We approached Tynemouth late the next morning. A long line of carts and horses moving along a narrow track-way up towards the great castle built round a Benedictine priory, which perched on a sheer headland overlooking the Tyne estuary and the sullen northern seas. Tynemouth! A great craggy, jutting monument of stone with its high curtain wall on the land side, the rest guarded by sheer cliffs. The western approach was heavily fortified, not only by the curtain wall but by a three-storey fortified gatehouse and barbican. A fearsome, brooding place of war, which dominated the surrounding countryside and kept a sharp eye on the coastal routes. Stark in its purpose, Tynemouth was no country manor or royal palace, but a place built for strife. The day we entered was bright and clear, yet even this could not dispel a sense of brooding menace. I glimpsed archers high on the crenellated walls, and the tops of mangonels and catapults alongside the royal standards and pennants flapping vigorously, their colours bright against the light morning sky. As we entered the castle, we passed one of those ancient crosses covered in mysterious symbols and carvings. A local anchorite, hearing of our approach, had come out to lecture us as we passed.
‘What is man but snow under the sun, dust in the breeze, a flurry upon the water? We flash like an arrow through light to dark! A short-lit spark! A common reed! Frail grass! A delicate flower! Mist on the ground! Smoke in the air! Foam on the wave!’
Oh, I remember those words as we cantered on under the yawning gatehouse and into the great bailey, where dark-garbed Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales, together with the Castellan and his retinue, were waiting to greet us. I had to curb my tongue, control my feelings at the sight of these mercenaries, some three score in all, lounging around in their half-armour, all harnessed and ready for war. These men, warming themselves around braziers as they fed their faces, had tried to kill me. I avoided their arrogant gazes and tried to ignore their golden-black war pennants and banners attached to poles stuck in the ground. Beneath these sprawled their war-dogs, lounging in the weak morning sun. The Castellan a veteran soldier from the old king’s days, hastily stepped forward, as if aware of Isabella’s distaste for Lisbon and his ilk. The queen was welcomed in a brief but courteous speech. Afterwards we were quickly escorted out of the bailey and up to what used to be called the Prior’s Lodgings, high on the south wall. The Castellan, God bless him, tried his best to make the queen comfortable, but it was an eagle’s eyrie. On the land side it overlooked the castle; on the other three sides the lashing waves and dark swollen sea groaning under a lowering sky. Around the arrow-slit windows seagulls and other birds provided a strident chorus from dawn to dusk. The wind, when it swung from the north, was bitter, sharp and heavily salted, keen to penetrate the thickest shutters or heaviest hangings. Outside the castle stretched wild moorlands you would be only too happy to escape from and, inside, pressing in, curling and twisting, a thick veil of mist which could deepen swiftly to cover Tynemouth like a heavy shroud, dulling sound, turning that castle and its turrets, walls and towers into a place of shifting shapes.
Messengers came and went, clattering across the drawbridge. Edward and Gaveston had totally misjudged the situation. The earls had, like some vengeful river, swept by York and were pursuing the king north to Novo Castro. Neither the Crown nor the earls seemed concerned about the Scottish war party still moving south, whilst Bruce’s allies, a fleet of Flemish privateers, threatened the coastline. The Castellan heard all this, so Tynemouth was put on a war footing. The Beaumonts, who had accompanied us, tried to exercise their authority, but the Castellan refused to bow either to them or the Aquilae. Instead he encouraged the royal favourites to participate in the constant watches, in the end they had no choice but to agree. The Noctales chose the gatehouse and barbican; the Beaumonts were given the Prior’s lodgings; whilst the Aquilae and their retinues stationed themselves in Duckett’s Tower, which stood above the eastern cliffs overlooking the sea.
