by Paul Doherty
Messengers came and went, clattering across the drawbridge. Edward and Gaveston had totally misjudged the situation. The earls had, like some vengeful river, swept by York and were pursuing the king north to Novo Castro. Neither the Crown nor the earls seemed concerned about the Scottish war party still moving south, whilst Bruce’s allies, a fleet of Flemish privateers, threatened the coastline. The Castellan heard all this, so Tynemouth was put on a war footing. The Beaumonts, who had accompanied us, tried to exercise their authority, but the Castellan refused to bow either to them or the Aquilae. Instead he encouraged the royal favourites to participate in the constant watches, in the end they had no choice but to agree. The Noctales chose the gatehouse and barbican; the Beaumonts were given the Prior’s lodgings; whilst the Aquilae and their retinues stationed themselves in Duckett’s Tower, which stood above the eastern cliffs overlooking the sea.
Days passed. Isabella rested secure in her chamber. Demontaigu believed that Ausel was one of those who crowded into the castle: tinkers, traders, wanderers, as well as local people fearful about what was happening. Then it happened: the great silence. No more couriers or messengers. No further carts heaped with fresh supplies. No wandering preachers, tinkers or traders. Scouts were dispatched but they never returned. At night the dark was lit by fires glowing eerily across the heathland as well as through the heavy mist out at sea. The Castellan sought an audience with Isabella. She received him in her private apartments, swathed in woollen robes, fur boots on her feet, a mantle around her neck and chest. The stark chamber was warmed and lit by flickering cressets, chafing dishes and sparkling braziers. These kept back the cold, ghostly wraiths of the ever-seeping mist. Despite Isabella’s invitation, the stern-faced old soldier insisted on kneeling before her footstool. He gazed beseechingly at me, standing behind the queen, then at Dunheved, who sat on a stool to Isabella’s right.
‘Your grace.’ He paused. ‘Your grace, some great force lurks out on the moorlands. I also believe Flemish pirates are off the coast. In a word, we are cut off. I am fearful.’
‘About what, sir?’
‘Whoever the enemy are,’ he replied, ‘we can withstand an assault.’
‘Then what is your fear?’
‘Treachery, your grace.’
‘You mean treason!’ Dunheved snapped.
‘Reverend Brother, last night I sent out one of my best guides—’
‘But I thought you’d stopped that?’ Dunheved interrupted, visibly agitated.
‘No, Brother. The guide did not go to seek what was outside.’
‘But the enemy within?’ I added.
‘Mistress, you have the truth. He reported that he’d glimpsed signals being sent out from this castle.’
‘Signals?’ Isabella asked.
‘Simple but stark,’ the Castellan replied. ‘A lantern horn displayed high on the walls, opening and shutting, clear flashes of light to someone waiting and watching. These were shown at one place, then another. It would be impossible to discover who was responsible.’ He licked his lips. ‘I would defend this castle to the death. I can certainly vouch for the loyalty of myself and my men, but not for everyone here. If there is treachery, your Grace, this is all I can offer.’ He rose, grunting at his creaking knees. ‘If it please your grace to follow me . . .’
We had no choice. We left the Prior’s Lodgings. In the courtyard below, Demontaigu was talking to the squires of the queen’s household, young men barely out of their schooling as pages. The Castellan whispered a few words to Isabella, who ordered me to instruct Demontaigu and the squires to follow us. We continued along the line of the walls, past towers, across courtyards, into another mist-hung bailey and up to the iron-studded door of Duckett’s Tower. Gaveston’s Aquilae and their retainers were lodged in the storeys above. Because the weather was chill, all doors were firmly closed and windows shuttered. However, the Castellan did not lead us up that narrow spiral staircase, soon to become an assassin’s path. Instead he pulled at a wooden trap door in the floor, took a cresset torch from its sconce and led us down steep stone steps.
