The Darkening Glass

Chapter 5

Two days after the massacre of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales, the tocsin boomed out just as dawn broke. An officer of the garrison came rushing into the queen’s quarters, declaring that a postern gate had been found unlocked.

‘God be thanked,’ he added, ‘it gave us a little time. Both lock and latch had been smashed. The alarm was raised, but shortly afterwards the sally port was attacked.’ Even from behind thick walls we could hear the growing clamour of battle.

‘It wasn’t secured in time?’ Isabella, already cloaked, was directing members of her household out into the bailey.

‘No, your grace! A serjeant and a few soldiers were trying to do that. They were surprised and killed. The Scots now have a force in the castle. They are trying to reach the main gate. .’ The man babbled on even as we prepared to leave.

Demontaigu, the queen’s squires and other members of her household were all harnessed and armoured. Most of Isabella’s chests and coffers had already been taken down to the cove outside Duckett’s Tower. The rest was merely baggage, which was now sent ahead. Once ready, with Demontaigu and the squires as our escort, we left the Prior’s Lodgings. A thick sea mist hid what was happening on the far side of the castle, where the garrison was desperately fighting to contain and drive out the invading force. The chilling sound of battle — screams, yells and the clash of weapons — carried across. Somewhere a fire burnt, its flames yellowing through the mist. Black smoke plumed up and billowed out. At the time we were in no real danger. The queen was well guarded.

We reached Duckett’s Tower to find that Rosselin and Middleton had already fled down the tunnel. We followed swiftly out into the brisk, cold sea air. The Wyvern was ready for sea, its bowsprit turned, the large sail half unfurled, a royal standard floating from the high stern. Boats and wherries were bobbing on the waves between shore and ship. The tide was still out. We left the shelter of the cliffs, hurrying down to the waterline to meet the incoming wherries, powerful boats manned by six oarsmen. The first came in oars up, keel crunching the pebble-thick sand. Men leapt out to assist the queen and others. Demontaigu, Dunheved and I were waiting for the second wherry when one of the squires shouted a warning, pointing further down the beach. Now the cliffs stretched out sheer white, and the receding tide had exposed a broad path of sand littered with seaweed, rocks and pools. The sea haze was thinning. I glimpsed a glint of silver, a flash of colour. The terror of battle gripped my breath. Others were now shouting in alarm. The Scots had sent a force down some cliff path and out along the shoreline. Mere chance; the spin of fortune’s wheel had saved the queen from entrapment either here or in the passageway of Duckett’s Tower.

The squires screamed at the incoming boats to hurry. I glanced across the sea. The wherry carrying Isabella was safe, but the others seemed to take an age to beach. One of the queen’s ladies — God forgive me, I forget her name — who’d been left behind with us sank down on to the wet sand, sobbing hysterically. I glanced along the water’s edge. The Scottish party were closing, the light glinting on shield, hauberk, helmet and drawn sword. They paused. A group of crossbowmen dressed in black leather sped forward, knelt, aimed and loosened their bolts. They misjudged the distance and the volley fell short. Demontaigu, sword raised, organised our own force, strengthened by others now pouring out of the cave beneath Duckett’s Tower. A line of archers, household men and squires, soldiers from the castle, anyone who carried an arbalest or longbow, was swiftly assembled. The Scots lunged forward, in their haste knocking aside their own archers. Demontaigu gave the order to loose. A volley of arrows and bolts brought down the front rank of the attackers and a host of those behind. Our second volley was sparser; only the longbowmen had the time to notch and loose again. Then the Scots clashed with us. A bloody, furious melee of whirling steel and strange battle cries. The hideous shock of men gripped in a deadly, vicious hand-to-hand struggle spread both along the beach and down to the waterline. Nevertheless, the attackers were held. The wherries were waiting in the shallows. Demontaigu and the squires pushed us out into the bubbling surf. We were grabbed, flung and bundled aboard. Our defenders also began to retreat deep into the water, archers going first so they could use their bows, shooting over our heads at the Scots wading through the swirling tide like dogs going for the kill. The racing surf became frothed with blood. The screams and yells of the attackers grew more furious. The Castellan, God bless him, had sent other men through Duckett’s Tower. They now burst out of the cave, attacking the rear of the Scottish force. Our boats became dangerously overburdened. Wounded and dying sprawled, blood pumping out of gruesome wounds. The queen’s lady-in-waiting had taken a crossbow bolt deep in her chest and was struggling in a welter of blood and pitiful, choking sounds. The oarsmen prepared. The captains of the boats were screaming to pull away.

