by Paul Doherty
Bertrand teased me for a while. He made me repeat the macabre details about Blacklow Hill. Perhaps he wanted to exorcise my soul as well as learn more about Gaveston and about the massacre of his Templar brethren out at Devil’s Hollow.
‘But that is not the root of this evil, is it, Mathilde?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘The malicious, murderous mischief plotted in Scotland is the cause of a great deal of what has happened since. The Beaumonts, God save them, were a mere irritation. They rightly suspected villainy was being planned but they thought it concerned their estates, that Edward was in some secret pact with Bruce to surrender all claims in Scotland. They were wrong. Gaveston was plotting greater villainy.’
‘And now you know the truth?’
‘Oh yes.’ I let go of his hands. ‘I wanted you back here and you have done what I asked.’ I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Trust me. I was no fair damsel in peril by land and sea. God knows, Warwick and the rest were courteous enough. They were just hawks who selected their quarry, Gaveston. They have made their kill. They are satisfied, at least for the moment. Our king is fickle. He will wait and watch, grieve and shout. He will hide his secret feelings because he will never let Gaveston’s death rest. Eventually he will remember me and summon me to account, but I shall simply tell him what he wants to hear. Now, Bertrand, is the time of danger. I must, in some secret form, allow the truth to emerge, and you must leave. I have sent urgent messages to her grace to meet me – God knows when she will reply.’
In the end, Isabella, as I suspected, replied swiftly. Bertrand and I had kissed and parted. The good brothers were gathering in their incense-filled choir stalls when Isabella, with little ceremony or advance warning, accompanied only by her few trusted squires, slipped into the friary. She looked radiant, dressed in dark blue with a silver cord around her bulging stomach, a jewelled cross on a silver chain about her neck, her face almost hidden by a thick gauze veil. We met, kissed and exchanged the courtesies in the prior’s parlour. Beside the queen stood Dunheved, his olive face a serene mask of contentment. He knew what had happened to Gaveston’s corpse and openly praised my diligence as a great act of mercy. I just stared coldly back. Isabella caught my glance but chattered on merrily as if I had just been on a courtesy visit or shopping for her in the nearby market. Only when we three were alone in that rose garden, with the light beginning to fade, the perfume from the flowers thickening the air, did she drop all pretence. Her Fideles, as she called her household squires, those same young men who had resolutely defended her at Tynemouth, sealed all entrances to the garden. Isabella sat on a turf seat so her back could rest against the flower-covered trellis; she lovingly rubbed her stomach, caressing the child within.
‘Gaveston is dead,’ she declared. ‘God give him true rest, but God be thanked.’ There, in that short phrase, Isabella confessed the truth. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at me, then gently patted Dunheved, who sat silently beside her.
‘Mathilde, ma cherie, my friend, you said in your note that you wished to have urgent words with me and Brother Stephen.’
‘My daughter,’ the Dominican smiled, ‘you have much to say?’
I stared hard at that sanctimonious killer.
‘Much to say,’ I whispered, ‘much to judge and much to condemn! Your grace,’ I turned to the queen, who was still leaning back, her thick veil pulled away from her face so she could see me clearly. Never had she looked so glorious. Regina Vivat! Regina Vincit! Regina Imperat! – The Queen Lives! The Queen Conquers! The Queen Rules!’ Isabella had come into her own.
‘Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘I wait.’
‘When you came to England, your grace,’ I began, ‘you were a child, thirteen summers old but with a heart skilled in politic and subterfuge.’
Isabella laughed girlishly, covering her mouth with her bejewelled fingers, the silver froth of her cuff snow white against her golden skin.
‘Your husband entertained a deep passion for his favourite. God only knows the truth about their relationship, but you, your grace, did not object. You bent before the storm lest you break, and so you waited. One crisis followed another. Your husband the king was baited and harassed, and so were you, yet you remained faithful, loyal and serene. Earlier this year, four years on from your marriage, you became pregnant, the bearer of an heir. The possibility that you could produce the only living grandson of both Edward I and Philip of France became a reality. Your husband was delighted. Through you, he had silenced all the taunts and jibes of those who mocked his manhood. He was a prince who had begotten an heir on his loving wife. The dynasty would continue. Gaveston, however, had always viewed you as a threat. Even more so now. What did the king call Gaveston? Brother, but also son. You were about to change that.’
