by Paul Doherty
‘I cannot help you, Mathilde, but come, come.’ He grasped my fingers and escorted me back to the ladder.
We reached the storey below, but instead of continuing down, Demontaigu took me into a shadowy, crumbling corner that stank of wetness and bird droppings.
‘Bertrand, what is it?’
He let go of my hand and stared at a point beyond me. I suppressed the shiver that prickled my spine and shoulders.
‘You asked whether any of my brethren could be involved in these mysterious deaths.’ He rubbed his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I said we were not, but I speak for the brethren, not for any individual. There could be one, mingling in disguise amongst the good friars.’
‘Ausel!’ I exclaimed. ‘But you said he’d gone into Scotland?’
‘I was sworn to secrecy, Mathilde.’ Demontaigu held my gaze, then sighed. ‘But you are also my secret. Ausel defied the master’s instructions. He said he would not leave England until he was avenged on Lisbon for that massacre. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life; you know Ausel . . .’ He squeezed my hand. ‘You saw him out on the heathland. He will not rest, not until he’s had blood.’ He walked to the ladder and stared down. ‘Ausel believes that Lanercost told Gaveston about the meeting at Devil’s Hollow, and that Gaveston, for God knows what reason, told Alexander of Lisbon.’ He grasped the sides of the ladder. ‘Ausel could be responsible for these deaths.’
We reached the bottom of the tower. Demontaigu collected his war-belt and declared he would search out Ausel. I grasped him by the arm. ‘Bertrand, let us walk a while.’ We left the church. A chamberlain, all flustered, came hurrying over to announce that the council meeting was adjourned but that her grace the queen needed me. I thanked the chamberlain and waited till he left.
‘Mathilde?’
‘Bertrand.’ I took him over to stand in the shelter of a porch. ‘That message left on each of the corpses? It mocks Gaveston, it declares he is finished – bought and sold.’
‘And so he is.’ Demontaigu squinted up at the sky. ‘Oh, I’ve heard the rumours about possible help from the Bruce. Publicly Gaveston says he is negotiating with Edward’s allies in Scotland.’ He pulled a face. ‘What allies? Secretly he may, on behalf of the king, be pleading for help from Bruce, but none of that will be in writing – too dangerous.’
‘And?’
‘It shows how desperate Gaveston is. Mathilde, this mummer’s play will end, but how?’ He shrugged, kissed me full on the lips and left.
The rest of the day was taken up with my mistress, who was silent but forceful. She had written a number of letters that I did not see, though I had to supervise their dispatch to Hull and other ports. Isabella was intent on leaving, so the rest of that day and the following morning were taken up with preparations. Only after the Angelus bell was I free to return to the mysteries confronting me and what I should do next. I remembered Eusebius. I left messages for Demontaigu about where I was going and went back into the church. The bell tower was empty, so I crossed the nave and went up the transept towards the shrine to St Francis. Sounds echoed through that vaulted space. I passed altars and chantry chapels all ghostly in the dim light. Occasionally a host of burning candles would pick out a wall painting of angels ascending into heaven, or St Francis embracing a leper, a disgusting figure depicted in all the horror of flaking snow-white skin, red mouth and blood-rimmed eyes. Statues and carvings glared sightlessly down at me. I became a little flustered, even frightened.
I recalled Eusebius telling me that the entrance to the charnel house lay directly beneath a mural depicting Christ’s Harrowing of Hell. I found that: a scrawling but vigorous depiction of Le Bon Seigneur standing on the shores of hell, hands outstretched to the legion of souls awaiting resurrection. The entrance was easy enough to find: a trap door of oaken slats smoothed to run level with the flagstones. Two hooks, through which a wooden bolt was passed, kept the trap door locked to its frame. The bolt had been withdrawn and lay to one side. I lifted the door. A glow of light from a lantern horn on the bottom step greeted me. ‘Eusebius,’ I called. ‘Eusebius?’ I went down the steps. I reached the bottom, lifted the lantern and stared around that macabre hall. A long passageway stretched before me. On either side were shelves crammed with the dead, tightly packed together. Row after row of skulls, some shiny white, others yellowy-black with decay, and beneath these, bones stacked like bundles of fire sticks. ‘Eusebius?’ I called. The charnel house held a chill that bit the flesh. My voice rang loud, echoing off the heavy stone. A rat scurried across my path, screeching at this intrusion on its hunting run. I walked down, raising the lantern, passing alcoves and recesses full of darkness. I did not stop. I was drawn by the glint of metal at the end of the passageway. On either side, stack after stack of skulls gazed at me. I reached the end, lifted the lantern and stared. Brother Eusebius was propped against the wall, his skull smashed by the thick bone tossed on to his lap, his grotesque face masked by blood through which sightless eyes glared bleakly at me. I crouched beside him. One hand still gripped a sword, the other a war-belt. On a shelf to my right the bones had been cleared away; there were oil lamps, which had guttered out, as well as a baking tin heaped with scraps of ribbon, coins, small medals and crosses.