At last we were free, rising and falling on the surging waves of the powerful tide. The boats were awash with a bloody swirl. Corpses floated on the water. The Scots, realising pursuit was futile, now turned to face the danger behind them. Already a few were breaking, retreating back along the shoreline. The wherries and boats drove on, braving the swell, almost crashing into the side of The Wyvern. We clambered up rope ladders, men shouting and pulling us over the side. We were shown little sympathy, lying on the deck where we were thrown. Water skins were passed around and I, clothes sodden, spent the rest of the morning tending to the wounded and dying. The master of The Wyvern was not concerned with us, more determined to break free of the coast, alarmed by beacon lights flashing from the clifftops, wary of the Flemish privateers prowling those waters. By midday I and the ship’s leeches had done what we could for the wounded, Demontaigu and Dunheved assisting. Middleton and Rosselin came up but I shooed them away. Demontaigu remained cold and resolute. I thanked him for what he’d done. Dunheved certainly impressed me. He was calm, patient and watchful. Nevertheless, I could feel the fury curdling within him. We all entertained suspicions about what had happened, but now was not the time for discussion.

Once we had finished, Dunheved supervised the swift burial of the dead, committing their bodies to the deep and their souls to God. In the late afternoon the ship’s crew assembled with their passengers to witness Dunheved, under an awning stretched out from the cabin, celebrate a dramatic mass for those killed. An eerie experience. The Wyvern, its sail full-bellied by a brisk north wind, surged through the waters under a strengthening sun. In a powerful, ringing voice Dunheved proclaimed the oraisons for the departed as well as leading us in a hymn of thanksgiving for our deliverance. I felt unsteady, as if I was in a dream. The rolling ship, its pungent smells, the creak and groan of timber and cordage. Above us a sheer blue sky, the sun washing the deck. Such a contrast to the fog-bound, craggy heights of Tynemouth.

In the early evening, the queen, unscathed and calm, left her cabin and met us under the same awning beneath which Dunheved had celebrated mass. She was ivory-faced, her hair tied tightly around her head, over which she pulled the deep cowl of her cloak. She publicly thanked the master of The Wyvern, her squires, Demontaigu and others of her household. She distributed precious stones as tokens of her appreciation, then sat in the captain’s small, throne-like chair as Dunheved listed the dead.

‘We lost eight in all. A lady-in-waiting, one of the squires and six of the queen’s household.’ The Dominican added that at least twice that number from the castle garrison had perished in our escape.

Isabella just sat, her face like that of a carved statue, hard eyes unblinking as she stared out across the sea. At Dunheved’s question, she answered that she was well, but then returned to her reverie, those blue eyes, sapphire hard. Afterwards she shared a jug of hippocras and a platter of sweetmeats with us. Rosselin and Middleton, who’d been busy attending to matters below deck, joined us. They looked shamefaced. I’d glimpsed them during the day going up and down the deck as well as at Dunheved’s mass. In truth, they confessed, they’d been as surprised and shocked by the furious battle on the beach as had The Wyvern’s master, a shaven-headed, cheery-faced seaman from the port of Hull. He declared how Rosselin and Middleton had wanted to go back to help them, but he had warned them that was futile. Nevertheless, the master had the sense to realise that something treacherous had happened: Isabella, Queen of England, had almost been captured by a Scottish raiding party.

Dunheved and I remained with the queen till late in the evening. She insisted on reciting the Vespers of that day. Afterwards we tried to engage her in conversation, but she simply shook her head, raising a finger to her lips.

‘Not now,’ she murmured, ‘not now, Mathilde, Brother Stephen. We must simply sit, wait and watch.’

We had no choice. The Wyvern had been turned into an infirmary as well as a ship prepared for battle. Its master was determined on one thing alone: to bring the queen out of hostile waters to a safe port. After a good night’s sailing, he met Isabella and declared that by sunset we would slip into the port of Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.

‘It’s a mere fishing village, but high on the cliffs stands a famous convent.’ He smiled. ‘I am sure the lady abbess will be welcoming and give you good housing.’

True to his word, late that afternoon The Wyvern slipped safely into the cove of Whitby. The queen insisted on immediate disembarkation. Boats took her and her household to the beach, a messenger being sent to alert the abbess of St Hilda’s. After a short while, a group of nuns in their dark blue habits, escorted by retainers from the abbey, whose majestic buildings we’d glimpsed from the sea, came down to conduct the queen up to lodgings being hastily prepared for her. A busy, exhausting time. I’d been so immersed in the dangers we’d escaped, I didn’t have time to reflect on anything. Only now did I realise how tired, frayed, dirty and dishevelled I must have looked.

For the next three days we rested and relaxed in spacious and very comfortable quarters provided for us at the abbey. A strange time, an island of peace between the horrors of leaving Tynemouth and the storm gathering around the throne of England. Days passed. Messengers left on the fastest mounts from the abbey stables. Squires and retainers were dispatched to the master of The Wyvern, which dipped its sails three times in honour of the Trinity and sailed out of Whitby. It returned a few days later, its master hurrying up to take secret council with the queen.

