The Darkening Glass

Chapter 4

Dunheved and I followed the Castellan and the others up the narrow, winding spiral staircase, a breath-catching climb. The freezing cold from the stone chilled our sweat. A heavy oaken door at the top led on to the pebble-strewn oval fighting platform. The wind buffeted us, stinging our eyes. I had the sensation of standing just below heavy clouds, whilst the raucous call of sea birds was almost drowned by the surf crashing against the rocks below. I moved cautiously, staring around. The high crenellated rim of the tower was sure protection against any accidental fall. It was at least two yards high, whilst the gap between the battlements was spanned by iron bars. I walked across and looked over the edge at the sickening drop to the rocks below, where the angry black sea surged in a froth of white foam. Any speech was whipped away by the wind. I followed Rosselin’s direction and saw a small table with a capped jug and leather tankards. There were three in all, as well as a wooden platter covered by an iron pot. Beneath the table were stored extra cloaks. The lidded braziers next to the table had gone out, and were filled to the top with feathery white ash. The lantern horns between these were also extinguished, their oil-soaked wicks burnt hard and black. It was futile to engage in any conversation. I walked around the summit of the tower. I could find nothing amiss, no sign of a silent intruder or secret assassin scaling the sheer walls and creeping through the dark. Dunheved followed me, murmuring a prayer. I examined the pebble-strewn floor but discovered no stain or mark, although I realised that the wind and rain would constantly wash it, hence the pebbles scattered to provide a surer grip for guards and watchmen.

I studied the heavy door leading on to the tower top. On the inside it had a latch as well as a hook and clasp to keep it secure. I gestured at Dunheved to bring the jug and tankards inside the stairwell, a welcome relief from the noisy, blustering wind. Rosselin led me down to his own chamber on the floor below, a spacious but bleak circular room with little comfort except for the fiery-hot braziers. The Castellan dismissed his guard, as I did mine. For a while Rosselin and Dunheved warmed themselves over the brazier whilst I inspected the jug, tankards and platter. The ale, or what was left of it, smelt rather stale; the bread and cheese were hard but untainted. I wiped my hands at the lavarium.

‘Master Rosselin,’ I asked, ‘what did happen here?’ I paused at the footsteps outside, and without knocking, Henry Beaumont walked in.

‘The alarm was raised!’ he barked.

‘Because,’ I hastened to reply in an attempt to forestall the Castellan’s blunt tongue, ‘Master Robert Kennington and two of his men are missing.’

‘Deserted!’

‘Never,’ Rosselin snarled. ‘Sir Henry, with all due respect, why are you here?’

‘Like the rest of you, I’m worried.’ Beaumont walked forward threateningly.

‘We all are,’ I intervened quickly. ‘You knew Kennington, my lord?’

‘As you did Lanercost and Leygrave.’ Rosselin refused to be cowed. ‘They once served in your retinue, as did I for a very short while, Lord Henry.’ I hid my own surprise, but of course Gaveston would choose his henchmen from noblemen at least openly loyal to the king. I gestured at Beaumont to warm himself at the brazier, an invitation he swiftly accepted.

‘I think, gentlemen,’ I spoke quickly, ‘we should first discover what happened to Kennington and the others: three fighting men who disappeared from the top of this tower. I understand they were on guard with particular vigilance for the sea.’

The Castellan just nodded.

‘Even though I’m a woman,’ I smiled quickly, ‘I know enough about the science of war to realise that no assailant could scale such walls in the dead of night with those treacherous seas plunging beneath them. Yes?’

They all agreed.

‘And no intruder could attack from within.’ Rosselin added. ‘They’d be challenged. Kennington was a warrior; his two guards were veteran swordsmen.’

‘I saw you inspect the ale and platter,’ the Castellan said.

‘Nothing,’ I replied.

I caught Beaumont’s contemptuous look. ‘Sirs, can I remind you,’ I added, ‘that I’m here at the specific request of both their graces.’

‘The food?’ the Castellan asked.

‘Kennington himself prepared that,’ Rosselin replied. ‘He took it out for the last watch, the last four hours before dawn. I thought there was nothing to worry about. I fell asleep after my own watch. I heard no alarm. I woke up and went to see that all was well. What I saw, you’ve now seen: deserted, empty, no trace of Kennington or his companions.’

‘In a few hours the tide will begin to turn,’ the Castellan declared. ‘I’ll order a search of the shore below.’

