by Paul Doherty
‘God and his saints know: the old king, the prince, Gaveston, all three? What I have realised is that I should never, ever have been in that chamber. If that was just a scurrilous story, why should someone wish to kill me because I’d learn it? Go through York or London, visit the taverns and alehouses and you’ll hear many a ribald story about the great ones of the land, the lords of the soil.’
‘And did you ever,’ Demontaigu asked, ‘try to discover if there was any truth in that story?’
‘I wandered the highways and byways. I visited royal castles the prince might have stayed at as a child. I heard of an incident, but nothing substantial. As I say, if chatter and gossip were worth a piece of gold, I’d be a very rich man.’
‘So why did you come to York?’ I asked. ‘Why are you telling us this?’
‘Because you, mistress, must tell the queen.’
‘Why?’
The Pilgrim stared out across the garden. I followed his gaze. It was a gloomy place lit by pale moonlight. Somewhere a dog yelped. Nearby a relic seller was provoking raucous laughter by offering the most tawdry items as sacred pieces. A slattern, baited by a drunken customer, screamed abuse. Mine host roared for calm. Darkness had truly fallen. More oil lamps and candles had been lit and the Pot of Fire bubbled with shadows.
‘You’re here for revenge?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘No, sir, I’m here for justice. I was innocent. I was in a chamber where the king wanted me to be. Simply because of what I saw and heard, my life has been destroyed. My brother was foully murdered, his wife left a widow, her son fatherless. If it was a petty matter, why such loss? So yes, I am here for justice.’
‘You think Edward and Gaveston are responsible for the havoc caused?’
‘I have tramped this road and that, shivered out in the desert, gone to sleep in dark, dank woods. I have sheltered in cow byres and pigsties. One day I shall die. I wish to tell someone else, someone in authority, someone with power, what caused this dramatic change in my life. I reflect on Gaveston’s control over the king. Does he bait him with this? Taunt him? Blackmail him? And these murders,’ he took a deep breath, ‘the deaths of the Aquilae? Did they know the secret their master holds? Is that why they are being killed? Ah well.’ He pushed away his tankard. ‘Mistress, it’s time to be gone. I never stay long in one place, but in the end, yes, I came here for justice, perhaps revenge. I have told this story to no other person except one.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘A priest under the seal of confession: a Franciscan at Grey Friars in London. I went there to be shrived before I travelled to York. Even when I arrived here I dared not visit my father’s house or the abbey, just in case . . .’
‘Your confessor?’ I insisted.
‘He asked me to take an oath under the seal of confession that what I told was the truth. He replied that as my penance I should return and tell someone I trusted, someone in authority, what I know. I arrived in York, I listened to Brother Eusebius. I watched the court and the friary. You, mistress, have a reputation for honesty. Her grace the queen is innocent of any crime; shouldn’t she know the secret that has destroyed me and those I love?’
‘Where to now?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘I shall return to London.’ The Pilgrim rose abruptly. ‘Come,’ he gestured, ‘Pig Sty Alley at such a late hour is not a safe place.’
Demontaigu called mine host and settled for what we had drunk. We left, back into Pig Sty Alley. So many years have passed, yet I cannot forget walking through that filthy runnel, that tangle of shadows, the strange shapes of the nightwalkers, the swirling smells, the eerie cries that rang out like ghost song. Rats teemed, greyish in the poor light, cats hunted, dogs howled. The full moon had broken free from the clouds, washing the alleyway with silver light. We hastened by doorways and entrances, dark holes holding God knows what terrors and horrors. Demontaigu drew both sword and dagger, whilst the Pilgrim wielded a stout cudgel. I heard a sound and whirled round. Despite the gloomy murk, I glimpsed a shape, cowled and cloaked, last seen at ‘The Road to Damascus’ after we returned from the moors. I recognised that figure, the outlaw Furnival, and I wondered if Ausel was not far behind. We walked on. The Pilgrim was humming a song, Demontaigu reciting a Templar prayer about the face of God smiling benevolently at us. No one impeded us, no one stopped us, and at last we were free. Across the thoroughfare rose the walls of the friary, and through the dark we could glimpse pinpricks of light from the belfry as well as the curfew lamps set at windows and doorways. The corner of Pig Sty Alley was illuminated by fierce fires burning merrily in great casks. Sconce torches had been pushed into niches on the wall, their flames whipped by the wind. I stared up at the sky. I’d learnt so much that night, and yet what sense did it make? Nevertheless, I sensed that harvest time was close; the wickedness sown was coming to fruition.
