The Darkening Glass

Chapter 9

The following morning we left the coast, journeying to the ancient Roman road that stretched south. A pleasant progress. The sun was strong, the roads dry. The fields on either side were rich in their greenery. By now it was the first week of June and the full bloom of summer was making itself felt. We left Scarborough on the sixth of June, the Feast of St Norbert. One of Pembroke’s household priests chanted a psalm from the mass of that day, about Christ being our shepherd who would guide us safely through all perils and hazards. Perhaps we should have prayed more fervently. At first my suspicions were calmed somewhat. Pembroke was honest. He had taken the most solemn oath, and if he broke it, he would be condemned by both Church and Crown. Nevertheless, I felt everything was running too smoothly, too quickly. It was like walking across those water meadows outside Poitiers. Everything was green, soft and fertile, yet you had to watch your step. Take a wrong turn and you could find the green fields were a treacherous morass to suck you down and keep you trapped. Gaveston, now bereft of his Aquilae or any henchmen to advise him, was truly relaxed, believing he had secured a peace. I listened in horror as his relief gave way to boasting about what would happen when he was reunited with the king. Pembroke wisely ignored this. I wanted to send urgent messages to the queen, but Pembroke insisted no one could leave the column of march. I drew some comfort from the long lines of hobelars, men-at-arms and bowmen who accompanied us. Neither the constable nor Ap Ythel had been allowed to provide any escort. The Welsh captain of the royal archers had quietly assured me that once Gaveston had gone, he and his men would ride swiftly to the king. Ap Ythel was also deeply suspicious at the ease with which everything had been agreed.

‘Faux et semblant,’ he murmured. He clasped my hand, then embraced me close. ‘For the love of God and His beautiful Mother,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘take care! Remember this. Do not let Pembroke become separated from you.’ He kissed me firmly on the cheeks and stood back, one hand raised. ‘Remember,’ he repeated.

I did. I also recalled Isabella’s words about assassins first withdrawing the guard before they struck their victim. Nevertheless, our journey out of Scarborough was happy, the atmosphere serene, as if we were a host of pilgrims journeying south to kiss the Lady stone at Walsingham or pray before the blessed bones of Becket in their gold and silver house at Canterbury. We met other travellers: moon people, gipsies in their gaily coloured wagons, merchants on horse-back trotting south to do business in the wool towns. Tinkers, pedlars and traders with their sumpter ponies, baskets and panniers all crammed with trinkets and every item for sale under the sun, be it a horn or a pewter jug. Pilgrims of every variety thronged the road, lifelong wanderers in stained leather and linen jerkins, their hats boasting medals from shrines as far afield as St James of Compostela or the tomb of the Magi in Cologne. Relic sellers swarmed like fleas, badgering us with everything from the head of St Britaeus — God knows who he was — to a sandal-latch of the Blessed Virgin. A group of roisterers from a nearby village tried to tempt us to pause and watch them sing and dance to the raucous noise of bagpipes. Pembroke laughingly waved them aside. For the rest we journeyed on. I was just pleased to be free of the castle: the hurtling fire, the deadly whine of bow and arbalest, the screech of crashing boulders and pots of burning tar. The smell of hawthorn from the hedgerows, the fragrance of fields and meadows baking under a fierce sun and the call of labourers tending the soil whilst watching the harvest sprout were all blessed relief. The towers of village churches rose like welcome beacons against the blue sky. The noisy bustle of the hamlets we passed through was soothing to the soul.

Demontaigu, God bless him, remained suspicious. Late in the afternoon of the second day, as we approached the priory where we were to stay the night, he very skillfully left the column of march, claiming there was something wrong with his horse. Pembroke trusted him and raised no protest. An hour later Demontaigu rejoined us just before we entered the priory gates. He looked concerned: he had travelled back and met a group of pilgrims, dusty-faced, with worn clothes and battered boots; and yet, for men dedicated to praying before the shrine of St Osyth, they were extremely well armed. When Dunheved heard this, he just shrugged.

‘What can we do?’ he murmured. ‘What can we do?’

I always believe God needs a helping hand. He depends on our wit and intelligence, and I was resolutely determined on resolving the mysteries surrounding us. Once in the priory I was given a small chamber close to the cloister, neat and tidy, with a window looking out on to the garden. A peaceful place. I relished it. I wanted to be alone, even from Demontaigu, just to collect my thoughts and reflect carefully on what I’d seen and heard. I took out my lists and scribblings from their panniers, but I could make little sense of them. Eventually I decided to concentrate on the two last deaths: that of Middleton in the church and Rosselin in his chamber. I drew a careful diagram of that beautiful lady chapel. Who had entered? What had happened? I did the same for Rosselin’s chamber. I recalled my good uncle’s advice about studying the symptoms of a disease.

‘What begins with an ache can end as a pain,’ he would advise. ‘You must not hasten, but watch the final symptoms lest you make a mistake.’

