by Paul Doherty
You have poured us a wine which has befuddled us.
My eyes are wasting with weeping.
The vision we were offered has been misleading and false.
Flight will not save the swift. The bowman will not stand his ground, the horseman is trapped.
‘As he was,’ I murmured, handing the psalter to Dunheved. ‘Middleton was a soul torn by guilt and fear. He realised he was anointed for death.’ Dunheved read the psalter, whilst Demontaigu and I searched Middleton’s other possessions. We found nothing of interest.
‘A man witless with fear,’ Dunheved remarked, putting the psalter down. He turned to face the crucifix and crossed himself.
‘Why, why was he killed like that?’ Demontaigu sat on a stool, staring up at me. ‘And the others? Why not a dagger slipping through the dark or an arrow loosed from the shadows?’
‘Subtlety,’ I replied, sitting down on the bed. ‘Here we are locked in this gloomy castle. Middleton, who ostentatiously prayed for protection, was killed in that chapel. Now a place of blood, it is deconsecrated, its harmony and peace shattered. Mass cannot be celebrated there until a bishop reconsecrates it. An unlawful death in a holy place; now the garrison have no real place for mass. If it was murder, and I think it was, greater mysteries are fostered. How? According to the evidence there are only two entrances to that chapel: the sacristy door, but that’s secured fast and sealed with age, and the main porch door. Yet that was locked from within. So,’ I sighed, ‘how did the assassin kill a nervous, wiry young man, stringing him up from that beam like a hunk of meat? Again, there’s that taunting verse about eagles.’
‘But Middleton was not hurled from the battlements.’
‘No, but he was flung from that ladder with a noose around his neck,’ I retorted. ‘Don’t forget, Middleton and Rosselin became very wary of heights, towers and battlements. Middleton stayed well away from such places.’
‘So Middleton’s death,’ Dunheved asked ‘was a subtle attack?’
‘Oh yes! Such a mysterious death, and the despondency it provokes will seep like foul smoke through this castle,’ I replied. ‘Even here, Middleton’s corpse loudly proclaims, the great Lord Gaveston is not safe. Even here, in this strong fortified place, death can strike like some hidden assassin, his bow strung and arrow notched. Middleton, for all his medals, badges and prayers, could not escape his fate. And what was that? To swing by his neck like some crow a farmer hoists on his fence to warn off other marauders.’
‘But why Middleton?’ Demontaigu broke in. ‘The assassin is undoubtedly sly, devious and cunning.’
‘And?’ I asked.
‘Never once,’ Demontaigu lowered his voice, ‘has Gaveston been attacked or threatened in any way – why not? Why kill his retainers but not the Great Lord?’
‘As I said, to create unease.’ I recalled Isabella’s words about the assassin removing the guards first. ‘Perhaps his time has yet to come.’
‘Or could the assassin be Gaveston himself?’ Dunheved whispered.
‘Why?’
‘God knows.’ The Dominican’s harsh, smooth face broke into a smile; try as he might, Dunheved found it difficult to hide his dislike of the royal favourite.
‘Subtle but cunning,’ I declared. ‘What I said to Gaveston was true: he hastens here and he hastens there. A death occurs here, a death occurs there. Do we ever stay long enough to scrutinise the ground, to search for the symptoms? No, and it is true here. We have discovered nothing except that Middleton was terrified of sudden death, which unfortunately for him did close like a trap about him . . .’
There was little more to add. We left the chamber and went our different ways. I was still disturbed by Demontaigu’s question. Why had the Aquilae been killed but Gaveston, so far, had not even suffered a scratch? Could he be the killer? But why? I returned to the chapel and stepped through the broken doorway. I examined the key and walked around the walls into the sanctuary and sacristy – nothing. I left the chapel and went up on to the battlements and stared longingly out. A heat haze now hung over the small town below and misted the far horizon. A breeze cooled the sweat on my face. Trumpets called, shouts and cries echoed up from the baileys. I leaned against the crenellations and wondered how this would end. Scarborough was a trap. Would we escape?
