‘In a few hours the tide will begin to turn,’ the Castellan declared. ‘I’ll order a search of the shore below.’
We all went back on to the top of the tower for one last thorough search, doing our best to ignore the buffeting winds and the roar of the sea. Once again I walked to the edge and peered over that heart-stopping drop. Kennington hadn’t deserted, I was sure of that. To whom could he flee? An assassin had climbed on to the fighting platform, that place of vigil, and some great evil had fastened on Kennington and his companions, but who, what and how? The salt-soaked winds hurt my eyes and stung my cheekbones. I signalled that I wished to withdraw, and we gathered inside on the stairwell. I noticed the Castellan slip a large hook on the door through a clasp fastened on the lintel. I asked why, and he explained how these were secured on each door in every tower.
‘The winds, you see.’ He smiled. ‘If a door comes off its latch, it can bang and eventually shatter.’
‘Mischief-makers would like it,’ I pointed out. ‘They could lock someone in.’
‘Yes and no.’ The Castellan grimaced. ‘My children, God bless them, used to do that, but anyone armed with a dagger can open the door from the inside by sliding the blade through the gap and lifting the hook.’
‘Your children?’ I queried.
‘God took them,’ he murmured sadly, ‘like he did everything in my life. Mistress?’ He blinked. ‘You wish to inspect Kennington’s chamber?’
I nodded.
‘I’ll go with you,’ Rosselin demanded.
‘No, sir, you will not.’ I opened my wallet and took out the two seal casts: the king’s and that of the queen. ‘Negotium regis — king’s business,’ I whispered. ‘You agree, sir?’
The Castellan was only too willing to comply. I asked Dunheved and Demontaigu to search the rest of the tower. The Castellan led me down the steps, unhooked the clasp and swung open the door. Kennington’s chamber was like that of a monk. A crucifix hung black and stark on the grey-white wall above the cot bed. I closed the door and searched his paltry possessions. I felt a profound unease. Kennington’s belongings were sad; rather pathetic. Like Demontaigu, he’d collected mementos of his childhood: locks of hair, a battered toy horse with a mounted knight, a faded miniature diptych of Lazarus coming out of his tomb, scrolls of parchment: letters from his mother and sisters. It was sad to see the child behind the warrior, the glimpse of innocence before the glass darkened, the soul choking on the cares and ambitions of life. I sat on the cot bed and wondered what had happened to this squire. I knew so little about him and his companions. I tried to recall the rumours, the stories. How the Aquilae had become Gaveston’s sworn henchmen, sealing indentures to be with him ‘day and night, body and soul’. Some had whispered how they were all catamites, loving their master and each other. Gaveston used them as his minions, as his personal bodyguard. God knows what they plotted. Why had the favourite sent them to Tynemouth and not kept them with him? Ostensibly it was to defend the queen. Any other reason? And why had Lanercost been sent to Scotland? What had he been plotting? Why did the Beaumonts have such a deep interest in his mission?
As if an answer to these questions, a harsh knock on the door startled me, and without my reply, Rosselin sauntered into the room. He rubbed his arms against the cold, then took an extra cloak from a peg and offered it to me. When I refused, he wrapped it around himself. He expected me to challenge him, to ask him to leave, but I’d finished my search and wanted to question him. Rosselin picked up a stool and came across. I studied that ruddy, unshaven face, the blue eyes, red-rimmed and bleary. The sea wind had chapped his cheeks and his thick lips were salt-soaked.
‘Master Rosselin, can you help resolve these mysteries?’
He shook his head, eyes cold and calculating. He seemed not to like me, to resent my presence, though he was still determined to remain cordial.
‘I know why I’m here,’ I began, ‘but you, Master Rosselin, and the rest, shouldn’t you be with Lord Gaveston?’
‘No,’ he retorted. ‘We’re here to guard the queen. Lord Gaveston has a personal regard for her grace. Who else can the king send? He lacks troops for himself. Her grace is important. Our presence, and that of the Noctales, will strengthen the garrison here.’