Deep in my heart, now that all the Aquilae were dead, I believed there would be no more murders. I could make no sense of Lanercost, Leygrave or Kennington, but Middleton and Rosselin’s deaths were different. They had both been killed in a locked chamber. The doors had been bolted. No one could have come through a window or some secret passageway. Those were final symptoms. But that’s impossible, I reflected. Only an angel of light, or one from the valleys of hell, could pass through oaken wood or stone-fast walls. So, I reflected, the assassin must have left through the door, but how? I also recalled another piece of advice: to go back to the very beginning, to search for the prime cause. I scribbled the word ‘Templar’ on a piece of vellum and stared hard at it until I realised my mistake. Was the origin of these mysteries the massacre at Devil’s Hollow? Yet those Templars had just come from Scotland, and so had Geoffrey Lanercost. Were the two connected? I brooded on this. My eyes grew heavy. I fell asleep at the table and woke in the early hours as the bell chimed for Matins.

During the journey the following day, I grew more relaxed. I sat easy on the gently palfrey provided and returned to those two mysterious murders in the lady chapel and that haunting chamber of Scarborough keep.

‘Forgive me, God,’ I whispered as I realised my error, yet what could I do? The siege and the fall of Gaveston had run a deep furrow through my soul, dulling my perceptions. Now, fresh and away from the horrors of the siege, I could concentrate more logically. I closed my eyes against the summer sun as if I was dozing. I recreated that small chapel: people milling about, the door of the sacristy with its sturdy key, the one to the church door lying on the floor. I recalled the details of Rosselin’s chamber: his cloak lying on the floor, the trail of blood virtually from that to the windowsill. Suspicions spark their own fire. I returned to my first real mistake. Lanercost! He had come from Scotland, and his mysterious secret journey had preceded the massacre in which his brother had died. Then there was Demontaigu’s question: why hadn’t the assassin struck directly at Gaveston? Why had the murders continued when, to all intents and purposes, Gaveston was finished? Were those last two killings necessary? After all, Rosselin was nothing but a man of straw. What profit could be gained from his death unless there were other reasons: revenge, punishment, but for what?

The suspicions I had provoked began to hint at other possibilities. I reached a conclusion. The way ahead was like the corpse road to some sinister church: dark and full of menace, yet eventually it would lead me to my destination. Realisation of my mistakes provoked further anxiety and blighted my merry mood. I began to study my companions differently. I also sensed that the pleasant, summer-filled journey south was turning sour. Dunheved had fallen very quiet. Demontaigu was openly suspicious. The Beaumonts and their hangers-on, who’d kept to themselves during the entire cavalcade, began to object to the journey as well as to the increasing number of landless men, wanderers haunting the copses and thickets with their pikes and clubs, who now hung on the edge or rear of our column like hunting dogs waiting for a weakness. Any progress by Great Lords attracts those looking for quick and easy pickings. Nevertheless, the Beaumonts were correct in their concerns, and I wondered if these hangers-on, like the pilgrims still trailing us, had some secret, nefarious purpose.

Pembroke simply dismissed our concerns, but the Beaumonts, those basilisks in human flesh, demanded to know where we were really going and how long it would take. In truth, they realised that they had made a mistake. In their eyes Gaveston was a prisoner and the future looked uncertain, so it was time for them to be gone. Sharp words were exchanged on the highway. The Beaumonts claimed they had been too long absent from their estates as well as the court. Eventually their protests brought the entire cavalcade to a halt. Henry Beaumont confronted Pembroke. Had not the earl himself, on solemn oath, promised that all within Scarborough were safe in life and limb — at liberty to go where they wished? Pembroke could only agree with this. He had no choice. The Beaumonts collected their retainers tightly around them and Henry insisted that they be allowed to withdraw immediately. They observed the courtesies: exchanged the kiss of peace with Gaveston, thanked Pembroke for his hospitality, tipped their heads towards me and Demontaigu and turned away, declaring roundly that they would go back to the crossroads and make their way to Lincoln. During the exchange, Pembroke declared that he would rest the night at Deddington in Oxfordshire, that Lady Pembroke was residing only twelve miles distant at Bampton, and perhaps they would like to go there? The Beaumonts would have none of it. They withdrew their escort, made their final salutations and rode off in a cloud of dust.

We continued on our way, slightly subdued. We rested for a while at two taverns, and just before the sunset rode into Deddington, a sleepy hamlet, no more than a long line of cottages with their vegetable gardens, dovecotes, beehives and pig pens stretched out along the main thoroughfare. Just before the crossroads stood a spacious tavern boasting the title of the Pilgrims’ Final Rest. We passed this, watched by the cottars and their families, and made our way up the slight hill to the parish church of St Oswald, an ancient edifice built of dark grey ragstone with a black-tiled roof and a lofty bell tower that brooded over the great cemetery surrounding the church. A little further on was the rectory, a pleasant two-storey building with a red-slated roof, its smartly painted front door approached by a flight of steps. Both the rectory and its boundary wall, which circled a cobbled yard at the front and gardens at the side and rear, were of honey-coloured Cotswold stone, which gleamed gold in the dying rays of the sun. Pembroke’s outriders had galloped ahead to warn the rector that Pembroke, who held the advowson to the church, intended to reside there. The stern-faced priest, his robes marked with candle grease, was waiting to welcome his patron. Of course the rectory was too small for everyone. Pembroke dispatched some of his retinue back to the Pilgrims’ Final Rest; others camped in the churchyard and a few in the small pavilions of the rectory garden.

