The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 9

We stayed at the Priory of St Augustine for some time, waiting to welcome the French party: Philip’s two brothers, the Counts of Valois and Evreux; Marigny, Nogaret, des Plaisans and the three royal princes. Two days after we arrived, these swept into the priory courtyard, a gorgeous cavalcade under their blue and gold banners, to be greeted by Edward and Gaveston. The usual banquets and feastings followed in the priory or the cathedral buildings. Once again Isabella was surrounded by the ladies of the court and I was excluded. The princess was certainly at the behest of ‘that green-eyed Reynard’, her nick name for Marigny, who, during mass the morning after his arrival, stared malevolently at me as he and the rest processed slowly out of church. I was relieved to be excluded from all their jostling malice, whilst Isabella eagerly recounted the details of what happened. How Edward publicly paid more attention to Gaveston than he did to his ‘beloved wife’, the royal favourite openly wearing some of the jewels Philip had given to Isabella. The French, of course, objected, and relations between the two courts grew increasingly strained.

I was content to be away from the hurly-burly of meetings, feasts and courtly sessions. Casales, Sandewic, Rossaleti and Baquelle, when they could, joined me in the spacious parlour of the guest house or accompanied me through the priory herbarium, where I discussed the names and properties of the various plants. Sandewic, in particular, showed interest. He was still full of praise for the physic I had given him. He and the rest had no choice but to listen as I explained how the priory possessed a number of gardens: the cloister garden with grass and flowers growing around the holy water stoup in the centre; the cemetery garden with its fruit and blossom trees; the kitchen garden and the infirmary or physic garden to the north of the priory. The latter boasted sixteen parallel beds, well dug and tended, all separated by sanded paths, the herb plots deliberately sited to catch the sun. A pleasant place, even on a winter’s day. The fragrance of the plants still sweetened the air despite the small pentile coverings the physic-master, Brother Ambrose, had placed over them as protection against the elements. That old Benedictine was truly a man in love with God’s creation, responsible for both the physic garden and the infirmary. He always joined us with a battered copy of Dioscorides’ De Materia Medica under his arm; little wonder that, after an hour of listening to the infirmarian’s lecture on the virtues of feverfew, my companions soon absented themselves.

Oh, I loved that graceful, serene garden, a haven from the hate and intrigue which boiled through the priory like an evil mist and, of course, eventually trapped me. I was leaving the herbarium one afternoon when I glimpsed a monk standing in the shadows of the small cloister, half hidden by a pillar. I had been searching the herb plots and couldn’t believe I’d found wormwood growing in one of the beds; I was hastening to speak about it to Brother Ambrose. I left quickly, unexpectedly, and caught my watcher slightly off his guard. He moved swiftly away but stumbled on an uneven pavement, caught the wall and turned in alarm. I was walking swiftly. I glimpsed his face and stopped in shocked surprise. I was certain he was the same man I’d seen in the Oriflamme tavern what now seemed an eternity ago. I would always remember that face, those far-seeing eyes, but surely, I wondered, it couldn’t be? In Paris he had dressed as an English clerk, not a Benedictine monk. Was he truly here in England? I was so startled, so fearful, I sat down on a stone sill. Was he a clerk? Had he glimpsed me leave the tavern with Narrow Face? Had he followed us and seen me stab Crokendon behind the charnel house? By the time I recovered, it was too late to pursue him. I was so confused I eventually dismissed it all as a trick of the eyes.

On that same evening, Isabella and her ladies journeyed into Canterbury as the guests of the mayor and the leading citizens of the city, who had arranged a splendid private banquet at the nearby lordly and spacious tavern, The Chequer of Hope. The priory fell silent except for the melodious chanting of the monks at vespers, the Latin phrases drifting across the priory grounds. I dined alone in the small refectory of the guest house. Casales, Sandewic and the rest had joined the king’s retinue in Canterbury. I stayed in the refectory for a while, reading in the light of a candle a manuscript Brother Ambrose had loaned me. I was about to adjourn when a lay brother whom the rest of the community called Simon Simplex came bustling in, an old man with tufts of hair sticking out, eyes all milky white, spittle drooling from the corner of his mouth.

‘Oh, mistress,’ he waved his hands, ‘Brother Ambrose needs you in the infirmary.’

I returned to my chamber, collected my cloak and made my way along the lonely cloisters and stone-walled passageways. The bells of the city were clanging out, the monks had begun compline, and a phrase caught my imagination, a quotation, put to verse, from the Letter of St Peter, about Satan being a prowling lion, seeking whom he could devour. I should have heeded the warning.