An icy blast stung our faces as, heads bowed, we walked down a needle-thin passageway, its thick chalky walls pressing in from either side. Every so often the Castellan would pause to light cresset torches of the thickest pitch driven into makeshift gaps. The flames of these firebrands danced like fiery imps in the icy blackness of the tunnel. At times the path was so steep we found it hard to keep our footing. Demontaigu and the squires quietly cursed, while Dunheved began the litany of the saints, the words Miserere nobis ringing out like a challenge through the darkness. We reached more steps and down we went. Isabella did not object, one hand resting on my arm, the other on Dunheved’s. She walked determinedly, as if memorising every step. The cold grew more intense. The sound of the sea was like an approaching drum beat. The darkness began to lift. Shafts of light penetrated the gloom. Down more rough-cut steps then out on to pebble-covered, salt-soaked sand, a small cove sheltered by the cliffs. We braved the slating sea wind, walked out and looked around. On either side, chalk-white cliffs soared up to the castle nestling on its crag high above us. In front of us, beached and ready, were three longboats, and out in the cove a war-cog riding at anchor, stout-bellied, with a high fighting stern and long bow strip. The cog’s great sail was reefed. On board I could glimpse the crew moving about.
‘Your grace.’ The Castellan gestured across the sand. ‘It’s an answer to a prayer. The cog came in early this morning. If treachery occurs, the master of The Wyvern has strict instructions to wait for you. Who gave him these I do not know, but she is well provisioned and will ride at anchor until you leave.’ He spread his hands. ‘I can say no more.’ He led us back into the castle.
The Castellan truly believed the real enemy was within and that any relief could only be the approach of a sizeable royal army; his appraisal of the situation was casual, as if he saw it as part of his duty, a sign of the times. Civil war had broken out, so why should his castle not have enemies lurking within? It certainly did! The following morning we were woken by the clanging of the tocsin and strident calls of ‘Aux armes! Aux armes!’ I told my mistress to remain where she was. I summoned Demontaigu and the queen’s household squires, all harnessed and ready for battle. We left the Prior’s Lodgings and hurried into the great bailey, where the Castellan and his officers were in heated conversation with Rosselin, who was gesturing back towards Duckett’s Tower. The Castellan seemed confused, shouting questions at Rosselin, who could not answer except by pointing back to the tower under his guard. I joined them, tugging at Rosselin’s sleeve. He turned wild-eyed, blinked, then nodded in recognition.
‘Gone!’ he muttered.
‘Who’s gone?’
Dunheved, swathed in his great cloak, joined us.
‘Kennington and two of his retainers! They have vanished! They were on watch, on guard vigil! They took the last quarter before daybreak.’ Rosselin rubbed his face. ‘They have gone!’
The Castellan told his officers to impose order as more people, half dressed, faces sleep-filled, thronged into the bailey. We followed Rosselin through that mist-strewn, ghostly castle to Duckett’s Tower. Nicholas Middleton, another of the Aquilae, met us in the doorway at the top of the steps, a look of utter consternation on his unshaven, bleary face.
‘Nowhere,’ he murmured, fingers jumping about the medallions and crosses pinned to his jerkin. ‘Nowhere at all.’
Chapter 4
Douglas was to come secretly there with his chosen coven and kidnap the Queen.
Dunheved and I followed the Castellan and the others up the narrow, winding spiral staircase, a breath-catching climb. The freezing cold from the stone chilled our sweat. A heavy oaken door at the top led on to the pebble-strewn oval fighting platform. The wind buffeted us, stinging our eyes. I had the sensation of standing just below heavy clouds, whilst the raucous call of sea birds was almost drowned by the surf crashing against the rocks below. I moved cautiously,
staring around. The high crenellated rim of the tower was sure protection against any accidental fall. It was at least two yards high, whilst the gap between the battlements was spanned by iron bars. I walked across and looked over the edge at the sickening drop to the rocks below, where the angry black sea surged in a froth of white foam. Any speech was whipped away by the wind. I followed Rosselin’s direction and saw a small table with a capped jug and leather tankards. There were three in all, as well as a wooden platter covered by an iron pot. Beneath the table were stored extra cloaks. The lidded braziers next to the table had gone out, and were filled to the top with feathery white ash. The lantern horns between these were also extinguished, their oil-soaked wicks burnt hard and black. It was futile to engage in any conversation. I walked around the summit of the tower. I could find nothing amiss, no sign of a silent intruder or secret assassin scaling the sheer walls and creeping through the dark. Dunheved followed me, murmuring a prayer. I examined the pebble-strewn floor but discovered no stain or mark, although I realised that the wind and rain would constantly wash it, hence the pebbles scattered to provide a surer grip for guards and watchmen.
