‘Why was Master Highill placed in Bethlehem?’
The master pulled the sheet back over the dead man’s face.
‘He was a senior clerk in the secret chancery,’ he remarked, ‘or so he told us. We know he had been in royal service, but his wits had wandered. Sometimes he talked about his days with the old king as if he was very close to him, though few believed him. Mistress, many men and women are brought here because of their delusions. Master Highill could be quiet, but sometimes he’d burst into song, something that always frightened me a little. You know the “Salve Regina” sung at the end of Compline? Well, Master Highill would sing that, but a blasphemous version. I cannot remember the exact words: instead of “Mother of Mercy” it was “Mother of Discord”. I ordered him to stop this. He did, but on occasion I found him writing the same words.’ The master pointed to a painting, a piece of vellum in a wooden frame, which hung on a hook from the wall. ‘Ah yes, that’s it.’ He took down the painting, an Agnus Dei surrounded by the Five Wounds of Christ, and showed me the marks beneath.
At first I couldn’t make them out. I took a candle and, holding it against them, studied the scrawl. I stared in disbelief: they struck a chord, a memory. I asked Demontaigu to copy down what was written there: Salv. Reg. Sin. Cor. Ma. Disc.
Once he had finished, I asked the master for a description of the nun who had visited the night before, but he shrugged and shook his head.
‘She was wimpled with a deep hood. No one took much notice. She came in the dark, asked to see Master Highill, then left.’ He pulled a face. ‘Who cares about an old man, or a nun visiting him to give him solace?’
Distracted, I thanked him and left. We collected our horses from the stables and made our way back to Westminster, riding along the busy tracks following the city wall down towards the Thames. My mind was a blizzard of thoughts and memories. Even as I read those scratch marks out to Demontaigu, I realised I had discovered something important, though I couldn’t fully comprehend it. Demontaigu tried to draw me into conversation, but I shook my head. I gathered my cloak about me, grasped the reins and let my horse plod on. I was totally unaware of the day or the people around me. At last Demontaigu, exasperated, reined in outside the entrance to the Gate of Antioch, a prosperous-looking tavern just past Bishopsgate.
‘Mathilde, for the love of God at least talk to me.’
We stabled our horses and took some food and jugs of cantle in the warm taproom. Although absorbed, I was also excited, on the verge of resolving sinister mysteries. Those arbalests still bothered me, as well as Demontaigu’s words about a trap. Over bowls of hot potage I questioned him further. At last he put his horn spoon down, tapping the table with it.
‘Mathilde, why are you questioning me about this?’
‘I’m stating the obvious.’ I replied. ‘If you were to plot a secret attack on the king and Gaveston in Burgundy Hall, would you use such heavy arbalests?’
‘No,’ he replied quickly, ‘they are ponderous, heavy to carry, slow to load. What are you saying, Mathilde?’
‘I was meant to find them.’ I told him about the shadow I’d glimpsed at the window. ‘The king shelters behind the walls of Burgundy Hall. He believes he is safe. We know there are those who wish to do great hurt to either him or Lord Gaveston. So what do we do? We look beyond Burgundy Hall for the attack. We expect weapons to be hidden away so secret assassins can come crawling over the walls, seize them and carry out their assault. But that’s not going to happen. We are looking for the enemy beyond the walls when the enemy-’
‘Is already within?’ he asked.
‘Precisely!’ I replied. ‘The enemy is already inside, but who are they and where are they hiding? I don’t know. It is time we returned to Westminster.’
Chapter 13
So the Lords, exhausted by the trouble and expense they’d sustained, went home.
I remember that ride back. The sky had clouded. Peals of bells rang out as protection against the impending thunder and lightning. The day’s business was well underway, shops open, stalls laid out, water-bearers, ale-sellers, butter wives and herb wives all selling their wares. Tinkers and pedlars accosted us, eager to do business. A red-faced market bailiff strode about proclaiming the recent injunction against the use of stubble, straw or reeds in any house or tavern, as they were inclined to flare and burn easily. We continued our journey back to Westminster, taking the road that wound down to the royal mews, past the exquisitely carved cross to Queen Eleanor, along King’s Street and on to the Royal Way. The crowds were busy, people moving up and down to the palace and abbey, and the sheer throng, clamour and chaos forced us to pause now and again. A line of lay brothers from the abbey were bringing in the corpses of three beggars found frozen to death in the nearby meadows. The hue and cry had also been raised. People shouting, ‘Harrow, harrow!’ and armed with any weapon they could lay their hands on, were chasing two fugitives who’d robbed a shop near Clowson Stream. As we turned into Seething Lane, a group of bailiffs from Newgate had cornered an escaped felon hiding in some ruins; he was being dragged out to suffer the immediate sentence of death, forced to kneel, his head pressed against a log whilst a bailiff armed with a two-edged axe hacked at his neck. I turned away. Demontaigu whispered the ‘Miserere’. Such a scene agitated my mind, teeming as it was with images, pictures and memories. I had concentrated on one path, totally ignoring other evidence until I had read those etchings on the wall of John Highill’s chamber.
Once back at Westminster, I asked Demontaigu to accompany me to Burgundy Hall and immediately asked to see Isabella. She was entertaining leading aldermen of the city, resplendent in their scarlet robes. Only when they left could I see her alone. Demontaigu waited outside. Isabella looked magnificent in cloth of gold, her beautiful hair hidden under a white veil held in place by a green chaplet. She looked strangely at me as I knelt before her like a penitent waiting to be shriven. I clasped my hands, placed them in her lap and stared up at her. At first my words came haltingly, but I soon gained confidence. I told her everything I suspected, and what must be done. Now and again she would hold up her bejewelled fingers, ask me a question, then tell me to continue. When I had finished, she sat staring down at me and shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Impossible, yet probable,’ she whispered, then leaned forward and kissed me full on the lips. She took my face between her hands, pressing gently, staring into my eyes.
‘Mathilde, I have always seen you as my alter ego, my soul, my confidante. Do you remember the teachings of the school? If a hypothesis is true in part, then it is possible that it is true in all aspects. Well, let us test it.’ She asked me to summon Demontaigu and Ap Ythel to her chamber. When they arrived, she swore them to secrecy. Ap Ythel objected to this, saying his first duty was to the king. Isabella countered this. ‘No, sir, your first duty is to the Crown, and I am part of that. If what I say is the truth, then the king will be pleased. You are to search Burgundy Hall from its rafters to the cellars, every nook, every corner, every cranny. You must look for anything out of place, not just a weapon hidden away or a damaged bolt on a door, but anything where it should not be. Then come back and report to me.’