Dunheved stared at the crucifix on the wall, whispering a prayer, before glancing sharply at me.
‘Mistress Mathilde, is there anything else? Anything at all?’
I shook my head. Dunheved blew his lips out and got to his feet.
‘Bertrand.’ He sketched a blessing. ‘Mistress Mathilde, I bid you adieu. We will meet again.’ Then he left.
Early next morning, before the mist broke and the sun rose, I met Isabella alone in her private chamber. For a while she just clasped my hand, staring sadly, then she drew me close and embraced me, kissing me on both cheeks. She stood back, squeezing my hands.
‘Take care, Mathilde.’ She abruptly turned away as if she wanted to prevent herself from talking further. I curtsied and left.
Our journey across the sun-washed moorlands to Scarborough proved uneventful. A long cortege of riders and carts: Gaveston and his Aquilae, Middleton and Rosselin; the Beaumonts and their retainers; porters and liverymen, carters and other household officials. The king also dispatched the captain of his Welsh archers Ap Ythel, who threw a protective cordon of mounted archers around us. We heard rumours about the earls being close, though we sighted no hostile force. At night we stayed in a spacious tavern close to the old Roman road that runs from York to London; the following morning we caught the freshening sea breezes as we approached the coast. Scarborough was a port for fish and piracy as well as a harbour where the great wool ships could shelter in a storm. It reminded me of Tynemouth, though more appealing. The town lay in the lee of a hill overlooking the sea, and along the brow of that hill sprawled the towers, gatehouses and crenellated walls of the formidable fortress. A place of refuge, we were assured, where Gaveston and ourselves could shelter safely. If danger threatened on the landward side, there were galleys and cogs in the harbour waiting to take us aboard. The castle was perched on the rim of a hill that fell sheer on the landward side to the main part of the town, and on the seaward, to the mansions of the wealthy burgesses. The coastline and the sea were not so rugged and rough as at Tynemouth, whilst summer had arrived, creating a delightful scene with the sun bathing both land and sea in a golden hue.
The constable of the castle, Sir Simon Warde, was a bluff Yorkshireman, a veteran of the old king’s wars. He’d been given strict instructions to provision the castle and be prepared to withstand a siege. Warde formally greeted us in the outer bailey, kneeling to kiss Gaveston’s ring. Afterwards his marshals and chamberlains allocated us chambers. Scarborough Castle was a rambling place, the great barbican leading into a ward that in turn led deeper into other baileys or wards. At the heart of the castle stood the soaring donjon, Queen’s Tower, which rose above Mossdale Hall, a two-storey wood and plaster building possessing chambers on the upper floor and a great dining hall or refectory below. Scarborough was a place of winding alleyways and narrow runnels, sheer grey walls, open yards; a veritable maze of chambers, storerooms and dungeons. Steps stretched up to fortified doors or down into inky blackness. Demontaigu and I were lodged in Queen’s Tower. Gaveston took over Mossdale Hall, whilst his two Aquilae, Middleton and Rosselin, lodged near us. Demontaigu acted concerned. I asked him why. Once our baggage had been stored, he led me into the castle gardens, close to the Chapel of Our Lady, and swiftly summarised the weaknesses of Scarborough.
‘There are only two wells,’ he said, ‘and these can be easily blocked off. The castle is rambling. Warde has some troops; we have Ap Ythel and his archers, Beaumont’s retainers and Gaveston’s Aquilae. To put it bluntly, Mathilde, I wonder if we have too few men to man the walls yet too many to feed if a siege really began to bite.’
Strange, certain scenes from my life, even though they occurred some fifty years ago, I can recall clear and distinct. Scarborough Castle, however, despite visiting it since the summer of 1312, I find difficult to describe. Gaveston arrived there like some great lord, acting the general, deploying his troops, but within days the gossip amongst the garrison was that Gaveston and the king had committed a serious error. Scarborough had a port, but the problem was that between the castle and the harbour there was the fishing village, a small town in itself, with the mansions of merchants and wealthy fishermen. If a hostile force occupied that, Gaveston would have to fight his way through to the sea, and even there be exposed to a war-cog, commissioned by the earls, lurking off shore ready to hinder any escape. Ap Ythel confirmed Demontaigu’s bleak perception. The castle could only be defended by a great host. Any besiegers would soon learn this and launch their attacks at various places, forcing the defenders to deploy their men thinly as well as be constantly moving them around.
