The Darkening Glass

Chapter 8

The dead man’s lodgings were on the second storey of the soaring keep, immediately beneath Rosselin’s. The key fitted. We walked into that chamber, a chilling experience: everything had been left neat and tidy, as if Middleton was about to return. The bedclothes had been pulled up. Garments hung from wall pegs. A pair of boots and soft slippers lay pushed beneath a writing table holding a jug and pewter cups. Against the far wall the squire’s chest and coffer were closed and clasped. Only the lighted candles flickering under their metal caps betrayed Middleton’s agitation. The tapers had been placed on the table around a triptych of Christ’s Passion, as well as on the floor beneath the rough yew crucifix on the wall, around which Middleton had woven his Ave beads. On the writing table, precisely arranged in the form of a cross, were a number of pewter badges venerating St Christopher, the patron saint of those who feared sudden, violent death. The small psalter lying beside these was well thumbed, especially the page with the litany to St Christopher. On the blank pages at the back Middleton had scrawled his own thoughts.

You have poured us a wine which has befuddled us.

My eyes are wasting with weeping.

The vision we were offered has been misleading and false.

Flight will not save the swift. The bowman will not stand his ground, the horseman is trapped.

‘As he was,’ I murmured, handing the psalter to Dunheved. ‘Middleton was a soul torn by guilt and fear. He realised he was anointed for death.’ Dunheved read the psalter, whilst Demontaigu and I searched Middleton’s other possessions. We found nothing of interest.

‘A man witless with fear,’ Dunheved remarked, putting the psalter down. He turned to face the crucifix and crossed himself.

‘Why, why was he killed like that?’ Demontaigu sat on a stool, staring up at me. ‘And the others? Why not a dagger slipping through the dark or an arrow loosed from the shadows?’

‘Subtlety,’ I replied, sitting down on the bed. ‘Here we are locked in this gloomy castle. Middleton, who ostentatiously prayed for protection, was killed in that chapel. Now a place of blood, it is deconsecrated, its harmony and peace shattered. Mass cannot be celebrated there until a bishop reconsecrates it. An unlawful death in a holy place; now the garrison have no real place for mass. If it was murder, and I think it was, greater mysteries are fostered. How? According to the evidence there are only two entrances to that chapel: the sacristy door, but that’s secured fast and sealed with age, and the main porch door. Yet that was locked from within. So,’ I sighed, ‘how did the assassin kill a nervous, wiry young man, stringing him up from that beam like a hunk of meat? Again, there’s that taunting verse about eagles.’

‘But Middleton was not hurled from the battlements.’

‘No, but he was flung from that ladder with a noose around his neck,’ I retorted. ‘Don’t forget, Middleton and Rosselin became very wary of heights, towers and battlements. Middleton stayed well away from such places.’

‘So Middleton’s death,’ Dunheved asked ‘was a subtle attack?’

‘Oh yes! Such a mysterious death, and the despondency it provokes will seep like foul smoke through this castle,’ I replied. ‘Even here, Middleton’s corpse loudly proclaims, the great Lord Gaveston is not safe. Even here, in this strong fortified place, death can strike like some hidden assassin, his bow strung and arrow notched. Middleton, for all his medals, badges and prayers, could not escape his fate. And what was that? To swing by his neck like some crow a farmer hoists on his fence to warn off other marauders.’

‘But why Middleton?’ Demontaigu broke in. ‘The assassin is undoubtedly sly, devious and cunning.’

‘And?’ I asked.

‘Never once,’ Demontaigu lowered his voice, ‘has Gaveston been attacked or threatened in any way — why not? Why kill his retainers but not the Great Lord?’

‘As I said, to create unease.’ I recalled Isabella’s words about the assassin removing the guards first. ‘Perhaps his time has yet to come.’

‘Or could the assassin be Gaveston himself?’ Dunheved whispered.

‘Why?’

‘God knows.’ The Dominican’s harsh, smooth face broke into a smile; try as he might, Dunheved found it difficult to hide his dislike of the royal favourite.

‘Subtle but cunning,’ I declared. ‘What I said to Gaveston was true: he hastens here and he hastens there. A death occurs here, a death occurs there. Do we ever stay long enough to scrutinise the ground, to search for the symptoms? No, and it is true here. We have discovered nothing except that Middleton was terrified of sudden death, which unfortunately for him did close like a trap about him. .’

There was little more to add. We left the chamber and went our different ways. I was still disturbed by Demontaigu’s question. Why had the Aquilae been killed but Gaveston, so far, had not even suffered a scratch? Could he be the killer? But why? I returned to the chapel and stepped through the broken doorway. I examined the key and walked around the walls into the sanctuary and sacristy — nothing. I left the chapel and went up on to the battlements and stared longingly out. A heat haze now hung over the small town below and misted the far horizon. A breeze cooled the sweat on my face. Trumpets called, shouts and cries echoed up from the baileys. I leaned against the crenellations and wondered how this would end. Scarborough was a trap. Would we escape?

