‘Pembroke,’ I whispered. ‘Winchelsea claimed that the Earl of Pembroke’s ancestors are buried in the Templar church.’
‘True,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘but not his direct family; rather that of William Marshal and his descendants, who first held the title of Pembroke.’
‘And when was New Temple Church seized?’
‘Last January.’
‘And Langton, when was he arrested?’
‘Earlier in the autumn.’
‘So your king died in July last, and Langton was his treasurer.’ I tried to curb my excitement, my thoughts pressing in. ‘Who was in charge of New Temple Church, its preceptor, its master?’
‘You know that, Mathilde! William de la More: he is now under house arrest at Canterbury.’
I bit my lip to hide my excitement at the first crack of light piercing the vaulting black mysteries around us. Demontaigu could see I was absorbed but I dared not speak, a skill my uncle taught me: to reflect, plan and never act hastily. I kissed Demontaigu absent-mindedly on the cheek and left his chamber pretending, as I often did, to be carrying a pannier of documents from one of the queen’s clerks. I went down across the yard. A cool, calm day was promised. The sun was strengthening, the sky freshening. I heard my name called. Robert the groom, dressed in dark fustian, a leather apron flapping about him, hurried out of an outhouse. He explained how he had been inspecting horses’ hooves. Drying his mud-strewn hands on his apron, he asked if he could speak to me. I nodded. He was sweaty-faced beneath his tousled hair. Breathlessly he thanked me for my help, gingerly feeling his neck.
‘I thought I’d hang, mistress.’
‘You were fortunate, Robert. You drew a dagger on a royal official in the king’s own palace; that’s treason.’
Robert cheerfully conceded his own stupidity but begged me to come into the outhouse as he had a present, a gift for me. Still distracted, I agreed. We walked into the warm, musty darkness, past the stalls into a small enclosure with its crude pieces of furniture. On an old barrel that served as a table, a battered lantern horn glowed. Robert drew his dagger and, inserting it between two wooden slats fixed to the wall, prised up the bar behind. He grinned over his shoulder at me.
‘I know how to do this.’ The small recess beyond, built into the stone wall, served as a secure coffer. Robert took something out and slammed back one of the slats then the other on which the wooden bar was fixed. I watched curiously as he used his dagger to pierce the gap to ensure the bar had fallen down on to its clasp. I recalled those window shutters at the Secret of Solomon. Robert, intent on his gift, opened his hand and offered me a carving of a horse, small but exquisitely rendered, lifelike in all its fine detail.
‘I did that myself.’ He waggled his shoulders in embarrassment. ‘I could be a carpenter, mistress.’
‘Its beautiful,’ I smiled, ‘thank you.’
‘A gift, mistress, it’s the best I could do.’
‘And Anstritha?’ I teased. ‘Is she sweeter towards you?’
Robert blushed.
‘There’s something else, mistress.’ He accompanied me out into the yard. ‘On the night Rebecca was murdered,’ he stammered, ‘I was looking for her. I crossed the Old Palace Yard near the door to the stairs where that clerk,’ he nervously cleared his throat, ‘the one you know. He has his lodgings in the corner?’
‘Demontaigu?’
‘Yes, and where that other clerk was found hanging from the window-door.’ Robert licked his lips. ‘On that night everybody was getting ready for the feast. The yard was deserted; I glimpsed a shadowy figure. .’
‘Man or woman?’
‘Oh, definitely a woman. She wore a cloak but I glimpsed the kirtle beneath. She went in through the door to the staircase leading to your clerk’s chamber.’
‘You have a description?’
‘Mistress, the light was fading. I just noticed how swift she was. I had troubles of my own. I forgot it, I was more concerned about Rebecca, it’s just that. .’
‘What, Robert?’
‘What’s happening here, mistress? I mean, who was that woman, and what about those workmen going in and out of Burgundy Hall?’
‘What about them, Robert?’
‘Mistress, as you know,’ he smiled ruefully, scraping his mud-caked boots on the cobbles, ‘I’m hot-tempered. Everyone knows that! A year ago, around Martinmas, I was drinking in the Pot’s Yard, a tavern near the Royal Mews next to the Queen’s Cross. I stabbed a man. He was only lightly wounded but I fled to the sanctuary; you know, the enclosure north of the abbey where the sheriff’s men cannot pursue. .’
I knew all about the sanctuary enclosure, an ancient privilege where malefactors, wolfsheads and outlaws could shelter unscathed, free from the reaches of the sheriffs and their bailiffs. A place of villainy. A melting pot of wickedness, it still is. I was surprised that Robert should be in such company. I half listened to his story, then he paused, fingering the leather apron.
‘Strange, mistress! Some of those workmen in Burgundy Hall, I’ve seen them before in the sanctuary.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Mistress, you never forget some faces: the cast in the eye, the scar, the way a man walks or sits, but there again, I might be mistaken.’ He shrugged. ‘After all, I have been in sanctuary; now I work in the royal stables. Perhaps they too have secured honest employment.’
I thanked him and walked across the palace yard, down alleyways and narrow paths. I took a wrong turn and came out on to the broad field that separates the palace from the abbey. Apparently it was Laver Day, when the chancellor of the abbey had to provide fresh straw for mattresses and bath mats as well as supply wood for the calefactory, the warm room, where the monks would bathe in tubs of oak; this was preceded by the head-shaving, when the monks sat in two rows in the cloisters awaiting for the attentions of the barber. Labourers were now organising all this. Carts full of fresh straw, linen towels, jars and pots were lining up outside the south door of the abbey. I was caught by the beauty of the massive soaring stone, the buttresses, pillars, gleaming new stonework and precious glass glinting in the windows. I walked along a path, just stopping where the carts turned as they trundled down towards the abbey. A bell clanged. I was about to walk away when I smelled a flowery fragrance, almost the same as I’d noticed in that water glass Guido had drunk from. I hurried after the cart from where the smell seemed to originate. The lay brother sat half asleep, clasping the harness straps; he glanced in surprise but, at my insistence, reined in.
‘Brother?’
‘Yes!’ He smiled at the silver coin between my fingers. ‘How can I help you, mistress?’
‘This cart is sweet-smelling.’
‘Why, yes, it carries herbs for the monks’ baths; always get the best they do.’
‘What herb?’
‘Mistress, I am a carter by trade, a lay brother by profession, I am no-’
‘Apothecary?’
‘Yes, mistress, that’s where I’ve been, down to the spicery on the quayside.’
‘Do you have a list of what you are carrying?’
‘Of course.’
Someone shouted at the lay brother to move his cart; he just raised a hand, fingers curled in an obscene gesture. He gave me the parchment. I handed over another coin. I unrolled the spicery scroll, noting the various herbs listed: rosemary, violet, lavender, dry hops and others. I memorised as much as I could, then thanked him, returned it and hurried down a lane that would lead back into the palace grounds. At the entrance to Burgundy Hall, I asked Ap Ythel if all was well. He replied by asking why it shouldn’t be. I enquired about the workmen. He shrugged and said they came and went; the latrines and garde-robes had apparently become heavily clogged. They had been cleaned and the refuse taken down to the river. Some of the workmen, he admitted, were lazy and tended to wander off if not properly supervised.
‘The king indulges them,’ he declared in that sing-song voice. ‘Anyway, mistress, you have a visitor.’ He shook his head. ‘A messenger, but first the queen dowager has left strict instructions that you must go and see her. Master Guido is not yet fully recovered.’