by Paul Doherty
‘No harm, no harm. Praise be to God.’ His smile faded. He gestured at the arbalests and ordered us to prime them again. Demontaigu had recovered. Only later did I learn about his deep fear of dogs after being attacked by one in his childhood. He gathered his crossbow and mine, our whole existence taken up by the threatening drumming of approaching hooves, and had a swift word with Ausel. Armed with arbalests, the two Templars separated just as the horsemen, cloaks billowing, breasted the rise, charging so furiously they had little time to realise what had happened. Ausel and Demontaigu knelt, crossbows up. The catches clicked and the bolts spun out, cutting the air to bring down the two leading riders. The ensuing chaos and confusion tipped a third out of his saddle as his horse reared in terror. The two Templars sped forward, sword and dagger out. Demontaigu was a skilled knight, but Ausel was a warrior born and bred, one of those men who knew no fear and relished the song of battle. The hunters became trapped in a lure of their own making. The three fallen riders were quickly dispatched with shrieks, groans and spurts of hot blood. The fourth, desperate to control his mount, turned to flee, but he was trapped on both sides, and dragged off his horse. Ausel, kneeling on his chest, roared as he plunged his dagger time and again into the man’s throat. Then he rose, staggered away and half crouched, staring strangely at Demontaigu, who moved along the corpses ensuring they were dead before whispering a requiem and sketching a blessing in the air. I walked over and stared down at one of the Noctales, his scarred face made uglier in death: the blood-spattered gaping lips, the blackening stumps of teeth.
‘You’ll kill no more!’ I whispered to him.
‘Go away!’ Ausel had snatched a battle axe from his saddle horn.
I stared around.
‘Their valuables?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to strip them . . . ?’
‘And what?’ Ausel sneered. ‘Sell them in York? No, I want Alexander of Lisbon to see what I’ve done. So go.’ He pointed back to our horses. ‘Demontaigu, take your lady away. What she doesn’t see she will not remember.’ He lifted himself up. ‘Hell has devoured these sinners like wolves devour sheep. Satan’s henchmen will fill their gaping mouths with molten lead. I wish to leave Lisbon fair warning that he too will melt like wax before the fire.’ He was almost talking to himself, his usually good-natured face tense and pallid.
Demontaigu took me by the elbow and steered me further down the track-way, where our horses were hobbled. I went to look back but he almost pushed me into a small culvert between the straggling gorse. I sat down on a rock. Demontaigu collected his small wineskin and made me take a couple of mouthfuls, then we waited in silence. Sounds echoed from up the track-way. The terrors began to leave me. I grew aware of the wine taste in my mouth, how heavy my legs felt. The trees and bushes of the wastelands were bending under a breeze. I smelt a mingle of horse sweat, leather and the fragrance of wild flowers. A cormorant cried, to be answered by the raucous call of circling crows. Time passed. Demontaigu sat, eyes closed, mouth moving wordlessly in silent prayer. Ausel joined us. He’d used the clothes of one of the dead men as an apron. Now he tore these blood-soaked garments off and threw them into a bush.
‘I’m done,’ he murmured. ‘It’s finished.’
Demontaigu gathered the horses and we mounted. Ausel loudly announced that the Noctales would still be involved in their pursuit of the others. He proved correct. We rode safely out across the deserted heathland, reached a village and joined a line of carts taking produce to the Minster from one of its outlying farms. Ausel and Demontaigu rode ahead, talking quietly amongst themselves. I drifted gently into a half-sleep, shaken awake by the sounds around me. We reached Micklegate Bar, and went up its main thoroughfare and on to Ouse Bridge. Beggars clustered on the steps of St Michael’s chapel at the entrance to the bridge. One of these darted forward and grasped Ausel’s bridle, pleading for alms. I noticed how strong and muscular he was, his skin burnt dark by the sun of Outremer rather than the freezing wind of York. He was undoubtedly a Templar in disguise, passing on information. Ausel searched for a penny, tossed it at the mendicant then urged his horse on.
