by Paul Doherty
The next two days were taken up with household affairs. Isabella, alarmed at the news from the south, ordered her officers to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. I supervised the packing of the wardrobe, items such as £6 worth of silk for stitching on robes, £20 of silver thread, four dozen mantlets, thirty pairs of stockings, ten bodices, a tunic of triple Sindon, heavy linen, as well as forty tunics of Lucca. The queen’s jewel caskets were crammed with rubies, sapphires, emeralds and other precious stones then locked, sealed and placed on carts. At the same time Isabella had letters drawn up and dispatched, whether it be to her officials in the exchequer at Westminster or to the Royal Hospital of St Katherine’s by the Tower, which she so generously patronised. She wanted everyone to realise that, although exiled in the north, she still kept a sharp eye on her interests, be it in Westminster, London or elsewhere. I also had medical duties: the preparation of electuaries on a broad sheet of lead with an oak base, mixing grains of paradise with cinnamon, or the various potions for my ointment pots. Isabella herself was in vigorous health, though she remained quiet and withdrawn, as if silently brooding over a grievance she could not share with me.
A few days after Lanercost’s death, following the Aquilae’s requiem mass and hasty burial in the commoners’ side of God’s Land in the Franciscan cemetery, Edward called a meeting of his chamber council in the prior’s parlour. I remember the detail so vividly. The parlour was truly a magnificent room, with a hooded fireplace of marble built against the outside wall. Despite the late date, pine logs dusted with dried herbs crackled merrily and gave off a perfumed smell. The weather had certainly turned bitter. Icy rain pelted the small oriel windows with their painted mullions and transepts, making the brightly decorated linen curtains dance in the draught. Settles, stools and benches had been pushed away, leaving the room dominated by a great oak table with leather-upholstered seats placed around it. The tiles on the floor, decorated with heraldic devices, were covered in thick, lush Turkey cloths, whilst on the walls, tapestries and hangings extolled the joys of the chase alongside brilliantly coloured murals describing scenes from the life of St Francis. On a great open aumbry directly opposite the fireplace, jewelled plate, Venetian glass and metalwork of Damascus glittered in the light of a host of beeswax candles, as well as torches burning fiercely in cressets driven high into the wall. This was the king’s chamber, where Edward and Gaveston closeted themselves to discuss the eternal crisis. They talked and talked but did so little. They were suspicious of everybody so they preferred to lurk deep in some place they considered safe. The prior’s parlour, large and cavernous, was ideal: its walls were thick, the door heavy. There were no eyelets or gaps in the wall for eavesdroppers, whilst above was no other chamber; just brightly painted beams decorated with banners and pennants of the royal household. A huge chest near the table, its lid thrown back, was crammed with documents, most of them letters and memoranda sent to the king by his spies in the south, informing him about what was happening.
On that particular day, Edward had apparently made a decision, a rare event. Both king and favourite, as usual, were dressed alike in heavy blue and scarlet surcotes fringed with gold and lined at the neck and cuff with costliest ermine. Both had shaved and oiled their faces, their hair neatly combed and tidied. The king sat at one end of the great table, Gaveston at the other. On Edward’s right was Isabella, dressed in a sleeveless cyclas of green-gold decorated with silver-gilt love-knots over a pure white undergown; a gauze veil across netted cauls hid her lovely hair. On the other side of the table sat Lady Vesci, Dunheved and myself next to Henry Beaumont and his brother, all cloaked and muffled against the seeping cold. I watched my mistress intently; she kept looking down at the table, slipping a sapphire ring on and off the middle finger of her left hand, as Edward explained his reasons for the meeting. He had, he announced, made a dreadful mistake. He made the declaration in a slurred voice, then gazed sadly down at Gaveston.
‘His grace,’ the favourite chose his words carefully, ‘now realises that we are trapped here in the north. Our couriers report how the earls completely control the roads south as well as all bridges and river crossings.’
‘So no help can come north.’ Henry Beaumont stated the obvious. He undid the cloth button of his cloak, which displayed the royal heraldic device he was so proud of: silver lilies on a green background. He threw off the cloak, revealing a costly green jerkin underneath, then shook his shoulders and gestured at the door. ‘We have no troops. Only Ap Ythel and his Welsh archers, our own retinues and whatever local levies we can summon.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Gaveston’s half-whisper was a chilling indictment of Edward’s incompetence. He’d locked himself in York and could summon no troops; little wonder he had to tolerate mercenaries such as the Noctales, turn a blind eye to massacre and murder and ignore the death of Lanercost. I had been so immersed in my own troubles that only then did the real danger besetting the Crown and my mistress seep in like a river, swollen with rain, that abruptly rises and breaks its banks. Edward was not only a fugitive in his own kingdom but in grave danger of losing his crown.
