‘God have mercy.’ Gaveston realised he was finished.
‘We must follow a different path,’ Dunheved insisted.
‘Who?’ he asked.
The sigh of relief that greeted his question was almost audible
‘Who?’ Gaveston repeated and his gaze held mine. ‘Whom do we send?’
Henry Beaumont and his kin immediately pointed out that they too were the object of the earls’ spite. Had they not also been included in the earls’ ordinances and indictments against the court party? Gaveston just ignored them and continued to stare at me, pleadingly abject. He trusted me. He knew I would be honourable and not barter my life for his. God knows why he thought that. I was as tired and sick of him as anyone. Gaveston repeated his question. His chamber council stared bleakly back. The earls regarded everybody in the castle as their enemy. Nevertheless, the killing had to stop. This futile business brought to an end.
‘I’ll go.’ I lifted a hand, knocking away Demontaigu’s as he tried to restrain me.
‘And so will I.’ Dunheved smiled at me. ‘A Dominican priest and a lady of the queen’s personal chamber should be safe.’
‘And the terms?’ Gaveston tried to conceal the desperation in his voice.
‘Your life, your honour,’ I retorted. ‘The earls have no power over any of us. We held a royal castle in the king’s name.’
Gaveston sat in silence, nodding to himself, then, true to his nature, fickle as ever, he abruptly changed, clapping his hands like a contented child.
‘Tomorrow,’ he declared, ‘at Lauds time. Sir Simon, make the arrangements. We must send a herald as well.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Demontaigu spoke up. ‘I will be the herald. The earls can only offer you terms. My lord, it is a matter for the king and Parliament what happens to you, to us.’
Gaveston declared himself content and dismissed us.
Just after dawn the following day, I prepared to leave. It was a truly beautiful morning. The sun had risen in fiery splendour, its light glowing across the sea then sweeping in to bathe both castle and town in its golden warmth. Demontaigu, Dunheved and myself gathered in the bailey then left through the great gatehouse. Demontaigu rode on my right, bearing Gaveston’s standard to which a rich green bough had been attached. Dunheved on my left held a crucifix lashed to a pole. I was no longer so fearful. At first light the constable had appeared above the gatehouse with a trumpeter to summon Pembroke’s envoy to discuss a parlance about matters of mutual concern. The constable said he was prepared to dispatch emissaries. Pembroke’s envoy, without even turning back to camp, quickly agreed. The earls also wanted to bring these matters to a close.
I had washed and changed into the best I could find: soft riding boots, a gown of dark murrey fringed with gold and a Lincoln-green cloak. I didn’t truly know what to expect and tried to hide my nervousness as we clattered across the drawbridge to join Pembroke’s envoy, who was also holding a green bough. He welcomed us courteously enough and we continued down into the winding lanes of the town. Despite the early hour, rumour as well as the noise of the heavy portcullis being raised had roused the citizens. Casement windows flew open, doors creaked back on their hinges, people shuffled out to peer at what the great ones had decided. A madcap, still mawmsy after drinking ale, danced out of the mouth of an alleyway chanting a verse from the psalms: ‘For three times nay, four times thy crimes, punishment is decreed.’ Pembroke’s envoy drove him off.
We continued on. Dogs howled. Cats busy on the stinking midden heaps raced away, black shadows against the glowing light. On the corner of a crossroads a corpse dangled from a makeshift gibbet, head twisted, eyes bulging glassily at us. A piece of parchment pinned to the hanged man’s tattered jerkin described him as a looter, powerful evidence that the earls were determined to keep order. Beside the gibbet a line of malefactors held tight in the stocks groaned and whined for relief. A town bailiff, in mockery of their pain, doused their heads with a bucket of horse piss then roared with laughter as the prisoners tried to shake the slop off themselves. Two beggar children, eyes wide, thin arms extended, watched us pass. Despite the glory of the morning, I caught a trace of the brutal cruelty of this life. Dunheved began to chant a psalm: ‘I lift up my eyes to hills from which my Saviour cometh. .’ I quietly prayed that we’d be safe.