I was given an evil-smelling garret just beneath the eaves. Once I’d satisfied my hunger on the meagre platters the rector had laid out in the buttery, I decided to wander the garden to study its various herbs and plants. In fact, I wanted to be alone, well away from the rest, so that I could concentrate on unravelling the mysteries. Moreover, it was a beautiful evening and the rectory garden was rich in trees, apple, pear and black mulberry, which lay at the back approached through gorgeous chequerboard beds of beautiful flowers: primrose, colombi, purple iris and the like. I was immersed in studying these when chaos returned, slipping in like a thief in the night.

Truly scripture says, ‘We know not the day nor the hour.’ A rider claiming he’d been sent by the chamberlain of Pembroke’s manor at Bampton came thundering into the yard, yelling that he had the most urgent news for the earl. Pembroke hurried down. The messenger, breathless after his ride, clutched his saddle horn and gasped out how the lady Pembroke had fallen grievously ill and was asking for him. Pembroke, God forgive him, was besotted with his wife. He never stayed to question, but immediately ordered his household squires to saddle their horses, sending one of them into the village to collect those who’d had been quartered at the tavern. Gaveston came down, offering to accompany the earl. Pembroke refused, claiming that his senior household knight, Sir William Ferrers, would be in charge.

Ferrers, God bless him, did not have the wit to realise what was happening. Jovial and trusting, he assured us that there would be nothing to fear and that we would soon be about our own business. Demontaigu, however, thought otherwise. He firmly believed that mischief was planned. He insisted the rectory gates be locked, and all doors bolted and sealed, but it was to no avail. Pembroke left, taking the greater part of his retinue; those left in the rectory were a mere handful, with a few camped in nearby fields. Sure enough, just before dawn we were aroused from our beds by the clatter of arms. I hastily dressed, went downstairs and peered through a casement window. The yard in front of the house thronged with men all wearing Warwick’s livery. Demontaigu clattered down, saying there were more in the street outside. Gaveston, dressed in his nightgown, a robe about his shoulders, joined us in the small rectory hall, demanding something to eat and drink. The rector brought this even as the noise outside grew.

‘What shall we do?’ Gaveston yelled.

Ferrers began to arm, only to realise that any defence would be fruitless. The clatter of mail, the neigh of horses and the shouts of men from the yard rose sharply, followed by a pounding on the door. Gaveston, myself, Demontaigu, Dunheved and Ferrers clustered around the hall table just as Warwick’s voice rang out like a funeral peal for all to hear.

‘My lord Gaveston.’ The words were rich with sarcasm. ‘I think you know who I am. I am your Black Dog of Arden. Get up, traitor, you are taken!’

This was followed by a further pounding. Warwick’s men then seized a bench from the garden and smashed it against the door. The rector wailed pitifully at Ferrers, begging him to open up. The noose had tightened. We were trapped. Those pilgrims behind us, those landless men so curious about us, had been Warwick’s spies. Yet, there was also something a little more refined, skilful about this trap. How did Warwick know that Pembroke had left? Was the earl’s wife grievously ill at Bampton? Had Pembroke broken his word? I doubted it. We had all been duped, Pembroke especially, and there was nothing more we could do.

‘Open the door,’ I whispered.

Gaveston rose, fingers to his lips.

‘Open the door, my lord, there is no point in resistance,’ I insisted. ‘Warwick may well use that to kill you out of hand.’

‘In God’s name,’ the rector wailed.

Ferrers did not wait any longer. He left the hall, shouting at a few of Pembroke’s retainers clustered in the vestibule, their swords drawn, to open the door. Chains were released, locks turned and Warwick’s men poured through the rectory. Warwick himself strode into the hall. We were ignored, totally unharmed. Indeed, Warwick pointed at us and shouted that we were not to be touched on pain of forfeiture of life and limb. Poor Gaveston was different. He was immediately seized and manhandled. Warwick pushed his way through the throng and punched him in the face, his gauntleted fist smashing Gaveston’s nose and bruising his lips. The fallen favourite was dragged out into the cobbled yard and his cloak stripped off for him to be exposed to Warwick’s troops, bare-legged, barefooted, dressed only in his nightgown. He was in a state of shock. He tried to speak, but no sound came. One of Warwick’s retainers imitated him, much to the merriment of others. I hurried to kneel at Warwick’s feet, to beg for mercy for this fallen lord brought so low so quickly. Demontaigu also tried to help, shouting at Warwick to remember Pembroke’s oath. The earl’s henchmen just pushed him aside, whilst Warwick, softly patting me on the head, helped me to rise. One glance from those soul-dead eyes confirmed Gaveston’s fate. No mercy was to be asked, as none would be given. The earl just nodded and gently pushed me away. Pembroke’s retainers, to their credit, tried to remonstrate, their swords drawn, but Warwick had brought a host of men-at-arms and archers, and resistance was futile.