Later that same day Gaveston called one of his chamber councils: myself, Dunheved, Rosselin and the Beaumonts. The latter appeared in all their splendour, full of questions about Middleton’s death and when the king would arrive. The more I watched and listened, the more I grew aware of why the Beaumonts had planted their standards so firmly alongside Gaveston’s. They were fortune-hunters, gamblers. If Gaveston survived, he would be in their debt. If he went down, the king would remember their loyalty and perhaps they could fill Gaveston’s place at court as well as in the king’s heart. Just as importantly, they remained close to the king’s chamber, where they could spy and eavesdrop on the royal council as well as keep a vigilant eye on their estates in Scotland. Nevertheless, the Beaumonts had finally realised which way the wind was blowing and had reached a conclusion. Gaveston was in dire peril and it was time for them be gone, at least for a while. Henry loudly questioned why they had to shelter here. What troops would the king bring? Such hot words made little impression. Gaveston slouched in his chair, a broken man, waving his hand, airily talking about the king sweeping up with masses of royal levies. He’d certainly drunk deep and loudly mourned Middleton and the deaths of the other Aquilae, who had been so cruelly brought low. He yelled questions at me, then rose and walked down to Rosselin. He clapped his henchman on the shoulder, promising that one of Ap Ythel’s archers would guard him day and night. In that dusty chamber, with the sun pouring through the lancet windows against the crumbling plaster and the faded colours of the battered shields fastened on the walls, the glass darkened even further. Gaveston returned to his chair, gabbling on about the past glories of his beloved Aquilae, then he dismissed us with a wave of his hand.

Later that day news arrived. Royal couriers, sweat-soaked and grey with dust, thundered through the gatehouse, swinging themselves out of the saddle, hands clutching the pouches of letters they brought. We waited a while; no mention was made of the king arriving, but the great earls were certainly on the march. Edward sheltered at York. The queen, much to my surprise, had separated herself from the king and was residing at the royal manor of Burstwick on the Humber peninsula. More curious still, a powerful French squadron of war-cogs had appeared, cruising off the mouth of the Humber, though with banners and pennants lowered in a sign of peace. The sorrows were gathering. Seeds were sown of a harvest that would come to crop year in and year out for decades to come, each with its own noxious fruit.

Our sense of foreboding deepened. Middleton’s death, despite Gaveston’s strictures, was whispered about as something ghastly, deeply malevolent, as if Satan, the provost of hell, had pitched camp in that grim fortress. Even during the day, when the sun shone in an angelic blue sky, our mood was always tinged by the fear of night and the descent into darkness. Once the daylight faded, strange sounds were heard throughout the castle. A sepulchral voice bellowed down hollow, vaulted passageways. Lights and fires were glimpsed where they should not have been. Strange groans and cries echoed along the empty stone corridors. One story fed upon another. A bat became a winged demon. A night bird’s shriek the chant of a stricken soul; perhaps Middleton’s, still earth-bound by his heavy chains of sin. Gaveston kept more and more to himself. Rosselin was rarely seen, and when he was, he was deep in his cups, his chamber constantly guarded by one of Ap Ythel’s archers. On the few occasions I visited the Aquila, he would first pull back the grille high on the door and glare out at me. He would allow me in but could not help me with my questions. He was a broken man hiding in a filthy chamber.

Some days after Middleton’s death, early in the morning, around Matins hour, we were all aroused by the clanging of the tocsin. I rose and peered through the window. A beacon fire had been lit along the battlements. Outside rose the call to arms. I dressed and hurried out, cloak about me, boots pulled over my bare feet. The warning bell high on its scaffold somewhere in the inner bailey had fallen silent, but men were still hurriedly strapping on harness and war-belt. Servants running beside them held torches; all were scrambling up the steep, dangerous steps to the castle walls. The clash of the portcullis, the winch of catapults being prepared cut through the cold night air, drowning the cries and shouts, the raucous barking of dogs and the frightened neighing of horses in the stables.

Demontaigu and I joined the others high on the windswept battlements. Guards were pointing out. Ap Ythel’s archers were stringing their bows. Captains of the parapet shouted instructions. The night breeze carried the iron tang of water and oil being boiled on hastily prepared fires beneath. Ap Ythel, cursing loudly, roared at the others climbing the steps to stay below, to douse the fires and wait for his orders. Constable Warde came hurrying up. He and Ap Ythel conferred in hushed whispers. They leaned against the parapet wall, staring into the darkness, trying to establish what dangers threatened.

‘Can you see anything?’ Ap Ythel called. ‘Anything at all?’

We peered out across the darkened town lit by pricks of light. The constable quietly cursed and shouted an order to his troops below. A postern door was loosened to the clatter of chains and the drawing of bolts.

‘They are sending out scouts,’ Demontaigu whispered.

The line of men along the parapet relaxed. Dunheved shouted my name from the bailey below but I could not catch his words. Gaveston, swathed in a cloak, came clumsily up the steps clutching a goblet of wine, loudly demanding to know what was wrong. The constable whispered furiously to him. Gaveston toasted the darkness with his cup and staggered back down. I followed. Dunheved came out of the darkness and clutched my arm.

‘What is wrong, Mathilde? Beacon fires burning, tocsins sounding? I was trying to find out. .’

