The Darkening Glass

Chapter 7

In the event, I did sleep. I was so tired I just stretched out on my bed, wrapped a cloak around myself and fell into a deep slumber plagued by nightmare memories: of violence and intrigue, of walking down filthy alleyways, of standing in squares where torches burnt and corpses dangled from gallows. I was pleased to wake early. I stripped and washed. The queen had not risen, so I went to the Jesus mass and busied myself about my own affairs. Mid-morning a grim-faced prior celebrated a requiem mass for the Pilgrim; two other corpses of beggars found lying near the friary had also been brought in for the last rites. The mass was simple. No incense, no chanting, simply the sombre words of the requiem about the Day of Judgement, of being committed to the soil, of the souls of the departed being escorted into heaven by Michael and all his angels. Afterwards I followed the prior and the brothers out into God’s Acre, where all three corpses, wrapped in shrouds, were committed to the earth. Once the prior had blessed the grave he beckoned me over. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he stared attentively at me.

‘Mistress, I do not wish to give offence, but this is a house of the Franciscan brothers dedicated to peace, preaching and penance, not murder and horrid death during the dark hours of the night. I wish you well, Mathilde. Please give my loyal regards to your mistress, but I would be dishonest if I did not say I shall be glad when you’re gone.’

I left the cemetery and immediately sought audience with Isabella in her chamber. The room was busy, thronged with ladies-in-waiting, squires and pages, porters preparing chests and casks. Isabella took one look at my face and dismissed her servants. She was swathed in a heavy robe, her face rather pale. I asked her if she was well but she just said it was morning sickness and that it would pass. I insisted on distilling her a herbal drink. She sat in her chair, fingers over a chafing dish. I crouched on a stool next to her, leaned close and told all that had happened, what the Pilgrim had reported and what Ausel had said. Only then did I fully realise how mature the queen had become. How closely she imitated her formidable father, who, to quote one poet, ‘was terrible to the sons of pride’. She never interrupted or questioned me. Once I’d finished, she stretched both hands over the chafing dish as if to draw strength and warmth from the sparkling charcoal.

‘Mathilde, I thank you. I have heard such stories and rumours. Sometimes I wonder. I doubt if they are true; scurrilous, tattling tales. The real danger in such stories is not that they are true but that they can become so. My husband does nothing to prevent the seeds of such a tale taking root in men’s hearts. Here we are in York, chased by the earls of England, scurrying to Tynemouth, seeking help from a Scottish rebel. Edward should be in Westminster, the throne of his ancestors, administering justice, governing his realm.’ She paused at a knock on the door, and Dunheved walked in. Isabella did not dismiss him but summoned him over. She pointed to another stool, then turned to me.

‘Mathilde, I must have words with Brother Stephen. I have also conferred with my husband. Tomorrow morning at the latest, you and the good brother here,’ she smiled at the Dominican, ‘will leave for Scarborough.’

I glanced at the queen’s confessor, who sat, cowl slightly pushed back, hands up the sleeves of his robe. He was so serene and watchful. I did wonder again what role this wily Dominican played in the affairs of the court. But Isabella was impatient to talk to him, probably under the seal of confession, when she would tell him everything we had discussed. I bowed, curtsied and left the chamber.

By Angelus time the news of our imminent departure was well known throughout the friary. I packed my belongings. The queen did not need me, so I bolted and locked my chamber door, went to my writing desk, took out a piece of vellum and decided to collect my own thoughts on what I’d learnt and observed. I’d hardly started this task when a loud rapping on the door made me groan. I thought it was a message from the queen, but it was Demontaigu. He’d bade farewell to Ausel and I sensed his grief at the ties between himself and his brethren being so dramatically loosened. He sat on a stool, chatting about old times, expressing his sadness, and I let him talk, but Demontaigu always had a clear perception of others, and eventually he paused, smiled and pointed to the piece of vellum.

‘Are you drawing up your indictment, Mathilde? Look, rather than sit and bemoan like a beggar at the gate, I will help you. Now, last night, the Pilgrim. .?’

For a while we discussed what our mysterious visitor had told us.

‘But his murder?’ Demontaigu concluded, tapping his feet. ‘Who should murder him?’

‘The same people who tried before?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps the Pilgrim wasn’t as forgotten as he thought.’

‘In which case you are talking about either Gaveston or the king,’ Demontaigu retorted, getting to his feet. ‘I accept that the Pilgrim’s face was distinctive, easily recognisable, but the king and his favourite are caught up in their own swirl of affairs. Was it an accident?’

I asked him what he meant.

‘A nightwalker,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘a felon, a footpad who was going to attack all three of us, but the presence of Ausel disturbed him so he fled.’

