Mathild 03 - The Darkening Glass

by Paul Doherty

  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. Nevert
heless, 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.