Paul Doherty - The Darkening Glass

‘Bertrand, what is it?’

He let go of my hand and stared at a point beyond me. I suppressed the shiver that prickled my spine and shoulders.

‘You asked whether any of my brethren could be involved in these mysterious deaths.’ He rubbed his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I said we were not, but I speak for the brethren, not for any individual. There could be one, mingling in disguise amongst the good friars.’

‘Ausel!’ I exclaimed. ‘But you said he’d gone into Scotland?’

‘I was sworn to secrecy, Mathilde.’ Demontaigu held my gaze, then sighed. ‘But you are also my secret. Ausel defied the master’s instructions. He said he would not leave England until he was avenged on Lisbon for that massacre. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, life for life; you know Ausel. .’ He squeezed my hand. ‘You saw him out on the heathland. He will not rest, not until he’s had blood.’ He walked to the ladder and stared down. ‘Ausel believes that Lanercost told Gaveston about the meeting at Devil’s Hollow, and that Gaveston, for God knows what reason, told Alexander of Lisbon.’ He grasped the sides of the ladder. ‘Ausel could be responsible for these deaths.’

We reached the bottom of the tower. Demontaigu collected his war-belt and declared he would search out Ausel. I grasped him by the arm. ‘Bertrand, let us walk a while.’ We left the church. A chamberlain, all flustered, came hurrying over to announce that the council meeting was adjourned but that her grace the queen needed me. I thanked the chamberlain and waited till he left.

‘Mathilde?’

‘Bertrand.’ I took him over to stand in the shelter of a porch. ‘That message left on each of the corpses? It mocks Gaveston, it declares he is finished — bought and sold.’

‘And so he is.’ Demontaigu squinted up at the sky. ‘Oh, I’ve heard the rumours about possible help from the Bruce. Publicly Gaveston says he is negotiating with Edward’s allies in Scotland.’ He pulled a face. ‘What allies? Secretly he may, on behalf of the king, be pleading for help from Bruce, but none of that will be in writing — too dangerous.’

‘And?’

‘It shows how desperate Gaveston is. Mathilde, this mummer’s play will end, but how?’ He shrugged, kissed me full on the lips and left.

The rest of the day was taken up with my mistress, who was silent but forceful. She had written a number of letters that I did not see, though I had to supervise their dispatch to Hull and other ports. Isabella was intent on leaving, so the rest of that day and the following morning were taken up with preparations. Only after the Angelus bell was I free to return to the mysteries confronting me and what I should do next. I remembered Eusebius. I left messages for Demontaigu about where I was going and went back into the church. The bell tower was empty, so I crossed the nave and went up the transept towards the shrine to St Francis. Sounds echoed through that vaulted space. I passed altars and chantry chapels all ghostly in the dim light. Occasionally a host of burning candles would pick out a wall painting of angels ascending into heaven, or St Francis embracing a leper, a disgusting figure depicted in all the horror of flaking snow-white skin, red mouth and blood-rimmed eyes. Statues and carvings glared sightlessly down at me. I became a little flustered, even frightened.

I recalled Eusebius telling me that the entrance to the charnel house lay directly beneath a mural depicting Christ’s Harrowing of Hell. I found that: a scrawling but vigorous depiction of Le Bon Seigneur standing on the shores of hell, hands outstretched to the legion of souls awaiting resurrection. The entrance was easy enough to find: a trap door of oaken slats smoothed to run level with the flagstones. Two hooks, through which a wooden bolt was passed, kept the trap door locked to its frame. The bolt had been withdrawn and lay to one side. I lifted the door. A glow of light from a lantern horn on the bottom step greeted me. ‘Eusebius,’ I called. ‘Eusebius?’ I went down the steps. I reached the bottom, lifted the lantern and stared around that macabre hall. A long passageway stretched before me. On either side were shelves crammed with the dead, tightly packed together. Row after row of skulls, some shiny white, others yellowy-black with decay, and beneath these, bones stacked like bundles of fire sticks. ‘Eusebius?’ I called. The charnel house held a chill that bit the flesh. My voice rang loud, echoing off the heavy stone. A rat scurried across my path, screeching at this intrusion on its hunting run. I walked down, raising the lantern, passing alcoves and recesses full of darkness. I did not stop. I was drawn by the glint of metal at the end of the passageway. On either side, stack after stack of skulls gazed at me. I reached the end, lifted the lantern and stared. Brother Eusebius was propped against the wall, his skull smashed by the thick bone tossed on to his lap, his grotesque face masked by blood through which sightless eyes glared bleakly at me. I crouched beside him. One hand still gripped a sword, the other a war-belt. On a shelf to my right the bones had been cleared away; there were oil lamps, which had guttered out, as well as a baking tin heaped with scraps of ribbon, coins, small medals and crosses.

‘You poor, poor magpie.’ I crossed myself. Eusebius had apparently used this place as a hideaway for the little items he’d been given or found in the church, including the war-belts of the two Aquilae. I found the second one behind his back. This half-witted lay brother had apparently been surprised by his killer; he’d made some pathetic attempt to defend himself, all to no avail. He’d been trapped in this macabre place and his skull staved in. God knows the reason why. I murmured a prayer, then spun round, alarmed at a sound behind me. I grabbed the lantern and raised it high, my other hand searching for my dagger. My imaginings deceived me, then I saw a shape move. At first I thought it was hurtling towards me, but that was a trick of the light. In truth it was moving away. I shouted at it to stop, but the wraith-like figure sped into the gloom. I pursued it as fast as I could, lantern in one hand, dagger in the other. It was fruitless. There was a pounding on the steps, then the trap door was raised and came crashing closed. Sweat-soaked, I put the lantern down and hurried up, but the door had been bolted shut. I crouched on the steps and stared across at the mounds of bones. The dead did not frighten me. I was more concerned about Eusebius’ murder. I went back to search again, but found nothing new. I returned to the steps, listening for the brothers. A short while passed. I heard footsteps and called out. Demontaigu replied. He drew back the bolt and helped me out. As he did so, I glimpsed a piece of fabric with a green and gold button attached to it. The device embroidered on it was a silver-gold fleur-de-lis against a dark green background, the one so proudly worn by the Beaumonts. I put that into my wallet and went and crouched at the foot of a pillar. The lantern horn created a pool of light before me. Demontaigu joined me, full of questions. I told him what had happened and what I’d found.

‘Not now!’ I protested at his questions. ‘I see no sense in all of this.’ I clambered to my feet. ‘Ausel?’

‘Disappeared,’ Demontaigu replied. ‘Gone into hiding. Ausel is adept at disguise; he will show himself when he wants to.’ He pointed across at the trap door. ‘I don’t think he had anything to do with that.’

I made no answer. We left the church, and I immediately informed the prior about what I’d found. Then Demontaigu and I helped the brothers remove Eusebius to the corpse house. I also collected the war-belts of the two dead Aquilae and had them dispatched to Rosselin with a message that they’d been found in a shadowy nook in the church. Father Prior had the good sense to realise that Eusebius’ murder was connected to the deaths of Gaveston’s henchmen. He wisely informed his shocked community that poor Eusebius had been killed by some wandering intruder and left it at that.