‘A bat,’ Demontaigu whispered, ‘or an eagle?’ He was thinking of Gaveston.
I moved the lantern. The second carving was larger, crude yet vigorous. It had a long body, a curling tail, four stout legs and a great-jawed mastiff head.
‘Dog or wolf,’ I murmured.
‘Perhaps it’s not a wolf,’ Demontaigu declared. ‘Eusebius was not skilled. Was he trying to depict a leopard? Something he’d seen in the royal coat of arms?’
I stared hard at those carvings, memorising the detail. I can still recall them even now, many, many years later. That cold, musty tower, the light dying outside, faint sounds from the nave, and those rough etchings, the confession of a poor soul who, unbeknown to himself, had also been marked down for bloody death. It might be many a day before I returned to York, and I wanted to study every detail.
‘Mathilde,’ Demontaigu plucked at my sleeve, ‘the hour is passing. If you wish to meet the Pilgrim at the Pot of Fire. .’
I had seen what I had to. At the time it made no sense at all. We returned to our lodgings. Demontaigu went to collect his war-belt. I changed, putting on a pair of stout boots and a heavier cloak and cowl. I also secured my dagger in its secret sheath on the belt around my waist. Once satisfied, I hurried to the queen’s quarters, but a lady-in-waiting told me that her grace was sleeping and I was not needed. A short while later, Demontaigu and I left through the Golgotha Gate, the cries of the lay brother who acted as night porter telling us to be careful. We crossed the thoroughfare into the stygian gloom of Pig Sty Alley, surely one of hell’s thoroughfares. It was like slipping from one world to another. Demontaigu drew his sword and dagger. The glint of naked steel forced the nightwalkers back into the gloom of the dark-filled narrow entrances to runnels or shabby houses. Yells and shouts echoed eerily. Now and again a light gleamed in a window above us. Sounds came out of the darkness: a beggar’s whine, a lady of the night shouting for custom, the clinking of coins, the bark of a dog. All around us was a brooding menace, as if the night held malevolent creatures just waiting for our one slip or mistake. The smell was so foul I had to cover both my mouth and nose, and I was relieved to glimpse the glow of an open doorway, the creaking sign above it proclaiming it to be the Pot of Fire.
Inside, I was surprised. I had expected some evil hovel, dank and dirty, but the Pot of Fire was clean, the floor well swept, the rushes sweet and brushed with herbs. The smell was not too good, as the tap room was illuminated by great fat tallow candles standing in dishes or spiked on spigots. Mine host, a huge pot-bellied man with a bloodstained apron around his waist, apparently kept strict order; in one hand he clutched a heavy tankard, in the other a cudgel, while more of his bully-boys clustered round the door or sat at tables. He looked us up and down.
‘From the court,’ he declared in a thick accent. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ He led us around the counter, deeper into the tap room, which was shaped like an ‘L’. At the far end, in an enclosed corner, the Pilgrim from the Wastelands was waiting for us on a stool behind a table. We took our seats. Demontaigu, as a courtesy, ordered tankards of ale, adding that he wanted the best in clean pots.
‘What else?’ Mine host laughed and lumbered away.
The Pilgrim was still dressed like a Franciscan, his cowl pushed back. He seemed more relaxed. He’d chosen his seat wisely, close to a window as well, where he could keep a sharp eye on whoever entered the tavern. The tap room was fairly quiet. There was laughter, shouts and the occasional scream, and ladies of the night wandered in and out, but the real noise came from below. The Pilgrim explained that a cock fight was taking place in the cellar. After this, two champion ferrets would compete to see how many rats they could kill before the candle flame sank from one ring to another. We chattered about the Pot of Fire, the Pilgrim regaling us with anecdotes while the ale was served. He paused at a roar of triumph from the cellar below. I glanced away through the unshuttered window. Ribbons of moonlight cut across the tavern garden, a ghostly place. I recalled what the prior had said about Eusebius and his need to confess. Was the same true of this stranger? The Pilgrim stretched across and tapped my hand.
‘Mistress, are you well, do you feel safe?’
‘No,’ I retorted, ‘why should I? I sit with someone who calls himself the Pilgrim from the Wastelands, who also pretends to be a friar, a man with no name. Someone who can slip in and out of that friary as easily as a cat. A place where three men have been barbarously murdered.’
‘I agree, the friary has become a field of blood. I must be prudent, and so should you.’
I studied this cunning man even as I regretted my own mistake of ignoring him earlier. I’d been so swept up with the affairs of the court, I had forgotten how the king’s residence at the friary would attract the attention of others beyond the pale. I gestured at his garb.
‘Have you stolen that?’
‘I was loaned it.’ The Pilgrim pushed aside his tankard, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Mistress, no lies, no artifice. You met with Eusebius; so did I. A collector of trifles, that bell-ringer: a coin, a pilgrim badge, some marks of favour. .’
I recalled Eusebius’ collection of baubles in the charnel house.
‘And so you paid him, and he supplied you with robe and sandals?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you a poor pilgrim?’
‘Mistress, that is part of my story.’
‘But you could enter and leave the friary whenever you wanted?’
The Pilgrim just shrugged.
‘You could be an assassin.’
The Pilgrim smiled and sat back. ‘I never climbed that tower,’ he murmured. ‘I have, mistress, a horror of heights.’
‘But you talked to Eusebius?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘Oh yes, I met him in the charnel house; he took me there.
He showed me his collection. He also boasted how his wits were not as dull as others thought.’
‘He may have known the assassin,’ I whispered.
‘I agree,’ the Pilgrim replied. ‘You’ve visited the charnel house, mistress?’
‘Yes.’
‘After Lanercost’s death, I went down there to meet Eusebius. On the one hand he could act the fool, the madcap, the jester, yet on the other he could make the most tart observations about his own community or the court. He talked for a while about nothing being what it appeared to be. He knew a little Latin; he could recite the Pater Noster and the Salve Regina. Then he asked me about light and darkness.’
‘Light and darkness?’ I queried.
‘I was mystified as well, but of course Eusebius lived in the church’s liturgy. He was particularly struck by the ceremonies of Holy Week. I eventually realised he was talking about Tenebrae, the ceremony on Maundy Thursday, that part of the Last Supper when Judas leaves to betray Christ, and the phrase from scripture, tenebrae facta.’
‘And darkness fell,’ I translated.
‘Yes, yes. Eusebius was talking about light and darkness. He wanted me to write the Latin words for them. I scrawled them on a scrap of parchment, but he didn’t want that. He pointed at the plastered white wall and gave me a piece of charcoal. I inscribed the words lux et tenebrae — light and darkness. For a while Eusebius just sat and stared at it, then he murmured, “Yes, that is what it is: black and white, light and darkness.”’