The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 7

How can I describe it? All of Europe had converged on that port. Philip’s allies from Lorraine, across the Rhine, Spain and elsewhere had gathered to witness a marriage which was to proclaim a lasting peace between England and France. Only one thing marred the enjoyment. Edward of England had not arrived. Despite his promises, there was no news of the English king. Casales, Rossaleti and the rest became highly anxious. We moved into Boulogne; the rest of the court were left to look after themselves, but the royal party lodged in a manor house close to the cathedral of Notre Dame, high in the city within its inner ring of walls. I hated the place, cold and austere, despite the best attempts of the citizens to festoon their streets and alleyways with banners, painted cloths and gaily coloured ribbons. All I truly wanted was for Edward of England to arrive, for the marriage to take place and for us to leave France for ever. A time of remembrance. I’d come so far, yet I was so young. My dreams in the chamber I shared with Isabella were often marred by nightmares, and phantasms, especially about Uncle Reginald seated in that cart, pushed up the ladder at Montfaucon, the noose being put around his neck. I became so agitated I fell ill, and used my own skill at physic to calm my humours.

Philip’s anger at the delay was obvious, royal messengers being sent out almost by the hour to seek out the English party. At last the news arrived. Edward of England had been delayed but he had left Dover, he had arrived at Wissant and was hastening with all speed towards Boulogne. The bells of the city rang out to greet him as Isabella and I went up on to the walls to watch his approach. A mass of brilliant banners announced his arrival. I glimpsed the golden leopards of England against a scarlet background, a swirl of riders, cloaks flying, soldiers and knights dressed in the royal livery all clustered round a horseman resplendent in scarlet and silver, his golden hair clear for all to see. Edward of England had arrived! A forest of pavilions grew up round the town, every available chamber and garret was taken, even the porches and gateways of churches and taverns as the great ones assembled with their retinues. The English had wisely camped in and around the town of Montreuil. From there Edward led a delegation into Boulogne to treat with his future father-in-law over Gascony and other vexed questions. There was no formal meeting with Isabella; protocol and etiquette demanded that Edward keep his distance from his intended bride.

Casales, Sandewic and Baquelle provided juicy morsels of gossip about the proceedings. Relations between the two kings remained as frosty as the weather. Edward had agreed to suppress the Templars, being more vexed by the demands of his own leading earls regarding Gaveston. These he had ignored, even appointing Gaveston, fully invested as the Earl of Cornwall, as regent during the royal absence. Of course, we weren’t satisfied until we’d studied the English king when he visited Philip. Isabella and I seized secret vantage points to achieve this. Edward II was over six foot tall, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted with the long legs of a born horseman and the wiry arms of a swordsman. He was handsome-faced, slightly olive-skinned, a strong contrast to his golden hair and neatly clipped fair beard and moustache. He had heavy-lidded blue eyes, the right one slightly drooping as if he distrusted the world, an impression heightened by the wry grimace of his mouth. He walked quickly, hands swinging, carrying himself arrogantly, yet when he relaxed he appeared to be courteous in the extreme. A weathercock of a man! I watched him closely; even from those few glimpses at the start of my life, I gathered Edward was changeable. He’d pat a servant on the back but, if the mood took him, lash out with fist or foot and hurl a litany of abuse. He had a carrying voice and a commanding presence. A man of nervous energy who shouted at his grooms to take care of the horses, gazing round as if expecting some French bowman or assassin to be lurking nearby.

Edward was apparently eager to finish the wedding celebrations and leave. He did little honour to Philip or the French king’s feelings, complaining bitterly about the cold, the loneliness of Boulogne and the need to return to England to deal with pressing business at Westminster. According to Sandewic, Edward advanced the argument that he’d come to France, he’d marry Isabella, do homage for Gascony, suppress the Temple, so what else did Philip want? Of course, the source of his distress was the growing crisis in London between Gaveston and the earls, led by the king’s cousin Thomas of Lancaster. This group of barons, who would come to dominate all our lives, were also hostile to a French marriage. They openly demanded their king ignore all such revelry, summon a new army and march north to deal with the Scots, who were launching raids across the northern march. On one thing all the earls agreed: Gaveston was to be exiled. According to Casales he was no more than a Gascon squire who’d been created a premier earl, and now the great earls had to gnaw their knuckles as Gaveston reigned supreme.