The infirmary was a two-storey building on the far side of the priory, overlooking the physic garden. The infirmary itself stood at the top of very steep steps. Brother Ambrose had confided to me that the founder of the priory had deliberately made them so in order to force people to reflect on whether they were truly ill before attempting to go up. The steps were so steep, Ambrose himself needed help to climb them, while the injured and sick had to be carried up by burly servants.

By the time I reached the infirmary, darkness had fallen. At the top of the steps cresset torches, fixed either side of the yawning doorway, flared beckoningly in the breeze. From the bushes and trees alongside the building came the final cawing of the crows. The hunting call of a fox yipped through the darkness to be immediately answered by the deep, bell-like baying of the priory dogs. I climbed the steps wondering what Brother Ambrose wanted. Simon had disappeared, so I reasoned it must be pressing business, otherwise Ambrose would have joined his brothers in the choir for compline. I had reached the entrance and was about to go along the narrow gallery, lit only by a single torch and a brazier glowing at the far end just outside the infirmary door, when the sacking, coarse and reeking of the soil, was thrown over my head. I struggled and screamed; a blow to the side of my head sent me staggering. I was tugged and pushed, forced back outside to be thrown down those steep, sharp-edged steps. Images of Pourte falling through the darkness made me fight back, but I was confused. I was losing the struggle, my legs felt weak and my assailant must have pushed me close to the top of the steps when my deliverance came.

‘Au secours! Au secours!’ The voice was strong and ringing; footsteps sounded as if someone was hurrying up towards us. I fought desperately, determined to move away from the direction of that voice and the cruel topple down the steps. Gasping for air, I crashed into the great door, which had been pulled back, and slid to the ground. I freed myself from the sacking, then glanced quickly to the right. Nothing, only the brazier glowing. I crept like a dog on all fours to the top of the steps and peered down. Again nothing. I staggered to my feet and carefully made my way back to the lonely guest house. Reaching it safely, I dragged myself up the stairs, locking and bolting the chamber door behind me.

For a while I just lay on the floor. I needed to vomit and hurried to the garderobe, a narrow recess sealed off by a door. Once my belly settled, I returned and, using the princess’s hand mirror, scrutinised the blow to the side of my head. I felt a lump, and tender bruising, but no blood. I changed my gown, treated the bruises on my arms and legs, drank a little watered wine and lay down. A fearsome darkness seem to shroud me, scowling at my soul and hanging like a midnight mist around my heart, chilling my courage, weakening my will. Who would attack me? Why? And my saviour, that clear, strong voice ringing out? I drew some heart comfort from that. The wine seeped in, warming my blood, rousing the humours. I must not, would not, weaken. I recalled Uncle Reginald and the short prayer he had composed:

Christe Jesu who made me out of mud,

And did save me through your blood.

Kyrie eleison, Lord have mercy.

I fell asleep and was roused by the return of Isabella, the princess slamming the door behind her against the gaggle of chattering women. She muttered quiet curses but broke off when she saw me and, grasping my hands, made me repeat what had happened. She examined my head, using my own potions to treat the bruise, and also sent for Brother Ambrose and Simon. Both came up owl-eyed, and knelt just within the doorway as my mistress, despite my protests, hotly questioned them. Brother Ambrose shook his head sorrowfully, claiming he had not sent for me. Did not her grace, he continued, realise that, according to the customary of the priory, women were strictly forbidden to enter the infirmary? Moreover, at the time of the attack he, with Brother Simon, who was wandering in his wits, poor soul, had been in the choir’s stalls amongst their brethren. Simon could not help himself but kept muttering ‘beautiful, beautiful’ as he gazed wonderingly at Isabella. He really could not understand her questions but, with the help of Brother Ambrose, he eventually admitted that one of the brothers had given him the message for me. No, he assured us, he could not remember the face; it was dark and the brother had his cowl up against the cold, but he had blessed him in Latin, quoting St Benedict’s greeting. The mysterious monk had claimed he was speaking for Father Prior and Simon had to carry the message to me. I immediately thought of Rossaleti, a former novice in the Benedictine order, and, unlike Casales, Sandewic or Baquelle, fully skilled in Latin. I whispered this to Isabella, then Brother Simon described how this Benedictine had grasped his hands.

‘Rough they were,’ he muttered, ‘like those of a peasant, a breaker of the soil.’

