The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 8

The following evening Isabella and I, both greatly refreshed, joined the king and Gaveston in the small dining chamber in the royal quarters. The room had been specially prepared, its windows shuttered, Turkey rugs laid on the floor, a great oval oaken table placed before the hearth so we could all feel the warmth from the flames licking the sweetly scented pine logs. The king and his favourite were dressed sombrely in dark Lincoln green, boots on their feet, their only concession to finery being the glittering rings on their fingers. They both looked purposeful, sober and eager to talk. As the various courses were served, pheasant and hare cooked in different sauces, Edward described what would happen over the next month, advising Isabella about the coronation and the rituals which would have to be followed. Only towards the end, after the quince tarts were served with sweet white wine, did he order all the servants to leave, no lesser person than Sandewic being left outside to guard the passageways and doors. Edward pushed back his chair, turning slightly towards the fire.

‘I like Dover,’ he murmured, ‘always on the edge of the kingdom, a place to come if you want to escape.’ He turned back to us. ‘Ah well.’ He sighed. ‘And now to business.’

Both king and favourite lounged languidly; no more pretence, no acting, no slurping from cups or bellowing guffaws of laughter. No one else was present, though I wondered why a fifth chair had been placed at the table. Edward, tapping his goblet with his fingernails, chattered about our entry into London then straightened in his chair, playing with the ring on the little finger of his left hand. He described the situation in Scotland, the power of Bruce and his threat to the northern shires. He detailed the problems with the exchequer, his lack of monies, the pressing need to raise taxes from both parliament and the Convocation of Clergy. Gaveston remained quiet throughout. Now and again he’d glance at me, but for the most part he sat, head down, listening intently as Edward listed his problems with the earls. He described how his great-grandfather John, grandfather Henry as well as Edward I had all faced strong opposition from the leading nobles with their private armies and retinues, their deep-rooted determination to control the power of the crown.

‘Ask Sandewic,’ the king scoffed, gesturing at the door. ‘Forty-seven years ago he fought for the rebel Earl of Leicester, Simon de Montfort, against my father and grandfather. He escaped the traitor’s block because my dear father admired his integrity. One decision,’ Edward added wryly, ‘on which both Father and I agreed.’

The more Edward talked, the less certain I became. In all this there was some mystery, a puzzle, an enigma. He was talking fluently and logically. Yet why play the other Edward, the feckless king supporting his favourite, patronising jesters whilst publicly insulting the leading earls, not to mention his powerful father-in-law? Edward of England showed a shrewdness not even Isabella had guessed at. She too appeared disconcerted, mystified, as if the husband she was now meeting was a different man from the one she had married at Boulogne; a king who had the astuteness to realise the true relationship between herself and her family as well as that with me, whom Edward and Gaveston now accepted as Isabella’s confidante. I hid my own smile. Casales and Rossaleti had reported faithfully back: both the king and his favourite acted as if they had known us for years. Isabella’s puzzlement expressed itself in certain questions about the Templars and about her marriage. Edward dismissed these, repeating what we had already learnt from Sandewic: both matters were of political necessity. Edward conceded that there would be no bloody prosecution of the Templars, only the seizure of their wealth, which he desperately needed. He courteously included me in the conversation, though I realised Isabella had not confided the full truth about me to her husband.

Eventually Gaveston rose and placed logs on the greedy fire, then, taking a taper, lit more candles, replacing those which had burnt low. The light flared, bringing to life the beautiful tapestries decorating the walls. Gaveston secured one of the shutters which had slipped loose, then walked over to the door, opened it and had a brief conversation with Sandewic outside. I heard the name Clauvelin mentioned, the mournful notary from Soissons. Gaveston then closed the door and rejoined us at the table. Edward moodily drank his wine as Gaveston began to question both of us about the deaths of Pourte and Wenlok. He drew me skilfully in until I virtually admitted my suspicions that both men might have been murdered. Gaveston and Edward seemed concerned at this but passed swiftly on, asking Isabella if she had known the merchant Monsieur de Vitry. Isabella glanced at me to remain silent. I don’t think the look was lost on Gaveston. He chewed his lip as he accepted Isabella’s assurance that, of course, Monsieur de Vitry had been known to her as one of her father’s bankers, whilst the bloody murder of him and his household had shocked all of Paris. The wine cups were refilled and both men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts, until Edward leaned across the table and grasped Isabella’s hands.