We all went back on to the top of the tower for one last thorough search, doing our best to ignore the buffeting winds and the roar of the sea. Once again I walked to the edge and peered over that heart-stopping drop. Kennington hadn’t deserted, I was sure of that. To whom could he flee? An assassin had climbed on to the fighting platform, that place of vigil, and some great evil had fastened on Kennington and his companions, but who, what and how? The salt-soaked winds hurt my eyes and stung my cheekbones. I signalled that I wished to withdraw, and we gathered inside on the stairwell. I noticed the Castellan slip a large hook on the door through a clasp fastened on the lintel. I asked why, and he explained how these were secured on each door in every tower.

‘The winds, you see.’ He smiled. ‘If a door comes off its latch, it can bang and eventually shatter.’

‘Mischief-makers would like it,’ I pointed out. ‘They could lock someone in.’

‘Yes and no.’ The Castellan grimaced. ‘My children, God bless them, used to do that, but anyone armed with a dagger can open the door from the inside by sliding the blade through the gap and lifting the hook.’

‘Your children?’ I queried.

‘God took them,’ he murmured sadly, ‘like he did everything in my life. Mistress?’ He blinked. ‘You wish to inspect Kennington’s chamber?’

I nodded.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Rosselin demanded.

‘No, sir, you will not.’ I opened my wallet and took out the two seal casts: the king’s and that of the queen. ‘Negotium regis — king’s business,’ I whispered. ‘You agree, sir?’

The Castellan was only too willing to comply. I asked Dunheved and Demontaigu to search the rest of the tower. The Castellan led me down the steps, unhooked the clasp and swung open the door. Kennington’s chamber was like that of a monk. A crucifix hung black and stark on the grey-white wall above the cot bed. I closed the door and searched his paltry possessions. I felt a profound unease. Kennington’s belongings were sad; rather pathetic. Like Demontaigu, he’d collected mementos of his childhood: locks of hair, a battered toy horse with a mounted knight, a faded miniature diptych of Lazarus coming out of his tomb, scrolls of parchment: letters from his mother and sisters. It was sad to see the child behind the warrior, the glimpse of innocence before the glass darkened, the soul choking on the cares and ambitions of life. I sat on the cot bed and wondered what had happened to this squire. I knew so little about him and his companions. I tried to recall the rumours, the stories. How the Aquilae had become Gaveston’s sworn henchmen, sealing indentures to be with him ‘day and night, body and soul’. Some had whispered how they were all catamites, loving their master and each other. Gaveston used them as his minions, as his personal bodyguard. God knows what they plotted. Why had the favourite sent them to Tynemouth and not kept them with him? Ostensibly it was to defend the queen. Any other reason? And why had Lanercost been sent to Scotland? What had he been plotting? Why did the Beaumonts have such a deep interest in his mission?

As if an answer to these questions, a harsh knock on the door startled me, and without my reply, Rosselin sauntered into the room. He rubbed his arms against the cold, then took an extra cloak from a peg and offered it to me. When I refused, he wrapped it around himself. He expected me to challenge him, to ask him to leave, but I’d finished my search and wanted to question him. Rosselin picked up a stool and came across. I studied that ruddy, unshaven face, the blue eyes, red-rimmed and bleary. The sea wind had chapped his cheeks and his thick lips were salt-soaked.

‘Master Rosselin, can you help resolve these mysteries?’

He shook his head, eyes cold and calculating. He seemed not to like me, to resent my presence, though he was still determined to remain cordial.

‘I know why I’m here,’ I began, ‘but you, Master Rosselin, and the rest, shouldn’t you be with Lord Gaveston?’

‘No,’ he retorted. ‘We’re here to guard the queen. Lord Gaveston has a personal regard for her grace. Who else can the king send? He lacks troops for himself. Her grace is important. Our presence, and that of the Noctales, will strengthen the garrison here.’

I could not dispute that; it made sense.

‘And you,’ I asked, ‘you will live and die with Gaveston?’

‘What else is there?’ Rosselin’s voice hinted at sheer desperation. He glanced away, boots shuffling on the paved floor, and when he looked back, both his face and his voice had softened. ‘Mistress, we’re all trapped: myself, the others and Gaveston.’ He pulled the stool closer. ‘We took blood oaths and devised perilous stratagems when the days were good. These have come shooting back like barbed arrows during this time of distress. We are committed. There’s no going back. No turning to the left or to the right. I could tell you things, but I cannot; except that if Lord Gaveston goes down, so do we.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why did Lanercost go to Scotland?’

