We arrived at the Tower mid-morning. A royal barge, oared by eight stout boatmen displaying the royal livery, shot like an arrow through the turbulent waters of the Thames. A veil of mist hung heavy, thick and threatening. A page boy in the prow blew harshly on a hunting horn to warn all other craft to pull aside. Above me in the canopied stern flapped a broad pennant boasting the royal arms, golden leopards on a scarlet background. On my left, through the shifting mist, I glimpsed the might of the city: the gabled, red-tiled mansions of the merchant princes; the spires and towers of churches and monasteries, nunneries and chapels; the various quaysides piled high with goods and thronged with crowds. Alongside the wharves was a glorious display of ships: merchantmen, Venetian galleys and Hanseatic cogs. These moved majestically among herring ships, fishing boats, oyster smacks and coracles. Now and again, glimpses of the horrid cruelty of life caught my gaze. Gallows, black and stark. River pirates hanging by their necks from quayside rings. The corpse collectors, dispatching skiffs and punts to bring in the cadavers floating amongst the bankside reeds or bobbing mid-current, turning and twisting, rising and falling as if in preparation for the final resurrection. The air was rich with a variety of smells and odours, the corruption, refuse and rottenness mingling with spices, wood smoke, salted fish, spilt wine and dried seaweed, as well as the fragrances from the precious cargoes nestling in the foulsome holds of the various ships.
I reflected on the day’s beginnings. I had met my mistress early. She’d not even murmured her Matins, still heavy-eyed after her rich supper with the king and Gaveston. She heard me out patiently, smiled understandingly and agreed. Demontaigu was summoned, I could tell by his wine-rich breath how he had just celebrated the Eucharist. Isabella sleepily dictated a short letter and instructed him to accompany me to the Tower to tend to Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. Demontaigu acted the faithful clerk. Once the letter was finished, he strapped on his war belt, threw his cloak around his shoulders and accompanied me across the mist-filled palace grounds to King’s Steps and the waiting barge. On reflection, it was a sombre start to a sombre day. Murder would greet me. Blood would be spilt. God be my witness, I tremble at my sins, scarlet red, but what else could I do?
I suppose the terrors of the day stretched back to the start. Even as our barge pulled away from the quayside, I glimpsed that cowled figure hurrying down the green-slimed steps to the waiting wherry. The mist closed in, but later, just before we reached the starlings and arches of London Bridge, I glimpsed that wherry again. I was certain it was the same one, but kept my peace. Demontaigu sat huddled beside me, praying his beads. We landed safely at the Tower wharf, teeming and bustling like a hive in summer. Memory still holds fast from that day. Glimpses, scenes, pictures like those miniatures in a psalter that catch your eye as you thumb its pages. Four old soldiers begged for alms, dressed in black with red crosses daubed on their foreheads. They shouted how their eyes had been removed and the skin stitched tight by infidels in Outremer. Beside them a madwoman sang the Salve Regina, those prophetic words ringing out: ‘Hail Holy Queen, Mother of mercy. Hail our life, our sweetness and our hope.’ Prisoners, roped by neck, hand and foot, shuffled in filthy rags towards the dungeons beneath the Tower gate. Men-at-arms and archers were busy imposing order with their staves. A king’s knight, astride his caparisoned warhorse, watched them closely. A lady perched daintily on a palfrey trotted by across the cobbles, the hooded hawks on her wrists eager to be free, their jesse-bells tingling above the raucous cries of fishermen, oyster wives, fruit traders and tinkers. An old man pushed his infirm wife in a wheelbarrow, bawling at everyone to stand aside. A market bailiff followed a peasant, live fluttering poultry tied to his back. The official was waiting for the man to place his bird on the ground so he could charge him stallage. Beadles were grasping a squealing fat-bellied sow so as to cut its tail as a punishment for wandering into this marketplace. Smoke and fumes from tanneries and lime-burners drifted across. The stinking badness of the air caught at nose and throat. A dog nudged at two corpses dragged from the river. Three madcaps, bells sewn to their clothes, hastened up to offer a dance. Demontaigu pushed them aside and, one hand on his sword, the other on my elbow, guided me through the soaring, gloomy gateway. Officers and serjeants mailed and helmeted, thronged about us, faces almost concealed by coifs and cowls. The stink of leather, sweat, tar and salt was all-pervasive. Torches guttered in the breeze; above us, the sharp-toothed portcullis hung like a threat. We went along narrow lanes and alleys watched by hooded archers, arrows notched to bows. We crossed baileys, cobbled yards and muddy enclosures where engines of war reared up, ghastly, threatening shapes against the sky. A place of contrasts. Yards full of children playing amongst mastiffs, chickens pecking at the ground, geese strident in their screeching, cattle bellowing. All the noises and smells of the farmyard and stable mingled with those of the kitchen, washtub and bathhouse. In the distance, however, dull roars from the royal beastry sounded, whilst above us, as if watching our every footstep, black-winged ravens floated like demons.