I glanced at Isabella and shrugged. Rossaleti’s hands were softer than mine.

Brother Ambrose clambered to his feet saying he must tell all to the prior. Isabella, at my behest, swore both men to silence, placing a silver piece into each of their hands.

After the monks had gone, Isabella stood motionless in the pool of candlelight.

‘Mathilde,’ she glanced across at me, ‘anyone could have attacked you. When we arrived at The Chequer of Hope, people were coming and going. Gaveston chose to ignore my uncles, Marigny and the rest. Anyone, including him, could have travelled the short distance between the tavern and the priory and perpetrated that attack. It would be easy to borrow a Benedictine robe and stand in the shadows, whilst they’ve all had hours of time to find their way round this priory. Brother Simon is so fey, he would believe anyone or anything.’ She leaned down and stroked my hair. ‘As you did, Mathilde. You should be more prudent, more careful.’

‘Could it have been Gaveston?’ I asked.

‘Possibly,’ Isabella sat down next to me on the bed. ‘Like the rest he is a killer.’

I then told my mistress about the St Agnes painting, swearing that I was sure it was the same one I’d seen at Monsieur de Vitry’s house.

‘It cannot be,’ she whispered. ‘Gaveston was in England at the time, unless he journeyed to Paris secretly.’

I also told her about the man with the far-sighted gaze whom I had glimpsed in the Paris tavern and again here. Was he the same who appeared when I was attacked at the infirmary? In the end I had to concede we were chasing shadows, so Isabella turned to the doings of the court.

‘My husband will not be joining me.’ She rose and walked towards the window. ‘And I will not be joining him, at least until the French have left. Subtle games, devious ploys, eh, Mathilde, but how, where and when will it all end?’

‘In bloody mayhem and death.’ The words spilled out before I could stop them.

‘Yes, Mathilde, I think you are right.’

We left the priory shortly afterwards, journeying with all speed towards London. Edward, acting as fickle as ever, abruptly announced that the coronation would have to be postponed. This was ill received by the French. Isabella continued to be largely ignored by her husband. Salt was rubbed into the wounded pride of the French by Gaveston openly displaying in his own carts and pavilions the wedding presents given to Isabella by her kinsmen. Sandewic and Baquelle were sent ahead to prepare both the Tower and the city for the royal arrival; Casales and Rossaleti were left to look after us. The dark-faced, liquid-eyed clerk admitted he was in a solemn mood, slightly homesick for France, even though he was kept busy preparing the queen’s chancery and other departments of her household. He provided amusement with his constant moans and groans about the cold until Casales had to remind him that the weather in Paris was no different. Once Sandewic had left, Casales grew more relaxed, confessing he found the old Constable of the Tower a difficult companion, with his constant muttering about the king and Lord Gaveston. Casales attached himself more to me. I would catch him slumped in the saddle, his one good hand holding the reins, his sharp eyes in that severe face under its crop of hair scrutinising me carefully. He noticed the bruising on the side of my head and asked how I came by it. I replied that I had fallen, so he pressed me no further.

Casales repeated the chatter of the court as well as describing the various palaces and the royal manor houses at King’s Langley, Woodstock and elsewhere. He was also eager to see London again, describing it to myself and Isabella. ‘London is like a rectangle, with six main gates all dating from Roman times,’ he explained. ‘In the south-east stands the Tower overlooking the Thames, the Conqueror’s great fortress, Sandewic’s fief. It was built to overawe Londoners with its central donjon. The line of city defence runs north to Aldgate, west to Bishopsgate and Cripplegate then down through Newgate to the Thames. It encloses about a hundred and thirty acres and houses every type of sinner under the sun. What Paris has, London possesses in abundance: ale houses, stews, taverns, inns and brothels, tradesmen, nobles, merchants, clerks and scholars.’ He shook his head. ‘Everything that crawls or walks under the sun can be found in London. If the devil does brisk business, so does God. There’s St Paul’s, its steeple packed with relics against lightning, and one hundred and ten other churches, though for every priest there is a prostitute, for every monk a felon, and for every friar a thief. As Sandewic will tell you, the city gallows at the Elms in Smithfield are always busy.’

