‘Where to now?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘I shall return to London.’ The Pilgrim rose abruptly. ‘Come,’ he gestured, ‘Pig Sty Alley at such a late hour is not a safe place.’
Demontaigu called mine host and settled for what we had drunk. We left, back into Pig Sty Alley. So many years have passed, yet I cannot forget walking through that filthy runnel, that tangle of shadows, the strange shapes of the nightwalkers, the swirling smells, the eerie cries that rang out like ghost song. Rats teemed, greyish in the poor light, cats hunted, dogs howled. The full moon had broken free from the clouds, washing the alleyway with silver light. We hastened by doorways and entrances, dark holes holding God knows what terrors and horrors. Demontaigu drew both sword and dagger, whilst the Pilgrim wielded a stout cudgel. I heard a sound and whirled round. Despite the gloomy murk, I glimpsed a shape, cowled and cloaked, last seen at ‘The Road to Damascus’ after we returned from the moors. I recognised that figure, the outlaw Furnival, and I wondered if Ausel was not far behind. We walked on. The Pilgrim was humming a song, Demontaigu reciting a Templar prayer about the face of God smiling benevolently at us. No one impeded us, no one stopped us, and at last we were free. Across the thoroughfare rose the walls of the friary, and through the dark we could glimpse pinpricks of light from the belfry as well as the curfew lamps set at windows and doorways. The corner of Pig Sty Alley was illuminated by fierce fires burning merrily in great casks. Sconce torches had been pushed into niches on the wall, their flames whipped by the wind. I stared up at the sky. I’d learnt so much that night, and yet what sense did it make? Nevertheless, I sensed that harvest time was close; the wickedness sown was coming to fruition.
We crossed the deserted thoroughfare. The occasional dog nosed the ground; a cat whipped across in a dark blur. The Pilgrim walked slightly in front of us. I heard a sound to my left just near the Golgotha Gate. A click, a snap that should have alarmed me, but I was tired. The whir of the cross-bolt was like an angry wasp. The Pilgrim screamed and staggered back, the feathered quarrel embedded deep in his chest. He waved his hands as if he could fend off the blow, his face contorted with pain, and fell to the ground as another cross-bolt whistled through the air above us. I screamed at Demontaigu not to go forward. I ran even as the Pilgrim turned on his side, fingers going to the feathered quarrel that had cut off his life. I put an arm beneath his shoulder and tried to lift him. Blood was already bubbling out of his mouth, heels drumming on the ground. He stared at me beseechingly.
‘A priest,’ he whispered. ‘A priest.’
‘Mathilde, Mathilde.’ Demontaigu gently pushed me away. ‘Listen, I’m a priest, a Templar priest. I have my faculties. I will hear your confession, I will shrive you.’
I edged away on all fours, staring into the darkness, wondering if the assassin was still there. Again a cross-bolt cut the air, then a voice called out, clear, with a slight lilt. Ausel!
‘Mathilde, Bertrand, what ails you?’
I was aware of a shadow moving across the thoroughfare. Demontaigu, God bless him, even though he was exposed to danger, knelt by the fallen man, whispering to him, raising his hand in blessing as he gave absolution. The Pilgrim, on the verge of death, moved restlessly in his pain. I heard gasps and sighs as the blood gurgled at the back of his throat, then he shook once and lay still. Demontaigu crossed himself and rose. A shape detached itself from the darkness, speeding silently across like some soft-footed felon slipping through the dark. I glimpsed the glint of steel. Demontaigu, however, aware that danger might still lurk, pulled the Pilgrim’s corpse out of the pool of light into a dark corner of Pig Sty Alley. He crouched down, going through the dead man’s pockets and wallet, but all he found were medals and coins. I sensed the danger had passed. A shadow waited just beyond the light.
‘Ausel,’ I called, ‘is that you?’
The Irishman stepped forward. He was much changed since the last time I’d seen him. Now his head was completely shaven, and his face had a stark, skull-like appearance. There was no hair on his mouth or chin; his eyes were gleaming and his mouth was pulled in a thin, bloodless line. He came and crouched next to us as if he had been our companion the entire evening.
‘Was it you?’ I accused. ‘Ausel?’
He turned, eyes half closed. ‘For the love of God, Mathilde, why should I kill this man? Sure, I was with you. I left before you and I was waiting here.’
‘And the assassin?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Ausel replied. ‘I journeyed south to meet Demontaigu. I followed you down Pig Sty Alley and into the Pot of Fire. You did not see me,’ he smiled, ‘but I saw you.’
‘I glimpsed the outlaw Furnival,’ I whispered. ‘I did wonder. Ausel, why are you here?’
‘To meet my good brother.’
I gestured down at the Pilgrim. ‘There is nothing we can do for him; his soul is for God, his body for the ground. Ausel, I have known you for four years. Swear to me that you had nothing to do with the attempt at Tynemouth to capture the queen.’
‘On the book of the Gospels! Summon Michael, the provost of heaven, and all his angels, the bailiffs of the divine gate, and I will swear. I knew nothing. We did nothing. Our sole aim was the total destruction of Alexander of Lisbon and the Noctales, but out of friendship, I’ll tell you this. We are now members of Bruce’s court and his power has grown. If Edward does not act soon, the English crown will lose Scotland and all it possesses there. You must walk prudently, Mathilde. The Beaumonts. . well, I think you know their nature. They look only after themselves.’ He edged closer, his face harsh and severe. ‘Rumours run in the Scottish camp about all forms of treachery, like a swarm of writhing snakes, at the English court. No doubt Edward of England petitioned Bruce for help, but other stories swirl like foul smoke: that it did not matter if the queen was captured.’ He paused, staring at me, his face ghostly in the poor light.
‘Or killed?’ I whispered.
Ausel nodded.
‘But would Bruce be party to that? He is a noble. He was once a member of the English court himself, a knight.’
‘Mathilde, across the northern march the king’s father laid waste with fire and sword. He killed Bruce’s brothers. He took Bruce’s women and put them in cages, then hanged them from castle walls. Bruce has changed. This is war to the death. Bruce had scruples, but if he drew the line at murder, it wasn’t because of any chivalrous feelings but due to the power of France. Bruce sits and watches. He and his churchmen pray that Gaveston will never be sent into exile. They hope civil war will flare here so Bruce can come into his own. Most of Scotland is lost. Further unrest in England would make Bruce king.’ He pointed down at the Pilgrim. ‘I don’t know who he is or why he is important to you at this late hour of night. I told you I followed you from the tavern. I went ahead. I was waiting in the shadows of the friary wall; I saw you emerge into the light. This man was struck, but where the bowman was, God only knows.’
‘And what now?’
Ausel stretched out a hand. ‘Heaven knows, Mathilde. I do not think I shall look upon your face again. This is my last expedition into England. I will have words with Master Demontaigu tomorrow morning, then I will rejoin my brothers.’
I clasped his outstretched hand. Ausel was a killer, but he was also a man of his word. I believed he had nothing to do with the death of the Pilgrim. He melted into the darkness. Demontaigu and I went across to the Golgotha Gate and knocked on the postern door. A short while later, a group of bleary-eyed lay brothers came out with a stretcher. They placed the Pilgrim’s corpse upon it and took it to the death house. We followed them in. Demontaigu escorted me to my chamber and kissed me lightly on the head, pressing a finger against my lips.
‘Not now, Mathilde, no talk. I must see Ausel and you must sleep.’