by Paul Doherty
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 The trestle table was withdrawn and for a while we exchanged pleasantries.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.
Chapter 9
The said Earl should keep Gaveston unharmed.
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 woul
d 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 B
eaumonts 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.