by Paul Doherty
I stared down at the table. Was it possible? I wondered. The Beaumonts had been in Tynemouth and escaped unscathed. Was that part of their secret agreement with Bruce?
‘You’re sure?’ I asked. ‘To capture the queen, not to kill her?’
‘To capture her. Think, Mathilde, what could happen. If Bruce held Isabella, Queen of England, Princess of France, what terms could he dictate? French help? Have Edward withdraw from Scotland and give up all claims?’
‘Of course, of course,’ I hastened to agree, ‘but that is not the problem, Bertrand. The real mystery is who would do that. The Beaumonts have been mentioned, but who else would prosper?’ I paused. ‘The earls, perhaps? Edward would have to give up Gaveston in return. Perhaps Philip of France? He would love to see his son-in-law humiliated. If Isabella was captured, she would be treated honourably, perhaps even sent back to France. Philip would have not only her in his grasp but the future heir of the king of England. Edward would lose. He’d be a laughing stock. Gaveston would be more vulnerable than ever. People would see it as God’s judgement on the king for his friendship with his catamite.’ I sipped from my tankard of ale, possibilities teeming in my mind. Isabella was certainly a prize – both the queen and the future heir – yet who could be involved in such devious treason?
‘Murky and misty,’ I whispered. ‘Someone definitely tried to betray the queen at Tynemouth. Is that why Kennington was flung from Duckett’s Tower? Did he know or see something? Was his murder part of the preparation for that assault? The queen escaped by God’s good favour. Another hour, the entire castle might have been taken and everyone in it captured.’
‘One thing Ausel assured me.’ Bertrand pushed away his tankard and collected his cloak. ‘He again took the oath and swore that neither he nor, to the best to his knowledge, any of our brethren had anything to do with the deaths of Lanercost and the others.’
We were about to leave the tavern when I noticed a pilgrim armed with a staff, his cloak decorated with the conch shell of St James of Compostela, the palms of Outremer and the papal insignia of Rome. I recalled the Pilgrim from the Wastelands who had pestered the queen at York, his frenetic face stained with that strawberry mark, then the moment passed, at least for a while. On my return I did not inform Isabella about what Demontaigu had told me. We became busy gathering her household at Whitby. Moreover, what was the use? More questions about deep-tangled mysteries that only time and evidence could resolve.
The Beaumonts eventually arrived in a show of gorgeous livery. They portrayed themselves very much as the heroes of the hour, with a litany of praise about their valiant prowess during what they now called ‘The Great Siege of Tynemouth’. To anyone stupid enough to listen, they described how Lord Henry had stood like ancient Horatius in the breach and single-handedly resisted the Scots. Lady Vesci, that armoured Minerva, used her cross-bolt to deadly effect, whilst Louis, like Moses of old, held his arms up in supplication to the Almighty. Oh, the Beaumonts were sans pareil! None were more given to double-dealing and mischief than that unholy trinity. They’d managed to reassemble their retinue, retrieve their baggage and journey south through that early summer like a triumphant Caesar entering Rome. ‘A veritable stone wall’ was how Henry trumpeted his defence of Tynemouth against the Scots. In truth they could provide little information about the treachery which had allowed the Scots in or the mortal calamity that might have befallen the queen, who in turn could only welcome her ‘sweet cousins’ with open arms.