‘You know much as we do, Brother.’ I gazed across the bailey; the wind was whipping the torch flames to a furious dance.

Accompanied by Dunheved, I asked a guard to take me into the inner bailey to show me the high wooden scaffold from which the great tocsin bells were hung. The man pulled a face but agreed. Once there, I climbed the steps on to the wooden dais. The rope for the bells still hung loose. I stared up and made out the yawning rims glinting in the light from my companion’s torch. I had seen or heard nothing from the castle walls. I suspected the alarm was some madcap hoax, a suspicion the returning scouts confirmed. No force, friendly or hostile, had entered the town.

The constable immediately summoned everyone down into the large bailey and led them across into the refectory, where tired-faced servants served us fresh milk and strips of yesterday’s bread. We gathered around the tables as Warde shouted questions no one could answer. The ringing of the tocsin, the lighting of the beacon fire and the rumours that had swept the fortress about the king approaching — or was it the earls? — could not be explained. The constable, red-faced with anger, stalked out. We and the rest drifted back to our own chambers.

The real cause for the alarm was revealed in all its horror the next morning. A servant hastened into the chapel garden to breathlessly inform me, Demontaigu and Dunheved that John Rosselin, God save his soul, squire to Lord Gaveston, had been found dead outside Queen’s Tower. He took us across the bailey and around the donjon to the rocky incline that stretched about its base. Rosselin lay sprawled, gashed and saturated in his own blood, on the sharp cobbles. Gruesome bruises marked his face. The right side of his skull was completely staved in, like the wood of a broken cask. He was dressed in a soiled shirt, hose and boots, arms and legs grotesquely twisted. The dagger sheath on his war-belt was empty, the knife driven deep into his left side up under his ribs. The constable and Ap Ythel let me through. I turned the corpse over, peered at the blood-encrusted mask of Rosselin’s face then felt his hands and neck.

‘He’s been dead some time,’ I declared. I followed the constable’s direction and stared up at the window high above us, even as I heard the dull thudding from the keep.

‘He fell from his chamber window; he must have done,’ the constable murmured.

‘My men are trying to break down the door,’ Ap Ythel explained.

Dunheved asked Demontaigu to look after the corpse whilst we went up into the keep. We reached the stairwell to Rosselin’s chamber just as the door, locked from the inside, buckled and splintered. The men grasping the makeshift battering ram pounded it until it snapped loose of lock and hinge and crashed inwards. We clambered over it into the room. The large window, deep in its embrasure, was unshuttered. A desolate, untidy room, still reeking of Rosselin’s sad spirit. The table was littered with cups and dirty platters. Scraps of parchments were strewn on the bed, its sweat-soiled linen sheets all twisted. A cloak lay on the floor. On a stool next to the bed was the key, a pair of beads, a brooch and two leather wrist guards.

‘I’ll collect everything,’ Dunheved whispered. He picked up a wicker basket and crossed to the bed.

I stared around at the dirty plaster, the recess leaning into the latrine, the arrow loops in the wall. I crossed to the window embrasure and glimpsed the blood, dry and sticky, on the dark stone sill. I traced it back along the floor to the centre of the chamber, just where the cloak lay. The room had fallen silent except for Dunheved filling that basket, and the laboured breathing of the men who’d forced the door. A prickle of fear cooled my own sweat. The constable and Ap Ythel, who’d now joined us, were thinking what Dunheved was whispering about. The angel of death and all his minions from the meadows of hell had visited this chamber. Rosselin had certainly been murdered, his body picked up and hurled from that window, but why, by whom and how? Ap Ythel went out into the stairwell to talk to a comrade in the sing-song tongue of their own country. The constable checked the door and its shattered lock. It was futile to ask about secret entrances or someone climbing up the sheer face of that keep and forcing an entry through the window.

‘Something evil,’ the constable declared. ‘Some malignancy fastened on Rosselin.’ He went and sat down on the bed, his face all miserable. Warde was a seasoned veteran and I recognised his expression: a man who would do his duty but one who also realised when he could do no more.

‘Our strength has been sapped from within,’ the constable murmured. ‘What happened here? Gaveston,’ he checked himself, ‘my lord Gaveston will want to know.’

‘The tocsin,’ I replied. ‘This was the assassin’s real purpose, but wasn’t there a guard. .?’

‘Goronwy Ap Rees,’ the captain of the archers sang out as he came back into the room, ‘one of my best men. He was on guard outside last night. He admits he was dozing. He was aroused by the alarm, as was Rosselin, who came and lifted the door shutter. Ap Rees did not know what to do until a voice at the bottom of the stairs shouted that a royal army was approaching the castle and every man was needed on the battlements. Ap Rees left. He heard Rosselin yelling questions behind him but he concluded that if Gaveston’s henchman wanted to know what was happening, he was free to join him.’

‘So the keep was deserted?’ I declared. ‘The assassin must have rung that tocsin, lit the fire and come here. Somehow he persuaded Rosselin to open the door, then stabbed him, dragged his body across to that embrasure and hurled it from the window.’ I paused. ‘Swift as a cat pouncing on a mouse. Rosselin was befuddled, mawmsy with drink.’