A few days later we saw London for ourselves. At Blackheath we were met by the mayor, council and leading citizens of the city, hundreds of them dressed in scarlet gowns with fur-tipped hoods. They were ranged like troops in order of their guilds, each under its own colourful standard emblazoned with its particular devices and insignia. These led us north into London and across the long bridge spanning the Thames. Beneath us the river rushed dizzyingly. Barges and boats, all splendidly arrayed, sailed back and forth in an extraordinary display of billowing decorative cloths, blaring trumpets and noisy cheering. On either side of the bridge ranged houses and shops, with gaps in between for the great rubbish heaps, the lay stalls, now cleaned and empty. The pikes jutting up from the rails of the bridge had been cleared of their rotting severed heads and were festooned with coloured streamers dancing wildly in the breeze.

As we left the bridge, the waiting crowds spread everywhere, packed at least twenty deep. The roar of their approval echoed up to the heavens as they greeted their king and his bride. Isabella was garbed in gorgeous robes of scarlet and silver, her golden hair circled by a jewelled coronet, her shoulders warmed by a satin robe edged with costly fur. She rode a milk-white palfrey, accompanied on her right by Edward, clothed in a scarlet and gold surcoat over a snow-white linen shirt, a cape of glory around his shoulders, a jewelled crown on his head. The king rode his father’s prancing black destrier Bayard; both it and Isabella’s mount were decorated with gleaming red-brown leather harness studded with precious stones. Golden spurs adorned the king’s heels, whilst Isabella’s stirrups of solid silver, a gift from the city of Canterbury, glittered in the winter sun.

Onlookers later described them as Arthur and Guinevere entering Camelot. In a sense they were correct, for like that tale, Edward and Isabella’s story ended in tragedy, but that was for the future, further down the roll of years. On that February morning all of London had turned out to greet their handsome young king and his lovely bride who rode by like a fairy queen, so beautiful, like a mythical lady from high romance. I was all agog for the sights as I’d heard so much about London. On that day I caught the vibrancy of a bustling, teeming city in its springtime vigour, with each of its wards trying to surpass its rivals and so transform London into a great festival ground.

We entered the city proper, the turrets and soaring donjon of the Tower rising to our right, then turned to advance in glory through London’s streets to give thanks at Westminster. We passed splendid mansions, the homes of the merchant princes, their black beams and pink plaster hung with cloths of every colour, brilliant banners and glorious standards. Just off the bridge we paused before a symbolically constructed tower. On the top stood a giant holding an axe in his right hand as champion of the city, and in his left, as porter, the keys of the gates. From halberds jutting out from the top of the tower hung mantles displaying the royal arms of England and France. The giant pointed to these and launched into a hymn of praise to his new king and queen.

A short while later we processed up Cornhill to the music of trumpets, horns and clarions, past mock castles built of wood and covered with stiffened cloth painted to look like white marble and green jasper. At the top of the tallest reared a silver lion, exquisitely carved, a shield displaying the royal arms around its neck, in one paw a sceptre, in the other a sword. Splendid pavilions also lined the route, the flaps of their openings pulled back to display images of St George, St Edmund and St Edward the Confessor. In other ceremonial tents boy choirs, dressed like angels in white and gold, sprigs of genet and laurel in their hair, carolled vibrantly, ‘Isabella, Regina Anglorum, Gloria Laus et Honor’ — to Isabella, Queen of the English, Glory, Praise and Honour.

We journeyed into Cheapside, where the Great Conduit, a spacious building which covered the main watering place of London, had been transformed into a fairy castle, housing maidens dressed in cloth of gold, their hair studded with gems. These sang beautifully, ‘Gloriosa Dicta Sunt, Isabella’ — Glorious Things Are Said About You, Isabella. And, so it continued as we processed along that great thoroughfare of Cheapside, its magnificent mansions and shops ranging on either side. We went down under the lofty towers and steeple of St Paul’s, along the roads bordering the Thames, on to the Royal Way and into the spacious precincts of Westminster. On one side rose the halls and soaring gabled houses of the palace; on the other the glorious, breathtaking vision of stone which was Westminster Abbey, its flamboyant stonework, buttresses, walls, glass-filled windows, lace-work carvings and triumphant gateways sparkling in the heavy frost. We entered, processing along its spectacular nave up to the high altar, and Isabella and Edward knelt in the sanctuary to give thanks before visiting the canopied marble shrine of Edward the Confessor.