We stabled our mounts at The Road to Damascus, a stately pilgrims’ tavern fronted by a broad cobbled yard and flanked on either side by flower gardens. The tap room was highceilinged; no mush of dried reeds covered the floor; its black and yellow lozenge-shaped tiles were clean and polished. At the far end stood a long counter of burnished oak, gleaming in the light of pure oil lamps and beeswax candles. Barrels and buckets all ribbed with ash, hazel and iron lined one wall. Smoked ham hanging from the broad-beamed roof gave the room a pleasant tasty smell. We hired a table in an alcove with a small oriel window overlooking the garden. I remember such details well. The customers were a few guildsmen, wealthy travellers and pilgrims. Mine host wore a felt hat and a clean cloth apron with spotless white napkins crisscrossed over his chest. Around his muscular wrists hung two more to keep his fingers clean. He took our custom: stoups of ale, amber-glazed bowls of meat and vegetable broth, manchet loaves, still warm and wrapped in a linen cloth, as well as a small pot of butter. We cleaned our hands in the rosewater provided. Ausel quickly blessed the food. I went to talk, to break the silence, but Ausel leaned across. He still looked battle-crazed, eyes large and dark in his pale face.
‘The tongue,’ he whispered. ‘How small it is, yet a petty flame can consume a forest. The tongue,’ he continued, taking out his horn spoon, ‘is a whole wicked world in itself. It can infect the entire body with poison. It can catch fire from hell and set the world ablaze.’ His eyes were staring over my shoulder.
I turned. A hooded man had wandered over but then shifted away. We ate in silence. Ausel got up, nodded at me, patted Demontaigu on the shoulder and left.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
Demontaigu lifted a finger to his lips. I glanced around. The hooded man had come drifting over again. I stared hard at this individual dressed in dark green buckram and short leather boots. The cowl he wore was deep; I could only glimpse pinched white features. He turned to face us squarely; shadow-rimmed eyes stared out from a ghost-white face.
‘Your friend has left?’ the hooded man murmured. ‘Has he gone looking for the Key of David?’
‘No, friend.’ Demontaigu lifted his stoup of ale in toast. ‘The Key is not needed. The Tabernacle of Solomon is gone!’
The hooded man startled. ‘Gone?’ The whisper was hoarse.
‘Destroyed,’ Demontaigu replied tersely, ‘out on the heathland.’
‘Then, friend,’ the hooded man lifted his hand, palm extended in peace, ‘I’ll be gone.’ And he slipped across the tap room and out through the door.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Roger Furnival,’ Demontaigu replied. ‘Outlaw, wolf’s-head, defrocked priest. He was to meet us here with our comrades out of Scotland. Now . . .’ He shrugged.
‘And Ausel’s strange words about the tongue?’
‘Someone betrayed us, Mathilde, perhaps not intentionally. Ausel wants us to return and question Geoffrey Lanercost.’
He collected his gloves and made to rise.
‘Bertrand.’ I gripped his wrist. ‘Ausel, what did he do out there on the track-way?’
‘Ausel’s words are like silver from a furnace,’ Demontaigu whispered, ‘seven times refined. He has sworn terrible vengeance against Alexander of Lisbon.’
‘On the track-way?’ I insisted.
‘He severed the head of that war-dog and those of its four dead masters. He placed them along the track-way where it narrows between the outcrops.’ Demontaigu paused. He glanced pityingly at me from the corner of his eye. ‘A Celtic thing,’ he murmured. ‘He also removed their genitals and thrust them between their gaping dead lips. Ausel has sent warning to Lisbon that our fight is lutte à l’outrance – to the death . . .’
Chapter 2
There was no safe place in England for Gaveston.
Living at court was a dappled existence of colours ranging from the brightest
silver-gold to the deepest black. Glorious displays of power as brilliantly hued banners and pennants flapped bravely under a searing blue sky. Tables covered with the purest damask groaning under jewelled plate, bowls and goblets all brimming with the sweetest viands, succulent fruits and the richest wines from Bordeaux and the Rhine. Brilliant, dazzling tapestries decorated walls hanging down to floors tiled in the most exquisite fashion. Along such rich galleries, princes, ladies and lords paraded all dressed in cloth of gold and costly jewel-encrusted fabrics. In the courtyards outside, powerful destriers, splendidly harnessed, reared and neighed as knights in glittering mail prepared to break lances, jousting in nearby tilt-yards where the sand glowed like amber. Trumpets blew. Horns sounded. Bells chimed. In the courtly sanctuaries, priests in splendid copes under soaring rood screens offered the risen Christ back to His Father. Light poured through windows illuminated with flashing colours. Incense, thick and white, fragranced the air. Choirs intoned ‘Christus Vincit’. Close by, clerks in oak-panelled chambers grasped pens to write important letters of state sealed with purple wax. Outside the chamber clustered mailed knights and armoured men-at-arms eager to do the king’s will. Yet there were other aspects of life at court, like the sides of fortune’s dice just waiting to be turned. Ghastly killings out on lonely heathlands or in filthy alleyways, dingy taverns or rat-infested garrets. A world where assassins, capuchined and visored, flitted like shadows through the door, dagger or garrotte at the ready. Poisoned wine served with tainted meats. Scaffolds soaring dark against the sky, heavy with corpses, whilst across the square severed heads above lofty gateways dripped blood to patter to the ground like rain. Treason and treachery, bloodshed and betrayal, hypocrisy and hubris came wandering like twin demons garbed in all the horrors of death and the anguish of the tomb. I’d seen it all, be it in gorgeous pavilions with exquisite chambers or cobwebbed closets and garrets where the vermin came creeping under the doors.
