by Paul Doherty
Oh, I loved that graceful, serene garden, a haven from the hate and intrigue which boiled through the priory like an evil mist and, of course, eventually trapped me. I was leaving the herbarium one afternoon when I glimpsed a monk standing in the shadows of the small cloister, half hidden by a pillar. I had been searching the herb plots and couldn’t believe I’d found wormwood growing in one of the beds; I was hastening to speak about it to Brother Ambrose. I left quickly, unexpectedly, and caught my watcher slightly off his guard. He moved swiftly away but stumbled on an uneven pavement, caught the wall and turned in alarm. I was walking swiftly. I glimpsed his face and stopped in shocked surprise. I was certain he was the same man I’d seen in the Oriflamme tavern what now seemed an eternity ago. I would always remember that face, those far-seeing eyes, but surely, I wondered, it couldn’t be? In Paris he had dressed as an English clerk, not a Benedictine monk. Was he truly here in England? I was so startled, so fearful, I sat down on a stone sill. Was he a clerk? Had he glimpsed me leave the tavern with Narrow Face? Had he followed us and seen me stab Crokendon behind the charnel house? By the time I recovered, it was too late to pursue him. I was so confused I eventually dismissed it all as a trick of the eyes.
On that same evening, Isabella and her ladies journeyed into Canterbury as the guests of the mayor and the leading citizens of the city, who had arranged a splendid private banquet at the nearby lordly and spacious tavern, The Chequer of Hope. The priory fell silent except for the melodious chanting of the monks at vespers, the Latin phrases drifting across the priory grounds. I dined alone in the small refectory of the guest house. Casales, Sandewic and the rest had joined the king’s retinue in Canterbury. I stayed in the refectory for a while, reading in the light of a candle a manuscript Brother Ambrose had loaned me. I was about to adjourn when a lay brother whom the rest of the community called Simon Simplex came bustling in, an old man with tufts of hair sticking out, eyes all milky white, spittle drooling from the corner of his mouth.
‘Oh, mistress,’ he waved his hands, ‘Brother Ambrose needs you in the infirmary.’
I returned to my chamber, collected my cloak and made my way along the lonely cloisters and stone-walled passageways. The bells of the city were clanging out, the monks had begun compline, and a phrase caught my imagination, a quotation, put to verse, from the Letter of St Peter, about Satan being a prowling lion, seeking whom he could devour. I should have heeded the warning.
The infirmary was a two-storey building on the far side of the priory, overlooking the physic garden. The infirmary itself stood at the top of very steep steps. Brother Ambrose had confided to me that the founder of the priory had deliberately made them so in order to force people to reflect on whether they were truly ill before attempting to go up. The steps were so steep, Ambrose himself needed help to climb them, while the injured and sick had to be carried up by burly servants.
By the time I reached the infirmary, darkness had fallen. At the top of the steps cresset torches, fixed either side of the yawning doorway, flared beckoningly in the breeze. From the bushes and trees alongside the building came the final cawing of the crows. The hunting call of a fox yipped through the darkness to be immediately answered by the deep, bell-like baying of the priory dogs. I climbed the steps wondering what Brother Ambrose wanted. Simon had disappeared, so I reasoned it must be pressing business, otherwise Ambrose would have joined his brothers in the choir for compline. I had reached the entrance and was about to go along the narrow gallery, lit only by a single torch and a brazier glowing at the far end just outside the infirmary door, when the sacking, coarse and reeking of the soil, was thrown over my head. I struggled and screamed; a blow to the side of my head sent me staggering. I was tugged and pushed, forced back outside to be thrown down those steep, sharp-edged steps. Images of Pourte falling through the darkness made me fight back, but I was confused. I was losing the struggle, my legs felt weak and my assailant must have pushed me close to the top of the steps when my deliverance came.
‘Au secours! Au secours!’ The voice was strong and ringing; footsteps sounded as if someone was hurrying up towards us. I fought desperately, determined to move away from the direction of that voice and the cruel topple down the steps. Gasping for air, I crashed into the great door, which had been pulled back, and slid to the ground. I freed myself from the sacking, then glanced quickly to the right. Nothing, only the brazier glowing. I crept like a dog on all fours to the top of the steps and peered down. Again nothing. I staggered to my feet and carefully made my way back to the lonely guest house. Reaching it safely, I dragged myself up the stairs, locking and bolting the chamber door behind me.