I was certainly pleased to be away from Tynemouth. St Hilda’s Abbey proved to be a fine resting place where Isabella could relax in beautiful surroundings, be it rich, oak-panelled chambers or luxuriant gardens and shady cloisters, especially as the weather had changed, one sun-filled day following the other. I became busy in the infirmary, assisting with the wounded, or helping in the dispensary filling pots and jars with various remedies. Demontaigu begged leave to be excused on his own secret business, as did the Aquilae Petri, who hired horses and thundered out to discover the whereabouts of their master. People came and went. Rumour was rife. Stories gathered as plentiful as fleas in a dog’s fur, but Isabella never showed her hand. She truly was schooled in the harsh, bloody conflicts of court. As a child she had been abused by her three brothers, and she’d acquired the patience of a waiting cat. She had a mind that teemed, yet openly she smiled and acted so graciously. She still seemed a little distant from me, as if absorbed in some secret problem she could not share. I tended to her. She allowed me to examine her and I was relieved to find that she and the child she carried had come through safe and unscathed. Isabella was that rare flower, elegantly beautiful and lissom but in fact hard and tough as the finest armour in the land. She was, both body and soul, in good spirit. True, her belly was much swollen and she suffered quietly the usual pains, aches and discomfort of being enceinte, but such petty problems did not concern her. She sat in her chamber dictating letters, closeted herself with Dunheved, walked out to meet the abbess and the good sisters or acted the bountiful seigneur in the grand refectory of the abbey. All this was a device, a shield carried before her, not only to protect her but behind which she could plot her own devious path. The queen was spinning her own web, watching and waiting.

Isabella would discuss little except to question me about Tynemouth, the Noctales, Lanercost’s death, my suspicions and what I saw and heard. She would only talk when she was ready, and on the last day of April, she decided she was. We met, Dunheved and myself, in the queen’s personal chamber, an octagonal room lavishly furnished with gleaming oak stools, a writing desk, a lavarium and high leather-backed chairs placed before the mantled hearth shaped in the form of a hood. Above this hung a brilliantly hued tapestry telling the miraculous story of Caedmon, a local cowherd who’d learnt to write the most elegant poetry. On either side of this, paintings picked out in red, gold and black described scenes from the life of St Hilda and other great saints of the northern shires. The heavy door was barred and locked. Its ox-blood-coloured leather drape had been rolled down, whilst the black and white lozenge-shaped tiles on the floor had been covered with thick rugs, as if the queen wanted to deaden all sound both within and without. The small oriel windows, gilded and painted with religious devices, coloured the light of the setting sun. Certainly a place for secrets and hushed council.

Isabella looked resplendent in a tawny-coloured gown of the costliest taffeta beneath a sleeveless coat of blue and gold. Silver slippers, laced with the softest lamb’s wool, were on her feet, a gauze veil over her hair, which hung down luxurious and thick. When we gathered, I noticed that a jewel-studded casket in which the queen kept her secretae litterae — secret letters — lay open, its lid thrown back. I recognised a letter, very recent, the vellum was still a fresh cream colour, carrying the purple seal of Philip of France’s secret chancery. I wondered when she’d received this and why she was being so enigmatic. For a while we clustered around the fire, the candles and oil lamps dancing shadows around the walls. Outside a growing silence as the sisters gathered in their chapel for meditation. The queen abruptly brought the courtesies to an end.

‘What do we have?’ Isabella’s voice crackled with anger. ‘By God’s good grace and no one else’s, we are now free of Tynemouth, well away from Scottish marauders and Flemish pirates. No, no, I am not ungrateful.’ She pinched my wrist. ‘Demontaigu and my squires did good service, but it should never have happened.’ Again she pinched my wrist. ‘Mathilde, the king and Gaveston now bathe in a pool dirtied by their own making. The Noctales have met with God’s justice, but the deaths of Lanercost, Leygrave and Kennington remain unresolved. More importantly, what did happen in Duckett’s Tower? Were Kennington and his guards removed as part of a plot against me?’

Isabella and Dunheved shared a glance, as if savouring some secret. I curbed my temper.

‘Plotting against your grace?’ I asked innocently. Isabella had kept me out of her secret council, so what could I say? The queen just smiled, tapped my wrist and leaned closer.

‘Of course a plot against me! If the good Lord hadn’t intervened, those Scots would have forced the main gate of Duckett’s Tower. Someone alerted them, not only to my presence but as to how I might escape, hence that furious assault on the beach.’

Again I bit my tongue. Isabella was talking as if reciting a speech, not so much searching for the truth as for what I might think.

‘Does your grace have news of Tynemouth?’ I asked.

‘Good news,’ Isabella replied. ‘The Castellan managed to hold the attackers and drive them back. The garrison made a good account of themselves. My fair cousins the Beaumonts survived unscathed and, I believe, will join us soon.’

‘God be thanked,’ Dunheved murmured. ‘But I ask your grace, can your noble cousins be. .’ He paused.

‘Trusted?’ Isabella queried. ‘Brother Stephen, apart from the people in this chamber, I trust no one!’

‘And the treachery at Tynemouth?’ I asked.

‘In his letter,’ Isabella replied, ‘the Castellan apologised but admitted that a traitor would find it easy in that fog-bound castle to slip along the narrow runnels, damage a postern door and leave it vulnerable to those beyond.’

‘But who could communicate such a design to the Scots? The castle was besieged. No one could leave. Messengers were few and far between.’