Later that same day Gaveston called one of his chamber councils: myself, Dunheved, Rosselin and the Beaumonts. The latter appeared in all their splendour, full of questions about Middleton’s death and when the king would arrive. The more I watched and listened, the more I grew aware of why the Beaumonts had planted their standards so firmly alongside Gaveston’s. They were fortune-hunters, gamblers. If Gaveston survived, he would be in their debt. If he went down, the king would remember their loyalty and perhaps they could fill Gaveston’s place at court as well as in the king’s heart. Just as importantly, they remained close to the king’s chamber, where they could spy and eavesdrop on the royal council as well as keep a vigilant eye on their estates in Scotland. Nevertheless, the Beaumonts had finally realised which way the wind was blowing and had reached a conclusion. Gaveston was in dire peril and it was time for them be gone, at least for a while. Henry loudly questioned why they had to shelter here. What troops would the king bring? Such hot words made little impression. Gaveston slouched in his chair, a broken man, waving his hand, airily talking about the king sweeping up with masses of royal levies. He’d certainly drunk deep and loudly mourned Middleton and the deaths of the other Aquilae, who had been so cruelly brought low. He yelled questions at me, then rose and walked down to Rosselin. He clapped his henchman on the shoulder, promising that one of Ap Ythel’s archers would guard him day and night. In that dusty chamber, with the sun pouring through the lancet windows against the crumbling plaster and the faded colours of the battered shields fastened on the walls, the glass darkened even further. Gaveston returned to his chair, gabbling on about the past glories of his beloved Aquilae, then he dismissed us with a wave of his hand.
Later that day news arrived. Royal couriers, sweat-soaked and grey with dust, thundered through the gatehouse, swinging themselves out of the saddle, hands clutching the pouches of letters they brought. We waited a while; no mention was made of the king arriving, but the great earls were certainly on the march. Edward sheltered at York. The queen, much to my surprise, had separated herself from the king and was residing at the royal manor of Burstwick on the Humber peninsula. More curious still, a powerful French squadron of war-cogs had appeared, cruising off the mouth of the Humber, though with banners and pennants lowered in a sign of peace. The sorrows were gathering. Seeds were sown of a harvest that would come to crop year in and year out for decades to come, each with its own noxious fruit.
Our sense of foreboding deepened. Middleton’s death, despite Gaveston’s strictures, was whispered about as something ghastly, deeply malevolent, as if Satan, the provost of hell, had pitched camp in that grim fortress. Even during the day, when the sun shone in an angelic blue sky, our mood was always tinged by the fear of night and the descent into darkness. Once the daylight faded, strange sounds were heard throughout the castle. A sepulchral voice bellowed down hollow, vaulted passageways. Lights and fires were glimpsed where they should not have been. Strange groans and cries echoed along the empty stone corridors. One story fed upon another. A bat became a winged demon. A night bird’s shriek the chant of a stricken soul; perhaps Middleton’s, still earth-bound by his heavy chains of sin. Gaveston kept more and more to himself. Rosselin was rarely seen, and when he was, he was deep in his cups, his chamber constantly guarded by one of Ap Ythel’s archers. On the few occasions I visited the Aquila, he would first pull back the grille high on the door and glare out at me. He would allow me in but could not help me with my questions. He was a broken man hiding in a filthy chamber.
Some days after Middleton’s death, early in the morning, around Matins hour, we were all aroused by the clanging of the tocsin. I rose and peered through the window. A beacon fire h
ad been lit along the battlements. Outside rose the call to arms. I dressed and hurried out, cloak about me, boots pulled over my bare feet. The warning bell high on its scaffold somewhere in the inner bailey had fallen silent, but men were still hurriedly strapping on harness and war-belt. Servants running beside them held torches; all were scrambling up the steep, dangerous steps to the castle walls. The clash of the portcullis, the winch of catapults being prepared cut through the cold night air, drowning the cries and shouts, the raucous barking of dogs and the frightened neighing of horses in the stables.
Demontaigu and I joined the others high on the windswept battlements. Guards were pointing out. Ap Ythel’s archers were stringing their bows. Captains of the parapet shouted instructions. The night breeze carried the iron tang of water and oil being boiled on hastily prepared fires beneath. Ap Ythel, cursing loudly, roared at the others climbing the steps to stay below, to douse the fires and wait for his orders. Constable Warde came hurrying up. He and Ap Ythel conferred in hushed whispers. They leaned against the parapet wall, staring into the darkness, trying to establish what dangers threatened.
‘Can you see anything?’ Ap Ythel called. ‘Anything at all?’