Days passed. Isabella rested secure in her chamber. Demontaigu believed that Ausel was one of those who crowded into the castle: tinkers, traders, wanderers, as well as local people fearful about what was happening. Then it happened: the great silence. No more couriers or messengers. No further carts heaped with fresh supplies. No wandering preachers, tinkers or traders. Scouts were dispatched but they never returned. At night the dark was lit by fires glowing eerily across the heathland as well as through the heavy mist out at sea. The Castellan sought an audience with Isabella. She received him in her private apartments, swathed in woollen robes, fur boots on her feet, a mantle around her neck and chest. The stark chamber was warmed and lit by flickering cressets, chafing dishes and sparkling braziers. These kept back the cold, ghostly wraiths of the ever-seeping mist. Despite Isabella’s invitation, the stern-faced old soldier insisted on kneeling before her footstool. He gazed beseechingly at me, standing behind the queen, then at Dunheved, who sat on a stool to Isabella’s right.
‘Your grace.’ He paused. ‘Your grace, some great force lurks out on the moorlands. I also believe Flemish pirates are off the coast. In a word, we are cut off. I am fearful.’
‘About what, sir?’
‘Whoever the enemy are,’ he replied, ‘we can withstand an assault.’
‘Then what is your fear?’
‘Treachery, your grace.’
‘You mean treason!’ Dunheved snapped.
‘Reverend Brother, last night I sent out one of my best guides-’
‘But I thought you’d stopped that?’ Dunheved interrupted, visibly agitated.
‘No, Brother. The guide did not go to seek what was outside.’
‘But the enemy within?’ I added.
‘Mistress, you have the truth. He reported that he’d glimpsed signals being sent out from this castle.’
‘Signals?’ Isabella asked.
‘Simple but stark,’ the Castellan replied. ‘A lantern horn displayed high on the walls, opening and shutting, clear flashes of light to someone waiting and watching. These were shown at one place, then another. It would be impossible to discover who was responsible.’ He licked his lips. ‘I would defend this castle to the death. I can certainly vouch for the loyalty of myself and my men, but not for everyone here. If there is treachery, your Grace, this is all I can offer.’ He rose, grunting at his creaking knees. ‘If it please your grace to follow me. .’
We had no choice. We left the Prior’s Lodgings. In the courtyard below, Demontaigu was talking to the squires of the queen’s household, young men barely out of their schooling as pages. The Castellan whispered a few words to Isabella, who ordered me to instruct Demontaigu and the squires to follow us. We continued along the line of the walls, past towers, across courtyards, into another mist-hung bailey and up to the iron-studded door of Duckett’s Tower. Gaveston’s Aquilae and their retainers were lodged in the storeys above. Because the weather was chill, all doors were firmly closed and windows shuttered. However, the Castellan did not lead us up that narrow spiral staircase, soon to become an assassin’s path. Instead he pulled at a wooden trap door in the floor, took a cresset torch from its sconce and led us down steep stone steps.
An icy blast stung our faces as, heads bowed, we walked down a needle-thin passageway, its thick chalky walls pressing in from either side. Every so often the Castellan would pause to light cresset torches of the thickest pitch driven into makeshift gaps. The flames of these firebrands danced like fiery imps in the icy blackness of the tunnel. At times the path was so steep we found it hard to keep our footing. Demontaigu and the squires quietly cursed, while Dunheved began the litany of the saints, the words Miserere nobis ringing out like a challenge through the darkness. We reached more steps and down we went. Isabella did not object, one hand resting on my arm, the other on Dunheved’s. She walked determinedly, as if memorising every step. The cold grew more intense. The sound of the sea was like an approaching drum beat. The darkness began to lift. Shafts of light penetrated the gloom. Down more rough-cut steps then out on to pebble-covered, salt-soaked sand, a small cove sheltered by the cliffs. We braved the slating sea wind, walked out and looked around. On either side, chalk-white cliffs soared up to the castle nestling on its crag high above us. In front of us, beached and ready, were three longboats, and out in the cove a war-cog riding at anchor, stout-bellied, with a high fighting stern and long bow strip. The cog’s great sail was reefed. On board I could glimpse the crew moving about.