‘The Templar Ausel could slip in and out unscathed,’ Isabella replied. ‘Why not someone else? Duckett’s Tower was our escape. The traitor could also have used it to alert the Scots. And,’ she added bitterly, ‘let us not forget those signals flashed from the castle walls.’

‘True,’ I murmured. ‘A Scottish force could have been brought into Duckett’s Tower, but it would have been dangerous. The tide can sweep in and cut off any escape, whilst once in the tower, the Scots would have had to clear it and then fight their way across to the Prior’s Lodgings. They might never have reached that and would certainly have been slaughtered in any retreat. The Castellan would have ensured that. Yes,’ I reasoned, ‘the Scots needed to bring you out of the castle, hence their attack. St Michael and all his angels be my witness, it was hideous treachery, but why? By whom?’ I glanced at Dunheved, who simply crossed himself and murmured his own prayer of thanksgiving.

‘By whom?’ I repeated and turned to the queen. She did not answer. ‘Did you fear such treachery, your grace? If so, why shelter at Tynemouth?’

‘What other choice did we have, Mathilde? Better than wandering lonely heathlands on the northern march. A secure fortress high on the cliffs overlooking the sea was safer than some deserted farmstead.’

I nodded in agreement.

‘And The Wyvern? Who ordered it to take station off Tynemouth?’

‘My husband, at my insistence.’

‘Why?’

‘Mathilde, I was fearful. I still am.’

‘About what?’

Isabella put her head down, rubbing her brow with her long white fingers. ‘I don’t really know. If I did, I could confront the danger.’

‘And your saintly father?’ I added with mock sweetness.

Isabella laughed girlishly behind her hand.

‘Why, Mathilde?’

‘Your grace,’ I retorted, ‘mischief bubbles in England. Your father could no more resist stirring it than a bird could flying.’

‘True, true.’ Isabella leaned back in her chair and glanced swiftly out of the corner of her eye at Dunheved, sitting on her left.

The psalmist says that the human heart is devious, and so it is: that one glance portrayed a secret alliance between the queen and the enigmatic Dominican. Yet at the time, what could I make of that? Dunheved was the guardian of her soul, the keeper of her secrets. Certainly my mood was tinged with jealousy. I thought I held that benefice, but time also has its own secrets, and only the passing of the years reveals the full truth. At the time I had no doubt that Isabella had been in contact with her father. I recalled the Castellan’s remark about French war-cogs being off the coast. I wondered if the master of The Wyvern had taken secret missives to them and returned with their reply. Hence that letter, so recently come from France, bearing Philip’s secret seal.

‘And his grace the king?’ I asked.

‘Fleet as the deer,’ Isabella remarked. ‘Once again he’s eluded his pursuers. My husband, his grace,’ she added sardonically, ‘is approaching York. We are to meet him there.’

‘And the earls?’

‘Retreated south of the Trent but vowing to return.’ Isabella shrugged. ‘It costs great treasure to keep troops in the field.’ She rose abruptly as a sign that our meeting was over. ‘Mathilde,’ she touched me lightly on the face, ‘as in chess, ma cherie, the pieces might return to their places but the game is not yet over.’

No, it certainly wasn’t! News came in like a blizzard of snow. Bruce’s force under his war-leader Douglas had retreated. Tynemouth was safe and secure. The Beaumonts were hurrying south and royal officials were now hunting down various carts and sumpter ponies laden with the queen’s household possessions. Most were saved. A few went missing, never to return. Thomas of Lancaster, the king’s cousin and the leading earl, sent letters to Isabella making it clear that his quarrel was with Lord Gaveston and not with her or the king. A pretty letter full of pious insincerities, but at least, as Isabella drily remarked, Lancaster offered to return some of her baggage seized along with the king’s at Novo Castro.

Demontaigu also returned, slipping into the abbey late one afternoon. I met him in St Aidan’s rose garden, though he refused to talk there. Instead we left by the Antioch Gate, moving down the steep cliff path on to the rough cobbled streets of the little fishing hamlet. He seemed to know his way and took me into the Root of David, a merchant’s tavern on the outskirts of the village, overlooking the craggy seashore. A pleasant enough place, I remember it well. The tap room was divided by barriers to form little closets, each furnished with ale-benches either side of a table. The room smelt fragrantly of grilled fish and almonds and the food we ordered, venison broiled in wine, black pepper and cinnamon, was delicious, as was the ale brewed in the house at the back. Demontaigu washed his hands in herb-laced water and ate hungrily whilst listening intently to my news. Once I’d finished, he mopped his mouth with a napkin and moved the candle closer. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face tired and drawn. He pushed the candle a little nearer, searching my face as I did his.

‘Mathilde, we have been now together for four years. We are reaching a path that is about to divide. I came to Isabella’s household as a Templar in hiding. People now know who I really am. You must realise that I might flee, must flee at a moment’s notice.’

I nodded.

