by Paul Doherty
‘He should be more cunning, astute.’
‘That, Mathilde,’ the princess whispered, ‘comes with years. The king is insistent on one thing. Tonight we dined in public, but tomorrow, he, Gaveston, you and I will dine alone in his chambers. He has told us to rest as we shall talk and drink until the early hours. I understand that. Soon,’ Isabella pulled a face, ‘Marigny and the rest arrive; they will watch us like a cat does a bird.’
Chapter 8
All the land of England is moist with weeping.
‘A Song of the Times’, 1272-1307
The following evening Isabella and I, both greatly refreshed, joined the king and Gaveston in the small dining chamber in the royal quarters. The room had been specially prepared, its windows shuttered, Turkey rugs laid on the floor, a great oval oaken table placed before the hearth so we could all feel the warmth from the flames licking the sweetly scented pine logs. The king and his favourite were dressed sombrely in dark Lincoln green, boots on their feet, their only concession to finery being the glittering rings on their fingers. They both looked purposeful, sober and eager to talk. As the various courses were served, pheasant and hare cooked in different sauces, Edward described what would happen over the next month, advising Isabella about the coronation and the rituals which would have to be followed. Only towards the end, after the quince tarts were served with sweet white wine, did he order all the servants to leave, no lesser person than Sandewic being left outside to guard the passageways and doors. Edward pushed back his chair, turning slightly towards the fire.
‘I like Dover,’ he murmured, ‘always on the edge of the kingdom, a place to come if you want to escape.’ He turned back to us. ‘Ah well.’ He sighed. ‘And now to business.’
Both king and favourite lounged languidly; no more pretence, no acting, no slurping from cups or bellowing guffaws of laughter. No one else was present, though I wondered why a fifth chair had been placed at the table. Edward, tapping his goblet with his fingernails, chattered about our entry into London then straightened in his chair, playing with the ring on the little finger of his left hand. He described the situation in Scotland, the power of Bruce and his threat to the northern shires. He detailed the problems with the exchequer, his lack of monies, the pressing need to raise taxes from both parliament and the Convocation of Clergy. Gaveston remained quiet throughout. Now and again he’d glance at me, but for the most part he sat, head down, listening intently as Edward listed his problems with the earls. He described how his great-grandfather John, grandfather Henry as well as Edward I had all faced strong opposition from the leading nobles with their private armies and retinues, their deep-rooted determination to control the power of the crown.
‘Ask Sandewic,’ the king scoffed, gesturing at the door. ‘Forty-seven years ago he fought for the rebel Earl of Leicester, Simon de Montfort, against my father and grandfather. He escaped the traitor’s block because my dear father admired his integrity. One decision,’ Edward added wryly, ‘on which both Father and I agreed.’
The more Edward talked, the less certain I became. In all this there was some mystery, a puzzle, an enigma. He was talking fluently and logically. Yet why play the other Edward, the feckless king supporting his favourite, patronising jesters whilst publicly insulting the leading earls, not to mention his powerful father-in-law? Edward of England showed a shrewdness not even Isabella had guessed at. She too appeared disconcerted, mystified, as if the husband she was now meeting was a different man from the one she had married at Boulogne; a king who had the astuteness to realise the true relationship between herself and her family as well as that with me, whom Edward and Gaveston now accepted as Isabella’s confidante. I hid my own smile. Casales and Rossaleti had reported faithfully back: both the king and his favourite acted as if they had known us for years. Isabella’s puzzlement expressed itself in certain questions about the Templars and about her marriage. Edward dismissed these, repeating what we had already learnt from Sandewic: both matters were of political necessity. Edward conceded that there would be no bloody prosecution of the Templars, only the seizure of their wealth, which he desperately needed. He courteously included me in the conversation, though I realised Isabella had not confided the full truth about me to her husband.