I was about to reply when there was another knock on the door. It was still off the latch and I was surprised when Dunheved swept into the room. The Dominican’s face was contorted in anger. He was restless and agitated. I asked him what was wrong; he just shook his head, crossed himself and continued his pacing around the room. Now and again he’d pause to stare at the crucifix or one of the coloured paintings hanging on the wall. Now, I am used to artifices, subtlety and deceit, but I sensed the Dominican’s rage was genuine. He’d come directly from the queen, who must have told him what I had learnt the night before. At last he paused, chest heaving, and crossed himself again: ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa!’ he declared, striking his breast. ‘My fault, my fault, Mathilde.’

I gestured at a stool. He sat down with a sigh of relief. Then he glanced quickly at Demontaigu, rose, locked the door and barred it. He returned to the stool, put his arms across his chest and stared up at me.

‘I have come from the queen, Mathilde. She has told me the truth about that bloody mayhem at Tynemouth. She could have been killed; that was the mischief plotted.’

‘Or so our informant would have us believe,’ I replied.

Dunheved rubbed his face and pointed at the vellum lying on my desk.

‘What do we have here, Mathilde, what do we have? Please.’ He gestured at the writing desk. ‘Let us all collect our thoughts. Here, before we move to Scarborough, become locked up in its fastness.’

I was a little surprised but I agreed. I felt confused by the presence of both Demontaigu and especially Dunheved, but there again, the Dominican’s logic was flawless. We would soon be separated from the queen, confined in a fortress against people who might wish us the greatest of evil and mischief.

‘So, Mathilde, what shall we do? How shall it be done? Tomorrow we leave here for Scarborough. I go grievingly. Why? Because her grace the queen will not be accompanying us. She is moving to Howden and will take shelter there.’ Dunheved pointed at me. ‘Mathilde, if you are a physician of the body, I am one of the soul. What are the symptoms here, what questions must we ask?’

I picked up my quill and began to write quickly in that secret cipher I was slowly mastering.

‘Three of Gaveston’s Aquilae,’ I spoke my thoughts aloud, ‘have been mysteriously murdered. All three fell from a great height, a macabre, ironic death. Was it a play on their title, the humiliation of soaring eagles? We know it was murder because of that taunting verse: Aquilae of Gaveston, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been both bought and sold. However, God only knows why Lanercost went into that lonely bell tower. How was he overcome and hurled from such a great height? He took off his war-belt, leaving it for Brother Eusebius later to steal, so he must have met someone he trusted, but who?’

Dunheved murmured in agreement. Demontaigu sat tense. I returned to my writing.

‘Secondly, Leygrave. Despite being wary and cautious after his close comrade’s death, he fell in the same way from the same place. He too took off his war-belt. More mysteriously still, he actually climbed on to the ledge, but why? Who else was there?’

‘You are sure of that?’ Dunheved asked. ‘You saw the imprint of his boots?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I replied absent-mindedly.

‘Is it possible,’ Demontaigu asked, ‘that both men were in the tower with someone they trusted, and were simply pushed from behind and fell over the ledge?’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘We’ve been there. The ledge is broad. I could understand if they were standing on the edge of a precipice. In the belfry, however, if they were shoved, they would simply grasp the ledge and turn around; they would fight, resist, raise the alarm. There is not much room in that tower. A struggle would mean one person, sooner or later, hitting one of those bells. Yet both Leygrave and Lanercost fell without a sound. No disturbance was heard, no mark of conflict found.’

‘Yet you claim Brother Eusebius saw something?’ Demontaigu asked

‘Oh, I don’t think it’s a claim.’ I turned and glanced at them both. ‘Eusebius did see something. He was a magpie; he liked silver pieces. He was waiting for his moment to confront the killer himself and secure a reward. He also revelled in his knowledge. Eusebius loved to portray himself as a fool, then try and prove that he was as sharp-witted as the next man. He made some drawings in the bell tower, rough etchings carved on the wall, but what are they? An eagle, a bat? A dog, a wolf or the royal leopard of England? And his remark to the prior that a bat could be as cunning as a dog? Or those two words he had the Pilgrim scrawl on the white-plastered charnel house — lux et tenebrae — light and darkness. What does all that mean? Whom did he see? Who followed Eusebius down into the charnel house and staved in his skull?’ I turned back to the piece of vellum and wrote down my questions. Behind me, Dunheved muttered a prayer to himself.

‘Thirdly: Kennington and his two guards.’

‘Now that’s a great mystery,’ Demontaigu broke in. ‘Those men were armed and alert, watching the seas as well as Tynemouth itself. They knew a hostile force was lurking outside. I have wondered. .’ Demontaigu snapped his fingers and stared around. ‘Duckett’s Tower had a secret entrance. We know that. The queen used it to escape. Is it possible that someone came up that secret entranceway? Don’t forget, it was the dead of night.’

‘He’d have to pass other chambers,’ Dunheved broke in. ‘He might alert them.’

‘No,’ Demontaigu shook his head, ‘not if he was moving stealthily.’

‘True, true,’ I murmured. ‘Remember what the Castellan showed us. Outside each door there was a hook and a latch. As the assassin passed he could have secured each door, as well as the one to the tower top itself, to give him enough time if the alarm was raised.’

