Raife had just arrived — so recently that he was still in the courtyard of the house, handing the reins of his courser to a groom.
‘Maeb!’ he cried as he saw me. ‘Praise God you are safe!’
He reached up to me, helping me to dismount, then enveloping me in a bear hug. ‘I pray you kept safe at the de Lacys’ hall.’
I glanced at Ghent, who had dismounted just behind us.
‘My lord,’ I said, touching his face, feeling such a rush of pleasure at seeing him that I could hardly bear it. ‘My lord, we were not. We had gone to play on the ice with the Londoners, and, sweet Jesu, were on the river when the ice broke apart. Were it not for Gilbert then I would have died, and my ladies, and the de Lacys besides. He saved our lives, first from the ice, and then from the flames. Without him …’ My voice broke, and I could not continue.
Still holding me tight, Raife turned to look at Ghent. ‘By God,’ Raife said, in a voice thick with emotion, ‘I shall see you do well for this. I thank you, from the depths of my heart. I could not bear to lose my lady.’
‘And you, my lord?’ I asked. ‘How do you?’
‘We heard of the disastrous misfortune of London early yesterday,’ Raife said. ‘We rode through the day and then the night to reach the city. By God … by God, what calamity!’
I thought of the imp under the ice. I would not tell Raife, I decided. Maybe I had dreamed it; maybe the vision of the imp was some instinctive part of my being warning me of the river disaster. Raife had enough concerning him without my adding to those worries.
Raife gave me another long hug, and we went inside.
Everyone in London — king, the royal household, nobles and Londoners — spent the next week to ten days involved in helping those left homeless, those needing food, and beginning the reconstruction efforts. There was no court, nor entertainments, nor intrigues. There was only the effort to be put into restoring as much of the city and its citizens to rights with all due haste.
We took in two score and five people who had been left homeless by the fire, housing them partly in the dormitories and courtyard outbuildings, partly in the hall where we set up bedding for them.
But warehouses and houses and shops could be rebuilt. The loss to the city of the eight thousand who had died in the river was almost unbearable. Near a third of the city’s stall holders and traders had perished, many nobles had died, hundreds of craftsmen and tradesmen and artisans and their apprentices, a handful of aldermen and, crucially, the city’s portreeve. Many families had lost someone, and many, many families had vanished entirely. It would take the city longer to recover from that loss than it would from structural devastation.
Edmond did what he could. With so many aldermen and the portreeve lost, he stepped personally into the chaotic aftermath of both river and fire disasters, directed relief and aid, used the soldiers and guardsmen stationed at the Tower to help in the aid effort for people, but also to pull down dangerously leaning, half burned buildings and cart away the rubble. He rode through the city each day with the Constable of the Tower, Alan de Bretagne, seeing for himself what needed to be done and setting the Constable to sort it out.
Ten days after the tragedies, the king stopped for refreshment at our house before riding back to the Tower. He looked fatigued and drawn, and sat down heavily in a chair in our solar, inching it closer to the fire.
I poured him some spiced wine, and he thanked me for it as I handed it to him.
‘The damage, to buildings and spirit, is ruinous,’ Edmond said, drinking heavily of the wine before handing the cup back to me to refill. ‘Half the craftsmen needed for rebuilding died in the river. The other half are mourning wives or children or parents who died.’
He sighed. ‘Much of my work seems to be shaking people out of their shock in order to rebuild or aid others. How goes the families you have housed here?’
‘We have only a handful remaining,’ Raife said, stretching out his legs as he took a chair opposite the king. ‘Some have gone to family in outlying villages, or back to their home villages. Some have taken, for the moment, those houses left standing empty because their former occupants died in the river.’
‘It is an ill day, indeed,’ Edmond said, ‘when one tragedy gives hope and opportunity for those caught in the next tragedy.’
‘I’ve heard word that of the ships destroyed in the river,’ Raife said, ‘the greatest loss has been the —’
He was interrupted by the sight of fitzErfast, who had entered to stand just inside the door and look anxious.