Once Isabella was ready, we travelled in glorious state to York. Outside Micklegate we were met by an escort of knight bannerets in their brilliant livery of blue, gold and scarlet with banners and pennants displaying the leopards of England. These escorted us into York. The city had put aside its trade to stage pageants and welcome their beautiful fairy-tale queen, now bearing the royal heir, who’d miraculously escaped the devilish plots and guile of the Bruce. The city conduits poured wine. Full oxen were roasted on enormous spits above roaring fires. At corners, before the gilt-gabled mansion of the city merchant-princes, speeches were made. Coloured cloths, standards and banners hung from windows. Trumpets sounded, horns brayed. The people cheered as Isabella, mounted on a milk-white palfrey, its harnessing all burnished and embroidered with gold stitching and silver medallions, processed along the streets and thoroughfares, scrupulously cleansed and sweetened for her progress. Spectacular pageants were enacted at various points along the approaches to the Ouse Bridge. The mayor and city aldermen, richly attired in their guild robes, presented the queen with a purse full of silver and a bowl of pure Venetian glass. Further along a group of maidens, garbed in snow-white drapery, their heads garlanded with spring flowers, enacted some scene from the city past before honouring her with a platter of pure gold studded with gems. Choristers from the nearby abbey church, clothed in dark red robes, sang ‘Isabellae reginae, laus, honor et gloria’ – ‘Praise, honour and glory to Isabella the queen’. Another pageant, celebrating the life of Saintly Thurston, a hero of the city, was enacted on the steps of St Michael’s church, so it was midday by the time we reached the gatehouse of the Franciscan priory. Here, as was the custom, a horde of ragged beggars waited to plead for alms. Isabella had given me a fat purse of copper coins to distribute whilst she and her cortège swept in to meet the king and Gaveston in the friary grounds. I stayed, guarded by Demontaigu, to give the queen’s pennies to the poor. God be my witness, there were so many, with their pitted skin, red-rimmed eyes and scrawny bodies displaying hideous wounds and deformities. The fragrance of the queen’s cortège, of perfumed robes over oil-drenched skins, as well as the gusts of incense could not hide the rank, fetid smells of that legion of poor. Skeletal fingers, curved like talons, stretched out to grasp the coins. I distributed these as fast and as fairly as I could. As a sea of gaunt grey figures surrounded me, I glimpsed the Pilgrim from the Wastelands, that distinctive mulberry stain on his sunburnt face. He lunged forward, took a coin then thrust a small scroll into my hand.
Once the alms were distributed and I was inside the gates, I unrolled the greasy black scroll and read its strange message: Ego sum vox clamans in deserto – I’m a voice crying in the desert. I beg you for the sake of the mistress you serve that I see thee, or thy mistress. I shall wait for you every day at Vespers bell near the Golgotha Gate.
I handed this to Demontaigu; he read it and pulled a face.
‘See him, Mathilde, as soon as you can. I shall be with you.’
Of course I couldn’t do so immediately. The king and Gaveston, garbed most royally in the costliest silks, velvet and ermine, awaited the queen in the great friary yard. I watched the mummery and court etiquette as both king and favourite welcomed Isabella and her entourage. The royal couple and their escorts mingled in a gorgeous collection of butterfly colours, watched by the gaping friars in their dark brown or grey robes. Speeches were delivered. Kisses and embraces exchanged. I glimpsed Rosselin and Middleton in the lavishly embroidered livery of their master, before glancing up at the looming church tower with its sinister history, the chimes of its great bells Peter and Paul booming out over the pageant below. I wondered again about the secrets the belfry held, before, along with the rest I was swirled away in the festivities that became the order of the day.
A royal banquet was held in the Prior’s Lodgings. A blaze of lighted candles dazzled the heavy gold and silver platters, jugs, ewers and goblets. Cooks and servitors brought in delicious dishes – venison, beef, swan and lampreys – whilst the wine flowed as if from a never-ending fountain. Yet it was all shadow with no substance. Nothing had really changed, and the following morning, in the same chamber, a more sober king and favourite listed the stark realities confronting them. Edward, flush-faced after acting the toper the night before, began to describe what was happening. The king hadn’t changed, but Gaveston certainly had: his beautiful face was pale, lined and haggard, and silver streaks glinted in that once dark, rich hair. The favourite looked thinner. He betrayed his agi
tation with nervous gestures, constantly fidgeting, and rubbing his stomach as if full of bitter bile. He’d lost that overweening arrogance, whilst the two Aquilae standing behind his chair also reflected their master’s unease.
In truth, sentence of death had been passed against them. The great earls brooked no opposition. Gaveston was to surrender himself, face trial and suffer execution. The time for negotiation was over. The earls were massing their forces and sending out writs summoning levies; their outriders visited ports and harbours to block any escape by the royal favourite. No help would come from France; that door was firmly closed. The shire levies would not move. The sheriffs and bailiffs, uncertain about what was going to happen, simply turned away. Royal writs were not answered, whilst the commissioners of array could not raise troops or collect purveyance. Edward spoke haltingly to the same chamber council that had last met the day Leygrave was killed. He mumbled about Tynemouth, about the Scots having a traitor within the garrison. How he was so pleased to be reunited with his queen, for whose safety he had so strenu-ously prayed and worked. During his rambling speech Gaveston’s mood altered, that furious Gascon temper manifesting itself, face muscles twitching in anger, gnawing his lips, fingers falling to the hilt of his long dagger. Isabella, on the other hand, remained serene, as if she just enjoyed a regal and stately progress through the kingdom.
