Pembroke was waiting for us. He had promised that Gaveston be treated with all honour and grace, and this was observed. Our ride through Scarborough town was a triumphant procession, with people shouting and cheering from windows decorated with coloured cloths, whilst green boughs were strewn on the path before us. Maidens of the town had gone out and collected the petals of wild flowers to shower Gaveston. Priests from the churches processed out with cross, incense and holy water to bless and approve our passing. This time the town gibbet was bare and the stocks empty. The leading citizens presented Gaveston with a small gift, then we crossed that stretch of wasteland into the earls’ camp. Hereford and Warwick were conspicuous by their absence, but Pembroke remained gracious, dressed in all his finery, silver chains around his neck, rings glittering on his fingers. He and Gaveston exchanged the Osculum pacis, the kiss of peace.
Oh, there was junketing and celebrating, mummery and music. The camp echoed with toasts and acclamations as well as the sound of rebec, viol and harp. Standards, pennants and coloured buntings floated in the breeze. Pembroke and Gaveston dined publicly at a trestle table set on a richly draped dais in full view of the camp. Servitors brought in freshly cooked dishes of venison, pork, beef and lamprey as well as jugs of the finest wine. Once the banquet was over, Pembroke and Gaveston again exchanged the kiss of peace, and the royal favourite loudly declared that he would go to Wallingford and reside there in peace until the will of the Community of the Realm be known. Pembroke in his turn proclaimed that he had taken a sacred oath: Lord Gaveston was directly under his protection and he would answer for him.
Afterwards, in the privacy of Pembroke’s tent, Gaveston demanded, at my urging, that Pembroke leave for Wallingford with a very strong escort, whilst no one should be informed of our route south. Pembroke agreed, but insisted that his brother earls would respect his oath and that no harm would befall anyone.
Chapter 9
The said Earl should keep Gaveston unharmed.
The following morning we left the coast, journeying to the ancient Roman road that stretched south. A pleasant progress. The sun was strong, the roads dry. The fields on either side were rich in their greenery. By now it was the first week of June and the full bloom of summer was making itself felt. We left Scarborough on the sixth of June, the Feast of St Norbert. One of Pembroke’s household priests chanted a psalm from the mass of that day, about Christ being our shepherd who would guide us safely through all perils and hazards. Perhaps we should have prayed more fervently. At first my suspicions were calmed somewhat. Pembroke was honest. He had taken the most solemn oath, and if he broke it, he would be condemned by both Church and Crown. Nevertheless, I felt everything was running too smoothly, too quickly. It was like walking across those water meadows outside Poitiers. Everything was green, soft and fertile, yet you had to watch your step. Take a wrong turn and you could find the green fields were a treacherous morass to suck you down and keep you trapped. Gaveston, now bereft of his Aquilae or any henchmen to advise him, was truly relaxed, believing he had secured a peace. I listened in horror as his relief gave way to boasting about what would happen when he was reunited with the king. Pembroke wisely ignored this. I wanted to send urgent messages to the queen, but Pembroke insisted no one could leave the column of march. I drew some comfort from the long lines of hobelars, men-at-arms and bowmen who accompanied us. Neither the constable nor Ap Ythel had been allowed to provide any escort. The Welsh captain of the royal archers had quietly assured me that once Gaveston had gone, he and his men would ride swiftly to the king. Ap Ythel was also deeply suspicious at the ease with which everything had been agreed.
‘Faux et semblant,’ he murmured. He clasped my hand, then embraced me close. ‘For the love of God and His beautiful Mother,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘take care! Remember this. Do not let Pembroke become separated from you.’ He kissed me firmly on the cheeks and stood back, one hand raised. ‘Remember,’ he repeated.
I did. I also recalled Isabella’s words about assassins first withdrawing the guard before they struck their victim. Nevertheless, our journey out of Scarborough was happy, the atmosphere serene, as if we were a host of pilgrims journeying south to kiss the Lady stone at Walsingham or pray before the blessed bones of Becket in their gold and silver house at Canterbury. We met other travellers: moon people, gipsies in their gaily coloured wagons, merchants on horse-back trotting south to do business in the wool towns. Tinkers, pedlars and traders with their sumpter ponies, baskets and panniers all crammed with trinkets and every item for sale under the sun, be it a horn or a pewter jug. Pilgrims of every variety thronged the road, lifelong wanderers in stained leather and linen jerkins, their hats boasting medals from shrines as far afield as St James of Compostela or the tomb of the Magi in Cologne. Relic sellers swarmed like fleas, badgering us with everything from the head of St Britaeus — God knows who he was — to a sandal-latch of the Blessed Virgin. A group of roisterers from a nearby village tried to tempt us to pause and watch them sing and dance to the raucous noise of bagpipes. Pembroke laughingly waved them aside. For the rest we journeyed on. I was just pleased to be free of the castle: the hurtling fire, the deadly whine of bow and arbalest, the screech of crashing boulders and pots of burning tar. The smell of hawthorn from the hedgerows, the fragrance of fields and meadows baking under a fierce sun and the call of labourers tending the soil whilst watching the harvest sprout were all blessed relief. The towers of village churches rose like welcome beacons against the blue sky. The noisy bustle of the hamlets we passed through was soothing to the soul.
Demontaigu, God bless him, remained suspicious. Late in the afternoon of the second day, as we approached the priory where we were to stay the night, he very skillfully left the column of march, claiming there was something wrong with his horse. Pembroke trusted him and raised no protest. An hour later Demontaigu rejoined us just before we entered the priory gates. He looked concerned: he had travelled back and met a group of pilgrims, dusty-faced, with worn clothes and battered boots; and yet, for men dedicated to praying before the shrine of St Osyth, they were extremely well armed. When Dunheved heard this, he just shrugged.
‘What can we do?’ he murmured. ‘What can we do?’
I always believe God needs a helping hand. He depends on our wit and intelligence, and I was resolutely determined on resolving the mysteries surrounding us. Once in the priory I was given a small chamber close to the cloister, neat and tidy, with a window looking out on to the garden. A peaceful place. I relished it. I wanted to be alone, even from Demontaigu, just to collect my thoughts and reflect carefully on what I’d seen and heard. I took out my lists and scribblings from their panniers, but I could make little sense of them. Eventually I decided to concentrate on the two last deaths: that of Middleton in the church and Rosselin in his chamber. I drew a careful diagram of that beautiful lady chapel. Who had entered? What had happened? I did the same for Rosselin’s chamber. I recalled my good uncle’s advice about studying the symptoms of a disease.
‘What begins with an ache can end as a pain,’ he would advise. ‘You must not hasten, but watch the final symptoms lest you make a mistake.’
Deep in my heart, now that all the Aquilae were dead, I believed there would be no more murders. I could make no sense of Lanercost, Leygrave or Kennington, but Middleton and Rosselin’s deaths were different. They had both been killed in a locked chamber. The doors had been bolted. No one could have come through a window or some secret passageway. Those were final symptoms. But that’s impossible, I reflected. Only an angel of light, or one from the valleys of hell, could pass through oaken wood or stone-fast walls. So, I reflected, the assassin must have left through the door, but how? I also recalled another piece of advice: to go back to the very beginning, to search for the prime cause. I scribbled the word ‘Templar’ on a piece of vellum and stared hard at it until I realised my mistake. Was the origin of these mysteries the massacre at Devil’s Hollow? Yet those Templars had just come from Scotland, and so had Geoffrey Lanercost. Were the two connected? I brooded on this. My eyes grew heavy. I fell asleep at the table and woke in the early hours as the bell chimed for Matins.