The Darkening Glass

Chapter 6

I asked both Aquilae if they could tell me more; both shook their heads. I courteously thanked them for the information and promised to reflect on it. Yet what could I do? I was as mystified and apprehensive as the rest. We were about to leave the friary and journey to Scarborough, where, I knew, violence would occur. Once the earls learnt that Gaveston had locked himself in there, they would come seeking him. Indeed, everybody accepted that, and a pall of gloom settled over the court, the reality behind all the empty pomp. Gaveston was hardly ever seen. Edward, however, remained precocious and fickle as always. He could drink, slur his words, have a tantrum, but at all times Edward of Caernarvon was changeable. He could weep at Vespers and be merry as a Yuletide fire by Compline.

I thought the king had forgotten both me and his commission to investigate Lanercost’s death. I was wrong. On the same afternoon I met Rosselin and Middleton, I retired to my own chamber to study a manuscript loaned by the brothers from their extensive library. I think it was a copy of Peter the Spaniard’s Thesaurus Pauperum — A Treasury of the Poor: a veritable multum in parvo — a little encyclopaedia of medicine. I was examining the strange symbols inscribed in the margin when a knock on the door aroused me from my studies. I hurried across, thinking it was Demontaigu, but Edward the king, cloaked and cowled, pushed his way into the chamber. He closed the door and leaned against it, pulled back his hood, sighed, then went and sat on a stool. He acted like a little boy, looking round, smiling to himself, tapping his feet and playing with a tassel on his cloak.

‘Mathilde?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘On your oath, tell me what you have discovered.’

‘About what, your grace?’

‘Everything since Lanercost fell like a stone from that tower. Have your reflected on that, Mathilde? The Aquilae of Gaveston,’ he forced a laugh, ‘soaring like eagles ever so high. The highest they say any bird can reach. All brought low from towers, crashing like stones to their deaths.’ He pointed a finger at me. ‘You’ve thought of that?’

‘It has occurred to me, your grace.’

‘Then tell me what you know.’

I did so, describing everything as honestly as I could. The king heard me out, now and again interrupting me with the odd question, rubbing his face in his hands.

‘A mystery,’ he murmured, ‘a true mystery.’ He rose to his feet and walked to the door. ‘Do not stop, Mathilde.’ He paused, hand on the latch, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘One day, when the sky is clearer, I will want to know the truth.’ Then he left as the bells chimed for the brothers to leave their tasks for the next hour of their day.

At the time I thought the king’s visit was part of some great design. In fact Edward was as confused as anyone. He’d lost control and the mystery only deepened his weakness. He’d told me to continue. I certainly did, not only because he’d ordered me. I had also taken my own sacred oath to protect his queen. Tynemouth had proved how vulnerable she had become on the shifting, treacherous sands of the time.

At Vespers bell Demontaigu and I approached the Golgotha Gate of the friary to meet the Pilgrim. A beautiful summer’s evening, the perfume from the friary gardens mixing with the appetising smells of its bakeries and kitchens. A lay brother had set up a makeshift stall to serve soup, bread and a clutch of fruit for the beggars of the area. The poor swarmed around, wanderers, traders, tinkers and pilgrims, as well as a legion of beggars who waited for their first mouthful of the day. They had all gathered at the entrance to to Pig Sty Alley, a dark-mouthed runnel opposite the Golgotha Gate. A motley throng garbed in outlandish scraps of clothing: an old man with his pet ferret, two jesters in monkey-eared red hoods, some ladies of the night desperate for food, rogues, nightwalkers and counterfeit men constantly sharp-eyed for any advantage. I searched for the Pilgrim. I left Demontaigu and walked across to look down Pig Sty Alley, a long strip of a lane that ran under leaning, decaying houses. A place truly drenched in sin and wickedness, its open sewer gleaming in the middle, the dancing light of lintel lanterns illuminating the shadow-walkers flitting across the alley from one doorway to another. A gust of saltpetre strewn to cover the smells made me step back. I wondered where the Pilgrim could be. I rejoined Demontaigu just as a royal scurrier, his horse caked with mud, forced his way through to the gate. He dismounted, raising high the leather pouch embroidered with the royal arms. He shouted, demanding passage, as he pushed his way through the crowd.

‘More trouble,’ Demontaigu whispered. ‘The king must leave here. Mathilde, we are wasting our time. The Pilgrim will not come. .’

I glanced sharply at him. ‘You have other urgent matters?’

‘Ausel,’ he replied. ‘He’s back in York on unfinished business, though God knows what that is!’

We waited a little longer but caught no sight of the Pilgrim. We made our way back through the Golgotha Gate. I became aware of a Franciscan just behind me, cowl pulled over his head, Ave beads hanging down, the whispering patter of ‘Ave Maria gratia plena’ — ‘Hail Mary full of grace’. . We crossed the friary grounds, going through an apple orchard, the overhead branches rich with lacy white blossom, and entered a small rose garden. Demontaigu was talking about the need to leave at a moment’s notice when I heard my name called. I turned. The Franciscan, still following us, pushed back his cowl as he quickened his step towards us. Demontaigu’s hand fell to his dagger; the Franciscan lifted his hand.

‘Pax vobiscum, amici — peace be to you, my friends.’ He raised his head. The Pilgrim’s face, strangely marked but now shaven, his tousled hair cropped close, tonsured like that of a friar, smiled at us.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why act like a nightwalker?’