‘Two things, mon coeur, I will ask. I want the truth. Before I ask, let me assure you, on my solemn oath, that you are my princess and wife, the only woman in my life, never to be supplanted.’ He spoke with such fervour, face flushed, eyes gleaming. If ever a prince spoke the truth, on that night Edward of England certainly did. Isabella bowed her head to hide her blushes. Edward pressed his fingertips gently against her lips.

‘Now tell me, ma plaisance, do you accept the Lord Gaveston? If you don’t, say the truth. Do you accept him for what he is, for himself and to me?’ The silence which followed was tangible, as if some unseen presence leaned forward, eager to listen to Isabella’s reply. Gaveston sat, shoulders hunched, no longer the arrogant popinjay.

‘I accept him.’ Isabella smiled dazzlingly at Edward’s favourite. ‘I, the Princess Royal, your wife, your future queen, I am also Isabella, recently escaped from France, from my father’s court, which had turned so hateful. You,’ she pressed her hand against Edward’s chest, ‘are King of England. You did not ask to marry me. I did not ask to marry you. The times and seasons were not of our making. We must accept the fate God dispenses, so why should I object? Will Monsieur Gaveston take away what is mine?’

Edward shook his head. Gaveston drew in a deep breath.

‘The second thing, mon seigneur?’ Isabella kept her hand pressed against her husband’s chest. He grasped it and kissed her fingers.

‘Listen well.’ Edward’s voice fell almost to a whisper. ‘You must not, at any time, show any affection for Peter; indeed the opposite, at least for the moment. You must not appear, in public at least, as Lord Gaveston’s friend.’

‘Why?’ I spoke before I thought.

‘Because, Mathilde, that is the way things are. Those who are my enemies will betray themselves to you rather than shield their malice from me.’ Edward grinned. ‘As they say in the schools, effectum sequitur causam — effect follows cause. My relationship with my sweet cousin of France is not cordial and its fruit may have grown even more bitter! It is a matter of politic, of logic: as the father, so the daughter. People would wonder why you did not follow in King Philip’s footsteps.’

‘That would not be too difficult to understand!’ Isabella exclaimed.

‘You must act the part,’ Gaveston insisted. ‘His grace has married a French princess; it is important for the Council of England, and above all for King Philip himself, that the French crown does believe or act as if it has undue influence over his grace simply because of his marriage to you.’ He bowed to Isabella. ‘I have read the writings of your father’s lawyers, men like Pierre Dubois. Philip dreams of that day when a Capetian prince, the issue of your body, wears the crown of the Confessor whilst another becomes Duke of Gascony.’ Gaveston raised his hands. ‘Let Philip have his dreams, it does not mean we have to be part of them.’

Gaveston’s answer was logical, tripping off the tongue so easily it made sense. King Phillip’s ambition was well known; his bullying over Isabella’s marriage and the question of the Templars had been public. Edward was now forced to oppose him or appear as Philip’s minion. Nevertheless, I remained uncomfortable, uneasy.

‘What does that mean, my lord?’ Isabella asked. ‘In practice?’

‘According to the marriage treaty I am to furnish you with lands and estates here in England. For the time being I shall not do that, though,’ the king added quickly, ‘I shall ensure that secretly you lack for nothing.’