‘You poor, poor magpie.’ I crossed myself. Eusebius had apparently used this place as a hideaway for the little items he’d been given or found in the church, including the war-belts of the two Aquilae. I found the second one behind his back. This half-witted lay brother had apparently been surprised by his killer; he’d made some pathetic attempt to defend himself, all to no avail. He’d been trapped in this macabre place and his skull staved in. God knows the reason why. I murmured a prayer, then spun round, alarmed at a sound behind me. I grabbed the lantern and raised it high, my other hand searching for my dagger. My imaginings deceived me, then I saw a shape move. At first I thought it was hurtling towards me, but that was a trick of the light. In truth it was moving away. I shouted at it to stop, but the wraith-like figure sped into the gloom. I pursued it as fast as I could, lantern in one hand, dagger in the other. It was fruitless. There was a pounding on the steps, then the trap door was raised and came crashing closed. Sweat-soaked, I put the lantern down and hurried up, but the door had been bolted shut. I crouched on the steps and stared across at the mounds of bones. The dead did not frighten me. I was more concerned about Eusebius’ murder. I went back to search again, but found nothing new. I returned to the steps, listening for the brothers. A short while passed. I heard footsteps and called out. Demontaigu replied. He drew back the bolt and helped me out. As he did so, I glimpsed a piece of fabric with a green and gold button attached to it. The device embroidered on it was a silver-gold fleur-de-lis against a dark green background, the one so proudly worn by the Beaumonts. I put that into my wallet and went and crouched at the foot of a pillar. The lantern horn created a pool of light before me. Demontaigu joined me, full of questions. I told him what had happened and what I’d found.
‘Not now!’ I protested at his questions. ‘I see no sense in all of this.’ I clambered to my feet. ‘Ausel?’
‘Disappeared,’ Demontaigu replied. ‘Gone into hiding. Ausel is adept at disguise; he will show himself when he wants to.’ He pointed across at the trap door. ‘I don’t think he had anything to do with that.’
I made no answer. We left the church, and I immediately informed the prior about what I’d found. Then Demontaigu and I helped the brothers remove Eusebius to the corpse house. I also collected the war-belts of the two dead Aquilae and had them dispatched to Rosselin with a message that they’d been found in a shadowy nook in the church. Father Prior had the good sense to realise that Eusebius’ murder was connected to the deaths of Gaveston’s henchmen. He wisely informed his shocked community that poor Eusebius had been killed by some wandering intruder and left it at that.
It was late in the day by the time I was free. The king and queen had left the friary for a banquet at the Guildhall. Demo
ntaigu returned to his search for Ausel, whilst I adjourned to my own chamber close to the queen’s. I washed and changed and rested a while to calm my humours, then distilled some powders and potions. I remember beating egg white in preparation for a treatment for open sores and wounds, mixing musk and amber for heavy coughs, theriac and valerian for agitation and finally preparing hellebore for fumigation, a potion that was constantly in use. As I worked, memories floated through my mind. Gaveston’s fear. Edward’s agitation. Isabella white as a statue. Leygrave, his broken corpse sprawled like some animal carcass. Eusebius’ busy whispers and sly, knowing smile. The bootprints on that slab so clear for me to see. The gloomy charnel house where Eusebius’ cunning had been silenced for ever. That shadow flitting through the murk, and finally the scrap of cloth and the ornamental button displaying the coat of arms so beloved by the Beaumonts. A series of images with no logic to them.