Gaveston was forced to stand in the centre of the yard. Some of Warwick’s retainers pelted him with every piece of filth they could lay their hands on, whilst the rest bayed for his blood. Eventually Gaveston just sank to his knees. Warwick thrust a heavy crown of nettles and briars on to his head, then he was placed on a ribbed nag, facing its tail, fastened securely and led around the yard to the taunts and jeers of Warwick’s men. Gaveston just slumped, head down. Warwick gestured at us.

‘You may go,’ he shouted. ‘This peasant of Gascony, this witch’s brat no longer needs you. Do you, sir?’

Gaveston raised his head, trying to see through the tangle hanging over his battered face. He searched the line of faces until he found mine, his bloodied lips mouthing my name. I stepped forward.

‘My lord of Warwick, this does you no credit,’ I declared. ‘Remember Pembroke’s oath. Remember too what his grace the king will make of this.’

Dunheved, Demontaigu and Sir William Ferrers supported my protest. Warwick stood, hands on hips. Then he pulled a face, raised a hand and stilled the clamour.

‘It is best if you were gone,’ he said. ‘You, Mistress Mathilde, and your companions are free to go where you wish.’

‘I shall stay with my lord Gaveston,’ I replied. ‘My companions also.’

Warwick just shrugged and turned away, muttering something about a wench and a priest being no threat. He didn’t care whether we went or stayed. So began Gaveston’s descent into hell. Warwick intended to move swiftly. The fallen favourite was roped and tied. He’d entered Deddington as a Great Lord; he left like a common felon, dressed only in a soiled nightshirt, a bramble-thorn crown on his head, feet and hands bound. In front of him walked one of Warwick’s men, carrying Gaveston’s once gloriously emblazoned tabard and shield, all besmirched and rent. Our captor was determined that no rescue attempt should be made; we would journey directly and swiftly to his own estates and the mighty fastness of Warwick Castle. Word would soon reach both Pembroke and the king, and Warwick was determined not to be trapped.

On our journey we were kept well away from Gaveston. Our entire cavalcade was ring-bound by Warwick’s soldiers, armed men on horse and foot who swept the highways, thoroughfares and adjoining fields free of all travellers, the curious or anyone who approached even within bowshot. Gaveston was constantly abused. One night he was forced to sleep in a ditch, the next lowered into a pit and held fast by ropes. The favourite now accepted the inevitable. He recovered his dignity, refusing to beg for any mercy or the slightest concession. Once we reached Warwick, the earl had him taken off the nag and forced him to walk through the streets to the approaches of the castle. The townspeople had been summoned by heralds to witness the humiliation. Warwick tied a rope around Gaveston’s waist and processed into the town with the hatless, barefooted royal favourite, staggering behind him. The earl was preceded by heralds, trumpeters and standard-bearers, whilst Gaveston’s arms were worn by a beggar, specially hired, a madcap who imitated Gaveston’s staggering walk, provoking the crowd to more laughter and jeers. The prisoner was pelted with dirt, horse manure and all kinds of filth. Horns were blown, bagpipes wailed. Finally, as a warning of what was to come, just before we left the crowd to climb the steep hill to the gatehouse of Warwick Castle, Gaveston was forced to stand between two forked gibbets either side of the thoroughfare. Each bore the gruesome cadaver of a hanged felon. He was made to acknowledge both corpses to the screech of bagpipes and roars of abuse. The procession then continued. Once inside the castle, Warwick consigned Gaveston to its dungeons, with the stinging remark that he who had called him a dog was now chained up for good. He provided myself, Demontaigu and Dunheved with three dusty chambers high in the keep; his message was stark enough: ‘Stay if you wish, but you are certainly not my honoured guests.’

The following morning, after we’d attended Dunheved’s mass in the small castle chapel, we were confronted outside by a group of Warwick’s henchmen. They bore messages from their master. No one would be allowed to see the prisoner, and it was best if we left. The message was tinged with menace, a quiet threat. I seized the opportunity to persuade Demontaigu and Dunheved that Warwick would not hurt me; it was best if they left and immediately journeyed to York to inform both king and queen. At first Dunheved demurred. Demontaigu was also concerned about my safety. I replied that if I was left alone and vulnerable, Warwick would take special precautions that I was not harmed; he would not wish to incur the queen’s wrath. Dunheved agreed with me. The Dominican had changed since we’d left Scarborough Castle. He was more withdrawn, as if reflecting on something, always busy with his beads, lips mouthing silent prayers. He promised that he would first journey to a nearby Dominican house, where he could ask his good brothers there to keep a watchful eye on what happened at Warwick and so provide whatever help they could. Once his decision was made, he rose from where we were seated at the ale-table in the castle buttery. He clasped my hand, exchanged the kiss of peace, then left without a further word. I followed him to the door and watched as he hastened across the inner bailey towards the great keep.