Rosselin refused to answer.

‘Why?’ I persisted.

‘Possibly,’ Rosselin refused to meet my gaze, ‘to seek sanctuary for my lord, if he decides to go into exile again.’

‘Or help against the great earls?’ I asked.

Again Rosselin refused to meet my gaze.

‘Is that true? Is Gaveston plotting treason?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I truly don’t.’

‘My lord Gaveston was distressed by Lanercost’s death?’

‘Of course, you’ve heard the whispers. He and Lord Gaveston may have been lovers.’

‘And what are you involved in now?’

‘Too late.’ Rosselin’s voiced thrilled with the passion of sadness. From outside trailed the harsh calls of the sea birds above the muffled thunder of the waves smashing against the rocks.

‘What do you mean, too late?’

‘Just too late!’

‘And you are here to guard the queen?’

‘Yes. I can tell you little more, mistress. It’s too late, too late. We are committed to our lord, even though the case against us presses hard. Too late for penance.’ He sighed. ‘Too late for contrition, too late for absolution.’

‘So why have you visited me now?’

‘You know Kennington hasn’t deserted. He’s dead. I’ve watched you, mistress. Flattery aside, you are honest. You have compassion. Apart from my lord and my comrades, I am alone. If I fall. .’ He opened his purse and took out two gold pieces. He insisted that I take them, pressing both into my hand. ‘Light candles,’ he pleaded, getting to his feet. ‘Have a priest whisper absolution in my ear. Go to some chantry chapel, have masses for the dead sung for my soul. As for my body, make sure I am not treated like some dog’s carcass but get honourable burial in consecrated ground.’

I offered the coins back, but he shook his head.

‘Mistress, to whom else can I turn? I trust you.’ He walked to the door.

‘Master Rosselin?’

He turned.

‘Who wants your life?’

‘God does. I may die like a dog because I’ve lived like one that goes constantly back to its own vomit.’ He bowed and slipped through the door.

I realised then the truth of what Isabella had said. The glass was darkening. Soon the light would be extinguished.

Kennington’s corpse and those of his two companions were found later that day, floating in the furious flurry of the angry sea. I watched as they were brought back to Duckett’s Tower. They had apparently fallen with cloaks, boots and war-belts on, though these had been caught, snagged and shredded by the waves and rocks. All three corpses were disgusting. Sodden and swollen with salt water, a mass of gruesome wounds, gashes and bruises, shattered by the fall and battered by the rock-pounding sea. It was almost impossible to determine anything except that they’d fallen sheer on to the rocks, to be swept away by the sea and then hurled back again by the turbulent tide: three cadavers proclaiming the true horror of violent death, be it murder or suicide. Dunheved administered the last rites. Rosselin and Middleton acted as chief mourners at the sombre requiem mass in the gloomy chapel, followed by swift interment in the Field of Souls, Tynemouth’s small but crowded cemetery. The news swept the castle, deepening our gloom and sense of isolation. A sinister premonition for the next chapter in the swirling, bloody mist of murder and mayhem engulfing our lives. What could be done? I was confronted with a tangled mystery. How had three veteran swordsmen, on guard, vigilant in the dark hours before dawn, been so brutally killed?

I retraced my steps through Duckett’s Tower, only to discover nothing. Rosselin came to ask my opinion. He and Middleton were now men whose courage had been shredded. He also brought a small oilskin pouch found in Kennington’s wallet, tied securely to his belt. It contained the same message, written in a neat, precise hand: Aquilae Petri, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been bought and sold. The warning was stark, the conclusion obvious. Kennington and his colleagues had been murdered, but by whom and how? I could offer no reply, no solution. In all that turbulence, one small problem still nagged at me. It started as a query, a question, but the more I reflected, the more important it became. The war-cog The Wyvern, provisioned with full armament and riding at anchor in that narrow cove. Who had summoned it to Tynemouth? The king, Gaveston, Isabella? The Castellan could not help. He simply tapped the side of his nose and whispered how its master was under secret orders to wait until the danger had passed and only then sail away. I was about to thank him and leave when the Castellan plucked my sleeve and took me into a dark, narrow corner.

‘Mistress, I must tell you this. We know marauders lurk out on the heathland. We have also discovered, through the master of The Wyvern, that Flemish privateers prowl the northern coast. Now, The Wyvern has sailed out simply to make sure all is well on board, no leaks, nothing wrong. They’ve encountered local fishing craft, whose crews have told a strange tale. Not only do the Flemings prowl, but a force of French war-cogs, fully armed and flying the royal standard, has also been glimpsed. Now why is that, eh? Why should Philip of France be meddling in these cold, misty waters?’