For a while I just lay on the floor. I needed to vomit and hurried to the garderobe, a narrow recess sealed off by a door. Once my belly settled, I returned and, using the princess’s hand mirror, scrutinised the blow to the side of my head. I felt a lump, and tender bruising, but no blood. I changed my gown, treated the bruises on my arms and legs, drank a little watered wine and lay down. A fearsome darkness seem to shroud me, scowling at my soul and hanging like a midnight mist around my heart, chilling my courage, weakening my will. Who would attack me? Why? And my saviour, that clear, strong voice ringing out? I drew some heart comfort from that. The wine seeped in, warming my blood, rousing the humours. I must not, would not, weaken. I recalled Uncle Reginald and the short prayer he had composed:
Christe Jesu who made me out of mud,
And did save me through your blood.
Kyrie eleison, Lord have mercy.
I fell asleep and was roused by the return of Isabella, the princess slamming the door behind her against the gaggle of chattering women. She muttered quiet curses but broke off when she saw me and, grasping my hands, made me repeat what had happened. She examined my head, using my own potions to treat the bruise, and also sent for Brother Ambrose and Simon. Both came up owl-eyed, and knelt just within the doorway as my mistress, despite my protests, hotly questioned them. Brother Ambrose shook his head sorrowfully, claiming he had not sent for me. Did not her grace, he continued, realise that, according to the customary of the priory, women were strictly forbidden to enter the infirmary? Moreover, at the time of the attack he, with Brother Simon, who was wandering in his wits, poor soul, had been in the choir’s stalls amongst their brethren. Simon could not help himself but kept muttering ‘beautiful, beautiful’ as he gazed wonderingly at Isabella. He really could not understand her questions but, with the help of Brother Ambrose, he eventually admitted that one of the brothers had given him the message for me. No, he assured us, he could not remember the face; it was dark and the brother had his cowl up against the cold, but he had blessed him in Latin, quoting St Benedict’s greeting. The mysterious monk had claimed he was speaking for Father Prior and Simon had to carry the message to me. I immediately thought of Rossaleti, a former novice in the Benedictine order, and, unlike Casales, Sandewic or Baquelle, fully skilled in Latin. I whispered this to Isabella, then Brother Simon described how this Benedictine had grasped his hands.
‘Rough they were,’ he muttered, ‘like those of a peasant, a breaker of the soil.’
I glanced at Isabella and shrugged. Rossaleti’s hands were softer than mine.
Brother Ambrose clambered to his feet saying he must tell all to the prior. Isabella, at my behest, swore both men to silence, placing a silver piece into each of their hands.
After the monks had gone, Isabella stood motionless in the pool of candlelight.
‘Mathilde,’ she glanced across at me, ‘anyone could have attacked you. When we arrived at The Chequer of Hope, people were coming and going. Gaveston chose to ignore my uncles, Marigny and the rest. Anyone, including him, could have travelled the short distance between the tavern and the priory and perpetrated that attack. It would be easy to borrow a Benedictine robe and stand in the shadows, whilst they’ve all had hours of time to find their way round this priory. Brother Simon is so fey, he would believe anyone or anything.’ She leaned down a
nd stroked my hair. ‘As you did, Mathilde. You should be more prudent, more careful.’
‘Could it have been Gaveston?’ I asked.
‘Possibly,’ Isabella sat down next to me on the bed. ‘Like the rest he is a killer.’
I then told my mistress about the St Agnes painting, swearing that I was sure it was the same one I’d seen at Monsieur de Vitry’s house.
‘It cannot be,’ she whispered. ‘Gaveston was in England at the time, unless he journeyed to Paris secretly.’
I also told her about the man with the far-sighted gaze whom I had glimpsed in the Paris tavern and again here. Was he the same who appeared when I was attacked at the infirmary? In the end I had to concede we were chasing shadows, so Isabella turned to the doings of the court.
‘My husband will not be joining me.’ She rose and walked towards the window. ‘And I will not be joining him, at least until the French have left. Subtle games, devious ploys, eh, Mathilde, but how, where and when will it all end?’
‘In bloody mayhem and death.’ The words spilled out before I could stop them.