‘Yet whom would Rosselin admit?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘More importantly,’ Warde declared, ‘and word of this will spread through the castle, how did the assassin leave through a door locked from within?’

I couldn’t answer. I crossed to the basket Dunheved had placed on the floor, took out the key and went to the battered door. The key fitted the lock, rusting and ancient though now all buckled

‘I have found it.’ Demontaigu’s voice rang clear from the stairwell. He came into the chamber clutching a scrap of parchment and handed it to me. It bore the expected message: Aquilae Petri, fly not so bold, for Gaveston your master has been both bought and sold.

‘Tucked under the cuff of his jerkin,’ Demontaigu added.

‘I had best tell my lord Gaveston.’ The constable got to his feet and strode out. The rest followed.

Demontaigu sat on a stool, mopping his brow. Dunheved stood by the window with his back to us.

‘We should go,’ he declared, ‘from this place of blood.’

‘No, no,’ I whispered. ‘Let us first search Rosselin’s possessions.’

We did so, but discovered nothing of significance. Demontaigu informed me that Rosselin’s corpse had been taken to the castle death house.

‘His soul has gone to God.’ Dunheved was still staring out of the window. ‘Mathilde, shouldn’t we go?’ He turned to face me. ‘It’s time we left here. There’s nothing more we can do. This is a lost cause. What is the point in staying?’

I didn’t answer. A few hours later we were given no choice but to remain. Early that afternoon the tocsin was sounded, booming out the truth. The earls had arrived! First their outriders, horses raising dust clouds beyond the town, then a stream of colour: pennants, banners and standards flapping in the sea breeze, a host of many hues: red, argent, blue, green, scarlet, white and black. The devices and insignia boldly proclaimed the power of England: gules, shields, bears and boars, wyverns and lions, greyhounds, crowns and swords. The earls’ army camped beyond the town, a brilliant sea of shifting colours as pavilions, tents, bothies and horse lines were set up. The noise and smell of this great host wafted towards us, then, like a river breaking its banks, the enemy troops spilled out of the camp, threading through the narrow streets of the town and washing around the base of the castle and down to the port. I stood on the battlements with the rest. My heart sank. The earls had mustered a great host. This was the season for war. The lanes, tracks and roads were dry-hard, making easy passage for their foot, horses and carts, whilst the surrounding countryside was well stocked with provisions. They were quickly accepted by the townspeople. Order seemed good, discipline imposed. We even heard cheering as the citizens greeted the passing troops. If the earls wished to impress us, they certainly succeeded. Mail and armour flashed in the sunlight, the shimmering threat of what we were to expect. Worse was to come. Behind the troops, black and fearsome against the sky, trundled the terrible engines of war: trebuchets, slings, battering rams, mantlets, catapults and massive siege towers. The latter moved slowly, edging towards us like hideous monsters from the deepest pit. Once they reached the castle walls, the siege would be over.

The earls deployed their army, concentrating on the lower reaches of the castle. Against both our right and left flanks siege engines were set up. Behind these came the carts, rattling with stones, slingshots and barrels of tar, ready to be lit. By early evening we were encircled. Our lookouts on the coastal side brought even grimmer news: three cogs of war, high-sterned, well armed and thronged with fighting men, had slipped into the harbour, flying the pennants of the leading guilds of London. These would seal the port, cutting off help from the king’s ships as well as any possible escape. The trap had snapped shut. The noose was tightening. The earls had brought Gaveston to the ring to dance, and dance he would. I recall that night vividly. The darkness fiercely lit by fire. The air polluted by the sickly burning smell of tar as the besiegers prepared in earnest.

The following morning, just after dawn, the earls sent their defiance. An envoy carrying a leafy green bough, escorted by a priest holding a cross, and a herald with a trumpet and Pembroke’s standard, rode to the edge of the narrow moat before the gatehouse of the castle. The strident blast of the trumpet brought us back to the walls. The ensuing ceremony was empty and pointless. The envoys demanded the immediate surrender of the castle and that Lord Gaveston give himself up into the power of ‘the Community of the Realm’. The constable, on behalf of Gaveston, rejected the call, claiming he held the castle for the king. The envoy dropped his bough, turned his horse and galloped back with his escort. Two hours later the earls attacked. They concentrated on the lower stretches of the castle to both right and left, well aware of our difficulties, our inability to fortify and defend two places at the same time. The garrison was split. The constable had to hold even more men back in reserve lest these attacks were mere feints and the main assault might emerge elsewhere.