Eventually Gaveston rose and placed logs on the greedy fire, then, taking a taper, lit more candles, replacing those which had burnt low. The light flared, bringing to life the beautiful tapestries decorating the walls. Gaveston secured one of the shutters which had slipped loose, then walked over to the door, opened it and had a brief conversation with Sandewic outside. I heard the name Clauvelin mentioned, the mournful notary from Soissons. Gaveston then closed the door and rejoined us at the table. Edward moodily drank his wine as Gaveston began to question both of us about the deaths of Pourte and Wenlok. He drew me skilfully in until I virtually admitted my suspicions that both men might have been murdered. Gaveston and Edward seemed concerned at this but passed swiftly on, asking Isabella if she had known the merchant Monsieur de Vitry. Isabella glanced at me to remain silent. I don’t think the look was lost on Gaveston. He chewed his lip as he accepted Isabella’s assurance that, of course, Monsieur de Vitry had been known to her as one of her father’s bankers, whilst the bloody murder of him and his household had shocked all of Paris. The wine cups were refilled and both men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts, until Edward leaned across the table and grasped Isabella’s hands.
‘Two things, mon coeur, I will ask. I want the truth. Before I ask, let me assure you, on my solemn oath, that you are my princess and wife, the only woman in my life, never to be supplanted.’ He spoke with such fervour, face flushed, eyes gleaming. If ever a prince spoke the truth, on that night Edward of England certainly did. Isabella bowed her head to hide her blushes. Edward pressed his fingertips gently against her lips.
‘Now tell me, ma plaisance, do you accept the Lord Gaveston? If you don’t, say the truth. Do you accept him for what he is, for himself and to me?’ The silence which followed was tangible, as if some unseen presence leaned forward, eager to listen to Isabella’s reply. Gaveston sat, shoulders hunched, no longer the arrogant popinjay.
‘I accept him.’ Isabella smiled dazzlingly at Edward’s favourite. ‘I, the Princess Royal, your wife, your future queen, I am also Isabella, recently escaped from France, from my father’s court, which had turned so hateful. You,’ she pressed her hand against Edward’s chest, ‘are King of England. You did not ask to marry me. I did not ask to marry you. The times and seasons were not of our making. We must accept the fate God dispenses, so why should I object? Will Monsieur Gaveston take away what is mine?’
Edward shook his head. Gaveston drew in a deep breath.
‘The second thing, mon seigneur?’ Isabella kept her hand pressed against her husband’s chest. He grasped it and kissed her fingers.
‘Listen well.’ Edward’s voice fell almost to a whisper. ‘You must not, at any time, show any affection for Peter; indeed the opposite, at least for the moment. You must not appear, in public at least, as Lord Gaveston’s friend.’
‘Why?’ I spoke before I thought.
‘Because, Mathilde, that is the way things are. Those who are my enemies will betray themselves to you rather than shield their malice from me.’ Edward grinned. ‘As they say in the schools, effectum sequitur causam – effect follows cause. My relationship with my sweet cousin of France is not cordial and its fruit may have grown even more bitter! It is a matter of politic, of logic: as the father, so the daughter. People would wonder why you did not follow in King Philip’s footsteps.’
‘That would not be too difficult to understand!’ Isabella exclaimed.
‘You must act the part,’ Gaveston insisted. ‘His grace has married a French princess; it is important for the Council of England, and above all for King Philip himself, that the French crown does believe or act as if it has undue influence over his grace simply because of his marriage to you.’ He bowed to Isabella. ‘I have
read the writings of your father’s lawyers, men like Pierre Dubois. Philip dreams of that day when a Capetian prince, the issue of your body, wears the crown of the Confessor whilst another becomes Duke of Gascony.’ Gaveston raised his hands. ‘Let Philip have his dreams, it does not mean we have to be part of them.’
Gaveston’s answer was logical, tripping off the tongue so easily it made sense. King Phillip’s ambition was well known; his bullying over Isabella’s marriage and the question of the Templars had been public. Edward was now forced to oppose him or appear as Philip’s minion. Nevertheless, I remained uncomfortable, uneasy.
‘What does that mean, my lord?’ Isabella asked. ‘In practice?’
‘According to the marriage treaty I am to furnish you with lands and estates here in England. For the time being I shall not do that, though,’ the king added quickly, ‘I shall ensure that secretly you lack for nothing.’
‘You could do more.’ Isabella lifted her wine goblet and toasted him. ‘This castle now holds all the marriage goods and gifts from my father, uncles, brothers, Marigny and the rest of the coven.’ She spat the words with such hatred she surprised even me. ‘Why not give them all to Lord Gaveston?’ Isabella drank from the goblet. ‘I don’t want them. I want nothing from them. I’d sooner be turned out in my shift on the castle track-way. I’d rather dwell in a charcoal-burner’s cottage in your dank woods and call it my palace than live on anything they have given me. You have my answer.’