‘But this is where my theory fails.’ Demontaigu pulled a face. ‘The assassin, and there must have been more than one, would go through that doorway, but Kennington and his two guards were there. They’d draw their swords and daggers and raise the alarm, yet no one heard a sound. Nevertheless, someone definitely went on to that tower, overcame those three warriors then hurled them to their deaths on the rocks below.’

I busily wrote this down. Behind me Dunheved and Demontaigu were discussing in hushed whispers what might have happened in Duckett’s Tower.

‘Fourthly,’ I called out, looking over my shoulder at them, ‘Tynemouth itself. Bruce was clearly informed about the queen: where her residence was and how vulnerable she would be if she tried to leave through that tunnel on to the beach. Now, such an entrance was not secret, which explains the timing of the assault. As the castle was attacked from the front, the Scots dispatched a war party on to the beach.’

‘Deus solus,’ Dunheved whispered, ‘et Maria ancilla Trinitatis — only God and Mary, the handmaid of the Trinity, saved her.’

Demontaigu murmured in agreement as I turned back to the vellum.

‘Fifthly: the Pilgrim from the Wastelands. He arrives in York hungry for justice and revenge, bringing a scurrilous story about the king.’

‘But was it scurrilous?’ Demontaigu asked. ‘If our noble lord was powerful and vigorous, such a tale would be dismissed as a ribald fable, tavern talk, but now all are prepared to believe anything about him.’

I didn’t object.

‘Sixthly: Ausel. He confirmed our suspicions about what happened at Tynemouth. He also made the heinous suggestion that the queen and the child she carried were not only to be captured and held hostage, but even killed. .’

I was surprised by Dunheved’s reaction, as if my words kindled the rage twisting silently within him. He sprang to his feet, lips bared like a dog, eyes darting to the left and right.

‘A filthy abomination,’ he whispered. ‘Whoever plotted that deserves the death of Simon the Magus.’ He walked up and down the room, rubbing his hands, muttering in Latin to himself. I watched him curiously. Dunheved could act the calm priest but really he was a firebrand. He had that flame of fanaticism so common in his order; little wonder the Dominicans were used as the inquisitors of God, to root out heresy and schism.

‘Calm yourself, Brother,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘For the love of God, a clear mind and a sharp wit will resolve these mysteries, not rage.’

‘But it’s still treachery, Bertrand.’ Dunheved sat down on his stool. ‘Treason of the most vile kind. The innocent queen and her child seized by Scottish raiders, humiliated, violated perhaps. .’

‘But let us think coolly,’ I declared. ‘Let us argue the case like a question in the schools. Would Bruce have done that? How would he answer to the courts of Europe, to the Holy Father in Avignon and, more importantly, to Isabella’s father Philip in Paris?’

‘Oh, I am sure,’ Demontaigu brusquely intervened, ‘that he would make his excuses. An unforeseen accident. How he’d given strict instructions for this not to happen. The fortunes of war. Who would he really blame? His men attacking an English fortress, or Edward of England and Gaveston his catamite leaving a young queen, enceinte, in a lonely fortress on those brooding, bleak cliffs.’

I had to agree with Demontaigu’s logic. In the final conclusion Edward and Gaveston would have been held responsible by all. Dunheved noisily took a deep sigh to calm himself.

‘What is the root of this source? Now look, mistress, I was in the rose garden when you and Demontaigu came to inform Lanercost. Rumours later swept the court of how a party of Templars had been massacred out on the moors. Lanercost’s brother was one of these. Only after that massacre did these murderous mysteries begin.’ Dunheved glanced out of the corner of his eye at Demontaigu.

‘I know where you are leading, Dominican,’ Demontaigu declared tersely, ‘but I swear on the Gospels, even the sacrament itself: my brothers were not responsible for Lanercost, Leygrave or Kennington’s deaths.’

‘Who could it be?’ Dunheved’s voice held a hint of challenge. ‘The murders began then. Mistress Mathilde, you and I were in church. I was celebrating mass when the alarm was raised about Lanercost. You and I were with the king’s chamber council when Leygrave fell to his death. We were all with the queen in the Prior’s Lodgings at Tynemouth. .’

‘One other item,’ I declared. ‘The Pilgrim told us about Lanercost and Leygrave going to the Pot of Fire in Pig Sty Alley; both Aquilae were aggrieved, deep in their cups. They talked of treachery and treason, which makes me ponder the conclusion: was Gaveston himself responsible for the deaths of those close retainers, and if so, why and how?’

Dunheved stared at the crucifix on the wall, whispering a prayer, before glancing sharply at me.

‘Mistress Mathilde, is there anything else? Anything at all?’

I shook my head. Dunheved blew his lips out and got to his feet.

‘Bertrand.’ He sketched a blessing. ‘Mistress Mathilde, I bid you adieu. We will meet again.’ Then he left.