Afterwards, we journeyed up river to the Tower. We left the King’s Steps at Westminster on a magnificent, elaborately decorated royal barge, its boatmen bending over the oars while Edward and Isabella, enthroned under a canopy of cloth of gold, greeted the crowds lining the north bank of the Thames. We passed the famous quaysides of Queenshithe, Dowgate and the rest, and for the first time I experienced the terrors of shooting the waters between the starlings on the arches of London Bridge. A truly awesome experience of thundering, surging water booming like the drums of hell, spray flying like rain, before coming slowly in to moor at the Tower quayside, where Sandewic and Baquelle, dressed in the glowing colours of the royal household, were waiting to greet us.

I shall never forget my first arrival at the Tower, that grim brooding yet in some ways elegant fortress which was to play such a vital role in my mistress’s life. Henry III had copied the best of France in the building and renovation of the abbey and palace, but the Tower was a formidable reminder of the old king’s warrior ways. No wonder Sandewic was devoted to it. A soldier’s place, built for war, its very size and strength sufficient to threaten and subdue the turbulent Londoners, it reared up above the river with its central donjon or keep and girdling walls, deep moats, formidable bastions, dominating towers, cavernous gateways, all defended by crenellations, arrow slits, narrow gulleys and iron-tipped porticullis. We journeyed under the Lion Gate on to the bridge spanning the green-slimed, reeking moat, past the barbican where the King’s animals, lions, leopards and other fearsome beasts, prowled and roared. We stopped and listened to these before proceeding on through Middle Tower, under Byward and into the outer bailey, a broad, open expanse stretching between two curtain walls which housed the stables, store houses and living quarters of the soldiers and servants.

We continued on under St Edmunds Tower, through another gateway and into an enclosed courtyard cordoned off by the great four-squared keep as well as the Wakefield and Lanternhorn towers. Royal mansions had been built to connect these towers, magnificent houses of white and pink plaster and jet-black beams on stone foundations with red-tiled roofs. Large glass-filled windows provided both light and air whilst the inside floors were of polished wood. The walls of all the chambers were painted with ashlar, imitation stone, and decorated with eye-catching friezes of animals, plants, flowers, angels, griffins and a whole range of heraldic devices. One of these mansions, which Sandewic called his Castle on the Hoop, was given over to Isabella. An elegant residence, the castle boasted private bedchambers with hangings, chests and counters. On the ground floor was a small hall, exquisitely decorated and hung with vivid tapestries, a polished oaken table ranged along the dais, with trestle boards below for the servants. All the rooms were warmed with braziers whilst fires roared in the ornamental mantled hearths. Each was well furnished with a lavarium, consisting of wash bowls, jugs and pegs for napkins, silver candelabra as well as candle-wheels which could be lowered by pulleys to provide more light. Off the hall were parlours, butteries and kitchens all equipped with every necessity and comfort.

Sandewic was so proud of it all, God rest and assoil his poor soul. He wanted to make us feel safe, secure and comfortable. My heart warmed to his gentle goodness. For a brief while I cried, going off by myself to a deserted parlour because the constable’s cordial welcome evoked memories of Uncle Reginald and the warm closeness which he had wrapped around me. Isabella also welcomed the Castle, after the rigours of the royal progress. She doffed her gowns and jewellery, running around the chambers laughing and clapping her hands like the joyous young woman she should have been. It was good to be alone. The king and Gaveston lodged in the nearby Wakefield Tower whilst, God be thanked, the French had stayed at the king’s palace of Westminster. Casales and Rossaleti had been given chambers in our mansion whilst Baquelle, full of the glories the Londoners had staged, returned to the great Guildhall in Catte Street to feast and boast with his fellow aldermen.

That February became a time of waiting as preparations were made for the coronation. Isabella had described us as two sparrows. On reflection we were more like sparrowhawks, still young and tender, whilst the Tower became our safe nesting place. Sandewic, of course, came into his own. He loved his fief, so every morning he would present himself at the Castle on the Hoop with a list of minor ailments which made me smile. I treated blisters with madonna’s lily; cat-nip or neo, soaked and roasted, for the rheums and his constant catarrh. He, in turn, was eager to show me the Tower in all its glory. We visited the barbican. Inside stood a long row of specially built cages which contained the savage beasts, gifts for the English king from foreign rulers. One, in particular, fascinated Sandewic: a huge brown bear he called Woden, a fearsome brute who’d rear up, clawing the air. The stench was intense, fetid and foul from the large vats swimming in blood containing the slabs of meat fed to the beasts. Sandewic was particularly pleased with the cages. He had personally supervised their construction so the animals could pace and move. He pointed out how Woden, like himself, suffered pains in the joints. He certainly had a kinship for that great beast, even carrying a basket of fruit into Woden’s cage. On such occasions he’d dress in a special cloak fashioned out of boiled leather sheets sewn together; this served as protection against the half-tame bear: Woden would lumber towards him and gently pull at the constable, begging for the food Sandewic eventually placed on the ground.