All these observations and news swirled around us as Isabella prepared for her wedding at the cathedral of Notre Dame in Boulogne, where the Archbishop of Narbonne, together with other leading ecclesiastics, would celebrate her betrothal and nuptial mass. On the Feast of the Conversion of St Paul, 25 January 1308, Isabella, resplendent in a silver gown of pure silk, a white gauze veil held in place on her head by a circlet of finest gold, met her royal bridegroom, garbed in robes of blue, scarlet and gold, at the door of Notre Dame to exchange vows. The princess looked and acted the part of the Grande Dame from the romances she so avidly read. I was not allowed near her, being herded into the cathedral porch with other retainers, whilst the princess was escorted up the church by leading ladies from the courts of Europe. The nuptial mass was celebrated, the powerful voices of the cathedral canons singing the melodious plainchant refrains whilst Isabella and Edward knelt on splendid prie-dieus before the high altar, half-hidden by the clouds of incense streaming out of the many censers. Once the Archbishop of Narbonne had sung the ‘Ite Missa Est’, king and royal bride walked hand in hand down past the choir and into the nave to receive the applause of the aristocratic congregation. Afterwards they proceeded out on to the steps to be acclaimed by the crowds, whilst fresh choirs carolled ‘Laus Honor et Gloria Vobis’ followed by a hymn to ‘Isabella Regina Anglorum’, even though she had yet to be crowned.

Later in the afternoon, as darkness drew in, the feasting and banqueting took place in the royal mansion hastily refurbished for the occasion. I did not attend. Court protocol and etiquette demanded that during her first marriage days, Isabella could only be waited upon by women of the royal blood who had witnessed the nuptials and the consequent royal bedding. I kept to my lodgings in the nearby old bishop’s palace, accepting, like my companions, the remains of the feasts: scraps of venison, pork, beef, fish, half-eaten manchet loaves, bruised fruit and jugs of wine of every variety.

Isabella did not ignore me. She sent a small purse filled with English silver and a piece of parchment on which a forget-me-not flower was carefully inscribed. More importantly, Sandewic came into his own. He was now Custos, knight-keeper of the princess’s household. She was the centre of the English court so her retinue was embraced by the English king’s peace. During the wedding days Sandewic used the opportunity to bring in an escort of Welsh archers, little wiry, dark-faced men who spoke a tongue I could not understand. They were clothed in Sandewic’s livery, a white lion rampant on a green background, they carried longbows of yew with wicked-looking stabbing knives dangling from rings on their belts and quivers of yard-long shafts strapped to their backs. These archers guarded and patrolled the bishop’s palace, cheerful men who loved to drink and sing the haunting songs of their country. They were most vigilant and careful, demanding that the servants who brought my food first taste it before they allowed them through. Oh yes, those days marked a sharp shift in the seasons! I too was now in the power of England.

Casales and Rossaleti also recognised their tasks were changing. Rossaleti prepared himself to carry Isabella’s secret and privy seals though she quietly vowed that only she and I would seal what she and I should only know. A distance grew up between Casales and Rossaleti; they were no longer envoys but members of different households. Baquelle came into his own, being specially charged with organising the English departure from Boulogne to the nearby port of Wissant. Of course Sandewic gave me the news about the banquets and feasts hosted by the various courtiers with their flowery speeches and empty promises. He also took me out through the dreary mizzle of a Norman winter to view the sights.

Boulogne was a town transformed; banners, streamers, brightly coloured ribbons flapped everywhere alongside the fleur-de-lis of France and the leopards of England. Bishops, nobles, haughty ladies, high-ranking clerics, swaggering mice-eyed retainers tricked out in their glorious attire of ermine, brocade, satin silks, linen from the looms of Flanders and goldwork from Cologne. Sleek horses of every type, sumpters, destriers, palfreys and cobs, clattered across the frost-glazed cobbles. In the fields outside town the war-pennants fluttered and glowed in the bursts of weak sunshine. The might of Europe, garbed in the armour of Liege and Limoges, Damascus, Milan, London and Toledo, had come to do mock battle in the lists, those great tournaments and tourneys organised in Isabella’s honour. The frozen meadows outside the town walls were transformed by a host of standards all displaying their exotic insignia: wolves, wyverns, leopards, dragons, fire-breathing salamanders, suns and moons, wheat sheaves, fabulous birds, charging boars, rampant lions, crouching dogs, all parted per pale or per fesse, per cross or bend sinister. All these emblems were painted in the colours of heraldry, azure, gules, sable, vert, purple and argent. In the centre of this city of silken pavilions stood the lists, where knights in plate armour, helmets carved in terrifying shapes and surmounted by brilliantly coloured plumes, charged, lances splintering, shields buckling. As one joust finished another began to the blast of trumpet and horn, the air riven with the clash of steel, the thunder of hooves and the heralds shouting, ‘Lessez les aler, lessez les aler, les bons chevaliers!’ Pages and squires clustered round the heroes who’d survived the battling of the last few days, all intent on winning the golden crown. I quoted the lines of a troubadour:

Speech does not comfort me,

I am in harmony with war,

Nor do I hold or believe any other religion.

Casales, who accompanied Sandewic and myself, seethed with humiliation at not being able to participate. He laughingly mocked my criticisms but Sandewic looped his arm through mine and nodded.

‘I’ve seen enough of battle!’ he remarked as we walked away, gesturing with his head. ‘It is nothing like that.’

By then it was the end of January, and the feasting and revelry were beginning to pall whilst the tournaments and tourneys had already led to the deaths of four young knights killed in a furious melee, a supposedly friendly joust between the courts of England and France.

‘It is time we were gone,’ Sandewic growled as we took off our cloaks in the buttery, warming our hands before the fire after our icy walk back from the tourney field. ‘The pot is beginning to bubble and the scum rises to coat it all,’ he added. ‘We should go before any real mischief is done.’

‘Nonsense,’ Casales objected, gesturing at Rossaleti, who was busy at the table transcribing household lists. ‘We have enough provisions whilst never again will the courts of England and France meet.’

‘I don’t like weddings or nuptials. They harvest bitter memories for me,’ Rossaleti intoned mournfully. Without any invitation the clerk threw down the quill pen and began to describe his own early days as a Benedictine novice and how he realised that he was not fit to take solemn vows. He talked about his marriage and the tragic death of his beloved wife, speaking so wistfully that he stirred the memories of others. Casales described his wedding day and the death of his wife in childbirth, and the long arduous years since. Sandewic nodded sympathetically but lightened the mood by describing his own marriage of many years, its humour and companionship, though he grew sad with sorrow over his wife’s death and his frequent quarrels with his children. I sensed the deep sadness of these men who, in the words of Sandewic, had become ‘priests of politic’, giving up their own lives in the service of their king.

Our mood was lightened by Baquelle’s arrival. Sandewic winked at me and put a finger to his lips, for Sir John needed little encouragement to sermonise us on his all-important marriage to the sister, as he kept telling us, of the most powerful wool merchant in England. The little knight, cheery-faced from the cold, was full of what he’d seen and who he’d talked to, determined on delivering a lengthy sermon about the different courts which had assembled. Sandewic ordered a cask of Bordeaux to be broached and cut Baquelle off in full flow by declaring that we were sitting as if visited by the Three Summoners of Doom: Sickness, Old Age and Death. He filled our cups with the heady claret, ordered Rossaleti to fetch his dulcimer and told us not to be faux et semblant at such a joyous time but to revel and carol with the best. Rossaleti brought his dulcimer in and Sandewic broke into a bawdy song about a knight, his lady and a cuckolding friar whose testicles the knight vowed he would enshrine in a hog’s turd. Sandewic had a powerful voice, as did Casales, and both roared out the filthy but very comic song as Rossaleti tried to pluck music on the dulcimer. Sandewic taught me the words and made me join in the singing till tears of laughter bubbled in my eyes. A warm, amicable afternoon to spite the hailing sleet and numbing drizzle outside, yet it is curious, isn’t it, looking back, how every torchlight creates its own host of shadows?

On 2 February we celebrated the Feast of the Circumcision of the Christ Child. I crowded into the great cathedral of Notre Dame, standing between the baptismal font and the devil’s door through which Satan left every time a child was baptised. By craning my neck I could glimpse the great ones gathered in the choir stalls, but because of the heavy rood screen all I caught were flashes of colour. I composed myself to watch the ceremonial entry into the church of a young mother and her child seated on an ass in commemoration of the Virgin and Child coming out of Egypt. A choir carolled the well-known hymn ‘Orientis Partibus Advenitavit Asinus, Pulcher et Fortis’: ‘From the Eastern lands comes the donkey, beautiful and brave, well-fitted to bear his burden. Up donkey and sing.’ The subsequent mass, a vibrant, noisy assembly, marked the end of all the celebrations. During this the congregation imitated the braying of a donkey at the usual liturgical responses, as if both court and crowd were eager to seize this opportunity to offset the pompous, solemn liturgies of the previous days. Afterwards the great ones dined in the hall of the Maison du Roi.

