by Paul Doherty
Inside, I was surprised. I had expected some evil hovel, dank and dirty, but the Pot of Fire was clean, the floor well swept, the rushes sweet and brushed with herbs. The smell was not too good, as the tap room was illuminated by great fat tallow candles standing in dishes or spiked on spigots. Mine host, a huge pot-bellied man with a bloodstained apron around his waist, apparently kept strict order; in one hand he clutched a heavy tankard, in the other a cudgel, while more of his bully-boys clustered round the door or sat at tables. He looked us up and down.
‘From the court,’ he declared in a thick accent. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ He led us around the counter, deeper into the tap room, which was shaped like an ‘L’. At the far end, in an enclosed corner, the Pilgrim from the Wastelands was waiting for us on a stool behind a table. We took our seats. Demontaigu, as a courtesy, ordered tankards of ale, adding that he wanted the best in clean pots.
‘What else?’ Mine host laughed and lumbered away.
The Pilgrim was still dressed like a Franciscan, his cowl pushed back. He seemed more relaxed. He’d chosen his seat wisely, close to a window as well, where he could keep a sharp eye on whoever entered the tavern. The tap room was fairly quiet. There was laughter, shouts and the occasional scream, and ladies of the night wandered in and out, but the real noise came from below. The Pilgrim explained that a cock fight was taking place in the cellar. After this, two champion ferrets would compete to see how many rats they could kill before the candle flame sank from one ring to another. We chattered about the Pot of Fire, the Pilgrim regaling us with anecdotes while the ale was served. He paused at a roar of triumph from the cellar below. I glanced away through the unshuttered window. Ribbons of moonlight cut across the tavern garden, a ghostly place. I recalled what the prior had said about Eusebius and his need to confess. Was the same true of this stranger? The Pilgrim stretched across and tapped my hand.
‘Mistress, are you well, do you feel safe?’
‘No,’ I retorted, ‘why should I? I sit with someone who calls himself the Pilgrim from the Wastelands, who also pretends to be a friar, a man with no name. Someone who can slip in and out of that friary as easily as a cat. A place where three men have been barbarously murdered.’
‘I agree, the friary has become a field of blood. I must be prudent, and so should you.’
I studied this cunning man even as I regretted my own mistake of ignoring him earlier. I’d been so swept up with the affairs of the court, I had forgotten how the king’s residence at the friary would attract the attention of others beyond the pale. I gestured at his garb.
‘Have you stolen that?’
‘I was loaned it.’ The Pilgrim pushed aside his tankard, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Mistress, no lies, no artifice. You met with Eusebius; so did I. A collector of trifles, that bell-ringer: a coin, a pilgrim badge, some marks of favour . . .’
I recalled Eusebius’ collection of baubles in the charnel house.
‘And so you paid him, and he supplied you with robe and sandals?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you a poor pilgrim?’
‘Mistress, that is part of my story.’
‘But you could enter and leave the friary whenever you wanted?’
The Pilgrim just shrugged.
‘You could be an assassin.’
The Pilgrim smiled and sat back. ‘I never climbed that tower,’ he murmured. ‘I have, mistress, a horror of heights.’
‘But you talked to Eusebius?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘Oh yes, I met him in the charnel house; he took me there.
He showed me his collection. He also boasted how his wits were not as dull as others thought.’
‘He may have known the assassin,’ I whispered.
‘I agree,’ the Pilgrim replied. ‘You’ve visited the charnel house, mistress?’
‘Yes.’
‘After Lanercost’s death, I went down there to meet Eusebius. On the one hand he could act the fool, the madcap, the jester, yet on the other he could make the most tart observations about his own community or the court. He talked for a while about nothing being what it appeared to be. He knew a little Latin; he could recite the Pater Noster and the Salve Regina. Then he asked me about light and darkness.’
‘Light and darkness?’ I queried.