‘Even more so now.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The Templar order in England and Wales has been ruined, not one stone left upon another. As you know, those Templars who weren’t taken up went into hiding. Philip’s agents hunted us through France, Hainault, Flanders, even beyond the Rhine, but in Scotland we are safe. Bruce has created a haven, a sanctuary for us. Templars from England, Wales and Ireland have fled there, as well as others from France, Castile, Aragon, Italy and the Rhineland states. These are men, Mathilde, who’ve been persecuted for years. They’ve heard the most gruesome tales about what has happened to their brethren in the dungeons of the Louvre and elsewhere in Philip’s kingdom. Men broken on the rack, bodies twisted, strung from scaffolds, burnt and scalded, limbs amputated, eyes gouged out, ears cut off.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But I am telling you what you know. The Templars have a blood feud not only with Philip and his ministers but with his family, and that includes our queen. Now the Templars have gathered in Scotland, their hearts full of anger, their ears crammed with hideous stories. They want vengeance.’ Demontaigu paused. ‘Bruce sent two forces south. The first was under James Douglas, a skilled and ruthless fighter-’

‘And the other was under Estivet, leader of the Templars?’ I suggested.

Demontaigu nodded in agreement.

‘Estivet’s force numbered about two to three hundred men, swollen by Scottish Templars and those in Bruce’s own army sympathetic to our cause. They made swift march. No one opposed them, not out there on the moorlands, following secret paths with copses and woods to hide in. You could ride for a day and not meet anyone. Estivet and his host had one desire: to search out the Noctales, bring them to battle and utterly destroy them. We knew the Noctales were garrisoned at Tynemouth. Ausel volunteered to act the false guide and Alexander of Lisbon, a coward, rose to the bait.’

‘They were massacred?’ I asked.

‘Every one of them, except the man who was allowed to escape, to take the grim tidings back to Tynemouth. Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales were cut to pieces. No one was shown quarter, their corpses tossed into bogs and marshes, their harness, weapons, armour and horses taken for our use, never to be seen again. Amongst the Templar host in Scotland there is great rejoicing. Philip of France of course will be furious.’

‘Did the Templars play any role in the attack on the queen at Tynemouth?’

‘No!’ Demontaigu replied quickly. ‘Ausel would not agree to that. I met him. He still lurks in England with an eye to any other mischief he might cause. He took the most sacred oath a Templar can, on the Cross and Face of Christ, that the Templars had nothing to do with the attack on the queen. However,’ Demontaigu leaned across the table, his voice falling to a murmur, ‘Mathilde, stories at the Scottish court talk of Gaveston having some control over the king. Other clacking tongues whisper that the attack on Tynemouth was to capture the queen and hold her hostage.’

‘As a bargain counter with her husband?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the traitor?’

‘No one really knows. The Beaumonts were mentioned.’

‘Impossible!’ I retorted. ‘They are the queen’s kinsmen; they’d be disgraced. .’

‘Listen, Mathilde, when it comes to treasure and lands, no one can be trusted. Some English lords with extensive estates in Scotland have joined Bruce’s standard, so why shouldn’t the Beaumonts?’

I stared down at the table. Was it possible? I wondered. The Beaumonts had been in Tynemouth and escaped unscathed. Was that part of their secret agreement with Bruce?

‘You’re sure?’ I asked. ‘To capture the queen, not to kill her?’

‘To capture her. Think, Mathilde, what could happen. If Bruce held Isabella, Queen of England, Princess of France, what terms could he dictate? French help? Have Edward withdraw from Scotland and give up all claims?’

‘Of course, of course,’ I hastened to agree, ‘but that is not the problem, Bertrand. The real mystery is who would do that. The Beaumonts have been mentioned, but who else would prosper?’ I paused. ‘The earls, perhaps? Edward would have to give up Gaveston in return. Perhaps Philip of France? He would love to see his son-in-law humiliated. If Isabella was captured, she would be treated honourably, perhaps even sent back to France. Philip would have not only her in his grasp but the future heir of the king of England. Edward would lose. He’d be a laughing stock. Gaveston would be more vulnerable than ever. People would see it as God’s judgement on the king for his friendship with his catamite.’ I sipped from my tankard of ale, possibilities teeming in my mind. Isabella was certainly a prize — both the queen and the future heir — yet who could be involved in such devious treason?

‘Murky and misty,’ I whispered. ‘Someone definitely tried to betray the queen at Tynemouth. Is that why Kennington was flung from Duckett’s Tower? Did he know or see something? Was his murder part of the preparation for that assault? The queen escaped by God’s good favour. Another hour, the entire castle might have been taken and everyone in it captured.’

‘One thing Ausel assured me.’ Bertrand pushed away his tankard and collected his cloak. ‘He again took the oath and swore that neither he nor, to the best to his knowledge, any of our brethren had anything to do with the deaths of Lanercost and the others.’

We were about to leave the tavern when I noticed a pilgrim armed with a staff, his cloak decorated with the conch shell of St James of Compostela, the palms of Outremer and the papal insignia of Rome. I recalled the Pilgrim from the Wastelands who had pestered the queen at York, his frenetic face stained with that strawberry mark, then the moment passed, at least for a while. On my return I did not inform Isabella about what Demontaigu had told me. We became busy gathering her household at Whitby. Moreover, what was the use? More questions about deep-tangled mysteries that only time and evidence could resolve.