The Pilgrim just shrugged. ‘When you wander the wastelands, mistress, you have to be sure. Now, I offer no deceit, no trickery.’ He stepped closer.

I abruptly remembered what Rosselin and Middleton had told me about a figure garbed like a Franciscan. Was it the Pilgrim? I studied the close-set eyes in that ascetic face. The Pilgrim was never still, tapping his chest, head turning now and again to ensure that we were alone.

‘Why the subterfuge?’ Demontaigu insisted. ‘Why can’t we sit here and discuss what you have to tell us?’

The Pilgrim grinned. I noticed how firm and white his teeth were: a man who took care of everything.

‘What are you frightened of?’ I spoke my mind.

The Pilgrim peered up at the sky, then back at me.

‘Mistress, I simply want to make my confession. What I’ve learnt may be of use to you, then I’ll feel I’ve discharged my duty and so leave.’

‘And my friend’s question?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t we meet here?’

‘This is a place of death,’ the Pilgrim replied. ‘Three men have been killed here, barbarously slain; a meadow of murder, mistress. Look, I am not wasting your time,’ Again he peered up at the sky. ‘The good brothers will celebrate Compline. After the bell rings, as a sign that it is completed, I will be with you. Meet me at the Pot of Fire, the tavern on Pig Sty Alley.’

‘A Franciscan seen there?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘In this realm of tears,’ the Pilgrim retorted, ‘you never know who you might meet or where. After all, I never thought I would encounter a Templar in disguise so close to the King of England! Mistress, at the hour, yes?’

I had no choice but to agree. The Pilgrim turned and left. Demontaigu and I continued through the garden. I glimpsed Dunheved and raised a hand. He sketched a blessing in my direction and hurried on. We reached the great cloisters. Demontaigu was about to leave when a lay brother came up. Now, before I went to the Golgotha Gate, I’d sent a message to Father Prior asking if I could see him. The servitor hurriedly explained how in fact the prior had not attended Vespers and was now waiting for me in his chancery office.

Prior Anselm was kind and welcoming, a gaunt, severe-faced man, thin and dry-skinned. A sharp-eyed churchman, clearly fascinated by what was happening here in his own friary, a keen observer of the court and all its foibles. He ushered us in and made us comfortable on a settle before his chair. Beside him stood a stout lectern on which a book lay open. I was fascinated by the painting on the wall behind it. The prior followed my gaze, and smiled back at me.

‘What do you see, Mistress Mathilde?’

‘A beautiful vineyard,’ I declared. ‘Yes, I can make out the vines, the wine press, but the ground is littered with corpses.’

‘The work of one of my predecessors.’ The prior shrugged one shoulder in apology. ‘He was fascinated by the story of Naboth — you know it? In the Old Testament, King Ahab wanted Naboth’s vineyard, and when he wouldn’t give it, Ahab’s wife Jezebel plotted to kill Naboth. In return the prophet Elijah declared that both Ahab and Jezebel would die violent deaths and dogs would come to lick their blood.’ The smile faded from the prior’s face. ‘Little changes, does it, mistress?’

I wondered if the prior was referring to Edward — and was he making a play on Isabella’s name by his reference to the pagan queen Jezebel?

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I read your thoughts. I make no comparisons, mistress. The painting was there long before I even attended this friary as a novice, but the stories from the Old Testament ring true. Where there’s power there is always blood. The court has come here; his grace the king, the queen and all their entourage are most welcome.’ He paused.

I noticed he had omitted Gaveston.

‘However, be that as it may, three men have been killed here, one being a member of this community. You sent a message asking to see me. I suspect you’ve heard the stories about what Eusebius claimed to have seen?’

I respected his honesty and frankness. He offered us some wine, but I refused.

‘Father Prior, please, what did Eusebius say to you?’

The prior rubbed his brow, then stared around.

‘Eusebius could be fey-witted, a madcap. Like a magpie he loved to collect things. Some of our community used to laugh at him, but now and again he would surprise us all by his keen observations. On the day Leygrave fell to his death, Brother Eusebius went into our church long before the Angelus bell was rung. He liked to go there because it was quiet. The community should all be at their work. Consequently he was surprised when he glimpsed one of our brothers, or so he thought, a figure dressed in a brown robe, slipping like a shadow through the Galilee Porch and out of the church. He reported that to me.’

‘Anything else?’ I asked.

‘Yes, on that same day, after Compline, I met Eusebius when the brothers were relaxing in the cloisters. Eusebius had been shocked by the two deaths. There’d been whispers that he blamed himself, and of course, he was always full of stories about the belfry being haunted. I approached him and asked how his day had gone. He was more agitated than usual and made a very strange remark. You’ve heard the jibe, how someone can be as madcap as a bat?’

‘Yes!’

‘Eusebius was faltering in his speech,’ the prior scratched his hand, ‘and turned away, then came back with a remark that intrigued me: “Father Prior,” he asked, “can a bat be more cunning than a dog?” I asked him what the riddle meant. Eusebius seemed to recollect himself. You know how he was; you met him, mistress. He just shook his head, muttered something about his duties and hurried away.’

‘So Eusebius saw someone in church dressed as a friar or disguised as one,’ I asked, ‘when no Franciscan should have been in that church? And what provoked his suspicions was the haste in which he left?’

The prior nodded.

‘And that strange remark about the bat and the dog, but there’s more?’