Early next morning, before the mist broke and the sun rose, I met Isabella alone in her private chamber. For a while she just clasped my hand, staring sadly, then she drew me close and embraced me, kissing me on both cheeks. She stood back, squeezing my hands.

‘Take care, Mathilde.’ She abruptly turned away as if she wanted to prevent herself from talking further. I curtsied and left.

Our journey across the sun-washed moorlands to Scarborough proved uneventful. A long cortege of riders and carts: Gaveston and his Aquilae, Middleton and Rosselin; the Beaumonts and their retainers; porters and liverymen, carters and other household officials. The king also dispatched the captain of his Welsh archers Ap Ythel, who threw a protective cordon of mounted archers around us. We heard rumours about the earls being close, though we sighted no hostile force. At night we stayed in a spacious tavern close to the old Roman road that runs from York to London; the following morning we caught the freshening sea breezes as we approached the coast. Scarborough was a port for fish and piracy as well as a harbour where the great wool ships could shelter in a storm. It reminded me of Tynemouth, though more appealing. The town lay in the lee of a hill overlooking the sea, and along the brow of that hill sprawled the towers, gatehouses and crenellated walls of the formidable fortress. A place of refuge, we were assured, where Gaveston and ourselves could shelter safely. If danger threatened on the landward side, there were galleys and cogs in the harbour waiting to take us aboard. The castle was perched on the rim of a hill that fell sheer on the landward side to the main part of the town, and on the seaward, to the mansions of the wealthy burgesses. The coastline and the sea were not so rugged and rough as at Tynemouth, whilst summer had arrived, creating a delightful scene with the sun bathing both land and sea in a golden hue.

The constable of the castle, Sir Simon Warde, was a bluff Yorkshireman, a veteran of the old king’s wars. He’d been given strict instructions to provision the castle and be prepared to withstand a siege. Warde formally greeted us in the outer bailey, kneeling to kiss Gaveston’s ring. Afterwards his marshals and chamberlains allocated us chambers. Scarborough Castle was a rambling place, the great barbican leading into a ward that in turn led deeper into other baileys or wards. At the heart of the castle stood the soaring donjon, Queen’s Tower, which rose above Mossdale Hall, a two-storey wood and plaster building possessing chambers on the upper floor and a great dining hall or refectory below. Scarborough was a place of winding alleyways and narrow runnels, sheer grey walls, open yards; a veritable maze of chambers, storerooms and dungeons. Steps stretched up to fortified doors or down into inky blackness. Demontaigu and I were lodged in Queen’s Tower. Gaveston took over Mossdale Hall, whilst his two Aquilae, Middleton and Rosselin, lodged near us. Demontaigu acted concerned. I asked him why. Once our baggage had been stored, he led me into the castle gardens, close to the Chapel of Our Lady, and swiftly summarised the weaknesses of Scarborough.

‘There are only two wells,’ he said, ‘and these can be easily blocked off. The castle is rambling. Warde has some troops; we have Ap Ythel and his archers, Beaumont’s retainers and Gaveston’s Aquilae. To put it bluntly, Mathilde, I wonder if we have too few men to man the walls yet too many to feed if a siege really began to bite.’

Strange, certain scenes from my life, even though they occurred some fifty years ago, I can recall clear and distinct. Scarborough Castle, however, despite visiting it since the summer of 1312, I find difficult to describe. Gaveston arrived there like some great lord, acting the general, deploying his troops, but within days the gossip amongst the garrison was that Gaveston and the king had committed a serious error. Scarborough had a port, but the problem was that between the castle and the harbour there was the fishing village, a small town in itself, with the mansions of merchants and wealthy fishermen. If a hostile force occupied that, Gaveston would have to fight his way through to the sea, and even there be exposed to a war-cog, commissioned by the earls, lurking off shore ready to hinder any escape. Ap Ythel confirmed Demontaigu’s bleak perception. The castle could only be defended by a great host. Any besiegers would soon learn this and launch their attacks at various places, forcing the defenders to deploy their men thinly as well as be constantly moving them around.

Gaveston, however, behaved like the great seigneur of battles. He insisted on wearing the royal tabard of blue, red and gold with the lunging leopards of England, whilst the king’s banners and pennants floated above the walls as if Edward himself sheltered there. Sir Simon Warde could be trusted. Scarborough was well provisioned and stocked with arms, but the garrison was a mixture of veteran men-at-arms, mercenaries hired by indenture and some local levies. I wandered the castle’s narrow gulleys and alleyways, which snaked beneath the brooding mass of sheer walls, fortified towers and battlements. Even I, unused to the strategies of war, realised how meagre the garrison was compared to what they had to defend. Gaveston’s shield-hedge, as he grandly called his war-band, was far too diverse: a few knights with their chainmailed squires; Ap Ythel’s archers in their brown-green livery, braided leather jerkins and steel sallets; and Beaumont’s retainers, jacketed men-at-arms with pot-like helmets and rounded shields. The constable’s troop included some heavy armoured foot, a few horsemen, spear-holders and archers garbed in light cloth or scraps of leather. In itself the castle looked formidable, nestling on that long ridge, fortifications stretching up to the sky dominating the land on other side. From within, however, it was a sombre rat-run of alleyways and steep steps leading up to where the wind always buffeted or down to dark, deep-vaulted dungeons, storerooms and galleries.

