Mathild 03 - The Darkening Glass

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Hush, hush.’ Isabella lifted her hand.

  ‘I will certainly answer that,’ I replied. ‘You were in the friary library. You told me you were studying Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo – Why God Became Man. That was a lie; it was nothing of the sort. The archives of the library clearly described the manuscript you borrowed, a copy of Hildegard of Bingen’s Causae et Curae.’ I paused. ‘You had also consulted that before we left for Tynemouth. Such a treatise is a rich source of knowledge you could use against your enemies, be it Kennington, Middleton or the wells of Scarborough Castle. You learnt what sleeping potions or powders to buy, which you undoubtedly did at some apothecary or herbalist here in York. Now, during those early hours of that morning, you slipped as stealthily as a hunting cat into Duckett’s Tower. You quietly mounted those steps. As you passed each door, you slipped the hook into its clasp, sealing anyone within. Oh, they could eventually get out, but it would take time and alert you. You reached the top of that windswept tower—’

  ‘And Kennington and his retainers welcomed me like the prodigal son?’ Dunheved sneered.

  ‘Undoubtedly! Why should they fear the kindly Dominican who could not sleep? Who’d brought up a wineskin to share with them during their lonely, cold, bleak watch? At Scarborough I glimpsed you do the same, edging along the parapet giving the defenders a drink from your wineskin. On Duckett’s Tower you would be most welcome. You’d seal the door, slipping the hook into its clasp, then offer these trusting, tired men a gulp of rich claret, blood-warming and comforting. They’d drink, and within a short while, be fast asleep. How long would it take to hurl those bodies over the battlements? A strong man like you, Dunheved – not long? You callously lifted each wine-drugged body over and let it drop.’ I paused. ‘What, in no more time than it would take a scholar to count to ten.’

  ‘I could have been discovered.’

  ‘How, Brother? Each door was clasped, as was the one at the top of the tower. If anyone saw you come up, you would have changed your plan. If anyone disturbed you, you would have enough time to pose as the innocent who’d climbed to the top of Duckett’s Tower to find that all were gone. If you were seen as you went down, you could so easily dissemble, an innocent Dominican who’d climbed Duckett’s Tower to discover its guards had disappeared. Naturally,’ I added, ‘there was danger, a risk in that short space of time when you hurled those bodies to their death. Reflect, Brother Stephen! What real danger did you face apart from that brief killing time? Everything else could be so easily explained away.’

  The sound of Isabella’s squires politely requesting one of the brothers not to enter the garden made me pause.

  ‘Kennington’s death,’ I resumed, ‘broke the spirit of the Aquilae. They looked for protection from their lord, but Gaveston himself was under threat from the earls. Middleton was your next victim. A superstitious, scrupulous young man, hounded by guilt, he received little comfort or sustenance from either Rosselin or Gaveston. Subject to all forms of soul-disturbing fancies, he took to visiting the Chapel of Our Lady in Scarborough Castle very early in the morning. You noticed that and, once again, assumed the role of the sympathetic friar, the trusted priest, the ascetic confessor. One morning you were waiting for him. You moved the mercy chair round – which you never put back – you drew him into conversation even as you decided on his death, whatever regrets Middleton confessed. The rope was ready, whilst beneath your cloak you carried that small wineskin of tainted claret.’

  ‘The door was locked from within.’ Dunheved’s interruption was more of a jibe than a question.

  ‘Patience,’ I retorted. ‘You locked the door. You gave the agitated Middleton words of comfort and a few gulps from that wineskin to calm his humours. I doubt if Middleton had had a good night’s sleep since Tynemouth. He was agitated. The wine and potion you’d distilled would soon soothe him, and a drugged man is easy to hang. The noose was slipped around his neck as his body slumped in the chair. You climbed the ladder, looped the other end of the rope round the beam and hauled him up slowly but surely. If Middleton revived, what hope did he have? If he did wear a war-belt you removed that, hid it under your cloak. Whatever, he had no dagger, nothing with which to cut himself down, whilst any struggle would only tighten the noose further. You mentioned the locked door, Brother?’

  Dunheved just blinked and glanced away.

  ‘I shall tell you how you did that. You took the key from the sacristy door. You placed it on the floor as if it was from the door to the church; that one, however, you kept. You waited until Middleton was dead, placed the usual mocking message on his corpse and left, locking the door and taking the chapel key with you.’

