This contrast in mood weighed heavily on me when we returned to the Franciscan priory with its hallowed, peaceful cloisters all fresh with the herbal potion the good brothers used to scrub the grey flagstones. I made enquiries of Boudon the steward, to be arrogantly informed that the queen was closeted with the king and his councillors, in other words Gaveston. After further enquiries I discovered that Geoffrey Lanercost and the other Aquilae Petri were gathered in the prior’s rose garden to celebrate Lanercost’s recent return from Scotland. A lay brother led us to that serene, lovely place with its flower beds and lawns, neatly tended herb plots, garlanded arbours and shady walks. In the centre was a circle of white pavestone with cushioned benches and quilted turf seats. Close by, a fountain carved in the shape of a Jesse tree, its water gushing into a grey-stone bowl, where small golden carp darted amongst the fresh leaves. All five Aquilae were seated there, talking and laughing with Brother Stephen Dunheved, who sat plucking at a viol. The Dominican was skilfully mimicking and ridiculing the professional gleemen, who could pull their faces into a smile or a grimace depending on what song they were singing. Dunheved was most skilled in that. Others were there too. Oh yes, in those early months of 1312, I came to know more closely that unholy trinity, those imps of Satan, falseness incarnate, the Beaumonts! Henry, his brother Louis and their sister Isabella, known more popularly as Lady Vesci after her marriage, of sorts, to some hapless nobleman. The Beaumonts were the spoilt children of Europe, with the royal blood of England, France, Spain and Sicily in their veins. Rumour whispered that they also had Satan’s blood. They could be charming, courteous, chivalrous and brave — when they wanted. They were cats who would lick your face but scratch your back. They’d ransack hell for a gold piece and skin a nag for a farthing.
On that particular day, the Beaumont coven sat close together in the rose garden. Henry wore a green tunic sporting golden fleur-de-lis over a snow-white cambric shirt, its neck, cuffs and waistband of cloth of gold; black hose cased his muscular legs and Castilian boots, still spurred, his feet. Lady Vesci was dressed in a gown proclaiming the same heraldic device with silver edging, a cloak of deep murrey around her shoulders, her hair bound up in a white wimple under a light blue veil. She dressed like a nun but had the heart of a courtesan. Louis, the churchman, was slightly fatter, garbed in the black gown of an Augustinian canon, though the fabric was of the purest wool and his shoes were of soft leather, whilst the silver cord around his plump waist boasted golden love-knots. The three all looked the same: flaring red hair and white skin, their freckled faces full of impudence, slightly slanted light green eyes that made you think they were quietly laughing at you; they usually were! The Aquilae Petri lounged on either side of them, half dressed in shirts, tunics and multicoloured hose. Jerkins and cloaks, war-belts and boots lay about. Gaveston’s fighting boys, relaxing in the late afternoon sun after they’d eaten and drunk deeply. Jugs, goblets and platters were stacked on the ground. Two of Gaveston’s greyhounds nosed amongst the remnants of roast quail, slices of cooked ham and half-ripe fruit. Somewhere behind a trellis fence a peacock shrieked, whilst the first swallows of the year darted above the gurgling fountain. Dunheved smiled as we came through the wicket gate and continued with his song of nonsense.
‘When salmon hunt in the wood
And herring fly and blow the horn. .’
The lines were greeted with laughter. Dunheved was about to continue when, sharp-eyed as a hawk, he sensed our grimness.
‘Like ghosts at the feast,’ he murmured. ‘Why, Mistress Mathilde, Master Bertrand, what is it? News about Lancaster?’
Henry Beaumont leapt to his feet, head slightly tilted back. ‘Is that whoreson on the march?’ He glanced at his sister and brother; the family were the king’s body and soul. Thomas of Lancaster wanted them exiled because they exercised ‘a perfidious and malignant influence over the king, providing evil council on affairs of the Crown’. In truth, they simply revelled in basking in the royal sun and snatching whatever trifles came their way.
‘Lancaster is not on the march,’ Demontaigu replied wearily. ‘Not yet. We look for Geoffrey Lanercost. I have news about his kinsman John.’
‘I am Lanercost.’ One of the Aquilae rose lazily to his feet. He was dark-haired, thickset, with a slightly hooked nose in a full, wine-flushed face. Shadows ringed deep-set eyes and sweat glistened above the points of his loosened shirt. A man who had travelled far and fast, then drunk deep to refresh himself. I studied him. I recalled the horror-struck face of one of those dead Templars and saw a close likeness.
‘Well, sir.’ Lanercost lifted his hands. ‘You have news about my brother?’
‘Perhaps in private, sir?’
‘Here is private.’ Lanercost’s reply provoked laughter. ‘My friends are private. What news?’
‘Your brother John.’ I spoke up, wishing to end this nonsense. ‘Your brother John,’ I repeated, ‘God have mercy, is dead.’
All the arrogance and hauteur disappeared. Lanercost’s face sagged. Such a stricken look, it cut me to the heart. One of the others, I think it was fair-haired Rosselin, sprang to his feet as Lanercost, hand to his head, swayed slightly.
‘No, no,’ Lanercost whispered, ‘no, no.’ He gestured at us. ‘You’d best come away.’
We left the glories of the rose garden for a grey-stone porch in the prior’s cloisters. Demontaigu tried to be gentle, but murder is murder. Violent death shatters everything. Lanercost heard him out, head in hands; when he glanced up, his face was soaked with tears.
‘You’re a Templar, Demontaigu, aren’t you?’ He forced a laugh. ‘Your secret is not really a secret, but who cares? Many in court have kin in that order. Poor John.’ His voice grew stronger as anger curdled his grief. ‘Alexander of Lisbon,’ he breathed, ‘and his Noctales. I’ll provoke the blood feud. I’ll see them all hang.’
‘Hush now.’ Demontaigu drew closer. ‘Leave Lisbon to the Templars. He is tainted and marked for the sword. More importantly, your brother was of these parts, a citizen of York, yes?’
Lanercost nodded.
‘He was guide for the others,’ Demontaigu continued. ‘Ausel, one of my comrades, told me that. Your brother knew Devil’s Hollow; did he tell you what he was doing?’
Lanercost bit his lip, his mind swirling like a lurcher. A look of anguish as memories came flooding back. He realised the implication of what Demontaigu was saying. He should have told us the truth, but of course he felt deeply ashamed, guilty.
‘He told,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, he told me.’
‘And did you tell anyone else?’
‘No, no.’ Lanercost sprang to his feet, all agitated. ‘I. . I. .’ he stammered, ‘I may have told someone, one of the others. I cannot. .’ He made to walk away. I caught his arm; he did not resist. He just stared in rank despair at me.