‘Yes, yes, there is.’ He paused, cocking his head, listening to the sounds of his friary. ‘I was concerned about Eusebius. Our seraphic founder Francis told us that the leader of our community must be like a mother and look after all members as if they were children in a family. I was also concerned about the church. How had those young men fallen to their deaths? Had they committed suicide or had they been murdered? I wondered if I should write to the bishop and ask for the church to be hallowed and reconsecrated. Canon law has certain regulations regarding such matters. If blood is spilt in God’s holy place, then it must be cleansed.’

‘Do you suspect it was murder?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘I think it was.’ The prior crossed himself. ‘But I will leave that until the court moves. Once this friary is settled and returned to its peace, I shall deal with such matters.’

‘But that evening, Father?’

‘Yes, mistress, that evening I became anxious about the church, about Eusebius, so I decided to meet him. Darkness had fallen. I went into the church; the sacristan had yet to lock the doors. I entered the bell tower. Eusebius was there, kneeling on the ground, a knife in his hand, carving something on the wall. I crouched down beside him. “Brother Eusebius,” I asked, “what are you doing?” He wouldn’t reply. I could see he’d been crying and had grown very agitated. I picked up the lantern and peered at the wall. What seemed to be a bird had been carved, and next to it some wild animal.’

‘A dog?’ I asked.

‘No, I asked Eusebius that. He shook his head and said it was a wolf. I tried to soothe him. I prised the knife out of his fingers, persuading him to join the other brothers, adding how it was late and the sacristan must lock the church. We went out in the evening air. Eusebius grew calmer. I invited him here to share a goblet of wine to soothe his rumours, tire his mind and prepare him for sleep. He thanked me but refused. I bade him good night, then he called my name. ‘Father Prior,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’ll hear my confession?’ ‘Now?’ I asked. Eusebius just shook his head. ‘No, Father, but you should shrive me sometime and listen to my sins,’ then he was gone. The following day he was murdered in the charnel house.’

‘And now?’ I asked. ‘What do you think?’

‘Eusebius wanted to be shrived. He wanted to sit in the mercy seat and receive absolution because he knew what had truly happened in our church. I suspect Lanercost and Leygrave were murdered. How, and by whom, I don’t know; that is a matter for the king and, if rumour is correct, for you, mistress. You are the queen’s physician, yes?’

I nodded.

‘You advise her?’

‘I do my best, Father Prior.’

‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘we all have our duties. Once the court leaves, I will have that tower exorcised, blessed and sanctified. ’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘I have reflected, fasted and prayed. What did Eusebius mean about the bat and the dog, and what about those carvings? Inspect them, mistress. You’ll find them on the wall of the bell tower. A man torn by guilt and doubt always expresses himself somehow.’

‘And you think that Eusebius, in his own pathetic way, was trying to confess his sins through that carving?’

‘Yes, I do. It gave him a little peace, but eventually he would have come to me.’ The prior eased himself out of his chair, thrusting his hands up the sleeves of his robe. ‘Mistress,’ he smiled, ‘I shall not be displeased to see both king and court leave. Anyway, Vespers must be over. Why not see what Eusebius carved? Perhaps it might mean something more to you.’

Demontaigu and I thanked him and we left, his blessing ringing in our ears. When we reached the church, the swirl of incense still hung thick. The brothers had filed out; only the sacristan and his assistants were still busy in the sanctuary, extinguishing candles and preparing the high altar for the Jesus mass the following morning. I borrowed a lantern and returned to the bell tower. As usual it was cold, rather musty and dingy. I recalled Eusebius’ story about the young novice Theodore, and wondered if his ghost had been joined by that of Eusebius. I stared around, and glimpsed the dust on the floor and the carvings on the plaster just to the right of Eusebius’ bed. I handed the lantern to Demontaigu and crouched down. Both carvings were rough and hurried, as if done by a child; one looked like that of a bird, great wings extended, with claw-like feet.

‘A bat,’ Demontaigu whispered, ‘or an eagle?’ He was thinking of Gaveston.

I moved the lantern. The second carving was larger, crude yet vigorous. It had a long body, a curling tail, four stout legs and a great-jawed mastiff head.

‘Dog or wolf,’ I murmured.

‘Perhaps it’s not a wolf,’ Demontaigu declared. ‘Eusebius was not skilled. Was he trying to depict a leopard? Something he’d seen in the royal coat of arms?’

I stared hard at those carvings, memorising the detail. I can still recall them even now, many, many years later. That cold, musty tower, the light dying outside, faint sounds from the nave, and those rough etchings, the confession of a poor soul who, unbeknown to himself, had also been marked down for bloody death. It might be many a day before I returned to York, and I wanted to study every detail.

‘Mathilde,’ Demontaigu plucked at my sleeve, ‘the hour is passing. If you wish to meet the Pilgrim at the Pot of Fire. .’

