by Paul Doherty
‘Madam?’ I enquired.
‘Well, they have blood ties with every sovereign in Europe. I do wonder if the information and gossip they collect from the English court goes to my father, to the pope in Avignon, indeed to anyone who would buy it. They have a finger in every pie, yet what they say is true.’ Isabella’s smile faded. ‘I cannot stay here much longer. If the roads south are dangerous, then perhaps it’s time we left by sea.’
‘Your grace,’ Dunheved retorted, ‘it is late spring. The seas are rough and dangers await there. I beg you to wait. The king, surely, will send messengers soon.’
‘I wonder.’ The queen stirred on her chair, gesturing at Demontaigu. ‘Continue reading. It’s good to hear how things should be rather than how they are. You have a fine voice; read that passage again about the knight entering Arthur’s court and challenging any of his paladins to a joust.’ Isabella clasped her hands. ‘Wouldn’t it be good to be back at Sheen, Windsor or Westminster, to wait for the sun, be out in the fields, to watch night returning?’ Her voice grew bitter. ‘Instead we are like rabbits on the moorlands, scuttling away from the shadow of the hawk. Lord Henry Beaumont is correct. This must be brought to an end, but how and when I cannot say. Mathilde, you may stay if you wish; if not . . .’
I bowed and withdrew. I’d drunk quite deeply at the Beaumonts’ feast, so I retired to bed early.
The next morning a loud rapping on the door aroused me. Demontaigu stood there fastening on his war-belt, a cloak about his shoulders.
‘Come, Mathilde, come. There is a disturbance near the gatehouse. Rumour has it that Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales are about to leave.’
‘Let them go,’ I replied. ‘What use are they here?’
‘Now, Mathilde, please!’
I closed the door and hastily dressed, putting on a pair of coarse leather boots and wrapping a cloak firmly about me. I explained to one of the queen’s squires what I was doing and followed Demontaigu down across the mist-hung bailey to the barbican and the great gatehouse where Lisbon and his fellow demons waited in their black garb, standards fluttering, war-hounds barking. The bailey was crowded. Sumpter ponies had been led out with bags, chests and casks strapped to them. I stared at these men, this legion of demons who, for the last four years, had hung like some deadly miasma around the court. A coven of hideous malignity and malice, they’d dogged the steps of poor broken Templars, carrying out hideous murder and acting like the lords of hell. Now they were intent on leaving. The Castellan and his officers, serjeants of the bow and spear, were dismayed at being weakened by the departure of so many fighting men, especially when the danger lurking out on the misty moorlands had yet to be confronted. Alexander of Lisbon, one hand holding the reins of his sleek black destrier, was gesturing dismissively at the Castellan. Beside him a man-at-arms unfolded the black and gold banner of the Noctales, a sign that they were about to mount and leave. Demontaigu and I edged closer. Lisbon stepped to one side and waved forward a figure garbed in dry animal skins, hair and beard all tousled.
‘This is my guide,’ he yelled at the Castellan. ‘Oswyth of Teesdale. He says the king and Lord Gaveston with a sizeable host are not far. He’ll lead us by moorland paths to meet them.’
I gazed at Oswyth: that large head, the tangled hair and beard, those fierce eyes, cheekbones brushed raw by the wind. I listened to him chatter in the local patois, one word swiftly running into the other, which a clerk of the stables had to translate for both the Castellan and Lisbon. Oswyth, a mere churl, gave an accurate description of the royal party: the blue, gold and scarlet banners, the snarling leopards. The king and Gaveston, a host of Welsh archers swarming about them, were now marching north. I believed it myself. The news had to be true; a peasant could not invent such detail. Demontaigu squeezed my wrist.
‘Look upon his face, Mathilde,’ he whispered. ‘Do so carefully.’