‘Bertrand,’ I spoke over my shoulder, ‘I want you to go, but I will write a letter.’

‘To whom?’

‘To you, my heart.’ I turned and smiled. ‘Please go to York. Once you are safely in that city, open the letter and do what I ask.’

By noon of that day, both Dunheved and Demontaigu had left. Once they’d gone, Warwick’s chamberlain visited me and insisted that I move to what he called ‘more comfortable quarters’ in the castle guest chamber above the great hall. After that, I was left to my own devices. Food and drink were brought up to my room, whilst I was invited to go down to the communal refectory when the castle bell tolled at dawn, noon and just before dusk.

Warwick ignored me. Now that he had seized Gaveston, he was determined to bring as many of the earls as possible into his plan. They hastened to agree. Red-haired, white-faced Lancaster, Edward’s own cousin, and the earls of Arundel, Hereford and Gloucester arrived like hawks to the feast. They and their households, a horde of armed retainers, clattered through the gatehouse into the bailey, to be greeted by Warwick himself. I mixed with the servants, helping where I could with cuts and scrapes, or offering advice. Once people know you are skilled in physic, they insist on regaling you with the state of their health: what is wrong with them and what can be done. From these I learnt that Warwick was determined to try Gaveston by due process of law, give him what could be called a fair trial, then condemn him to death for treason. To continue the semblance of law, he insisted that two justices holding commissions of oyer and terminer in the adjoining counties, Sir William Inge and Sir Henry Spigurnel, were to be included in his net, and persuaded them to move their court to Warwick Castle.

We had arrived on the twelfth of June; on the seventeenth, Warwick moved to terminate matters. He and the other great earls, accompanied by the two justices, sat in judgement in the great hall. Gaveston, his face shaved, hair all cropped like a felon, was prepared for trial. He was allowed to bathe, and was dressed in a simple tunic of dark blue, loaded with chains and brought to the hall, where his judges sat on a dais behind the high table. They came swiftly to sentence. No one, apart from a few clerks and guards, was allowed to attend or witness. Gaveston was not permitted to speak or plead, remaining gagged throughout his trial. Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, was both judge and prosecutor. He accused Gaveston of a litany of heinous crimes: refusing to stay in exile, stealing and spoiling royal treasure, weakening the Crown, being the source of bad counsel to the king, refusing to obey the ordinances of the earls. The list of charges covered every breach Gaveston had made both in statute law and in the ordinances of the earls. The result was a foregone conclusion. He was summarily condemned to death. Sharp-featured Lancaster summed up the proceedings. He offered Gaveston one concession: because of his dignity as an earl, and more importantly, being brother-in-law to de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, he would not suffer the full rigour of the punishment for treason. Instead of being hanged, drawn and quartered, he would merely be decapitated. Sentence was to be carried out almost immediately. There was nothing I or anyone could do. Pembroke sent the most powerful protests, appealing to the University of Oxford to intervene or mediate. From the rumours sweeping the castle, Edward at York was almost beside himself, dispatching pitiful pleas to the earls, to Philip of France and Pope Clement V at Avignon, all to no avail. The earls were obdurate: Gaveston would die.

I tried to visit the prisoner, only to be turned away. I thought I would never see him again. Then, in the early hours of the nineteenth of June, a furious hammering at my door roused me. Warwick and his leading henchmen waited in the darkened gallery outside, faces lit by cresset torches. Warwick was calm, cold and courteous as ever. He sketched a bow, then gestured with his fingers.

‘Come down, come now.’ Again the gesture. ‘The Gascon upstart has asked for one friend and you are it. He wishes to speak to you.’

I hastily dressed and followed Warwick and his coterie down the stairs, not to the dungeons as I expected but over to the castle death house, a narrow whitewashed room adjoining the chapel. The sky was beginning to lighten. Despite being midsummer, the cool breeze made me shiver, and I wondered what would happen. The death house was heavily guarded. The unlocked door was pushed open and I was ushered in. Gaveston crouched by the far wall, the heavy chains on his wrists and ankles clasped fast to iron rings. He’d been given a crucifix, a jug of wine, a pewter goblet and a platter of bread, cheese and some dried fruit. The room was clean but stark, rather chilly in aspect and reeking of embalming fluids. Warwick respectfully pushed me over. Gaveston looked up. In the light of the evil-smelling tallow candle on a nearby table, the former royal favourite looked unrecognisable. The glossy black hair was all shaven, the once smooth olive-skinned face sallow and emaciated, his cheeks rather sunken. The purple-red bruises were fading, but his lips were still swollen and his right eye was half closed. Warwick picked up a stool and placed it opposite Gaveston.