Again, I could not reply. I went to see my mistress. She’d hardly left the chamber, being concerned with her books, sleeping or sometimes just huddled in a cloak before a roaring fire, staring into the flames. I went down on my knees before her, placing my hands in her lap.

‘Mathilde, ma petite.’ Isabella’s eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Mistress, I ask you the same question. You shelter here like some anchorite in her cell. You very rarely leave except to catch a breath of air in the morning and evening. We used to talk; now you are silent.’

Isabella cupped my cheek with her hand.

‘Mathilde, if I told you. . No, no, I cannot.’

‘Your grace,’ I pleaded. ‘The Wyvern: who ordered it to be brought here?’

Isabella’s face crinkled into a smile.

‘Why, Mathilde, I did.’

‘But mistress, what do you think will happen?’

‘I don’t know, Mathilde, but I have reflected on every possibility. If I cannot escape by land, then it’s logical that I must go my sea. The master of The Wyvern is well known to me. He is loyal. He will wait until I give the order, but more than that, I cannot and will not say.’

‘And your father’s war-cogs?’ I could tell by Isabella’s face that the Castellan had already told her the news.

‘What my father does, what he plots, Mathilde, is a matter for him and those who shelter in his shadow. Do you know,’ she leaned forward, ‘how Kennington died?’

‘Your grace, I know you too well to be distracted.’

Isabella threw her head back and laughed.

‘In which case, Mathilde, all I can ask you to do is vide atque tace — watch and keep silent.’

The Beaumonts sought me out, inviting me and Dunheved to Henry’s chamber, which was probably the best furnished in the castle. A log fire sparked in the oddly shaped mantled hearth. Beaumont and his kin were garbed in the most gorgeous livery. They had their own cooks, who’d bullied the servants of the castle kitchen. Good food was served along with wines full and rich-tasting. Candles and sconces glowed, their light shimmering in the silver and gold weaving of the tapestries hanging on the walls. The floor had been swept and scrubbed with sea water and sprinkled with crushed herbs. A warm, comfortable room in that cold, brooding castle. The Beaumonts, as I have said, could be charming. They certainly were that night, though their one and only purpose was to discover what was really happening, and who better to probe than the queen’s confessor and the woman they contemptuously termed her shadow? A strange evening. The courses were served in that grand chamber decorated with shields and hangings, warmed by a fire, braziers and chafing dishes. The conversation moved from courtesies to the crisis. The Beaumonts eventually showed their hand, betraying the fears that gnawed at their ambition. They were powerful lords with extensive estates in Scotland. They were terrified that the king would reach some sort of understanding with Bruce and so lose them a great source of revenue.

‘What sort of understanding?’ Dunheved asked sharply.

‘Help against the earls. Support for Gaveston in return for recognition of Bruce’s claims,’ Louis murmured.

His reply created silence. Lady Vesci stared up at the rafters. Louis became interested in his wine goblet. Henry sat flicking his fingers against the samite tablecloth. Dunheved’s blunt question had taken them by surprise.

‘And what if,’ the Dominican paused, measuring his words carefully, ‘Lord Gaveston was removed permanently?’

This time the silence was menacing.

‘What do you mean?’ Lady Vesci declared.

‘What if the earls are successful?’ The Dominican spread his hands before crossing himself quickly. ‘I am not saying I wish such a fate on the king’s own favourite, but it is a possibility. Lord Henry, what would happen then?’

Beaumont took a deep gulp of wine, staring at me over the rim of his goblet. Dunheved could ask such a question. He was a Dominican, a churchman, the king’s own confessor. He could even say he was trying to probe, to find out the true hearts amongst the king’s subjects. If Beaumont wasn’t careful, his reply could be construed as treasonable.

‘If Lord Gaveston,’ Henry put his cup down, ‘yes, if Lord Gaveston, God forbid, became the object of the earls’ anger, then it might lead to civil war, but for what? No war can bring back the dead. There is the possibility that Gaveston’s death — and I say God forbid — might bring about a long-term reconciliation. The king and his great earls might unite and, God willing, move across the northern march to defeat Bruce.’

‘And the queen, God bless her?’ Dunheved continued. ‘What would she think if the king’s favourite was no more?’

