by Paul Doherty
‘Possibly,’ Rosselin refused to meet my gaze, ‘to seek sanctuary for my lord, if he decides to go into exile again.’
‘Or help against the great earls?’ I asked.
Again Rosselin refused to meet my gaze.
‘Is that true? Is Gaveston plotting treason?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I truly don’t.’
‘My lord Gaveston was distressed by Lanercost’s death?’
‘Of course, you’ve heard the whispers. He and Lord Gaveston may have been lovers.’
‘And what are you involved in now?’
‘Too late.’ Rosselin’s voiced thrilled with the passion of sadness. From outside trailed the harsh calls of the sea birds above the muffled thunder of the waves smashing against the rocks.
‘What do you mean, too late?’
‘Just too late!’
‘And you are here to guard the queen?’
‘Yes. I can tell you little more, mistress. It’s too late, too late. We are committed to our lord, even though the case against us presses hard. Too late for penance.’ He sighed. ‘Too late for contrition, too late for absolution.’
‘So why have you visited me now?’
‘You know Kennington hasn’t deserted. He’s dead. I’ve watched you, mistress. Flattery aside, you are honest. You have compassion. Apart from my lord and my comrades, I am alone. If I fall . . .’ He opened his purse and took out two gold pieces. He insisted that I take them, pressing both into my hand. ‘Light candles,’ he pleaded, getting to his feet. ‘Have a priest whisper absolution in my ear. Go to some chantry chapel, have masses for the dead sung for my soul. As for my body, make sure I am not treated like some dog’s carcass but get honourable burial in consecrated ground.’
I offered the coins back, but he shook his head.
‘Mistress, to whom else can I turn? I trust you.’ He walked to the door.
‘Master Rosselin?’
He turned.
‘Who wants your life?’
‘God does. I may die like a dog because I’ve lived like one that goes constantly back to its own vomit.’ He bowed and slipped through the door.
I realised then the truth of what Isabella had said. The glass was darkening. Soon the light would be extinguished.
Kennington’s corpse and those of his two companions were found later that day, floating in the furious flurry of the angry sea. I watched as they were brought back to Duckett’s Tower. They had apparently fallen with cloaks, boots and war-belts on, though these had been caught, snagged and shredded by the waves and rocks. All three corpses were disgusting. Sodden and swollen with salt water, a mass of gruesome wounds, gashes and bruises, shattered by the fall and battered by the rock-pounding sea. It was almost impossible to determine anything except that they’d fallen sheer on to the rocks, to be swept away by the sea and then hurled back again by the turbulent tide: three cadavers proclaiming the true horror of violent death, be it murder or suicide. Dunheved administered the last rites. Rosselin and Middleton acted as chief mourners at the sombre requiem mass in the gloomy chapel, followed by swift interment in the Field of Souls, Tynemouth’s small but crowded cemetery. The news swept the castle, deepening our gloom and sense of isolation. A sinister premonition for the next chapter in the swirling, bloody mist of murder and mayhem engulfing our lives. What could be done? I was confronted with a tangled mystery. How had three veteran swordsmen, on guard, vigilant in the dark hours before dawn, been so brutally killed?
I retraced my steps through Duckett’s Tower, only to discover nothing. Rosselin came to ask my opinion. He and Middleton were now men whose courage had been shredded. He also brought a small oilskin pouch found in Kennington’s wallet, tied securely to his belt. It contained the same message, written in a neat, precise hand: Aquilae Petri, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been bought and sold. The warning was stark, the conclusion obvious. Kennington and his colleagues had been murdered, but by whom and how? I could offer no reply, no solution. In all that turbulence, one small problem still nagged at me. It started as a query, a question, but the more I reflected, the more important it became. The war-cog The Wyvern, provisioned with full armament and riding at anchor in that narrow cove. Who had summoned it to Tynemouth? The king, Gaveston, Isabella? The Castellan could not help. He simply tapped the side of his nose and whispered how its master was under secret orders to wait until the danger had passed and only then sail away. I was about to thank him and leave when the Castellan plucked my sleeve and took me into a dark, narrow corner.