The Beaumonts eventually arrived in a show of gorgeous livery. They portrayed themselves very much as the heroes of the hour, with a litany of praise about their valiant prowess during what they now called ‘The Great Siege of Tynemouth’. To anyone stupid enough to listen, they described how Lord Henry had stood like ancient Horatius in the breach and single-handedly resisted the Scots. Lady Vesci, that armoured Minerva, used her cross-bolt to deadly effect, whilst Louis, like Moses of old, held his arms up in supplication to the Almighty. Oh, the Beaumonts were sans pareil! None were more given to double-dealing and mischief than that unholy trinity. They’d managed to reassemble their retinue, retrieve their baggage and journey south through that early summer like a triumphant Caesar entering Rome. ‘A veritable stone wall’ was how Henry trumpeted his defence of Tynemouth against the Scots. In truth they could provide little information about the treachery which had allowed the Scots in or the mortal calamity that might have befallen the queen, who in turn could only welcome her ‘sweet cousins’ with open arms.

Once Isabella was ready, we travelled in glorious state to York. Outside Micklegate we were met by an escort of knight bannerets in their brilliant livery of blue, gold and scarlet with banners and pennants displaying the leopards of England. These escorted us into York. The city had put aside its trade to stage pageants and welcome their beautiful fairy-tale queen, now bearing the royal heir, who’d miraculously escaped the devilish plots and guile of the Bruce. The city conduits poured wine. Full oxen were roasted on enormous spits above roaring fires. At corners, before the gilt-gabled mansion of the city merchant-princes, speeches were made. Coloured cloths, standards and banners hung from windows. Trumpets sounded, horns brayed. The people cheered as Isabella, mounted on a milk-white palfrey, its harnessing all burnished and embroidered with gold stitching and silver medallions, processed along the streets and thoroughfares, scrupulously cleansed and sweetened for her progress. Spectacular pageants were enacted at various points along the approaches to the Ouse Bridge. The mayor and city aldermen, richly attired in their guild robes, presented the queen with a purse full of silver and a bowl of pure Venetian glass. Further along a group of maidens, garbed in snow-white drapery, their heads garlanded with spring flowers, enacted some scene from the city past before honouring her with a platter of pure gold studded with gems. Choristers from the nearby abbey church, clothed in dark red robes, sang ‘Isabellae reginae, laus, honor et gloria’ — ‘Praise, honour and glory to Isabella the queen’. Another pageant, celebrating the life of Saintly Thurston, a hero of the city, was enacted on the steps of St Michael’s church, so it was midday by the time we reached the gatehouse of the Franciscan priory. Here, as was the custom, a horde of ragged beggars waited to plead for alms. Isabella had given me a fat purse of copper coins to distribute whilst she and her cortege swept in to meet the king and Gaveston in the friary grounds. I stayed, guarded by Demontaigu, to give the queen’s pennies to the poor. God be my witness, there were so many, with their pitted skin, red-rimmed eyes and scrawny bodies displaying hideous wounds and deformities. The fragrance of the queen’s cortege, of perfumed robes over oil-drenched skins, as well as the gusts of incense could not hide the rank, fetid smells of that legion of poor. Skeletal fingers, curved like talons, stretched out to grasp the coins. I distributed these as fast and as fairly as I could. As a sea of gaunt grey figures surrounded me, I glimpsed the Pilgrim from the Wastelands, that distinctive mulberry stain on his sunburnt face. He lunged forward, took a coin then thrust a small scroll into my hand.

Once the alms were distributed and I was inside the gates, I unrolled the greasy black scroll and read its strange message: Ego sum vox clamans in deserto — I’m a voice crying in the desert. I beg you for the sake of the mistress you serve that I see thee, or thy mistress. I shall wait for you every day at Vespers bell near the Golgotha Gate.

I handed this to Demontaigu; he read it and pulled a face.

‘See him, Mathilde, as soon as you can. I shall be with you.’

Of course I couldn’t do so immediately. The king and Gaveston, garbed most royally in the costliest silks, velvet and ermine, awaited the queen in the great friary yard. I watched the mummery and court etiquette as both king and favourite welcomed Isabella and her entourage. The royal couple and their escorts mingled in a gorgeous collection of butterfly colours, watched by the gaping friars in their dark brown or grey robes. Speeches were delivered. Kisses and embraces exchanged. I glimpsed Rosselin and Middleton in the lavishly embroidered livery of their master, before glancing up at the looming church tower with its sinister history, the chimes of its great bells Peter and Paul booming out over the pageant below. I wondered again about the secrets the belfry held, before, along with the rest I was swirled away in the festivities that became the order of the day.

