‘God knows, Mathilde,’ he declared, ‘perhaps the king is secretly relieved that Gaveston is gone.’
Demontaigu then referred to other matters I’d asked him to investigate on his return to York. What he told me simply confirmed my own suspicions. He had visited the friary library and, much to the prior’s surprise, had taken the ‘man of straw’, as he put it, dressed in clothes, up to that lonely haunted belfry. He laughingly described what had then ensued, and as if in gentle mockery of his words, the great bells began to toll the call to Vespers. Demontaigu waited until they’d stopped.
‘You know the truth, Mathilde. Will you not tell me?’
‘Soon.’ I gently touched him on the cheek. ‘Soon I will, when these things done in the dark have been brought to light. Eventually they will, but in the meantime, Bertrand, for your sake and that of my mistress, it is best if silence is observed. Gaveston’s death has achieved little except to define where everyone stands. The pieces have moved on the chess board and they’ll move again. A period of calm will ensue,’ I murmured, ‘until the furies gather once more. In the meantime, I follow my mistress’ advice: video atque taceo — I watch and stay silent.’
Bertrand teased me for a while. He made me repeat the macabre details about Blacklow Hill. Perhaps he wanted to exorcise my soul as well as learn more about Gaveston and about the massacre of his Templar brethren out at Devil’s Hollow.
‘But that is not the root of this evil, is it, Mathilde?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘The malicious, murderous mischief plotted in Scotland is the cause of a great deal of what has happened since. The Beaumonts, God save them, were a mere irritation. They rightly suspected villainy was being planned but they thought it concerned their estates, that Edward was in some secret pact with Bruce to surrender all claims in Scotland. They were wrong. Gaveston was plotting greater villainy.’
‘And now you know the truth?’
‘Oh yes.’ I let go of his hands. ‘I wanted you back here and you have done what I asked.’ I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Trust me. I was no fair damsel in peril by land and sea. God knows, Warwick and the rest were courteous enough. They were just hawks who selected their quarry, Gaveston. They have made their kill. They are satisfied, at least for the moment. Our king is fickle. He will wait and watch, grieve and shout. He will hide his secret feelings because he will never let Gaveston’s death rest. Eventually he will remember me and summon me to account, but I shall simply tell him what he wants to hear. Now, Bertrand, is the time of danger. I must, in some secret form, allow the truth to emerge, and you must leave. I have sent urgent messages to her grace to meet me — God knows when she will reply.’
In the end, Isabella, as I suspected, replied swiftly. Bertrand and I had kissed and parted. The good brothers were gathering in their incense-filled choir stalls when Isabella, with little ceremony or advance warning, accompanied only by her few trusted squires, slipped into the friary. She looked radiant, dressed in dark blue with a silver cord around her bulging stomach, a jewelled cross on a silver chain about her neck, her face almost hidden by a thick gauze veil. We met, kissed and exchanged the courtesies in the prior’s parlour. Beside the queen stood Dunheved, his olive face a serene mask of contentment. He knew what had happened to Gaveston’s corpse and openly praised my diligence as a great act of mercy. I just stared coldly back. Isabella caught my glance but chattered on merrily as if I had just been on a courtesy visit or shopping for her in the nearby market. Only when we three were alone in that rose garden, with the light beginning to fade, the perfume from the flowers thickening the air, did she drop all pretence. Her Fideles, as she called her household squires, those same young men who had resolutely defended her at Tynemouth, sealed all entrances to the garden. Isabella sat on a turf seat so her back could rest against the flower-covered trellis; she lovingly rubbed her stomach, caressing the child within.
‘Gaveston is dead,’ she declared. ‘God give him true rest, but God be thanked.’ There, in that short phrase, Isabella confessed the truth. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at me, then gently patted Dunheved, who sat silently beside her.
‘Mathilde, ma cherie, my friend, you said in your note that you wished to have urgent words with me and Brother Stephen.’
‘My daughter,’ the Dominican smiled, ‘you have much to say?’
I stared hard at that sanctimonious killer.
‘Much to say,’ I whispered, ‘much to judge and much to condemn! Your grace,’ I turned to the queen, who was still leaning back, her thick veil pulled away from her face so she could see me clearly. Never had she looked so glorious. Regina Vivat! Regina Vincit! Regina Imperat! — The Queen Lives! The Queen Conquers! The Queen Rules!’ Isabella had come into her own.
‘Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘I wait.’
‘When you came to England, your grace,’ I began, ‘you were a child, thirteen summers old but with a heart skilled in politic and subterfuge.’
Isabella laughed girlishly, covering her mouth with her bejewelled fingers, the silver froth of her cuff snow white against her golden skin.
‘Your husband entertained a deep passion for his favourite. God only knows the truth about their relationship, but you, your grace, did not object. You bent before the storm lest you break, and so you waited. One crisis followed another. Your husband the king was baited and harassed, and so were you, yet you remained faithful, loyal and serene. Earlier this year, four years on from your marriage, you became pregnant, the bearer of an heir. The possibility that you could produce the only living grandson of both Edward I and Philip of France became a reality. Your husband was delighted. Through you, he had silenced all the taunts and jibes of those who mocked his manhood. He was a prince who had begotten an heir on his loving wife. The dynasty would continue. Gaveston, however, had always viewed you as a threat. Even more so now. What did the king call Gaveston? Brother, but also son. You were about to change that.’
Isabella wafted her face with her hand. ‘Continue,’ she demanded softly.
‘By the spring of this year, Gaveston had emerged as a real threat to the Crown. Because of him, from the very first day of his succession, Edward had known no peace. Did the king, your husband, despite all his love for Gaveston, come to regard his favourite as increasingly irksome, especially when his love for you deepened and you became pregnant? Did Gaveston turn on the king, reminding him of those secret, malicious rumours about Edward being a changeling, the son of a peasant?’
‘Nonsense,’ Dunheved intervened. ‘Such stories do no harm to the king. Gaveston would not dare-’
‘Nonsense, Brother,’ Isabella mockingly echoed. ‘I must correct you. At this moment in time, such stories would do great damage to his grace. Gaveston would have done anything to save himself, to protect his position with the king. Four people knew the true Gaveston: the king, and we three. Mathilde, do continue.’
‘Gaveston grew desperate. He had isolated the king. No help came from the earls, France or the papacy. Only the Beaumonts, for their own selfish reasons, planted their standards close to Gaveston’s camp, but they could not be trusted. In the end, Gaveston was captured because he was defenceless. He was imprisoned and executed because he lacked any guard. More importantly, during the last months of his life he was reduced to treating with the likes of Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales. Gaveston was desperate for troops. Lisbon could be useful, whilst it would also be a sop to both your father and the pope. In return the Portuguese would help — as long as there was no real threat. At Tynemouth that changed. The castle came under threat from both within and without. Lisbon left to meet his fate, but by then, the real damage had been done. Gaveston had given Lisbon secret information about a troop of Templars coming out of Scotland to York: specifically the day they would reach Devil’s Hollow. Lisbon set his trap. He massacred those Templars then plotted to murder those who went out to meet them.’