I had seen what I had to. At the time it made no sense at all. We returned to our lodgings. Demontaigu went to collect his war-belt. I changed, putting on a pair of stout boots and a heavier cloak and cowl. I also secured my dagger in its secret sheath on the belt around my waist. Once satisfied, I hurried to the queen’s quarters, but a lady-in-waiting told me that her grace was sleeping and I was not needed. A short while later, Demontaigu and I left through the Golgotha Gate, the cries of the lay brother who acted as night porter telling us to be careful. We crossed the thoroughfare into the stygian gloom of Pig Sty Alley, surely one of hell’s thoroughfares. It was like slipping from one world to another. Demontaigu drew his sword and dagger. The glint of naked steel forced the nightwalkers back into the gloom of the dark-filled narrow entrances to runnels or shabby houses. Yells and shouts echoed eerily. Now and again a light gleamed in a window above us. Sounds came out of the darkness: a beggar’s whine, a lady of the night shouting for custom, the clinking of coins, the bark of a dog. All around us was a brooding menace, as if the night held malevolent creatures just waiting for our one slip or mistake. The smell was so foul I had to cover both my mouth and nose, and I was relieved to glimpse the glow of an open doorway, the creaking sign above it proclaiming it to be the Pot of Fire.

Inside, I was surprised. I had expected some evil hovel, dank and dirty, but the Pot of Fire was clean, the floor well swept, the rushes sweet and brushed with herbs. The smell was not too good, as the tap room was illuminated by great fat tallow candles standing in dishes or spiked on spigots. Mine host, a huge pot-bellied man with a bloodstained apron around his waist, apparently kept strict order; in one hand he clutched a heavy tankard, in the other a cudgel, while more of his bully-boys clustered round the door or sat at tables. He looked us up and down.

‘From the court,’ he declared in a thick accent. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ He led us around the counter, deeper into the tap room, which was shaped like an ‘L’. At the far end, in an enclosed corner, the Pilgrim from the Wastelands was waiting for us on a stool behind a table. We took our seats. Demontaigu, as a courtesy, ordered tankards of ale, adding that he wanted the best in clean pots.

‘What else?’ Mine host laughed and lumbered away.

The Pilgrim was still dressed like a Franciscan, his cowl pushed back. He seemed more relaxed. He’d chosen his seat wisely, close to a window as well, where he could keep a sharp eye on whoever entered the tavern. The tap room was fairly quiet. There was laughter, shouts and the occasional scream, and ladies of the night wandered in and out, but the real noise came from below. The Pilgrim explained that a cock fight was taking place in the cellar. After this, two champion ferrets would compete to see how many rats they could kill before the candle flame sank from one ring to another. We chattered about the Pot of Fire, the Pilgrim regaling us with anecdotes while the ale was served. He paused at a roar of triumph from the cellar below. I glanced away through the unshuttered window. Ribbons of moonlight cut across the tavern garden, a ghostly place. I recalled what the prior had said about Eusebius and his need to confess. Was the same true of this stranger? The Pilgrim stretched across and tapped my hand.

‘Mistress, are you well, do you feel safe?’

‘No,’ I retorted, ‘why should I? I sit with someone who calls himself the Pilgrim from the Wastelands, who also pretends to be a friar, a man with no name. Someone who can slip in and out of that friary as easily as a cat. A place where three men have been barbarously murdered.’

‘I agree, the friary has become a field of blood. I must be prudent, and so should you.’

I studied this cunning man even as I regretted my own mistake of ignoring him earlier. I’d been so swept up with the affairs of the court, I had forgotten how the king’s residence at the friary would attract the attention of others beyond the pale. I gestured at his garb.

‘Have you stolen that?’

‘I was loaned it.’ The Pilgrim pushed aside his tankard, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Mistress, no lies, no artifice. You met with Eusebius; so did I. A collector of trifles, that bell-ringer: a coin, a pilgrim badge, some marks of favour. .’

I recalled Eusebius’ collection of baubles in the charnel house.

‘And so you paid him, and he supplied you with robe and sandals?’

‘Of course.’

‘But you a poor pilgrim?’

‘Mistress, that is part of my story.’

‘But you could enter and leave the friary whenever you wanted?’

The Pilgrim just shrugged.

‘You could be an assassin.’

The Pilgrim smiled and sat back. ‘I never climbed that tower,’ he murmured. ‘I have, mistress, a horror of heights.’

‘But you talked to Eusebius?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘Oh yes, I met him in the charnel house; he took me there.

He showed me his collection. He also boasted how his wits were not as dull as others thought.’

‘He may have known the assassin,’ I whispered.

‘I agree,’ the Pilgrim replied. ‘You’ve visited the charnel house, mistress?’

‘Yes.’

‘After Lanercost’s death, I went down there to meet Eusebius. On the one hand he could act the fool, the madcap, the jester, yet on the other he could make the most tart observations about his own community or the court. He talked for a while about nothing being what it appeared to be. He knew a little Latin; he could recite the Pater Noster and the Salve Regina. Then he asked me about light and darkness.’

‘Light and darkness?’ I queried.

‘I was mystified as well, but of course Eusebius lived in the church’s liturgy. He was particularly struck by the ceremonies of Holy Week. I eventually realised he was talking about Tenebrae, the ceremony on Maundy Thursday, that part of the Last Supper when Judas leaves to betray Christ, and the phrase from scripture, tenebrae facta.’

‘And darkness fell,’ I translated.

‘Yes, yes. Eusebius was talking about light and darkness. He wanted me to write the Latin words for them. I scrawled them on a scrap of parchment, but he didn’t want that. He pointed at the plastered white wall and gave me a piece of charcoal. I inscribed the words lux et tenebrae — light and darkness. For a while Eusebius just sat and stared at it, then he murmured, “Yes, that is what it is: black and white, light and darkness.”’

‘Did he talk about the Beaumonts?’

