‘God knows,’ I breathed, ‘I never sought your death.’
La Maru stood shocked, blood spilling out of his nose and mouth like water from a cracked pot. He stared at me, eyes glazing over in death, slumped to his knees and lurched on his side on to the filth-strewn ground. I knelt down, hastily gathering my possessions and his dagger. A shadow moved to my right. I whirled round. A hooded, venomous face peered down at the two daggers I held.
‘The choice is yours!’ I hissed. ‘The same for you,’ I gestured with my hand, ‘or you can take what you want and escort me out of here.’
I have never seen a corpse plundered so swiftly, so expertly just like a pillager on a battlefield. My unexpected visitor, stinking of the alleyway, stripped La Maru’s body, bundling everything into the man’s cloak. I gestured with the daggers.
‘Monsieur, after you.’
He smiled thinly. I brought up the daggers. ‘Others wait for me on the quayside.’ He led me out back down the alleyway. He kept his word. Dark shapes moved out of doorways and recesses but he had drawn his knife, so they slunk back. I gathered he must have made enough profit for a month, let alone a day! When I reached the end of the alleyway, he mockingly waved me forward then disappeared back into the gloom. I went across the cobbles. I was unaware of anyone around me. My body was clammy with sweat, my heart thudding. My dress and gown were dirty, unbuttoned and loosed.
‘Mathilde!’ Demontaigu appeared before me.
I just leaned against him, letting everything slip from my hands to the cobbles. He embraced me, shouting at a beggar man to stay well away. He crouched down and picked up what I had dropped. He helped me lace my dress, put back the bodkin knife and gently escorted me to a nearby alehouse, where he ordered wine and food. He didn’t eat — I recalled that on certain days Demontaigu fasted — he just fed me like a mother would a child. After a while the coldness went. The shivering terrors and fears receded. On reflection, I had no choice. My words to La Maru were the truth. He had brought his own death upon himself. I told Demontaigu what had happened. He listened, and then, as if eager to divert me, said he had been with Ausel, who had told him the rumours amongst the brethren how the Temple still held great treasures. A similar story had originated from Canterbury, where William de la More, master of the Templar order in England, was incarcerated. I nodded in agreement.
‘I know what treasure it is,’ I forced a smile, ‘and where it is hidden.’
Two hours later, washed and changed, I knelt on a cushion decorated with silver asphodels in the king’s own chamber. Edward lounged. Isabella sat to his right, Gaveston on his left, leaning against a table staring intently at me. I had told the queen about my suspicions and she had immediately sought this audience with her husband. Edward’s opulent chamber was littered with boots, spurs, baldrics, belts, cloaks, a knife, even pieces of horse harness. He seemed more interested in the sleek peregrine falcon perched on his wrist, its sharp, neat head hidden by a hood. As I talked, he played with the little bells attached to the bird’s claws. However, when I began to describe my suspicions, he handed the falcon to Gaveston, who put it on a perch near the oriel window at the far side of the room. The king leaned forward, head slightly turned as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying. Gaveston simply nodded in excitement. Isabella, as usual, kept her face impassive, though when I caught her gaze, she winked slowly and smiled in encouragement. Once I had finished, Edward turned in his chair, staring at Gaveston as if disbelieving every word I had uttered.
‘Mathilde speaks the truth,’ Isabella declared sharply.
I held her gaze and glimpsed the change. Just that remark, the tone of her voice, a mere shift in her eyes, a fleeting expression. She was now growing openly tired of Gaveston’s pre-eminence, of her husband’s slavish dependence on his favourite.
‘Mathilde is a good student of physic,’ she continued. ‘She notes the symptoms and searches for the cause. My lord, order Ap Ythel and my Lord Gaveston’s Kernia immediately to the New Temple Church Find the effigy of Pembroke. Have the flag-stones, sub pede, near or beneath the feet of each monument lifted. See what can be found. Search must also be made for this John Highill.’ She laughed quietly. ‘Pax-Bread was too clever: Jean, Haute and Mont — John High Mountain. Langton gave us the correct translation: John High Hill literally, John Highill in fact. He must have been a clerk, an advocate or peritus.’