The constable’s great boast, however, was the little Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula situated in a corner of the inner bailey. It had fallen into disrepair and Sandewic had refurbished it out of his own revenues. He was very proud of what he called his petit bijou — his little jewel. Inside, the chapel was similar to those built before the Conqueror: a long, barn-like building with beams spanning the narrow nave leading down to a gleaming stone sanctuary with its elaborately carved rood screen and large table-altar standing on a dais. Above this, a spacious oriel window filled with stained glass depicting the liberation of St Peter from his prison in Jerusalem poured in light. The paving stones were smooth and evenly laid, the woodwork gleamed a warm dark brown. Charcoal braziers provided warmth, and to the left of the sanctuary the masons and carpenters had fashioned a small lady chapel with a carving of the Virgin and Child which replicated the famous image at Walsingham. Tablets of incense placed on top on the brazier provided a fragrant perfume whilst the chapel even boasted small benches and prie-dieus. The walls had been sanded, replastered, whitewashed and almost covered by vigorous, vivid paintings describing the history of the Tower.

I remember it all so vividly: a cold morning with the river mist boiling across the Tower, shrouding walls and turrets, hanging across the ward like a curtain, deadening sound except for the harsh cawing of the ravens. The mist even seeped under the door into the nave of St Peter’s. I wondered if the wispy tendrils were the ghosts of those who wander searching for absolution. Sandewic paced up and down the sanctuary describing his work in the chapel. He paused and gestured.

‘This, Mathilde, is my Cup of Ghosts!’

I asked him what he meant.

‘If only the king would come here!’ he continued, ignoring my question. ‘If he’d only reflect and pray.’ The constable lowered his head, looking at me from under bushy eyebrows. ‘This place holds the Cup of Ghosts, just as in Arthur’s tale the Chapel Perilous possessed the Holy Grail.’ He then swiftly passed on to other matters so I let it rest. ‘Soul does speak to soul — cor loquitur cor — heart speaks to heart.’

Perhaps even then Sandewic was trying to warn me. A soldier of the old school, he was reluctant to say anything direct yet he tried to be honest and blunt. Once outside the chapel he grasped my hand and took me into a small buttery adjoining a kitchen, one of those outhouses which served the garrison. We sat breaking our fast before the fire. Sandewic could have spoken but servants were milling about. Eventually he grasped my wrist as if he’d had reached a decision and took me out down to the great Watergate; its portcullis was raised, pinpricks of torchlight glowed through the mist and the clatter of men unloading the barges echoed dully. Sandewic pushed me into a recess. He pulled my cloak up about me and thrust a pomander into my hand as some protection against the reeking stench from the waterways. Then he gestured at the torchlight.

‘What do you think is happening, Mathilde?’

‘They’re unloading stores.’

‘Weapons,’ Sandewic replied. ‘Bows, arrows, halberds and shields. I visited the Bowyer Tower yesterday. My lord Gaveston was also there supervising the work; our armouries and smithies are kept very busy.’

‘Mon seigneur the king is preparing for war against his earls?’

‘Yes,’ Sandewic agreed. ‘Mon seigneur certainly is.’ He turned. We stood as close as lovers. I could smell his ale-rich breath, those watery blue eyes bright with anger. ‘Did you notice, Mathilde, when we journeyed here from Dover, how we visited no castles but rested at monasteries and priories?’ I nodded. ‘Edward was insistent on that,’ Sandewic explained. ‘He did not wish others to see how those places were preparing for war, garrisoned with troops, full of stores and arms. And in France,’ he continued, ‘when I went riding out? King Philip was doing the same, preparing.’

‘War with France?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Sandewic replied.

‘Is that why the French were told to make their own way here and kept well away from the Tower?’

We left the recess, going back to the gloomy gateway.

‘I’ve seen war, Mathilde, here in England,’ Sandewic declared. ‘Brother against brother, father against son. I fought for Earl Simon at Lewes and Evesham. I’ve seen the dead piled high like blood-soaked sacks, trees rich with corpses, villages burning, their wells crammed with cadavers. I’ve fought in Scotland and Wales and seen cruelty not even the Lord Satan could imagine: men skinned alive, maimed and tortured then slung in cages over castle walls to rot to death.’ He stamped his feet on the cobbles. ‘I don’t want that to happen again. Tell that to your mistress.’

