‘Gaveston and Edward left,’ the Pilgrim continued. ‘The king turned to me, his face red, lips flecked with foam. He just glared at me as if seeing me for the first time, then gestured with his hand that I should get out. I fled. At first I thought nothing would come of it. The king became busy preparing for his great expedition against the Scots. The council met. Letters banishing Gaveston were drawn up. Now, mistress, I had been in London for some time. I wore the royal livery. I carried a sword and dagger, and never once was I accosted. However, in the two months following that terrible confrontation in the Painted Chamber, I was attacked no fewer than three times in and around Westminster by men cowled and masked. The only reason I escaped was that I was fleet of foot and most adept in the use of dagger and sword. Now at the mews I occasionally slept in the small hay store. Oh, I had my own comfortable chamber, but to keep an eye on the king’s birds, I would often settle there for the night.’
‘And it caught fire?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘You have the truth. A fire that had started both front and back at the same time. Again I escaped. I realised I had witnessed something I shouldn’t have but I didn’t know who was responsible for the attacks on me. The king, the prince, Gaveston or someone else? The old king remained cordial and courteous enough, though a coldness had grown up between us. Now I had been joined in London by my brother Reginald. He married well, the daughter of a local merchant, and they had a child. Reginald was a merry fellow. He liked nothing better than a jig or a bawdy story. One night around the Feast of the Birth of John the Baptist, Reginald left for a tavern in Thieving Lane near the gatehouse at Westminster. The weather had turned harsh. A cold wind was blowing rain in from the river. He took my cloak and beaverskin hat. Later that evening, bailiffs came to the mews carrying a stretcher on which Reginald’s corpse was sprawled. My brother never reached the tavern. He’d been found stabbed at least four times in a nearby alleyway. You can imagine my distress, my panic, my fear, my anger. Ursula, Reginald’s wife, was distraught. I could do little to help. I decided to flee. I went into hiding in Southwark. One day I crossed the river and wandered into St Paul’s, where the tittle-tattlers and the gossip collectors gather. Proclamations are pinned on the great cross in the churchyard. I was studying these carefully when I recognised one against myself: Walter of Rievaulx. According to the proclamation I was a thief, a felon and an outlaw. Three times I had been summoned to court, though I did not know that, and when I had not appeared, I’d been put to the horn, declared utlegatum — beyond the law — a wolf’s-head whom anyone could kill on sight.’
‘And your crime?’ I asked.
‘I was accused of stealing from the royal mews.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course it was a lie, but what could I do? If I was taken alive I would hang at the Elms in Smithfield. More likely I’d either be killed outright or perish of some mysterious ailment in Newgate. The proclamation was signed by the mayor and sheriffs of London. Now I’d taken with me all the wealth I could gather. I had one friend, Ursula’s father, a wool-smith. I went secretly to him. He believed my innocence. I gave him everything I had to pay him as well as to help Ursula. He secured me forged documents, licences and passes. I journeyed down to Dover, crossed the Narrow Seas and travelled to Paris. For a while I stayed there, working. My skills as a falconer meant I never starved; they provided food, clothing and a roof against the rain and wind. I listened to the stories from England about how the old king had swept north with fire and sword to avenge himself on the Bruce. I also recognised that my life in England was over. I had begun to travel and I wanted to continue. I felt guilty at Reginald’s death, at Ursula becoming a widow, her son fatherless. I believed I should do reparation. I travelled south to Compostela, then to Rome, where I secured passage to Outremer. I have visited Jerusalem. I have worshipped in the place where Christ was crucified and His body lay awaiting the Resurrection. I went on to the great desert beyond Jordan. I saw many things, mistress, then I came home. By the time I landed at Dover the old king was dead, his son was crowned and Gaveston had returned to become Earl of Cornwall, the king’s own brother and favourite. I hoped I’d been forgotten. My name had been obliterated, my appearance had changed, except for this.’ He pointed at the mark on his cheek. ‘Moreover, I had disappeared. Whoever had tried to kill me might take comfort that I’d fled, perhaps died abroad. I kept away from my old haunts. This is the first time I’ve returned to this shire since I joined the old king at Westminster.’
‘Who do you think was responsible?’ I asked. ‘For the attacks?’
‘God and his saints know: the old king, the prince, Gaveston, all three? What I have realised is that I should never, ever have been in that chamber. If that was just a scurrilous story, why should someone wish to kill me because I’d learn it? Go through York or London, visit the taverns and alehouses and you’ll hear many a ribald story about the great ones of the land, the lords of the soil.’
‘And did you ever,’ Demontaigu asked, ‘try to discover if there was any truth in that story?’
‘I wandered the highways and byways. I visited royal castles the prince might have stayed at as a child. I heard of an incident, but nothing substantial. As I say, if chatter and gossip were worth a piece of gold, I’d be a very rich man.’
‘So why did you come to York?’ I asked. ‘Why are you telling us this?’
‘Because you, mistress, must tell the queen.’
‘Why?’
The Pilgrim stared out across the garden. I followed his gaze. It was a gloomy place lit by pale moonlight. Somewhere a dog yelped. Nearby a relic seller was provoking raucous laughter by offering the most tawdry items as sacred pieces. A slattern, baited by a drunken customer, screamed abuse. Mine host roared for calm. Darkness had truly fallen. More oil lamps and candles had been lit and the Pot of Fire bubbled with shadows.
‘You’re here for revenge?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘No, sir, I’m here for justice. I was innocent. I was in a chamber where the king wanted me to be. Simply because of what I saw and heard, my life has been destroyed. My brother was foully murdered, his wife left a widow, her son fatherless. If it was a petty matter, why such loss? So yes, I am here for justice.’
‘You think Edward and Gaveston are responsible for the havoc caused?’
‘I have tramped this road and that, shivered out in the desert, gone to sleep in dark, dank woods. I have sheltered in cow byres and pigsties. One day I shall die. I wish to tell someone else, someone in authority, someone with power, what caused this dramatic change in my life. I reflect on Gaveston’s control over the king. Does he bait him with this? Taunt him? Blackmail him? And these murders,’ he took a deep breath, ‘the deaths of the Aquilae? Did they know the secret their master holds? Is that why they are being killed? Ah well.’ He pushed away his tankard. ‘Mistress, it’s time to be gone. I never stay long in one place, but in the end, yes, I came here for justice, perhaps revenge. I have told this story to no other person except one.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘A priest under the seal of confession: a Franciscan at Grey Friars in London. I went there to be shrived before I travelled to York. Even when I arrived here I dared not visit my father’s house or the abbey, just in case. .’
‘Your confessor?’ I insisted.
‘He asked me to take an oath under the seal of confession that what I told was the truth. He replied that as my penance I should return and tell someone I trusted, someone in authority, what I know. I arrived in York, I listened to Brother Eusebius. I watched the court and the friary. You, mistress, have a reputation for honesty. Her grace the queen is innocent of any crime; shouldn’t she know the secret that has destroyed me and those I love?’