‘Then what is your fear?’

‘Treachery, your grace.’

‘You mean treason!’ Dunheved snapped.

‘Reverend Brother, last night I sent out one of my best guides-’

‘But I thought you’d stopped that?’ Dunheved interrupted, visibly agitated.

‘No, Brother. The guide did not go to seek what was outside.’

‘But the enemy within?’ I added.

‘Mistress, you have the truth. He reported that he’d glimpsed signals being sent out from this castle.’

‘Signals?’ Isabella asked.

‘Simple but stark,’ the Castellan replied. ‘A lantern horn displayed high on the walls, opening and shutting, clear flashes of light to someone waiting and watching. These were shown at one place, then another. It would be impossible to discover who was responsible.’ He licked his lips. ‘I would defend this castle to the death. I can certainly vouch for the loyalty of myself and my men, but not for everyone here. If there is treachery, your Grace, this is all I can offer.’ He rose, grunting at his creaking knees. ‘If it please your grace to follow me. .’

We had no choice. We left the Prior’s Lodgings. In the courtyard below, Demontaigu was talking to the squires of the queen’s household, young men barely out of their schooling as pages. The Castellan whispered a few words to Isabella, who ordered me to instruct Demontaigu and the squires to follow us. We continued along the line of the walls, past towers, across courtyards, into another mist-hung bailey and up to the iron-studded door of Duckett’s Tower. Gaveston’s Aquilae and their retainers were lodged in the storeys above. Because the weather was chill, all doors were firmly closed and windows shuttered. However, the Castellan did not lead us up that narrow spiral staircase, soon to become an assassin’s path. Instead he pulled at a wooden trap door in the floor, took a cresset torch from its sconce and led us down steep stone steps.

An icy blast stung our faces as, heads bowed, we walked down a needle-thin passageway, its thick chalky walls pressing in from either side. Every so often the Castellan would pause to light cresset torches of the thickest pitch driven into makeshift gaps. The flames of these firebrands danced like fiery imps in the icy blackness of the tunnel. At times the path was so steep we found it hard to keep our footing. Demontaigu and the squires quietly cursed, while Dunheved began the litany of the saints, the words Miserere nobis ringing out like a challenge through the darkness. We reached more steps and down we went. Isabella did not object, one hand resting on my arm, the other on Dunheved’s. She walked determinedly, as if memorising every step. The cold grew more intense. The sound of the sea was like an approaching drum beat. The darkness began to lift. Shafts of light penetrated the gloom. Down more rough-cut steps then out on to pebble-covered, salt-soaked sand, a small cove sheltered by the cliffs. We braved the slating sea wind, walked out and looked around. On either side, chalk-white cliffs soared up to the castle nestling on its crag high above us. In front of us, beached and ready, were three longboats, and out in the cove a war-cog riding at anchor, stout-bellied, with a high fighting stern and long bow strip. The cog’s great sail was reefed. On board I could glimpse the crew moving about.

‘Your grace.’ The Castellan gestured across the sand. ‘It’s an answer to a prayer. The cog came in early this morning. If treachery occurs, the master of The Wyvern has strict instructions to wait for you. Who gave him these I do not know, but she is well provisioned and will ride at anchor until you leave.’ He spread his hands. ‘I can say no more.’ He led us back into the castle.

The Castellan truly believed the real enemy was within and that any relief could only be the approach of a sizeable royal army; his appraisal of the situation was casual, as if he saw it as part of his duty, a sign of the times. Civil war had broken out, so why should his castle not have enemies lurking within? It certainly did! The following morning we were woken by the clanging of the tocsin and strident calls of ‘Aux armes! Aux armes!’ I told my mistress to remain where she was. I summoned Demontaigu and the queen’s household squires, all harnessed and ready for battle. We left the Prior’s Lodgings and hurried into the great bailey, where the Castellan and his officers were in heated conversation with Rosselin, who was gesturing back towards Duckett’s Tower. The Castellan seemed confused, shouting questions at Rosselin, who could not answer except by pointing back to the tower under his guard. I joined them, tugging at Rosselin’s sleeve. He turned wild-eyed, blinked, then nodded in recognition.

‘Gone!’ he muttered.

‘Who’s gone?’

Dunheved, swathed in his great cloak, joined us.

‘Kennington and two of his retainers! They have vanished! They were on watch, on guard vigil! They took the last quarter before daybreak.’ Rosselin rubbed his face. ‘They have gone!’

The Castellan told his officers to impose order as more people, half dressed, faces sleep-filled, thronged into the bailey. We followed Rosselin through that mist-strewn, ghostly castle to Duckett’s Tower. Nicholas Middleton, another of the Aquilae, met us in the doorway at the top of the steps, a look of utter consternation on his unshaven, bleary face.

‘Nowhere,’ he murmured, fingers jumping about the medallions and crosses pinned to his jerkin. ‘Nowhere at all.’