your brethren. Be not hanged like Judas! Confess your sins!’ The preacher swept away, the beggar clattering beside him.
Guido muttered some witticism and hastened down the river-stained steps to the waiting barge.
‘Ausel has delivered his message,’ Demontaigu whispered.
I glanced at him in puzzlement.
‘Tomorrow,’ Demontaigu murmured, ‘around Vespers, the brothers will meet at the Chapel of the Hanged.’ He would say no more. We hurried down and climbed into the barge. The ropes were cast off and we made our way back to Westminster.
The journey was uneventful. Master Guido made us laugh with his mimicry of Langton – so sharp and accurate I almost forgot about Chapeleys. Langton’s man was a chancery clerk, so the guards would admit him into the palace precincts. To be sure, Westminster Palace has changed; it is always changing, and that is the problem. New buildings, old buildings, wings added to this or that. Little wonder the king had built Burgundy Hall, his self-contained manor house. Some of the palace buildings dated back to the Conqueror’s time and even before that. A warren of dark winding passageways, outside staircases, makeshift bridges and countless outhouses ranged around yards and gardens. A host of names described this cluster of buildings, which extended further than a large village: the Pastry Yard, the Paved Passage, the Royal Buttery, the Privy Kitchen, the Inner Court, the Outer Court, the Fish Court, the Fleshers’ Court, the Boulevard, the Vintners’ Ward: a maze of buildings, baileys, outhouses, chancery and exchequer offices. I found it bewildering. Demontaigu, however, had carefully studied the tangled spread. He knew its secret ways and forgotten postern doors because, as he explained, a fugitive like himself must always be prepared to flee. Such words chilled me. I asked him about Ausel, but he shook his head and led me across a garden, still frozen hard, in through a sombre-looking doorway, down a dark passageway, up a staircase and into the gloomy Chapel of St Benedict.
The chapel was no more than a square vaulted room, where flickering sconce torches illuminated the wall paintings, most of which were of birds and symbols from Scripture: the phoenix, the pelican, the mermaid. I recall one painting: an owl mobbed by magpies, an allegory on how the idle busybodies and gossips of this world mock wisdom. I wondered if Chapeleys was a wise man. The small chancel was hidden in gloom, but the Lady Chapel to the right glowed in candlelight. Chapeleys was sitting there on a stool, staring up at a statue of the Virgin depicted as the Queen of Heaven embracing the Holy Infant. As soon as he saw us, he leapt to his feet and shuffled out of the half-light like some timorous mouse. He looked askance at Demontaigu until I introduced him as one of the queen’s clerks.
‘I must see the king, I must see the king!’ Chapeleys glanced around at the silhouettes dancing against the walls. A rat scuttled across the chipped tiled floor. Fingers to his lips, he moaned and clutched the chancery pouch more tightly, as if it was a talisman against the menacing gloom. I could not calm him or make sense of the clammy dread that held him fast. I explained that he could not see the king immediately – it was the Eve of the Annunciation and that night Edward intended to feast and celebrate in the great hall, a gesture of friendship towards the Great Lords and the French envoys. In truth, it was a mere sop to prolong matters even further.
‘Yes, yes.’ Chapeleys nodded. ‘What then?’
‘You can stay with me,’ Demontaigu declared. He was studying Chapeleys curiously as if assessing his worth. ‘You are Langton’s clerk?’
‘Of course I am!’
‘His treasure,’ Demontaigu took a step forward, ‘you know where his treasure is?’
Chapeleys would have scuttled away if I hadn’t grasped his arm.
‘Monsieur,’ I gestured with my hand for Demontaigu to stand back, ‘the questions my
Guido muttered some witticism and hastened down the river-stained steps to the waiting barge.
‘Ausel has delivered his message,’ Demontaigu whispered.
I glanced at him in puzzlement.
‘Tomorrow,’ Demontaigu murmured, ‘around Vespers, the brothers will meet at the Chapel of the Hanged.’ He would say no more. We hurried down and climbed into the barge. The ropes were cast off and we made our way back to Westminster.
The journey was uneventful. Master Guido made us laugh with his mimicry of Langton – so sharp and accurate I almost forgot about Chapeleys. Langton’s man was a chancery clerk, so the guards would admit him into the palace precincts. To be sure, Westminster Palace has changed; it is always changing, and that is the problem. New buildings, old buildings, wings added to this or that. Little wonder the king had built Burgundy Hall, his self-contained manor house. Some of the palace buildings dated back to the Conqueror’s time and even before that. A warren of dark winding passageways, outside staircases, makeshift bridges and countless outhouses ranged around yards and gardens. A host of names described this cluster of buildings, which extended further than a large village: the Pastry Yard, the Paved Passage, the Royal Buttery, the Privy Kitchen, the Inner Court, the Outer Court, the Fish Court, the Fleshers’ Court, the Boulevard, the Vintners’ Ward: a maze of buildings, baileys, outhouses, chancery and exchequer offices. I found it bewildering. Demontaigu, however, had carefully studied the tangled spread. He knew its secret ways and forgotten postern doors because, as he explained, a fugitive like himself must always be prepared to flee. Such words chilled me. I asked him about Ausel, but he shook his head and led me across a garden, still frozen hard, in through a sombre-looking doorway, down a dark passageway, up a staircase and into the gloomy Chapel of St Benedict.
The chapel was no more than a square vaulted room, where flickering sconce torches illuminated the wall paintings, most of which were of birds and symbols from Scripture: the phoenix, the pelican, the mermaid. I recall one painting: an owl mobbed by magpies, an allegory on how the idle busybodies and gossips of this world mock wisdom. I wondered if Chapeleys was a wise man. The small chancel was hidden in gloom, but the Lady Chapel to the right glowed in candlelight. Chapeleys was sitting there on a stool, staring up at a statue of the Virgin depicted as the Queen of Heaven embracing the Holy Infant. As soon as he saw us, he leapt to his feet and shuffled out of the half-light like some timorous mouse. He looked askance at Demontaigu until I introduced him as one of the queen’s clerks.
‘I must see the king, I must see the king!’ Chapeleys glanced around at the silhouettes dancing against the walls. A rat scuttled across the chipped tiled floor. Fingers to his lips, he moaned and clutched the chancery pouch more tightly, as if it was a talisman against the menacing gloom. I could not calm him or make sense of the clammy dread that held him fast. I explained that he could not see the king immediately – it was the Eve of the Annunciation and that night Edward intended to feast and celebrate in the great hall, a gesture of friendship towards the Great Lords and the French envoys. In truth, it was a mere sop to prolong matters even further.
‘Yes, yes.’ Chapeleys nodded. ‘What then?’
‘You can stay with me,’ Demontaigu declared. He was studying Chapeleys curiously as if assessing his worth. ‘You are Langton’s clerk?’
‘Of course I am!’
‘His treasure,’ Demontaigu took a step forward, ‘you know where his treasure is?’
Chapeleys would have scuttled away if I hadn’t grasped his arm.
‘Monsieur,’ I gestured with my hand for Demontaigu to stand back, ‘the questions my
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