‘What is it, man?’ Raife said.
FitzErfast came over and spoke quietly in Raife’s ear. Raife gave him a hard look, then nodded. ‘Let him enter.’
Then he looked to Edmond. ‘A rider, with urgent news,’ he said, ‘for you, my lord.’
A young man, probably a squire, although it was hard to tell from the travel stains and the wear on his clothes, hurried into the chamber and bowed before Edmond.
At the king’s nod, he spoke, his voice harsh from his fatigue. ‘My lord king, I bring you greetings from the Earl of Summersete, currently resident in Walengefort Castle.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Edmond. ‘What has Summersete to say?’
‘My lord, he sends news that the plague is flourishing once again, from Monemude to Glowecestre, and from Cirecestre to Oxeneford, and many hamlets and villages along the way. It began with small outbreaks during Advent, but since Christmastide has spread farther, as well as deeper, within each community. My lord king, my lord of Summersete begs you to watch and plan for an outbreak in London, as the pestilence now draws close and shows no sign of abating, and he begs you to watch over your own health and that of your family.’
We stared at the man, almost unable to take in the news of this further horror.
Then Edmond swore, soft and foul, before apologising to me. ‘Sweet Jesu, Pengraic, the plague? Now? In the middle of winter. How can this be? No plague flourishes during winter! Isolated cases, yes, but ravaging outbreaks … No!
‘Man,’ he said to the squire, ‘have you word of the numbers who have died?’
‘Many hundreds, sire,’ said the squire. ‘My lord of Summersete only received word of this two days ago, and I have ridden hard to get this intelligence to you in London.’
‘It has likely been brewing many months,’ Raife said, his voice soft. ‘We know from its last outbreak that it can live within a community for many weeks, even months, before it begins to show its vicious claws. By that time, by the time we know of its presence, then it is too late, for hundreds have been infected.’
‘Perhaps you brought it with you,’ Edmond said, his voice hard, ‘on your journey from Pengraic.’
‘I can assure you not,’ Raife said. ‘Pengraic was quite free of the plague for months before we left.’
Edmond waved a hand in apology. ‘I am sorry for the slur, Pengraic. Dear God, what have I done that my realm must be wracked with so many disasters!’ He swore again, this time omitting any apology to me. ‘I will call a council meeting for the morrow, Pengraic. You will attend.’
He rose, handing his once more empty cup to me, gave me an unreadable look, and then was clattering down the stairs and calling for his horse.
Chapter Nine
When the morrow arrived, it was to discover that Edmond wanted me to attend the council meeting as well. He sent word that Hugh of Argentine, the newly installed Master of the Temple, would be attending, along with Fulke d’Ecouis, and that the two Templars wanted me there.
‘And so also,’ said Roger de Douai, who had brought the news, ‘Edmond wants you there, my lady. If there is to be further charge against you, then it shall need to be made to your face.’
I looked at Raife in despair. ‘What can they want of me?’ I said.
‘I would not worry overmuch, my lady,’ de Douai said. ‘Edmond has said he also wants the maille gauntlet used in your ordeal to be placed in the very centre of the table. As a reminder.??
?
‘I am tired of being blamed for all that is wrong in this world,’ I muttered.
Raife put a hand on my shoulder, and addressed de Douai. ‘I would be grateful, de Douai, if you could murmur in the master’s ear that I will personally cut off his balls if he lays a single accusation at my wife’s feet or threatens her in any way.’
‘I will so do,’ said de Douai with a small smile.
Edmond held his council in the great hall at the top of the Conqueror’s Tower. A large trestle table had been set up near one of the fireplaces, then covered in fine linens, and then topped with ewers of wine and cups as well as platters of breads, dried fruits and cheeses. Edmond’s council, Raife told me on the ride to the Tower, was usually composed of his leading nobles, top officials and the high ecclesiastics, but today, well, it would be composed of whoever could be there at such short notice, or who hadn’t fallen into the ice among the eight thousand.