‘Your friend,’ the earl declared. ‘Gascon upstart.’ Only then did Warwick’s voice soften. ‘I urge you,’ he spoke slowly, evenly, emphasising each word, ‘look to your soul! This will be your last day on earth.’

I sat down on the stool even as Gaveston lowered his head, shoulders shaking.

‘No mercy,’ Warwick whispered. ‘None at all! His grace the king cannot save you. A priest will come to shrive you. I urge you, look to your soul. Mistress Mathilde, do you wish something to drink, some food?’

I shook my head.

‘So be it,’ Warwick murmured and strode away leaving two of his men, mailed and harnessed for war, standing guard at the locked and bolted door.

From outside I could hear Warwick’s shouts, his insistence that no one was to be let in or out without his express permission. I sat on the stool and stared pitifully. Gaveston cried for a little longer, then, in a clatter of chains, pulled himself up to lean against the wall. That once beautiful face looked ghastly, but he tried to smile.

‘I asked for you, Mathilde.’ He stretched out his hands. ‘Hold my hand. I do not want to die alone.’

I moved the stool closer, grasping his hand. It was cold, as if already dead. I stared around that narrow, close place with its stained tables and strange, musty smells. Somewhere in the darkness a rat squeaked, and in the corner above, a fly caught in a tangled spider’s web struggled in a noisy whir of wings. Gaveston followed my gaze.

‘I’m truly trapped, Mathilde. The case presses hard against me.’

‘You are, my lord, God save you. You must expect no pardon. What can I do for you?’

Gaveston took a deep breath, still clutching my hand like a frightened child. He gave me messages for friends at court, his love for his wife Margaret de Clare and their infant daughter, his profound contrition for all or any offences against them. He fought to control his voice.

‘Tell my brother the king,’ he whispered, ‘that in death, as in life, I am, was and always shall be his sole comrade.’ He paused to weep quietly, then he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and mentioned other people. His voice eventually faltered. He asked me for a set of Ave beads. I gave him my own, which he clumsily put round his neck.

‘And the Beaumonts?’ I asked. ‘You did not mention them!’

Gaveston smiled, recalling the glory of the handsome courtier who had first dazzled me some four years earlier.

‘Give those sweet cousins my warmest wishes. Tell them I did not hurt their interests in Scotland, their precious estates.’

I grasped the opportunity. ‘What mischief?’ I asked, squeezing his hands. ‘What mischief was planned in Scotland?’

Gaveston just shook his head.

‘And my mistress, her grace the queen, you have not mentioned her.’

‘More subtle than a serpent.’ Gaveston echoed Rosselin’s words. When I pressed him to explain, he would say no more.

‘And the Aquilae, your squires, all dead. My lord, did you have a hand in that?’

‘Of course. I let them fly high, only to fall like Lucifer — all of them, never to rise again.’

‘But did you have a hand in their deaths?’

‘Yes and no.’ Again Gaveston refused to be drawn, saying that these were matters for the mercy seat and the shriving of a priest. He grew agitated and leaned forward in a rattle of chains. ‘Mathilde, you’ll stay with me? I mean to the end. I do not want to be alone. Please?’

I was about to refuse, to barter for what he might still be able to tell me.

‘Please?’ His grip grew tighter. ‘Make sure my corpse is not treated like that of a crushed dog.’

I promised. Gaveston was still not reconciled to death. Now and again he would return to the king, wondering if royal forces were approaching Warwick Castle. I doused such false hopes; to encourage them would have been cruelty itself. Gaveston heard me out, eyes closed, then returned to his reminiscing, recalling past glories, until a harsh rattling at the door made him fall silent. A Dominican from the nearby priory was ushered in. Warwick’s henchmen introduced him as Brother Alexander.

‘I have come to shrive you, my lord.’ Alexander was a stout, cheery-faced friar who refused to be cowed by either circumstance or surroundings.

I prised my hand loose from Gaveston, rose from the stool and offered it to the Dominican. He gently asked me to withdraw, as well as the others. He must have caught my suspicion, because he fished into his wallet and produced a warrant from the prior of his house, countersigned by the Earl of Warwick, giving him licence to shrive the prisoner. I studied this, handed it back and nodded in agreement. Gaveston just crouched, fingers to his lips, a look of stark recognition in his eyes. He was going to die, and no one would save him! I could not bear that stricken look. I gestured to Brother Alexander and walked to the door; the guards ushered me out, then locked and bolted it. I meant to return to my own chamber, but the captain of Warwick’s guard made me stay.

‘It’s best, mistress. My lord says you must stay here until this business is finished.’

An hour must have passed before Brother Alexander knocked for the door to be opened. Outside he grasped me by the elbow and led me away towards the main gate to the bailey.

