Mathild 03 - The Darkening Glass

by Paul Doherty

  Chapter 6

  They had resolved to carry off the Queen of England.

  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 an
d 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.