We crossed the deserted thoroughfare. The occasional dog nosed the ground; a cat whipped across in a dark blur. The Pilgrim walked slightly in front of us. I heard a sound to my left just near the Golgotha Gate. A click, a snap that should have alarmed me, but I was tired. The whir of the cross-bolt was like an angry wasp. The Pilgrim screamed and staggered back, the feathered quarrel embedded deep in his chest. He waved his hands as if he could fend off the blow, his face contorted with pain, and fell to the ground as another cross-bolt whistled through the air above us. I screamed at Demontaigu not to go forward. I ran even as the Pilgrim turned on his side, fingers going to the feathered quarrel that had cut off his life. I put an arm beneath his shoulder and tried to lift him. Blood was already bubbling out of his mouth, heels drumming on the ground. He stared at me beseechingly.
‘A priest,’ he whispered. ‘A priest.’
‘Mathilde, Mathilde.’ Demontaigu gently pushed me away. ‘Listen, I’m a priest, a Templar priest. I have my faculties. I will hear your confession, I will shrive you.’
I edged away on all fours, staring into the darkness, wondering if the assassin was still there. Again a cross-bolt cut the air, then a voice called out, clear, with a slight lilt. Ausel!
‘Mathilde, Bertrand, what ails you?’
I was aware of a shadow moving across the thoroughfare. Demontaigu, God bless him, even though he was exposed to danger, knelt by the fallen man, whispering to him, raising his hand in blessing as he gave absolution. The Pilgrim, on the verge of death, moved restlessly in his pain. I heard gasps and sighs as the blood gurgled at the back of his throat, then he shook once and lay still. Demontaigu crossed himself and rose. A shape detached itself from the darkness, speeding silently across like some soft-footed felon slipping through the dark. I glimpsed the glint of steel. Demontaigu, however, aware that danger might still lurk, pulled the Pilgrim’s corpse out of the pool of light into a dark corner of Pig Sty Alley. He crouched down, going through the dead man’s pockets and wallet, but all he found were medals and coins. I sensed the danger had passed. A shadow waited just beyond the light.
‘Ausel,’ I called, ‘is that you?’
The Irishman stepped forward. He was much changed since the last time I’d seen him. Now his head was completely shaven, and his face had a stark, skull-like appearance. There was no hair on his mouth or chin; his eyes were gleaming and his mouth was pulled in a thin, bloodless line. He came and crouched next to us as if he had been our companion the entire evening.
‘Was it you?’ I accused. ‘Ausel?’
He turned, eyes half closed. ‘For the love of God, Mathilde, why should I kill this man? Sure, I was with you. I left before you and I was waiting here.’
‘And the assassin?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Ausel replied. ‘I journeyed south to meet Demontaigu. I followed you down Pig Sty Alley and into the Pot of Fire. You did not see me,’ he smiled, ‘but I saw you.’
‘I glimpsed the outlaw Furnival,’ I whispered. ‘I did wonder. Ausel, why are you here?’
‘To meet my good brother.’
I gestured down at the Pilgrim
. ‘There is nothing we can do for him; his soul is for God, his body for the ground. Ausel, I have known you for four years. Swear to me that you had nothing to do with the attempt at Tynemouth to capture the queen.’
‘On the book of the Gospels! Summon Michael, the provost of heaven, and all his angels, the bailiffs of the divine gate, and I will swear. I knew nothing. We did nothing. Our sole aim was the total destruction of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales, but out of friendship, I’ll tell you this. We are now members of Bruce’s court and his power has grown. If Edward does not act soon, the English crown will lose Scotland and all it possesses there. You must walk prudently, Mathilde. The Beaumonts . . . well, I think you know their nature. They look only after themselves.’ He edged closer, his face harsh and severe. ‘Rumours run in the Scottish camp about all forms of treachery, like a swarm of writhing snakes, at the English court. No doubt Edward of England petitioned Bruce for help, but other stories swirl like foul smoke: that it did not matter if the queen was captured.’ He paused, staring at me, his face ghostly in the poor light.
