friend is asking will be repeated when you meet the king. His grace will demand answers. But for the moment, no more questions.’
Chapeleys seemed comforted. He followed us out of the chapel and down into an empty courtyard. We crossed the grounds, up into a wing of the Old Palace where Demontaigu lodged.
‘It’s safe here.’ Demontaigu, breathing heavily as we reached the top of the stairs, pointed down the ill-lit passageway. ‘My chamber is in the corner. It was once part of the royal quarters, so the door is secured by bolts and lock.’
Chapeleys appeared reluctant.
‘There is no other place,’ I explained. ‘You will be safe. I swear that, Master Chapeleys.’
At last he agreed, and Demontaigu unlocked his chamber. The door was heavy, reinforced with iron studs and metal clasps; the hinges were of thick, hard leather. The lock, probably fashioned by a skilled London craftsman, was fitted in the door so the key could be turned from both the outside and the inside. Demontaigu locked it behind us and pulled the bolts across, then stood back, aware of how he must not frighten this cowed clerk any further.
‘Look, sir!’ I pleaded. ‘You will be safe.’
Chapeleys stared around Demontaigu’s chamber. In the poor light, it looked like a monastic cell, the walls lime-washed, a crucifix hanging above the cot-bed, the windows all shuttered. Demontaigu opened two of these whilst I took a tinder and lit the capped candles and lantern horn. Chapeleys went round patting the wall, even checking the shutters; finally he moved into the far recess. Demontaigu’s chamber was unique. It stood on a corner, and in one wall was a small window-door about five feet high and a yard across. In former times it must have been used to draw up supplies from carts waiting in the yard below. Near this a great iron clasp driven into the wall held one end of a coil of rope that could be used to escape from the chamber if a fire broke out. Chapeleys satisfied himself that the window-door was barred and bolted, then came back and sat on a stool, staring around. He still clutched his chancery bag. I was tempted to ask him what it contained, but the man was sorely affrighted.
Demontaigu left, saying he would bring some bread, cheese and a jug of wine. Chapeleys kept to his own musings as I walked around. I sat on the bed, stared at the crucifix, then across at the chancery desk and its high-backed chair beneath one of the windows. Everything was tidy: no parchments, nothing out of place. I went across and lifted the lid of a chest. Inside there were some scrolls and books. I picked one up, a beautifully covered psalter, but hastily put it back, feeling guilty at such intrusion. The chamber was stark and very austere; apart from the crucifix, nothing decorated the walls. The drapes on the bed were neat, the bolsters carefully placed. On a small table beside the bed was a cup, a candlestick and a night light; on a stool near the door more jugs and cups. Demontaigu was both a priest and a soldier, and the chamber reflected this. Yet it wasn’t cold; there was something warm and welcoming about it, safe and secure.
Demontaigu returned. I had bolted the door behind him, and as I now drew these back, Chapeleys jumped to his feet as if expecting a horde of armed men to invade the room. Demontaigu made him sit at the table and poured him a goblet of wine; he even cut his bread and cheese, treating him as tenderly as a mother would a frightened child. I watched carefully. At first Chapeleys was reluctant to eat, but at last he took a generous swig of wine and seemed to relax. Demontaigu pushed a brazier closer to him.
‘Listen, man.’ Demontaigu crouched beside Chapeleys, hand resting on his arm. ‘You may sleep here. If you must,’ he gestured at the dagger still pushed in Chapeleys’ belt, ‘carry that close. Once we leave, do not open that door to anyone except myself or someone we send. Do you understand?’
Chapeleys, his mouth
Chapeleys seemed comforted. He followed us out of the chapel and down into an empty courtyard. We crossed the grounds, up into a wing of the Old Palace where Demontaigu lodged.
‘It’s safe here.’ Demontaigu, breathing heavily as we reached the top of the stairs, pointed down the ill-lit passageway. ‘My chamber is in the corner. It was once part of the royal quarters, so the door is secured by bolts and lock.’
Chapeleys appeared reluctant.
‘There is no other place,’ I explained. ‘You will be safe. I swear that, Master Chapeleys.’
At last he agreed, and Demontaigu unlocked his chamber. The door was heavy, reinforced with iron studs and metal clasps; the hinges were of thick, hard leather. The lock, probably fashioned by a skilled London craftsman, was fitted in the door so the key could be turned from both the outside and the inside. Demontaigu locked it behind us and pulled the bolts across, then stood back, aware of how he must not frighten this cowed clerk any further.
‘Look, sir!’ I pleaded. ‘You will be safe.’
Chapeleys stared around Demontaigu’s chamber. In the poor light, it looked like a monastic cell, the walls lime-washed, a crucifix hanging above the cot-bed, the windows all shuttered. Demontaigu opened two of these whilst I took a tinder and lit the capped candles and lantern horn. Chapeleys went round patting the wall, even checking the shutters; finally he moved into the far recess. Demontaigu’s chamber was unique. It stood on a corner, and in one wall was a small window-door about five feet high and a yard across. In former times it must have been used to draw up supplies from carts waiting in the yard below. Near this a great iron clasp driven into the wall held one end of a coil of rope that could be used to escape from the chamber if a fire broke out. Chapeleys satisfied himself that the window-door was barred and bolted, then came back and sat on a stool, staring around. He still clutched his chancery bag. I was tempted to ask him what it contained, but the man was sorely affrighted.
Demontaigu left, saying he would bring some bread, cheese and a jug of wine. Chapeleys kept to his own musings as I walked around. I sat on the bed, stared at the crucifix, then across at the chancery desk and its high-backed chair beneath one of the windows. Everything was tidy: no parchments, nothing out of place. I went across and lifted the lid of a chest. Inside there were some scrolls and books. I picked one up, a beautifully covered psalter, but hastily put it back, feeling guilty at such intrusion. The chamber was stark and very austere; apart from the crucifix, nothing decorated the walls. The drapes on the bed were neat, the bolsters carefully placed. On a small table beside the bed was a cup, a candlestick and a night light; on a stool near the door more jugs and cups. Demontaigu was both a priest and a soldier, and the chamber reflected this. Yet it wasn’t cold; there was something warm and welcoming about it, safe and secure.
Demontaigu returned. I had bolted the door behind him, and as I now drew these back, Chapeleys jumped to his feet as if expecting a horde of armed men to invade the room. Demontaigu made him sit at the table and poured him a goblet of wine; he even cut his bread and cheese, treating him as tenderly as a mother would a frightened child. I watched carefully. At first Chapeleys was reluctant to eat, but at last he took a generous swig of wine and seemed to relax. Demontaigu pushed a brazier closer to him.
‘Listen, man.’ Demontaigu crouched beside Chapeleys, hand resting on his arm. ‘You may sleep here. If you must,’ he gestured at the dagger still pushed in Chapeleys’ belt, ‘carry that close. Once we leave, do not open that door to anyone except myself or someone we send. Do you understand?’
Chapeleys, his mouth
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