My quarters were a square, solid chamber in Queen’s Tower with nothing but a cross hanging on its dirty plastered walls. The bed was comfortable enough and a chest held my belongings, whilst Warde kindly arranged for a chancery table and writing stool to be moved in along with a lavarium and a parchment coffer for my writing materials. The floor was clean, the musty smell of dust and old plaster almost hidden by the smoke from the braziers and the crushed herb grains strewn on top. The door was stout and could be locked and bolted from within. The arrow-slit windows allowed in light and air and were easily sealed with wooden slats, whilst the narrow recess for the latrine had been thoroughly cleansed.

I made myself as comfortable as possible, but it was hardly a place to linger. Instead I spent a great deal of my time in and around the small Chapel of Our Lady, a miniature jewel of a church that stood in its own enclosed plot, an ornamental garden laid out with great care by some former castellan and his lady. A truly enchanting place with its neatly clipped square lawns, small herb banks and flower beds full of the first green shoots of summer. Trellises for climbing roses overlooked neatly trimmed bushes, and there was even a small carp pond surmounted by a fountain carved in the shape of a steeple. The chapel itself, approached along a pebbled path, was as simple as a barn, with a vaulted wooden roof, its timber beams turning golden brown with age. A decorative altar rail divided the sanctuary from the nave. The chapel had no transepts; its pillars and supports were built into the plastered wall, their capitals and corbels moulded in the shape of intertwined vine leaves then painted an eye-catching green. Near the door stood an ancient baptismal font, nothing more than a large bowl resting on a stout small pillar; over this brooded a wall painting of St Christopher bearing the Infant Christ. At the other end of the chapel the small stone altar stood on its own dais. Above the altar hung an exquisite silver pyx on a filigreed chain, beside which the sanctuary lamp, in its copper and glass holder, glowed a rich ruby red. The floor was tiled a strange black and yellow, reminding me of a chess board, but it was the paintings on the side walls that fascinated me. These were twelve miniature medallions, six on either side, describing the occupations of each month of the year, all executed in a vigorous style. The figures and occupations were picked out in vivid blues, greens and browns, be it the fattening of pigs in November or the killing of oxen in December. In the sanctuary lay a ladder, which I later learnt was used to clear the dirt from the arrow-loop windows covered with horn. The sacristy, which lay to the left of the sanctuary, was nothing more than a ward chamber. Paintings once decorated its walls, but these had long faded. It had a door leading out to the garden that was now rusted shut, locked and bolted. On the left of the sanctuary was a small lady shrine with a mercy chair and prie-dieu where the sacrament of confession could be celebrated.

I loved to sit in the garden or wander through the chapel: so peaceful, so ordinary and unpretentious, yet soon to be the haunt of murder. As for the rest of my time, I had left most of my potions and medicines with the queen’s household, but the castle had a leech, a little old woman who constantly talked to herself, a veritable fountain of knowledge about what was best for an open wound, the disturbance of belly humours or rheums in the nose. Once I persuaded her that I was no threat, she chattered like a sparrow on a branch, especially about her own remedies, poultices and potions. In truth, such women are easily scoffed at, but she was very skilled and knowledgeable, particularly about mushrooms, so dangerous she said, that she’d never eaten one in her life. She was also a source of gossip about the castle. From her I learnt how Constable Warde believed Scarborough could not be defended against an army, whilst his levies openly grumbled about having to defend a Gascon upstart.

God forgive me, I forget that old woman’s name, yet I learnt so much from her about medicines from local plants and the various spells and incantations used in their application. At first I wondered if she was a witch. On one occasion her lined face creased into a smile, and she grasped my arm and leaned closer.

‘I watch your eyes, mistress, they are as clear as glass. You know, and I know, that no spell or incantation can cure anything. A prayer to the good Lord or His Blessed Mother is potent, but you see, mistress,’ she winked, ‘our patients don’t know that! They think spells work. Have you noticed, mistress, how, if the mood of your patients grows benevolent, they are more easily cured?’

I certainly remember laughing at that. On another occasion she made a very strange remark, one that caught my attention. I had been full of questions; now she asked hers. One morning I went down for some dried moss mixed with curdled milk for a cut on my hand. I wanted it cleaned and kept free of pus; the old woman gladly obliged. We sat at the corner of the table, my sleeve pulled back. She carefully washed the wound and applied the mixture with the flat blade of a knife purified in the flame of a candle. I thanked her and offered to pay. She grasped my fingers and peered closely at me.