‘Or killed?’ I whispered.
Ausel nodded.
‘But would Bruce be party to that? He is a noble. He was once a member of the English court himself, a knight.’
‘Mathilde, across the northern march the king’s father laid waste with fire and sword. He killed Bruce’s brothers. He took Bruce’s women and put them in cages, then hanged them from castle walls. Bruce has changed. This is war to the death. Bruce had scruples, but if he drew the line at murder, it wasn’t because of any chivalrous feelings but due to the power of France. Bruce sits and watches. He and his churchmen pray that Gaveston will never be sent into exile. They hope civil war will flare here so Bruce can come into his own. Most of Scotland is lost. Further unrest in England would make Bruce king.’ He pointed down at the Pilgrim. ‘I don’t know who he is or why he is important to you at this late hour of night. I told you I followed you from the tavern. I went ahead. I was waiting in the shadows of the friary wall; I saw you emerge into the light. This man was struck, but where the bowman was, God only knows.’
‘And what now?’
Ausel stretched out a hand. ‘Heaven knows, Mathilde. I do not think I shall look upon your face again. This is my last expedition into England. I will have words with Master Demontaigu tomorrow morning, then I will rejoin my brothers.’
I clasped his outstretched hand. Ausel was a killer, but he was also a man of his word. I believed he had nothing to do with the death of the Pilgrim. He melted into the darkness. Demontaigu and I went across to the Golgotha Gate and knocked on the postern door. A short while later, a group of bleary-eyed lay brothers came out with a stretcher. They placed the Pilgrim’s corpse upon it and took it to the death house. We followed them in. Demontaigu escorted me to my chamber and kissed me lightly on the head, pressing a finger against my lips.
‘Not now, Mathilde, no talk. I must see Ausel and you must sleep.’
Chapter 7
The Lord King and Gaveston became separated from each other, the Gascon stayed at Scarborough . . .
In the event, I did sleep. I was so tired I just stretched out on my bed, wrapped a cloak around myself and fell into a deep slumber plagued by nightmare memories: of violence and intrigue, of walking down filthy alleyways, of standing in squares where torches burnt and corpses dangled from gallows. I was pleased to wake early. I stripped and washed. The queen had not risen, so I went to the Jesus mass and busied myself about my own affairs. Mid-morning a grim-faced prior celebrated a requiem mass for the Pilgrim; two other corpses of beggars found lying near the friary had also been brought in for the last rites. The mass was simple. No incense, no chanting, simply the sombre words of the requiem about the Day of Judgement, of being committed to the soil, of the souls of the departed being escorted into heaven by Michael and all his angels. Afterwards I followed the prior and the brothers out into God’s Acre, where all three corpses, wrapped in shrouds, were committed to the earth. Once the prior had blessed the grave he beckoned me over. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he stared attentively at me.
‘Mistress, I do not wish to give offence, but this is a house of the Franciscan brothers dedicated to peace, preaching and penance, not murder and horrid death during the dark hours of the night. I wish you well, Mathilde. Please give my loyal regards to your mistress, but I would be dishonest if I did not say I shall be glad when you’re gone.’
I left the cemetery and immediately sought audience with Isabella in her chamber. The room was busy, thronged with ladies-in-waiting, squires and pages, porters preparing chests and casks. Isabella took one look at my face and dismissed her servants. She was swathed in a heavy robe, her face rather pale. I asked her if she was well but she just said it was morning sickness and that it would pass. I insisted on distilling her a herbal drink. She sat in her chair, fingers over a chafing dish. I crouched on a stool next to her, leaned close and told all that had happened, what the Pilgrim had reported and what Ausel had said. Only then did I fully realise how mature the queen had become. How closely she imitated her formidable father, who, to quote one poet, ‘was terrible to the sons of pride’. She never interrupted or questioned me. Once I’d finished, she stretched both hands over the chafing dish as if to draw strength and warmth from the sparkling charcoal.
