I retraced my steps through Duckett’s Tower, only to discover nothing. Rosselin came to ask my opinion. He and Middleton were now men whose courage had been shredded. He also brought a small oilskin pouch found in Kennington’s wallet, tied securely to his belt. It contained the same message, written in a neat, precise hand: Aquilae Petri, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been bought and sold. The warning was stark, the conclusion obvious. Kennington and his colleagues had been murdered, but by whom and how? I could offer no reply, no solution. In all that turbulence, one small problem still nagged at me. It started as a query, a question, but the more I reflected, the more important it became. The war-cog The Wyvern, provisioned with full armament and riding at anchor in that narrow cove. Who had summoned it to Tynemouth? The king, Gaveston, Isabella? The Castellan could not help. He simply tapped the side of his nose and whispered how its master was under secret orders to wait until the danger had passed and only then sail away. I was about to thank him and leave when the Castellan plucked my sleeve and took me into a dark, narrow corner.
‘Mistress, I must tell you this. We know marauders lurk out on the heathland. We have also discovered, through the master of The Wyvern, that Flemish privateers prowl the northern coast. Now, The Wyvern has sailed out simply to make sure all is well on board, no leaks, nothing wrong. They’ve encountered local fishing craft, whose crews have told a strange tale. Not only do the Flemings prowl, but a force of French war-cogs, fully armed and flying the royal standard, has also been glimpsed. Now why is that, eh? Why should Philip of France be meddling in these cold, misty waters?’
Again, I could not reply. I went to see my mistress. She’d hardly left the chamber, being concerned with her books, sleeping or sometimes just huddled in a cloak before a roaring fire, staring into the flames. I went down on my knees before her, placing my hands in her lap.
‘Mathilde, ma petite.’ Isabella’s eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Mistress, I ask you the same question. You shelter here like some anchorite in her cell. You very rarely leave except to catch a breath of air in the morning and evening. We used to talk; now you are silent.’
Isabella cupped my cheek with her hand.
‘Mathilde, if I told you. . No, no, I cannot.’
‘Your grace,’ I pleaded. ‘The Wyvern: who ordered it to be brought here?’
Isabella’s face crinkled into a smile.
‘Why, Mathilde, I did.’
‘But mistress, what do you think will happen?’
‘I don’t know, Mathilde, but I have reflected on every possibility. If I cannot escape by land, then it’s logical that I must go my sea. The master of The Wyvern is well known to me. He is loyal. He will wait until I give the order, but more than that, I cannot and will not say.’
‘And your father’s war-cogs?’ I could tell by Isabella’s face that the Castellan had already told her the news.
‘What my father does, what he plots, Mathilde, is a matter for him and those who shelter in his shadow. Do you know,’ she leaned forward, ‘how Kennington died?’
‘Your grace, I know you too well to be distracted.’
Isabella threw her head back and laughed.
‘In which case, Mathilde, all I can ask you to do is vide atque tace — watch and keep silent.’
The Beaumonts sought me out, inviting me and Dunheved to Henry’s chamber, which was probably the best furnished in the castle. A log fire sparked in the oddly shaped mantled hearth. Beaumont and his kin were garbed in the most gorgeous livery. They had their own cooks, who’d bullied the servants of the castle kitchen. Good food was served along with wines full and rich-tasting. Candles and sconces glowed, their light shimmering in the silver and gold weaving of the tapestries hanging on the walls. The floor had been swept and scrubbed with sea water and sprinkled with crushed herbs. A warm, comfortable room in that cold, brooding castle. The Beaumonts, as I have said, could be charming. They certainly were that night, though their one and only purpose was to discover what was really happening, and who better to probe than the queen’s confessor and the woman they contemptuously termed her shadow? A strange evening. The courses were served in that grand chamber decorated with shields and hangings, warmed by a fire, braziers and chafing dishes. The conversation moved from courtesies to the crisis. The Beaumonts eventually showed their hand, betraying the fears that gnawed at their ambition. They were powerful lords with extensive estates in Scotland. They were terrified that the king would reach some sort of understanding with Bruce and so lose them a great source of revenue.
‘What sort of understanding?’ Dunheved asked sharply.
‘Help against the earls. Support for Gaveston in return for recognition of Bruce’s claims,’ Louis murmured.
His reply created silence. Lady Vesci stared up at the rafters. Louis became interested in his wine goblet. Henry sat flicking his fingers against the samite tablecloth. Dunheved’s blunt question had taken them by surprise.
‘And what if,’ the Dominican paused, measuring his words carefully, ‘Lord Gaveston was removed permanently?’
This time the silence was menacing.
‘What do you mean?’ Lady Vesci declared.
‘What if the earls are successful?’ The Dominican spread his hands before crossing himself quickly. ‘I am not saying I wish such a fate on the king’s own favourite, but it is a possibility. Lord Henry, what would happen then?’
Beaumont took a deep gulp of wine, staring at me over the rim of his goblet. Dunheved could ask such a question. He was a Dominican, a churchman, the king’s own confessor. He could even say he was trying to probe, to find out the true hearts amongst the king’s subjects. If Beaumont wasn’t careful, his reply could be construed as treasonable.
‘If Lord Gaveston,’ Henry put his cup down, ‘yes, if Lord Gaveston, God forbid, became the object of the earls’ anger, then it might lead to civil war, but for what? No war can bring back the dead. There is the possibility that Gaveston’s death — and I say God forbid — might bring about a long-term reconciliation. The king and his great earls might unite and, God willing, move across the northern march to defeat Bruce.’
‘And the queen, God bless her?’ Dunheved continued. ‘What would she think if the king’s favourite was no more?’
‘I cannot speak for her grace,’ Lady Vesci interrupted quickly. ‘I am sure that she would be distraught, but there again, these things do happen.’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Mistress Mathilde?’ Henry turned to me. ‘What do you say?’
‘Like your sister, my lord, I can only speak for myself, not for the queen or the king. I am not their confessor but I am deeply concerned by my mistress’ plight. Here we are in this eagle’s nest above the northern seas. Not far off shore, Fleming pirates prowl, whilst out on the heathland God knows what enemy lurks: the earls, a Scottish war party? I just pray that we leave here unscathed, that her grace rejoins her husband and we all remain safe and well.’