‘He called them grand lords. He relished the fact that he’d found one of their buttons on a piece of cloth, caught snarled on a thorn in the rose garden. It was part of his collection.’

I held my hand up and stared out at the moon-dappled garden. The shape I’d glimpsed in the charnel house had taken that button from Eusebius’ tray and left it deliberately near the trap door, a ploy to mislead.

‘Mistress?’

I glanced back at the Pilgrim. ‘Did you have any doings with Lanercost or Leygrave?’

‘No, no, I did not, but they came here. .’

‘To the Pot of Fire?’ Demontaigu queried.

‘Oh yes, why not? Well away from the court. Mine host told me how they came here deep in their cups. He stayed well away from them. After all, they could be dangerous: two powerful courtiers armed with sword and dagger.’

‘But he tried to eavesdrop?’ I asked.

‘Of course. A tavern master makes that his business. He listens to confidences and passes them on, but Lanercost and Leygrave talked quickly in Norman French. Mine host said both men were extremely angry, yet sad. As they drank, they grew angrier. He caught the words ‘betrayal’ and ‘treason’ but nothing else. They drank deep and left with their arms around each other.’ The Pilgrim pulled a face. ‘Mistress, I tell you truth.’

‘So why did you want to see me?’

The Pilgrim sipped at his tankard, placed it on the table, then glanced out of the window and back at me.

‘I call myself the Pilgrim from the Wastelands. I was born Walter of Rievaulx. I am from these parts. My father, his father and his father before him were tenants of the great abbey at Rievaulx. Now God decided that I should be born with this.’ He touched the strange birthmark on his face. ‘From the moment I was born I was singled out to be alone. I did not want to be mocked. The Benedictines of Rievaulx kindly took me into their house and trained me. I became the abbey’s best falconer, a hawker, a huntsman. There is not a bird of prey I do not know or cannot recognise. I know their habits, foibles, weaknesses and ailments. What they must eat. How they must be sheltered, protected and groomed. Before my twentieth summer I was already a master falconer, and my reputation spread, not only as a huntsman but as a retainer who could be trusted. Now this was in the old king’s days. Four years before he died, Edward visited Rievaulx. The old king was passionate about venery; he had a particular love for falcons and hawks. I was introduced to him, and took him out for a hunt along the marshes. After we returned to the abbey, the king insisted I become a royal falconer. The abbot daren’t refuse, whilst I was very ambitious.’ The Pilgrim smiled. ‘Oh, I know the stories about the old king. He could be hard and resolute, cruel and vicious at times, but give him a hawk or a falcon and he was as gentle as a dove. He also liked me. We would talk like father and son. I was put in charge of the royal mews at the new Queen’s Cross, close to Westminster Palace. The old king pronounced himself very pleased. I was responsible for the royal falcons and hawks. If one fell ill, I would, if necessary, send for a physician, even make a wax cast of the bird and have a royal messenger place it before St Thomas a Becket’s shrine in Canterbury. The king was a hard taskmaster. Anyone who abused or proved negligent towards a hawk, he would beat with his belt or whatever came to hand, but to me he was as gentle as a mother. Sometimes when he visited the mews we’d sit on the ale-bench and share a jug of wine. I was in paradise. Never once did the old king make reference to my face. He simply described me as the best of servants.

‘I thought things would always remain like that, until the early spring of the year the old king died.’ The Pilgrim paused. ‘I’d been summoned to Westminster, to the Painted Chamber, at the heart of the royal quarters in the old palace. I had to kick my heels for a while until Edward invited me in. He’d bought a new manuscript from France on the training of hawks and peregrines, and insisted on reading sections of this out loud, asking for my opinion. I recall the day so well: light streaming in through the painted window glass. The chamber was littered with the king’s armour, belts, shoes and boots. Manuscripts strewed the table. The old king was happy, as if by talking to me he forgot his own cares and troubles. A chamberlain entered saying that the Prince of Wales and Lord Gaveston waited to see him. The king was reluctant. I knew about the rift between father and son. The old king fiercely resented Gaveston’s presence and, more importantly, his own son’s deep affection for a lowly Gascon. Nevertheless he summoned both son and favourite into the chamber. Courtesies were exchanged. The king then asked his son why he wished to see him. Both prince and Gaveston glanced at me as if I shouldn’t be there, but the king was losing his temper: his right eye was beginning to droop, his face was flushed, his hands were trembling slightly. He was growing old and weak. The campaigns in Scotland had taken their toll. Gaveston stood near the door; the Prince of Wales sat on a cushioned settle before his father. I had no choice but to stay; the king would not dismiss me. The prince talked about his affection for Gaveston, how he was a noble lord, his sweet brother. The king just nodded, but the anger in his eyes showed how much he hated Gaveston. The prince then made the most surprising request. He asked that Gaveston be given the Duchy of Cornwall or the counties of Ponthieu and Montreuil in France.’

‘What?’ Demontaigu exclaimed.