Oswyth had all the mannerisms of a ploughman trying to impress his betters. He betrayed country ways, constantly moving, stamping his feet, scratching and muttering to himself. Now and again he’d step forward and chatter to the clerk of the stables. Only when he moved did I become more curious. I stared hard. Despite the tousled hair and beard, I recognised someone I knew. I gazed in horror! I did know Oswyth! No northern peasant or unlettered ploughman, he was Ausel the Irishman, the consummate mummer and mimic, God’s justice incarnate, His anger in flesh against Lisbon and his followers of Baal! Ausel had come to lead Alexander of Lisbon not to the king but to hell! I opened my mouth. I wanted to shout a warning. Even though I hated the Noctales, it is hard to watch men prepare so willingly and yet so unwittingly, for a violent death. Demontaigu gripped my wrist tighter, whispering that I should remain silent. I could only stare, marvelling at the Irishman’s cunning at posing as a peasant. A high-ranking Templar could provide detailed descriptions of the king, Gaveston and the royal cortège, but not a local unlettered peasant. What better way of convincing Lisbon? He certainly had. The Noctales were determined to leave and the Castellan could only protest.
‘God have mercy on them all,’ Demontaigu whispered. ‘There is nothing I can or want to do to stop it.’
The bells of the castle chapel clanged, summoning us to the Jesus mass, as the Noctales, banners and pennants unfurled, a long line of mounted men with their sumpter ponies and barking war-dogs, clattered through the yawning gate to meet their nemesis on that fog-bound moorland. To elude death is not easy. Try as we might, we soul-bearers must allow our souls to travel on when the Lord demands it. Lisbon and his devils were about to meet their God. The early-morning air held the taste of death. My mind began to play tricks, as if I could already hear the shrieks, the clatter of swords, the hiss of arrows and the slicing, sickening thud of the war-axe. Lisbon was hastening to hell; his slaughter bed was being prepared.
All I could do on my return was to whisper to the queen, who crossed herself in a moment of prayer. Demontaigu and I then attended mass. I did not take the sacrament. I could not. I was torn by guilt, though there was nothing I could do. Alexander of Lisbon would have simply scoffed at my warnings, whilst if I had betrayed Ausel, the Templar would have gone to a hideous death.
After mass, Demontaigu and I sat on the ale-bench in the castle buttery, breaking our fast and waiting for news. It arrived late that afternoon: a survivor of Lisbon’s group, still harnessed and all bloodied, his entire body a gaping wound, came hammering on a postern gate more dead than alive. He was helped into the castle’s infirmary and I was summoned. The survivor was a Parisian by birth, young in years but now openly fêted by death. He had a mortal wound to the stomach, so there was little I could do except give him comfort and relief. He greedily drank the opiate, then babbled about playing in green fields, his mother and a young woman called Claricia. Eventually he broke from his drug-smeared dreams and, in haunting but lucid whispers, told me what had happened. How the Noctales had gone up into the fog, deep on to the moorlands, where water hags and demon wraiths swirled: a lonely, forbidding place. How many of his companions had become uneasy and began to curse Lisbon, but their leader remained insistent. The die was cast. An hour out from the castle, their guide led them into a trap as fast and as hard as any snare.
‘Who?’ demanded the Castellan, whom I’d immediately sent for.
‘Templars.’
‘Nonsense!’ the Castellan snapped.
‘Then ghosts,’ the man pleaded. ‘Out of hell, bent on vengeance. I tell you, I heard their battle cry, “Beauseant!” I glimpsed their piebald standard. They were ready and waiting like the wolf. A hail of hissing arrows, deadly sleet pouring through the mist, then they closed, spear thrusting and battle axe whirling. Our dogs and many of the horses took the brunt of the first assault.’
‘How many were your attackers?’
‘Their name must be legion. Alexander of Lisbon did his best. We dismounted, forming a spear hedge, but they cut through with axe, sword and mace. We became split into small groups, each man fightin
g for himself. The circle I was in broke. I remember receiving a burning cut here,’ his hand fell to his stomach, ‘then I fled. Behind me hideous screams and yells. It was easy to find my way back. I simply followed our tracks. I heard pursuers but a war-horn wailed; they must have wanted one of us to survive to tell the story.’ The young man arched in pain.
I glanced at the Castellan, who shrugged. I forced a wine cup between the dying man’s lips. Demontaigu came just before dawn. He gave the Noctale what spiritual comfort he could. Afterwards we reported to the queen, who’d risen early and was already warming herself by a weak fire.
‘My father,’ Isabella never bothered to lift her face, but stared into the flames, ‘my father in Paris will be furious! Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales were his men. It all began in blood,’ she whispered, ‘and it will end in blood.’
Demontaigu and I withdrew to a small window embrasure outside in the narrow corridor. We sat on the thin cushions. Demontaigu leaned forward.
