At the time these were simply shapes, hot-eyed, choleric-faced individuals, cloaked and furred, fingers, wrists and throats glittering with jewellery; men and women who, at first, were mere shadows, though in time they would touch my life with their ambition, greed, vindictiveness, vices and virtues, talents and weaknesses. I could not immediately give them names, but their titles were already known. Guy Beauchamp, the dark-browed Earl of Warwick; Aymer de Valence, slender as a snake with the pious face of a priest; Thomas of Lancaster, tall and angular, with pallid features, a hooked nose and arrogant grey eyes; Bohun of Hereford, squat and burly; and, of course, Mortimer of Wigmore. On that day, however, it was Gaveston and Gaveston alone. The king dragged him by the arm back to the litter, pulling aside its curtains. Both men squatted down. Gaveston moved on to his knees; grasping the princess’s hands, he kissed them both on the palms and the backs, offering her undying fealty.
Isabella, exhausted after the sea voyage, struggled to sit up against the cushions. She replied in a strong voice how pleased she was to finally meet her ‘sweet cousin’. Once again Gaveston bowed, head going down in deep obeisance before, one hand on the king’s shoulder, he forced himself up and stood looking down at me.
Gaveston was a truly beautiful man. He was dressed in cloth-of-gold jerkin, hose and costly cape beneath a pure woollen cloak thrown dramatically back over his shoulders. A brilliant amethyst brooch clasping the collar of his jerkin glowed in the dappled light, long white fingers glittered with precious stones, whilst the perfume from his robes smelt exquisite. He stood as tall as Edward with dark hair and fair, smooth-shaven skin; a girlish face, soft-eyed and full-lipped. At first glance he seemed effeminate, but a closer look revealed a firm chin and a thin, imperious nose whilst those liquid brown eyes mirrored a shifting range of emotions. Even then, in those few heartbeats of our first meeting, Gaveston changed, eyes and mouth wrinkling in a welcoming smile until he tilted his head back and heard the muttering around him. Immediately his face hardened, lower lip jutting out, eyes narrowing, skin tightening in anger, rendering his high cheekbones more prominent. He glanced imperiously around, then stared back at me; he smiled, shrugged, grasped my fingers and kissed them, welcoming me in a clear, vibrant voice, his courtly French tinged with a slight accent.
Around us swirled what I had first thought were the cohort of children; they were in fact the king’s jesters, the stulti, mimi et histriones so beloved of Edward of England. Little men and women dressed garishly in chequered cloth and multicoloured hose, some had their pates shaven in the form of a tonsure and marked with a cross. They rejoiced in names such as Maud Make-Joy and Robert the Fool, Dulcia Wifestof, Griscote (Grey Bread), Visage (The Face) and Magote (the Ape). Some of them were sensible, others clearly made fools by either God or nature. They all danced round the king and Gaveston, made a fuss of Isabella and myself, leaping and cavorting even as the king finally greeted the sullen-faced nobles who’d gathered with their wives to welcome him.
So, so many years ago, yet the memories come hurtling back clear and stark. It was a time of dreams, like the waking time after a deep sleep. The schoolmen talk of distinguishing between what is real and what is not; perhaps they have it wrong. There are no differences, just varying, conflicting realities. I was free of France, yet in a way I was not. I had been pitched and tossed on the Narrow Seas to be caught up in the murky swirl of the English court. I had been confined within walls of wood but now I was hurried up the steep, winding path to the forbidding fortress of Dover with its yawning great gatehouse. We went in under soaring towers and sombre walls, along narrow galleys and passageways into a broad cobbled bailey, busy as a Paris street. Smiths and tinkers hammered and clattered, horses neighed, fleshers sliced carcasses and hung them on hooks so the blood would drain into the waiting buckets. Dogs barked, ponies reared and whinnied. Children screamed as the womenfolk busied themselves over washing vats. The filthy ground seemed to swell and move. I was giddy and nauseous. People appeared, a moving sea of faces either smiling or forbidding. Greetings were offered, then at last we were alone in a stark but comfortable room at the base of one of the towers: a cavernous chamber with arrow slits for windows, its walls and floors warmed with coloured cloths and rugs. Chafing dishes and braziers were plentiful, whilst a strong fire glowed in the great hearth. A huge four-poster bed dominated the room, its fringed curtains pulled back, the linen sheets warmed with pans of fiery charcoal.
Isabella and I immediately went to sleep whilst porters and servants brought up our baggage and all the other goods being ferried to the quayside. I woke once, sharply aware of the different realities, the ordinary and extraordinary which I’d noticed over the last two days, then I fell asleep again.
Later that day, still confused and tired, we dined in the great hall of the castle, long and cavernous like a tithing barn with brightly emblazoned cloths and drapes hanging from the hammer-beam roof. All the windows and arrow slits had been shuttered against the bitter draughts. The fire in the hearth was a mass of burning logs. We sat on the dais with Casales, Sandewic and Baquelle, together with a group of leading lords and ladies. The only other guests, an open snub to Edward’s leading courtiers, the royal dwarves and jesters, were seated at a special table beneath the salt. Edward spent most of the meal teasing these, throwing pieces of stewed meat and chicken at them, lounging back in his throne-like chair, thumb to his mouth, slurping from his wine cup and roaring with laughter at the antics of his ‘special guests’. He behaved like an uncouth young man. The royal favourite, magnificently attired in scarlet and gold satin, did not participate in the king’s revelry but intently watched Isabella and myself as if weighing our worth, plotting what to do next. On one occasion he leaned over and grasped my hand.
‘Mathilde,’ he whispered, ‘bear with us for a while, nothing is what it appears to be.’
For the rest the conversation was about the imminent arrival of the French party in their ships, the issue of safe conducts to them under the privy seal, the forthcoming journey through Kent to London and the date of the coronation. The meal ended on a sour note with two of the leading earls, Warwick and Hereford I believe, objecting to the clamour of the jesters. Edward replied that if the earls wanted to leave they could, which they did, bowing to the king and Isabella but openly ignoring Gaveston.
Eventually Isabella returned to our room, the king staying in the royal chambers adjoining the hall. He entreated Isabella to visit him but she pleaded exhaustion after a long journey. For a while she sat on the edge of the bed, combing her hair and humming softly to herself. I busied myself with various tasks. I was eager to determine that the books and precious manuscripts Isabella had brought with her, many dealing with physic and the properties of herbs, had not been lost.