We peered out across the darkened town lit by pricks of light. The constable quietly cursed and shouted an order to his troops below. A postern door was loosened to the clatter of chains and the drawing of bolts.
‘They are sending out scouts,’ Demontaigu whispered.
The line of men along the parapet relaxed. Dunheved shouted my name from the bailey below but I could not catch his words. Gaveston, swathed in a cloak, came clumsily up the steps clutching a goblet of wine, loudly demanding to know what was wrong. The constable whispered furiously to him. Gaveston toasted the darkness with his cup and staggered back down. I followed. Dunheved came out of the darkness and clutched my arm.
‘What is wrong, Mathilde? Beacon fires burning, tocsins sounding? I was trying to find out . . .’
‘You know much as we do, Brother.’ I gazed across the bailey; the wind was whipping the torch flames to a furious dance.
Accompanied by Dunheved, I asked a guard to take me into the inner bailey to show me the high wooden scaffold from which the great tocsin bells were hung. The man pulled a face but agreed. Once there, I climbed the steps on to the wooden dais. The rope for the bells still hung loose. I stared up and made out the yawning rims glinting in the light from my companion’s torch. I had seen or heard nothing from the castle walls. I suspected the alarm was some madcap hoax, a suspicion the returning scouts confirmed. No force, friendly or hostile, had entered the town.
The constable immediately summoned everyone down into the large bailey and led them across into the refectory, where tired-faced servants served us fresh milk and strips of yesterday’s bread. We gathered around the tables as Warde shouted questions no one could answer. The ringing of the tocsin, the lighting of the beacon fire and the rumours that had swept the fortress about the king approaching – or was it the earls? – could not be explained. The constable, red-faced with anger, stalked out. We and the rest drifted back to our own chambers.
The real cause for the alarm was revealed in all its horror the next morning. A servant hastened into the chapel garden to breathlessly inform me, Demontaigu and Dunheved that John Rosselin, God save his soul, squire to Lord Gaveston, had been found dead outside Queen’s Tower. He took us across the bailey and around the donjon to the rocky incline that stretched about its base. Rosselin lay sprawled, gashed and saturated in his own blood, on the sharp cobbles. Gruesome bruises marked his face. The right side of his skull was completely staved in, like the wood of a broken cask. He was dressed in a soiled shirt, hose and boots, arms and legs grotesquely twisted. The dagger sheath on his war-belt was empty, the knife driven deep into his left side up under his ribs. The constable and Ap Ythel let me through. I turned the corpse over, peered at the blood-encrusted mask of Rosselin’s face then felt his hands and neck.
‘He’s been dead some time,’ I declared. I followed the constable’s direction and stared up at the window high above us, even as I heard the dull thudding from the keep.
‘He fell from his chamber window; he must have done,’ the constable murmured.
‘My men are trying to break down the door,’ Ap Ythel explained.
Dunheved asked Demontaigu to look after the corpse whilst we went up into the keep. We reached the stairwell to Rosselin’s chamber just as the door, locked from the inside, buckled and splintered. The men grasping the makeshift battering ram pounded it until it snapped loose of lock and hinge and crashed inwards. We clambered over it into the room. The large window, deep in its embrasure, was unshuttered. A desolate, untidy room, still reeking of Rosselin’s sad spirit. The table was littered with cups and dirty platters. Scraps of parchments were strewn on the bed, its sweat-soiled linen sheets all twisted. A cloak lay on the floor. On a stool next to the bed was the key, a pair of beads, a brooch and two leather wrist guards.
‘I’ll collect everything,’ Dunheved whispered. He picked up a wicker basket and crossed to the bed.
I stared around at the dirty plaster, the recess leaning into the latrine, the arrow loops in the wall. I crossed to the window embrasure and glimpsed the blood, dry and sticky, on the dark stone sill. I traced it back along the floor to the centre of the chamber, just where the cloak lay. The room had fallen silent except for Dunheved filling that basket, and the laboured breathing of the men who’d forced the door. A prickle of fear cooled my own sweat. The constable and Ap Ythel, who’d now joined us, were thinking what Dunheved was whispering about. The angel of death and all his minions from the meadows of hell had visited this chamber. Rosselin had certainly been murdered, his body picked up and hurled from that window, but why, by whom and how? Ap Ythel went out into the stairwell to talk to a comrade in the sing-song tongue of their own country. The constable checked the door and its shattered lock. It was futile to ask about secret entrances or someone climbing up the sheer face of that keep and forcing an entry through the window.