‘I was mystified as well, but of course Eusebius lived in the church’s liturgy. He was particularly struck by the ceremonies of Holy Week. I eventually realised he was talking about Tenebrae, the ceremony on Maundy Thursday, that part of the Last Supper when Judas leaves to betray Christ, and the phrase from scripture, tenebrae facta.’
‘And darkness fell,’ I translated.
‘Yes, yes. Eusebius was talking about light and darkness. He wanted me to write the Latin words for them. I scrawled them on a scrap of parchment, but he didn’t want that. He pointed at the plastered white wall and gave me a piece of charcoal. I inscribed the words lux et tenebrae – light and darkness. For a while Eusebius just sat and stared at it, then he murmured, “Yes, that is what it is: black and white, light and darkness.”’
‘Did he talk about the Beaumonts?’
‘He called them grand lords. He relished the fact that he’d found one of their buttons on a piece of cloth, caught snarled on a thorn in the rose garden. It was part of his collection.’
I held my hand up and stared out at the moon-dappled garden. The shape I’d glimpsed in the charnel house had taken that button from Eusebius’ tray and left it deliberately near the trap door, a ploy to mislead.
‘Mistress?’
I glanced back at the Pilgrim. ‘Did you have any doings with Lanercost or Leygrave?’
‘No, no, I did not, but they came here . . .’
‘To the Pot of Fire?’ Demontaigu queried.
‘Oh yes, why not? Well away from the court. Mine host told me how they came here deep in their cups. He stayed well away from them. After all, they could be dangerous: two powerful courtiers armed with sword and dagger.’
‘But he tried to eavesdrop?’ I asked.
‘Of course. A tavern master makes that his business. He listens to confidences and passes them on, but Lanercost and Leygrave talked quickly in Norman French. Mine host said both men were extremely angry, yet sad. As they drank, they grew angrier. He caught the words ‘betrayal’ and ‘treason’ but nothing else. They drank deep and left with their arms around each other.’ The Pilgrim pulled a face. ‘Mistress, I tell you truth.’
‘So why did you want to see me?’
The Pilgrim sipped at his tankard, placed it on the table, then glanced out of the window and back at me.
‘I call myself the Pilgrim from the Wastelands. I was born Walter of Rievaulx. I am from these parts. My father, his father and his father before him were tenants of the great abbey at Rievaulx. Now God decided that I should be born with this.’ He touched the strange birthmark on his face. ‘From the moment I was born I was singled out to be alone. I did not want to be mocked. The Benedictines of Rievaulx kindly took me into their house and trained me. I became the abbey’s best falconer, a hawker, a huntsman. There is not a bird of prey I do not know or cannot recognise. I know their habits, foibles, weaknesses and ailments. What they must eat. How they must be sheltered, protected and groomed. Before my twentieth summer I was already a master falconer, and my reputation spread, not only as a huntsman but as a retainer who could be trusted. Now this was in the old king’s days. Four years before he died, Edward visited Rievaulx. The old king was passionate about venery; he had a particular love for falcons and hawks. I was introduced to him, and took him out for a hunt along the marshes. After we returned to the abbey, the king insisted I become a royal falconer. The abbot daren’t refuse, whilst I was very ambitious.’ The Pilgrim smiled. ‘Oh, I know the stories about the old king. He could be hard and resolute, cruel and vicious at times, but give him a hawk or a falcon and he was as gentle as a dove. He also liked me. We would talk like father and son. I was put in charge o
f the royal mews at the new Queen’s Cross, close to Westminster Palace. The old king pronounced himself very pleased. I was responsible for the royal falcons and hawks. If one fell ill, I would, if necessary, send for a physician, even make a wax cast of the bird and have a royal messenger place it before St Thomas à Becket’s shrine in Canterbury. The king was a hard taskmaster. Anyone who abused or proved negligent towards a hawk, he would beat with his belt or whatever came to hand, but to me he was as gentle as a mother. Sometimes when he visited the mews we’d sit on the ale-bench and share a jug of wine. I was in paradise. Never once did the old king make reference to my face. He simply described me as the best of servants.
