Chapter 7
The Lord King and Gaveston became separated from each other, the Gascon stayed at Scarborough. .
In the event, I did sleep. I was so tired I just stretched out on my bed, wrapped a cloak around myself and fell into a deep slumber plagued by nightmare memories: of violence and intrigue, of walking down filthy alleyways, of standing in squares where torches burnt and corpses dangled from gallows. I was pleased to wake early. I stripped and washed. The queen had not risen, so I went to the Jesus mass and busied myself about my own affairs. Mid-morning a grim-faced prior celebrated a requiem mass for the Pilgrim; two other corpses of beggars found lying near the friary had also been brought in for the last rites. The mass was simple. No incense, no chanting, simply the sombre words of the requiem about the Day of Judgement, of being committed to the soil, of the souls of the departed being escorted into heaven by Michael and all his angels. Afterwards I followed the prior and the brothers out into God’s Acre, where all three corpses, wrapped in shrouds, were committed to the earth. Once the prior had blessed the grave he beckoned me over. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he stared attentively at me.
‘Mistress, I do not wish to give offence, but this is a house of the Franciscan brothers dedicated to peace, preaching and penance, not murder and horrid death during the dark hours of the night. I wish you well, Mathilde. Please give my loyal regards to your mistress, but I would be dishonest if I did not say I shall be glad when you’re gone.’
I left the cemetery and immediately sought audience with Isabella in her chamber. The room was busy, thronged with ladies-in-waiting, squires and pages, porters preparing chests and casks. Isabella took one look at my face and dismissed her servants. She was swathed in a heavy robe, her face rather pale. I asked her if she was well but she just said it was morning sickness and that it would pass. I insisted on distilling her a herbal drink. She sat in her chair, fingers over a chafing dish. I crouched on a stool next to her, leaned close and told all that had happened, what the Pilgrim had reported and what Ausel had said. Only then did I fully realise how mature the queen had become. How closely she imitated her formidable father, who, to quote one poet, ‘was terrible to the sons of pride’. She never interrupted or questioned me. Once I’d finished, she stretched both hands over the chafing dish as if to draw strength and warmth from the sparkling charcoal.
‘Mathilde, I thank you. I have heard such stories and rumours. Sometimes I wonder. I doubt if they are true; scurrilous, tattling tales. The real danger in such stories is not that they are true but that they can become so. My husband does nothing to prevent the seeds of such a tale taking root in men’s hearts. Here we are in York, chased by the earls of England, scurrying to Tynemouth, seeking help from a Scottish rebel. Edward should be in Westminster, the throne of his ancestors, administering justice, governing his realm.’ She paused at a knock on the door, and Dunheved walked in. Isabella did not dismiss him but summoned him over. She pointed to another stool, then turned to me.
‘Mathilde, I must have words with Brother Stephen. I have also conferred with my husband. Tomorrow morning at the latest, you and the good brother here,’ she smiled at the Dominican, ‘will leave for Scarborough.’
I glanced at the queen’s confessor, who sat, cowl slightly pushed back, hands up the sleeves of his robe. He was so serene and watchful. I did wonder again what role this wily Dominican played in the affairs of the court. But Isabella was impatient to talk to him, probably under the seal of confession, when she would tell him everything we had discussed. I bowed, curtsied and left the chamber.
By Angelus time the news of our imminent departure was well known throughout the friary. I packed my belongings. The queen did not need me, so I bolted and locked my chamber door, went to my writing desk, took out a piece of vellum and decided to collect my own thoughts on what I’d learnt and observed. I’d hardly started this task when a loud rapping on the door made me groan. I thought it was a message from the queen, but it was Demontaigu. He’d bade farewell to Ausel and I sensed his grief at the ties between himself and his brethren being so dramatically loosened. He sat on a stool, chatting about old times, expressing his sadness, and I let him talk, but Demontaigu always had a clear perception of others, and eventually he paused, smiled and pointed to the piece of vellum.
‘Are you drawing up your indictment, Mathilde? Look, rather than sit and bemoan like a beggar at the gate, I will help you. Now, last night, the Pilgrim. .?’
For a while we discussed what our mysterious visitor had told us.
‘But his murder?’ Demontaigu concluded, tapping his feet. ‘Who should murder him?’
‘The same people who tried before?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps the Pilgrim wasn’t as forgotten as he thought.’
‘In which case you are talking about either Gaveston or the king,’ Demontaigu retorted, getting to his feet. ‘I accept that the Pilgrim’s face was distinctive, easily recognisable, but the king and his favourite are caught up in their own swirl of affairs. Was it an accident?’
I asked him what he meant.
‘A nightwalker,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘a felon, a footpad who was going to attack all three of us, but the presence of Ausel disturbed him so he fled.’
I was about to reply when there was another knock on the door. It was still off the latch and I was surprised when Dunheved swept into the room. The Dominican’s face was contorted in anger. He was restless and agitated. I asked him what was wrong; he just shook his head, crossed himself and continued his pacing around the room. Now and again he’d pause to stare at the crucifix or one of the coloured paintings hanging on the wall. Now, I am used to artifices, subtlety and deceit, but I sensed the Dominican’s rage was genuine. He’d come directly from the queen, who must have told him what I had learnt the night before. At last he paused, chest heaving, and crossed himself again: ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa!’ he declared, striking his breast. ‘My fault, my fault, Mathilde.’
I gestured at a stool. He sat down with a sigh of relief. Then he glanced quickly at Demontaigu, rose, locked the door and barred it. He returned to the stool, put his arms across his chest and stared up at me.
‘I have come from the queen, Mathilde. She has told me the truth about that bloody mayhem at Tynemouth. She could have been killed; that was the mischief plotted.’
‘Or so our informant would have us believe,’ I replied.
Dunheved rubbed his face and pointed at the vellum lying on my desk.
‘What do we have here, Mathilde, what do we have? Please.’ He gestured at the writing desk. ‘Let us all collect our thoughts. Here, before we move to Scarborough, become locked up in its fastness.’
I was a little surprised but I agreed. I felt confused by the presence of both Demontaigu and especially Dunheved, but there again, the Dominican’s logic was flawless. We would soon be separated from the queen, confined in a fortress against people who might wish us the greatest of evil and mischief.
‘So, Mathilde, what shall we do? How shall it be done? Tomorrow we leave here for Scarborough. I go grievingly. Why? Because her grace the queen will not be accompanying us. She is moving to Howden and will take shelter there.’ Dunheved pointed at me. ‘Mathilde, if you are a physician of the body, I am one of the soul. What are the symptoms here, what questions must we ask?’
I picked up my quill and began to write quickly in that secret cipher I was slowly mastering.
‘Three of Gaveston’s Aquilae,’ I spoke my thoughts aloud, ‘have been mysteriously murdered. All three fell from a great height, a macabre, ironic death. Was it a play on their title, the humiliation of soaring eagles? We know it was murder because of that taunting verse: Aquilae of Gaveston, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been both bought and sold. However, God only knows why Lanercost went into that lonely bell tower. How was he overcome and hurled from such a great height? He took off his war-belt, leaving it for Brother Eusebius later to steal, so he must have met someone he trusted, but who?’