‘What else do you want?’ he asked.
Still sleepy, I went down on my knees as I slipped the coins safely into a pouch on the inside of my robe.
‘A title?’ Gaveston teased.
‘Pardons,’ I answered quickly. ‘Your grace,’ I gestured round, ‘what happened?’
‘As you said.’ The king dragged a chair across; he sat down and waved at Gaveston and Isabella to make themselves comfortable.
‘My lord?’
Edward turned to Gaveston. The favourite took another deep drink and passed the cup to the king. I glanced quickly at Isabella. She sat there all docile, a fixed smile on her face, but I could see anger in those light-blue eyes as she played with the tendrils of her hair. Gaveston whispered to the king, and the loving cup was passed to her. Isabella drank quickly, not taking her eyes off me. Gaveston explained how he and Ap Ythel had arrived at the Templar church.
‘The postern door was sealed and locked. We of course had the key. Strange,’ Gaveston wagged a finger at me, ‘I shall return to that. Inside, Mathilde, well it was the first time I’d ever been there. A solemn place, full of ghosts and ancient memories, beautiful paintings on the wall and nine stone effigies on the floor. At first I was reluctant. I felt as if I was committing blasphemy. Ap Ythel examined the paving stones just beneath each of those effigies which bore the title of Pembroke. We found nothing, and then I remembered what you had told us: sub pede — seven letters in all. I counted the paving stones from the feet of William Marshal, the premier Earl of Pembroke; the seventh stone was loose. To the naked eye, nothing was amiss. We used bars and levers. The paving stone came up, and beneath was a wooden slat expertly placed there to keep it firm. The slat was wedged tightly in. We removed it, and underneath was a rope ladder, neatly coiled. We loosened and unrolled it. Ap Ythel, holding a torch, went down; I followed. The cavern beneath was square, formed on each side by rough ancient stone, airless and musty but definitely used as a treasure hold. We lit the cresset torches in the walls,’ Gaveston gestured round, ‘and found Langton’s hoard. Drokensford and his exchequer clerks calculate a treasure of at least seventy thousand pounds sterling.’
I gasped in astonishment.
‘There could have been more,’ Edward intervened testily, ‘but someone had been there before us.’
I glanced at Isabella. She had curbed her anger and smiled tenderly at me.
‘Who, we don’t know,’ Gaveston retorted. ‘We entered by the corpse door; it was locked and sealed. The other doors were barred and bolted.’ He shook his head. ‘To my memory, the seals were unbroken before we entered.’
‘Was New Temple guarded?’ Isabella asked.
‘A few men-at-arms.’ Edward shrugged. ‘I and my council thought it held no treasure.’
‘Your grace,’ I bowed, ‘how do you know the treasury had been entered?’
‘One coffer had been forced,’ Gaveston replied, ‘two large sacks emptied. Drokensford believes five to six thousand pounds has been removed. But. .’ He handed the loving cup back to the king and rubbed his face.
‘Langton will be beside himself with rage. He must be told.’ Isabella’s voice turned harsh. ‘He may have removed some of that treasure himself after it was placed there.’
‘Yet when he was arrested,’ the king remarked, ‘he proclaimed himself penniless. His chambers were searched, and nothing was found.’
‘He may have given it to someone else. But in the mean time,’ Isabella continued, ‘my lords, I beg you. Be prudent, be cunning! Use this wealth to entice the likes of Pembroke and Lincoln into your camp. To quote the great Augustine: “flectamur nec flectimur” — “let us bend before the storm lest we break under it”. We must concede more to the Great Lords, even if it is only for a time.’ Her words sobered Edward and Gaveston, who glanced sheepishly at each other like boys being lectured by their mother.
‘Lincoln and Pembroke,’ Isabella continued, ‘are the most susceptible, or at least so I understand.’ She smiled thinly. ‘They are certainly beginning to baulk at my father’s envoys over their long stay and their meddling in what they call the affairs of the English crown.’
‘I suspected that,’ replied Edward, cradling the loving cup, ‘but how do you know it?’
‘My lord, they have spies in Burgundy Hall. I certainly have mine amongst them. My lord Mortimer has listened to the chatter; a few more days and the cracks will appear, but,’ she clenched her hands in her lap, ‘we must be cunning. We must plot, use this treasure to our advantage. However, rewards to those who have earned them. Mathilde has asked for pardons.’
‘For whom?’ Gaveston leaned forward.
I took a deep breath.
‘The truth as always.’ Isabella glanced warningly at me.
I confessed my help and assistance for Templars, the true identity of Demontaigu and others. Gaveston nodded in approval. Edward, in truth, didn’t really care. My mistress confirmed Demontaigu’s loyalty, his hostility to Philip and all the power of France. Edward, however, was bored, eager to return to his revelry. Since Demontaigu was loyal, the enemy of his enemy, and patronised by his queen, there was no need to discuss it. I stared at a glorious tapestry hanging on the wall behind the king. It showed scenes from the Romance of Alexander, the great conqueror on the battlefield or in his pavilion receiving the spoils of his enemy. The silence deepened until Edward softly clapped his hands, a common gesture to show he had reached a decision, and shrugged lazily.
‘Demontaigu is no threat to me or mine. I cannot issue a pardon to him or others for being Templars; that would go against the pope’s instructions.’ He bared his teeth like a dog. ‘However, I will issue general pardons, letters of protection at the behest of the queen, so Demontaigu and two of his comrades can be brought into the king’s peace.’ He gestured at me. ‘The clerks of the chancery will draw these up, to be issued under the Privy Seal.’ He clapped his hands again and whispered to Gaveston. The favourite rose and crossed to the huge chancery table. He brought back a thin scroll, which he thrust into my hands, then stood over me and stroked my hair. I held his gaze; those lazy, good-humoured eyes were marble hard, as if he was assessing my loyalty. He stroked my hair once again, tipped me lightly under the chin and rejoined the king.
‘John Highill,’ Gaveston sighed, taking his seat, ‘that scroll tells you all. Highill was a master from the schools of Cambridge, a principal clerk in the office of the secret seal in the old king’s reign. He and Chapeleys were a pair, both apparently trained for the priesthood, knowledgeable in Latin, Greek and other tongues. Anyway, in 1299, after he had passed his sixtieth summer, Highill became witless. He was given a pension and dispatched to Bethlehem Hospital outside Bishopsgate.’ Gaveston leaned forward. ‘You know the place, Mathilde? Good.’ He flicked his hands. ‘Take your silver and gold. Collect your pardons and go. But first, tomorrow morning, discover what Highill knows, or might have known.’
Isabella, as if to emphasise her own authority, asked me to wait outside. The gallery, despite the late hour, was packed with Ap Ythel’s men waiting for orders about the treasure. Its find had caused great excitement amongst them, as the archers realised they were not only to be rewarded but would also receive their long-awaited wages. Ap Ythel plucked me by the sleeve and took me away from the rest.
‘Ap Rhys told me,’ he whispered, ‘what you found and what you asked. Mistress,’ he looked over his shoulder, ‘our discussion could be construed as treason. An attack upon the king and my lord Gaveston would be impossible during the day. They are closely guarded, even if they go into the gardens or baileys.’ Ap Ythel pointed to a window. ‘They are protected. If they hunt, a comitatus of royal knights, mounted men-at-arms and archers accompanies them.’