This contrast in mood weighed heavily on me when we returned to the Franciscan priory with its hallowed, peaceful cloisters all fresh with the herbal potion the good brothers used to scrub the grey flagstones. I made enquiries of Boudon the steward, to be arrogantly informed that the queen was closeted with the king and his councillors, in other words Gaveston. After further enquiries I discovered that Geoffrey Lanercost and the other Aquilae Petri were gathered in the prior’s rose garden to celebrate Lanercost’s recent return from Scotland. A lay brother led us to that serene, lovely place with its flower beds and lawns, neatly tended herb plots, garlanded arbours and shady walks. In the centre was a circle of white pavestone with cushioned benches and quilted turf seats. Close by, a fountain carved in the shape of a Jesse tree, its water gushing into a grey-stone bowl, where small golden carp darted amongst the fresh leaves. All five Aquilae were seated there, talking and laughing with Brother Stephen Dunheved, who sat plucking at a viol. The Dominican was skilfully mimicking and ridiculing the professional gleemen, who could pull their faces into a smile or a grimace depending on what song they were singing. Dunheved was most skilled in that. Others were there too. Oh yes, in those early months of 1312, I came to know more closely that unholy trinity, those imps of Satan, falseness incarnate, the Beaumonts! Henry, his brother Louis and their sister Isabella, known more popularly as Lady Vesci after her marriage, of sorts, to some hapless nobleman. The Beaumonts were the spoilt children of Europe, with the royal blood of England, France, Spain and Sicily in their veins. Rumour whispered that they also had Satan’s blood. They could be charming, courteous, chivalrous and brave – when they wanted. They were cats who would lick your face but scratch your back. They’d ransack hell for a gold piece and skin a nag for a farthing.
On that particular day, the Beaumont coven sat close together in the rose garden. Henry wore a green tunic sporting golden fleur-de-lis over a snow-white cambric shirt, its neck, cuffs and waistband of cloth of gold; black hose cased his muscular legs and Castilian boots, still spurred, his feet. Lady Vesci was dressed in a gown proclaiming the same heraldic device with silver edging, a cloak of deep murrey around her shoulders, her hair bound up in a white wimple under a light blue veil. She dressed like a nun but had the heart of a courtesan. Louis, the churchman, was slightly fatter, garbed in the black gown of an Augustinian canon, though the fabric was of the purest wool and his shoes were of soft leather, whilst the silver cord around his plump waist boasted golden love-knots. The three all looked the same: flaring red hair and white skin, their freckled faces full of impudence, slightly slanted light green eyes that made you think they were quietly laughing at you; they usually were! The Aquilae Petri lounged on either side of them, half dressed in shirts, tunics and multicoloured hose. Jerkins and cloaks, war-belts and boots lay about. Gaveston’s fighting boys, relaxing in the late afternoon sun after they’d eaten and drunk deeply. Jugs, goblets and platters were stacked on the ground. Two of Gaveston’s greyhounds nosed amongst the remnants of roast quail, slices of cooked ham and half-ripe fruit. Somewhere behind a trellis fence a peacock shrieked, whilst the first swallows of the year darted above the gurgling fountain. Dunheved smiled as we came through the wicket gate and continued with his song of nonsense.
‘When salmon hunt in the wood
And herring fly and blow the horn . . .’
The lines were greeted with laughter. Dunheved was about to continue when, sharp-eyed as a hawk, he sensed our grimness.
‘Like ghosts at the feast,’ he murmured. ‘Why, Mistress Mathilde, Master Bertrand, what is it? News about Lancaster?’
Henry Beaumont leapt to his feet, head slightly tilted back. ‘Is that whoreson on the march?’ He glanced at his sister and brother; the family were the king’s body and soul. Thomas of Lancaster wanted them exiled because they exercised ‘a perfidious and malignant influence over the king, providing evil council on affairs of the Crown’. In truth, they simply revelled in basking in the royal sun and snatching whatever trifles came their way.