‘Mistress, I must tell you this. We know marauders lurk out on the heathland. We have also discovered, through the master of The Wyvern, that Flemish privateers prowl the northern coast. Now, The Wyvern has sailed out simply to make sure all is well on board, no leaks, nothing wrong. They’ve encountered local fishing craft, whose crews have told a strange tale. Not only do the Flemings prowl, but a force of French war-cogs, fully armed and flying the royal standard, has also been glimpsed. Now why is that, eh? Why should Philip of France be meddling in these cold, misty waters?’
Again, I could not reply. I went to see my mistress. She’d hardly left the chamber, being concerned with her books, sleeping or sometimes just huddled in a cloak before a roaring fire, staring into the flames. I went down on my knees before her, placing my hands in her lap.
‘Mathilde, ma petite.’ Isabella’s eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Mistress, I ask you the same question. You shelter here like some anchorite in her cell. You very rarely leave except to catch a breath of air in the morning and evening. We used to talk; now you are silent.’
Isabella cupped my cheek with her hand.
‘Mathilde, if I told you . . . No, no, I cannot.’
‘Your grace,’ I pleaded. ‘The Wyvern: who ordered it to be brought here?’
Isabella’s face crinkled into a smile.
‘Why, Mathilde, I did.’
‘But mistress, what do you think will happen?’
‘I don’t know, Mathilde, but I have reflected on every possibility. If I cannot escape by land, then it’s logical that I must go my sea. The master of The Wyvern is well known to me. He is loyal. He will wait until I give the order, but more than that, I cannot and will not say.’
‘And your father’s war-cogs?’ I could tell by Isabella’s face that the Castellan had already told her the news.
‘What my father does, what he plots, Mathilde, is a matter for him and those who shelter in his shadow. Do you know,’ she leaned forward, ‘how Kennington died?’
‘Your grace, I know you too well to be distracted.’
Isabella threw her head back and laughed.
‘In which case, Mathilde, all I can ask you to do is vide atque tace – watch and keep silent.’
The Beaumonts sought me out, inviting me and Dunheved to Henry’s chamber, which was probably the best furnished in the castle. A log fire sparked in the oddly shaped mantled hearth. Beaumont and his kin were garbed in the most gorgeous livery. They had their own cooks, who’d bullied the servants of the castle kitchen. Good food was served along with wines full and rich-tasting. Candles and sconces glowed, their light shimmering in the silver and gold weaving of the tapestries hanging on the walls. The floor had been swept and scrubbed with sea water and sprinkled with crushed herbs. A warm, comfortable room in that cold, brooding castle. The Beaumonts, as I have said, could be charming. They certainly were that night, though their one and only purpose was to discover what was really happening, and who better to probe than the queen’s confessor and the woman they contemptuously termed her shadow? A strange evening. The courses were served in that grand chamber decorated with shields and hangings, warmed by a fire, braziers and chafing dishes. The conversation moved from courtesies to the crisis. The Beaumonts eventually showed their hand, betraying the fears that gnawed at their ambition. They were powerful lords with extensive estates in Scotland. They were terrified that the king wou
ld reach some sort of understanding with Bruce and so lose them a great source of revenue.
‘What sort of understanding?’ Dunheved asked sharply.
‘Help against the earls. Support for Gaveston in return for recognition of Bruce’s claims,’ Louis murmured.
His reply created silence. Lady Vesci stared up at the rafters. Louis became interested in his wine goblet. Henry sat flicking his fingers against the samite tablecloth. Dunheved’s blunt question had taken them by surprise.
‘And what if,’ the Dominican paused, measuring his words carefully, ‘Lord Gaveston was removed permanently?’
This time the silence was menacing.
‘What do you mean?’ Lady Vesci declared.
‘What if the earls are successful?’ The Dominican spread his hands before crossing himself quickly. ‘I am not saying I wish such a fate on the king’s own favourite, but it is a possibility. Lord Henry, what would happen then?’
Beaumont took a deep gulp of wine, staring at me over the rim of his goblet. Dunheved could ask such a question. He was a Dominican, a churchman, the king’s own confessor. He could even say he was trying to probe, to find out the true hearts amongst the king’s subjects. If Beaumont wasn’t careful, his reply could be construed as treasonable.
