Once Isabella was ready, we travelled in glorious state to York. Outside Micklegate we were met by an escort of knight bannerets in their brilliant livery of blue, gold and scarlet with banners and pennants displaying the leopards of England. These escorted us into York. The city had put aside its trade to stage pageants and welcome their beautiful fairy-tale queen, now bearing the royal heir, who’d miraculously escaped the devilish plots and guile of the Bruce. The city conduits poured wine. Full oxen were roasted on enormous spits above roaring fires. At corners, before the gilt-gabled mansion of the city merchant-princes, speeches were made. Coloured cloths, standards and banners hung from windows. Trumpets sounded, horns brayed. The people cheered as Isabella, mounted on a milk-white palfrey, its harnessing all burnished and embroidered with gold stitching and silver medallions, processed along the streets and thoroughfares, scrupulously cleansed and sweetened for her progress. Spectacular pageants were enacted at various points along the approaches to the Ouse Bridge. The mayor and city aldermen, richly attired in their guild robes, presented the queen with a purse full of silver and a bowl of pure Venetian glass. Further along a group of maidens, garbed in snow-white drapery, their heads garlanded with spring flowers, enacted some scene from the city past before honouring her with a platter of pure gold studded with gems. Choristers from the nearby abbey church, clothed in dark red robes, sang ‘Isabellae reginae, laus, honor et gloria’ — ‘Praise, honour and glory to Isabella the queen’. Another pageant, celebrating the life of Saintly Thurston, a hero of the city, was enacted on the steps of St Michael’s church, so it was midday by the time we reached the gatehouse of the Franciscan priory. Here, as was the custom, a horde of ragged beggars waited to plead for alms. Isabella had given me a fat purse of copper coins to distribute whilst she and her cortege swept in to meet the king and Gaveston in the friary grounds. I stayed, guarded by Demontaigu, to give the queen’s pennies to the poor. God be my witness, there were so many, with their pitted skin, red-rimmed eyes and scrawny bodies displaying hideous wounds and deformities. The fragrance of the queen’s cortege, of perfumed robes over oil-drenched skins, as well as the gusts of incense could not hide the rank, fetid smells of that legion of poor. Skeletal fingers, curved like talons, stretched out to grasp the coins. I distributed these as fast and as fairly as I could. As a sea of gaunt grey figures surrounded me, I glimpsed the Pilgrim from the Wastelands, that distinctive mulberry stain on his sunburnt face. He lunged forward, took a coin then thrust a small scroll into my hand.
Once the alms were distributed and I was inside the gates, I unrolled the greasy black scroll and read its strange message: Ego sum vox clamans in deserto — I’m a voice crying in the desert. I beg you for the sake of the mistress you serve that I see thee, or thy mistress. I shall wait for you every day at Vespers bell near the Golgotha Gate.
I handed this to Demontaigu; he read it and pulled a face.
‘See him, Mathilde, as soon as you can. I shall be with you.’
Of course I couldn’t do so immediately. The king and Gaveston, garbed most royally in the costliest silks, velvet and ermine, awaited the queen in the great friary yard. I watched the mummery and court etiquette as both king and favourite welcomed Isabella and her entourage. The royal couple and their escorts mingled in a gorgeous collection of butterfly colours, watched by the gaping friars in their dark brown or grey robes. Speeches were delivered. Kisses and embraces exchanged. I glimpsed Rosselin and Middleton in the lavishly embroidered livery of their master, before glancing up at the looming church tower with its sinister history, the chimes of its great bells Peter and Paul booming out over the pageant below. I wondered again about the secrets the belfry held, before, along with the rest I was swirled away in the festivities that became the order of the day.
A royal banquet was held in the Prior’s Lodgings. A blaze of lighted candles dazzled the heavy gold and silver platters, jugs, ewers and goblets. Cooks and servitors brought in delicious dishes — venison, beef, swan and lampreys — whilst the wine flowed as if from a never-ending fountain. Yet it was all shadow with no substance. Nothing had really changed, and the following morning, in the same chamber, a more sober king and favourite listed the stark realities confronting them. Edward, flush-faced after acting the toper the night before, began to describe what was happening. The king hadn’t changed, but Gaveston certainly had: his beautiful face was pale, lined and haggard, and silver streaks glinted in that once dark, rich hair. The favourite looked thinner. He betrayed his agitation with nervous gestures, constantly fidgeting, and rubbing his stomach as if full of bitter bile. He’d lost that overweening arrogance, whilst the two Aquilae standing behind his chair also reflected their master’s unease.
In truth, sentence of death had been passed against them. The great earls brooked no opposition. Gaveston was to surrender himself, face trial and suffer execution. The time for negotiation was over. The earls were massing their forces and sending out writs summoning levies; their outriders visited ports and harbours to block any escape by the royal favourite. No help would come from France; that door was firmly closed. The shire levies would not move. The sheriffs and bailiffs, uncertain about what was going to happen, simply turned away. Royal writs were not answered, whilst the commissioners of array could not raise troops or collect purveyance. Edward spoke haltingly to the same chamber council that had last met the day Leygrave was killed. He mumbled about Tynemouth, about the Scots having a traitor within the garrison. How he was so pleased to be reunited with his queen, for whose safety he had so strenu-ously prayed and worked. During his rambling speech Gaveston’s mood altered, that furious Gascon temper manifesting itself, face muscles twitching in anger, gnawing his lips, fingers falling to the hilt of his long dagger. Isabella, on the other hand, remained serene, as if she just enjoyed a regal and stately progress through the kingdom.
Edward eventually reached his conclusion. Gaveston would, within a day, leave for Scarborough Castle. The king paused and asked who would accompany him. A profound silence eloquently answered his question. Causa finita — the cause is finished. So was Gaveston!
The royal favourite stared beseechingly around. I appreciated Gaveston’s horrifying predicament. If he was locked up in Scarborough, apart from his now depleted Aquilae, he would be alone. Edward, growing even more distracted, rambled on about witnesses needing to be present lest mischief befall his ‘sweet brother’.
Dunheved volunteered. Isabella looked at me and nodded imperceptibly. I reluctantly agreed, as did Henry Beaumont and his kin. Once the meeting had ended, I met my mistress, who thanked me.
‘It’s best, Mathilde.’ She stroked my hair, then cupped my face in her hands. ‘It’s my way of showing my husband that I still believe all is not lost. You and Demontaigu must accompany Gaveston.’