‘No help out of France?’ Lady Vesci murmured.
Edward just shook his head.
‘And Scotland?’ Dunheved asked.
‘To even treat with them is dangerous and treasonable,’ Beaumont bellowed. ‘So what is to be done?’
‘Your grace.’ Dunheved rose, pushing back his chair. ‘I beg you,’ the Dominican had a powerful preacher’s voice, ‘as confessor to both your grace and the queen, I can come to only one conclusion. My lord Gaveston, the Earl of Cornwall, should he not leave the kingdom for a while, shelter well away from the king?’
‘You mean exile, Brother Stephen?’ Edward glared at the Dominican. ‘For what purpose? How can I be king yet allow my subjects to dictate who sits at my council board?’
No one dared answer him. Edward’s rages were sudden and furious. I glanced at Isabella. She sat motionless, still playing with that ring, lost in her own thoughts.
‘I have,’ Gaveston stirred in his chair, ‘ordered Scarborough Castle on the coast to be provisioned and fortified. It’s only a short journey to the east.’ He paused as Dunheved quietly clapped his hands in approval. Sic tempora – such are the times! Scarborough! A place of refuge! Oh, so true are the words of the psalmist: My ways are not your ways. My thoughts are not your thoughts, yea, even as high as heavens are above the earth, so are my thoughts above yours! Gaveston had unwittingly chosen the stage for the rest of that murderous charade to be played out. At the time, however, the prospect of refuge in a castle was seized on by the Beaumonts as a compromise. Scarborough, so we thought, could be easily defended. More importantly, it boasted a small port, and if Gaveston changed his mind, it was an ideal place from which to slip into exile.
The favourite then moved to the question of supplies for the journey to the coast. He was explaining how he would use his own henchmen, the Aquilae, to scour the roads to Scarborough when the harmony of the friary was shattered by the clanging of the tocsin, a constant tolling of the church bells. Edward sprang to his feet, shouting for Ap Ythel. The Welsh captain and his company threw open the door and thronged into the chamber, swords already drawn. Beaumont yelled for his own war-harness to be brought, while his brother Louis quickly donned a stole, a sign that he was a cleric and carried no sword. For a while we thought that Lancaster and the earls had, through forced marches, secretly slipped into York and reached the friary. The parlour became a scene of shouting and mayhem. Only my mistress remained seated; she’d taken ivory and mother-of-pearl Ave beads out of her purse and was sifting them carefully through her fingers. I went and crouched by her chair. She smiled down at me and gently stroked my head.
‘My lady, you are silent?’
‘Video atque taceo,’ she murmured. ‘I watch and keep silent, as will you, Mathilde. Watch!’ A hand bell, raucously rung, stilled the clamour in the parlour. A young Franciscan, gasping for breath, forced himself through the crow
d to kneel before the king, who stood, arms outstretched, as Ap Ythel strapped on the royal sword-belt.
‘Your grace.’ The friar spoke in the local patois, then changed to Norman French. ‘Your grace, there is no danger, but,’ he lifted his head, ‘one of my lord Gaveston’s squires, Master Leygrave, he’s been found in the same way . . .’
The rest of his statement was drowned by shouts of consternation. Gaveston undid his own sword-belt and sat down on his chair, fingers to his lips like a frightened child. Edward glanced at me and gestured with his head to leave.
‘Go,’ Isabella hissed, not lifting her face. ‘Go, Mathilde! Vide atque tace – watch and keep silent!’
Escorted by a dark-faced Ap Ythel and three of his archers, all dressed in their leather breastplates, faces almost hidden by their deep cowls, I left the prior’s parlour. We went down hollow-sounding galleries, across the garden plots into the great yard or bailey, its cobbles sparkling in the rain. A crowd had gathered. The three Aquilae clustered around Leygrave’s corpse which was sprawled grotesquely, the blood from his cracked head mingling with the muddy rain. I forced my way through. Leygrave lay almost in the same spot as Lanercost. I glanced quickly up at the tower, those ominous windows . . .
‘Mistress.’ Brother Eusebius shuffled forward. ‘I rang the Angelus bell, I recited the prayer: Angelus Domini annuntiavit Mariae – the Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary—’
‘Yes, yes,’ I interrupted.