I could not dispute that; it made sense.
‘And you,’ I asked, ‘you will live and die with Gaveston?’
‘What else is there?’ Rosselin’s voice hinted at sheer desperation. He glanced away, boots shuffling on the paved floor, and when he looked back, both his face and his voice had softened. ‘Mistress, we’re all trapped: myself, the others and Gaveston.’ He pulled the stool closer. ‘We took blood oaths and devised perilous stratagems when the days were good. These have come shooting back like barbed arrows during this time of distress. We are committed. There’s no going back. No turning to the left or to the right. I could tell you things, but I cannot; except that if Lord Gaveston goes down, so do we.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why did Lanercost go to Scotland?’
Rosselin refused to answer.
‘Why?’ I persisted.
‘Possibly,’ Rosselin refused to meet my gaze, ‘to seek sanctuary for my lord, if he decides to go into exile again.’
‘Or help against the great earls?’ I asked.
Again Rosselin refused to meet my gaze.
‘Is that true? Is Gaveston plotting treason?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I truly don’t.’
‘My lord Gaveston was distressed by Lanercost’s death?’
‘Of course, you’ve heard the whispers. He and Lord Gaveston may have been lovers.’
‘And what are you involved in now?’
‘Too late.’ Rosselin’s voiced thrilled with the passion of sadness. From outside trailed the harsh calls of the sea birds above the muffled thunder of the waves smashing against the rocks.
‘What do you mean, too late?’
‘Just too late!’
‘And you are here to guard the queen?’
‘Yes. I can tell you little more, mistress. It’s too late, too late. We are committed to our lord, even though the case against us presses hard. Too late for penance.’ He sighed. ‘Too late for contrition, too late for absolution.’
‘So why have you visited me now?’
‘You know Kennington hasn’t deserted. He’s dead. I’ve watched you, mistress. Flattery aside, you are honest. You have compassion. Apart from my lord and my comrades, I am alone. If I fall. .’ He opened his purse and took out two gold pieces. He insisted that I take them, pressing both into my hand. ‘Light candles,’ he pleaded, getting to his feet. ‘Have a priest whisper absolution in my ear. Go to some chantry chapel, have masses for the dead sung for my soul. As for my body, make sure I am not treated like some dog’s carcass but get honourable burial in consecrated ground.’
I offered the coins back, but he shook his head.
‘Mistress, to whom else can I turn? I trust you.’ He walked to the door.
‘Master Rosselin?’
He turned.
‘Who wants your life?’
‘God does. I may die like a dog because I’ve lived like one that goes constantly back to its own vomit.’ He bowed and slipped through the door.
I realised then the truth of what Isabella had said. The glass was darkening. Soon the light would be extinguished.
Kennington’s corpse and those of his two companions were found later that day, floating in the furious flurry of the angry sea. I watched as they were brought back to Duckett’s Tower. They had apparently fallen with cloaks, boots and war-belts on, though these had been caught, snagged and shredded by the waves and rocks. All three corpses were disgusting. Sodden and swollen with salt water, a mass of gruesome wounds, gashes and bruises, shattered by the fall and battered by the rock-pounding sea. It was almost impossible to determine anything except that they’d fallen sheer on to the rocks, to be swept away by the sea and then hurled back again by the turbulent tide: three cadavers proclaiming the true horror of violent death, be it murder or suicide. Dunheved administered the last rites. Rosselin and Middleton acted as chief mourners at the sombre requiem mass in the gloomy chapel, followed by swift interment in the Field of Souls, Tynemouth’s small but crowded cemetery. The news swept the castle, deepening our gloom and sense of isolation. A sinister premonition for the next chapter in the swirling, bloody mist of murder and mayhem engulfing our lives. What could be done? I was confronted with a tangled mystery. How had three veteran swordsmen, on guard, vigilant in the dark hours before dawn, been so brutally killed?