In the days following I often thought of Sandewic’s warnings and discussed them with Isabella. She could do little, being taken up with the coronation, and visited, as she sardonically put it, almost on the hour by Sir John Baquelle. The merchant prince would sweep into her chambers with clothiers, jewellers, goldsmiths, grocers, silversmiths, all eager to offer presents and protestations of loyalty as well as to catch the princess’s eye with samples of their goods. In my arrogance I’d always considered Baquelle a pompous nonentity, but that fat, jolly merchant, Lord Pigeon as Isabella secretly dubbed him, was powerful in the city and instrumental in raising the loans for the crown King Edward desperately needed. Baquelle would often be closeted with both king and favourite, as well as with the exchequer officials in the Treasury Tower. I wondered if he too was party to the king’s warlike preparations.

Other visitors arrived at the fortress, the great earls with their retinues seeking an audience with the king. Their demands were well known. They wanted a parliament to meet at Westminster as soon as possible to discuss ‘certain weighty matters’. Edward fobbed them off with excuses. Marigny and his two familiars, des Plaisans and Nogaret, also arrived to pay their courtesies to both the king and his new bride. Edward met them in the Wakefield Tower. They later shared wine with Isabella, who refused to allow me to attend, claiming Marigny did not wish me well. I was surprised at this, but my mistress was insistent. In the end the meeting did not last long. Isabella announced she felt unwell and returned to her own quarters, where, in the most robust of health, she stormed up and down her chamber cursing Marigny as her father’s ‘prying eyes’.

‘They tried to foist a physician on me!’ she exclaimed. ‘One of my father’s creatures. He became too familiar, he wanted to know. .’ She fought for breath.

‘If you have lain with your husband?’

‘God’s teeth, Mathilde, no! If I might be pregnant with child!’ Isabella threw her head back and laughed. ‘In such a short time?’ she shouted. ‘Is he so monkish to know so little, and even if I was, even if I am, he’d be the last to know.’ Isabella flounced down on to a bench. ‘I informed him I no longer wished to converse.’ Isabella bubbled with laughter. ‘I clutched my stomach and declared I felt quite sick. I’ve never seen Marigny smile so much. He even had the impudence to insist, yet again, that I be tended by a French physician.’ Isabella blew a kiss at me. ‘I told him I was, by you.’

‘Was that wise, your grace?’

‘Was that wise, your grace?’ Isabella mimicked. ‘Marigny’s face! Oh, Mathilde, you should have seen it, so suffused with rage! He asked if you were another gift I’d given my husband.’

The hairs on the back of my neck curled, a shiver of fear as if some dark presence had brushed me with its feathery wings.

‘Mathilde, what is the matter?’

‘Madame,’ I used the address I always did when I was blunt with her, ‘madame, please repeat what you said. Do so slowly.’

Isabella did, then halfway through broke off.

‘Of course,’ she whispered, ‘how could he know?’ She rose slowly to her feet. ‘How would Marigny know that it was I who recommended Edward give my wedding presents to Gaveston? No one else was present that night. I later spoke to mon seigneur, and he swore that the great game was a matter of the utmost secrecy, so who, Mathilde? Sandewic?’ she added quickly. ‘For a while he was outside the door.’

‘Gaveston?’ I replied. ‘Even the king, despite his protestations?’ I thought back to that evening. No one else had been present, and ever since, Isabella had maintained the pretence, even to Casales and Rossaleti, that her wedding gifts had been seized by Edward for Gaveston. I recall the malicious glee of the favourite as he taunted de Clauvelin. Pourte’s death, Wenlok thrashing on the floor, the attacks on me. Was Gaveston’s hand, even the king’s, behind it all? I wanted to sit like a scholar, collect and sift all I knew, but I was unable to. So many matters were pressing in, I was confused. Isabella and I were still pawns in a game we could not even hope to control.