‘You could do more.’ Isabella lifted her wine goblet and toasted him. ‘This castle now holds all the marriage goods and gifts from my father, uncles, brothers, Marigny and the rest of the coven.’ She spat the words with such hatred she surprised even me. ‘Why not give them all to Lord Gaveston?’ Isabella drank from the goblet. ‘I don’t want them. I want nothing from them. I’d sooner be turned out in my shift on the castle track-way. I’d rather dwell in a charcoal-burner’s cottage in your dank woods and call it my palace than live on anything they have given me. You have my answer.’

Gaveston and the king looked at her in surprise, clearly startled by the passion of what she’d said.

‘Alea iacta,’ Gaveston murmured. ‘So the dice are thrown and the game begins.’ He rose to his feet, went into the shadows and brought back a silver-edged box long as an arrow coffer. He placed this on the table, pulled back the clasps and took out two beautiful sables, one dark, the other snow-white.

‘These are from the forests around the frozen seas to the north.’ Gaveston laid them in Isabella’s lap, then took a small leather pouch out of the coffer and shook out the most brilliant ruby set in a golden star. He placed the chain around Isabella’s neck and knelt before her. Isabella took his hands between hers and quietly accepted his fealty.

‘As for you,’ Gaveston pointed at me, getting to his feet, ‘I’ve heard so much about Mathilde the wise woman.’ Edward and Isabella laughed, breaking the tension. ‘Cavete Gascones,’ Gaveston continued, ‘ferentes dona — beware of Gascons bearing gifts.’ He dipped into the chest again and brought out a book edged with scarlet stitching and fastened by gold clasps. He placed this on my lap. Edward and Isabella were whispering together, golden heads close. Despite the gifts and courtesy I felt a brief stab of envy which I quickly dismissed. I undid the clasps and read the carefully inscribed title: Galen’s A Treatise on the Difference of Symptoms. I thanked Gaveston courteously. He sat down and began to question me closely about my knowledge of simples and potions. He explained how his mother, Agnes, had also been a wise woman in the town of Bearn in Gascony. As soon as he mentioned her name, Edward stiffened and drew away from Isabella. Gaveston’s face was no longer smiling; the skin was drawn tight, and tears brimmed in his eyes. He forced a laugh but his eyes frightened me, as if he could see, or was invoking, some heinous memory.

‘Let me tell you, Mathilde,’ again that high-pitched laugh, ‘a story from Bearn about a haunted house. A man called Raoul de Castro Negro thought there was a hidden treasure in his house just within the main gateway at Bearn. He employed two magicians to cast a spell and find this treasure. What exactly they did, and whether they found any treasure, I do not know.’ Gaveston blinked. ‘But after that, they left. Now Raoul had a servant called Julian Sarnene, who returned to the house. Shortly afterwards Sarnene was found in the town square claiming he was blind and unable to hear. He remained ill and disabled for some weeks, but just before Easter he indicated he wanted to be taken to a local shrine. Some friends helped him to travel there by donkey. They arrived at the shrine on the Wednesday of Holy Week and Julian prayed before the statues of the Blessed Virgin and St Anthony. At the hour of compline his hearing was restored. The next day, after the mass of the Lord’s Supper, his sight returned as well. Fully restored, he went back to Bearn. Now, of course, all this was hailed as a miracle and Julian was summoned to the bishop’s court, where he told a strange tale. He claimed he had entered his master’s house after the magicians had gone and found it full of strange birds and animals, including three horses with horns like goats, emitting fire from their mouths and backsides. On them, facing the tails, sat three fearsome men with clubs. Julian said he was utterly terrified and tried to make the sign of the cross but one of the beasts restrained his hand. He attempted to pray but fled back into the town square where he was found. What do you think of such a story, Mathilde?’

‘What happened to Raoul?’

Gaveston pulled a face. ‘He fled. The Inquisition were hunting him for consulting magicians. So, what do you think of Julian’s story?’

‘I don’t know,’ I confessed.

‘I asked a question, wise woman.’ Gaveston grasped my shoulders, his grip so hard I winced. Isabella protested and Gaveston released his hand.