Edward eventually reached his conclusion. Gaveston would, within a day, leave for Scarborough Castle. The king paused and asked who would accompany him. A profound silence eloquently answered his question. Causa finita – the cause is finished. So was Gaveston!
The royal favourite stared beseechingly around. I appreciated Gaveston’s horrifying predicament. If he was locked up in Scarborough, apart from his now depleted Aquilae, he would be alone. Edward, growing even more distracted, rambled on about witnesses needing to be present lest mischief befall his ‘sweet brother’.
Dunheved volunteered. Isabella looked at me and nodded imperceptibly. I reluctantly agreed, as did Henry Beaumont and his kin. Once the meeting had ended, I met my mistress, who thanked me.
‘It’s best, Mathilde.’ She stroked my hair, then cupped my face in her hands. ‘It’s my way of showing my husband that I still believe all is not lost. You and Demontaigu must accompany Gaveston.’
‘And?’ I asked.
‘Watch,’ she replied.
I thought of Gaveston locked up in Scarborough Castle.
‘And the king?’
‘He cannot be in Scarborough,’ Isabella replied wearily, ‘not held fast, cut off from his kingdom. Edward must go south and try to raise support, seek loans from the London merchants. I . . .’ She paused, turning slightly, a gesture that betrayed her own unease. I understood what was going to happen.
‘Scarborough will be definitely besieged, won’t it?’ I asked. ‘The king does not want himself, or you, at the behest of the earls.’
‘And?’ Isabella asked.
‘Someone may have to treat with the earls. Someone who will be acceptable to them.’ I smiled thinly. ‘Like Stephen Dunheved, the Dominican, and me, domicella reginae camerae – a lady of the queen’s chamber – trusted and privy to royal business.’
‘Yes, Mathilde.’
‘And the Beaumonts,’ I added bitterly, ‘with a foot in either camp, as I am sure they have.’
‘Yes,’ Isabella murmured. ‘Slippery as eels, twisting and turning, my sweet cousins constantly looking for their own advantage.’
‘Could the Beaumonts have acted the traitor at Tynemouth?’ I asked.
‘Possibly. You told me about that cloth and button displaying their livery found near the trap door to the charnel house. The Beaumonts weave their own dark designs.’
‘Why should they betray you to the Scots?’
‘I don’t know.’ Isabella half smiled. ‘Perhaps to impress Bruce, to attract his attention, to gain favour with him. The Beaumont estates in Scotland are prosperous: fertile crop fields, good meadowland, dense forests and streams rich with salmon.’
‘And the Aquilae?’ I asked. ‘Could the Beaumonts be responsible for their deaths?’
‘Mathilde, if he wanted to, Henry Beaumont could put Judas to shame. Yes, they gather around the throne. They fawn and flatter both the king and Gaveston, but in the end, the Beaumonts have only one cause: themselves.’
‘But why should they kill the Aquilae?’
‘To weaken Gaveston. To prepare him for death. Is that not the way of those who plot assassination? To first remove the guards?’
‘Quis custodiet custodes?’ I quoted Juvenal’s famous jibe. ‘Who shall guard the guards?’
‘So true.’ Isabella stepped closer. Her face, framed by a white wimple, looked truly beautiful, her skin translucent, those eyes a deeper blue, sensuous red lips slightly parted. ‘I have closely studied my husband, Mathilde. I know his soul. He is lonely, vulnerable. His mother Eleanor died when he was still a child. The old king was too busy slaughtering the Scots or plotting against my father to care for him. There’s a great emptiness in my husband’s heart. I don’t think I will ever fill it. Gaveston might. So why shouldn’t the Beaumonts remove Gaveston? But first, as in chess, the pawns must be cleared, then the castles, bishops, kings and queens become even more vulnerable.’
‘So,’ I replied, ‘the Aquilae are removed, slain one by one in a mocking way. The assassins creep closer to Gaveston. It could be the Beaumonts. They must view him as a nuisance, a gross distraction to their ambitions . . .’