‘There was nothing we could do, Mathilde. Alexander of Lisbon has received justice.’
‘But what does it mean?’ I asked.
‘I would wager,’ Demontaigu chose his words carefully, ‘that Ausel and the others went into Scotland. They made their peace with Bruce, received his help then moved south. The journey would be easy; the pursuit of the king by the earls has brought everything to a halt. Sheriffs, bailiffs, the mayors of towns and cities are reluctant to move. The countryside is wild and desolate. It would be difficult to track even a sizeable war band. Ausel decided to act. Apart from the young man I shrived, I doubt if any of the Noctales survived. I must see the Castellan.’ Demontaigu rose to his feet. ‘If Ausel is here, then Bruce’s forces can’t be far behind.’
I insisted on accompanying him. The Castellan, that wily veteran, had already reached the same conclusion. He was still dismissive of stories about the Templars, but Demontaigu argued with him quietly. The Castellan listened, nodding his head. Just after daybreak he sent out scouts to follow the tracks of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales. These scouts, either because of their cunning or because they were allowed to, managed to return. The story they brought back was chilling. They’d reached the battle site, a place of broken spears, shattered daggers, a saddle cut and gashed, the odd item of clothing, but every corpse of both man and beast had been removed. Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales had simply disappeared, extinguished, wiped off the face of God’s earth. The scouts brought other news, of peasants in hiding who told them fearful stories about a Scottish war host plunging deep into the shire, following the valleys, carrying out savage raids against villages and local farmsteads. The Castellan needed no further encouragement. The castle was put on a war footing. A message was sent to the queen that she must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, as well as the warning that the Castellan had not yet discovered if treachery still lurked within. We soon discovered it did.
Chapter 5
They had resolved to carry off the Queen of England.
Two days after the massacre of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales, the tocsin boomed out just as dawn broke. An officer of the garrison came rushing into the queen’s quarters, declaring that a postern gate had been found unlocked.
‘God be thanked,’ he added, ‘it gave us a little time. Both lock and latch had been smashed. The alarm was raised, but shortly afterwards the sally port was attacked.’ Even from behind thick walls we could hear the growing clamour of battle.
‘It wasn’t secured in time?’ Isabella, already cloaked, was directing members of her household out into the bailey.
‘No, your grace! A serjeant and a few soldiers were trying to do that. They were surprised and killed. The Scots now have a force in the castle. They are trying to reach the main gate . . .’ The man babbled on even as we prepared to leave.
Demontaigu, the queen’s squires and other members of her household were all harnessed and armoured. Most of Isabella’s chests and coffers had already been taken down to the cove outside Duckett’s Tower. The rest was merely baggage, which was now sent ahead. Once ready, with Demontaigu and the squires as our escort, we left the Prior’s Lodgings. A thick sea mist hid what was happening on the far side of the castle, where the garrison was desperately fighting to contain and drive out the invading force. The chilling sound of battle – screams, yells and the clash of weapons – carried across. Somewhere a fire burnt, its flames yellowing through the mist. Black smoke plumed up and billowed out. At the time we were in no real danger. The queen was well guarded.
We reached Duckett’s Tower to find that Rosselin and Middleton had already fled down the tunnel. We followed swiftly out into the brisk, cold sea air. The Wyvern was ready for sea, its bowsprit turned, the large sail half unfurled, a royal standard floating from the high stern. Boats and wherries were bobbing on the waves between shore and ship. The tide was still out. We left the shelter of the cliffs, hurrying down to the waterline to meet the incoming wherries, powerful boats manned by six oarsmen. The first came in oars up, keel crunching the pebble-thick sand. Men leapt out to assist the queen and others. Demontaigu, Dunheved and I were waiting for the second wherry when one of the squires shouted a warning, pointing further down the beach. Now the cliffs stretched out sheer white, and the receding tide had exposed a broad path of sand littered with seaweed, rocks and pools. The sea haze was thinning. I glimpsed a glint of silver, a flash of colour. The terror of battle gripped my breath. Others were now shouting in alarm. The Scots had sent a force down some cliff path and out along the shoreline. Mere chance; the spin of fortune’s wheel had saved the queen from entrapment either here or in the passageway of Duckett’s Tower.
