by Paul Doherty
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 r
oped 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, c
heese 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.