Chapter 6
They had resolved to carry off the Queen of England.
I asked both Aquilae if they could tell me more; both shook their heads. I courteously thanked them for the information and promised to reflect on it. Yet what could I do? I was as mystified and apprehensive as the rest. We were about to leave the friary and journey to Scarborough, where, I knew, violence would occur. Once the earls learnt that Gaveston had locked himself in there, they would come seeking him. Indeed, everybody accepted that, and a pall of gloom settled over the court, the reality behind all the empty pomp. Gaveston was hardly ever seen. Edward, however, remained precocious and fickle as always. He could drink, slur his words, have a tantrum, but at all times Edward of Caernarvon was changeable. He could weep at Vespers and be merry as a Yuletide fire by Compline.
I thought the king had forgotten both me and his commission to investigate Lanercost’s death. I was wrong. On the same afternoon I met Rosselin and Middleton, I retired to my own chamber to study a manuscript loaned by the brothers from their extensive library. I think it was a copy of Peter the Spaniard’s Thesaurus Pauperum — A Treasury of the Poor: a veritable multum in parvo — a little encyclopaedia of medicine. I was examining the strange symbols inscribed in the margin when a knock on the door aroused me from my studies. I hurried across, thinking it was Demontaigu, but Edward the king, cloaked and cowled, pushed his way into the chamber. He closed the door and leaned against it, pulled back his hood, sighed, then went and sat on a stool. He acted like a little boy, looking round, smiling to himself, tapping his feet and playing with a tassel on his cloak.
‘Mathilde?’
‘Yes, your grace.’
‘On your oath, tell me what you have discovered.’
‘About what, your grace?’
‘Everything since Lanercost fell like a stone from that tower. Have your reflected on that, Mathilde? The Aquilae of Gaveston,’ he forced a laugh, ‘soaring like eagles ever so high. The highest they say any bird can reach. All brought low from towers, crashing like stones to their deaths.’ He pointed a finger at me. ‘You’ve thought of that?’
‘It has occurred to me, your grace.’
‘Then tell me what you know.’
I did so, describing everything as honestly as I could. The king heard me out, now and again interrupting me with the odd question, rubbing his face in his hands.
‘A mystery,’ he murmured, ‘a true mystery.’ He rose to his feet and walked to the door. ‘Do not stop, Mathilde.’ He paused, hand on the latch, and glanced over his shoulder. ‘One day, when the sky is clearer, I will want to know the truth.’ Then he left as the bells chimed for the brothers to leave their tasks for the next hour of their day.
At the time I thought the king’s visit was part of some great design. In fact Edward was as confused as anyone. He’d lost control and the mystery only deepened his weakness. He’d told me to continue. I certainly did, not only because he’d ordered me. I had also taken my own sacred oath to protect his queen. Tynemouth had proved how vulnerable she had become on the shifting, treacherous sands of the time.
At Vespers bell Demontaigu and I approached the Golgotha Gate of the friary to meet the Pilgrim. A beautiful summer’s evening, the perfume from the friary gardens mixing with the appetising smells of its bakeries and kitchens. A lay brother had set up a makeshift stall to serve soup, bread and a clutch of fruit for the beggars of the area. The poor swarmed around, wanderers, traders, tinkers and pilgrims, as well as a legion of beggars who waited for their first mouthful of the day. They had all gathered at the entrance to to Pig Sty Alley, a dark-mouthed runnel opposite the Golgotha Gate. A motley throng garbed in outlandish scraps of clothing: an old man with his pet ferret, two jesters in monkey-eared red hoods, some ladies of the night desperate for food, rogues, nightwalkers and counterfeit men constantly sharp-eyed for any advantage. I searched for the Pilgrim. I left Demontaigu and walked across to look down Pig Sty Alley, a long strip of a lane that ran under leaning, decaying houses. A place truly drenched in sin and wickedness, its open sewer gleaming in the middle, the dancing light of lintel lanterns illuminating the shadow-walkers flitting across the alley from one doorway to another. A gust of saltpetre strewn to cover the smells made me step back. I wondered where the Pilgrim could be. I rejoined Demontaigu just as a royal scurrier, his horse caked with mud, forced his way through to the gate. He dismounted, raising high the leather pouch embroidered with the royal arms. He shouted, demanding passage, as he pushed his way through the crowd.
‘More trouble,’ Demontaigu whispered. ‘The king must leave here. Mathilde, we are wasting our time. The Pilgrim will not come. .’
I glanced sharply at him. ‘You have other urgent matters?’
‘Ausel,’ he replied. ‘He’s back in York on unfinished business, though God knows what that is!’
We waited a little longer but caught no sight of the Pilgrim. We made our way back through the Golgotha Gate. I became aware of a Franciscan just behind me, cowl pulled over his head, Ave beads hanging down, the whispering patter of ‘Ave Maria gratia plena’ — ‘Hail Mary full of grace’. . We crossed the friary grounds, going through an apple orchard, the overhead branches rich with lacy white blossom, and entered a small rose garden. Demontaigu was talking about the need to leave at a moment’s notice when I heard my name called. I turned. The Franciscan, still following us, pushed back his cowl as he quickened his step towards us. Demontaigu’s hand fell to his dagger; the Franciscan lifted his hand.
‘Pax vobiscum, amici — peace be to you, my friends.’ He raised his head. The Pilgrim’s face, strangely marked but now shaven, his tousled hair cropped close, tonsured like that of a friar, smiled at us.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why act like a nightwalker?’
The Pilgrim just shrugged. ‘When you wander the wastelands, mistress, you have to be sure. Now, I offer no deceit, no trickery.’ He stepped closer.
I abruptly remembered what Rosselin and Middleton had told me about a figure garbed like a Franciscan. Was it the Pilgrim? I studied the close-set eyes in that ascetic face. The Pilgrim was never still, tapping his chest, head turning now and again to ensure that we were alone.
‘Why the subterfuge?’ Demontaigu insisted. ‘Why can’t we sit here and discuss what you have to tell us?’
The Pilgrim grinned. I noticed how firm and white his teeth were: a man who took care of everything.
‘What are you frightened of?’ I spoke my mind.
The Pilgrim peered up at the sky, then back at me.
‘Mistress, I simply want to make my confession. What I’ve learnt may be of use to you, then I’ll feel I’ve discharged my duty and so leave.’
‘And my friend’s question?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t we meet here?’
‘This is a place of death,’ the Pilgrim replied. ‘Three men have been killed here, barbarously slain; a meadow of murder, mistress. Look, I am not wasting your time,’ Again he peered up at the sky. ‘The good brothers will celebrate Compline. After the bell rings, as a sign that it is completed, I will be with you. Meet me at the Pot of Fire, the tavern on Pig Sty Alley.’
‘A Franciscan seen there?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘In this realm of tears,’ the Pilgrim retorted, ‘you never know who you might meet or where. After all, I never thought I would encounter a Templar in disguise so close to the King of England! Mistress, at the hour, yes?’
I had no choice but to agree. The Pilgrim turned and left. Demontaigu and I continued through the garden. I glimpsed Dunheved and raised a hand. He sketched a blessing in my direction and hurried on. We reached the great cloisters. Demontaigu was about to leave when a lay brother came up. Now, before I went to the Golgotha Gate, I’d sent a message to Father Prior asking if I could see him. The servitor hurriedly explained how in fact the prior had not attended Vespers and was now waiting for me in his chancery office.