I glanced at the Castellan, who shrugged. I forced a wine cup between the dying man’s lips. Demontaigu came just before dawn. He gave the Noctale what spiritual comfort he could. Afterwards we reported to the queen, who’d risen early and was already warming herself by a weak fire.
‘My father,’ Isabella never bothered to lift her face, but stared into the flames, ‘my father in Paris will be furious! Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales were his men. It all began in blood,’ she whispered, ‘and it will end in blood.’
Demontaigu and I withdrew to a small window embrasure outside in the narrow corridor. We sat on the thin cushions. Demontaigu leaned forward.
‘There was nothing we could do, Mathilde. Alexander of Lisbon has received justice.’
‘But what does it mean?’ I asked.
‘I would wager,’ Demontaigu chose his words carefully, ‘that Ausel and the others went into Scotland. They made their peace with Bruce, received his help then moved south. The journey would be easy; the pursuit of the king by the earls has brought everything to a halt. Sheriffs, bailiffs, the mayors of towns and cities are reluctant to move. The countryside is wild and desolate. It would be difficult to track even a sizeable war band. Ausel decided to act. Apart from the young man I shrived, I doubt if any of the Noctales survived. I must see the Castellan.’ Demontaigu rose to his feet. ‘If Ausel is here, then Bruce’s forces can’t be far behind.’
I insisted on accompanying him. The Castellan, that wily veteran, had already reached the same conclusion. He was still dismissive of stories about the Templars, but Demontaigu argued with him quietly. The Castellan listened, nodding his head. Just after daybreak he sent out scouts to follow the tracks of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales. These scouts, either because of their cunning or because they were allowed to, managed to return. The story they brought back was chilling. They’d reached the battle site, a place of broken spears, shattered daggers, a saddle cut and gashed, the odd item of clothing, but every corpse of both man and beast had been removed. Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales had simply disappeared, extinguished, wiped off the face of God’s earth. The scouts brought other news, of peasants in hiding who told them fearful stories about a Scottish war host plunging deep into the shire, following the valleys, carrying out savage raids against villages and local farmsteads. The Castellan needed no further encouragement. The castle was put on a war footing. A message was sent to the queen that she must be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, as well as the warning that the Castellan had not yet discovered if treachery still lurked within. We soon discovered it did.
Chapter 5
They had resolved to carry off the Queen of England.
Two days after the massacre of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales, the tocsin boomed out just as dawn broke. An officer of the garrison came rushing into the queen’s quarters, declaring that a postern gate had been found unlocked.
‘God be thanked,’ he added, ‘it gave us a little time. Both lock and latch had been smashed. The alarm was raised, but shortly afterwards the sally port was attacked.’ Even from behind thick walls we could hear the growing clamour of battle.
‘It wasn’t secured in time?’ Isabella, already cloaked, was directing members of her household out into the bailey.
‘No, your grace! A serjeant and a few soldiers were trying to do that. They were surprised and killed. The Scots now have a force in the castle. They are trying to reach the main gate. .’ The man babbled on even as we prepared to leave.
Demontaigu, the queen’s squires and other members of her household were all harnessed and armoured. Most of Isabella’s chests and coffers had already been taken down to the cove outside Duckett’s Tower. The rest was merely baggage, which was now sent ahead. Once ready, with Demontaigu and the squires as our escort, we left the Prior’s Lodgings. A thick sea mist hid what was happening on the far side of the castle, where the garrison was desperately fighting to contain and drive out the invading force. The chilling sound of battle — screams, yells and the clash of weapons — carried across. Somewhere a fire burnt, its flames yellowing through the mist. Black smoke plumed up and billowed out. At the time we were in no real danger. The queen was well guarded.
We reached Duckett’s Tower to find that Rosselin and Middleton had already fled down the tunnel. We followed swiftly out into the brisk, cold sea air. The Wyvern was ready for sea, its bowsprit turned, the large sail half unfurled, a royal standard floating from the high stern. Boats and wherries were bobbing on the waves between shore and ship. The tide was still out. We left the shelter of the cliffs, hurrying down to the waterline to meet the incoming wherries, powerful boats manned by six oarsmen. The first came in oars up, keel crunching the pebble-thick sand. Men leapt out to assist the queen and others. Demontaigu, Dunheved and I were waiting for the second wherry when one of the squires shouted a warning, pointing further down the beach. Now the cliffs stretched out sheer white, and the receding tide had exposed a broad path of sand littered with seaweed, rocks and pools. The sea haze was thinning. I glimpsed a glint of silver, a flash of colour. The terror of battle gripped my breath. Others were now shouting in alarm. The Scots had sent a force down some cliff path and out along the shoreline. Mere chance; the spin of fortune’s wheel had saved the queen from entrapment either here or in the passageway of Duckett’s Tower.
The squires screamed at the incoming boats to hurry. I glanced across the sea. The wherry carrying Isabella was safe, but the others seemed to take an age to beach. One of the queen’s ladies — God forgive me, I forget her name — who’d been left behind with us sank down on to the wet sand, sobbing hysterically. I glanced along the water’s edge. The Scottish party were closing, the light glinting on shield, hauberk, helmet and drawn sword. They paused. A group of crossbowmen dressed in black leather sped forward, knelt, aimed and loosened their bolts. They misjudged the distance and the volley fell short. Demontaigu, sword raised, organised our own force, strengthened by others now pouring out of the cave beneath Duckett’s Tower. A line of archers, household men and squires, soldiers from the castle, anyone who carried an arbalest or longbow, was swiftly assembled. The Scots lunged forward, in their haste knocking aside their own archers. Demontaigu gave the order to loose. A volley of arrows and bolts brought down the front rank of the attackers and a host of those behind. Our second volley was sparser; only the longbowmen had the time to notch and loose again. Then the Scots clashed with us. A bloody, furious melee of whirling steel and strange battle cries. The hideous shock of men gripped in a deadly, vicious hand-to-hand struggle spread both along the beach and down to the waterline. Nevertheless, the attackers were held. The wherries were waiting in the shallows. Demontaigu and the squires pushed us out into the bubbling surf. We were grabbed, flung and bundled aboard. Our defenders also began to retreat deep into the water, archers going first so they could use their bows, shooting over our heads at the Scots wading through the swirling tide like dogs going for the kill. The racing surf became frothed with blood. The screams and yells of the attackers grew more furious. The Castellan, God bless him, had sent other men through Duckett’s Tower. They now burst out of the cave, attacking the rear of the Scottish force. Our boats became dangerously overburdened. Wounded and dying sprawled, blood pumping out of gruesome wounds. The queen’s lady-in-waiting had taken a crossbow bolt deep in her chest and was struggling in a welter of blood and pitiful, choking sounds. The oarsmen prepared. The captains of the boats were screaming to pull away.