‘Mathilde, I thank you. I have heard such stories and rumours. Sometimes I wonder. I doubt if they are true; scurrilous, tattling tales. The real danger in such stories is not that they are true but that they can become so. My husband does nothing to prevent the seeds of such a tale taking root in men’s hearts. Here we are in York, chased by the earls of England, scurrying to Tynemouth, seeking help from a Scottish rebel. Edward should be in Westminster, the throne of his ancestors, administering justice, governing his realm.’ She paused at a knock on the door, and Dunheved walked in. Isabella did not dismiss him but summoned him over. She pointed to another stool, then turned to me.
‘Mathilde, I must have words with Brother Stephen. I have also conferred with my husband. Tomorrow morning at the latest, you and the good brother here,’ she smiled at the Dominican, ‘will leave for Scarborough.’
I glanced at the queen’s confessor, who sat, cowl slightly pushed back, hands up the sleeves of his robe. He was so serene and watchful. I did wonder again what role this wily Dominican played in the affairs of the court. But Isabella was impatient to talk to him, probably under the seal of confession, when she would tell him everything we had discussed. I bowed, curtsied and left the chamber.
By Angelus time the news of our imminent departure was well known throughout the friary. I packed my belongings. The queen did not need me, so I bolted and locked my chamber door, went to my writing desk, took out a piece of vellum and decided to collect my own thoughts on what I’d learnt and observed. I’d hardly started this task when a loud rapping on the door made me groan. I thought it was a message from the queen, but it was Demontaigu. He’d bade farewell to Ausel and I sensed his grief at the ties between himself and his brethren being so dramatically loosened. He sat on a stool, chatting about old times, expressing his sadness, and I let him talk, but Demontaigu always had a clear perception of others, and eventually he paused, smiled and pointed to the piece of vellum.
‘Are you drawing up your indictment, Mathilde? Look, rather than sit and bemoan like a beggar at the gate, I will help you. Now, last night, the Pilgrim . . . ?’
For a while we discussed what our mysterious visitor had told us.
‘But his murder?’ Demontaigu concluded, tapping his feet. ‘Who should murder him?’
‘The same people who tried before?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps the Pilgrim wasn’t as forgotten as he thought.’
‘In which case you are talking about either Gaveston or the king,’ Demontaigu retorted, getting to his feet. ‘I accept that the Pilgrim’s face was distinctive, easily recognisable, but the king and his favourite are caught up in their own swirl of affairs. Was it an accident?’
I asked him what he meant.
‘A nightwalker,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘a felon, a footpad who was going to attack all three of us, but the presence of Ausel disturbed him so he fled.’
I was about to reply when there was another knock on the door. It was still off the latch and I was surprised when Dunheved swept into the room. The Dominican’s face was contorted in anger. He was restless and agitated. I asked him what was wrong; he just shook his head, crossed himself and continued his pacing around the room. Now and again he’d pause to stare at the crucifix or one of the coloured paintings hanging on the wall. Now, I am used to artifices, subtlety and deceit, but I sensed the Dominican’s rage was genuine. He’d come directly from the queen, who must have told him what I had learnt the night before. At last he paused, chest heaving, and crossed himself again: ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa!’ he declared, striking his breast. ‘My fault, my fault, Mathilde.’
I gestured at a stool. He sat down with a sigh of relief. Then he glanced quickly at Demontaigu, rose, locked the door and barred it. He returned to the stool, put his arms across his chest and stared up at me.
‘I have come from the queen, Mathilde. She has told me the truth about that bloody mayhem at Tynemouth. She could have been killed; that was the mischief plotted.’
‘Or so our informant would have us believe,’ I replied.
Dunheved rubbed his face and pointed at the vellum lying on my desk.
‘What do we have here, Mathilde, what do we have? Please.’ He gestured at the writing desk. ‘Let us all collect our thoughts. Here, before we move to Scarborough, become locked up in its fastness.’
I was a little surprised but I agreed. I felt confused by the presence of both Demontaigu and especially Dunheved, but there again, the Dominican’s logic was flawless. We would soon be separated from the queen, confined in a fortress against people who might wish us the greatest of evil and mischief.
‘So, Mathilde, what shall we do? How shall it be done? Tomorrow we leave here for Scarborough. I go grievingly. Why? Because her grace the queen will not be accompanying us. She is moving to Howden and will take shelter there.’ Dunheved pointed at me. ‘Mathilde, if you are a physician of the body, I am one of the soul. What are the symptoms here, what questions must we ask?’