I studied the heavy door leading on to the tower top. On the inside it had a latch as well as a hook and clasp to keep it secure. I gestured at Dunheved to bring the jug and tankards inside the stairwell, a welcome relief from the noisy, blustering wind. Rosselin led me down to his own chamber on the floor below, a spacious but bleak circular room with little comfort except for the fiery-hot braziers. The Castellan dismissed his guard, as I did mine. For a while Rosselin and Dunheved warmed themselves over the brazier whilst I inspected the jug, tankards and platter. The ale, or what was left of it, smelt rather stale; the bread and cheese were hard but untainted. I wiped my hands at the lavarium.
‘Master Rosselin,’ I asked, ‘what did happen here?’ I paused at the footsteps outside, and without knocking, Henry Beaumont walked in.
‘The alarm was raised!’ he barked.
‘Because,’ I hastened to reply in an attempt to forestall the Castellan’s blunt tongue, ‘Master Robert Kennington and two of his men are missing.’
‘Deserted!’
‘Never,’ Rosselin snarled. ‘Sir Henry, with all due respect, why are you here?’
‘Like the rest of you, I’m worried.’ Beaumont walked forward threateningly.
‘We all are,’ I intervened quickly. ‘You knew Kennington, my lord?’
‘As you did Lanercost and Leygrave.’ Rosselin refused to be cowed. ‘They once served in your retinue, as did I for a very short while, Lord Henry.’ I hid my own surprise, but of course Gaveston would choose his henchmen from noblemen at least openly loyal to the king. I gestured at Beaumont to warm himself at the brazier, an invitation he swiftly accepted.
‘I think, gentlemen,’ I spoke quickly, ‘we should first discover what happened to Kennington and the others: three fighting men who disappeared from the top of this tower. I understand they were on guard with particular vigilance for the sea.’
The Castellan just nodded.
‘Even though I’m a woman,’ I smiled quickly, ‘I know enough about the science of war to realise that no assailant could scale such walls in the dead of night with those treacherous seas plunging beneath them. Yes?’
They all agreed.
‘And no intruder could attack from within.’ Rosselin added. ‘They’d be challenged. Kennington was a warrior; his two guards were veteran swordsmen.’
‘I saw you inspect the ale and platter,’ the Castellan said.
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
I caught Beaumont’s contemptuous look. ‘Sirs, can I remind you,’ I added, ‘that I’m here at the specific request of both their graces.’
‘The food?’ the Castellan asked.
‘Kennington himself prepared that,’ Rosselin replied. ‘He took it out for the last watch, the last four hours before dawn. I thought there was nothing to worry about. I fell asleep after my own watch. I heard no alarm. I woke up and went to see that all was well. What I saw, you’ve now seen: deserted, empty, no trace of Kennington or his companions.’
‘In a few hours the tide will begin to turn,’ the Castellan declared. ‘I’ll order a search of the shore below.’
We all went back on to the top of the tower for one last thorough search, doing our best to ignore the buffeting winds and the roar of the sea. Once again I walked to the edge and peered over that heart-stopping drop. Kennington hadn’t deserted, I was sure of that. To whom could he flee? An assassin had climbed on to the fighting platform, that place of vigil, and some great evil had fastened on Kennington and his companions, but who, what and how? The salt-soaked winds hurt my eyes and stung my cheekbones. I signalled that I wished to withdraw, and we gathered inside on the stairwell. I noticed the Castellan slip a large hook on the door through a clasp fastened on the lintel. I asked why, and he explained how these were secured on each door in every tower.
