‘As I said, to create unease.’ I recalled Isabella’s words about the assassin removing the guards first. ‘Perhaps his time has yet to come.’
‘Or could the assassin be Gaveston himself?’ Dunheved whispered.
‘Why?’
‘God knows.’ The Dominican’s harsh, smooth face broke into a smile; try as he might, Dunheved found it difficult to hide his dislike of the royal favourite.
‘Subtle but cunning,’ I declared. ‘What I said to Gaveston was true: he hastens here and he hastens there. A death occurs here, a death occurs there. Do we ever stay long enough to scrutinise the ground, to search for the symptoms? No, and it is true here. We have discovered nothing except that Middleton was terrified of sudden death, which unfortunately for him did close like a trap about him. .’
There was little more to add. We left the chamber and went our different ways. I was still disturbed by Demontaigu’s question. Why had the Aquilae been killed but Gaveston, so far, had not even suffered a scratch? Could he be the killer? But why? I returned to the chapel and stepped through the broken doorway. I examined the key and walked around the walls into the sanctuary and sacristy — nothing. I left the chapel and went up on to the battlements and stared longingly out. A heat haze now hung over the small town below and misted the far horizon. A breeze cooled the sweat on my face. Trumpets called, shouts and cries echoed up from the baileys. I leaned against the crenellations and wondered how this would end. Scarborough was a trap. Would we escape?
Later that same day Gaveston called one of his chamber councils: myself, Dunheved, Rosselin and the Beaumonts. The latter appeared in all their splendour, full of questions about Middleton’s death and when the king would arrive. The more I watched and listened, the more I grew aware of why the Beaumonts had planted their standards so firmly alongside Gaveston’s. They were fortune-hunters, gamblers. If Gaveston survived, he would be in their debt. If he went down, the king would remember their loyalty and perhaps they could fill Gaveston’s place at court as well as in the king’s heart. Just as importantly, they remained close to the king’s chamber, where they could spy and eavesdrop on the royal council as well as keep a vigilant eye on their estates in Scotland. Nevertheless, the Beaumonts had finally realised which way the wind was blowing and had reached a conclusion. Gaveston was in dire peril and it was time for them be gone, at least for a while. Henry loudly questioned why they had to shelter here. What troops would the king bring? Such hot words made little impression. Gaveston slouched in his chair, a broken man, waving his hand, airily talking about the king sweeping up with masses of royal levies. He’d certainly drunk deep and loudly mourned Middleton and the deaths of the other Aquilae, who had been so cruelly brought low. He yelled questions at me, then rose and walked down to Rosselin. He clapped his henchman on the shoulder, promising that one of Ap Ythel’s archers would guard him day and night. In that dusty chamber, with the sun pouring through the lancet windows against the crumbling plaster and the faded colours of the battered shields fastened on the walls, the glass darkened even further. Gaveston returned to his chair, gabbling on about the past glories of his beloved Aquilae, then he dismissed us with a wave of his hand.
Later that day news arrived. Royal couriers, sweat-soaked and grey with dust, thundered through the gatehouse, swinging themselves out of the saddle, hands clutching the pouches of letters they brought. We waited a while; no mention was made of the king arriving, but the great earls were certainly on the march. Edward sheltered at York. The queen, much to my surprise, had separated herself from the king and was residing at the royal manor of Burstwick on the Humber peninsula. More curious still, a powerful French squadron of war-cogs had appeared, cruising off the mouth of the Humber, though with banners and pennants lowered in a sign of peace. The sorrows were gathering. Seeds were sown of a harvest that would come to crop year in and year out for decades to come, each with its own noxious fruit.
Our sense of foreboding deepened. Middleton’s death, despite Gaveston’s strictures, was whispered about as something ghastly, deeply malevolent, as if Satan, the provost of hell, had pitched camp in that grim fortress. Even during the day, when the sun shone in an angelic blue sky, our mood was always tinged by the fear of night and the descent into darkness. Once the daylight faded, strange sounds were heard throughout the castle. A sepulchral voice bellowed down hollow, vaulted passageways. Lights and fires were glimpsed where they should not have been. Strange groans and cries echoed along the empty stone corridors. One story fed upon another. A bat became a winged demon. A night bird’s shriek the chant of a stricken soul; perhaps Middleton’s, still earth-bound by his heavy chains of sin. Gaveston kept more and more to himself. Rosselin was rarely seen, and when he was, he was deep in his cups, his chamber constantly guarded by one of Ap Ythel’s archers. On the few occasions I visited the Aquila, he would first pull back the grille high on the door and glare out at me. He would allow me in but could not help me with my questions. He was a broken man hiding in a filthy chamber.
Some days after Middleton’s death, early in the morning, around Matins hour, we were all aroused by the clanging of the tocsin. I rose and peered through the window. A beacon fire had been lit along the battlements. Outside rose the call to arms. I dressed and hurried out, cloak about me, boots pulled over my bare feet. The warning bell high on its scaffold somewhere in the inner bailey had fallen silent, but men were still hurriedly strapping on harness and war-belt. Servants running beside them held torches; all were scrambling up the steep, dangerous steps to the castle walls. The clash of the portcullis, the winch of catapults being prepared cut through the cold night air, drowning the cries and shouts, the raucous barking of dogs and the frightened neighing of horses in the stables.
Demontaigu and I joined the others high on the windswept battlements. Guards were pointing out. Ap Ythel’s archers were stringing their bows. Captains of the parapet shouted instructions. The night breeze carried the iron tang of water and oil being boiled on hastily prepared fires beneath. Ap Ythel, cursing loudly, roared at the others climbing the steps to stay below, to douse the fires and wait for his orders. Constable Warde came hurrying up. He and Ap Ythel conferred in hushed whispers. They leaned against the parapet wall, staring into the darkness, trying to establish what dangers threatened.
‘Can you see anything?’ Ap Ythel called. ‘Anything at all?’
We peered out across the darkened town lit by pricks of light. The constable quietly cursed and shouted an order to his troops below. A postern door was loosened to the clatter of chains and the drawing of bolts.
‘They are sending out scouts,’ Demontaigu whispered.
The line of men along the parapet relaxed. Dunheved shouted my name from the bailey below but I could not catch his words. Gaveston, swathed in a cloak, came clumsily up the steps clutching a goblet of wine, loudly demanding to know what was wrong. The constable whispered furiously to him. Gaveston toasted the darkness with his cup and staggered back down. I followed. Dunheved came out of the darkness and clutched my arm.
‘What is wrong, Mathilde? Beacon fires burning, tocsins sounding? I was trying to find out. .’
‘You know much as we do, Brother.’ I gazed across the bailey; the wind was whipping the torch flames to a furious dance.
Accompanied by Dunheved, I asked a guard to take me into the inner bailey to show me the high wooden scaffold from which the great tocsin bells were hung. The man pulled a face but agreed. Once there, I climbed the steps on to the wooden dais. The rope for the bells still hung loose. I stared up and made out the yawning rims glinting in the light from my companion’s torch. I had seen or heard nothing from the castle walls. I suspected the alarm was some madcap hoax, a suspicion the returning scouts confirmed. No force, friendly or hostile, had entered the town.