‘Something evil,’ the constable declared. ‘Some malignancy fastened on Rosselin.’ He went and sat down on the bed, his face all miserable. Warde was a seasoned veteran and I recognised his expression: a man who would do his duty but one who also realised when he could do no more.
‘Our strength has been sapped from within,’ the constable murmured. ‘What happened here? Gaveston,’ he checked himself, ‘my lord Gaveston will want to know.’
‘The tocsin,’ I replied. ‘This was the assassin’s real purpose, but wasn’t there a guard . . . ?’
‘Goronwy Ap Rees,’ the captain of the archers sang out as he came back into the room, ‘one of my best men. He was on guard outside last night. He admits he was dozing. He was aroused by the alarm, as was Rosselin, who came and lifted the door shutter. Ap Rees did not know what to do until a voice at the bottom of the stairs shouted that a royal army was approaching the castle and every man was needed on the battlements. Ap Rees left. He heard Rosselin yelling questions behind him but he concluded that if Gaveston’s henchman wanted to know what was happening, he was free to join him.’
‘So the keep was deserted?’ I declared. ‘The assassin must have rung that tocsin, lit the fire and come here. Somehow he persuaded Rosselin to open the door, then stabbed him, dragged his body across to that embrasure and hurled it from the window.’ I paused. ‘Swift as a cat pouncing on a mouse. Rosselin was befuddled, mawmsy with drink.’
‘Yet whom would Rosselin admit?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘More importantly,’ Warde declared, ‘and word of this will spread through the castle, how did the assassin leave through a door locked from within?’
I couldn’t answer. I crossed to the basket Dunheved had placed on the floor, took out the key and went to the battered door. The key fitted the lock, rusting and ancient though now all buckled
‘I have found it.’ Demontaigu’s voice rang clear from the stairwell. He came into
the chamber clutching a scrap of parchment and handed it to me. It bore the expected message: Aquilae Petri, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been both bought and sold.
‘Tucked under the cuff of his jerkin,’ Demontaigu added.
‘I had best tell my lord Gaveston.’ The constable got to his feet and strode out. The rest followed.
Demontaigu sat on a stool, mopping his brow. Dunheved stood by the window with his back to us.
‘We should go,’ he declared, ‘from this place of blood.’
‘No, no,’ I whispered. ‘Let us first search Rosselin’s possessions.’
We did so, but discovered nothing of significance. Demontaigu informed me that Rosselin’s corpse had been taken to the castle death house.
‘His soul has gone to God.’ Dunheved was still staring out of the window. ‘Mathilde, shouldn’t we go?’ He turned to face me. ‘It’s time we left here. There’s nothing more we can do. This is a lost cause. What is the point in staying?’
I didn’t answer. A few hours later we were given no choice but to remain. Early that afternoon the tocsin was sounded, booming out the truth. The earls had arrived! First their outriders, horses raising dust clouds beyond the town, then a stream of colour: pennants, banners and standards flapping in the sea breeze, a host of many hues: red, argent, blue, green, scarlet, white and black. The devices and insignia boldly proclaimed the power of England: gules, shields, bears and boars, wyverns and lions, greyhounds, crowns and swords. The earls’ army camped beyond the town, a brilliant sea of shifting colours as pavilions, tents, bothies and horse lines were set up. The noise and smell of this great host wafted towards us, then, like a river breaking its banks, the enemy troops spilled out of the camp, threading through the narrow streets of the town and washing around the base of the castle and down to the port. I stood on the battlements with the rest. My heart sank. The earls had mustered a great host. This was the season for war. The lanes, tracks and roads were dry-hard, making easy passage for their foot, horses and carts, whilst the surrounding countryside was well stocked with provisions. They were quickly accepted by the townspeople. Order seemed good, discipline imposed. We even heard cheering as the citizens greeted the passing troops. If the earls wished to impress us, they certainly succeeded. Mail and armour flashed in the sunlight, the shimmering threat of what we were to expect. Worse was to come. Behind the troops, black and fearsome against the sky, trundled the terrible engines of war: trebuchets, slings, battering rams, mantlets, catapults and massive siege towers. The latter moved slowly, edging towards us like hideous monsters from the deepest pit. Once they reached the castle walls, the siege would be over.