‘The winds, you see.’ He smiled. ‘If a door comes off its latch, it can bang and eventually shatter.’
‘Mischief-makers would like it,’ I pointed out. ‘They could lock someone in.’
‘Yes and no.’ The Castellan grimaced. ‘My children, God bless them, used to do that, but anyone armed with a dagger can open the door from the inside by sliding the blade through the gap and lifting the hook.’
‘Your children?’ I queried.
‘God took them,’ he murmured sadly, ‘like he did everything in my life. Mistress?’ He blinked. ‘You wish to inspect Kennington’s chamber?’
I nodded.
‘I’ll go with you,’ Rosselin demanded.
‘No, sir, you will not.’ I opened my wallet and took out the two seal casts: the king’s and that of the queen. ‘Negotium regis – king’s business,’ I whispered. ‘You agree, sir?’
The Castellan was only too willing to comply. I asked Dunheved and Demontaigu to search the rest of the tower. The Castellan led me down the steps, unhooked the clasp and swung open the door. Kennington’s chamber was like that of a monk. A crucifix hung black and stark on the grey-white wall above the cot bed. I closed the door and searched his paltry possessions. I felt a profound unease. Kennington’s belongings were sad; rather pathetic. Like Demontaigu, he’d collected mementos of his childhood: locks of hair, a battered toy horse with a mounted knight, a faded miniature diptych of Lazarus coming out of his tomb, scrolls of parchment: letters from his mother and sisters. It was sad to see the child behind the warrior, the glimpse of innocence before the glass darkened, the soul choking on the cares and ambitions of life. I sat on the cot bed and wondered what had happened to this squire. I knew so little about him and his companions. I tried to recall the rumours, the stories. How the Aquilae had become Gaveston’s sworn henchmen, sealing indentures to be with him ‘day and night, body and soul’. Some had whispered how they were all catamites, loving their master and each other. Gaveston used them as his minions, as his personal bodyguard. God knows what they plotted. Why had the favourite sent them to Tynemouth and not kept them with him? Ostensibly it was to defend the queen. Any other reason? And why had Lanercost been sent to Scotland? What had he been plotting? Why did the Beaumonts have such a deep interest in his mission?
As if an answer to these questions, a harsh knock on the door startled me, and without my reply, Rosselin sauntered into the room. He rubbed his arms against the cold, then took an extra cloak from a peg and offered it to me. When I refused, he wrapped it around himself. He expected me to challenge him, to ask him to leave, but I’d finished my search and wanted to question him. Rosselin picked up a stool and came across. I studied that ruddy, unshaven face, the blue eyes, red-rimmed and bleary. The sea wind had chapped his cheeks and his thick lips were salt-soaked.
‘Master Rosselin, can you help resolve these mysteries?’
He shook his head, eyes cold and calculating. He seemed not to like me, to resent my presence, though he was still determined to remain cordial.
> ‘I know why I’m here,’ I began, ‘but you, Master Rosselin, and the rest, shouldn’t you be with Lord Gaveston?’
‘No,’ he retorted. ‘We’re here to guard the queen. Lord Gaveston has a personal regard for her grace. Who else can the king send? He lacks troops for himself. Her grace is important. Our presence, and that of the Noctales, will strengthen the garrison here.’
I could not dispute that; it made sense.
‘And you,’ I asked, ‘you will live and die with Gaveston?’
‘What else is there?’ Rosselin’s voice hinted at sheer desperation. He glanced away, boots shuffling on the paved floor, and when he looked back, both his face and his voice had softened. ‘Mistress, we’re all trapped: myself, the others and Gaveston.’ He pulled the stool closer. ‘We took blood oaths and devised perilous stratagems when the days were good. These have come shooting back like barbed arrows during this time of distress. We are committed. There’s no going back. No turning to the left or to the right. I could tell you things, but I cannot; except that if Lord Gaveston goes down, so do we.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why did Lanercost go to Scotland?’
Rosselin refused to answer.
‘Why?’ I persisted.