‘I agree.’ Gaveston tactfully intervened. ‘I am sure he was one of your late,’ his voice was laced with sarcasm, ‘beloved father’s clerks.’
Edward shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured, ‘I cannot remember.’ He straightened in the chair, stared down at his feet, then rose quickly. ‘Searches,’ he murmured, ‘careful but swift searches must be made. Madam,’ he bowed to Isabella, patted me gently on the head as if I was a pet dog and walked to the door, clicking his fingers at Gaveston to follow. Isabella sat like a statue, only starting as the door slammed shut behind her husband and his favourite.
‘How long, Mathilde?’ she whispered, her gaze shifting to me. ‘Gaveston at Matins! Gaveston at Prime! Gaveston at Terce! Gaveston at Nones! Gaveston at Vespers and Gaveston at Compline! What do you advise?’
‘Wait, your grace.’
‘Wait, your grace,’ Isabella mimicked. Her expression changed and she smiled dazzlingly at me. She slowly rose to her feet. ‘Wait, Mathilde.’ She stretched out a hand and helped me up.
‘We’ll wait, but in the mean time, we will dance. I have also written a play.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘It’s a dialogue between two souls on the theme: is it easier to love those far away than those closer to you?’ And, laughing and teasing, she led me out of the chamber back to her own quarters.
The late afternoon passed in the tolling of abbey bells. Noises from the courtyards drifted along the gallery. We heard shouts and listened to the clatter of horses leaving the stables. Isabella and I tried to divert ourselves, but the queen declared she was tired and retired to her private chamber saying she wished to be alone. I was about to return to mine when I received a message that Demontaigu was in the waiting hall. I went to meet him. We sat, I remember, under a tapestry depicting the Lady of the Lake grasping Excalibur. It was certainly a time of war; news that something was afoot had swept the palace, courtyards and baileys of Burgundy Hall. Ap Ythel was assembling his men. Cohorts of Kernia also gathered under the watchful eye of knights of the royal household, the king’s bully boys all coiffed and armoured, warhorses snorting as they stirred restlessly under a forest of pennants and banners. Gaveston himself was to lead the cavalcade in a show of force along the Westminster bank and into New Temple. Demontaigu and I watched them from a window. Ap Ythel came bustling by. He stopped and explained how the Great Lords, thinking the king was moving against them, were also summoning their forces. Edward had sent Ingelram Berenger to give his personal assurances that the royal array was only on royal business involving the Templars. Demontaigu stiffened at this. After Ap Ythel left, I explained what I had haltingly informed him of on our return from the city.
‘God and his Angels.’ Demontaigu clasped my hand. ‘Of course. The old king died in the summer; Langton must have known he was for the fall. He secretly hid his treasure hoard in one of the safest place, New Temple, the principle house of our order in this kingdom. The Templars,’ he added bitterly, ‘bankers as well as warriors.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Langton must have thought it would be the securest place on earth, protected by knights whose allegiance was more to God and the pope than any earthly king. What a spin of Fortune’s wheel! Langton falls but so does the Temple, suddenly, savagely! Few people would know about any hidden treasure.’ He sighed. Most of those are probably dead, fled or in strict confinement like our master.’ Demontaigu laughed, put his face into his hands then glanced up. ‘Like rivers rushing into one,’ he murmured, ‘the old king dies; Langton panics! He hides his money away with the Temple. The Templars fall; Langton is imprisoned in the Tower. That old fox must be beside himself! He still plots,’ Demontaigu looked at me, ‘from prison. Langton the spider cannot rest, he knows it is only a matter of time before that treasure is discovered. So he offers it, or at least part of it, to Winchelsea, who is already inflamed with righteous anger that one of his fellow bishops has been imprisoned. Of course, Winchelsea would be only too willing to agree. The king is starved of money, whilst the Great Lords’ retinues are becoming costlier by the day. Such a treasure, if it fell into Winchelsea’s hands, would eventually force Edward to come to terms.’