Isabella wafted her face with her hand. ‘Continue,’ she demanded softly.
‘By the spring of this year, Gaveston had emerged as a real threat to the Crown. Because of him, from the very first day of his succession, Edward had known no peace. Did the king, your husband, despite all his love for Gaveston, come to regard his favourite as increasingly irksome, especially when his love for you deepened and you became pregnant? Did Gaveston turn on the king, reminding him of those secret, malicious rumours about Edward being a changeling, the son of a peasant?’
‘Nonsense,’ Dunheved intervened. ‘Such stories do no harm to the king. Gaveston would not dare—’
‘Nonsense, Brother,’ Isabella mockingly echoed. ‘I must correct you. At this moment in time, such stories would do great damage to his grace. Gaveston would have done anything to save himself, to protect his position with the king. Four people knew the true Gaveston: the king, and we three. Mathilde, do continue.’
‘Gaveston grew desperate. He had isolated the king. No help came from the earls, France or the papacy. Only the Beaumonts, for their own selfish reasons, planted their standards close to Gaveston’s camp, but they could not be trusted. In the end, Gaveston was captured because he was defenceless. He was imprisoned and executed because he lacked any guard. More importantly, during the last months of his life he was reduced to treating with the likes of Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales. Gaveston was desperate for troops. Lisbon could be useful, whilst it would also be a sop to both your father and the pope. In return the Portuguese would help – as long as there was no real threat. At Tynemouth that changed. The castle came under threat from both within and without. Lisbon left to meet his fate, but by then, the real damage had been done. Gaveston had given Lisbon secret information about a troop of Templars coming out of Scotland to York: specifically the day they would reach Devil’s Hollow. Lisbon set his trap. He massacred those Templars then plotted to murder those who went out to meet them.’
‘And Gaveston learnt that through Lanercost’s brother, a Templar serjeant?’ Isabella asked.
‘Of course. Lanercost the Aquilae gave his master such information, never dreaming it would be used to kill his brother. We, of course, told Lanercost what had truly happened. Undoubtedly he confronted Gaveston, who was horrified, probably for the very selfish reason that he had alienated one of his closest followers. Matters might have stopped there. Lanercost was furious; he became inebriated. He confided in his close comrade Leygrave how he felt betrayed.’ I pointed at Dunheved, who sat so placidly, hands tucked up the sleeves of his gown. ‘He also confided in you, Brother Stephen. Mere chance, yet on the other hand, what better person? A Dominican friar, the king’s own confessor, a man who could be trusted. The shrewd, ever-listening priest! Where did you meet him, Brother? Here in a lonely garden, a corner of the cloisters, with only the gargoyles, babewyns and stone-faced angels and saints as your silent witnesses?’
Dunheved removed his hands from his sleeves and threaded the tasselled end of the cord around his waist. For a heartbeat I wondered whether he’d ever used that to strangle a victim.
‘You are an accomplished man, Brother Stephen. Demontaigu made enquiries about yo
u here in the Dominican house in York. You are the brother of Lord Thomas Dunheved from the West Country, a former squire, a man once harnessed for war.’ I paused. ‘A scholar deeply interested in the peal of bells. You wrote De Sonitu Tonitorum – Concerning the Peal of Bells. Understandably you became a visitor to the belfry here. You befriended poor Brother Eusebius, whom you later murdered.’
Isabella sat up straight. She’d taken a set of coral Ave beads from the silken purse on her waist cord and was fingering the cross. Dunheved, God save him, stared at me as if relishing every word I uttered.
‘Lanercost came to you,’ I pointed to the Dominican, ‘to confess, to confide, I don’t know which. He gave vent to his anger and sadness. Gaveston had betrayed both him and his brother, so in revenge, Lanercost betrayed Gaveston. He would wax hot and lyrical about what he and the others had done for the favourite in Scotland.’
‘Which was?’ Isabella intervened sharply.
‘A blasphemously murderous plot!’
‘To which my husband was not party.’