‘Lancaster is not on the march,’ Demontaigu replied wearily. ‘Not yet. We look for Geoffrey Lanercost. I have news about his kinsman John.’
‘I am Lanercost.’ One of the Aquilae rose lazily to his feet. He was dark-haired, thickset, with a slightly hooked nose in a full, wine-flushed face. Shadows ringed deep-set eyes and sweat glistened above the points of his loosened shirt. A man who had travelled far and fast, then drunk deep to refresh himself. I studied him. I recalled the horror-struck face of one of those dead Templars and saw a close likeness.
‘Well, sir.’ Lanercost lifted his hands. ‘You have news about my brother?’
‘Perhaps in private, sir?’
‘Here is private.’ Lanercost’s reply provoked laughter. ‘My friends are private. What news?’
‘Your brother John.’ I spoke up, wishing to end this nonsense. ‘Your brother John,’ I repeated, ‘God have mercy, is dead.’
All the arrogance and hauteur disappeared. Lanercost’s face sagged. Such a stricken look, it cut me to the heart. One of the others, I think it was fair-haired Rosselin, sprang to his feet as Lanercost, hand to his head, swayed slightly.
‘No, no,’ Lanercost whispered, ‘no, no.’ He gestured at us. ‘You’d best come away.’
We left the glories of the rose garden for a grey-stone porch in the prior’s cloisters. Demontaigu tried to be gentle, but murder is murder. Violent death shatters everything. Lanercost heard him out, head in hands; when he glanced up, his face was soaked with tears.
‘You’re a Templar, Demontaigu, aren’t you?’ He forced a laugh. ‘Your secret is not really a secret, but who cares? Many in court have kin in that order. Poor John.’ His voice grew stronger as anger curdled his grief. ‘Alexander of Lisbon,’ he breathed, ‘and his Noctales. I’ll provoke the blood feud. I’ll see them all hang.’
‘Hush now.’ Demontaigu drew closer. ‘Leave Lisbon to the Templars. He is tainted and marked for the sword. More importantly, your brother was of these parts, a citizen of York, yes?’
&
nbsp; Lanercost nodded.
‘He was guide for the others,’ Demontaigu continued. ‘Ausel, one of my comrades, told me that. Your brother knew Devil’s Hollow; did he tell you what he was doing?’
Lanercost bit his lip, his mind swirling like a lurcher. A look of anguish as memories came flooding back. He realised the implication of what Demontaigu was saying. He should have told us the truth, but of course he felt deeply ashamed, guilty.
‘He told,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, he told me.’
‘And did you tell anyone else?’
‘No, no.’ Lanercost sprang to his feet, all agitated. ‘I . . . I. . .’ he stammered, ‘I may have told someone, one of the others. I cannot . . .’ He made to walk away. I caught his arm; he did not resist. He just stared in rank despair at me.
‘Did you tell . . . ?’
‘Tell?’ he muttered. ‘I told no one.’ He broke free of my grip and strode away.
There was little more we could do. Demontaigu and I kissed in the shadows and went our separate ways. I rarely saw him over the next few days. He withdrew from the queen’s chancery with this excuse or that, busy with his brethren, or so I learnt later. Most of them had escaped the Noctales, but three of their companions simply vanished, never to be seen again. God have mercy on their poor souls. They must have been trapped and their corpses tossed into some peat bog. The other cadavers out in the hollow also disappeared, an act of malignant vindictiveness by Lisbon, who had used them as bait. Lanercost returned to ask Demontaigu about his brother’s corpse, and when he learnt the truth became even more sorrowful. Such tragedies, however, were drowned by other news. The great earls had mustered their troops, both foot and horse, moving slowly north. My mistress was rarely seen, being closeted with Edward and Gaveston. We would meet in the evening, when I would anxiously enquire of her health, but Isabella, though beautiful and graceful, was sturdy as an oak. Sixteen she was, of full height, sophisticated and elegant in all her mannerisms. Pregnancy had brought a fresh bloom to those blue eyes and that golden face; her hair seemed more like spun gold, and her body, when I bathed it, glowed with health. The queen’s abdomen grew swollen to ‘a slight thickness’, as she laughingly described it. She was more concerned at the dangers threatening. Only once did she lose her temper, snapping at me like an angry crow as she ranted about Edward’s fecklessness and Gaveston’s futile attempts to resist exile.