‘Yes, the prince repeated the request: the Duchy of Cornwall or the counties of Ponthieu and Montreuil. The king sprang to his feet, fists clenched, glaring down at his son. He muttered something under his breath, then he attacked the prince. Grabbing him by the hair, he dragged him off the settle and across the chamber. Then he banged his head against the wall, threw him to the ground and started to kick him. The prince yelled and screamed. The king said nothing; just an old, greying man kicking and beating his son. Gaveston remained by the door as if carved out of marble, a look of utter terror on his face. The king paused, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, then he roared at his son: “You whoreson bastard upstart! If I had another heir I would give all to him. You want to concede lands! You who have never acquired one yard of extra territory! To give away honours to someone like that — you whoreson!” By now the prince had crawled away on hands and knees. He turned to face his father. He was frightened and bruised but still defiant. “How dare you!” he screamed back. “How dare you call me whoreson and bring great shame on my mother, your wife?”’

The Pilgrim paused, staring around. He wetted his lips with another drink of ale. ‘Now, you know, Eleanor of Castile was the one and only great love of the old king’s life. When this incident happened she’d been in her grave some fifteen years. The old king heard his son out, then moved across, finger jabbing the air. “You,” he said, “you believe you are a prince? By God’s right I say this to you. I look at you. I recall the stories that you are a changeling. Have you heard them? Have you ever heard the stories?” The prince just gazed bleakly back. “You with your baseborn servants and friends, your love of digging and rowing and thatching a house! Do you know what they say?” The king crouched down, his face only inches from that of his son. “They say that as a child my son was attacked by a sow. The nurse in charge changed my true son for you, the by-blow of some peasant! God’s teeth, I used to dismiss that as a rumour, but now I wonder. If that nurse was alive I would get the truth, but as for you and your so-called brother, you get nothing! Do you understand? Nothing! Get out!”’ The Pilgrim paused once more.

The way he spoke conveyed the truthfulness of what he claimed. I knew enough about the old king to recognise his rage, but this was the first time I had ever heard such a story. Indeed, there had been rumours at the French court how king and son often clashed, even came to blows, but nothing like this.

‘Gaveston and Edward left,’ the Pilgrim continued. ‘The king turned to me, his face red, lips flecked with foam. He just glared at me as if seeing me for the first time, then gestured with his hand that I should get out. I fled. At first I thought nothing would come of it. The king became busy preparing for his great expedition against the Scots. The council met. Letters banishing Gaveston were drawn up. Now, mistress, I had been in London for some time. I wore the royal livery. I carried a sword and dagger, and never once was I accosted. However, in the two months following that terrible confrontation in the Painted Chamber, I was attacked no fewer than three times in and around Westminster by men cowled and masked. The only reason I escaped was that I was fleet of foot and most adept in the use of dagger and sword. Now at the mews I occasionally slept in the small hay store. Oh, I had my own comfortable chamber, but to keep an eye on the king’s birds, I would often settle there for the night.’

‘And it caught fire?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘You have the truth. A fire that had started both front and back at the same time. Again I escaped. I realised I had witnessed something I shouldn’t have but I didn’t know who was responsible for the attacks on me. The king, the prince, Gaveston or someone else? The old king remained cordial and courteous enough, though a coldness had grown up between us. Now I had been joined in London by my brother Reginald. He married well, the daughter of a local merchant, and they had a child. Reginald was a merry fellow. He liked nothing better than a jig or a bawdy story. One night around the Feast of the Birth of John the Baptist, Reginald left for a tavern in Thieving Lane near the gatehouse at Westminster. The weather had turned harsh. A cold wind was blowing rain in from the river. He took my cloak and beaverskin hat. Later that evening, bailiffs came to the mews carrying a stretcher on which Reginald’s corpse was sprawled. My brother never reached the tavern. He’d been found stabbed at least four times in a nearby alleyway. You can imagine my distress, my panic, my fear, my anger. Ursula, Reginald’s wife, was distraught. I could do little to help. I decided to flee. I went into hiding in Southwark. One day I crossed the river and wandered into St Paul’s, where the tittle-tattlers and the gossip collectors gather. Proclamations are pinned on the great cross in the churchyard. I was studying these carefully when I recognised one against myself: Walter of Rievaulx. According to the proclamation I was a thief, a felon and an outlaw. Three times I had been summoned to court, though I did not know that, and when I had not appeared, I’d been put to the horn, declared utlegatum — beyond the law — a wolf’s-head whom anyone could kill on sight.’

‘And your crime?’ I asked.

‘I was accused of stealing from the royal mews.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course it was a lie, but what could I do? If I was taken alive I would hang at the Elms in Smithfield. More likely I’d either be killed outright or perish of some mysterious ailment in Newgate. The proclamation was signed by the mayor and sheriffs of London. Now I’d taken with me all the wealth I could gather. I had one friend, Ursula’s father, a wool-smith. I went secretly to him. He believed my innocence. I gave him everything I had to pay him as well as to help Ursula. He secured me forged documents, licences and passes. I journeyed down to Dover, crossed the Narrow Seas and travelled to Paris. For a while I stayed there, working. My skills as a falconer meant I never starved; they provided food, clothing and a roof against the rain and wind. I listened to the stories from England about how the old king had swept north with fire and sword to avenge himself on the Bruce. I also recognised that my life in England was over. I had begun to travel and I wanted to continue. I felt guilty at Reginald’s death, at Ursula becoming a widow, her son fatherless. I believed I should do reparation. I travelled south to Compostela, then to Rome, where I secured passage to Outremer. I have visited Jerusalem. I have worshipped in the place where Christ was crucified and His body lay awaiting the Resurrection. I went on to the great desert beyond Jordan. I saw many things, mistress, then I came home. By the time I landed at Dover the old king was dead, his son was crowned and Gaveston had returned to become Earl of Cornwall, the king’s own brother and favourite. I hoped I’d been forgotten. My name had been obliterated, my appearance had changed, except for this.’ He pointed at the mark on his cheek. ‘Moreover, I had disappeared. Whoever had tried to kill me might take comfort that I’d fled, perhaps died abroad. I kept away from my old haunts. This is the first time I’ve returned to this shire since I joined the old king at Westminster.’