The succeeding days became a time of terror. The sky torched and seared with stones and other missiles coated with burning pitch. The air was riven by the screech of rope, the whir of wheels and the harsh crack as the engines of war launched a blizzard of fire. The earls tried to clear the battlements of our archers as the clumsy ox-hide-covered siege towers edged ever so slowly but threateningly towards us. The earls’ strategy was simple and stark: to attack and overrun the low-lying flanks of the castle and push us back to the inner bailey and the bleak fastness of the keep. Everyone was mustered to arms. Even I had to crouch, clammy cold with fear, on the battlements with an arbalest and a quiver of bolts. Dunheved joined me, refusing to hide behind his cloth. He could often be seen edging along the parapet with what he called his ‘miraculous wineskin’ so he could provide both physical and spiritual comfort. The ominous whistle of missiles, the crack of rope, the crash of stones, the fiery bundles hurled against the wall or down into the bailey became commonplace. Great clouds of smoke plumed up above the castle, billowing out in a miasma of offensive stench. The assaults continued late into the evening, the machines of war singing out in their own horrid way a deadly Vespers to close the day.

Men were killed, heads and bodies smashed. Others were grievously wounded or badly burnt. I became busy in the infirmary, fortunate enough to be away from the heart-rending clatter of battle. Because of the heat, the dead were buried quickly, Rosselin and Middleton included, in a long gaping trench cut through that lovely garden. A broad, deep furrow for the dead that became crammed with the corpses of those killed in the murderous, fiery storm of missiles. I remembered my promise to Rosselin. I had him sheeted in a proper shroud, a wooden cross clasped between his dead fingers with an absolution pinned to his breast. I gave gold to the castle chaplain and he swore the most solemn oath to sing six chantry masses for the repose of Rosselin’s soul and those of his comrades. The siege castles continued to edge their cumbersome way across the narrow moat and up to the flattest place before the walls. Already archers, packed in the various storeys, could loose dense clouds of longbow arrows. The constable retaliated with his own mangonels and slings; pots of fire, burning tar and boulders were hurled back, but the siege towers were draped in ox hide saturated in vinegar. Sallies and forays were attempted. Rumours that two of the earls had withdrawn their levies gave us little respite as the blazing fury returned. Our garrison began to weaken, due not so much to death and wounds but to the very reason for our resistance. Gaveston was now reduced to a drunken sot. No, he was not a coward; he was never that. He just accepted that salvation was not imminent. The king would not come. The raging battle became our lives. I could do little to resolve the murderous mysteries that had dogged our souls like lurchers on the scent. Such problems were overridden by the need to survive. Morning gave way to evening, and still the sky rained terrors.

The end came swiftly, unexpectedly, not from without but from the enemy within. One afternoon I was summoned from the infirmary to the inner bailey, where a crowd had gathered round the deep well, our main source of water. Women were screaming about the water being polluted. An archer volunteered to go down the foot holes in the walls of the well to investigate. He returned grim-faced, carrying a dead rat bloated with water. The bottom of the well, he reported, brimmed with such corpses. God knows how it was done. Were the rats poisoned and thrown into the well, or were they fed some noxious substance that gave them a raging thirst so that, true to their rapacious nature, they turned and twisted in the runnels beneath the castle searching for water. I was about to leave, to hurry to the other well in the outer bailey, when screams and shouts rose from the keep. Flames and smoke were licking at the half-windows just above ground. The great cellars of the keep, holding most of the castle’s provisions, had been fired. Cavern after cavern, cellar after cellar, was ravaged by hungry flames, which destroyed the wooden lintels and doors, scarred the stone and reduced most of the stock to grey, shifting ash. No one could be accused, no evidence produced, except that the fire had been started quickly with some oil and a torch. Was it the assassin? I wondered. There again, it could have been any member of our garrison, tired, heart-sick and desperate for relief. Indeed, we were not so much concerned about who had done it but the effect. At a stroke the garrison had been gravely weakened, depleted of both food and water.

Gaveston’s chamber council was in no mood to mollify the drunken, unshaven royal favourite when we met in the great hall of the keep later that evening.

‘We must seek terms,’ Warde declared defiantly. ‘Our water and food stocks are no more. The enemy have tightened their noose around us. Talk of desertion amongst my men is common chatter. If the earls storm the castle they can, according to the usages and rules of war-’

‘The usages and rules!’ Gaveston screamed back. ‘What are those?’

‘Protection against being put to the sword if this castle is stormed and taken,’ Warde shouted back.

‘The king. .’ Gaveston yelled.

‘His grace,’ Warde retorted, ‘has not come. He will not come. My lord, the castle is surrounded. The harbour sealed. Within three days those siege towers will reach our walls. I must now look after everyone here, including you. We must dispatch peace envoys. .’

Our murmur of assent brought Gaveston to his senses. He blinked and gazed fearfully around.

‘God have mercy.’ Gaveston realised he was finished.

‘We must follow a different path,’ Dunheved insisted.

‘Who?’ he asked.

The sigh of relief that greeted his question was almost audible

‘Who?’ Gaveston repeated and his gaze held mine. ‘Whom do we send?’

Henry Beaumont and his kin immediately pointed out that they too were the object of the earls’ spite. Had they not also been included in the earls’ ordinances and indictments against the court party? Gaveston just ignored them and continued to stare at me, pleadingly abject. He trusted me. He knew I would be honourable and not barter my life for his. God knows why he thought that. I was as tired and sick of him as anyone. Gaveston repeated his question. His chamber council stared bleakly back. The earls regarded everybody in the castle as their enemy. Nevertheless, the killing had to stop. This futile business brought to an end.