‘Mistress,’ she whispered, ‘physic has its own mysteries, but not as bewildering as the affairs of man. Why has his grace the king in all his wisdom sent Lord Gaveston to shelter here?’

‘This castle is fortified,’ I replied. ‘There’s the cove where ships may anchor. Lord Gaveston can withstand a siege. If he doesn’t, he can always take ship and flee abroad.’

The old woman bowed her head, laughed softly to herself then glanced up.

‘But how did they know that?’

‘Mistress,’ I pleaded, ‘don’t play riddles with me. What are you saying?’

‘I have lived here for over seventy summers, and I can assure you, mistress, that never once has his grace the king ever visited here, and certainly not Lord Gaveston. So why should they come to a castle they’ve never visited? I go down to the town. Rumours mill as flies over a turd. The great earls are coming,’ she gestured with her hand towards the window, ‘and as for ships. .’ She laughed. ‘Mistress, the cove down there is a haven for pirates, be they English or Fleming, from Hainault or France. Even if a ship came in, God knows whether it would be allowed to leave, and if it did, whether it would be safe.’

The leech had placed her finger on a problem that gnawed at my own heart. Why here? Why the castle of Scarborough? Demontaigu, for all his years as a warrior, was mystified, as was Lord Henry Beaumont, who could, and often did, provide a litany of countless places where Gaveston would have been safer. The old woman tapped the side of her nose and winked.

‘Does his grace the king wish Lord Gaveston to be taken?’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘God knows, mistress, I have said enough. Now, as for this cut. .’

She wouldn’t be questioned further, though what she said reflected the gossip of the kitchen, buttery and refectory. Dunheved, that great collector of gossip, wandering the castle talking to this person or that, offered his own solution.

‘Perhaps it’s not the castle,’ he murmured, smiling. ‘Perhaps it’s the harbour. If Gaveston does flee to foreign parts, it will not be aboard a king’s ship but a pirate vessel, someone who could slip in and out and take him safely away without attracting the attention of other ships.’

Yet in the end that was only one problem amongst many. For the rest, Gaveston insisted on holding his chamber councils, but these were mere chatter. We could only wait. The great earls threatened a siege, but Gaveston confidently informed us that his grace the king would raise levies and pin the enemy between his royal army and the castle walls. We had to be patient. Such was Gaveston’s hope. He was living in a fool’s world. No news came from either king or queen. To distract myself further, I worked in the castle’s kitchens: busy, noisy places with ham, sausage, rope and game birds hanging from the rafters to be smoked and dried. The spit boys invariably needed help to collect and dry the bavins or bundles of hazelwood rods for the long ovens in the castle bakery. I always rose early to help in such ordinary tasks. I loved the misty coolness, the promise of a full sun, the light blue sky. The smells from the kitchen were mouth-watering, as Gaveston still insisted on delicacies for his table. Bakeries have always delighted me. The fragrance of freshly baked bread provoked bittersweet memories of those happy, innocent days in Paris when I raced along the Rue des Cordeliers on tasks for my uncle whilst the oven boys prepared their first batches for the day.

I would say my morning prayers in that delightful little garden and wait for the chaplain, a fussy grey-haired priest, to prepare the chapel for morning mass. Sometimes Dunheved and Demontaigu would join me, though usually the Dominican and my beloved Templar priest celebrated mass in their own chambers. On one occasion Dunheved remarked how little Gaveston fell to his prayers, and asked if it was true that his mother had been a witch. I simply smiled and said I did not know, voicing my own anxiety about Gaveston’s foolery and the king’s stupidity. Oh yes, I remember all those things: that homely chapel with its delicate paintings and its lovely garden; the morning tasks in the bakery and kitchen. I remember them because that was when and where the horrors began again.

It must have been about six days after our arrival in the castle. I was in the buttery chamber when Dunheved came hastening in, his black and white gown flapping in the strong morning breeze.

‘Mistress Mathilde, I beg you, come to the chapel.’ He was breathless, one hand against the wall, half bowed as he tried to catch his breath. Demontaigu, who’d been breaking his fast nearby, joined us as we hurried out of the bailey and along the pebble-packed path to the chapel. Rosselin and the Beaumonts were already there, clustered before the door. A distraught chaplain was tugging at the great iron ring. Demontaigu forced his way through.

‘It shouldn’t be locked, but it is securely,’ the chaplain wailed. He crouched down and peered through the keyhole. ‘The key has been removed,’ he spluttered.

‘Did you lock it last night, Father?’ Dunheved asked.

‘No, I don’t lock it — why should I? This castle is fortified; the chapel holds little of value except the sacred pyx, and who would steal that, eh?’

I walked around the side of the chapel overlooking the garden. The windows were really no more than arrow loops high in the wall, the horn that filled them long discoloured by the elements. I walked back.

‘I’m concerned,’ Rosselin declared. ‘I cannot find Middleton. He used to come here after dawn; he was worried, prayerful!’ I recalled the sacred medallions and badges Middleton had clasped on his jerkin.