‘I cannot speak for her grace,’ Lady Vesci interrupted quickly. ‘I am sure that she would be distraught, but there again, these things do happen.’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Mistress Mathilde?’ Henry turned to me. ‘What do you say?’

‘Like your sister, my lord, I can only speak for myself, not for the queen or the king. I am not their confessor but I am deeply concerned by my mistress’ plight. Here we are in this eagle’s nest above the northern seas. Not far off shore, Fleming pirates prowl, whilst out on the heathland God knows what enemy lurks: the earls, a Scottish war party? I just pray that we leave here unscathed, that her grace rejoins her husband and we all remain safe and well.’

‘Tell me. .’ Dunheved turned to me, his clever eyes narrowed as if the light from the candelabra were hurting them. ‘Mathilde, why do you think the Aquilae are here?’

‘To protect her grace.’

‘I wonder?’ Louis Beaumont spoke up.

‘So do I,’ Dunheved said.

‘They have one important purpose.’ Henry spoke, eager to show his loyalty. ‘They have been dispatched here by Lord Gaveston to protect the queen. I am sure that is the reason.’

‘As well as spy on her?’ Dunheved asked sharply.

Beaumont just shrugged and raised his wine goblet to cover his face.

‘And these murders.’ Lady Vesci fluttered her fingers at me. ‘I understand, so rumour has it, Mathilde, that the king gave you his secret seal to investigate them?’

I nursed my own thoughts about the deaths. Although I had no solution to the mysteries, I decided at least to share my conclusions and see what response they provoked.

‘I think. .’ I paused, as if listening to wind beating like some angry sprite against the wooden shutters; living high above the ground, exposed to biting winds and lashing rain, that sound now seemed to dominate my life. I recalled songs from my childhood. How we used to gather around the winter fire and sing about the approach of summer. I so wanted to be away from that gloomy castle, out in some sun-filled meadow.

‘Mathilde?’ Henry smiled. ‘Your thoughts?’

‘As regards Lanercost,’ I began, ‘everyone in this chamber was at mass with Brother Stephen when the Aquilae fell from that tower. I do not know why he went up there or why he was unarmed, though it’s clumsy to climb that ladder with a war-belt on. The same is true of Leygrave. Why did he return to a place where his close comrade had been so mysteriously killed, again unarmed? No one saw either of them go up. There is no evidence in that bell tower of any struggle. Leygrave definitely stood on the ledge from which he fell. But again, nothing else. Brother Eusebius, the bell-ringer? Or rather,’ I smiled thinly, ‘assistant to the bell-ringer. He may have seen something, hence his gruesome murder.’

‘And Kennington?’ Dunheved abruptly asked.

‘Brother, I truly don’t know. Three men patrolled the fighting platform of that tower; they were armed and vigilant. They feared the enemy without. They must also have known about the enemy within. Their food and drink was untainted. No alarm was raised, yet someone or something entered that tower and climbed those steps, passing Middleton and Rosselin’s chambers. The attacker, or attackers, went on to that fighting platform and either killed those three and hurled them over the battlements, or. .’ My voice faltered.

‘I have reflected on their disappearance,’ Dunheved remarked, rocking gently backwards and forwards. ‘My order provides members for the Holy Inquisition. Our tribunals investigate black magic and sorcery. Did that happen here? There were three watches over a period of twelve hours from six at night to six in the morning. The first four hours were Middleton’s, the second Rosselin’s and the third Kennington’s. Mistress Mathilde, you scrutinised those tankards and the platter; those men were not drugged with some potion or powder. I could detect no bloodstain on the tower top. No sign of any struggle. I do wonder if some demon from the darkness swept across the top of that tower and hurled those men to destruction.’

Henry Beaumont laughed, shaking his head.

‘My lord,’ the Dominican refused to be cowed, ‘can you provide a better explanation?’

For a brief while the conversation moved to matters spiritual: the influence of demons, the possibility of a witch or a sorcerer in the castle. Of course, no one really believed that, but it was a sombre evening. Dunheved’s account of diabolical intervention was fascinating; whether it be true or not I could not say, but that was Brother Stephen, he could tell a good tale. Henry Beaumont, however, brought the conversation back to more pressing matters, tapping his hand against the table.