‘Yes, Mathilde, I think you are right.’
We left the priory shortly afterwards, journeying with all speed towards London. Edward, acting as fickle as ever, abruptly announced that the coronation would have to be postponed. This was ill received by the French. Isabella continued to be largely ignored by her husband. Salt was rubbed into the wounded pride of the French by Gaveston openly displaying in his own carts and pavilions the wedding presents given to Isabella by her kinsmen. Sandewic and Baquelle were sent ahead to prepare both the Tower and the city for the royal arrival; Casales and Rossaleti were left to look after us. The dark-faced, liquid-eyed clerk admitted he was in a solemn mood, slightly homesick for France, even though he was kept busy preparing the queen’s chancery and other departments of her household. He provided amusement with his constant moans and groans about the cold until Casales had to remind him that the weather in Paris was no different. Once Sandewic had left, Casales grew more relaxed, confessing he found the old Constable of the Tower a difficult companion, with his constant muttering about the king and Lord Gaveston. Casales attached himself more to me. I would catch him slumped in the saddle, his one good hand holding the reins, his sharp eyes in that severe face under its crop of hair scrutinising me carefully. He noticed the bruising on the side of my head and asked how I came by it. I replied that I had fallen, so he pressed me no further.
Casales repeated the chatter of the court as well as describing the various palaces and the royal manor houses at King’s Langley, Woodstock and elsewhere. He was also eager to see London again, describing it to myself and Isabella. ‘London is like a rectangle, with six main gates all dating from Roman times,’ he explained. ‘In the south-east stands the Tower overlooking the Thames, the Conqueror’s great fortress, Sandewic’s fief. It was built to overawe Londoners with its central donjon. The line of city defence runs north to Aldgate, west to Bishopsgate and Cripplegate then down through Newgate to the Thames. It encloses about a hundred and thirty acres and houses every type of sinner under the sun. What Paris has, London possesses in abundance: ale houses, stews, taverns, inns and brothels, tradesmen, nobles, merchants, clerks and scholars.’ He shook his head. ‘Everything that crawls or walks under the sun can be found in London. If the devil does brisk business, so does God. There’s St Paul’s, its steeple packed with relics against lightning, and one hundred and ten other churches, though for every priest there is a prostitute, for every monk a felon, and for every friar a thief. As Sandewic will tell you, the city gallows at the Elms in Smithfield are always busy.’
A few days later we saw London for ourselves. At Blackheath we were met by the mayor, council and leading citizens of the city, hundreds of them dressed in scarlet gowns with fur-tipped hoods. They were ranged like troops in order of their guilds, each under its own colourful standard emblazoned with its particular devices and insignia. These led us north into London and across the long bridge spanning the Thames. Beneath us the river rushed dizzyingly. Barges and boats, all splendidly arrayed, sailed back and forth in an extraordinary display of billowing decorative cloths, blaring trumpets and noisy cheering. On either side of the bridge ranged houses and shops, with gaps in between for the great rubbish heaps, the lay stalls, now cleaned and empty. The pikes jutting up from the rails of the bridge had been cleared of their rotting severed heads and were festooned with coloured streamers dancing wildly in the breeze.
As we left the bridge, the waiting crowds spread everywhere, packed at least twenty deep. The roar of their approval echoed up to the heavens as they greeted their king and his bride. Isabella was garbed in gorgeous robes of scarlet and silver, her golden hair circled by a jewelled coronet, her shoulders warmed by a satin robe edged with costly fur. She rode a milk-white palfrey, accompanied on her right by Edward, clothed in a scarlet and gold surcoat over a snow-white linen shirt, a cape of glory around his shoulders, a jewelled crown on his head. The king rode his father’s prancing black destrier Bayard; both it and Isabella’s mount were decorated with gleaming red-brown leather harness studded with precious stones. Golden spurs adorned the king’s heels, whilst Isabella’s stirrups of solid silver, a gift from the city of Canterbury, glittered in the winter sun.
