Mathild 03 - The Darkening Glass

by Paul Doherty

  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 w
ere 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 cortège 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, n
othing 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.