‘Sooner or later,’ he began, once he had our attention, ‘and I should say sooner rather than later, we must leave this castle. We cannot stay here for ever. Eventually the Castellan will have to send out scouts to make contact with the king, or at least ensure the roads south are safe for the queen. Time will tell, but there again, another possibility is that Tynemouth might be attacked or betrayed. The Castellan has archers, men-at-arms and some elderly knights who have retired and live here at the king’s grace and favour. However,’ he paused for effect, ‘I have heard how Alexander of Lisbon, who leads about three score and ten hardened veterans, baulks at being cooped up in the castle. He claims he holds no commission, no mandate, no writ to serve here. He is his own master, allowed to travel the length and breadth of this kingdom on matters affecting the Holy Father in Avignon and King Philip of France.’

‘In other words,’ I declared, ‘Alexander of Lisbon finds the hen coop too tight and wishes to fly.’

‘Yes, and there is little we can do to stop him. However, if he does leave, those who watch this castle will learn that our strength is much depleted.’

Now this news came as a surprise. I had kept well away from the gatehouse and bailey area, distancing myself from Alexander of Lisbon and his comitatus. I understood the Portuguese mercenary’s wish to leave — this was not his quarrel — but I wondered if there was anything else.

‘What difference would it make?’ Dunheved spoke up sharply. ‘My lords, ladies,’ he smiled, ‘in my youth I served as a squire before I entered the novitiate. Let us look at the possibilities and apply logic. If this castle is attacked, we will all have to defend her grace, but can we count on Alexander of Lisbon? Lord Henry, you have it right: he’s a mercenary. Lisbon receives his commission from the pope and King Philip to hunt Templars. Why should he risk his men for us? I suspect that if he can, he will slip away, go about his own business.’

I looked sharply at the Dominican. This was the first time he had portrayed any animosity towards Lisbon.

‘In the end,’ Dunheved spread his hands, ‘it’s best if he leaves. There is another possibility. Rumours are rife in this castle that there’s a traitor within. Is Lisbon that traitor? He couldn’t care if the castle stands or falls. He wishes to be gone. Let him leave and the devil go with him.’

Louis Beaumont agreed. I too was taken by the Dominican’s logic. Alexander was a killer, a bully. I wondered if he had the courage to withstand an all-out assault on the castle walls.

Once the banquet was over, I thanked my hosts and left. Dunheved insisted on accompanying me back to the Prior’s Lodgings. We walked slowly. Now and again Dunheved would pause, plucking at my arm, as we discussed what was best for the queen. I will concede this: looking back down the years at Tynemouth, Dunheved was genuinely, even passionately, concerned about my mistress. A cold-hearted man, nevertheless, at that moment in time, he saw her safety as a God-given task. We continued on to my mistress’ chamber. I was surprised to find her still swathed in robes, sitting in her throne-like chair before the roaring fire, slippered feet resting on a footstool. Around the chamber lounged those young squires whom Isabella seemed to have taken a great liking to. On a stool nearby, Demontaigu, in the light of a lantern, was reading a story from King Arthur. Isabella seemed in good spirits. She asked Demontaigu to pause while Dunheved and I quickly reported what had happened at the dinner with the Beaumonts. She heard us out with a half-smile, her face looking even more beautiful in the firelight.

‘The Beaumonts. .’ She leaned back in the chair and stared up at the black-raftered ceiling. ‘They are so ambitious! They would do anything! I sometimes wonder who they work for.’

‘Madam?’ I enquired.

‘Well, they have blood ties with every sovereign in Europe. I do wonder if the information and gossip they collect from the English court goes to my father, to the pope in Avignon, indeed to anyone who would buy it. They have a finger in every pie, yet what they say is true.’ Isabella’s smile faded. ‘I cannot stay here much longer. If the roads south are dangerous, then perhaps it’s time we left by sea.’

‘Your grace,’ Dunheved retorted, ‘it is late spring. The seas are rough and dangers await there. I beg you to wait. The king, surely, will send messengers soon.’

‘I wonder.’ The queen stirred on her chair, gesturing at Demontaigu. ‘Continue reading. It’s good to hear how things should be rather than how they are. You have a fine voice; read that passage again about the knight entering Arthur’s court and challenging any of his paladins to a joust.’ Isabella clasped her hands. ‘Wouldn’t it be good to be back at Sheen, Windsor or Westminster, to wait for the sun, be out in the fields, to watch night returning?’ Her voice grew bitter. ‘Instead we are like rabbits on the moorlands, scuttling away from the shadow of the hawk. Lord Henry Beaumont is correct. This must be brought to an end, but how and when I cannot say. Mathilde, you may stay if you wish; if not. .’

I bowed and withdrew. I’d drunk quite deeply at the Beaumonts’ feast, so I retired to bed early.