In the evening, as darkness fell, Isabella returned to our lodgings escorted by a retinue of squires and pages with flaring torches and surrounded by a gaggle of leading noblewomen. These gathered in the courtyard as the princess dismounted from her palfrey. They crowded round her, wishing her well, leading her into the hallway. Isabella, pale with tiredness, stood with a false smile. When they had all departed, she grasped my hand and allowed me to lead her up to the bedchamber. She had the door bolted and locked, kicked off the heavy brocade slippers, loosened the ties and bows of her gowns, and left them lying on the floor. Then she picked up a coverlet from the bed, wrapped it round herself and crouched like a scullery wench before the brazier, warming her fingers. I gave her warm ale mixed with hops to soothe her and she grasped the goblet, drinking greedily before turning to me.

‘You will ask?’

‘You need not answer.’

‘Edward of England is kind and gentle, a courteous, chivalric knight.’ Isabella laughed. ‘He says he loves me and asked to see me naked. He showed me what he called bed wrestling and the troubadours prettify as lovemaking. Afterwards he entered me and hurt me; sometimes he liked to mount me as a stallion does a mare. Then he held me in his arms and kissed me.’ She spoke in a dry, flat tone, not hurt or wounded; the physical aspects of her first nuptials Isabella dismissed with a mere shrug.

‘Edward has moods, Mathilde. He never forgets an injury. He can be as attentive as a lovelorn squire but then he’ll sit staring into nothing, lips moving as if talking to himself. Mathilde,’ Isabella moved to face me fully, ‘I wonder if my husband Edward of England is slightly fey.’ She blinked, licked her lips and smiled brilliantly. ‘He hates my father. He detests the very sight of him, claiming that his own father and Philip of France richly deserved each other. When I told him I felt no different, Edward roared with laughter and hugged me tight. I told him about you, Mathilde.’ She put her goblet down and grasped my hand. ‘But not all about you. He said you are most welcome, his house will be yours, adding that we shall all plot against Philip. He loves that, Mathilde, to mock, to turn the world on its head. During the mass this morning he led the braying, laughing out loud like a schoolboy released from his horn book.’

‘And the Lord Gaveston?’

Isabella wound together a few loose threads on the coverlet.

‘They are as one, Mathilde! Edward says Gaveston is his brother, his father, his sister and his mother.’

‘And his lover?’

Isabella shook her head, not denying it, more bemused and bewildered.

‘We shall see,’ she breathed. ‘We shall see.’

‘And the deaths of Pourte and Wenlok?’

‘Edward remained tight-lipped about those.’ She pulled the coverlet closer. ‘He did not seem pleased about either man, muttering that both had supported his marriage to me or, rather, the French marriage,’ she smiled, ‘as well as the arrest of the Templars, but opposed the advancement of Lord Gaveston. Did you know, Mathilde, Casales, Sandewic and Baquelle have the same mind on these matters? Edward still trusts them but does not like their views.’ Isabella stared into the fiery coals. ‘In the end Edward of England,’ she whispered, ‘could be a goat, a donkey, even a pig and I’d still dance on my back for him!’ She glared fiercely at me. ‘I am free, Mathilde, we are leaving! Now is our winter; soon the spring will come and I’ll sow the seeds for the future. We’ll watch them grow in summer and rejoice at harvest time!

Isabella retired, crawling between the linen sheets, pulling the blankets over her head, while I drew the curtains of the bed about her. I sat for a while before the brazier, warming myself, half sleeping, as I reflected on what Isabella had said. One fact was emerging: Pourte, Wenlok, Casales, Sandewic and Baquelle were confidants of the king, and had all advised him not to advance Gaveston. I remembered what Isabella had said about her new husband. Could Edward be responsible for those two deaths? For dispatching those assassins? There again, I’d learnt that others in England were opposed to the French marriage; perhaps they had had a hand in the mischief? I realised I could make little sense of it. I recalled my visit to the Rue des Ecrivains, that strange empty chamber and the man who’d been sheltering there. He’d disappeared so quickly and was apparently waiting for me in England. Was he the same man I’d glimpsed in the Oriflamme tavern? Was he involved in these mysteries?