‘Well, I had reached the seventh toll,’ he squinted up at the sky, ‘and the screaming began outside.’
‘We were close by,’ Rosselin added. ‘In fact we were looking for Philip; he’d been with us when we broke our fast, then left.’
Rosselin’s hair and face were soaked with rain, his leather jerkin and those of his two companions drenched black by the downpour. They were agitated, frightened men. They’d donned their war-belts, though, like Lanercost, Leygrave hadn’t.
‘Where,’ I asked, thanking Eusebius with a nod of my head, ‘are his sword and dagger?’
‘God knows.’ Rosselin abruptly got to his feet.
He and the others were expressing their fear by yelling at the curious to stand back. Dunheved came bustling through, stole around his neck, a jar of holy oils in his hand. I let him administer extreme unction over the corpse and stared back towards the church. Demontaigu stood in the doorway. I beckoned him over as Brother Eusebius whispered hoarsely in my ear, ‘They were the ones!’
‘What?’ I asked.
The lay brother pointed a bony finger across to the main door leading into the yard, where the Beaumonts sheltered against the rain.
‘What did they do?’ I asked.
‘Talked to the dead man.’
‘You mean Leygrave?’ I drew closer, aware of Dunheved’s voice murmuring the absolution.
‘No, the other one, the first to fly like an eagle.’
I glanced at Eusebius’ foolish face and realised his wits were sharper than had first appeared.
‘Saw them speaking to him, the morning he fell,’ Eusebius added, ‘out in the apple orchard.’ His voice grew hoarser. ‘Sees a lot, does Brother Eusebius, and for some coins, he could tell you much more.’ Then he scuttled away.
Dunheved finished his anointing, then he rose, smiled and hurried off. The Aquilae clustered around the battered corpse. I inspected it carefully: a gruesome mass of bruises and shattered bones, cracks to the skull and ghastly wounds disfiguring his face. One arm was no more than a coil of thick hardening flesh, his right leg horribly twisted.
‘Did anyone see him fall?’ I asked.
Rosselin called across a young lad clutching a bundle of sticks. By the flour on his apron, he was the fire boy from the nearby bakery, sent out to the wood stall to collect kindling. I beckoned him closer and spoke to him. In halting phrases and an accent I could scarcely understand, the fire boy explained how he collected wood for the master baker. He’d left the wood stall and glanced up at the tower because of the gossip and chatter, then he’d seen it. I offered a coin; it was snatched away. The boy grew animated, chattering like a sparrow. I had to urge him to speak slower as he described how he saw something black, ‘like a monstrous raven’, fall from the tower. The body dropped like a stone. No, declared the boy, he saw no movement of the legs or arms. He heard no scream. All he saw was the body spin, hit the sloping roof of the church then bounce like a ball along the tiles and over and down into the cobbled yard. I tweaked his cheek, thanked him and said his kindling might get wet, so he hurried off.
The Aquilae had also heard the boy’s tale. They could tell me little about Leygrave except that he was Lanercost’s close friend, deeply downcast at the death of his comrade. Accompanied by Demontaigu, I led them away from the eavesdroppers up into the deep porch of the church. As I did so, I glimpsed the Beaumonts sloping across to watch a group of lay brothers lift Leygrave on to a stretcher brought from the infirmary. I ignored them. We sheltered from the rain beneath the tympanum showing Christ on the Last Day carrying out judgement above the phrase carved in stone: Hic est locus terribilis! Domus Dei et Porta Caeli: This is a terrible place! The House of God and the Gate of Heaven.
‘Mistress,’ Rosselin rubbed a thumbnail around his lips, ‘we must attend to Leygrave’s corpse. What do you want?’
‘An assassin is hunting you,’ I replied. ‘Who it is and why, I don’t know. Two of your comrades have been barbarously murdered. All of you may well be marked for slaughter. So I ask you, I beg you, why?’
Those three young men, who’d flown so high and basked in all of Gaveston’s glory, could only stare sullenly back. Rosselin handed across a piece of parchment.
‘I found that, tucked into the rim of Leygrave’s boot.’
I knew what it contained even before I undid the small roll of vellum.
‘Aquilae Petri, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been both bought and sold.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked. ‘Is that all you can offer me?’