‘He has been so distracted.’ Rosselin himself certainly appeared so, pacing backwards and forwards, now and again banging on the chapel door as if to rouse someone within.

‘You think he might be inside?’ Dunheved asked.

Rosselin just shrugged. Dark-faced Ap Ythel, chewing a piece of bread, sauntered over with a number of his archers. I appealed to him for help, and six of his companions were dispatched to fetch a great log from the wood yard to use as a battering ram. The chapel door began to buckle. Ap Ythel’s archers shifted their aim from the lock on the left to the stout leather hinges on the right. The crashing brought others hurrying over to see what was happening. The archers continued their pounding. At last the leather hinges snapped and the door sprang loose, falling back so sharply that the lock tore away from its clasp. Inside was a ghastly scene. The beautiful chapel, with its exquisite silver pyx shimmering in the red glow of the sanctuary lamp, had been transformed into a place of hideous, brutal death. From a beam, twirling slightly at the end of a thick rough rope, hung the corpse of Nicholas Middleton. The medals and brooches pinned on his jerkin shimmered mockingly in the poor light. The makeshift scaffold, with the sanctuary ladder propped against the beam, was as brutal and stark as any crossroads gallows. A truly eerie sight. Middleton’s corpse was all askew, booted feet hung toes down, his legs in their green hose slightly apart, hands dangling, his head lolling oddly as if his neck had been twisted like that of a barn-yard fowl. One glance at that contorted bluish-red face, eyes half closed, swollen tongue pushed out, pronounced sentence of death.

I asked for the corpse not to be touched, then stared around, listing in my mind what I saw. The ladder against the rafters. The key to the chapel lying on the ground. The sacristy door half open. The mercy chair had been slightly moved. I walked up through the sanctuary and into the sacristy; inside was nothing but a dusty silence. The door to the garden beyond was still firmly bolted and locked, both top and bottom all rusted, secure and fast. I walked back into the sanctuary and studied that grisly scene. Ap Ythel’s men now stood in the shattered doorway, driving back the curious. At my request the corpse was cut down and stretched out on the flagstones. Rosselin stood over it, pallid as a ghost. He was trembling, mouth opening and shutting, eyes blinking. I studied him carefully. Was he the killer? He knew Middleton came here, and yet sometimes you can look at a human being and sense his innermost soul. Rosselin was terrified, a broken man. A squire, used to the heat and hurl of battle, this ominous repetition of swift, mysterious death had broken his will.

A disturbance at the door made me turn. Gaveston, accompanied by the constable, swept into the chapel. He took one look at the corpse, groaned and, turning away, just stared at the ground. Eventually he straightened up, his face as pitiful as if he was looking upon his own death. I watched intently for any artifice or pretence. I had seen Gaveston in his glory days and the Gascon had certainly changed: the dark hair was silvery in places, the beautiful, smooth face furrowed, cheeks slightly hollow, eyes frenetic, as if his wits had begun to wander.

‘How?’ The question came as a croak. ‘How?’ he repeated.

‘Only God knows,’ Dunheved whispered.

‘You!’ Gaveston shouted, pointing a finger at me. ‘You were commissioned to discover the cause of all this.’ His eyes had that hunted look. I wondered if I should question him, but what was the use? He would lie. Gaveston was never one for revealing his innermost thoughts.

‘Well?’ he shouted.

‘My lord,’ I retorted, ‘how can I, when we flee up and down this kingdom like robbers put to the horn?’

Gaveston raised a fist. Demontaigu’s hand fell to his dagger. Ap Ythel hurried across and whispered into the Gascon’s ear. Gaveston half listened before spinning on his heel and sweeping out of the church. I curbed my own anger, becoming busy with the corpse. Dunheved picked up the key and walked away, his sandalled feet tapping on the flagstones.

‘No secret entrance here,’ he called, ‘no passageway.’ He paused, shook his head and came back to ask Demontaigu to give the dead man the last rites. My beloved agreed, kneeling to one side of the corpse, myself on the other. The words of absolution were whispered whilst I scrutinised the corpse: his fingers, the palms of the hands and the head. I could not detect any contusion or bruise, nothing to suggest that Middleton, his sacred medals and badges still glistening in the light, had been murdered. I stared around. Dunheved was now at the porch door, pushing the key in and out of the broken lock.

‘It would seem,’ I whispered once Demontaigu had finished, ‘that Middleton came here, moved that ladder and dispatched himself. The rope?’ I called out to the chaplain.

‘Oh,’ the chaplain hurried over, ‘there’s rope kept in the chapel chest in the sacristy.’ He spread his hands. ‘Mistress, this is a castle; rope is easy to find. .’ His voice trailed away.

‘So,’ I gestured, ‘Middleton came here early this morning.’ My raised voice stilled the clamour as the rest gathered around, including the Beaumonts, who acted like spectators at a mummery.

