Isabella would discuss little except to question me about Tynemouth, the Noctales, Lanercost’s death, my suspicions and what I saw and heard. She would only talk when she was ready, and on the last day of April, she decided she was. We met, Dunheved and myself, in the queen’s personal chamber, an octagonal room lavishly furnished with gleaming oak stools, a writing desk, a lavarium and high leather-backed chairs placed before the mantled hearth shaped in the form of a hood. Above this hung a brilliantly hued tapestry telling the miraculous story of Caedmon, a local cowherd who’d learnt to write the most elegant poetry. On either side of this, paintings picked out in red, gold and black described scenes from the life of St Hilda and other great saints of the northern shires. The heavy door was barred and locked. Its ox-blood-coloured leather drape had been rolled down, whilst the black and white lozenge-shaped tiles on the floor had been covered with thick rugs, as if the queen wanted to deaden all sound both within and without. The small oriel windows, gilded and painted with religious devices, coloured the light of the setting sun. Certainly a place for secrets and hushed council.
Isabella looked resplendent in a tawny-coloured gown of the costliest taffeta beneath a sleeveless coat of blue and gold. Silver slippers, laced with the softest lamb’s wool, were on her feet, a gauze veil over her hair, which hung down luxurious and thick. When we gathered, I noticed that a jewel-studded casket in which the queen kept her secretae litterae — secret letters — lay open, its lid thrown back. I recognised a letter, very recent, the vellum was still a fresh cream colour, carrying the purple seal of Philip of France’s secret chancery. I wondered when she’d received this and why she was being so enigmatic. For a while we clustered around the fire, the candles and oil lamps dancing shadows around the walls. Outside a growing silence as the sisters gathered in their chapel for meditation. The queen abruptly brought the courtesies to an end.
‘What do we have?’ Isabella’s voice crackled with anger. ‘By God’s good grace and no one else’s, we are now free of Tynemouth, well away from Scottish marauders and Flemish pirates. No, no, I am not ungrateful.’ She pinched my wrist. ‘Demontaigu and my squires did good service, but it should never have happened.’ Again she pinched my wrist. ‘Mathilde, the king and Gaveston now bathe in a pool dirtied by their own making. The Noctales have met with God’s justice, but the deaths of Lanercost, Leygrave and Kennington remain unresolved. More importantly, what did happen in Duckett’s Tower? Were Kennington and his guards removed as part of a plot against me?’
Isabella and Dunheved shared a glance, as if savouring some secret. I curbed my temper.
‘Plotting against your grace?’ I asked innocently. Isabella had kept me out of her secret council, so what could I say? The queen just smiled, tapped my wrist and leaned closer.
‘Of course a plot against me! If the good Lord hadn’t intervened, those Scots would have forced the main gate of Duckett’s Tower. Someone alerted them, not only to my presence but as to how I might escape, hence that furious assault on the beach.’
Again I bit my tongue. Isabella was talking as if reciting a speech, not so much searching for the truth as for what I might think.
‘Does your grace have news of Tynemouth?’ I asked.
‘Good news,’ Isabella replied. ‘The Castellan managed to hold the attackers and drive them back. The garrison made a good account of themselves. My fair cousins the Beaumonts survived unscathed and, I believe, will join us soon.’
‘God be thanked,’ Dunheved murmured. ‘But I ask your grace, can your noble cousins be. .’ He paused.
‘Trusted?’ Isabella queried. ‘Brother Stephen, apart from the people in this chamber, I trust no one!’
‘And the treachery at Tynemouth?’ I asked.
‘In his letter,’ Isabella replied, ‘the Castellan apologised but admitted that a traitor would find it easy in that fog-bound castle to slip along the narrow runnels, damage a postern door and leave it vulnerable to those beyond.’
‘But who could communicate such a design to the Scots? The castle was besieged. No one could leave. Messengers were few and far between.’
‘The Templar Ausel could slip in and out unscathed,’ Isabella replied. ‘Why not someone else? Duckett’s Tower was our escape. The traitor could also have used it to alert the Scots. And,’ she added bitterly, ‘let us not forget those signals flashed from the castle walls.’
‘True,’ I murmured. ‘A Scottish force could have been brought into Duckett’s Tower, but it would have been dangerous. The tide can sweep in and cut off any escape, whilst once in the tower, the Scots would have had to clear it and then fight their way across to the Prior’s Lodgings. They might never have reached that and would certainly have been slaughtered in any retreat. The Castellan would have ensured that. Yes,’ I reasoned, ‘the Scots needed to bring you out of the castle, hence their attack. St Michael and all his angels be my witness, it was hideous treachery, but why? By whom?’ I glanced at Dunheved, who simply crossed himself and murmured his own prayer of thanksgiving.
‘By whom?’ I repeated and turned to the queen. She did not answer. ‘Did you fear such treachery, your grace? If so, why shelter at Tynemouth?’
‘What other choice did we have, Mathilde? Better than wandering lonely heathlands on the northern march. A secure fortress high on the cliffs overlooking the sea was safer than some deserted farmstead.’
I nodded in agreement.
‘And The Wyvern? Who ordered it to take station off Tynemouth?’
‘My husband, at my insistence.’
‘Why?’
‘Mathilde, I was fearful. I still am.’
‘About what?’
Isabella put her head down, rubbing her brow with her long white fingers. ‘I don’t really know. If I did, I could confront the danger.’
‘And your saintly father?’ I added with mock sweetness.
Isabella laughed girlishly behind her hand.
‘Why, Mathilde?’
‘Your grace,’ I retorted, ‘mischief bubbles in England. Your father could no more resist stirring it than a bird could flying.’
‘True, true.’ Isabella leaned back in her chair and glanced swiftly out of the corner of her eye at Dunheved, sitting on her left.
The psalmist says that the human heart is devious, and so it is: that one glance portrayed a secret alliance between the queen and the enigmatic Dominican. Yet at the time, what could I make of that? Dunheved was the guardian of her soul, the keeper of her secrets. Certainly my mood was tinged with jealousy. I thought I held that benefice, but time also has its own secrets, and only the passing of the years reveals the full truth. At the time I had no doubt that Isabella had been in contact with her father. I recalled the Castellan’s remark about French war-cogs being off the coast. I wondered if the master of The Wyvern had taken secret missives to them and returned with their reply. Hence that letter, so recently come from France, bearing Philip’s secret seal.
‘And his grace the king?’ I asked.
‘Fleet as the deer,’ Isabella remarked. ‘Once again he’s eluded his pursuers. My husband, his grace,’ she added sardonically, ‘is approaching York. We are to meet him there.’
‘And the earls?’
‘Retreated south of the Trent but vowing to return.’ Isabella shrugged. ‘It costs great treasure to keep troops in the field.’ She rose abruptly as a sign that our meeting was over. ‘Mathilde,’ she touched me lightly on the face, ‘as in chess, ma cherie, the pieces might return to their places but the game is not yet over.’
No, it certainly wasn’t! News came in like a blizzard of snow. Bruce’s force under his war-leader Douglas had retreated. Tynemouth was safe and secure. The Beaumonts were hurrying south and royal officials were now hunting down various carts and sumpter ponies laden with the queen’s household possessions. Most were saved. A few went missing, never to return. Thomas of Lancaster, the king’s cousin and the leading earl, sent letters to Isabella making it clear that his quarrel was with Lord Gaveston and not with her or the king. A pretty letter full of pious insincerities, but at least, as Isabella drily remarked, Lancaster offered to return some of her baggage seized along with the king’s at Novo Castro.