I was about to retire when Sandewic and Casales arrived. I didn’t have the heart to dismiss them so I entertained them downstairs in the small parlour. One of the Welsh bowmen had built up the fire and served us some scraps from the buttery. Both men brought news. Tomorrow the English would leave Boulogne for Wissant. We were to be up before dawn. Outside I could already hear the porters and carters bringing out the wagons, checking the sumpter ponies.

‘It’s finished!’ Sandewic sighed in relief, stretching back his head as if to relieve the tension in his neck. ‘And now back to England.’

‘And Gaveston?’ Casales interjected.

‘Mais oui!’ I smiled. ‘And Gaveston.’

‘Mathilde, your mistress may have her part to play,’ Sandewic declared. ‘The problem with Edward of England is that he is bereft of good counsel. Most of the leading earls of his kingdom are as young as he: Guy of Warwick, Thomas of Lancaster. They are also hot-tempered and fiery-natured; they see themselves as the king’s natural councillors, his advisers by birth.’

‘So they naturally resent Gaveston.’

‘They hate him!’

‘But surely,’ I declared, ‘the old king’s councillors still play their part?’

‘Gone,’ Sandewic replied wearily. ‘Robert of Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury, is old and still in exile. Robert Baldock, Bishop of London, the former chancellor, is in disgrace because he too opposed Gaveston and the king, as did Walter Langton, former treasurer, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. Both bishops have been stripped of their offices and possessions and now remain under house arrest. Others are old or frail. The council chamber is empty, Gaveston alone has the king’s ear, and that,’ Sandewic pointed a finger at me, ‘is dangerous!’ He paused, collecting his thoughts, and stared up at the ceiling. ‘What is even more perilous,’ he added almost in a whisper, ‘is what Philip of France intends. What does he plot in that subtle teeming mind?’ He glanced out of the corner of his eye at me. ‘Oh, he can exchange the kiss of peace and call Edward his “fair son”, but Philip of France dreams his dreams. He is ready to summon up the ghosts of the past!’

When I questioned Sandewic on that, be became taciturn and withdrawn. A pity; the old constable’s remark was a key to these mysteries.

We left for Wissant the following morning, Edward processing out of Boulogne with very little ceremony, a studied insult to Philip. Isabella acted likewise, dispatching a mere messenger to make her farewells, saying she was concerned that she take everything with her. The long line of English carts, carriages and sumpter ponies poured out of Boulogne with standards flying. On either side of the column trudged Welsh bowmen in their steel morions and leather jerkins, whilst further out, light horsemen scouted the way before us. Isabella could have ridden in a litter; instead she bestrode a palfrey, often galloping up and down the long column of soldiery offering sweetmeats and smiles of encouragement. She did this unabashed, golden hair falling down, gown hitched up to display the froth of skirt and pretty ankles beneath. The troops loved it and cheered her loudly. Edward, riding at the head of the column, sent back his thanks to his charmante but kept to the fore, setting the speed of our march.

It proved an uneventful but uncomfortable journey. Nothing singular occurred except for Sandewic and Casales detaching themselves from the column, riding out with a small escort of mounted archers to explore the countryside. At first I wondered if they suspected an ambush. On their return at night they came and sat beside the roaring fire, muttering among themselves. I questioned them closely. Sandewic’s reply was off-hand. I snapped at both of them that I could understand any danger, especially in France. Sandewic almost leaned into the fire, so chilled was he after his arduous ride.

‘Did you notice?’ he whispered, and glanced around, but there was no one; Isabella had returned to her pavilion.

‘Did I notice what?’ I retorted.

‘For the love of heaven, the roads!’ Sandewic exclaimed. ‘They are repaired, hedges cut back, streams forded with fresh bridges, peasants hurrying away at our approach. .’

‘And?’ I insisted.

‘Philip himself is preparing to come here,’ Sandewic declared. ‘We found outposts manned; a line of beacons runs along the coast. Villagers talk of troops being dispatched to ports further to the east, of boats and barges being collected.’

‘Preparations for the royal wedding?’ I asked.

‘Possible,’ Sandewic grumbled, gesturing into the dark. ‘I’ve informed the king, but all he’s interested in is Wissant.’