Once I had finished distilling the herbs, I sat at my small writing desk and began to list everything I knew. I chose a large sheet of costly vellum, the type Isabella used for her letters, and wrote down what I’d seen, heard and reflected upon. The great Trotula maintains that the fundamental syllogism of medicine is that if the human body was perfect, all its senses would be keener. We would, for example, have the power of smell of a dog or the eyesight of a cat. The human body, however, is not perfect, so we can observe what is wrong in the symptoms of all its functions, be it the twenty-nine for the urine or the five signs of approaching death. Now, the detection of murder and the diagnosis of disease have a great deal in common. I decided it was time to list these symptoms and study them carefully.
Primo: The massacre at Devil’s Hollow was carried out by the Noctales, but who had told them that a party of Templars fresh out of Scotland would be there at that time? Was it Geoffrey Lanercost, who’d learnt it from his brother? Or someone else who knew the precise details? Yet who could that be?
Secundo: Lanercost himself. He took his war-belt off and went up into that bell tower. Why? Whom did he meet? If the person was his murderer, how could he, or possibly they, overcome a young, vigorous warrior and throw him to his death. And why there?
Tertio: Leygrave. Why did he go up to the same place where his comrade had been killed? Apparently he too felt safe enough to leave his war-belt behind. Again, a young warrior. If he’d stood on the edge, why? Was he forced? Did he jump, or was he pushed? Yet the fire boy from the bakery heard no scream; he simply saw Leygrave fall like a stone.
Quarto: Why the bell tower, that dirty, narrow chamber, those bells swinging out? I had been in danger there. So who had watched me go up? Was it out of mischief or malice that those bell ropes were pulled? Eusebius or the assassin?
Quinto: Eusebius. Why was he murdered? Someone followed him down into that charnel house and shattered his skull to silence his gossiping mouth for ever. Why? What did the lay brother know?
Sexto: The cryptic message to the Aquilae about Gaveston being bought and sold. The writer was warning Gaveston’s henchmen that their lord was finished. Was the assassin punishing the Aquilae, or was it part of a devious plot to destroy Gaveston and all his coven? If so, when would the assassin strike at Gaveston himself?
Septimo: The Beaumonts. That rent of cloth and the button pointed to their possible involvement in Eusebius’ death, but why? And what did Beaumont really discuss with Lanercost?
Octavo: Isabella and her stony-still attitude. What was she plotting?
Nono: Edward and Gaveston, trapped here in York with the earls closing in. What could they do? What would happen if both king and favourite were apprehended by the earls?
I reviewed what I’d written whilst from outside drifted the sounds of the friary as the brothers prepared for prayer and the onset of darkness. My own eyes grew heavy, my mind tired, my body begging for sleep. I rested easy that night; it was just as well. The following day, Edward and Gaveston began their own descent into hell. Scurriers, coated in mud, their horses dropping with exhaustion, galloped through the friary gatehouse. The news they brought was dire. The earls were much closer to York then the king had ever suspected. Lanercost and Leygrave’s deaths were swept aside by the thunderous roar of that hurling time. The court fell into a panic. Edward and Gaveston had no choice but to flee. Carts were hitched, sumpter ponies and pack animals trotted out. The great hunt had begun. The earls were determined to trap Gaveston and send him into eternal night. In their proclamations there was no tolerance, no mention of compromise. If Gaveston was taken, Gaveston would die. Hell opened its maw to spit out all forms of troubles. The weather turned changeable. Rain storms and lashing winds clogged the muddy roads. Gaveston and Edward were forced to move swiftly, leaving Isabella to follow slowly behind. A long trail of carts and horses moved across desolate moorlands in weather that had abruptly changed from the sweetness of spring to the icy memories of winter, with sleeting rains and biting winds. A harsh time. We were caught out in the open like tired, dispirited troops fleeing from a battlefield. We warmed ourselves before weak camp-fires, wore sodden clothes and groaned and itched at our saddle sores. We gobbled ill-cooked food and drank brackish water and wine more bitter than vinegar. We were like deer trapped in a hunting run. Isabella and the remains of her household desperately followed the king, whilst to the rear and flanks our pursuers crowded us like hungry hounds: the retinues of Lancaster, Hereford, Warwick and Pembroke, their banners and pennants displaying the various coats of arms. The hunting pack were in full flow. They did not close in but waited to see what would happen. Chaos descended.