‘Please,’ his voice turned beseeching, ‘as a woman who has studied potions and powders.’

‘Some would allege it was witchcraft,’ I replied. ‘Others that the man was healed by God’s kind courtesy and boundless mercy, as well as the intervention of the Blessed Virgin and St Anthony.’

‘Or?’

The silence in the chamber grew oppressive.

‘I’d be more prudent myself,’ I conceded. ‘There are certain potions, wild fruit, the juice of mushrooms, not to mention the oil from the skin of a toad. These can create magical fantasies, nightmarish dreams; hence the story about witches who claim to fly, or the visions of madmen, or saints,’ I added.

‘And the physical symptoms?’ Gaveston asked. ‘The blindness, the deafness?’

‘They too would follow.’ I picked up my wine goblet. ‘It’s no different from this.’ I swilled the wine around the cup. ‘Wine can create illusions and dreams. Its effects on the body are well known. What is true of the fruit of the grape is true of other plants.’

‘But what do you believe, Mathilde, magic or scientia?’

‘Scientia,’ I replied quickly. ‘All natural causes must be removed before any others can be put forward as an explanation.’

‘Good, good.’ Gaveston leaned back on the chair. ‘I thought you would say that.’

The sombre atmosphere, however, did not lift. Gaveston rose, studied the hour candle burning on its spigot in the corner and went to the door. From the conversation I gathered Sandewic had been replaced by two of Gaveston’s Irish retainers, mercenaries wearing the livery of the scarlet eagle.

‘Come in, do come in.’ Gaveston welcomed the notary Jean de Clauvelin into the chamber, inviting him over to the fifth chair. He made him sit down, filled a goblet to the brim with rich claret and pulled across a silver trancher so de Clauvelin could eat the leftovers. Isabella looked surprised. Edward sat, chin in hands. De Clauvelin attempted to bow and scrape but the king gestured to the chair, murmuring that this was not the occasion for courtesies. Gaveston sat close to the overwrought notary, picked up a piece of meat, dipped it into a bowl of sauce and thrust it into de Clauvelin’s mouth.

‘Jean, Jean!’ Gaveston declared brusquely. ‘I am so glad you are in attendance.’

‘Your grace, it was a great honour to be included in my lady’s retinue. .’

‘Of course, of course.’ Gaveston refilled de Clauvelin’s goblet. ‘I need words with you, sir, regarding the Abbey of St Jean des Vignes, or rather its abbot, who is indebted to me for certain sums. I need your advice, now. .’

I watched the tableau with a growing sense of horror. Gaveston reminded me of a powerful cat playing with a mouse. De Clauvelin was overcome by the favourite’s chatter and grace, and failed to sense the anger seething in this powerful lord. Just the way Gaveston kept tearing at the meat, filling de Clauvelin’s goblet. . Once the flagon was empty, he went across to the dresser table to refill it. De Clauvelin, flattered, gossiped about the abbey. Gaveston waited for the wine to take full effect, then rose to his feet, stepped behind de Clauvelin, and in the blink of an eye the garrotte string was looped over the notary’s head and wrapped fast around his throat. De Clauvelin dropped his goblet, half staggering to his feet, but Gaveston, face bright with angry glee, forced him back.

Isabella went to protest; Edward caught her with a restraining hand. The king sat fascinated, face slightly flushed, head to one side, watching de Clauvelin half choke. Gaveston bent down, pulling at the garrotte.