Gaveston and the king looked at her in surprise, clearly startled by the passion of what she’d said.
‘Alea iacta,’ Gaveston murmured. ‘So the dice are thrown and the game begins.’ He rose to his feet, went into the shadows and brought back a silver-edged box long as an arrow coffer. He placed this on the table, pulled back the clasps and took out two beautiful sables, one dark, the other snow-white.
‘These are from the forests around the frozen seas to the north.’ Gaveston laid them in Isabella’s lap, then took a small leather pouch out of the coffer and shook out the most brilliant ruby set in a golden star. He placed the chain around Isabella’s neck and knelt before her. Isabella took his hands between hers and quietly accepted his fealty.
‘As for you,’ Gaveston pointed at me, getting to his feet, ‘I’ve heard so much about Mathilde the wise woman.’ Edward and Isabella laughed, breaking the tension. ‘Cavete Gascones,’ Gaveston continued, ‘ferentes dona – beware of Gascons bearing gifts.’ He dipped into the chest again and brought out a book edged with scarlet stitching and fastened by gold clasps. He placed this on my lap. Edward and Isabella were whispering together, golden heads close. Despite the gifts and courtesy I felt a brief stab of envy which I quickly dismissed. I undid the clasps and read the carefully inscribed title: Galen’s A Treatise on the Difference of Symptoms. I thanked Gaveston courteously. He sat down and began to question me closely about my knowledge of simples and potions. He explained how his mother, Agnes, had also been a wise woman in the town of Bearn in Gascony. As soon as he mentioned her name, Edward stiffened and drew away from Isabella. Gaveston’s face was no longer smiling; the skin was drawn tight, and tears brimmed in his eyes. He forced a laugh but his eyes frightened me, as if he could see, or was invoking, some heinous memory.
‘Let me tell you, Mathilde,’ again that high-pitched laugh, ‘a story from Bearn about a haunted house. A man called Raoul de Castro Negro thought there was a hidden treasure in his house just within the main gateway at Bearn. He employed two magicians to cast a spell and find this treasure. What exactly they did, and whether they found any treasure, I do not know.’ Gaveston blinked. ‘But after that, they left. Now Raoul had a servant called Julian Sarnene, who returned to the house. Shortly afterwards Sarnene was found in the town square claiming he was blind and unable to hear. He remained ill and disabled for some weeks, but just before Easter he indicated he wanted to be taken to a local shrine. Some friends helped him to travel there by donkey. They arrived at the shrine on the Wednesday of Holy Week and Julian prayed before the statues of the Blessed Virgin and St Anthony. At the hour of compline his hearing was restored. The next day, after the mass of the Lord’s Supper, his sight returned as well. Fully restored, he went back to Bearn. Now, of course, all this was hailed as a miracle and Julian was summoned to the bishop’s court, where he told a strange tale. He claimed he had entered his master’s house after the magicians had gone and found it full of strange birds and animals, including three horses with horns like goats, emitting fire from their mouths and backsides. On them, facing the tails, sat three fearsome men with clubs. Julian said he was utterly terrified and tried to make the sign of the cross but one of the beasts restrained his hand. He attempted to pray but fled back into the town square where he was found. What do you think of such a story, Mathilde?’
‘What happened to Raoul?’
Gaveston pulled a face. ‘He fled. The Inquisition were hunting him for consulting magicians. So, what do you think of Julian’s story?’
‘I don’t know,’ I confessed.
‘I asked a question, wise woman.’ Gaveston grasped my shoulders, his grip so hard I winced. Isabella protested and Gaveston released his hand.
‘Please,’ his voice turned beseeching, ‘as a woman who has studied potions and powders.’
‘Some would allege it was witchcraft,’ I replied. ‘Others that the man was healed by God’s kind courtesy and boundless mercy, as well as the intervention of the Blessed Virgin and St Anthony.’
‘Or?’
The silence in the chamber grew oppressive.
‘I’d be more prudent myself,’ I conceded. ‘There are certain potions, wild fruit, the juice of mushrooms, not to mention the oil from the skin of a toad. These can create magical fantasies, nightmarish dreams; hence the story about witches who claim to fly, or the visions of madmen, or saints,’ I added.