  ‘I could have been discovered.’

  ‘When?’ I demanded. ‘You could have hastened to the door and unlocked it. You could claim you came in only to discover what had happened. Terrified lest the assassin return, you locked the door whilst you tried to assist poor Middleton.’

  ‘Those keys?’ Isabella asked. ‘They were changed?’

  ‘Oh yes. Brother Stephen, you gave extreme unction to your first two victims but you left Middleton to Demontaigu. Whilst he administered the last rites you became extremely busy inspecting the main door as well as that to the sacristy. I recall the scene distinctly. That’s when you picked up the sacristy key, which looked so much like the one to the church, and changed them over. In all the chaos and mayhem, no one would notice you slip the sacristy key back because no one really cared.’

  ‘I could have been seen leaving.’

  ‘Again a risk – but you’d open that door a crack. Peer out. The path to the chapel was a mass of pebbles that would betray sound. The morning sea mist provided a cloak of secrecy. You could slip out and lock that door in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘Someone might have noticed the sacristy key was missing from its lock.’

  ‘For the love of God, who’d notice that when all eyes were on poor Middleton? Who’d even remember there was a sacristy key?’ I shrugged. ‘After all, you returned it swiftly enough!’

  ‘And Rosselin?’ Isabella demanded. I wondered how much of this she knew. Had she been party to all these deaths? I decided that would have to wait.

  ‘Rosselin,’ I continued, ‘was by now a broken man. Gaveston had neglected him.’

  ‘Why?’ Isabella broke in.

  ‘Because Gaveston, in the last resort, cared only for himself. The best he could do was to provide poor Rosselin with one of Ap Ythel’s archers, but you, Brother Stephen, took care of that. Rosselin hid away, particularly from any high place. The night the tocsin was falsely sounded and the beacon fire lit? You were responsible for that, as you were for everything else that went wrong in that castle: the pollution of the wells and food stocks. An easy enough task. Poison in the rat runs, some oil and kindling in those bone-dry cellars.’

  ‘And Rosselin?’ Dunheved remained unabashed.

  ‘Oh, the tocsin was sounded. The alarm raised. Everyone flocked to the battlements. You acted swiftly. You called Ap Ythel’s guard away.’

  ‘I am not Welsh.’

  ‘Who said the voice was Welsh?’

  ‘I heard . . .’

  ‘Perhaps you did, Brother Stephen. I am French, but I can still mimic Ap Ythel’s Welsh accent. I often do when I tease him. Her grace has witnessed that.’ I pointed at Dunheved. ‘You did the same that night. You are a good mimic, Brother. I heard you here in the rose garden imitating the troubadours and jongleurs. Indeed, you are a true mummer. You put a mask on and take it off depending on the circumstances. You called that guard away. He would not need much encouragement; after all, everyone was in high expectancy. Had the earls arrived? Had the king? Once he was gone, you hurried up the steps to Rosselin’s chamber. In your wallet you have a key. It may have been from Middleton’s chamber or elsewhere in the castle; they all look alike. You intended to pose the same mysterious riddle as you had in the lady chapel. You knocked on the door. Rosselin, sodden with drink, was befuddled. He peered th
rough the grille and saw the kindly face of the Dominican priest. What did you tell him? Good news, that the king was approaching?’ Dunheved just smiled faintly. ‘Rosselin trusted you enough to open that door. You bustle in all friendly. You urge him to join the rest on the battlements. You pick up his cloak and war-belt as if to help him. Rosselin turns to receive his cloak, but you drop that, pluck the dagger from his war-belt and plunge it into his side, a killing blow up under his ribs, into his heart. You drag him to that open window, pull him on to the ledge and hurl his body into the night. A brief time, no more than a few breaths. You then place the false key on the table and take the chamber one. You lock the door from the outside and join us on the battlements, where you are careful to single me out.