‘He brought in or collected some rope,’ I continued, ‘then locked the door, took the key out, moved that ladder, climbed up to secure the rope, fashioned a noose, tightened it around his neck and hanged himself.’ I paused. Demontaigu, ignoring Rosselin’s muttered objections, was now searching the dead man’s clothing. He removed his right boot and shook out a small roll of vellum. He undid this, read it and passed it to me. The large scrawled letters proclaimed the usual message: Aquilae Petri, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been both bought and sold.

I read the words aloud. Rosselin moaned quietly like a child.

‘Not suicide but murder,’ Demontaigu whispered.

‘So it is finished,’ Ap Ythel murmured in his sing-song voice. ‘Genethig — little one.’ He crouched down beside me. ‘Gaveston is both bought and sold. He is ruined.’

‘True, fy cyfaielin, my friend,’ I whispered back. ‘The only questions are when and how.’

I asked the chaplain to take care of the corpse. Demontaigu and Dunheved escorted Rosselin out into the garden. I knelt and inspected the corpse once more, as well as the ladder and rope. One of Ap Ythel’s archers was sawing at the noose just above the knot. He cut this and handed it to me for scrutiny, then I examined the rest of the chapel. The horn-glazed windows were narrow and sound. The door from the sacristy to the garden was rusted fast, as if it hadn’t been opened for years. The chaplain confirmed that there was no crypt or hidden entrance. Finally I inspected the door. The key had been fitted back into the ruined lock. I studied this and the rent hinges, then I glanced back down the small nave: nothing, no mark or sign of how Middleton had been murdered. Or had he, I wondered, received that taunting message about the Aquilae and decided to commit suicide? But would a man brimming with religious scruples and anxieties commit Judas’ sin? On the other hand, if he, a young warrior, had been murdered, how?

I joined the rest in the chapel garden. We sat on a turf seat near a trellis covered by climbing roses. The morning was proving clear and crisp, the flower fragrances most pleasing and soothing. It was a place unsuited to the macabre death and secret malevolence we’d just witnessed. Rosselin was still stricken by what had happened. I questioned him closely; he could tell me little. Middleton had been frightened, determined like Rosselin to stay from any high place. He’d turned even more to religion, praying before a triptych of Christ’s Passion in his chamber, worrying at any shadow. Rosselin sat, face cupped in his hands. He confessed how Middleton had discussed deserting Gaveston, but where could they go? Every man’s hand now was turned against them. Rosselin was a squire, a soldier, but this silent, ominous war against him and the others had broken his will and sapped his courage. He talked hauntingly of murder tripping behind him like a bailiff waiting to pounce. About a host of shadows lurking at the top of darkened stairs or gathered in a coven, peering at him from some high place. I asked him what he meant. He retorted how he and Middleton felt they’d been pursued by the furies, by the ghosts of their dead comrades, by wraiths swirling in a black cloud around them. I could not decide if he was being honest or just babbling in fear. He talked of a scraping against his door in the dead of night. How he’d gone out into the stairwell and heard a whispering, as if a pack of hunting demons were plotting in the darkness below. I shivered as I listened. The dead do walk amongst us. Demons lurk in corners watching the affairs of men. Nothing draws them so fast as the feast of murder, a banquet of hot blood spilt in anger. I believe the preacher who said that Satan studies us most intently, lips curling with pleasure as he glimpses another son or daughter of Cain, the father of murder.

‘Do you wish to confess?’ Demontaigu asked. ‘To be shriven?’

Rosselin gazed at him bleakly. ‘Too late, too late,’ he murmured, then he added those sombre words: ‘With hell we have made a compact, with death an agreement.’

‘And your master Gaveston?’ Dunheved asked. ‘Can he not help?’

Rosselin wasn’t really listening.

‘We flew so high,’ he muttered, ‘basking under his sun. Now we’re blackened and shrivelled, falling like stones.’

‘Please,’ I begged, ‘your four comrades are murdered. Can you not help us avenge them? Secure justice against their assassin?’

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, your sins do catch you out.’ He straightened up. ‘Who killed them?’ He shook his head. ‘How, why?’ He shrugged. ‘Punishment.’

‘For what?’

‘I choose,’ he lifted a hand, ‘you choose. Mathilde of Westminster,’ he said my name slowly, ‘watch your mistress! Subtle as a serpent she is.’

‘Nonsense,’ I retorted. ‘Are you saying her grace had a hand in these deaths?’

‘Subtle as a serpent!’ Rosselin abruptly paused, as if realising for the first time who he was talking to. Then he rose quickly to his feet, mumbling about having to wait on Lord Gaveston, and strode hurriedly away. We watched him go.

‘A man under sentence of death,’ Demontaigu observed. ‘I wonder if he will stay or flee.’

‘Where?’ Dunheved got to his feet. ‘Where can any of them flee?’

‘Perhaps at least we can find out what was in Middleton’s mind.’ Demontaigu opened his wallet and took out a small, thick key. ‘I found this on Middleton’s corpse; it must the key to his chamber.’