Edward’s desire to reach the port was understandable. The countryside between Boulogne and the coast was desolate, frozen wasteland offering little protection against the biting sea winds. We reached the port the following day and gazed down at The Margaret of Westminster and its escort riding at anchor. The royal ship was magnificent, a great masted cog with high stern and jutting prow. It was my first encounter with the sea and I soon understood the sailor’s prayer, ‘From perilous seas Lord deliver us’. The journey out by barge to the war-cog was the beginning of the terrors. The powerful, swift swell of the heavy grey water, the salting spray, the blasting wind, the dangerous climb up the side on to the ever-moving deck cannot easily be forgotten. Our embarkation was hasty and rough. The king was resolute on an evening departure. He was first aboard, striding the deck, his cloak thrown back, strong booted legs spread against the sway of the ship. I passed him, the closest I’d been, as the princess hurried to her cabin beneath the stern. He winked at me boyishly. An open, very handsome face with a straight nose, full lips, the golden hair matted by sea spray; his blue eyes, however, were cold and angry as if the soul behind seethed in fury.

Once Isabella was settled, I went and stood beneath the canopy near the steps leading up to the stern. Edward was still pacing up and down, roaring at the captain, dragging the latecomers, including a bedraggled, terrified Rossaleti, over the side, almost throwing him on to the deck. Sailors and servants were sent staggering as the king shoved and pushed, bellowing orders at the captain, who retorted with a stream of curses, gesturing at the sky and the shore. Edward shook his fist at him. The captain hurried down from the poop, screaming invective and waving his hands. Edward shoved the man up against the mast, talking to him fiercely, the crew pattering by them, all unconcerned, bare feet slapping the soaking deck. The captain replied just as furiously. Edward turned away, hands on hips, swaying with the motion of the ship. Then he turned back roaring with laughing, grabbed the captain by the jerkin, dragged him forward and thrust a handful of coins at him. The captain had won the argument. We waited until our escort ships were fully ready before the Margaret turned, dipped its sails three times in honour of the Trinity and made its way out into the open sea.

Visions of hell! I have witnessed many, but that first journey across the swollen, tempest-tossed Narrow Seas was a true descent into Hades. Gusty gales, crashing waves, the ship rising and falling as it fought the seething sea. Salt water gushed everywhere, stinging cold, flying spray sharp as a razor; the giddiness, the nausea, the sheer terror of being imprisoned within wooden walls against the brute passion of nature. I retched and vomited, no longer caring. Nevertheless, one memory survives. The king came down and knelt beside me, his smiling face coaxing me to drink pure water; he stroked my hair, telling me not to be afraid, calling me by my name, saying I shouldn’t worry. Later he helped me up on to the deck. I became aware of whirling, star-lit skies, the surge of the wild sea and the blasting force of the wind. The king held me very close, telling me to breathe the fresh air, not to think but to rejoice! I was leaving France; I was free of the malignant power of Philip. He then took me back down, wrapped me in a cloak and knelt by Isabella shivering in her cot-bed, rubbing her hands, talking quickly in English which I could not understand.

I fell asleep. When I awoke, dawn had broken. Screams from the deck above sent me hurrying out. The Margaret had sighted land but the crew had assembled to watch their king flay a man who had fallen asleep during his night watch. The unfortunate had been guilty of nothing but exhaustion yet, clad only in a soiled loincloth, he was lashed to the mast, his back criss-crossed with bloody scars from the cane a sweaty-faced Edward held in his hand. The king stood, chest heaving, teeth bared, eyes staring. The flogging ceased as I reached the top step. I grasped a rope to steady myself against the swell. The king lifted the cane, glimpsed me then threw it to the deck, shouting that the man should be released. The sailor was unbound and collapsed on to the deck. Edward took a pail of salt water and poured it over the man’s scarred back; the sailor screamed. Edward knelt beside him, turned him over and, shouting for the captain, took the proffered cup of wine, forcing it between the man’s lips. He then rose, dug into his purse, forced a gold coin into the man’s clenched fist, kicked him gently in the ribs and hurried on to the poop to stand by the pilot.