‘Stay with him, mistress.’ He peered at me through the gloom. ‘Lord Gaveston has done such evil, plotted such malice.’ He paused. ‘I cannot tell you what is covered by the seal of the sacrament, but he said something strange. How you had saved him from the deepest sin.’

I could only stare back, as mystified as he was. I returned to Gaveston. He realised death was imminent and had fallen to his prayers, asking me to join him as he recited his Aves. A short while later they came for him: Welsh archers from Lancaster’s retinue; tough, resolute men, faces bearded, their heads cowled, all stinking of leather and sweat. They strode into the death house, dragged Gaveston to his feet and unceremoniously pushed him out into the bailey, where the earls, led by Lancaster, were already horsed, hooded and cloaked against the early-morning cold. The hooves of their great destriers sparked the cobbles as if these beasts were aware of the bloody, grim business being planned. Lancaster and the rest looked like spectres from the halls of the dead, high in the saddle, black shadows against the brightening sky. Lancaster pushed his horse forward, his pinched, pale features peering from the deep cowl.

‘Gascon,’ his voice was filled with hate, ‘come now, come now, your fate is decided.’

Gaveston ignored him. He stared up at the reddish glow lightening the sky. He fumbled with his chains and turned towards me.

‘A witch once prophesied,’ he hissed, ‘that I would die at the waking hour.’

‘Come,’ Lancaster repeated.

The horsemen drew away. The guard of Welsh archers closed in around us and we left through the gatehouse, down the steep path, the trees and bushes on either side silent witness to what was happening. No retainers massed, preparing to throw filth; no jeering crowd. The earls had decided that if this was to be done it had to be done swiftly. We did not leave through the town but along a rutted alleyway snaking like a rabbit run under the overhanging houses. Signs creaked in the breeze. The rattle of horses’ hooves carried like some sombre drumbeat. If anyone heard, no one dared show it. Windows remained blackened, shutters fast shut. No door opened. No tired voice asked what evil was being plotted at such an early hour. The occasional darting shadow made me jump as a cat fled for shelter. The mournful howls of a dog echoed through the harsh calls of crows disturbed from their plundering on the midden heaps. No beggar whined for alms. No one dared approach these great ones hurrying another to summary execution.

The smell of saltpetre and ordure grew less offensive as we reached the end of the alleyway and emerged on to a winding country lane. I was sweaty and breathless. Gaveston stumbled, only to be cruelly pulled up and hurried on. Now free of the houses, I glanced around. In the strengthening light, I glimpsed a steep wooded hill. One of the archers breathed the name ‘Blacklow’, and I gathered that this was where Gaveston’s soul would be dispatched to God. We left the track-way, going through a half-open gate. The horsemen reined in. Lancaster lifted a hand and pointed to the line of trees.

‘Take him — now!’

Gaveston was given no time to object. He was bundled forward by three of the archers. I was breathless, tired and eager for rest. Gaveston turned, face pallid as a ghost through the murk.

‘Mathilde,’ he hissed, ‘please!’

I followed the archers as they pushed their prisoner forward in a clatter of chains. He turned once more to ensure I followed. We entered the line of trees, a sombre, desolate place. No bird sang. Nothing rustled in the undergrowth, as if all God’s creatures sensed what was being planned. I glanced back. The earls still sat on their horses like a host of demons, watching, silent, hungry for this man’s death, eager to see his hot blood splash.

‘Far enough,’ one of the archers breathlessly announced. He dragged Gaveston to the ground. The prisoner crouched, praying loudly, frantically trying to recall lines from the Office for the Dead.

‘Mistress?’ The archer approached me. ‘You need not stay any longer.’

‘I know Ap Ythel,’ I whispered, ‘captain of the king’s archers.’

‘Ap Ythel.’ The man seemed to forget why he was here. ‘Now there’s a great archer, a true soul.’ He lapsed into Welsh.

I replied haltingly with the few words and phrases Ap Ythel had taught me.

‘Mistress?’ The archer whispered.

I opened my purse, took out three silver pieces and gave them to him.

‘Let it be swift,’ I said. ‘Let him not see it.’

The archer pocketed the silver pieces and sauntered back to Gaveston. I glanced around. I can still recall it. That haunted wood. The sky brightening through the black outline of the trees. Ghostly figures. The archers in their hoods. The creak of leather. The glint of weapons. The pervasive stench of drenched rotting undergrowth, and those horsemen silent, sombre, waiting even as Gaveston gasped out his final Vespers.

‘My lord,’ the archer’s voice sounded like the clap of doom, ‘you must stand up.’

‘So I must.’ Gaveston struggled to his feet and tapped himself under the chin. ‘Are you, sir, going to remove my head? I’m far too beautiful for that.’

‘True, my lord.’ The archer stretched out his hand. ‘Let me clasp yours before you go.’