Gaveston, however, behaved like the great seigneur of battles. He insisted on wearing the royal tabard of blue, red and gold with the lunging leopards of England, whilst the king’s banners and pennants floated above the walls as if Edward himself sheltered there. Sir Simon Warde could be trusted. Scarborough was well provisioned and stocked with arms, but the garrison was a mixture of veteran men-at-arms, mercenaries hired by indenture and some local levies. I wandered the castle’s narrow gulleys and alleyways, which snaked beneath the brooding mass of sheer walls, fortified towers and battlements. Even I, unused to the strategies of war, realised how meagre the garrison was compared to what they had to defend. Gaveston’s shield-hedge, as he grandly called his war-band, was far too diverse: a few knights with their chainmailed squires; Ap Ythel’s archers in their brown-green livery, braided leather jerkins and steel sallets; and Beaumont’s retainers, jacketed men-at-arms with pot-like helmets and rounded shields. The constable’s troop included some heavy armoured foot, a few horsemen, spear-holders and archers garbed in light cloth or scraps of leather. In itself the castle looked formidable, nestling on that long ridge, fortifications stretching up to the sky dominating the land on other side. From within, however, it was a sombre rat-run of alleyways and steep steps leading up to where the wind always buffeted or down to dark, deep-vaulted dungeons, storerooms and galleries.
My quarters were a square, solid chamber in Queen’s Tower with nothing but a cross hanging on its dirty plastered walls. The bed was comfortable enough and a chest held my belongings, whilst Warde kindly arranged for a chancery table and writing stool to be moved in along with a lavarium and a parchment coffer for my writing materials. The floor was clean, the musty smell of dust and old plaster almost hidden by the smoke from the braziers and the crushed herb grains strewn on top. The door was stout and could be locked and bolted from within. The arrow-slit windows allowed in light and air and were easily sealed with wooden slats, whilst the narrow recess for the latrine had been thoroughly cleansed.
I made myself as comfortable as possible, but it was hardly a place to linger. Instead I spent a great deal of my time in and around the small Chapel of Our Lady, a miniature jewel of a church that stood in its own enclosed plot, an ornamental garden laid out with great care by some former castellan and his lady. A truly enchanting place with its neatly clipped square lawns, small herb banks and flower beds full of the first green shoots of summer. Trellises for climbing roses overlooked neatly trimmed bushes, and there was even a small carp pond surmounted by a fountain carved in the shape of a steeple. The chapel itself, approached along a pebbled path, was as simple as a barn, with a vaulted wooden roof, its timber beams turning golden brown with age. A decorative altar rail divided the sanctuary from the nave. The chapel had no transepts; its pillars and supports were built into the plastered wall, their capitals and corbels moulded in the shape of intertwined vine leaves then painted an eye-catching green. Near the door stood an ancient baptismal font, nothing more than a large bowl resting on a stout small pillar; over this brooded a wall painting of St Christopher bearing the Infant Christ. At the other end of the chapel the small stone altar stood on its own dais. Above the altar hung an exquisite silver pyx on a filigreed chain, beside which the sanctuary lamp, in its copper and glass holder, glowed a rich ruby red. The floor was tiled a strange black and yellow, reminding me of a chess board, but it was the paintings on the side walls that fascinated me. These were twelve miniature medallions, six on either side, describing the occupations of each month of the year, all executed in a vigorous style. The figures and occupations were picked out in vivid blues, greens and browns, be it the fattening of pigs in November or the killing of oxen in December. In the sanctuary lay a ladder, which I later learnt was used to clear the dirt from the arrow-loop windows covered with horn. The sacristy, which lay to the left of the sanctuary, was nothing more than a ward chamber. Paintings once decorated its walls, but these had long faded. It had a door leading out to the garden that was now rusted shut, locked and bolted. On the left of the sanctuary was a small lady shrine with a mercy chair and prie-dieu where the sacrament of confession could be celebrated.