‘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.