‘Jean de Clauvelin,’ he intoned with mock solemnity, ‘more rightly known as Julian Sarnene: you, sir, are an assassin, a cunning man from the town of Bearn in Gascony. You drank a potion and saw a vision. You claimed to fall into the hands of the powers of darkness, only to be cured. When the miracle was examined, my mother Agnes de Gaveston was asked by the local bishop for her advice.’ Gaveston pulled at the cord, then relaxed it. ‘She rejected your claims, mocked them and said it was nothing to do with Satan but depended on what you had eaten or drunk, whether you had taken any potion.’ Gaveston loosened the garrotte string a little more. ‘Your ploy to gain sympathy and raise money from an alleged miracle proved unsuccessful. Your whole story became suspect, your allegations against your former employer of dabbling in witchcraft not proven. You hoped to acquire his wealth, to be rewarded. Later, when my father, Arnaud de Gaveston, was away soldiering, you secretly denounced my mother as a witch to the Inquisition. There were many, envious and hateful, who were quick to believe you. You provided information about my mother’s knowledge of potions and herbs. My mother was truthful. She answered the questions, but in doing so condemned herself by rejecting stories of demons and miraculous cures and insisting that natural causes must be first examined. She was tried and burned. You were given silver and protection. You disappeared, only to resurrect as Jean de Clauvelin, lawyer and notary.’

Gaveston pressed his lips closer to Clauvelin’s ear.

‘I have hunted you, sir, high and low. Mirabila dictu — it is wonderful to say what you can discover as Earl of Cornwall, regent of England, close confidant of its king. Last year, when I was in France, I discovered your true name and hiding place.’

‘It’s not me, it’s not me!’ Clauvelin begged.

‘The Inquisition, near Carcassonne, says it is.’ Gaveston released the garrotte string completely, leaving his victim to sprawl in his chair. ‘The Inquisition are men of great detail,’ Gaveston continued. ‘You have a mole on the right of your neck.’ He seized de Clauvelin by his scrawny hair, tugging down the man’s high collar and twisting his head for us to see. ‘You also have a scar, an inch long, on the inside of your left arm.’ He took the notary’s arm, ripping back the sleeve of his jerkin, sending clasps and buttons scattering across the table, and turned the arm so we could glimpse the raised welt. Finally, one hand on de Clauvelin’s shoulder, Gaveston thrust his hand down the front of the notary’s jerkin and dragged up the metal cross on its copper chain. In the candlelight I glimpsed the embossed crucifix of the Inquisition. Gaveston ripped this from his neck and threw it on the table.

‘Given to everyone,’ he hissed, ‘who falls within the protection of the Domini Canes — the Dominicans, the Hounds of God, Sancta Inquisicio, the Holy Inquisition.’

De Clauvelin, pale-faced and drenched with sweat, leaned against the table.

‘They would not reveal. .’ he gasped.

‘Oh yes they would,’ Gaveston scoffed, sitting down next to his victim. ‘Oh yes they did! Money and power, Monsieur Notary, are the two keys to any secret. You don’t deny it. Well, of course you don’t. You do remember, so many years ago, de Clauvelin, what, twenty-two?’ He pushed his face closer. ‘I was a mere babe. You thought I’d forget.’ He picked a crumb from the notary’s jerkin, brushing it tenderly. ‘I hunted you down, I searched France for you. The Abbot of St Jean des Vignes does owe me money; he did turn on you, didn’t he? He began to question you about certain rents which had disappeared, as well as the claims of a young woman about your forced attentions. You were only too willing to receive King Philip’s letter of appointment; he, of course, couldn’t give a fig about you!’

‘Mon seigneur,’ de Clauvelin bowed his head, hands outstretched towards the king, ‘mercy!’

Edward gazed back stony-eyed.

‘Soon you will sleep.’ Gaveston smiled, glancing across at me. ‘Monsieur Sarnene, I laced your wine with poppy juice, and when you awake, after your fall, you’ll be in hell!’ He picked up his own goblet. ‘In infernum,’ he chanted, satirising the office of the dead, ‘diaboli te ducent — into hell the demons will lead you.’

De Clauvelin, coughing and spluttering, made to rise only to collapse against the table and fall to the floor. Gaveston sprang up.

‘So soon, so soon?’ He kicked de Clauvelin, who moaned but lay still. Edward also rose and joined him, and both viciously kicked the prostrate man with their booted feet.