A royal banquet was held in the Prior’s Lodgings. A blaze of lighted candles dazzled the heavy gold and silver platters, jugs, ewers and goblets. Cooks and servitors brought in delicious dishes — venison, beef, swan and lampreys — whilst the wine flowed as if from a never-ending fountain. Yet it was all shadow with no substance. Nothing had really changed, and the following morning, in the same chamber, a more sober king and favourite listed the stark realities confronting them. Edward, flush-faced after acting the toper the night before, began to describe what was happening. The king hadn’t changed, but Gaveston certainly had: his beautiful face was pale, lined and haggard, and silver streaks glinted in that once dark, rich hair. The favourite looked thinner. He betrayed his agitation with nervous gestures, constantly fidgeting, and rubbing his stomach as if full of bitter bile. He’d lost that overweening arrogance, whilst the two Aquilae standing behind his chair also reflected their master’s unease.

In truth, sentence of death had been passed against them. The great earls brooked no opposition. Gaveston was to surrender himself, face trial and suffer execution. The time for negotiation was over. The earls were massing their forces and sending out writs summoning levies; their outriders visited ports and harbours to block any escape by the royal favourite. No help would come from France; that door was firmly closed. The shire levies would not move. The sheriffs and bailiffs, uncertain about what was going to happen, simply turned away. Royal writs were not answered, whilst the commissioners of array could not raise troops or collect purveyance. Edward spoke haltingly to the same chamber council that had last met the day Leygrave was killed. He mumbled about Tynemouth, about the Scots having a traitor within the garrison. How he was so pleased to be reunited with his queen, for whose safety he had so strenu-ously prayed and worked. During his rambling speech Gaveston’s mood altered, that furious Gascon temper manifesting itself, face muscles twitching in anger, gnawing his lips, fingers falling to the hilt of his long dagger. Isabella, on the other hand, remained serene, as if she just enjoyed a regal and stately progress through the kingdom.

Edward eventually reached his conclusion. Gaveston would, within a day, leave for Scarborough Castle. The king paused and asked who would accompany him. A profound silence eloquently answered his question. Causa finita — the cause is finished. So was Gaveston!

The royal favourite stared beseechingly around. I appreciated Gaveston’s horrifying predicament. If he was locked up in Scarborough, apart from his now depleted Aquilae, he would be alone. Edward, growing even more distracted, rambled on about witnesses needing to be present lest mischief befall his ‘sweet brother’.

Dunheved volunteered. Isabella looked at me and nodded imperceptibly. I reluctantly agreed, as did Henry Beaumont and his kin. Once the meeting had ended, I met my mistress, who thanked me.

‘It’s best, Mathilde.’ She stroked my hair, then cupped my face in her hands. ‘It’s my way of showing my husband that I still believe all is not lost. You and Demontaigu must accompany Gaveston.’

‘And?’ I asked.

‘Watch,’ she replied.

I thought of Gaveston locked up in Scarborough Castle.

‘And the king?’

‘He cannot be in Scarborough,’ Isabella replied wearily, ‘not held fast, cut off from his kingdom. Edward must go south and try to raise support, seek loans from the London merchants. I. .’ She paused, turning slightly, a gesture that betrayed her own unease. I understood what was going to happen.

‘Scarborough will be definitely besieged, won’t it?’ I asked. ‘The king does not want himself, or you, at the behest of the earls.’

‘And?’ Isabella asked.

‘Someone may have to treat with the earls. Someone who will be acceptable to them.’ I smiled thinly. ‘Like Stephen Dunheved, the Dominican, and me, domicella reginae camerae — a lady of the queen’s chamber — trusted and privy to royal business.’

‘Yes, Mathilde.’

‘And the Beaumonts,’ I added bitterly, ‘with a foot in either camp, as I am sure they have.’

‘Yes,’ Isabella murmured. ‘Slippery as eels, twisting and turning, my sweet cousins constantly looking for their own advantage.’

‘Could the Beaumonts have acted the traitor at Tynemouth?’ I asked.

‘Possibly. You told me about that cloth and button displaying their livery found near the trap door to the charnel house. The Beaumonts weave their own dark designs.’

‘Why should they betray you to the Scots?’

‘I don’t know.’ Isabella half smiled. ‘Perhaps to impress Bruce, to attract his attention, to gain favour with him. The Beaumont estates in Scotland are prosperous: fertile crop fields, good meadowland, dense forests and streams rich with salmon.’

‘And the Aquilae?’ I asked. ‘Could the Beaumonts be responsible for their deaths?’

‘Mathilde, if he wanted to, Henry Beaumont could put Judas to shame. Yes, they gather around the throne. They fawn and flatter both the king and Gaveston, but in the end, the Beaumonts have only one cause: themselves.’

‘But why should they kill the Aquilae?’

‘To weaken Gaveston. To prepare him for death. Is that not the way of those who plot assassination? To first remove the guards?’

‘Quis custodiet custodes?’ I quoted Juvenal’s famous jibe. ‘Who shall guard the guards?’