As we walked into the great hall, it was to see that a goodly number had managed to be here. The Bishop of Wincestre, together with Tedbald du Bec, the Archbishop of Cantuaberie. The two men stood well apart, their hatred of each other known to all. The bishopric of London was vacant, awaiting Edmond to name a successor to the bishop who had just died, so his place was filled by Gervase de Blois, the abbot of Westminster.
The Constable of the Tower was present, as was the castellan of Baynard Castle, Geoffrey de Mandeville, and the Earl of Exsessa, along with the earls of Pembroke, Lincolie, Chestre among others. There were also several aldermen from London, as well as the high officials from Edmond’s household and Edmond’s second son, Prince Richard, who was some sixteen or seventeen years of age.
The two Templars, Hugh of Argentine and Fulke d’Ecouis, were here also. Edmond entered from the archway leading into his privy chamber at the same time as Raife and I came through the door from the gallery, and after he greeted us, he drew us aside for a quiet word.
‘My lady,’ he said to me, ‘do not be afraid. Hugh reassures me that he has no accusation against you.’
‘Then why does he want me here, my lord?’
‘Who knows? But I am glad enough of your presence, Maeb, not merely because the very sight of you soothes my eyes, but because you have lived through the plague whereas most of the men in this chamber have not, and your insights may be of use to me.’
He turned to stride over to the chair placed at the top of the table.
‘My lords, we begin,’ he said, and as he sat so everyone in the chamber took their places at the table. I sat with Raife close to the head of the table, the two Templars about halfway down the other side.
Many of those present shot me curious glances as they sat, but no one spoke up to ask the reason for my presence.
The council began with reports from the aldermen present about the current state of repairs, rebuilding (such as had been started) and the people of London. While most of the burned buildings had been pulled down and the sites cleared, rebuilding would take months if not years, and could not begin properly until the winter snows and rains were past.
As for the bridge — that would take at least a year of construction to have a viable structure in place.
Most everyone who had lost their homes had been re-housed. The bigger dilemma was replacing so many of the citizens, and their skills, who had been lost in the river. That, one alderman remarked glumly, would take years, and would affect the rebuilding programme within the city, trading and the city revenues due to the king.
Then to the plague. The intelligence that it had reignited and appeared to be headed directly for London was dismal news, particularly following so close on the heels of the twin tragedies of river and fire. Edmond discussed briefly with the council what could be done to prepare the city, and asked me to add any insights I might have to the council about the table.
‘Only, my lord king,’ I said, ‘that those suffering be moved away from their own homes into hospitals or buildings made of stone. Our priest, Owain, offered the use of Pengraic’s chapel to hold the dying, that their mortal scorching might not devastate the entire castle. From my own observation, so much of London’s buildings are wooden, and …’
‘As we have seen,’ Edmond concluded dryly, ‘fire tends to spread rapidly.’ He spoke to the aldermen, asking them to identify and prepare stone buildings now, whether they be churches or warehouses, to take in the sick and dying.
‘I can offer my house,’ said Raife. ‘Both it and its outbuildings are of stone, and close enough to Holy Trinity Priory that the brothers might use it as an extension of their own hospital.’
‘Then you must accept my hospitality here,’ said Edmond, and Raife nodded.
I admit I breathed a small sigh of relief. I did not wish to be trapped within the crowded city if plague broke out. The Tower, somehow, was more comforting.
‘My lord king,’ said Hugh of Argentine, ‘if I may speak? What I need to say intimately concerns the plague.’
Edmond inclined his head.
‘Before I speak, I need to seek assurances from all present, to be spoken as if they stood before God himself, that no word I utter is to be spread beyond the chamber walls. My lord king, if I might request that we can serve our own wine from this point?’
Edmond nodded and waved the servants away.
Hugh then asked each of us in turn to agree not to spread gossip of what we heard, and we agreed solemnly.
Several of the earls and all the clergy looked irritated, however, and I imagined they were annoyed not only by the intrusion of the Templars into this privy council, but also Hugh’s dramatic insistence on oath-taking.