‘Who do you think was responsible?’ I asked. ‘For the attacks?’

‘God and his saints know: the old king, the prince, Gaveston, all three? What I have realised is that I should never, ever have been in that chamber. If that was just a scurrilous story, why should someone wish to kill me because I’d learn it? Go through York or London, visit the taverns and alehouses and you’ll hear many a ribald story about the great ones of the land, the lords of the soil.’

‘And did you ever,’ Demontaigu asked, ‘try to discover if there was any truth in that story?’

‘I wandered the highways and byways. I visited royal castles the prince might have stayed at as a child. I heard of an incident, but nothing substantial. As I say, if chatter and gossip were worth a piece of gold, I’d be a very rich man.’

‘So why did you come to York?’ I asked. ‘Why are you telling us this?’

‘Because you, mistress, must tell the queen.’

‘Why?’

The Pilgrim stared out across the garden. I followed his gaze. It was a gloomy place lit by pale moonlight. Somewhere a dog yelped. Nearby a relic seller was provoking raucous laughter by offering the most tawdry items as sacred pieces. A slattern, baited by a drunken customer, screamed abuse. Mine host roared for calm. Darkness had truly fallen. More oil lamps and candles had been lit and the Pot of Fire bubbled with shadows.

‘You’re here for revenge?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘No, sir, I’m here for justice. I was innocent. I was in a chamber where the king wanted me to be. Simply because of what I saw and heard, my life has been destroyed. My brother was foully murdered, his wife left a widow, her son fatherless. If it was a petty matter, why such loss? So yes, I am here for justice.’

‘You think Edward and Gaveston are responsible for the havoc caused?’

‘I have tramped this road and that, shivered out in the desert, gone to sleep in dark, dank woods. I have sheltered in cow byres and pigsties. One day I shall die. I wish to tell someone else, someone in authority, someone with power, what caused this dramatic change in my life. I reflect on Gaveston’s control over the king. Does he bait him with this? Taunt him? Blackmail him? And these murders,’ he took a deep breath, ‘the deaths of the Aquilae? Did they know the secret their master holds? Is that why they are being killed? Ah well.’ He pushed away his tankard. ‘Mistress, it’s time to be gone. I never stay long in one place, but in the end, yes, I came here for justice, perhaps revenge. I have told this story to no other person except one.’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘A priest under the seal of confession: a Franciscan at Grey Friars in London. I went there to be shrived before I travelled to York. Even when I arrived here I dared not visit my father’s house or the abbey, just in case. .’

‘Your confessor?’ I insisted.

‘He asked me to take an oath under the seal of confession that what I told was the truth. He replied that as my penance I should return and tell someone I trusted, someone in authority, what I know. I arrived in York, I listened to Brother Eusebius. I watched the court and the friary. You, mistress, have a reputation for honesty. Her grace the queen is innocent of any crime; shouldn’t she know the secret that has destroyed me and those I love?’

‘Where to now?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘I shall return to London.’ The Pilgrim rose abruptly. ‘Come,’ he gestured, ‘Pig Sty Alley at such a late hour is not a safe place.’

Demontaigu called mine host and settled for what we had drunk. We left, back into Pig Sty Alley. So many years have passed, yet I cannot forget walking through that filthy runnel, that tangle of shadows, the strange shapes of the nightwalkers, the swirling smells, the eerie cries that rang out like ghost song. Rats teemed, greyish in the poor light, cats hunted, dogs howled. The full moon had broken free from the clouds, washing the alleyway with silver light. We hastened by doorways and entrances, dark holes holding God knows what terrors and horrors. Demontaigu drew both sword and dagger, whilst the Pilgrim wielded a stout cudgel. I heard a sound and whirled round. Despite the gloomy murk, I glimpsed a shape, cowled and cloaked, last seen at ‘The Road to Damascus’ after we returned from the moors. I recognised that figure, the outlaw Furnival, and I wondered if Ausel was not far behind. We walked on. The Pilgrim was humming a song, Demontaigu reciting a Templar prayer about the face of God smiling benevolently at us. No one impeded us, no one stopped us, and at last we were free. Across the thoroughfare rose the walls of the friary, and through the dark we could glimpse pinpricks of light from the belfry as well as the curfew lamps set at windows and doorways. The corner of Pig Sty Alley was illuminated by fierce fires burning merrily in great casks. Sconce torches had been pushed into niches on the wall, their flames whipped by the wind. I stared up at the sky. I’d learnt so much that night, and yet what sense did it make? Nevertheless, I sensed that harvest time was close; the wickedness sown was coming to fruition.

