During the journey the following day, I grew more relaxed. I sat easy on the gently palfrey provided and returned to those two mysterious murders in the lady chapel and that haunting chamber of Scarborough keep.
‘Forgive me, God,’ I whispered as I realised my error, yet what could I do? The siege and the fall of Gaveston had run a deep furrow through my soul, dulling my perceptions. Now, fresh and away from the horrors of the siege, I could concentrate more logically. I closed my eyes against the summer sun as if I was dozing. I recreated that small chapeclass="underline" people milling about, the door of the sacristy with its sturdy key, the one to the church door lying on the floor. I recalled the details of Rosselin’s chamber: his cloak lying on the floor, the trail of blood virtually from that to the windowsill. Suspicions spark their own fire. I returned to my first real mistake. Lanercost! He had come from Scotland, and his mysterious secret journey had preceded the massacre in which his brother had died. Then there was Demontaigu’s question: why hadn’t the assassin struck directly at Gaveston? Why had the murders continued when, to all intents and purposes, Gaveston was finished? Were those last two killings necessary? After all, Rosselin was nothing but a man of straw. What profit could be gained from his death unless there were other reasons: revenge, punishment, but for what?
The suspicions I had provoked began to hint at other possibilities. I reached a conclusion. The way ahead was like the corpse road to some sinister church: dark and full of menace, yet eventually it would lead me to my destination. Realisation of my mistakes provoked further anxiety and blighted my merry mood. I began to study my companions differently. I also sensed that the pleasant, summer-filled journey south was turning sour. Dunheved had fallen very quiet. Demontaigu was openly suspicious. The Beaumonts and their hangers-on, who’d kept to themselves during the entire cavalcade, began to object to the journey as well as to the increasing number of landless men, wanderers haunting the copses and thickets with their pikes and clubs, who now hung on the edge or rear of our column like hunting dogs waiting for a weakness. Any progress by Great Lords attracts those looking for quick and easy pickings. Nevertheless, the Beaumonts were correct in their concerns, and I wondered if these hangers-on, like the pilgrims still trailing us, had some secret, nefarious purpose.
Pembroke simply dismissed our concerns, but the Beaumonts, those basilisks in human flesh, demanded to know where we were really going and how long it would take. In truth, they realised that they had made a mistake. In their eyes Gaveston was a prisoner and the future looked uncertain, so it was time for them to be gone. Sharp words were exchanged on the highway. The Beaumonts claimed they had been too long absent from their estates as well as the court. Eventually their protests brought the entire cavalcade to a halt. Henry Beaumont confronted Pembroke. Had not the earl himself, on solemn oath, promised that all within Scarborough were safe in life and limb — at liberty to go where they wished? Pembroke could only agree with this. He had no choice. The Beaumonts collected their retainers tightly around them and Henry insisted that they be allowed to withdraw immediately. They observed the courtesies: exchanged the kiss of peace with Gaveston, thanked Pembroke for his hospitality, tipped their heads towards me and Demontaigu and turned away, declaring roundly that they would go back to the crossroads and make their way to Lincoln. During the exchange, Pembroke declared that he would rest the night at Deddington in Oxfordshire, that Lady Pembroke was residing only twelve miles distant at Bampton, and perhaps they would like to go there? The Beaumonts would have none of it. They withdrew their escort, made their final salutations and rode off in a cloud of dust.
We continued on our way, slightly subdued. We rested for a while at two taverns, and just before the sunset rode into Deddington, a sleepy hamlet, no more than a long line of cottages with their vegetable gardens, dovecotes, beehives and pig pens stretched out along the main thoroughfare. Just before the crossroads stood a spacious tavern boasting the title of the Pilgrims’ Final Rest. We passed this, watched by the cottars and their families, and made our way up the slight hill to the parish church of St Oswald, an ancient edifice built of dark grey ragstone with a black-tiled roof and a lofty bell tower that brooded over the great cemetery surrounding the church. A little further on was the rectory, a pleasant two-storey building with a red-slated roof, its smartly painted front door approached by a flight of steps. Both the rectory and its boundary wall, which circled a cobbled yard at the front and gardens at the side and rear, were of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, which gleamed gold in the dying rays of the sun. Pembroke’s outriders had galloped ahead to warn the rector that Pembroke, who held the advowson to the church, intended to reside there. The stern-faced priest, his robes marked with candle grease, was waiting to welcome his patron. Of course the rectory was too small for everyone. Pembroke dispatched some of his retinue back to the Pilgrims’ Final Rest; others camped in the churchyard and a few in the small pavilions of the rectory garden.
I was given an evil-smelling garret just beneath the eaves. Once I’d satisfied my hunger on the meagre platters the rector had laid out in the buttery, I decided to wander the garden to study its various herbs and plants. In fact, I wanted to be alone, well away from the rest, so that I could concentrate on unravelling the mysteries. Moreover, it was a beautiful evening and the rectory garden was rich in trees, apple, pear and black mulberry, which lay at the back approached through gorgeous chequerboard beds of beautiful flowers: primrose, colombi, purple iris and the like. I was immersed in studying these when chaos returned, slipping in like a thief in the night.
Truly scripture says, ‘We know not the day nor the hour.’ A rider claiming he’d been sent by the chamberlain of Pembroke’s manor at Bampton came thundering into the yard, yelling that he had the most urgent news for the earl. Pembroke hurried down. The messenger, breathless after his ride, clutched his saddle horn and gasped out how the lady Pembroke had fallen grievously ill and was asking for him. Pembroke, God forgive him, was besotted with his wife. He never stayed to question, but immediately ordered his household squires to saddle their horses, sending one of them into the village to collect those who’d had been quartered at the tavern. Gaveston came down, offering to accompany the earl. Pembroke refused, claiming that his senior household knight, Sir William Ferrers, would be in charge.
Ferrers, God bless him, did not have the wit to realise what was happening. Jovial and trusting, he assured us that there would be nothing to fear and that we would soon be about our own business. Demontaigu, however, thought otherwise. He firmly believed that mischief was planned. He insisted the rectory gates be locked, and all doors bolted and sealed, but it was to no avail. Pembroke left, taking the greater part of his retinue; those left in the rectory were a mere handful, with a few camped in nearby fields. Sure enough, just before dawn we were aroused from our beds by the clatter of arms. I hastily dressed, went downstairs and peered through a casement window. The yard in front of the house thronged with men all wearing Warwick’s livery. Demontaigu clattered down, saying there were more in the street outside. Gaveston, dressed in his nightgown, a robe about his shoulders, joined us in the small rectory hall, demanding something to eat and drink. The rector brought this even as the noise outside grew.