‘It is all I can say; it is all we can tell you.’ Rosselin tucked his thumbs into his war-belt gleaming with glittering studs. ‘True, we are frightened, mistress. The case against us presses hard. We take your warning, we heed your advice. This is a matter, À l’outrance – to the death.’ He bowed and, followed by the rest, left the porch.
I took Demontaigu deeper into the church. There I stopped and leaned against a pillar, staring down at the gorgeously decorated rood screen.
‘Is this the work of the Templars, Bertrand?’
‘No.’ He drew closer, crossing himself. ‘I understand your suspicions, Mathilde, but no.’ He glanced away. ‘I don’t think so. We should leave.’
I winked at him. ‘We’ll have other visitors soon.’
‘Who?’
I lifted my finger to my lips, even as the door latch snapped and the Beaumonts came into the church, stamping and shaking the rainwater from their cloaks and boots.
‘We meet again, mistress.’ Henry Beaumont swaggered forward. He sketched a courteous bow and glanced sharply at Demontaigu. ‘The queen’s clerk,’ he murmured, ‘deep in conversation with the queen’s shadow.’
‘We are all shadows under God’s sun,’ I retorted.
The Beaumonts simply stared back.
‘So why have you followed me here?’ I asked. ‘To discover what I know? That is very little! Or to tell me what you and Lanercost were discussing out in the apple orchard on the morning he died?’
Lady Vesci’s smile faded. Louis coughed and turned away. Henry remained ebullient as ever.
‘Direct, mistress, so I will be equally direct back.’ He gazed quickly at Demontaigu. ‘Take your hand away from your dagger, Templar; you are only here by the queen’s grace.’
‘And God’s,’ Demontaigu retorted.
‘Perhaps,’ Beaumont replied, ‘but God seems to have deserted your order. Now, Mistress Mathilde, I’ll be honest.’ He was standing so close I could smell the wine on his breath. �
�I met Lanercost because I wanted to know what he took into Scotland, what the king truly intends. Rumours about possible Scottish help buzz around like bees.’
‘In which case, that’s the king’s business, secret to him.’
‘Is it?’ Beaumont snapped his fingers. ‘I wonder. Think, woman! Gaveston is in great danger. The hawks circle. Your mistress, God save her, is enceinte. Does Gaveston politic for her, for the king or just for himself? Gaveston’s business could be a threat not only to me but to us all.’ He stepped back, bowed and, followed by his kin, sauntered out of the church.
‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Demontaigu said thoughtfully, ‘if Bruce will help or not.’
I nodded and glanced down that sombre nave. The vigorous wall paintings, proclaiming the punishments of hell and the glories of heaven, seemed to press in on me. My mind was caught by the depiction of a king and queen thronged in glory.
‘Court life is like a body,’ I replied, ‘full of all sorts of strange humours. I want to study the particular symptoms of what is now happening.’ I crossed over and opened the door to the bell tower. Inside it was deserted. Asking Demontaigu to accompany me, I grasped the ladder and was about to climb when I caught the glint of a stud. I picked it up and recognised that I’d seen the same on the ostentatious war-belts the Aquilae liked to wear. I handed it to Demontaigu.
‘Why should it be lying here?’
Demontaigu grinned. ‘Because,’ he unstrapped his own belt, tossed it to the floor then indicated the ladder, ‘it is hard enough to climb through so narrow an opening; sword and dagger would make it very clumsy.’
‘So that is why Lanercost and Leygrave weren’t wearing theirs.’ I stared around. ‘Brother Eusebius has more to answer for.’
We climbed the ladder into the bell tower. We searched and probed, but that dusty ancient chamber refused to yield its secrets about the mysterious deaths of those two young men. I scrutinised the slippery, sloping window slab very carefully. I found no trace of blood, but I did detect very clearly the marks of boots, the broad sole and narrow heel of the Cordovan type much favoured by Gaveston and his Aquilae. The slab was smooth and the imprint of drying mud in the centre of the ledge quite pronounced. God forgive me, I should have been sharper. I put aside any closer scrutiny and reached the obvious conclusion that Leygrave must have stood on that ledge and then . . . what? If he had stood there then he must have been contemplating suicide. Or was he pushed, forced, blackmailed? Yet why did he come up here in the first place, unarmed, to this lonely, stark belfry where his close companion and comrade had also died so mysteriously? Someone else had definitely been involved in their deaths; hence that cryptic, jibing message. I looked over my shoulder. Demontaigu was staring at me strangely. I voiced my suspicions. He walked around the wooden platform and stretched out a hand.