‘Stop, my lords!’ Isabella begged, hands to her face. I sat cold with fear. Isabella shouted again. Both men paused, chests heaving, faces wet with sweat. Gaveston wiped his brow on the back of his hand.

‘He sent my mother to a hideous death. She was strapped to a pole in the town square at Bearn, brushwood piled high against her. The flames roared so high, the heat became so intense, the hangman could not get to her to give her the mercy death, to strangle her. They say her flesh bubbled like. .’ His voice faltered and he looked away. Edward moved to comfort him. Gaveston picked up his goblet and threw the dregs of wine over the unconscious man.

‘He’ll die quickly, not like my mother!’ He kicked his victim again and looked beseechingly at me. ‘I had to do it now. He thought the world had forgotten, but I am not the world.’ He strode across the room and opened the door; his two assassins slipped in. Gaveston kicked the prostrate man.

‘There’s a narrow postern gate in the curtain wall. It’s used for throwing away slops and refuse. You’ll find the hinges oiled, take him and throw him out.’

I closed my eyes and thought of de Clauvelin’s body falling down that sheer rocky abyss into the freezing, swirling sea.

‘Give out that he was walking on the parapet and had drunk too much wine.’ Gaveston clicked his tongue. ‘Say he slipped; who will question, who will care?’

The two men removed the body. Gaveston started breathing deeply. He appeared self-satisfied, content, rubbing his stomach like a man who’d enjoyed a good meal.

‘Justice,’ Edward murmured.

Gaveston collected the notary’s clasps, buttons and cross and threw them into the fire. He insisted on one final cup of wine. We sat and drank, the mood swiftly changing. De Clauvelin was forgotten, at least by them, and for the first time I wondered if Isabella and I had exchanged one prison for another. The princess made to leave. Both Gaveston and the king, now all courteous, walked us out into the gallery, which was filling with retainers and servants preparing for the king to retire. Gaveston’s chamber was further along. We entered it. I clutched the presents he had given us. I was tired, needful of silence, desperate for sleep. The favourite’s chamber was like an upturned treasure chest, with costly clothes and precious ornaments flung around. Both he and the king were now talking of their royal progress through Kent to Becket’s shrine at Canterbury and the jewel they were to present there. Gaveston wanted to show it to us, excited like a child about a gift he had prepared. I stared at the great bed, its pure linen sheets thrown back. On the floor beside it were hunting boots decorated with gilded spurs; in the far corner a hooded falcon on its perch, jesse bells ringing as it moved restlessly. I glimpsed a triptych hanging rather crookedly from a hook on the wall hastily put there when Gaveston had set up his household. I went across to put it straight and hid my surprise: the painting celebrated the martyrdom and glory of St Agnes; I had last seen it at de Vitry’s house. At first I thought it was a copy, but the slightly rusting hinges along the folds of the picture and the dark patches around its glowing edge convinced me it was the same I’d seen in Monsieur Simon’s house. So how had Gaveston acquired it? Noting my interest, the favourite sauntered across to describe his deep devotion to the saint who shared his mother’s name. Isabella heard this and hastily made a sign that we leave. I joined her; we both bowed to the king and Gaveston and withdrew.

Once alone, Isabella declared she did not want to retire. She studied Gaveston’s gifts and wondered about the events of the evening.

‘They did the same as your father,’ I retorted, ‘a fine display of power and terror; which is why de Clauvelin was killed in our presence. They intend,’ I added, ‘to be the sole masters in their house.’

Isabella pressed one of the sables against her cheek and smiled. ‘As do I, Mathilde, as do I!’