The squires screamed at the incoming boats to hurry. I glanced across the sea. The wherry carrying Isabella was safe, but the others seemed to take an age to beach. One of the queen’s ladies – God forgive me, I forget her name – who’d been left behind with us sank down on to the wet sand, sobbing hysterically. I glanced along the water’s edge. The Scottish party were closing, the light glinting on shield, hauberk, helmet and drawn sword. They paused. A group of crossbowmen dressed in black leather sped forward, knelt, aimed and loosened their bolts. They misjudged the distance and the volley fell short. Demontaigu, sword raised, organised our own force, strengthened by others now pouring out of the cave beneath Duckett’s Tower. A line of archers, household men and squires, soldiers from the castle, anyone who carried an arbalest or longbow, was swiftly assembled. The Scots lunged forward, in their haste knocking aside their own archers. Demontaigu gave the order to loose. A volley of arrows and bolts brought down the front rank of the attackers and a host of those behind. Our second volley was sparser; only the longbowmen had the time to notch and loose again. Then the Scots clashed with us. A bloody, furious melee of whirling steel and strange battle cries. The hideous shock of men gripped in a deadly, vicious hand-to-hand struggle spread both along the beach and down to the waterline. Nevertheless, the attackers were held. The wherries were waiting in the shallows. Demontaigu and the squires pushed us out into the bubbling surf. We were grabbed, flung and bundled aboard. Our defenders also began to retreat deep into the water, archers going first so they could use their bows, shooting over our heads at the Scots wading through the swirling tide like dogs going for the kill. The racing surf became frothed with blood. The screams and yells of the attackers grew more furious. The Castellan, God bless him, had sent other men through Duckett’s Tower. They now burst out of the cave, attacking the rear of the Scottish force. Our boats became dangerously overburdened. Wounded and dying sprawled, blood pumping out of gruesome wounds. The queen’s lady-in-waiting had taken a crossbow bolt deep in her chest and was struggling in a welter of blood and pitiful, choking sounds. The oarsmen prepared. The captains of the boats were screaming to pull away.
At last we were free, rising and falling on the surging waves of the powerful tide. The boats were awash with a bloody swirl. Corpses floated on the water. The Scots, realisi
ng pursuit was futile, now turned to face the danger behind them. Already a few were breaking, retreating back along the shoreline. The wherries and boats drove on, braving the swell, almost crashing into the side of The Wyvern. We clambered up rope ladders, men shouting and pulling us over the side. We were shown little sympathy, lying on the deck where we were thrown. Water skins were passed around and I, clothes sodden, spent the rest of the morning tending to the wounded and dying. The master of The Wyvern was not concerned with us, more determined to break free of the coast, alarmed by beacon lights flashing from the clifftops, wary of the Flemish privateers prowling those waters. By midday I and the ship’s leeches had done what we could for the wounded, Demontaigu and Dunheved assisting. Middleton and Rosselin came up but I shooed them away. Demontaigu remained cold and resolute. I thanked him for what he’d done. Dunheved certainly impressed me. He was calm, patient and watchful. Nevertheless, I could feel the fury curdling within him. We all entertained suspicions about what had happened, but now was not the time for discussion.
Once we had finished, Dunheved supervised the swift burial of the dead, committing their bodies to the deep and their souls to God. In the late afternoon the ship’s crew assembled with their passengers to witness Dunheved, under an awning stretched out from the cabin, celebrate a dramatic mass for those killed. An eerie experience. The Wyvern, its sail full-bellied by a brisk north wind, surged through the waters under a strengthening sun. In a powerful, ringing voice Dunheved proclaimed the oraisons for the departed as well as leading us in a hymn of thanksgiving for our deliverance. I felt unsteady, as if I was in a dream. The rolling ship, its pungent smells, the creak and groan of timber and cordage. Above us a sheer blue sky, the sun washing the deck. Such a contrast to the fog-bound, craggy heights of Tynemouth.
In the early evening, the queen, unscathed and calm, left her cabin and met us under the same awning beneath which Dunheved had celebrated mass. She was ivory-faced, her hair tied tightly around her head, over which she pulled the deep cowl of her cloak. She publicly thanked the master of The Wyvern, her squires, Demontaigu and others of her household. She distributed precious stones as tokens of her appreciation, then sat in the captain’s small, throne-like chair as Dunheved listed the dead.