‘I’ll go.’ I lifted a hand, knocking away Demontaigu’s as he tried to restrain me.

‘And so will I.’ Dunheved smiled at me. ‘A Dominican priest and a lady of the queen’s personal chamber should be safe.’

‘And the terms?’ Gaveston tried to conceal the desperation in his voice.

‘Your life, your honour,’ I retorted. ‘The earls have no power over any of us. We held a royal castle in the king’s name.’

Gaveston sat in silence, nodding to himself, then, true to his nature, fickle as ever, he abruptly changed, clapping his hands like a contented child.

‘Tomorrow,’ he declared, ‘at Lauds time. Sir Simon, make the arrangements. We must send a herald as well.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Demontaigu spoke up. ‘I will be the herald. The earls can only offer you terms. My lord, it is a matter for the king and Parliament what happens to you, to us.’

Gaveston declared himself content and dismissed us.

Just after dawn the following day, I prepared to leave. It was a truly beautiful morning. The sun had risen in fiery splendour, its light glowing across the sea then sweeping in to bathe both castle and town in its golden warmth. Demontaigu, Dunheved and myself gathered in the bailey then left through the great gatehouse. Demontaigu rode on my right, bearing Gaveston’s standard to which a rich green bough had been attached. Dunheved on my left held a crucifix lashed to a pole. I was no longer so fearful. At first light the constable had appeared above the gatehouse with a trumpeter to summon Pembroke’s envoy to discuss a parlance about matters of mutual concern. The constable said he was prepared to dispatch emissaries. Pembroke’s envoy, without even turning back to camp, quickly agreed. The earls also wanted to bring these matters to a close.

I had washed and changed into the best I could find: soft riding boots, a gown of dark murrey fringed with gold and a Lincoln-green cloak. I didn’t truly know what to expect and tried to hide my nervousness as we clattered across the drawbridge to join Pembroke’s envoy, who was also holding a green bough. He welcomed us courteously enough and we continued down into the winding lanes of the town. Despite the early hour, rumour as well as the noise of the heavy portcullis being raised had roused the citizens. Casement windows flew open, doors creaked back on their hinges, people shuffled out to peer at what the great ones had decided. A madcap, still mawmsy after drinking ale, danced out of the mouth of an alleyway chanting a verse from the psalms: ‘For three times nay, four times thy crimes, punishment is decreed.’ Pembroke’s envoy drove him off.

We continued on. Dogs howled. Cats busy on the stinking midden heaps raced away, black shadows against the glowing light. On the corner of a crossroads a corpse dangled from a makeshift gibbet, head twisted, eyes bulging glassily at us. A piece of parchment pinned to the hanged man’s tattered jerkin described him as a looter, powerful evidence that the earls were determined to keep order. Beside the gibbet a line of malefactors held tight in the stocks groaned and whined for relief. A town bailiff, in mockery of their pain, doused their heads with a bucket of horse piss then roared with laughter as the prisoners tried to shake the slop off themselves. Two beggar children, eyes wide, thin arms extended, watched us pass. Despite the glory of the morning, I caught a trace of the brutal cruelty of this life. Dunheved began to chant a psalm: ‘I lift up my eyes to hills from which my Saviour cometh. .’ I quietly prayed that we’d be safe.

We reached a stretch of common land across which lay the sprawling camp of the earls’ army, already roused and preparing for another day’s bloodshed. We passed the siege machines and other engines of war and went in through the gate. The camp itself, probably at Pembroke’s order, to impress us, was already bristling with menace. Archers and men-at-arms, hobelars and crossbowmen were dressed in their leather jerkins, chainmail coifs pulled back, helmets and sallets hanging from war-belts as their captains organised them for the first assault of the day. The camp reeked of all the filthy stench of battle: blood, dirt and fire smoke. A soft breeze carried a mixture of odours from the horse lines, latrines, smithies and cook pots. The enemy host was well organised, bothies and leather tents being pitched in neat rows. We passed along the main thoroughfare to a makeshift stockade housing the gloriously coloured pavilions of the earls; in front of these were planted their standards next to their armour and crested helmets displayed on wooden racks.

We were met by retainers, who helped us dismount and took away our horses. A stiff-backed chamberlain armed with his white wand of office led us to the centre tent, its folds neatly pulled back. Demontaigu gave up his standard and Dunheved his cross to the chamberlain; we were then ushered inside, where Pembroke, Hereford and Warwick waited for us behind a trestle table. Pembroke sat in the centre; on the table to his right lay his jewel-hilted sword, its wicked point turned towards us; on his left was a book of the Gospels, its reddish leather covering ornamented with Celtic designs done in miniature precious stones. We were invited to the three stools placed before the table. Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, did not stand on ceremony. He bowed courteously to all three of us, asked us to name ourselves, then, turning to his left, introduced Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and on his right Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford. He quickly added how the king’s cousin, Thomas, the Earl of Lancaster, had withdrawn his levies to Pontefract but, Pembroke observed tersely, could always return.