We left Dover the next morning, a glorious cavalcade, the might of England. Edward cheerfully announced he had no intention whatsoever of waiting for his French guests and the sooner he returned to Westminster the better. The weather, I remember, had made one of those startling turns, as if nature itself wanted to greet England’s new queen: rain-washed, clear blue skies, a bright winter sun, the ground firm underfoot, the air bracing but not cutting. Edward and Gaveston moved to the head of the column with their retinue of dwarves and jesters, eager to hunt with hawk and falcon. They’d often break away from our line of march, cantering across the fields to fly their magnificent birds against herons, plover, anything which dared wing its way under God’s own heaven. Time and again I saw these predators loosed, wings beating as they fought the breezes to gain ascendancy, floating like dark angels against the blue before making their breathtaking, magnificent plunge.

Both Isabella and I were ignored, as the great game had truly begun, though we had enough to distract ourselves. We rode palfreys, accompanied and protected by Sandewic, Casales, Rossaleti and Baquelle, who were eager to describe the countryside we were passing through. Despite the severity of winter, the land had a softness unique to itself, so different from the bleak plains of Normandy. The countryside spread out like a carpet on either side, great open fields of iron-hard brown soil awaiting the sowing. Meadows and pastures for the great flocks of sheep, thick dense woods, dark copses with small hamlets nestling in the lee of a hill or some forest clearing. The poor are the same wherever they are, and they are always with us. The roads were busy with those searching for work as well as merchants, friars, tinkers and chapmen with their pack donkeys and sumpter ponies, carts and barrows all of whom had to hastily pull aside as the royal cortege approached. On one occasion we passed a troupe of moon people, perpetual travellers, with their brightly painted wagons, gaudy harness decorating their horses. They clustered together on the side of the road dressed in their garish clothes and cheap jewellery, offering trinkets for sale. Pilgrims going to and from Canterbury, Rochester, or Walsingham further to the north also thronged, Ave beads slung round their necks, pewter medallions pinned to their ragged cloaks. These lifted their hands and, as we all swept by, called down God’s blessing on Edward and his queen.

Such sights in the open fresh air were calming after the turbulence of the recent days. Our four companions described the countryside, its crops of wheat and rye as well as the fruits and vegetables, parsley, leek, cabbages and onions, plums, pears and apples, grown by the peasant farmers. I noticed how, unlike Normandy, there were few hedges, the different holdings being separated from each other by baulks of unploughed turf. These gave the land a strange, striped appearance though increasingly more harvest ground was being turned into pasture for sheep, English wool being in constant demand throughout Europe. As we passed their thatched-roof wattle-and-daub cottages, the peasants came hastening out to gape and cheer. The deeper we journeyed into Kent, however, the more prosperous the small villages became, their stone houses and churches seeming commonplace. These were usually grouped round some magnificent red-brick or honey-coloured stone manor hall with fine tiled roof, stacks to draw off the smoke, heavy oaken doors and windows full of mullioned glass.

We were met at crossroads, parish boundaries and town gates by hosts of important officials, sheriffs, stewards, bailiffs, constables, dignitaries of church and state, all dressed in their grandeur, heavy chains of office slung round their necks. They offered gifts and protestations of loyalty which Isabella accepted, replying in a clear, carrying voice, sometimes lapsing into English, which she had so zealously, though secretly studied. Each place had striven to do its best. Gibbets had been cleared of strangled corpses, stocks emptied, the heads and severed limbs of traitors taken down from the town bars and gates to be replaced with armorial shields or broad coloured cloths. At night we rested in the guest houses of monasteries, priories and nunneries. During the day we would sometimes refresh ourselves at the spacious pilgrim taverns with their ornate welcoming signs and warm tap-rooms. There was very little time to think, let alone converse privately, and the further north we went the busier our cavalcade became. We crossed the gushing waters of the Medway, admired the soaring keep of Rochester Castle and finally lodged at St Augustine’s Priory in Canterbury, a mere walk from the cathedral and its spectacular shrine to St Thomas Becket, a mass of gold, silver and precious jewels. We visited the cathedral and prayed at the bottom of the steps; the screen before the shrine was raised so we could make our offerings of flowers, tapers and precious goods.