We reached a stretch of common land across which lay the sprawling camp of the earls’ army, already roused and preparing for another day’s bloodshed. We passed the siege machines and other engines of war and went in through the gate. The camp itself, probably at Pembroke’s order, to impress us, was already bristling with menace. Archers and men-at-arms, hobelars and crossbowmen were dressed in their leather jerkins, chainmail coifs pulled back, helmets and sallets hanging from war-belts as their captains organised them for the first assault of the day. The camp reeked of all the filthy stench of battle: blood, dirt and fire smoke. A soft breeze carried a mixture of odours from the horse lines, latrines, smithies and cook pots. The enemy host was well organised, bothies and leather tents being pitched in neat rows. We passed along the main thoroughfare to a makeshift stockade housing the gloriously coloured pavilions of the earls; in front of these were planted their standards next to their armour and crested helmets displayed on wooden racks.
We were met by retainers, who helped us dismount and took away our horses. A stiff-backed chamberlain armed with his white wand of office led us to the centre tent, its folds neatly pulled back. Demontaigu gave up his standard and Dunheved his cross to the chamberlain; we were then ushered inside, where Pembroke, Hereford and Warwick waited for us behind a trestle table. Pembroke sat in the centre; on the table to his right lay his jewel-hilted sword, its wicked point turned towards us; on his left was a book of the Gospels, its reddish leather covering ornamented with Celtic designs done in miniature precious stones. We were invited to the three stools placed before the table. Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, did not stand on ceremony. He bowed courteously to all three of us, asked us to name ourselves, then, turning to his left, introduced Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and on his right Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford. He quickly added how the king’s cousin, Thomas, the Earl of Lancaster, had withdrawn his levies to Pontefract but, Pembroke observed tersely, could always return.
From the very start, Pembroke was graciousness itself. He offered us ale, soft bread and freshly cooked meat. We tactfully accepted, and while servants brought in a platter and tankards I studied these three great earls. Of course I knew them, whilst they recognised me from court occasions, pageants, celebrations and banquets. I ate and drank sparingly, allowing Dunheved and Demontaigu, also known to our hosts, to go through the usual courtesies. The constable had lectured me on what to do and what to say, but in truth, I knew these nobles well. Some of them truly hated Gaveston with a passion beyond all understanding. Black-haired, swarthy, long-faced Pembroke, with his neatly clipped moustache and beard and deep-set eyes, I rather liked. Tall, angular and slightly stooped, Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, was the Crown’s principal diplomat. A loyal captain of war, driven to this by the king’s foolishness, he was nervous and eager to please, and our spirits lifted. Poor Aymer! He died on a latrine, poisoned, many years later on a diplomatic mission to France.
Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, was also ill at ease. With a thatch of blond hair above a red-cheeked ploughboy’s face, stout, fat Hereford was not the sharpest arrow in the quiver; a blusterer, with his fat cheeks, blue eyes and pouting lips. He followed where others went, even if it led to his own death. Years later, when poor Hereford tried to defend a bridge across the river Ure against Despencer, a pikeman got beneath and thrust his spear up into his bowels. Finally the dragon-slayer, Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. A viper to the heart, he was a highly dangerous man, violent and malicious, who carried his head as if he’d been personally anointed by God Almighty to sit at the right hand of the power. Lean and sinewy as a ferret, constantly garbed in scarlet and gold, Warwick looked Italianate: his olive-skinned, high-cheekboned face gleamed with precious oil, his black hair was neatly cropped and sleek, his face freshly shaven. He had large, liquid dark eyes with a slight cast in the right one. He looked what he was — the devil at the feast. Rumour had it that he truly hated Gaveston, who had not only toppled him at the tournaments but mocked him with the nickname of ‘the Black Dog of Arden’. Warwick never forgave or forgot the insult. He regarded Gaveston as a Gascon upstart, the son of a witch, a commoner not even worthy of holding Warwick’s boots. On that morning he was friendly enough to me. He saw me as a retainer, domicella of the queen. He smiled crookedly at me and winked. I noticed that his left hand was bandaged. Apparently, so I learnt later, he had actually led the assault on Scarborough Castle, so eager was he to tear at Gaveston. Warwick had no dispute with us. He made that obvious; indeed, this emerged very swiftly at our meeting.