The Margaret made its way in under the brooding cliffs of Dover and the soaring castle which dominated them. We disembarked on barges and boats. Isabella was quite ill and had to be carried ashore. I staggered behind, so absorbed with being back on land, I hardly noticed the retinue awaiting us. Isabella was carefully housed in her litter, and I was about to join her when the shrill blast of trumpets echoed through the mist. We were on the quayside, which was dank, wet and reeking of salty fish. The mist shifted and a wall of brilliant colour advanced through the murk. I was aware of a tall, slender, dark-haired man dressed brightly as the sun walking towards Edward, who stood a little ahead of us ringed by Sandewic, Casales and others of the royal retinue. I leaned against the litter and stared as if I was seeing a vision. Behind the sun-dressed man trooped a cohort of what appeared to be gaudily dressed children, jumping and leaping, the bells on their costumes tinkling out. Beside these strode standard-bearers carrying banners emblazoned with the insignia of a scarlet eagle, its wings outstretched; and following hastily on, a group of noblemen and women dressed in the finery of the court. Gaveston in all his glory had arrived! Edward did not wait but ran towards him, arms outstretched. They met and embraced, hugging and kissing, ignoring the protests and exclamations of the lords and ladies who had accompanied Gaveston as well as those coming up the steps from the barges and boats.

At the time these were simply shapes, hot-eyed, choleric-faced individuals, cloaked and furred, fingers, wrists and throats glittering with jewellery; men and women who, at first, were mere shadows, though in time they would touch my life with their ambition, greed, vindictiveness, vices and virtues, talents and weaknesses. I could not immediately give them names, but their titles were already known. Guy Beauchamp, the dark-browed Earl of Warwick; Aymer de Valence, slender as a snake with the pious face of a priest; Thomas of Lancaster, tall and angular, with pallid features, a hooked nose and arrogant grey eyes; Bohun of Hereford, squat and burly; and, of course, Mortimer of Wigmore. On that day, however, it was Gaveston and Gaveston alone. The king dragged him by the arm back to the litter, pulling aside its curtains. Both men squatted down. Gaveston moved on to his knees; grasping the princess’s hands, he kissed them both on the palms and the backs, offering her undying fealty.

Isabella, exhausted after the sea voyage, struggled to sit up against the cushions. She replied in a strong voice how pleased she was to finally meet her ‘sweet cousin’. Once again Gaveston bowed, head going down in deep obeisance before, one hand on the king’s shoulder, he forced himself up and stood looking down at me.

Gaveston was a truly beautiful man. He was dressed in cloth-of-gold jerkin, hose and costly cape beneath a pure woollen cloak thrown dramatically back over his shoulders. A brilliant amethyst brooch clasping the collar of his jerkin glowed in the dappled light, long white fingers glittered with precious stones, whilst the perfume from his robes smelt exquisite. He stood as tall as Edward with dark hair and fair, smooth-shaven skin; a girlish face, soft-eyed and full-lipped. At first glance he seemed effeminate, but a closer look revealed a firm chin and a thin, imperious nose whilst those liquid brown eyes mirrored a shifting range of emotions. Even then, in those few heartbeats of our first meeting, Gaveston changed, eyes and mouth wrinkling in a welcoming smile until he tilted his head back and heard the muttering around him. Immediately his face hardened, lower lip jutting out, eyes narrowing, skin tightening in anger, rendering his high cheekbones more prominent. He glanced imperiously around, then stared back at me; he smiled, shrugged, grasped my fingers and kissed them, welcoming me in a clear, vibrant voice, his courtly French tinged with a slight accent.

Around us swirled what I had first thought were the cohort of children; they were in fact the king’s jesters, the stulti, mimi et histriones so beloved of Edward of England. Little men and women dressed garishly in chequered cloth and multicoloured hose, some had their pates shaven in the form of a tonsure and marked with a cross. They rejoiced in names such as Maud Make-Joy and Robert the Fool, Dulcia Wifestof, Griscote (Grey Bread), Visage (The Face) and Magote (the Ape). Some of them were sensible, others clearly made fools by either God or nature. They all danced round the king and Gaveston, made a fuss of Isabella and myself, leaping and cavorting even as the king finally greeted the sullen-faced nobles who’d gathered with their wives to welcome him.