‘And the physical symptoms?’ Gaveston asked. ‘The blindness, the deafness?’
‘They too would follow.’ I picked up my wine goblet. ‘It’s no different from this.’ I swilled the wine around the cup. ‘Wine can create illusions and dreams. Its effects on the body are well known. What is true of the fruit of the grape is true of other plants.’
‘But what do you believe, Mathilde, magic or scientia?’
‘Scientia,’ I replied quickly. ‘All natural causes must be removed before any others can be put forward as an explanation.’
‘Good, good.’ Gaveston leaned back on the chair. ‘I thought you would say that.’
The sombre atmosphere, however, did not lift. Gaveston rose, studied the hour candle burning on its spigot in the corner and went to the door. From the conversation I gathered Sandewic had been replaced by two of Gaveston’s Irish retainers, mercenaries wearing the livery of the scarlet eagle.
‘Come in, do come in.’ Gaveston welcomed the notary Jean de Clauvelin into the chamber, inviting him over to the fifth chair. He made him sit down, filled a goblet to the brim with rich claret and pulled across a silver trancher so de Clauvelin could eat the leftovers. Isabella looked surprised. Edward sat, chin in hands. De Clauvelin attempted to bow and scrape but the king gestured to the chair, murmuring that this was not the occasion for courtesies. Gaveston sat close to the overwrought notary, picked up a piece of meat, dipped it into a bowl of sauce and thrust it into de Clauvelin’s mouth.
‘Jean, Jean!’ Gaveston declared brusquely. ‘I am so glad you are in attendance.’
‘Your grace, it was a great honour to be included in my lady’s retinue . . .’
‘Of course, of course.’ Gaveston refilled de Clauvelin’s goblet. ‘I need words with you, sir, regarding the Abbey of St Jean des Vignes, or rather its abbot, who is indebted to me for certain sums. I need your advice, now . . .’
I watched the tableau with a growing sense of horror. Gaveston reminded me of a powerful cat playing with a mouse. De Clauvelin was overcome by the favourite’s chatter and grace, and failed to sense the anger seething in this powerful
lord. Just the way Gaveston kept tearing at the meat, filling de Clauvelin’s goblet . . . Once the flagon was empty, he went across to the dresser table to refill it. De Clauvelin, flattered, gossiped about the abbey. Gaveston waited for the wine to take full effect, then rose to his feet, stepped behind de Clauvelin, and in the blink of an eye the garrotte string was looped over the notary’s head and wrapped fast around his throat. De Clauvelin dropped his goblet, half staggering to his feet, but Gaveston, face bright with angry glee, forced him back.
Isabella went to protest; Edward caught her with a restraining hand. The king sat fascinated, face slightly flushed, head to one side, watching de Clauvelin half choke. Gaveston bent down, pulling at the garrotte.
‘Jean de Clauvelin,’ he intoned with mock solemnity, ‘more rightly known as Julian Sarnene: you, sir, are an assassin, a cunning man from the town of Bearn in Gascony. You drank a potion and saw a vision. You claimed to fall into the hands of the powers of darkness, only to be cured. When the miracle was examined, my mother Agnes de Gaveston was asked by the local bishop for her advice.’ Gaveston pulled at the cord, then relaxed it. ‘She rejected your claims, mocked them and said it was nothing to do with Satan but depended on what you had eaten or drunk, whether you had taken any potion.’ Gaveston loosened the garrotte string a little more. ‘Your ploy to gain sympathy and raise money from an alleged miracle proved unsuccessful. Your whole story became suspect, your allegations against your former employer of dabbling in witchcraft not proven. You hoped to acquire his wealth, to be rewarded. Later, when my father, Arnaud de Gaveston, was away soldiering, you secretly denounced my mother as a witch to the Inquisition. There were many, envious and hateful, who were quick to believe you. You provided information about my mother’s knowledge of potions and herbs. My mother was truthful. She answered the questions, but in doing so condemned herself by rejecting stories of demons and miraculous cures and insisting that natural causes must be first examined. She was tried and burned. You were given silver and protection. You disappeared, only to resurrect as Jean de Clauvelin, lawyer and notary.’