The next morning a loud rapping on the door aroused me. Demontaigu stood there fastening on his war-belt, a cloak about his shoulders.

‘Come, Mathilde, come. There is a disturbance near the gatehouse. Rumour has it that Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales are about to leave.’

‘Let them go,’ I replied. ‘What use are they here?’

‘Now, Mathilde, please!’

I closed the door and hastily dressed, putting on a pair of coarse leather boots and wrapping a cloak firmly about me. I explained to one of the queen’s squires what I was doing and followed Demontaigu down across the mist-hung bailey to the barbican and the great gatehouse where Lisbon and his fellow demons waited in their black garb, standards fluttering, war-hounds barking. The bailey was crowded. Sumpter ponies had been led out with bags, chests and casks strapped to them. I stared at these men, this legion of demons who, for the last four years, had hung like some deadly miasma around the court. A coven of hideous malignity and malice, they’d dogged the steps of poor broken Templars, carrying out hideous murder and acting like the lords of hell. Now they were intent on leaving. The Castellan and his officers, serjeants of the bow and spear, were dismayed at being weakened by the departure of so many fighting men, especially when the danger lurking out on the misty moorlands had yet to be confronted. Alexander of Lisbon, one hand holding the reins of his sleek black destrier, was gesturing dismissively at the Castellan. Beside him a man-at-arms unfolded the black and gold banner of the Noctales, a sign that they were about to mount and leave. Demontaigu and I edged closer. Lisbon stepped to one side and waved forward a figure garbed in dry animal skins, hair and beard all tousled.

‘This is my guide,’ he yelled at the Castellan. ‘Oswyth of Teesdale. He says the king and Lord Gaveston with a sizeable host are not far. He’ll lead us by moorland paths to meet them.’

I gazed at Oswyth: that large head, the tangled hair and beard, those fierce eyes, cheekbones brushed raw by the wind. I listened to him chatter in the local patois, one word swiftly running into the other, which a clerk of the stables had to translate for both the Castellan and Lisbon. Oswyth, a mere churl, gave an accurate description of the royal party: the blue, gold and scarlet banners, the snarling leopards. The king and Gaveston, a host of Welsh archers swarming about them, were now marching north. I believed it myself. The news had to be true; a peasant could not invent such detail. Demontaigu squeezed my wrist.

‘Look upon his face, Mathilde,’ he whispered. ‘Do so carefully.’

Oswyth had all the mannerisms of a ploughman trying to impress his betters. He betrayed country ways, constantly moving, stamping his feet, scratching and muttering to himself. Now and again he’d step forward and chatter to the clerk of the stables. Only when he moved did I become more curious. I stared hard. Despite the tousled hair and beard, I recognised someone I knew. I gazed in horror! I did know Oswyth! No northern peasant or unlettered ploughman, he was Ausel the Irishman, the consummate mummer and mimic, God’s justice incarnate, His anger in flesh against Lisbon and his followers of Baal! Ausel had come to lead Alexander of Lisbon not to the king but to hell! I opened my mouth. I wanted to shout a warning. Even though I hated the Noctales, it is hard to watch men prepare so willingly and yet so unwittingly, for a violent death. Demontaigu gripped my wrist tighter, whispering that I should remain silent. I could only stare, marvelling at the Irishman’s cunning at posing as a peasant. A high-ranking Templar could provide detailed descriptions of the king, Gaveston and the royal cortege, but not a local unlettered peasant. What better way of convincing Lisbon? He certainly had. The Noctales were determined to leave and the Castellan could only protest.

‘God have mercy on them all,’ Demontaigu whispered. ‘There is nothing I can or want to do to stop it.’

The bells of the castle chapel clanged, summoning us to the Jesus mass, as the Noctales, banners and pennants unfurled, a long line of mounted men with their sumpter ponies and barking war-dogs, clattered through the yawning gate to meet their nemesis on that fog-bound moorland. To elude death is not easy. Try as we might, we soul-bearers must allow our souls to travel on when the Lord demands it. Lisbon and his devils were about to meet their God. The early-morning air held the taste of death. My mind began to play tricks, as if I could already hear the shrieks, the clatter of swords, the hiss of arrows and the slicing, sickening thud of the war-axe. Lisbon was hastening to hell; his slaughter bed was being prepared.