‘If Lord Gaveston,’ Henry put his cup down, ‘yes, if Lord Gaveston, God forbid, became the object of the earls’ anger, then it might lead to civil war, but for what? No war can bring back the dead. There is the possibility that Gaveston’s death – and I say God forbid – might bring about a long-term reconciliation. The king and his great earls might unite and, God willing, move across the northern march to defeat Bruce.’
‘And the queen, God bless her?’ Dunheved continued. ‘What would she think if the king’s favourite was no more?’
‘I cannot speak for her grace,’ Lady Vesci interrupted quickly. ‘I am sure that she would be distraught, but there again, these things do happen.’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Mistress Mathilde?’ Henry turned to me. ‘What do you say?’
‘Like your sister, my lord, I can only speak for myself, not for the queen or the king. I am not their confessor but I am deeply concerned by my mistress’ plight. Here we are in this eagle’s nest above the northern seas. Not far off shore, Fleming pirates prowl, whilst out on the heathland God knows what enemy lurks: the earls, a Scottish war party? I just pray that we leave here unscathed, that her grace rejoins her husband and we all remain safe and well.’
‘Tell me . . .’ Dunheved turned to me, his clever eyes narrowed as if the light from the candelabra were hurting them. ‘Mathilde, why do you think the Aquilae are here?’
‘To protect her grace.’
‘I wonder?’ Louis Beaumont spoke up.
‘So do I,’ Dunheved said.
‘They have one important purpose.’ Henry spoke, eager to show his loyalty. ‘They have been dispatched here by Lord Gaveston to protect the queen. I am sure that is the reason.’
‘As well as spy on her?’ Dunheved asked sharply.
Beaumont just shrugged and raised his wine goblet to cover his face.
‘And these murders.’ Lady Vesci fluttered her fingers at me. ‘I understand, so rumour has it, Mathilde, that the king gave you his secret seal to investigate them?’
I nursed my own thoughts about the deaths. Although I had no solution to the mysteries, I decided at least to share my conclusions and see what response they provoked.
‘I think . . .’ I paused, as if listening to wind beating like some angry sprite against the wooden shutters; living high above the ground, exposed to biting winds and lashing rain, that sound now seemed to dominate my life. I recalled songs from my childhood. How we used to gather around the winter fire and sing about the approach of summer. I so wanted to be away from that gloomy castle, out in some sun-filled meadow.
‘Mathilde?’ Henry smiled. ‘Your thoughts?’
‘As regards Lanercost,’ I began, ‘everyone in this chamber was at mass with Brother Stephen when the Aquilae fell from that tower. I do not know why he went up there or why he was unarmed, though it’s clumsy to climb that ladder with a war-belt on. The same is true of Leygrave. Why did he return to a place where his close comrade had been so mysteriously killed, again unarmed? No one saw either of them go up. There is no evidence in that bell tower of any struggle. Leygrave definitely stood on the ledge from which he fell. But again, nothing else. Brother Eusebius, the bell-ringer? Or rather,’ I smiled thinly, ‘assistant to the bell-ringer. He may have seen something, hence his gruesome murder.’
‘And Kennington?’ Dunheved abruptly asked.
‘Brother, I truly don’t know. Three men patrolled the fighting platform of that tower; they were armed and vigilant. They feared the enemy without. They must also have known about the enemy within. Their food and drink was untainted. No alarm was raised, yet someone or something entered that tower and climbed those steps, passing Middleton and Rosselin’s chambers. The attacker, or attackers, went on to that fighting platform and either killed those three and hurled them over the battlements, or . . .’ My voice faltered.
‘I have reflected on their disappearance,’ Dunheved remarked, rocking gently backwards and forwards. ‘My order provides members for the Holy Inquisition. Our tribunals investigate black magic and sorcery. Did that happen here? There were three watches over a period of twelve hours from six at night to six in the morning. The first four hours were Middleton’s, the second Rosselin’s and the third Kennington’s. Mistress Mathilde, you scrutinised those tankards and the platter; those men were not drugged with some potion or powder. I could detect no bloodstain on the tower top. No sign of any struggle. I do wonder if some demon from the darkness swept across the top of that tower and hurled those men to destruction.’