  ‘The next morning you ensured that Demontaigu gave the corpse the last rites while you joined us in Rosselin’s chamber. You pretended to collect his possessions into a basket. Once again, in the blink of an eye, you changed one key for another. Your vengeance was now complete. All five Aquilae had been executed in a way that suited their lives, falling from glory to a grisly death. The siege began. You found it simple enough to break the bruised reed. The garrison was unnerved by strange calls and sounds. It was an easy task for a Dominican knowledgeable about witches and warlocks. The well was polluted, the food stocks burnt – all your doing. Who would suspect a Dominican priest, a royal confessor?’

  ‘You did!’ Dunheved taunted. ‘Surely the Aquilae would have?’

  ‘No, no!’ I retorted. ‘The Aquilae, in Rosselin’s words, were broken. They had been involved in the most horrid treason. They were trapped in it; there was no going back. Resented by most, deserted by their lord, who could they turn to? Rosselin was even reduced to begging for my help. They were like sheep without a shepherd, alone, vulnerable to the ever-watching wolf: you!’

  ‘And afterwards,’ Isabella asked, ‘the capture of Gaveston?’

  ‘God knows, your grace. I have little proof. I believe Pembroke was honest and true enough. Beauchamp of Warwick and the others needed little encouragement to seize Gaveston. Did you, Brother, send an anonymous message to Warwick telling him to follow us? You had the opportunity for such mischief when you took Gaveston’s acceptance to Pembroke. Did you leave similar messages at taverns where we paused before arriving at Deddington to lodge for the night? Warwick would do the rest. He lured Pembroke away, leaving Gaveston vulnerable, but there again, you realised, as I did, that once he’d separated from the king, Gaveston was finished. I am sure you secretly worked to achieve that. Did you advise or encourage the king to choose Scarborough as the best place for refuge, when in fact it certainly wasn’t?’ I glanced quickly at the queen. ‘Though God knows what further encouragement persuaded him to separate himself from his favourite.’

  Isabella did not flinch. Ah, I thought, when will she reveal her own role in all of this? Dunheved, tapping his sandalled feet dramatically against the paving stone, abruptly rose and smoothed out his robe.

  ‘I’m a priest,’ he cleared his throat, ‘a cleric. I claim benefit of clergy. I cannot be tried by the king’s courts.’

  ‘His grace can certainly be informed.’

  Dunheved smiled patronisingly at me.

  ‘About what?’ He sat down, hands clasped. ‘Did I not tell you, mistress?’ He smiled. ‘I heard the lord Gaveston’s confession.’

  ‘Which cannot be revealed,’ I taunted.

  ‘On the night before he was taken, he confessed to me after absolution that he’d killed all the Aquilae in the very same way you have described to me.’ Dunheved chewed the corner of his lip.

  ‘Check and check again,’ I whispered. ‘Every piece I move, you block. Oh, I know you, Brother. You’ll demand to be tried by Church courts, which are more lenient. You’ll claim your innocence and point to Gaveston, using the very evidence I have now supplied you with. You’ll cause enough confusion, sow enough doubt to nullify proceedings completely, and of course, the king would not like to see his confessor being exposed to public shame.’

  ‘More importantly, mistress,’ Dunheved pointed at me, ‘you could become a laughing stock, the wench who laid false accusation against the king’s own confessor.’

  ‘Be careful, Brother,’ Isabella whispered hoarsely. ‘Be very, very careful.’

  ‘Your grace,’ Dunheved murmured, ‘I’m simply saying what others would say. Gaveston killed his own for his own selfish reasons. He was totally bound up with himself. We all agree on that. He was evil and has now gone to his just reward. A man, your grace, let me remind you, who tried to betray you to the Scots, the king’s mortal enemies; who put your life and that of your unborn child at risk.’

  ‘And how will you account for Brother Eusebius?’ I accused. ‘Strange,’ I gestured at him, ‘in all our meetings you rarely asked me about him. At Tynemouth when I mentioned his death, you ignored me and abruptly asked about Kennington. Why, Brother? Did you feel guilty, or were you cautious lest any discussion might betray a mistake on your part? After all, you were nearly trapped when I went down to the charnel house. You had to flee, locking that trap door behind you. Brother, you were dismissive of me; I was someone to be patronised. A stupid snooping maid who could be frightened, as you tried to do when I went into the belfry after Lanercost’s death. You began to sound those bells.’

  ‘Brother!’ Isabella hissed. ‘Mathilde is of my household, my chamber!’