So, so many years ago, yet the memories come hurtling back clear and stark. It was a time of dreams, like the waking time after a deep sleep. The schoolmen talk of distinguishing between what is real and what is not; perhaps they have it wrong. There are no differences, just varying, conflicting realities. I was free of France, yet in a way I was not. I had been pitched and tossed on the Narrow Seas to be caught up in the murky swirl of the English court. I had been confined within walls of wood but now I was hurried up the steep, winding path to the forbidding fortress of Dover with its yawning great gatehouse. We went in under soaring towers and sombre walls, along narrow galleys and passageways into a broad cobbled bailey, busy as a Paris street. Smiths and tinkers hammered and clattered, horses neighed, fleshers sliced carcasses and hung them on hooks so the blood would drain into the waiting buckets. Dogs barked, ponies reared and whinnied. Children screamed as the womenfolk busied themselves over washing vats. The filthy ground seemed to swell and move. I was giddy and nauseous. People appeared, a moving sea of faces either smiling or forbidding. Greetings were offered, then at last we were alone in a stark but comfortable room at the base of one of the towers: a cavernous chamber with arrow slits for windows, its walls and floors warmed with coloured cloths and rugs. Chafing dishes and braziers were plentiful, whilst a strong fire glowed in the great hearth. A huge four-poster bed dominated the room, its fringed curtains pulled back, the linen sheets warmed with pans of fiery charcoal.

Isabella and I immediately went to sleep whilst porters and servants brought up our baggage and all the other goods being ferried to the quayside. I woke once, sharply aware of the different realities, the ordinary and extraordinary which I’d noticed over the last two days, then I fell asleep again.

Later that day, still confused and tired, we dined in the great hall of the castle, long and cavernous like a tithing barn with brightly emblazoned cloths and drapes hanging from the hammer-beam roof. All the windows and arrow slits had been shuttered against the bitter draughts. The fire in the hearth was a mass of burning logs. We sat on the dais with Casales, Sandewic and Baquelle, together with a group of leading lords and ladies. The only other guests, an open snub to Edward’s leading courtiers, the royal dwarves and jesters, were seated at a special table beneath the salt. Edward spent most of the meal teasing these, throwing pieces of stewed meat and chicken at them, lounging back in his throne-like chair, thumb to his mouth, slurping from his wine cup and roaring with laughter at the antics of his ‘special guests’. He behaved like an uncouth young man. The royal favourite, magnificently attired in scarlet and gold satin, did not participate in the king’s revelry but intently watched Isabella and myself as if weighing our worth, plotting what to do next. On one occasion he leaned over and grasped my hand.

‘Mathilde,’ he whispered, ‘bear with us for a while, nothing is what it appears to be.’

For the rest the conversation was about the imminent arrival of the French party in their ships, the issue of safe conducts to them under the privy seal, the forthcoming journey through Kent to London and the date of the coronation. The meal ended on a sour note with two of the leading earls, Warwick and Hereford I believe, objecting to the clamour of the jesters. Edward replied that if the earls wanted to leave they could, which they did, bowing to the king and Isabella but openly ignoring Gaveston.

Eventually Isabella returned to our room, the king staying in the royal chambers adjoining the hall. He entreated Isabella to visit him but she pleaded exhaustion after a long journey. For a while she sat on the edge of the bed, combing her hair and humming softly to herself. I busied myself with various tasks. I was eager to determine that the books and precious manuscripts Isabella had brought with her, many dealing with physic and the properties of herbs, had not been lost.

‘Mathilde,’ Isabella called out.

‘Your grace?’

The princess smiled and patted the bed beside her. ‘Come. I must get used to that title.’ She handed the comb to me turning slightly so I could smooth out her hair at the back. ‘As I must get used to my husband’s determination to avenge all insults and demonstrate he is king.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘That is the radix malorum omnium, Mathilde, the root of all evils here. Edward is, in many ways, a child younger in years than me. He was snubbed and insulted by his own father and his nobles, and he never forgets.’

‘And the Lord Gaveston?’ I asked.

‘I must accept things for what they are, Mathilde. Gaveston is Edward’s soul. He fills an emptiness that I could never hope to; I must learn to accept that.’

‘And yourself?’ I asked. ‘What about your emptiness? ’

I thought Isabella was crying; her shoulders shook slightly. When I tried to turn her, she pushed me away.

‘I don’t know, Mathilde. I don’t know where the emptiness is and I am not too sure if it can ever be filled.’ She turned to me. ‘You do that for me. Can’t you see? In the friendship I have for you?’ She touched me gently on the shoulder. ‘I can understand Edward’s love for Gaveston; we mirror each other.’

‘He should be more cunning, astute.’

‘That, Mathilde,’ the princess whispered, ‘comes with years. The king is insistent on one thing. Tonight we dined in public, but tomorrow, he, Gaveston, you and I will dine alone in his chambers. He has told us to rest as we shall talk and drink until the early hours. I understand that. Soon,’ Isabella pulled a face, ‘Marigny and the rest arrive; they will watch us like a cat does a bird.’