Demontaigu also returned, slipping into the abbey late one afternoon. I met him in St Aidan’s rose garden, though he refused to talk there. Instead we left by the Antioch Gate, moving down the steep cliff path on to the rough cobbled streets of the little fishing hamlet. He seemed to know his way and took me into the Root of David, a merchant’s tavern on the outskirts of the village, overlooking the craggy seashore. A pleasant enough place, I remember it well. The tap room was divided by barriers to form little closets, each furnished with ale-benches either side of a table. The room smelt fragrantly of grilled fish and almonds and the food we ordered, venison broiled in wine, black pepper and cinnamon, was delicious, as was the ale brewed in the house at the back. Demontaigu washed his hands in herb-laced water and ate hungrily whilst listening intently to my news. Once I’d finished, he mopped his mouth with a napkin and moved the candle closer. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face tired and drawn. He pushed the candle a little nearer, searching my face as I did his.
‘Mathilde, we have been now together for four years. We are reaching a path that is about to divide. I came to Isabella’s household as a Templar in hiding. People now know who I really am. You must realise that I might flee, must flee at a moment’s notice.’
I nodded.
‘Even more so now.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The Templar order in England and Wales has been ruined, not one stone left upon another. As you know, those Templars who weren’t taken up went into hiding. Philip’s agents hunted us through France, Hainault, Flanders, even beyond the Rhine, but in Scotland we are safe. Bruce has created a haven, a sanctuary for us. Templars from England, Wales and Ireland have fled there, as well as others from France, Castile, Aragon, Italy and the Rhineland states. These are men, Mathilde, who’ve been persecuted for years. They’ve heard the most gruesome tales about what has happened to their brethren in the dungeons of the Louvre and elsewhere in Philip’s kingdom. Men broken on the rack, bodies twisted, strung from scaffolds, burnt and scalded, limbs amputated, eyes gouged out, ears cut off.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But I am telling you what you know. The Templars have a blood feud not only with Philip and his ministers but with his family, and that includes our queen. Now the Templars have gathered in Scotland, their hearts full of anger, their ears crammed with hideous stories. They want vengeance.’ Demontaigu paused. ‘Bruce sent two forces south. The first was under James Douglas, a skilled and ruthless fighter-’
‘And the other was under Estivet, leader of the Templars?’ I suggested.
Demontaigu nodded in agreement.
‘Estivet’s force numbered about two to three hundred men, swollen by Scottish Templars and those in Bruce’s own army sympathetic to our cause. They made swift march. No one opposed them, not out there on the moorlands, following secret paths with copses and woods to hide in. You could ride for a day and not meet anyone. Estivet and his host had one desire: to search out the Noctales, bring them to battle and utterly destroy them. We knew the Noctales were garrisoned at Tynemouth. Ausel volunteered to act the false guide and Alexander of Lisbon, a coward, rose to the bait.’
‘They were massacred?’ I asked.
‘Every one of them, except the man who was allowed to escape, to take the grim tidings back to Tynemouth. Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales were cut to pieces. No one was shown quarter, their corpses tossed into bogs and marshes, their harness, weapons, armour and horses taken for our use, never to be seen again. Amongst the Templar host in Scotland there is great rejoicing. Philip of France of course will be furious.’
‘Did the Templars play any role in the attack on the queen at Tynemouth?’
‘No!’ Demontaigu replied quickly. ‘Ausel would not agree to that. I met him. He still lurks in England with an eye to any other mischief he might cause. He took the most sacred oath a Templar can, on the Cross and Face of Christ, that the Templars had nothing to do with the attack on the queen. However,’ Demontaigu leaned across the table, his voice falling to a murmur, ‘Mathilde, stories at the Scottish court talk of Gaveston having some control over the king. Other clacking tongues whisper that the attack on Tynemouth was to capture the queen and hold her hostage.’
‘As a bargain counter with her husband?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the traitor?’
‘No one really knows. The Beaumonts were mentioned.’
‘Impossible!’ I retorted. ‘They are the queen’s kinsmen; they’d be disgraced. .’
‘Listen, Mathilde, when it comes to treasure and lands, no one can be trusted. Some English lords with extensive estates in Scotland have joined Bruce’s standard, so why shouldn’t the Beaumonts?’
I stared down at the table. Was it possible? I wondered. The Beaumonts had been in Tynemouth and escaped unscathed. Was that part of their secret agreement with Bruce?
‘You’re sure?’ I asked. ‘To capture the queen, not to kill her?’
‘To capture her. Think, Mathilde, what could happen. If Bruce held Isabella, Queen of England, Princess of France, what terms could he dictate? French help? Have Edward withdraw from Scotland and give up all claims?’
‘Of course, of course,’ I hastened to agree, ‘but that is not the problem, Bertrand. The real mystery is who would do that. The Beaumonts have been mentioned, but who else would prosper?’ I paused. ‘The earls, perhaps? Edward would have to give up Gaveston in return. Perhaps Philip of France? He would love to see his son-in-law humiliated. If Isabella was captured, she would be treated honourably, perhaps even sent back to France. Philip would have not only her in his grasp but the future heir of the king of England. Edward would lose. He’d be a laughing stock. Gaveston would be more vulnerable than ever. People would see it as God’s judgement on the king for his friendship with his catamite.’ I sipped from my tankard of ale, possibilities teeming in my mind. Isabella was certainly a prize — both the queen and the future heir — yet who could be involved in such devious treason?
‘Murky and misty,’ I whispered. ‘Someone definitely tried to betray the queen at Tynemouth. Is that why Kennington was flung from Duckett’s Tower? Did he know or see something? Was his murder part of the preparation for that assault? The queen escaped by God’s good favour. Another hour, the entire castle might have been taken and everyone in it captured.’
‘One thing Ausel assured me.’ Bertrand pushed away his tankard and collected his cloak. ‘He again took the oath and swore that neither he nor, to the best to his knowledge, any of our brethren had anything to do with the deaths of Lanercost and the others.’
We were about to leave the tavern when I noticed a pilgrim armed with a staff, his cloak decorated with the conch shell of St James of Compostela, the palms of Outremer and the papal insignia of Rome. I recalled the Pilgrim from the Wastelands who had pestered the queen at York, his frenetic face stained with that strawberry mark, then the moment passed, at least for a while. On my return I did not inform Isabella about what Demontaigu had told me. We became busy gathering her household at Whitby. Moreover, what was the use? More questions about deep-tangled mysteries that only time and evidence could resolve.
The Beaumonts eventually arrived in a show of gorgeous livery. They portrayed themselves very much as the heroes of the hour, with a litany of praise about their valiant prowess during what they now called ‘The Great Siege of Tynemouth’. To anyone stupid enough to listen, they described how Lord Henry had stood like ancient Horatius in the breach and single-handedly resisted the Scots. Lady Vesci, that armoured Minerva, used her cross-bolt to deadly effect, whilst Louis, like Moses of old, held his arms up in supplication to the Almighty. Oh, the Beaumonts were sans pareil! None were more given to double-dealing and mischief than that unholy trinity. They’d managed to reassemble their retinue, retrieve their baggage and journey south through that early summer like a triumphant Caesar entering Rome. ‘A veritable stone wall’ was how Henry trumpeted his defence of Tynemouth against the Scots. In truth they could provide little information about the treachery which had allowed the Scots in or the mortal calamity that might have befallen the queen, who in turn could only welcome her ‘sweet cousins’ with open arms.