Gaveston did so. The archer moved swiftly, a blur of movement. He had secretly drawn his long stabbing dagger. Now he pulled Gaveston towards him as if to embrace him, and plunged the blade deep into his heart. Even I, who had begged for such a swift ending, was surprised. Gaveston stood, then crouched, falling back. The archer hurriedly caught him, withdrawing his dagger even as he lowered Gaveston tenderly to the ground. I went and knelt beside the stricken man. Already his eyes were clouding in death; blood was bubbling through his nose and mouth. He turned slightly, coughing, and tried to mouth the word ‘Edward’. His fingers fluttered; I grasped them. Gaveston stared hard at me, then he shuddered and fell back.

‘He is dead!’ the archer announced. ‘Mistress, I beg you, walk away.’ One of the other archers had produced a two-headed axe, which he’d kept in a sack. I stumbled away and stared at those horsemen, vengeful wraiths. I heard the archers whisper, followed by the rattle of chains. Gaveston’s body was straightened out, his neck positioned on a fallen tree trunk.

‘Now,’ the archer murmured hoarsely.

I heard the rasp of leather, then a chilling thud. I took a deep breath and turned. Gaveston’s body, slightly jerking, lay sprawled on the ground. A little distance away was the head, the eyes half closed, the lips of the blood-encrusted mouth slightly parted. The archer picked the head up between his two hands, careful of the blood spilling out. He carried it before him, stepped past me, out of the line of trees, and held it up so that the horsemen could see. One of these, probably Lancaster, raised his hand. The archer turned, took the severed head back and gently placed it beside the trunk of the body, now swimming in blood.

‘Come, mistress.’ The archer seized my arm. ‘Come now, leave him here.’

‘I cannot,’ I whispered. I felt cold and frightened. I found it difficult to breathe; my stomach clenched. The archers talked to each other in Welsh. One produced a small wineskin, unstoppered it and forced it between my lips, making me take a gulp, then he stood back.

‘Mistress,’ he whispered, ‘you cannot stay here, not in the shadows.’

‘I have to,’ I replied. ‘I promised.’

The archers talked amongst themselves, shrugged and bade me farewell. They left the trees, walking leisurely back to the waiting horsemen. The earls and their retinue departed. I just crouched, watching them go, wiping the sweat from both brow and cheeks. I found it difficult to move; even more so to turn and look at the horror awaiting me. The darkness faded. The sun began to rise. I stretched out on the grass, turning on my side as if I was in bed like a child, trying to control my breathing. The woods remained silent. Eventually I felt composed enough. I rose and walked back to Gaveston’s battered corpse. The blood was beginning to dry. The severed head had tipped slightly, the skin now turning a dullish grey. I moved it gently, trying not to look at those half-closed eyes. The skin was clammy cold. I had to repeat to myself that the essence of Gaveston, his soul, his spirit, had long gone to God. These were simply his mortal remains, to be treated with as much dignity as I could muster. I felt determined; I refused to be cowed by Lancaster’s brutality.

I walked out of the wood and down to the road, where I begged for help. Eventually four shoemakers bringing their goods into Warwick agreed for a silver piece to help me. They stopped their cart, took off a ladder and followed me back into the wood. God bless them! They were sturdy men. They asked few questions, but simply put the corpse on the ladder, the head wrapped in a sack beside it, and loaded the remains on to their cart. I persuaded them to make the short journey to Warwick Castle, where I demanded entrance. Warwick himself came down, dressed in half-armour, a goblet of wine in his hand. He walked out, refusing to even glance at the grisly burden resting in the cart.

‘Mistress Mathilde. You cannot stay here. You cannot bring him here. This business is finished.’ He turned and walked back into the gatehouse even as I screamed abuse at him, begging him for the love of God and His Beloved Mother to show some pity for the dead.

‘Mistress,’ one of the shoemakers whispered, ‘we have done what we can; it is best if we take him back from where he came.’

They turned the cart round despite my protest. We were about to leave, go back through that alleyway Gaveston had been marched along to execution, when I heard my name called. I turned. Brother Alexander, dressed in his black and white robes, stood at the corner of a street; behind him was a cart driven by lay brothers from his house. The Dominican walked over, his face all smiles.

‘Mistress Mathilde, Mistress Mathilde.’

He helped me down from the shoemakers’ cart, and for a while just stood holding my hands, lips moving as he quietly recited the requiem.

‘My lord Gaveston’s corpse.’ He gestured at the cart. ‘You have it there. Mistress, you’ve kept your promise. You fulfilled your vow. We will now take it.’

I could not object. What could I do? Brother Alexander called across to his colleagues. Gaveston’s remains were transferred from the shoemakers to the Dominicans. The friar turned to me, lifted his hand, sketched a blessing in the air, then left. I watched the cart rattle away.

Brother Alexander was true to his word. The Dominicans, God bless them, took Gaveston’s mortal remains to their house at Oxford. Here they were washed, embalmed and rubbed with balsam, the head stitched back with silver twine, and placed in an open casket. If I remember correctly, it was two years before the king finally agreed to the burial of the embalmed corpse of the man he loved ‘beyond all others’.