‘I thought things would always remain like that, until the early spring of the year the old king died.’ The Pilgrim paused. ‘I’d been summoned to Westminster, to the Painted Chamber, at the heart of the royal quarters in the old palace. I had to kick my heels for a while until Edward invited me in. He’d bought a new manuscript from France on the training of hawks and peregrines, and insisted on reading sections of this out loud, asking for my opinion. I recall the day so well: light streaming in through the painted window glass. The chamber was littered with the king’s armour, belts, shoes and boots. Manuscripts strewed the table. The old king was happy, as if by talking to me he forgot his own cares and troubles. A chamberlain entered saying that the Prince of Wales and Lord Gaveston waited to see him. The king was reluctant. I knew about the rift between father and son. The old king fiercely resented Gaveston’s presence and, more importantly, his own son’s deep affection for a lowly Gascon. Nevertheless he summoned both son and favourite into the chamber. Courtesies were exchanged. The king then asked his son why he wished to see him. Both prince and Gaveston glanced at me as if I shouldn’t be there, but the king was losing his temper: his right eye was beginning to droop, his face was flushed, his hands were trembling slightly. He was growing old and weak. The campaigns in Scotland had taken their toll. Gaveston stood near the door; the Prince of Wales sat on a cushioned settle before his father. I had no choice but to stay; the king would not dismiss me. The prince talked about his affection for Gaveston, how he was a noble lord, his sweet brother. The king just nodded, but the anger in his eyes showed how much he hated Gaveston. The prince then made the most surprising request. He asked that Gaveston be given the Duchy of Cornwall or the counties of Ponthieu and Montreuil in France.’
‘What?’ Demontaigu exclaimed.
‘Yes, the prince repeated the request: the Duchy of Cornwall or the counties of Ponthieu and Montreuil. The king sprang to his feet, fists clenched, glaring down at his son. He muttered something under his breath, then he attacked the prince. Grabbing him by the hair, he dragged him off the settle and across the chamber. Then he banged his head against the wall, threw him to the ground and started to kick him. The prince yelled and screamed. The king said nothing; just an old, greying man kicking and beating his son. Gaveston remained by the door as if carved out of marble, a look of utter terror on his face. The king paused, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, then he roared at his son: “You whoreson bastard upstart! If I had another heir I would give all to him. You want to concede lands! You who have never acquired one yard of extra territory! To give away honours to someone like that – you whoreson!” By now the prince had crawled away on hands and knees. He turned to face his father. He was frightened and bruised but still defiant. “How dare you!” he screamed back. “How dare you call me whoreson and bring great shame on my mother, your wife?”’
The Pilgrim paused, staring around. He wetted his lips with another drink of ale. ‘Now, you know, Eleanor of Castile was the one and only great love of the old king’s life. When this incident happened she’d been in her grave some fifteen years. The old king heard his son out, then moved across, finger jabbing the air. “You,” he said, “you believe you are a prince? By God’s right I say this to you. I look at you. I recall the stories that you are a changeling. Have you heard them? Have you ever heard the stories?” The prince just gazed bleakly back. “You with your baseborn servants and friends, your love of digging and rowing and thatching a house! Do you know what they say?” The king crouched down, his face only inches from that of his son. “They say that as a child my son was attacked by a sow. The nurse in charge changed my true son for you, the by-blow of some peasant! God’s teeth, I used to dismiss that as a rumour, but now I wonder. If that nurse was alive I would get the truth, but as for you and your so-called brother, you get nothing! Do you understand? Nothing! Get out!”’ The Pilgrim paused once more.
The way he spoke conveyed the truthfulness of what he claimed. I knew enough about the old king to recognise his rage, but this was the first time I had ever heard such a story. Indeed, there had been rumours at the French court how king and son often clashed, even came to blows, but nothing like this.