We crossed the deserted thoroughfare. The occasional dog nosed the ground; a cat whipped across in a dark blur. The Pilgrim walked slightly in front of us. I heard a sound to my left just near the Golgotha Gate. A click, a snap that should have alarmed me, but I was tired. The whir of the cross-bolt was like an angry wasp. The Pilgrim screamed and staggered back, the feathered quarrel embedded deep in his chest. He waved his hands as if he could fend off the blow, his face contorted with pain, and fell to the ground as another cross-bolt whistled through the air above us. I screamed at Demontaigu not to go forward. I ran even as the Pilgrim turned on his side, fingers going to the feathered quarrel that had cut off his life. I put an arm beneath his shoulder and tried to lift him. Blood was already bubbling out of his mouth, heels drumming on the ground. He stared at me beseechingly.

‘A priest,’ he whispered. ‘A priest.’

‘Mathilde, Mathilde.’ Demontaigu gently pushed me away. ‘Listen, I’m a priest, a Templar priest. I have my faculties. I will hear your confession, I will shrive you.’

I edged away on all fours, staring into the darkness, wondering if the assassin was still there. Again a cross-bolt cut the air, then a voice called out, clear, with a slight lilt. Ausel!

‘Mathilde, Bertrand, what ails you?’

I was aware of a shadow moving across the thoroughfare. Demontaigu, God bless him, even though he was exposed to danger, knelt by the fallen man, whispering to him, raising his hand in blessing as he gave absolution. The Pilgrim, on the verge of death, moved restlessly in his pain. I heard gasps and sighs as the blood gurgled at the back of his throat, then he shook once and lay still. Demontaigu crossed himself and rose. A shape detached itself from the darkness, speeding silently across like some soft-footed felon slipping through the dark. I glimpsed the glint of steel. Demontaigu, however, aware that danger might still lurk, pulled the Pilgrim’s corpse out of the pool of light into a dark corner of Pig Sty Alley. He crouched down, going through the dead man’s pockets and wallet, but all he found were medals and coins. I sensed the danger had passed. A shadow waited just beyond the light.

‘Ausel,’ I called, ‘is that you?’

The Irishman stepped forward. He was much changed since the last time I’d seen him. Now his head was completely shaven, and his face had a stark, skull-like appearance. There was no hair on his mouth or chin; his eyes were gleaming and his mouth was pulled in a thin, bloodless line. He came and crouched next to us as if he had been our companion the entire evening.

‘Was it you?’ I accused. ‘Ausel?’

He turned, eyes half closed. ‘For the love of God, Mathilde, why should I kill this man? Sure, I was with you. I left before you and I was waiting here.’

‘And the assassin?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Ausel replied. ‘I journeyed south to meet Demontaigu. I followed you down Pig Sty Alley and into the Pot of Fire. You did not see me,’ he smiled, ‘but I saw you.’

‘I glimpsed the outlaw Furnival,’ I whispered. ‘I did wonder. Ausel, why are you here?’

‘To meet my good brother.’

I gestured down at the Pilgrim. ‘There is nothing we can do for him; his soul is for God, his body for the ground. Ausel, I have known you for four years. Swear to me that you had nothing to do with the attempt at Tynemouth to capture the queen.’

‘On the book of the Gospels! Summon Michael, the provost of heaven, and all his angels, the bailiffs of the divine gate, and I will swear. I knew nothing. We did nothing. Our sole aim was the total destruction of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales, but out of friendship, I’ll tell you this. We are now members of Bruce’s court and his power has grown. If Edward does not act soon, the English crown will lose Scotland and all it possesses there. You must walk prudently, Mathilde. The Beaumonts. . well, I think you know their nature. They look only after themselves.’ He edged closer, his face harsh and severe. ‘Rumours run in the Scottish camp about all forms of treachery, like a swarm of writhing snakes, at the English court. No doubt Edward of England petitioned Bruce for help, but other stories swirl like foul smoke: that it did not matter if the queen was captured.’ He paused, staring at me, his face ghostly in the poor light.

‘Or killed?’ I whispered.

Ausel nodded.

‘But would Bruce be party to that? He is a noble. He was once a member of the English court himself, a knight.’

‘Mathilde, across the northern march the king’s father laid waste with fire and sword. He killed Bruce’s brothers. He took Bruce’s women and put them in cages, then hanged them from castle walls. Bruce has changed. This is war to the death. Bruce had scruples, but if he drew the line at murder, it wasn’t because of any chivalrous feelings but due to the power of France. Bruce sits and watches. He and his churchmen pray that Gaveston will never be sent into exile. They hope civil war will flare here so Bruce can come into his own. Most of Scotland is lost. Further unrest in England would make Bruce king.’ He pointed down at the Pilgrim. ‘I don’t know who he is or why he is important to you at this late hour of night. I told you I followed you from the tavern. I went ahead. I was waiting in the shadows of the friary wall; I saw you emerge into the light. This man was struck, but where the bowman was, God only knows.’

‘And what now?’

Ausel stretched out a hand. ‘Heaven knows, Mathilde. I do not think I shall look upon your face again. This is my last expedition into England. I will have words with Master Demontaigu tomorrow morning, then I will rejoin my brothers.’

I clasped his outstretched hand. Ausel was a killer, but he was also a man of his word. I believed he had nothing to do with the death of the Pilgrim. He melted into the darkness. Demontaigu and I went across to the Golgotha Gate and knocked on the postern door. A short while later, a group of bleary-eyed lay brothers came out with a stretcher. They placed the Pilgrim’s corpse upon it and took it to the death house. We followed them in. Demontaigu escorted me to my chamber and kissed me lightly on the head, pressing a finger against my lips.

‘Not now, Mathilde, no talk. I must see Ausel and you must sleep.’