Edward and Gaveston eventually decided to wait for the queen. A hasty council was convened in some wayside tavern. The die was cast. There, in a dirty tap room, its windows covered with filthy rags, rotting onions hanging from the blackened rafters, the tawdry settle stools and tables glistening with grease, a smoky fire shooting out foulsome fumes, the decision was made. Around the tavern were camped Ap Ythel and his comitatus loyal to the king; there was no one else. The great earls were winning the day; their outriders clashed with our scouts, whilst the sheriffs and great manor lords of Northumbria either did not receive the royal writs summoning troops or pretended they hadn’t. Worse news came hot on our heels. A powerful Scottish war band had crossed the northern march: mounted mailed men and a host on foot. Bruce was not only winning in Scotland but was ruthlessly determined to exploit Edward’s weaknesses. My mistress looked exhausted, and to be fair to Edward, he sensed that she could no longer continue. In the dim light of that tavern it was agreed. Edward and Gaveston would continue north. Isabella and her retinue, guarded by the Aquilae and their henchmen, would shelter at Tynemouth. Alexander of Lisbon was already there to bolster the garrison. All non-combatants, household retainers, priests and chaplains, including Dunheved, would accompany the queen.
We approached Tynemouth late the next morning. A long line of carts and horses moving along a narrow track-way up towards the great castle built round a Benedictine priory, which perched on a sheer headland overlooking the Tyne estuary and the sullen northern seas. Tynemouth! A great craggy, jutting monument of stone with its high curtain wall on the land side, the rest guarded by sheer cliffs. The western approach was heavily fortified, not only by the curtain wall but by a three-storey fortified gatehouse and barbican. A fearsome, brooding place of war, which dominated the surrounding countryside and kept a sharp eye on the coastal routes. Stark in its purpose, Tynemouth was no country manor or royal palace, but a place built for strife. The day we entered was bright and clear, yet even this could not dispel a sense of brooding menace. I glimpsed archers high on the crenellated walls, and the tops of mangonels and catapults alongside the royal standards and pennants flapping vigorously, their colours bright against the light morning sky. As we entered the castle, we passed one of those ancient crosses covered in mysterious symbols and carvings. A local anchorite, hearing of our approach, had come out to lecture us as we passed.
‘What is man but snow under the sun, dust in
the breeze, a flurry upon the water? We flash like an arrow through light to dark! A short-lit spark! A common reed! Frail grass! A delicate flower! Mist on the ground! Smoke in the air! Foam on the wave!’
Oh, I remember those words as we cantered on under the yawning gatehouse and into the great bailey, where dark-garbed Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales, together with the Castellan and his retinue, were waiting to greet us. I had to curb my tongue, control my feelings at the sight of these mercenaries, some three score in all, lounging around in their half-armour, all harnessed and ready for war. These men, warming themselves around braziers as they fed their faces, had tried to kill me. I avoided their arrogant gazes and tried to ignore their golden-black war pennants and banners attached to poles stuck in the ground. Beneath these sprawled their war-dogs, lounging in the weak morning sun. The Castellan a veteran soldier from the old king’s days, hastily stepped forward, as if aware of Isabella’s distaste for Lisbon and his ilk. The queen was welcomed in a brief but courteous speech. Afterwards we were quickly escorted out of the bailey and up to what used to be called the Prior’s Lodgings, high on the south wall. The Castellan, God bless him, tried his best to make the queen comfortable, but it was an eagle’s eyrie. On the land side it overlooked the castle; on the other three sides the lashing waves and dark swollen sea groaning under a lowering sky. Around the arrow-slit windows seagulls and other birds provided a strident chorus from dawn to dusk. The wind, when it swung from the north, was bitter, sharp and heavily salted, keen to penetrate the thickest shutters or heaviest hangings. Outside the castle stretched wild moorlands you would be only too happy to escape from and, inside, pressing in, curling and twisting, a thick veil of mist which could deepen swiftly to cover Tynemouth like a heavy shroud, dulling sound, turning that castle and its turrets, walls and towers into a place of shifting shapes.