At last we reached the great four-square Norman tower. The serjeant explained how Lord Cromwell, the constable, was out provisioning stores in Petty Wales. He offered Cromwell’s apologies and led us up the steep steps, unlocking doors on to the landing and Langton’s comfortable chamber. Some of the shutters had been removed from the lancet windows to allow in air whilst the good bishop was warming himself over a brazier. He exclaimed in surprise at my arrival but seemed welcoming enough. Demontaigu murmured how he was only my escort and left for the nearby chapel of St John. I hurriedly excused myself and followed whilst Langton shouted at the serjeant to bring fresh wine for his visitor as well as some sweetmeats from the Tower kitchen. I followed Demontaigu across the narrow passageway and asked what troubled him. He undid his sword belt, let it slip to the ground and explained how Ausel might come to the Tower quayside. He wondered what news he might bring. Demontaigu’s voice echoed hollow even as Langton’s instructions to the serjeant rang out through the opened doors. I stood still, listening carefully, recalling our first visit to the bishop.
‘Mathilde, what it is?’
‘Nothing, mon coeur.’ I smiled. ‘Just memories.’
I returned to Langton’s chamber. He was now wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak; he sat enthroned, gold pectoral winking in the light, fingers fiddling with his episcopal ring. To be sure, there was little priestly about Langton: thick, solid and squat, an untidy mat of iron-grey hair now hiding his tonsure. He looked, in truth, what he was in fact: a clever bully boy. He would have made an excellent captain of the rifflers, those violent gangs in London’s underworld hired by powerful merchants who wished to trade in dagger-thrust and violent swordplay. A clever man, despite his slobbery lips and wine-flushed face. My uncle often quoted the old proverb: ‘You can tell a man’s health by his eyes.’ As I took my seat on the quilted stool, I recalled one just as accurate and ancient: ‘You can also tell a man’s soul by his eyes’; Langton’s, hidden in folded creases of fat, were young and clear, full of arrogant mischief. Gaveston called him a bag of poison or something similar, but Langton was wily and astute. He would have made Edward a cunning ally; instead the king had made him a venomous enemy.
We exchanged the usual pleasantries. I handed over Isabella’s courtesy letter and decided to follow the path I’d chosen. I chattered like a sparrow in spring. How Guido was ill. How both the king and my mistress were concerned about the bishop’s health, particularly the ulcers on his legs. I talked as if highly nervous, spilling out court gossip, and all the time those young, clever eyes in that old, weathered face studied me carefully. I needed to touch Langton, examine those ulcers. He claimed his legs were now healing beautifully. I immediately replied how the danger was not the ulcers but the fresh skin: it must heal completely and not be broken. Langton continued to study me. I undid the clasp of my cloak and the laces to the neck of my gown gathered tightly around my throat. I did so daintily and prettily, leaning forward and smiling at that fox, who truly thought he was hosting a capon for dinner. He asked me to pour some wine and invited me to join him. I did so. I slurped at the goblet and bit into a sweetmeat, dates coated in honey. The sweetness filled my mouth. I cleared my throat and gossiped on, giggling when Langton leaned forward. He gently squeezed one of my breasts, then caressed it admiringly. Eventually he agreed that the ulcers, perhaps, should be inspected. He stood up, threw his robe on to the chair, lifted the linen shift beneath and pulled down his hose as if he was a boy stripping for a swim in the river. He waddled over to the bed and threw himself down, leaning back against the bolsters and patting the coverlet beside him. I went across and pushed back the quilt. The ulcers had healed beautifully to faint red-purplish marks. I examined these, letting my fingers knead the vein-streaked flesh beneath his knee. Langton’s hand came out again and grasped my breast, stroking the nipple. I laughed coyly. Still chattering about the court, I moved from one item to another.