From the very start, Pembroke was graciousness itself. He offered us ale, soft bread and freshly cooked meat. We tactfully accepted, and while servants brought in a platter and tankards I studied these three great earls. Of course I knew them, whilst they recognised me from court occasions, pageants, celebrations and banquets. I ate and drank sparingly, allowing Dunheved and Demontaigu, also known to our hosts, to go through the usual courtesies. The constable had lectured me on what to do and what to say, but in truth, I knew these nobles well. Some of them truly hated Gaveston with a passion beyond all understanding. Black-haired, swarthy, long-faced Pembroke, with his neatly clipped moustache and beard and deep-set eyes, I rather liked. Tall, angular and slightly stooped, Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, was the Crown’s principal diplomat. A loyal captain of war, driven to this by the king’s foolishness, he was nervous and eager to please, and our spirits lifted. Poor Aymer! He died on a latrine, poisoned, many years later on a diplomatic mission to France.

Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, was also ill at ease. With a thatch of blond hair above a red-cheeked ploughboy’s face, stout, fat Hereford was not the sharpest arrow in the quiver; a blusterer, with his fat cheeks, blue eyes and pouting lips. He followed where others went, even if it led to his own death. Years later, when poor Hereford tried to defend a bridge across the river Ure against Despencer, a pikeman got beneath and thrust his spear up into his bowels. Finally the dragon-slayer, Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. A viper to the heart, he was a highly dangerous man, violent and malicious, who carried his head as if he’d been personally anointed by God Almighty to sit at the right hand of the power. Lean and sinewy as a ferret, constantly garbed in scarlet and gold, Warwick looked Italianate: his olive-skinned, high-cheekboned face gleamed with precious oil, his black hair was neatly cropped and sleek, his face freshly shaven. He had large, liquid dark eyes with a slight cast in the right one. He looked what he was — the devil at the feast. Rumour had it that he truly hated Gaveston, who had not only toppled him at the tournaments but mocked him with the nickname of ‘the Black Dog of Arden’. Warwick never forgave or forgot the insult. He regarded Gaveston as a Gascon upstart, the son of a witch, a commoner not even worthy of holding Warwick’s boots. On that morning he was friendly enough to me. He saw me as a retainer, domicella of the queen. He smiled crookedly at me and winked. I noticed that his left hand was bandaged. Apparently, so I learnt later, he had actually led the assault on Scarborough Castle, so eager was he to tear at Gaveston. Warwick had no dispute with us. He made that obvious; indeed, this emerged very swiftly at our meeting.

Once the servants had withdrawn and the tent flaps were closed, Pembroke came quickly to the point. The earls, he declared, the representatives of the Communitas Regni, the Community of the Realm, had no quarrel with anyone inside the castle except the lord Gaveston. We were free to come and go ad libertatem — with complete freedom. Gaveston however, Pembroke continued remorselessly, had broken the ordinances issued against him the previous year. He must surrender himself to honourable custody and await the will of Parliament, to be summoned at Westminster. Dunheved fastened on the word ‘honourable’. Pembroke explained that Gaveston should withdraw to a royal manor and await the king’s pleasure. Face all earnest, he leaned across the table, informing us that Gaveston would be treated according to the dignity of an earl and be directly under Pembroke’s protection. I was astonished at such generosity yet profoundly uneasy. On the one hand Pembroke and the rest wanted a swift resolution to this matter — that was understandable. They had spent great treasure deploying this army. More importantly, they had broken the king’s peace. They were, in law, rebels and could be accused of treason. If Edward decided to seize the initiative, unfurl his banners and proclaim a state of war, the earls and all their followers, if apprehended in arms, could face summary justice and immediate execution. Pembroke earnestly wanted a solution to these legal and military difficulties. Nevertheless, I remained deeply suspicious. Hereford kept nodding solemnly as if he understood every word, which I doubted. Warwick just stared down at the table. Now and again he’d move his hand, fingers tapping; occasionally he’d glance up and catch my gaze with those dark, dead eyes.

Demontaigu, and subsequently Dunheved, spoke hotly, demanding that Gaveston be truly protected. Pembroke, who could have taken offence at his word being challenged, solemnly promised to go on the most sacred oath possible. He shouted for a servant; when the man came, Pembroke gave orders that a priest carrying the Blessed Sacrament be brought immediately to his pavilion. A short while later, accompanied by a thurifer, an acolyte carrying a capped candle and a small page noisily ringing a bell, the Blessed Sacrament was brought in with all ceremony and laid upon the table. Immediately we all knelt. The priest intoned a prayer, then Pembroke took the oath, one hand on the book of the Gospels, the other grasping the pyx like a priest at the consecration. He swore by life and limb, by his hope of salvation, that if the lord Gaveston surrendered himself into his protection, he would be safe and accorded all the dignity of an earl. I asked if my lords Hereford and Warwick would offer the same oath. Hereford seemed eager enough; Warwick just shrugged. Pembroke swiftly intervened. He pointed out that all the great earls had taken a solemn oath to each other, and what he swore they would stand by. The priest then picked up the Blessed Sacrament, covered it in a white silken cloth and solemnly processed out of the tent.