Onlookers later described them as Arthur and Guinevere entering Camelot. In a sense they were correct, for like that tale, Edward and Isabella’s story ended in tragedy, but that was for the future, further down the roll of years. On that February morning all of London had turned out to greet their handsome young king and his lovely bride who rode by like a fairy queen, so beautiful, like a mythical lady from high romance. I was all agog for the sights as I’d heard so much about London. On that day I caught the vibrancy of a bustling, teeming city in its springtime vigour, with each of its wards trying to surpass its rivals and so transform London into a great festival ground.
We entered the city proper, the turrets and soaring donjon of the Tower rising to our right, then turned to advance in glory through London’s streets to give thanks at Westminster. We passed splendid mansions, the homes of the merchant princes, their black beams and pink plaster hung with cloths of every colour, brilliant banners and glorious standards. Just off the bridge we paused before a symbolically constructed tower. On the top stood a giant holding an axe in his right hand as champion of the city, and in his left, as porter, the keys of the gates. From halberds jutting out from the top of the tower hung mantles displaying the royal arms of England and France. The giant pointed to these and launched into a hymn of praise to his new king and queen.
A short while later we processed up Cornhill to the music of trumpets, horns and clarions, past mock castles built of wood and covered with stiffened cloth painted to look like white marble and green jasper. At the top of the tallest reared a silver lion, exquisitely carved, a shield displaying the royal arms around its neck, in one paw a sceptre, in the other a sword. Splendid pavilions also lined the route, the flaps of their openings pulled back to display images of St George, St Edmund and St Edward the Confessor. In other ceremonial tents boy choirs, dressed like angels in white and gold, sprigs of genet and laurel in their hair, carolled vibrantly, ‘Isabella, Regina Anglorum, Gloria Laus et Honor’ – to Isabella, Queen of the English, Glory, Praise and Honour.
We journeyed into Cheapside, where the Great Conduit, a spacious building which covered the main watering place of London, had been transformed into a fairy castle, housing maidens dressed in cloth of gold, their hair studded with gems. These sang beautifully, ‘Gloriosa Dicta Sunt, Isabella’ – Glorious Things Are Said About You, Isabella. And, so it continued as we processed along that great thoroughfare of Cheapside, its magnificent mansions and shops ranging on either side. We went down under the lofty towers and steeple of St Paul’s, along the roads bordering the Thames, on to the Royal Way and into the spacious precincts of Westminster. On one side rose the halls and soaring gabled houses of the palace; on the other
the glorious, breathtaking vision of stone which was Westminster Abbey, its flamboyant stonework, buttresses, walls, glass-filled windows, lace-work carvings and triumphant gateways sparkling in the heavy frost. We entered, processing along its spectacular nave up to the high altar, and Isabella and Edward knelt in the sanctuary to give thanks before visiting the canopied marble shrine of Edward the Confessor.
Afterwards, we journeyed up river to the Tower. We left the King’s Steps at Westminster on a magnificent, elaborately decorated royal barge, its boatmen bending over the oars while Edward and Isabella, enthroned under a canopy of cloth of gold, greeted the crowds lining the north bank of the Thames. We passed the famous quaysides of Queenshithe, Dowgate and the rest, and for the first time I experienced the terrors of shooting the waters between the starlings on the arches of London Bridge. A truly awesome experience of thundering, surging water booming like the drums of hell, spray flying like rain, before coming slowly in to moor at the Tower quayside, where Sandewic and Baquelle, dressed in the glowing colours of the royal household, were waiting to greet us.
I shall never forget my first arrival at the Tower, that grim brooding yet in some ways elegant fortress which was to play such a vital role in my mistress’s life. Henry III had copied the best of France in the building and renovation of the abbey and palace, but the Tower was a formidable reminder of the old king’s warrior ways. No wonder Sandewic was devoted to it. A soldier’s place, built for war, its very size and strength sufficient to threaten and subdue the turbulent Londoners, it reared up above the river with its central donjon or keep and girdling walls, deep moats, formidable bastions, dominating towers, cavernous gateways, all defended by crenellations, arrow slits, narrow gulleys and iron-tipped porticullis. We journeyed under the Lion Gate on to the bridge spanning the green-slimed, reeking moat, past the barbican where the King’s animals, lions, leopards and other fearsome beasts, prowled and roared. We stopped and listened to these before proceeding on through Middle Tower, under Byward and into the outer bailey, a broad, open expanse stretching between two curtain walls which housed the stables, store houses and living quarters of the soldiers and servants.