Once we were done, Hugh began speaking in a deceptively calm and moderate voice.
‘My lord king, my lords of soul and land, my lady. What I speak of now is gathered from knowledge contained within the innermost circle of the Templars, as those secrets conferred to us by the Pope. It is terrifying, and I beg you to keep your wits sound while I relate it.
‘Some time ago, in recognition of our Order’s service to God, and His pilgrims in the Holy Lands, the Pope granted us exclusive access to the ancient Temple of Solomon within the precincts of Jerusalem. In recent times, as the pestilence ravaged Jerusalem, our brethren discovered within its crypt —’
‘Saints save us,’ said Edmond. ‘I pray this is not yet another tale of the elusive Holy Grail and its dark magics!’
There was a subdued twitter about the table, and Hugh shot Edmond a black look.
‘It is not, my lord king,’ he said.
‘Then reach your point speedily,’ said Edmond, ‘for I have better things to do than settle about this fire and listen to Templar tales all day.’
Hugh took a deep breath, and I could see he struggled to control his temper.
‘Then if I may be blunt,’ he said. ‘What my brothers found scrabbling about in the temple’s crypt was an imp from hell.’
There were gasps and murmurs about the table, and I froze. Eventually, once my initial shock was passed, I risked a glance at my husband — his face was impassive.
‘This vile imp was searching for something,’ Hugh continued. ‘One of our brethren, braver and faster than the others, seized the imp before it had a chance to vanish, and he threatened it most menacingly with his sword and demanded of it what it sought. It hissed, and spoke many foulnesses, but eventually my brethren learned it searched for a crown of some description. Our brothers learned no more from the imp, for so soon as it spoke those words it disintegrated into a vile-smelling pile of decomposing flesh.
‘Our brethren dug, they sifted the rubble from one end of that crypt to the other, but they could find nothing. Most certainly nothing resembling a crown. In the end we thought no more of it and continued our aid to those crusaders caught in the grip of the pestilence until, God be praised, the pestilence speedily moved on.’
Hugh paused to take a sip of wine, and Edmond tapped his fingers on the table in irritation at this delay.
> ‘No doubt you wonder how all of this is connected, my lord,’ Hugh said to Edmond. ‘I will say so, but will make my account brief, lest I try your patience further. Our Order in Jerusalem did not connect the two concurrent horrors, imp and pestilence — both of which occurred at the same time — until someone informed Pope Innocent II. He then called to his presence our new Grand Master, Robert de Craon, and told him a most terrifying tale.’
‘Which you are doubtless about to tell us, eh?’ Edmond said.
His ill-temper was growing by the moment.
Hugh inclined his head.
‘Innocent told de Craon that, many years ago,’ Hugh said, ‘before even the time of the Viking attacks up and down the coasts and rivers of Europe, a monk vanished from among his small order of brethren in the wilds of Anatolia. Greatly disturbed in his mind, but of powerful vision, the monk made his way down to hell, from whence he stole the Devil’s favourite diadem. The monk returned to this mortal world, where he wandered for years carrying the diadem, listening to its fateful whisperings. Eventually, maddened, he hid the diadem just before his death.
‘We, both Innocent and the Templars, believe that the Devil now wants his diadem back.’
‘Is that what the imp searched for within the Temple?’ Wincestre asked.
‘Aye,’ said Hugh, ‘we believe so. We think this monk must have hidden the diadem within the Temple’s crypt, the Devil had discovered this fact, and sent his imp for it.’
‘And so who has this diadem now?’ asked my husband. ‘I imagine, that once confronted with a tale of such a powerful and rich icon, you have searched everywhere for it.’
Hugh gave a small smile. ‘Well, my lord of Pengraic, we believe that, likely only quite soon before the imp searched for the diadem, someone else found it and removed it from the Temple precinct. Where is it now? Well, we have some idea, but the Devil had none. Thus he sent the pestilence onward to sniff out its location.’
There was a loud murmur about the table.