‘Gaveston and Edward left,’ the Pilgrim continued. ‘The king turned to me, his face red, lips flecked with foam. He just glared at me as if seeing me for the first time, then gestured with his hand that I should get out. I fled. At first I thought nothing would come of it. The king became busy preparing for his great expedition against the Scots. The council met. Letters banishing Gaveston were drawn up. Now, mistress, I had been in London for some time. I wore the royal livery. I carried a sword and dagger, and never once was I accosted. However, in the two months following that terrible confrontation in the Painted Chamber, I was attacked no fewer than three times in and around Westminster by men cowled and masked. The only reason I escaped was that I was fleet of foot and most adept in the use of dagger and sword. Now at the mews I occasionally slept in the small hay store. Oh, I had my own comfortable chamber, but to keep an eye on the king’s birds, I would often settle there for the night.’
‘And it caught fire?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘You have the truth. A fire that had started both front and back at the same time. Again I escaped. I realised I had witnessed something I shouldn’t have but I didn’t know who was responsible for the attacks on me. The king, the prince, Gaveston or someone else? The old king remained cordial and courteous enough, though a coldness had grown up between us. Now I had been joined in London by my brother Reginald. He married well, the daughter of a local merchant, and they had a child. Reginald was a merry fellow. He liked nothing better than a jig or a bawdy story. One night around the Feast of the Birth of John the Baptist, Reginald left for a tavern in Thieving Lane near the gatehouse at Westminster. The weather had turned harsh. A cold wind was blowing rain in from the river. He took my cloak and beaverskin hat. Later that evening, bailiffs came to the mews carrying a stretcher on which Reginald’s corpse was sprawled. My brother never reached the tavern. He’d been found stabbed at least four times in a nearby alleyway. You can imagine my distress, my panic, my fear, my anger. Ursula, Reginald’s wife, was distraught. I could do little to help. I decided to flee. I went into hiding in Southwark. One day I crossed the river and wandered into St Paul’s, where the tittle-tattlers and the gossip collectors gather. Proclamations are pinned on the great cross in the churchyard. I was studying these carefully when I recognised one against myself: Walter of Rievaulx. According to the proclamation I was a thief, a felon and an outlaw. Three times I had been summoned to court, though I did not know that, and when I had not appeared, I’d been put to the horn, declared utlegatum – beyond the law – a wolf’s-head whom anyone could kill on sight.’
‘And your crime?’ I asked.
‘I was accused of stealing from the royal mews.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course it was a lie, but what could I do? If I was taken alive I would hang at the Elms in Smithfield. More likely I’d either be killed outright or perish of some mysterious ailment in Newgate. The proclamation was signed by the mayor and sheriffs of London. Now I’d taken with me all the wealth I could gather. I had one friend, Ursula’s father, a wool-smith. I went secretly to him. He believed my innocence. I gave him everything I had to pay him as well as to help Ursula. He se
cured me forged documents, licences and passes. I journeyed down to Dover, crossed the Narrow Seas and travelled to Paris. For a while I stayed there, working. My skills as a falconer meant I never starved; they provided food, clothing and a roof against the rain and wind. I listened to the stories from England about how the old king had swept north with fire and sword to avenge himself on the Bruce. I also recognised that my life in England was over. I had begun to travel and I wanted to continue. I felt guilty at Reginald’s death, at Ursula becoming a widow, her son fatherless. I believed I should do reparation. I travelled south to Compostela, then to Rome, where I secured passage to Outremer. I have visited Jerusalem. I have worshipped in the place where Christ was crucified and His body lay awaiting the Resurrection. I went on to the great desert beyond Jordan. I saw many things, mistress, then I came home. By the time I landed at Dover the old king was dead, his son was crowned and Gaveston had returned to become Earl of Cornwall, the king’s own brother and favourite. I hoped I’d been forgotten. My name had been obliterated, my appearance had changed, except for this.’ He pointed at the mark on his cheek. ‘Moreover, I had disappeared. Whoever had tried to kill me might take comfort that I’d fled, perhaps died abroad. I kept away from my old haunts. This is the first time I’ve returned to this shire since I joined the old king at Westminster.’
‘Who do you think was responsible?’ I asked. ‘For the attacks?’