‘I don’t think so, your grace. Lanercost was sent into Scotland ostensibly to seek help against the earls. Secretly, Gaveston and his Aquilae proposed thier own plot: the capture of Edward’s queen, to be held to ransom or even,’ I paused, ‘killed.’
‘Bruce, a prince?’ Isabella murmured. ‘Party to that?’
‘Mistress, I have heard the same before, yet how many of Bruce’s ladies, as well as those of his generals, Stuart, Murray and Randolph, have not been seized, violated or killed? Bruce himself may have baulked at it, but his commanders would not have. War by fire and sword rages in Scotland. What would they care? It could have happened, as it nearly did at Tynemouth: a stray arrow, an unknown swordsman. After all, one of your grace’s ladies died in that bloody affray.’
My mistress simply tightened her lips and glanced away.
‘Ostensibly,’ I continued, ‘Gaveston negotiated on behalf of the king. Secretly he and his coven were plotting the removal, perhaps even death, of his queen, Edward’s wife.’
‘Why?’ Dunheved’s voice was sharp and taunting.
‘You know that, Brother, as I do. Gaveston was now truly jealous of her grace. He saw her and her child as supplanting him in Edward’s affections. He fiercely resented the expected heir. Gaveston was a spoilt, pampered fop. He wanted to return to the old days when he and Edward were together, isolated from everyone.’
‘And how was this to be done?’ Isabella demanded.
‘Why, your grace,’ I replied, ‘easy enough with the court vulnerable in the north and Bruce’s forces ready to cross the border in lightning raids as they did at Tynemouth. But I hurry on. Did Dunheved tell you, your grace, what he’d learnt from Lanercost?’
Isabella stared glassily back: no smile, no coquetry, just a hard, cold look. Beside the queen, Dunheved shifted rather nervously.
‘You, Brother Stephen, were furious. Determined that these men who threatened her grace would pay for their treason. You relished that: judge and hangman. Your cause was certainly right. What Gaveston plotted was horrid murder and heinous treason.’
‘To which my husband was not party,’ Isabella repeated.
‘My lady, no, I do not think so, and neither do you. Gaveston just wanted to rid himself of you and your child. You, Brother, decided not to strike directly at the favourite but to weaken him, as well as to punish him and his coven for their crimes. Lanercost was first. He had to be removed swiftly lest he had a change of heart and confessed to his master about what he’d said and to whom. Above all, punishment had to be carried out. Brother Stephen, you have a mordant sense of humour. You decided to bring Gaveston and his so-called eagles crashing to the ground. Just like Simon Magus, the magician who could fly, cast out of the sky by St Peter. You referred to that legend. What better place for it than the belfry of this friary, supervised by the witless Brother Eusebius, whom you had befriended? You could go up and inspect the great bells, the chimes of which you listened to. Do you remember, I was sitting here? You came over to discuss matters and made some passing remark about the chimes not being in accord, but that does not concern us now. You had decided the belfry was the ideal place for punishment: isolated, a sanctuary haunted only by someone you regarded as fey and witless.’
‘And Lanercost would go up there?’ Dunheved jibed.
‘Of course! Why shouldn’t he go with his father confessor, the friendly Dominican priest who only wanted to help? He trusted you so much he took his war-belt off to climb those steps.’
‘I was celebrating mass when he fell.’
‘I know that, Brother, I was also there, but you killed Lanercost much earlier that morning, just after Brother Eusebius had scuttled off to break his fast in the refectory or buttery. You and Lanercost went up to the bell tower, an ideal place where no one could see you or eavesdrop on a conversation. You struck him a killing blow to the back of his head that shattered his skull. By the time his corpse fell, bouncing off the brickwork and the roof of the nave to smash against the ground, it simply became one injury amongst many.’
‘And how was that done,’ Isabella asked, ‘if Brother Stephen was celebrating mass?’