  ‘Poor Eusebius,’ I continued. ‘You considered him a fool, but he was sharper. He, in fact, gave you the idea for that mocking verse about the Aquilae flying so high. He mentioned to me how Theobald the lovesick novice tried to fly like an eagle. You befriended Eusebius, but he glimpsed things out of place. He nourished his own suspicious about you. Perhaps he hoped for more silver from you. He referred to himself as the bat and asked his prior if a bat could be more cunning than a dog. He was making a play on the name of your order: Domini Canes – Dogs or Hounds of the Lord. He also talked of lux et tenebrae – light and darkness – a reference to your secret ways, as well as to the black and white garb you wear. Eusebius thought he was safe. He revelled in the game. He etched a drawing on the wall of his closet in the bell tower: a bat and what looked like a hairy dog or leopard. In fact it was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A reference to you, because Eusebius was sure he’d glimpsed you hurrying through the Galilee Porch on the day Leygrave was killed. He turned menacing. You gave Leygrave the last rites. Eusebius was close by. He babbled to me, intimating that he knew more than he’d confessed. In fact he was secretly threatening you. You overheard and decided to silence his chattering tongue. You followed him down into the charnel house and crushed his skull with a bone. You removed from his tray any coins or medals you’d given him, including a button on a shard of cloth from the livery of the Beaumonts, and left that as a distraction.’ I shrugged. ‘The Beaumonts were a mere irritation, fearful of being distanced from the king and what he might be plotting regarding their precious estates in Scotland. They were only concerned about themselves. I nearly caught you that day down in the charnel house. Little wonder you joined me and Demontaigu to judge what progress I was making. Very subtle! To be the hunted who could join the hunters whenever he wished and discover what was being plotted.’ I sighed. ‘So, Brother, how do you plead about poor Eusebius?’

  ‘You have no real proof.’

  ‘True,’ I conceded, ‘as I have no real evidence you murdered the Pilgrim. He came here disguised as a Franciscan. He wanted to tell me a secret. You saw me talking to someone garbed as a friar. We later left the Priory and went down Pig Sty Alley to the Pot of Fire. Believe me, Brother, the murder you committed that evening was most callous. You considered the slaying of the Aquilae as just punishment. Brother Eusebius had to be silenced because of what he might have seen and heard, but the Pilgrim was mere chance. You were concerned lest some Franciscan here, apart from Eusebius, might also have seen or heard something untoward. You dared not strike at me or mine because of her grace, but the Pilgri
m was a different matter. You took a crossbow and waited for us to return, to step into that pool of light. You killed the Pilgrim and slipped away. You murdered another human being for no other reason than just in case . . .’

  Dunheved shook his head and made to leave. Isabella whispered something hoarsely in a patois I could not understand, but I am sure she told him to go. The Dominican had lost some of his quiet arrogance. He rose and bowed to the queen.

  ‘Your grace, I beg you to excuse me.’

  ‘You are certainly excused, Brother.’

  ‘I would like words with Mistress Mathilde.’

  ‘If she wishes words with you alone, Brother, you may both withdraw, but Mathilde must return unscathed.’ She gestured quickly at me as a sign to go with Dunheved.

  I did so, following him into the next enclosure of the rose garden. Behind me I heard the queen calling for her squires. Dunheved walked over to the wicket gate leading towards the Galilee Porch of the friary church. It was twilight, the hour of the bat. Flittering black shapes darted through the half-light. Dusk time, when the demons walk and the gargoyles and babewyns allegedly turn to flesh so as to prowl through the world of men. A fitting time to confront an assassin with a fair face and foul heart. Dunheved turned abruptly at the gate and peered at me.

  ‘What I did,’ his words came as a hiss, ‘was for the king, the Crown and the welfare of this realm.’

  ‘True, Brother, but it could have also been done by usage of law. The Aquilae might have provoked God’s vengeance, but helpless Eusebius, the poor Pilgrim, Kennington’s two retainers? More importantly, Brother,’ I stepped closer, ‘you relished your role. You enjoyed it. I doubt if this was the first time you’d killed. I am sure it will not be the last.’

  ‘The king would never believe you.’ Dunheved was now blustering. ‘Nor will any court, be it the king’s or the pope’s.’ He shook himself as if casting away any doubt or guilt. ‘I did God’s work.’