We also met Isabella’s aunt, the Queen Dowager Margaret, widow of Edward I and sister of Philip IV. From the very beginning aunt and niece took an immediate dislike to each other. Queen Margaret was beautiful in a pallid way, sanctimonious and patronising, full of her own goodness and pious acts. A woman who had found religion and lost her heart, totally immersed in her sanctimonious passion to go on pilgrimage. She catalogued the different places Isabella must visit as queen, be it St Swithun’s at Worcester, the relics of Glastonbury or the Virgin’s House at Walsingham. She gossiped like a fishwife about herself until Isabella, stifling a yawn, thanked her ‘sweet aunt’. The queen dowager, however, was not so readily quietened. Isabella had to force a smile as Margaret perched in a window seat overlooking the cloister garth, describing her recent pilgrimage to view the phial of Christ’s Precious Blood at Hailes Abbey. The second woman we met was Margaret de Clare, the king’s niece and wife to Gaveston; a whey-faced, rather anxious young woman who kept touching the old-fashioned wimple around her face. She sat like a pious novice, hands in her lap, avidly listening to the queen dowager’s monotonous sermons on the different shrines; every so often the younger Margaret would nod in agreement and thrust her needle into a piece of tapestry.

Once Isabella and I were alone in our chambers, the princess sat on the ground with her back to the door and laughed until the tears streamed down her face. She ripped off her head-dress, almost pushing it into her mouth to hide her merriment. At last she composed herself, picked up a napkin, wrapped it around her head and, with the most sanctimonious expression, eyes raised heavenwards, imitated both women, even down to Aunt Margaret’s ceaseless nasal homily.

‘Oh Mathilde, you must visit Chepstow and the priory there, you know the one, dedicated to the straw in the manger. It holds a turd dropped by the very ox which was there on the first Christmas night, whilst down the road, at the Nunnery of the Blessed Sheep, you can venerate the very foreskin of the shepherd boy who brought the baby lamb. They even have a leg of the same.’ Isabella’s eyes moved heavenwards. ‘Still with some scraps of meat on because the Holy Family ate the rest.’

She burst out laughing and, getting to her feet, solemnly processed up and down the spacious guest room listing the most extraordinary relics which Aunt Margaret could collect: the Christ Child’s first napkin, a splinter from Joseph’s work bench, a feather from an angel, a broken thimble belonging to the Virgin Mary. At last she paused, throwing the napkin to the ground.

‘Pious bitch!’ she muttered. ‘So holy she should be dead! Oh, don’t be shocked, Mathilde.’ Isabella shook her fist at the door. ‘Aunt Margaret spies for her brother. If Margaret the Pious has her way, Father will know everything before it happens.’ She waved a finger at me. ‘I must remember that.’ She filled two pewter tankards to the brim with the ale the good brothers had served and sat on a quilted stool staring up at me.

‘Well, well, Mathilde, what do you think we are? Two sparrows who have fallen off the ledge into the path of a cat?’

‘My lady, your grace, do you love mon seigneur your husband?’

Isabella pursed her lips and shrugged. ‘Answer my question, Mathilde.’

‘Yes!’ I replied bluntly. ‘We are two sparrows who have fallen into the path of a cat. Edward of England and his favourite are certainly not priests at prayer; we have to walk slowly and very carefully. They have shown their true nature.’

‘Which is?’

‘They will brook no opposition. Obey them and all will be well. Object or resist the will of the king and anything is possible, which, my lady,’ I settled on a bench, ‘might include the murders of Sir Hugh Pourte and Lord Wenlok.’

On our journey from Dover I had reflected on that possibility. There was the Council of England and a small inner coven, the Secretum Concilum, the Secret Council, staffed by the likes of Casales, Sandewic and Baquelle as well as those two men so recently killed. Both offered advice which displeased Edward and Gaveston. I shared this conclusion with my mistress, adding that the members of the Secret Council could be under threat, being removed one by one.

‘By whom?’ Isabella asked.

‘Your grace, I cannot answer that.’