‘The ledge of the belfry window overlooking the friary yard is broad, slightly sloping. It had been raining, so it would also be slippery. Lanercost’s corpse was laid there, an easy enough task that cannot have been observed from below. Dunheved then left. Later the bells were tolled at the end of mass. Brother Eusebius told me to be careful when I climbed into the belfry. He explained how the belfry shuddered with the noise and the echo. That alone would make the corpse slide. More importantly, the thick rim of one of those great bells skims the ledge.’ I used my hand to demonstrate. ‘Sooner or later that bell, together with the sound and the shaking, would shift Lanercost’s corpse along that slippery, sloping edge to fall in a hideous drop, hitting the roof of the nave before crashing on to the cobbled yard. I agree, you were with us when that happened. As you were when the same fate befell Leygrave.’ I glanced quickly at the queen; she sat staring at the ground. Dunheved turned slightly away, face screwed up in concentration as he listened to me.
‘Surely,’ the Dominican turned back, joining his hands, ‘Leygrave would be suspicious, especially after the death of his close comrade Lanercost?’
‘Why should he be, Brother? Lanercost trusted you; so did Leygrave. Perhaps Leygrave knew all about the ghostly comfort you’d given his comrade. I cannot say how you sprang the trap. Did you tell Leygrave you wanted to see him privately – the same reason you gave Lanercost – in a place where the crowded court could not learn what was going on? Why should Leygrave suspect the holy-faced Dominican, so earnest in his help, so comforting in his words? An innocent invitation, a visit to the place where his comrade died, perhaps to search for something suspicious?’ I studied that hard-hearted priest, who betrayed no shame or guilt, not even a blink or a wince. ‘You lured Leygrave to that belfry. You killed him and arranged the corpse as you did Lanercost’s. You made one mistake. To create the impression that Leygrave might have committed suicide, once you had killed him with a blow to the back of his head, you pulled off his boots and made a muddy imprint on that ledge. You then put the boots back on the corpse and left it as you did Lanercost’s. At the next peal of bells the corpse would slip over silently like a bundle of cloth. That’s how the fire boy described it: no scream, no yell, just dropping like a bird stunned on the wing.’ I turned and gestured at that fateful tower rearing up against the evening sky. ‘My good friend Demontaigu, much to the surprise of Father Prior and the brothers, took up a man of straw clothed and cloaked. He left it on that ledge.’ I smiled thinly. ‘Eventually, during a bell-tolling, it fell, confirming my suspicions. Indeed, it’s the only logical explanation. As I said, who’d fear an innocent unarmed Dominican? But of course, Brother, you weren’t always that, were you?’
Dunheved grinned as if savouring some private joke.
‘You told me how you
performed military service as a squire. You are as much a warrior and a killer as any of those you murdered.’
‘You said I made a mistake,’ Dunheved asked, ‘about Leygrave?’
‘I never told you,’ I declared, ‘about the muddy imprint left by Leygrave’s boots on that ledge, not in such minute detail. Yet when I discussed his death with you and Demontaigu, you mentioned it. How did you know?’
‘I . . . I think you did . . .’
‘Mathilde.’ Isabella’s voice held a sharp rebuke. ‘Finish what you have begun.’
‘And so to Duckett’s Tower at Tynemouth,’ I declared. ‘A place of intrigue and terror. I always wondered, Brother, why the king’s confessor should accompany us. Undoubtedly you persuaded the king that his queen needed you. His grace was so distracted, he would have agreed to anything.’ I paused. ‘I understand your concern, but murder was your principal motive. Undoubtedly at Tynemouth the Aquilae, unbeknown to any of us, had been in secret, treasonable communication with Bruce’s raiding party. They were responsible for those signals sent from the night-shrouded walls of the castle, as they were for loosening the postern gate. They looked shamefaced enough on that war-cog, and so they should have been. They’d plotted to be safely aboard when the Scots launched their ambush. You had already moved against those malignants. You would have loved to have killed them all, but that was not possible. So you struck at Kennington, one cold, windswept morning long before dawn. Rosselin and Middleton had completed their watch; they’d be cold and tired, even fearful. They and their retainers would be fast asleep.’ I shrugged. ‘God knows if you drugged their drink and food.’
‘I tell you . . .’ Dunheved seemed angry, not so much at being accused but more that it was by me a woman. I recognised that arrogance in his soul. I’d glimpsed it before in men who regard women as the weaker in every respect. ‘I tell you,’ he repeated, ‘I know nothing about your potions and powders.’