‘So true.’ Isabella stepped closer. Her face, framed by a white wimple, looked truly beautiful, her skin translucent, those eyes a deeper blue, sensuous red lips slightly parted. ‘I have closely studied my husband, Mathilde. I know his soul. He is lonely, vulnerable. His mother Eleanor died when he was still a child. The old king was too busy slaughtering the Scots or plotting against my father to care for him. There’s a great emptiness in my husband’s heart. I don’t think I will ever fill it. Gaveston might. So why shouldn’t the Beaumonts remove Gaveston? But first, as in chess, the pawns must be cleared, then the castles, bishops, kings and queens become even more vulnerable.’

‘So,’ I replied, ‘the Aquilae are removed, slain one by one in a mocking way. The assassins creep closer to Gaveston. It could be the Beaumonts. They must view him as a nuisance, a gross distraction to their ambitions. .’

‘Better still,’ Isabella pressed a finger against my lips, ‘better still, Mathilde, if Gaveston goes, who will replace him in the king’s affections? The Beaumonts? Is that what they dream of?’ She paused. ‘God knows,’ she added drily, ‘my sweet cousins couldn’t really care except for whatever is good for them.’ She looked away, lips moving soundlessly, then nodded at me and swept out of the chamber.

The preparations immediately ensued for Gaveston’s departure for Scarborough. The king’s clerks truly believed the earls had spies in York, even in the friary itself, and their main fear was that once Gaveston left, the Great Lords might send a comitatus to intercept him. Accordingly, where possible, our preparations were hidden, hurried and secret. I did have words with Demontaigu about what the queen had told me. He immediately agreed with what she’d said.

‘Everybody wants Gaveston to go,’ he murmured.

‘Except the king?’

‘Except the king!’ Demontaigu’s voice was rich with sarcasm.

I stretched out and ran a finger around his lips. ‘The king?’ I queried. ‘Has the king tired of Gaveston?’

‘Think, Mathilde! For four years the Crown has been dominated by Gaveston. Has Edward, since the day of his father’s death, been given one moment’s peace? Has he been allowed to exercise true power? Look at what’s happened to him, chased about his realm and threatened. At times he is no better than some felon before the shire court, put to the horn as an outlaw. Edward must be seething with anger, but he must also be exhausted. Now,’ Demontaigu spread his hands, ‘life has swept on. Four years a king, Edward faces problems in Scotland and France. At Westminster the Commons demand to meet him. The Lords Spiritual have their own list of grievances. They ask why the king doesn’t settle and live on his own? His wife, a young, beautiful woman, is now enceinte, hopefully with a male child. I’m not saying his grace wills Gaveston evil. Edward may just want a little peace for himself.’

Long after Demontaigu left, his bleak description of the king remained with me.

Rosselin and Middleton also came to see me. I visited the priory’s scriptorium, a gracious, elegant chamber, its fragrance so precious to me: pressed vellum, neatly scrubbed, ink, sandstone and calfskin bindings. I found it comforting to walk along the polished floor and peer over the shoulder of some brother as he copied a manuscript or decorated a book of hours with beautiful miniature pictures that shone like jewels. I glimpsed Dunheved standing near the unbound manuscripts, all filed neatly in their pigeonhole shelves. He explained how he was searching for a copy of Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo — Why God Became Man — and returned to his scrutiny. I smiled to hide my own surprise, then felt guilty; after all, Dunheved belonged to an order famous for its learning in the schools of Oxford and Cambridge. He was more than just a preacher, and I idly wondered in what branch of the trivium or quadrivium he was interested. Lost in such thoughts, I left the scriptorium. Rosselin and Middleton were waiting for me in the small cloister beyond. They rose and blocked my path. Rosselin raised a hand, palm extended in a gesture of peace.

‘Mathilde, we do not wish to alarm you, but the deaths of our comrades Lanercost, Leygrave and Kennington, have they been forgotten?’

‘Has your master forgotten them?’ I retorted.

‘His mind is all a muddle,’ Rosselin declared.

‘He is faced with a sea of cares.’ Middleton’s boyish face under his shaven pate was anxious and concerned. A set of Ave beads hung round his neck; he fingered these as if for protection.

‘So your master is not concerned,’ I replied, ‘but you are? Take great care, sirs, I have warned you. Whoever killed your comrades may also have singled you out for death.’

‘We heed your warnings,’ Middleton whispered, ‘but mistress, how can we truly protect ourselves when we do not know the enemy?’

‘And neither do I, sir. If I did, I would tell you!’

‘One thing we have found.’ Rosselin stared around as if some eavesdropper might be lurking. ‘One thing we have found,’ he repeated, ‘is that the day Leygrave was killed, a Franciscan, certainly a man garbed in the brown robes of the order, was seen slipping out through the Galilee Porch of the friary church.’

‘But that could have been anyone,’ I replied. ‘This friary is full of brothers going about their business.’

‘No, no.’ Rosselin shook his head. ‘The lay brother who was killed, Brother Eusebius? He told Father Prior that when he entered the church that morning to sound the Angelus, it was empty. Then he heard a sound, turned and glimpsed a figure, not walking like one of the brothers, but darting fleetingly like a shadow through the door of the Galilee Porch.’