‘Did he talk about the Beaumonts?’
‘He called them grand lords. He relished the fact that he’d found one of their buttons on a piece of cloth, caught snarled on a thorn in the rose garden. It was part of his collection.’
I held my hand up and stared out at the moon-dappled garden. The shape I’d glimpsed in the charnel house had taken that button from Eusebius’ tray and left it deliberately near the trap door, a ploy to mislead.
‘Mistress?’
I glanced back at the Pilgrim. ‘Did you have any doings with Lanercost or Leygrave?’
‘No, no, I did not, but they came here. .’
‘To the Pot of Fire?’ Demontaigu queried.
‘Oh yes, why not? Well away from the court. Mine host told me how they came here deep in their cups. He stayed well away from them. After all, they could be dangerous: two powerful courtiers armed with sword and dagger.’
‘But he tried to eavesdrop?’ I asked.
‘Of course. A tavern master makes that his business. He listens to confidences and passes them on, but Lanercost and Leygrave talked quickly in Norman French. Mine host said both men were extremely angry, yet sad. As they drank, they grew angrier. He caught the words ‘betrayal’ and ‘treason’ but nothing else. They drank deep and left with their arms around each other.’ The Pilgrim pulled a face. ‘Mistress, I tell you truth.’
‘So why did you want to see me?’
The Pilgrim sipped at his tankard, placed it on the table, then glanced out of the window and back at me.
‘I call myself the Pilgrim from the Wastelands. I was born Walter of Rievaulx. I am from these parts. My father, his father and his father before him were tenants of the great abbey at Rievaulx. Now God decided that I should be born with this.’ He touched the strange birthmark on his face. ‘From the moment I was born I was singled out to be alone. I did not want to be mocked. The Benedictines of Rievaulx kindly took me into their house and trained me. I became the abbey’s best falconer, a hawker, a huntsman. There is not a bird of prey I do not know or cannot recognise. I know their habits, foibles, weaknesses and ailments. What they must eat. How they must be sheltered, protected and groomed. Before my twentieth summer I was already a master falconer, and my reputation spread, not only as a huntsman but as a retainer who could be trusted. Now this was in the old king’s days. Four years before he died, Edward visited Rievaulx. The old king was passionate about venery; he had a particular love for falcons and hawks. I was introduced to him, and took him out for a hunt along the marshes. After we returned to the abbey, the king insisted I become a royal falconer. The abbot daren’t refuse, whilst I was very ambitious.’ The Pilgrim smiled. ‘Oh, I know the stories about the old king. He could be hard and resolute, cruel and vicious at times, but give him a hawk or a falcon and he was as gentle as a dove. He also liked me. We would talk like father and son. I was put in charge of the royal mews at the new Queen’s Cross, close to Westminster Palace. The old king pronounced himself very pleased. I was responsible for the royal falcons and hawks. If one fell ill, I would, if necessary, send for a physician, even make a wax cast of the bird and have a royal messenger place it before St Thomas a Becket’s shrine in Canterbury. The king was a hard taskmaster. Anyone who abused or proved negligent towards a hawk, he would beat with his belt or whatever came to hand, but to me he was as gentle as a mother. Sometimes when he visited the mews we’d sit on the ale-bench and share a jug of wine. I was in paradise. Never once did the old king make reference to my face. He simply described me as the best of servants.
‘I thought things would always remain like that, until the early spring of the year the old king died.’ The Pilgrim paused. ‘I’d been summoned to Westminster, to the Painted Chamber, at the heart of the royal quarters in the old palace. I had to kick my heels for a while until Edward invited me in. He’d bought a new manuscript from France on the training of hawks and peregrines, and insisted on reading sections of this out loud, asking for my opinion. I recall the day so welclass="underline" light streaming in through the painted window glass. The chamber was littered with the king’s armour, belts, shoes and boots. Manuscripts strewed the table. The old king was happy, as if by talking to me he forgot his own cares and troubles. A chamberlain entered saying that the Prince of Wales and Lord Gaveston waited to see him. The king was reluctant. I knew about the rift between father and son. The old king fiercely resented Gaveston’s presence and, more importantly, his own son’s deep affection for a lowly Gascon. Nevertheless he summoned both son and favourite into the chamber. Courtesies were exchanged. The king then asked his son why he wished to see him. Both prince and Gaveston glanced at me as if I shouldn’t be there, but the king was losing his temper: his right eye was beginning to droop, his face was flushed, his hands were trembling slightly. He was growing old and weak. The campaigns in Scotland had taken their toll. Gaveston stood near the door; the Prince of Wales sat on a cushioned settle before his father. I had no choice but to stay; the king would not dismiss me. The prince talked about his affection for Gaveston, how he was a noble lord, his sweet brother. The king just nodded, but the anger in his eyes showed how much he hated Gaveston. The prince then made the most surprising request. He asked that Gaveston be given the Duchy of Cornwall or the counties of Ponthieu and Montreuil in France.’
‘What?’ Demontaigu exclaimed.
‘Yes, the prince repeated the request: the Duchy of Cornwall or the counties of Ponthieu and Montreuil. The king sprang to his feet, fists clenched, glaring down at his son. He muttered something under his breath, then he attacked the prince. Grabbing him by the hair, he dragged him off the settle and across the chamber. Then he banged his head against the wall, threw him to the ground and started to kick him. The prince yelled and screamed. The king said nothing; just an old, greying man kicking and beating his son. Gaveston remained by the door as if carved out of marble, a look of utter terror on his face. The king paused, hands on his knees, gasping for breath, then he roared at his son: “You whoreson bastard upstart! If I had another heir I would give all to him. You want to concede lands! You who have never acquired one yard of extra territory! To give away honours to someone like that — you whoreson!” By now the prince had crawled away on hands and knees. He turned to face his father. He was frightened and bruised but still defiant. “How dare you!” he screamed back. “How dare you call me whoreson and bring great shame on my mother, your wife?”’
The Pilgrim paused, staring around. He wetted his lips with another drink of ale. ‘Now, you know, Eleanor of Castile was the one and only great love of the old king’s life. When this incident happened she’d been in her grave some fifteen years. The old king heard his son out, then moved across, finger jabbing the air. “You,” he said, “you believe you are a prince? By God’s right I say this to you. I look at you. I recall the stories that you are a changeling. Have you heard them? Have you ever heard the stories?” The prince just gazed bleakly back. “You with your baseborn servants and friends, your love of digging and rowing and thatching a house! Do you know what they say?” The king crouched down, his face only inches from that of his son. “They say that as a child my son was attacked by a sow. The nurse in charge changed my true son for you, the by-blow of some peasant! God’s teeth, I used to dismiss that as a rumour, but now I wonder. If that nurse was alive I would get the truth, but as for you and your so-called brother, you get nothing! Do you understand? Nothing! Get out!”’ The Pilgrim paused once more.
The way he spoke conveyed the truthfulness of what he claimed. I knew enough about the old king to recognise his rage, but this was the first time I had ever heard such a story. Indeed, there had been rumours at the French court how king and son often clashed, even came to blows, but nothing like this.