Cynical though I was, I had to be satisfied. These were honourable terms, and we promised Pembroke that by nightfall he would have Lord Gaveston’s reply. Once the discussions were over, Pembroke grew even friendlier. He insisted that we toast each other with the best wine, which he’d brought specially for such an occasion. Of course courtesy demanded that we stay. The trestle table was withdrawn and for a while we exchanged pleasantries. Warwick sauntered over and commented on my gown: how fresh and sweet I looked after the rigours of the siege. I replied with some tart observation, Warwick threw his head back and laughed, rubbing his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t flinch. Warwick was a dangerous man, but I could tell from his eyes that he meant no danger or threat to me.

‘Little Mathilde,’ he whispered and glanced across to where the other two earls were deep in conversation with Demontaigu and Dunheved. ‘Little Mathilde, be assured, and tell your royal mistress this, we never did mean you any harm.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘We have heard of the deaths of the Aquilae, the eagles of Gaveston — what truth is there in that? That they were all murdered, dashed from a great height? Has Gaveston turned on his own?’

‘My lord,’ I whispered hoarsely, ‘why should he do that?’

Warwick withdrew his hand. ‘I shall tell you something, Mathilde, in confidence. I have known Gaveston many, many a year, since he was a lowly squire in the Prince of Wales’ household.’ He licked his lips. ‘I have a reputation, mistress, and I deserve it, but no one understands the ruthlessness of Gaveston, remember that! He will betray anyone to protect himself.’

‘Even his grace the king?’ I whispered.

‘Edward of Caernarvon is what he is, but even he doesn’t understand Gaveston like I do. The reason why, Mistress Mathilde? Because we’re the same kind. I recognise Gaveston for what he is. I beg you to be careful, and if. .’ Warwick paused to collect himself, then he put his hand on my shoulder and gently caressed it. ‘Mathilde, what do you wish for your mistress?’

‘Health and happiness, my lord, the same as you.’

‘And so I do.’ Warwick glanced quickly around. ‘But I assure you, this realm will have no peace until Gaveston is gone.’

‘You mean abroad, my lord?’

‘I mean until he is no more. Remember that, Mathilde.’ He tapped me on the shoulder, kissed me quickly on the brow and strode away.

We were escorted back to the castle and taken immediately to the keep, where Gaveston had called his chamber council. The discussion was brief but terse. The constable declared himself delighted by the terms and I recognised that Gaveston could no longer count on him. Demontaigu, Dunheved and I pressed Gaveston to accept. There was some hesitation on the royal favourite’s part, but within the hour he too had taken the oath. Dunheved was dispatched back to the earls to inform them that early the following morning Gaveston would leave the castle.

I was pleased it was over. I was desperate to rejoin my mistress. Later in the evening, however, Dunheved visited me with the news that he and I, together with Demontaigu, were to be part of Gaveston’s escort. The royal favourite argued that since we had witnessed Pembroke’s oath and played a prominent part in the negotiations, it was only right and proper that we should accompany him. We had no choice but to agree. The Beaumonts, intrigued, also decided to join us.

The following morning Gaveston, face shaved, hair all coiffed, dressed resplendently in beautiful velvet robes of green, black and red, his horse carefully groomed, its harness polished, left the castle to the blare of trumpets and the cheers of the garrison. The fool thought he had won their support; little did he realise they were delighted that this bloody affray was finished.

Pembroke was waiting for us. He had promised that Gaveston be treated with all honour and grace, and this was observed. Our ride through Scarborough town was a triumphant procession, with people shouting and cheering from windows decorated with coloured cloths, whilst green boughs were strewn on the path before us. Maidens of the town had gone out and collected the petals of wild flowers to shower Gaveston. Priests from the churches processed out with cross, incense and holy water to bless and approve our passing. This time the town gibbet was bare and the stocks empty. The leading citizens presented Gaveston with a small gift, then we crossed that stretch of wasteland into the earls’ camp. Hereford and Warwick were conspicuous by their absence, but Pembroke remained gracious, dressed in all his finery, silver chains around his neck, rings glittering on his fingers. He and Gaveston exchanged the Osculum pacis, the kiss of peace.

Oh, there was junketing and celebrating, mummery and music. The camp echoed with toasts and acclamations as well as the sound of rebec, viol and harp. Standards, pennants and coloured buntings floated in the breeze. Pembroke and Gaveston dined publicly at a trestle table set on a richly draped dais in full view of the camp. Servitors brought in freshly cooked dishes of venison, pork, beef and lamprey as well as jugs of the finest wine. Once the banquet was over, Pembroke and Gaveston again exchanged the kiss of peace, and the royal favourite loudly declared that he would go to Wallingford and reside there in peace until the will of the Community of the Realm be known. Pembroke in his turn proclaimed that he had taken a sacred oath: Lord Gaveston was directly under his protection and he would answer for him.

Afterwards, in the privacy of Pembroke’s tent, Gaveston demanded, at my urging, that Pembroke leave for Wallingford with a very strong escort, whilst no one should be informed of our route south. Pembroke agreed, but insisted that his brother earls would respect his oath and that no harm would befall anyone.