Henry Beaumont laughed, shaking his head.
‘My lord,’ the Dominican refused to be cowed, ‘can you provide a better explanation?’
For a brief while the conversation moved to matters spiritual: the influence of demons, the possibility of a witch or a sorcerer in the castle. Of course, no one really believed that, but it was a sombre evening. Dunheved’s account of diabolical intervention was fascinating; whether it be true or not I could not say, but that was Brother Stephen, he could tell a good tale. Henry Beaumont, however, brought the conversation back to more pressing matters, tapping his hand against the table.
‘Sooner or later,’ he began, once he had our attention, ‘and I should say sooner rather than later, we must leave this castle. We cannot stay here for ever. Eventually the Castellan will have to send out scouts to make contact with the king, or at least ensure the roads south are safe for the queen. Time will tell, but there again, another possibility is that Tynemouth might be attacked or betrayed. The Castellan has archers, men-at-arms and some elderly knights who have retired and live here at the king’s grace and favour. However,’ he paused for effect, ‘I have heard how Alexander of Lisbon, who leads about three score and ten hardened veterans, baulks at being cooped up in the castle. He claims he holds no commission, no mandate, no writ to serve here. He is his own master, allowed to travel the length and breadth of this kingdom on matters affecting the Holy Father in Avignon and King Philip of France.’
‘In other words,’ I declared, ‘Alexander of Lisbon finds the hen coop too tight and wishes to fly.’
‘Yes, and there is little we can do to stop him. However, if he does leave, those who watch this castle will learn that our strength is much depleted.’
Now this news came as a surprise. I had kept well away from the gatehouse and bailey area, distancing myself from Alexander of Lisbon and his comitatus. I understood the Portuguese mercenary’s wish to leave – this was not his quarrel – but I wondered if there was anything else.
‘What difference would it make?’ Dunheved spoke up sharply. ‘My lords, ladies,’ he smiled, ‘in my youth I served as a squire before I entered the novitiate. Let us look at the possibilities and ap
ply logic. If this castle is attacked, we will all have to defend her grace, but can we count on Alexander of Lisbon? Lord Henry, you have it right: he’s a mercenary. Lisbon receives his commission from the pope and King Philip to hunt Templars. Why should he risk his men for us? I suspect that if he can, he will slip away, go about his own business.’
I looked sharply at the Dominican. This was the first time he had portrayed any animosity towards Lisbon.
‘In the end,’ Dunheved spread his hands, ‘it’s best if he leaves. There is another possibility. Rumours are rife in this castle that there’s a traitor within. Is Lisbon that traitor? He couldn’t care if the castle stands or falls. He wishes to be gone. Let him leave and the devil go with him.’
Louis Beaumont agreed. I too was taken by the Dominican’s logic. Alexander was a killer, a bully. I wondered if he had the courage to withstand an all-out assault on the castle walls.
Once the banquet was over, I thanked my hosts and left. Dunheved insisted on accompanying me back to the Prior’s Lodgings. We walked slowly. Now and again Dunheved would pause, plucking at my arm, as we discussed what was best for the queen. I will concede this: looking back down the years at Tynemouth, Dunheved was genuinely, even passionately, concerned about my mistress. A cold-hearted man, nevertheless, at that moment in time, he saw her safety as a God-given task. We continued on to my mistress’ chamber. I was surprised to find her still swathed in robes, sitting in her throne-like chair before the roaring fire, slippered feet resting on a footstool. Around the chamber lounged those young squires whom Isabella seemed to have taken a great liking to. On a stool nearby, Demontaigu, in the light of a lantern, was reading a story from King Arthur. Isabella seemed in good spirits. She asked Demontaigu to pause while Dunheved and I quickly reported what had happened at the dinner with the Beaumonts. She heard us out with a half-smile, her face looking even more beautiful in the firelight.
‘The Beaumonts . . .’ She leaned back in the chair and stared up at the black-raftered ceiling. ‘They are so ambitious! They would do anything! I sometimes wonder who they work for.’