All I could do on my return was to whisper to the queen, who crossed herself in a moment of prayer. Demontaigu and I then attended mass. I did not take the sacrament. I could not. I was torn by guilt, though there was nothing I could do. Alexander of Lisbon would have simply scoffed at my warnings, whilst if I had betrayed Ausel, the Templar would have gone to a hideous death.

After mass, Demontaigu and I sat on the ale-bench in the castle buttery, breaking our fast and waiting for news. It arrived late that afternoon: a survivor of Lisbon’s group, still harnessed and all bloodied, his entire body a gaping wound, came hammering on a postern gate more dead than alive. He was helped into the castle’s infirmary and I was summoned. The survivor was a Parisian by birth, young in years but now openly feted by death. He had a mortal wound to the stomach, so there was little I could do except give him comfort and relief. He greedily drank the opiate, then babbled about playing in green fields, his mother and a young woman called Claricia. Eventually he broke from his drug-smeared dreams and, in haunting but lucid whispers, told me what had happened. How the Noctales had gone up into the fog, deep on to the moorlands, where water hags and demon wraiths swirled: a lonely, forbidding place. How many of his companions had become uneasy and began to curse Lisbon, but their leader remained insistent. The die was cast. An hour out from the castle, their guide led them into a trap as fast and as hard as any snare.

‘Who?’ demanded the Castellan, whom I’d immediately sent for.

‘Templars.’

‘Nonsense!’ the Castellan snapped.

‘Then ghosts,’ the man pleaded. ‘Out of hell, bent on vengeance. I tell you, I heard their battle cry, “Beauseant!” I glimpsed their piebald standard. They were ready and waiting like the wolf. A hail of hissing arrows, deadly sleet pouring through the mist, then they closed, spear thrusting and battle axe whirling. Our dogs and many of the horses took the brunt of the first assault.’

‘How many were your attackers?’

‘Their name must be legion. Alexander of Lisbon did his best. We dismounted, forming a spear hedge, but they cut through with axe, sword and mace. We became split into small groups, each man fighting for himself. The circle I was in broke. I remember receiving a burning cut here,’ his hand fell to his stomach, ‘then I fled. Behind me hideous screams and yells. It was easy to find my way back. I simply followed our tracks. I heard pursuers but a war-horn wailed; they must have wanted one of us to survive to tell the story.’ The young man arched in pain.

I glanced at the Castellan, who shrugged. I forced a wine cup between the dying man’s lips. Demontaigu came just before dawn. He gave the Noctale what spiritual comfort he could. Afterwards we reported to the queen, who’d risen early and was already warming herself by a weak fire.

‘My father,’ Isabella never bothered to lift her face, but stared into the flames, ‘my father in Paris will be furious! Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales were his men. It all began in blood,’ she whispered, ‘and it will end in blood.’

Demontaigu and I withdrew to a small window embrasure outside in the narrow corridor. We sat on the thin cushions. Demontaigu leaned forward.

‘There was nothing we could do, Mathilde. Alexander of Lisbon has received justice.’

‘But what does it mean?’ I asked.

‘I would wager,’ Demontaigu chose his words carefully, ‘that Ausel and the others went into Scotland. They made their peace with Bruce, received his help then moved south. The journey would be easy; the pursuit of the king by the earls has brought everything to a halt. Sheriffs, bailiffs, the mayors of towns and cities are reluctant to move. The countryside is wild and desolate. It would be difficult to track even a sizeable war band. Ausel decided to act. Apart from the young man I shrived, I doubt if any of the Noctales survived. I must see the Castellan.’ Demontaigu rose to his feet. ‘If Ausel is here, then Bruce’s forces can’t be far behind.’

I insisted on accompanying him. The Castellan, that wily veteran, had already reached the same conclusion. He was still dismissive of stories about the Templars, but Demontaigu argued with him quietly. The Castellan listened, nodding his head. Just after daybreak he sent out scouts to follow the tracks of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales. These scouts, either because of their cunning or because they were allowed to, managed to return. The story they brought back was chilling. They’d reached the battle site, a place of broken spears, shattered daggers, a saddle cut and gashed, the odd item of clothing, but every corpse of both man and beast had been removed. Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales had simply disappeared, extinguished, wiped off the face of God’s earth. The scouts brought other news, of peasants in hiding who told them fearful stories about a Scottish war host plunging deep into the shire, following the valleys, carrying out savage raids against villages and local farmsteads. The Castellan needed no further encouragement. The castle was put on a war footing. A message was sent to the queen that she must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, as well as the warning that the Castellan had not yet discovered if treachery still lurked within. We soon discovered it did.