A short while later Casales and Rossaleti joined us. The scribe brought in a sheaf of documents, wax and Isabella’s personal seal together with pen-quills and capped pots of dark blue ink. Already the number of petitions to her was growing. Licences to go abroad, pardons for crimes, remission of debts, exemptions from military service as well as pleas for legal assistance, be it against wrongful arrest or vexatious prosecution. Isabella sat at her chancery table sealing the hot wax or writing the phrase le roi le veut — the king wishes it — as Edward had conceded that his new wife could respond to petitions, whilst he would confirm whatever she granted. As she busied herself with these clerical tasks, Casales returned to teaching us both English. I had learnt a little with Uncle Reginald; Isabella had schooled herself. Casales now instructed us further at the king’s behest, teaching us poems like ‘Sumer is-i-cumen’, ‘The Ancient Rewle’ and even some of the bawdy songs so favoured by Londoners. He included the rather difficult words from a song composed, so he claimed, during the reign of the old king ‘A Song of the Times’, a bitter, stinging attack on corruption. I still remember some of the words:

False and lither is this londe, as each day we may see.

Therein is both hate and that ever it will be.

A strange choice, but Casales, who composed his own poems, claimed it caught the spirit of the English tongue.

Both our companions had certainly changed since our arrival in England. Rossaleti was quieter, lost in his own thoughts. He’d look at me, dark eyes full of sorrow, gnawing his lip like a man who wanted to speak but had decided to keep his own counsel. Casales was brusque but more forthcoming. On that particular day he pleaded with Isabella to advise her husband to be more prudent and listen to his councillors. He waited until Rossaleti left and became even more forthright.

‘Lord Gaveston,’ Casales walked to the door, opened it and quickly glanced into the darkened stairwell, ‘Lord Gaveston,’ he repeated, closing the door and coming back, ‘must be exiled. The French court is grumbling, the great earls have issued writs of arrays summoning out their retainers, the Scottish harass the northern marches, and you’ve heard the latest news?’

‘What?’ Isabella turned sharply in the chancery chair.

‘The coronation? Tonight the king’s council discuss the date but it will undoubtedly be the twenty-fifth of February. According to the Ordo of the Liber Regalis only a premier earl may carry the crown to the high altar, but on this occasion it will be-’

‘Gaveston?’ I asked.

‘Gaveston,’ Casales agreed. ‘Clad like a king all in purple.’

Later that afternoon Edward and Gaveston, both dressed in loose jerkins, shirts and hose, cloaks wrapped about them against the cold, sauntered across to our mansion. They acted like boys released from the schoolroom, teasing each other over a pet monkey which had stolen one of Gaveston’s jewels then bitten one of his lap dogs. When Sandewic joined us they turned the teasing on him and Isabella, and despite the presence of our visitors Edward inveighed bitterly against the leading earls. Gaveston was a born mimic and the king bawled with laughter as his favourite imitated different noblemen, giving them all nicknames. Gaveston even went down on all fours, barking loudly, mocking Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, whom he’d dubbed ‘The Black Dog of Arden’. Afterwards, as we played dice, Isabella tried to raise the question of the coronation, but Edward deftly turned this aside, drawing his dagger and accusing his favourite of using cogged dice. At dusk both men left, followed by Casales, leaving Sandewic, who sat with a thunderous expression on his face.

‘Tonight,’ he went towards the door, slapping his gauntlets against his hand, ‘we’ll meet, we’ll talk, but nothing will change.’ He paused, wincing at the pain in his thigh.

I insisted he stay and made him confess that the pains from the rheums in his muscles were growing worse. I prescribed some mugwort for a poultice and Abbot Strabo’s cure for the pains, the flower of southernwood, quite a precious herb. I had a small portion of it, ground, boiled and strained, and gave him two phials, warning him the taste would be very bitter so he should mix it with wine, to which Sandewic replied that he liked such cures. Once I’d finished I made my own request of him, something I’d determined on during the day, to which Isabella had already agreed. I first swore Sandewic to secrecy, then asked for an escort to accompany me into the city the following day. Sandewic looked surprised but declared it would be best if the escort was one man so we could slip out of the Tower unnoticed. He offered the captain of his own archers, a Welshman I’d met in Paris, a redoubtable, tough-faced character named Owain Ap Ythel, and I accepted.

We left just after dawn the following day, a bitterly frosty morning, the ground slippery underfoot. Ap Ythel came armed except for his helmet. Beneath his hooded cloak he wore a war-belt with sword and dagger and carried an arbalest, the pouch of bolts fastened to his belt. I’d taken a dagger, pushing it into the sheath on my waistband. Sandewic himself let us out from the postern gate and we made our way out of the Tower, through stinking, needle-thin alleyways and on to the broad thoroughfare leading into the city. I was determined to visit Seething Lane and discover who that mysterious person was and if he could help in our present sea of troubles. The Welshman whispered that we could always take a barge from the quayside, but I had not forgotten Paris and did not wish to go swimming again.