Paul Doherty - The Darkening Glass

It was late in the day by the time I was free. The king and queen had left the friary for a banquet at the Guildhall. Demontaigu returned to his search for Ausel, whilst I adjourned to my own chamber close to the queen’s. I washed and changed and rested a while to calm my humours, then distilled some powders and potions. I remember beating egg white in preparation for a treatment for open sores and wounds, mixing musk and amber for heavy coughs, theriac and valerian for agitation and finally preparing hellebore for fumigation, a potion that was constantly in use. As I worked, memories floated through my mind. Gaveston’s fear. Edward’s agitation. Isabella white as a statue. Leygrave, his broken corpse sprawled like some animal carcass. Eusebius’ busy whispers and sly, knowing smile. The bootprints on that slab so clear for me to see. The gloomy charnel house where Eusebius’ cunning had been silenced for ever. That shadow flitting through the murk, and finally the scrap of cloth and the ornamental button displaying the coat of arms so beloved by the Beaumonts. A series of images with no logic to them.

Once I had finished distilling the herbs, I sat at my small writing desk and began to list everything I knew. I chose a large sheet of costly vellum, the type Isabella used for her letters, and wrote down what I’d seen, heard and reflected upon. The great Trotula maintains that the fundamental syllogism of medicine is that if the human body was perfect, all its senses would be keener. We would, for example, have the power of smell of a dog or the eyesight of a cat. The human body, however, is not perfect, so we can observe what is wrong in the symptoms of all its functions, be it the twenty-nine for the urine or the five signs of approaching death. Now, the detection of murder and the diagnosis of disease have a great deal in common. I decided it was time to list these symptoms and study them carefully.

Primo: The massacre at Devil’s Hollow was carried out by the Noctales, but who had told them that a party of Templars fresh out of Scotland would be there at that time? Was it Geoffrey Lanercost, who’d learnt it from his brother? Or someone else who knew the precise details? Yet who could that be?

Secundo: Lanercost himself. He took his war-belt off and went up into that bell tower. Why? Whom did he meet? If the person was his murderer, how could he, or possibly they, overcome a young, vigorous warrior and throw him to his death. And why there?

Tertio: Leygrave. Why did he go up to the same place where his comrade had been killed? Apparently he too felt safe enough to leave his war-belt behind. Again, a young warrior. If he’d stood on the edge, why? Was he forced? Did he jump, or was he pushed? Yet the fire boy from the bakery heard no scream; he simply saw Leygrave fall like a stone.

Quarto: Why the bell tower, that dirty, narrow chamber, those bells swinging out? I had been in danger there. So who had watched me go up? Was it out of mischief or malice that those bell ropes were pulled? Eusebius or the assassin?

Quinto: Eusebius. Why was he murdered? Someone followed him down into that charnel house and shattered his skull to silence his gossiping mouth for ever. Why? What did the lay brother know?

Sexto: The cryptic message to the Aquilae about Gaveston being bought and sold. The writer was warning Gaveston’s henchmen that their lord was finished. Was the assassin punishing the Aquilae, or was it part of a devious plot to destroy Gaveston and all his coven? If so, when would the assassin strike at Gaveston himself?

Septimo: The Beaumonts. That rent of cloth and the button pointed to their possible involvement in Eusebius’ death, but why? And what did Beaumont really discuss with Lanercost?

Octavo: Isabella and her stony-still attitude. What was she plotting?

Nono: Edward and Gaveston, trapped here in York with the earls closing in. What could they do? What would happen if both king and favourite were apprehended by the earls?

I reviewed what I’d written whilst from outside drifted the sounds of the friary as the brothers prepared for prayer and the onset of darkness. My own eyes grew heavy, my mind tired, my body begging for sleep. I rested easy that night; it was just as well. The following day, Edward and Gaveston began their own descent into hell. Scurriers, coated in mud, their horses dropping with exhaustion, galloped through the friary gatehouse. The news they brought was dire. The earls were much closer to York then the king had ever suspected. Lanercost and Leygrave’s deaths were swept aside by the thunderous roar of that hurling time. The court fell into a panic. Edward and Gaveston had no choice but to flee. Carts were hitched, sumpter ponies and pack animals trotted out. The great hunt had begun. The earls were determined to trap Gaveston and send him into eternal night. In their proclamations there was no tolerance, no mention of compromise. If Gaveston was taken, Gaveston would die. Hell opened its maw to spit out all forms of troubles. The weather turned changeable. Rain storms and lashing winds clogged the muddy roads. Gaveston and Edward were forced to move swiftly, leaving Isabella to follow slowly behind. A long trail of carts and horses moved across desolate moorlands in weather that had abruptly changed from the sweetness of spring to the icy memories of winter, with sleeting rains and biting winds. A harsh time. We were caught out in the open like tired, dispirited troops fleeing from a battlefield. We warmed ourselves before weak camp-fires, wore sodden clothes and groaned and itched at our saddle sores. We gobbled ill-cooked food and drank brackish water and wine more bitter than vinegar. We were like deer trapped in a hunting run. Isabella and the remains of her household desperately followed the king, whilst to the rear and flanks our pursuers crowded us like hungry hounds: the retinues of Lancaster, Hereford, Warwick and Pembroke, their banners and pennants displaying the various coats of arms. The hunting pack were in full flow. They did not close in but waited to see what would happen. Chaos descended.

Edward and Gaveston eventually decided to wait for the queen. A hasty council was convened in some wayside tavern. The die was cast. There, in a dirty tap room, its windows covered with filthy rags, rotting onions hanging from the blackened rafters, the tawdry settle stools and tables glistening with grease, a smoky fire shooting out foulsome fumes, the decision was made. Around the tavern were camped Ap Ythel and his comitatus loyal to the king; there was no one else. The great earls were winning the day; their outriders clashed with our scouts, whilst the sheriffs and great manor lords of Northumbria either did not receive the royal writs summoning troops or pretended they hadn’t. Worse news came hot on our heels. A powerful Scottish war band had crossed the northern march: mounted mailed men and a host on foot. Bruce was not only winning in Scotland but was ruthlessly determined to exploit Edward’s weaknesses. My mistress looked exhausted, and to be fair to Edward, he sensed that she could no longer continue. In the dim light of that tavern it was agreed. Edward and Gaveston would continue north. Isabella and her retinue, guarded by the Aquilae and their henchmen, would shelter at Tynemouth. Alexander of Lisbon was already there to bolster the garrison. All non-combatants, household retainers, priests and chaplains, including Dunheved, would accompany the queen.

We approached Tynemouth late the next morning. A long line of carts and horses moving along a narrow track-way up towards the great castle built round a Benedictine priory, which perched on a sheer headland overlooking the Tyne estuary and the sullen northern seas. Tynemouth! A great craggy, jutting monument of stone with its high curtain wall on the land side, the rest guarded by sheer cliffs. The western approach was heavily fortified, not only by the curtain wall but by a three-storey fortified gatehouse and barbican. A fearsome, brooding place of war, which dominated the surrounding countryside and kept a sharp eye on the coastal routes. Stark in its purpose, Tynemouth was no country manor or royal palace, but a place built for strife. The day we entered was bright and clear, yet even this could not dispel a sense of brooding menace. I glimpsed archers high on the crenellated walls, and the tops of mangonels and catapults alongside the royal standards and pennants flapping vigorously, their colours bright against the light morning sky. As we entered the castle, we passed one of those ancient crosses covered in mysterious symbols and carvings. A local anchorite, hearing of our approach, had come out to lecture us as we passed.