‘Better still,’ Isabella pressed a finger against my lips, ‘better still, Mathilde, if Gaveston goes, who will replace him in the king’s affections? The Beaumonts? Is that what they dream of?’ She paused. ‘God knows,’ she added drily, ‘my sweet cousins couldn’t really care except for whatever is good for them.’ She looked away, lips moving soundlessly, then nodded at me and swept out of the chamber.
The preparations immediately ensued for Gaveston’s departure for Scarborough. The king’s clerks truly believed the earls had spies in York, even in the friary itself, and their main fear was that once Gaveston left, the Great Lords might send a comitatus to intercept him. Accordingly, where possible, our preparations were hidden, hurried and secret. I did have words with Demontaigu about what the queen had told me. He immediately agreed with what she’d said.
‘Everybody wants Gaveston to go,’ he murmured.
‘Except the king?’
‘Except the king!’ Demontaigu’s voice was rich with sarcasm.
I stretched out and ran a finger around his lips. ‘The king?’ I queried. ‘Has the king tired of Gaveston?’
‘Think, Mathilde! For four years the Crown has been dominated by Gaveston. Has Edward, since the day of his father’s death, been given one moment’s peace? Has he been allowed to exercise true power? Look at what’s happened to him, chased about his realm and threatened. At times he is no better than some felon before the shire court, put to the horn as an outlaw. Edward must be seething with anger, but he must also be exhausted. Now,’ Demontaigu spread his hands, ‘life has swept on. Four years a king, Edward faces problems in Scotland and France. At Westminster the Commons demand to meet him. The Lords Spiritual have their own list of grievances. They ask why the king doesn’t settle and live on his own? His wife, a young, beautiful woman, is now enceinte, hopefully with a male child. I’m not saying his grace wills Gaveston evil. Edward may just want a little peace for himself.’
Long after Demontaigu left, his bleak description of the king remained with me.
Rosselin and Middleton also came to see me. I visited the priory’s scriptorium, a gracious, elegant chamber, its fragrance so precious to me: pressed vellum, neatly scrubbed, ink, sandstone and calfskin bindings. I found it comforting to walk along the polished floor and peer over the shoulder of some brother as he copied a manuscript or decorated a book of hours with beautiful miniature pictures that shone like jewels. I glimpsed Dunheved standing near the unbound manuscripts, all filed neatly
in their pigeonhole shelves. He explained how he was searching for a copy of Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo – Why God Became Man – and returned to his scrutiny. I smiled to hide my own surprise, then felt guilty; after all, Dunheved belonged to an order famous for its learning in the schools of Oxford and Cambridge. He was more than just a preacher, and I idly wondered in what branch of the trivium or quadrivium he was interested. Lost in such thoughts, I left the scriptorium. Rosselin and Middleton were waiting for me in the small cloister beyond. They rose and blocked my path. Rosselin raised a hand, palm extended in a gesture of peace.
‘Mathilde, we do not wish to alarm you, but the deaths of our comrades Lanercost, Leygrave and Kennington, have they been forgotten?’
‘Has your master forgotten them?’ I retorted.
‘His mind is all a muddle,’ Rosselin declared.
‘He is faced with a sea of cares.’ Middleton’s boyish face under his shaven pate was anxious and concerned. A set of Ave beads hung round his neck; he fingered these as if for protection.
‘So your master is not concerned,’ I replied, ‘but you are? Take great care, sirs, I have warned you. Whoever killed your comrades may also have singled you out for death.’
‘We heed your warnings,’ Middleton whispered, ‘but mistress, how can we truly protect ourselves when we do not know the enemy?’
‘And neither do I, sir. If I did, I would tell you!’
‘One thing we have found.’ Rosselin stared around as if some eavesdropper might be lurking. ‘One thing we have found,’ he repeated, ‘is that the day Leygrave was killed, a Franciscan, certainly a man garbed in the brown robes of the order, was seen slipping out through the Galilee Porch of the friary church.’
‘But that could have been anyone,’ I replied. ‘This friary is full of brothers going about their business.’
‘No, no.’ Rosselin shook his head. ‘The lay brother who was killed, Brother Eusebius? He told Father Prior that when he entered the church that morning to sound the Angelus, it was empty. Then he heard a sound, turned and glimpsed a figure, not walking like one of the brothers, but darting fleetingly like a shadow through the door of the Galilee Porch.’