‘What shall we do?’ Gaveston yelled.
Ferrers began to arm, only to realise that any defence would be fruitless. The clatter of mail, the neigh of horses and the shouts of men from the yard rose sharply, followed by a pounding on the door. Gaveston, myself, Demontaigu, Dunheved and Ferrers clustered around the hall table just as Warwick’s voice rang out like a funeral peal for all to hear.
‘My lord Gaveston.’ The words were rich with sarcasm. ‘I think you know who I am. I am your Black Dog of Arden. Get up, traitor, you are taken!’
This was followed by a further pounding. Warwick’s men then seized a bench from the garden and smashed it against the door. The rector wailed pitifully at Ferrers, begging him to open up. The noose had tightened. We were trapped. Those pilgrims behind us, those landless men so curious about us, had been Warwick’s spies. Yet, there was also something a little more refined, skilful about this trap. How did Warwick know that Pembroke had left? Was the earl’s wife grievously ill at Bampton? Had Pembroke broken his word? I doubted it. We had all been duped, Pembroke especially, and there was nothing more we could do.
‘Open the door,’ I whispered.
Gaveston rose, fingers to his lips.
‘Open the door, my lord, there is no point in resistance,’ I insisted. ‘Warwick may well use that to kill you out of hand.’
‘In God’s name,’ the rector wailed.
Ferrers did not wait any longer. He left the hall, shouting at a few of Pembroke’s retainers clustered in the vestibule, their swords drawn, to open the door. Chains were released, locks turned and Warwick’s men poured through the rectory. Warwick himself strode into the hall. We were ignored, totally unharmed. Indeed, Warwick pointed at us and shouted that we were not to be touched on pain of forfeiture of life and limb. Poor Gaveston was different. He was immediately seized and manhandled. Warwick pushed his way through the throng and punched him in the face, his gauntleted fist smashing Gaveston’s nose and bruising his lips. The fallen favourite was dragged out into the cobbled yard and his cloak stripped off for him to be exposed to Warwick’s troops, bare-legged, barefooted, dressed only in his nightgown. He was in a state of shock. He tried to speak, but no sound came. One of Warwick’s retainers imitated him, much to the merriment of others. I hurried to kneel at Warwick’s feet, to beg for mercy for this fallen lord brought so low so quickly. Demontaigu also tried to help, shouting at Warwick to remember Pembroke’s oath. The earl’s henchmen just pushed him aside, whilst Warwick, softly patting me on the head, helped me to rise. One glance from those soul-dead eyes confirmed Gaveston’s fate. No mercy was to be asked, as none would be given. The earl just nodded and gently pushed me away. Pembroke’s retainers, to their credit, tried to remonstrate, their swords drawn, but Warwick had brought a host of men-at-arms and archers, and resistance was futile.
Gaveston was forced to stand in the centre of the yard. Some of Warwick’s retainers pelted him with every piece of filth they could lay their hands on, whilst the rest bayed for his blood. Eventually Gaveston just sank to his knees. Warwick thrust a heavy crown of nettles and briars on to his head, then he was placed on a ribbed nag, facing its tail, fastened securely and led around the yard to the taunts and jeers of Warwick’s men. Gaveston just slumped, head down. Warwick gestured at us.
‘You may go,’ he shouted. ‘This peasant of Gascony, this witch’s brat no longer needs you. Do you, sir?’
Gaveston raised his head, trying to see through the tangle hanging over his battered face. He searched the line of faces until he found mine, his bloodied lips mouthing my name. I stepped forward.
‘My lord of Warwick, this does you no credit,’ I declared. ‘Remember Pembroke’s oath. Remember too what his grace the king will make of this.’
Dunheved, Demontaigu and Sir William Ferrers supported my protest. Warwick stood, hands on hips. Then he pulled a face, raised a hand and stilled the clamour.
‘It is best if you were gone,’ he said. ‘You, Mistress Mathilde, and your companions are free to go where you wish.’
‘I shall stay with my lord Gaveston,’ I replied. ‘My companions also.’
Warwick just shrugged and turned away, muttering something about a wench and a priest being no threat. He didn’t care whether we went or stayed. So began Gaveston’s descent into hell. Warwick intended to move swiftly. The fallen favourite was roped and tied. He’d entered Deddington as a Great Lord; he left like a common felon, dressed only in a soiled nightshirt, a bramble-thorn crown on his head, feet and hands bound. In front of him walked one of Warwick’s men, carrying Gaveston’s once gloriously emblazoned tabard and shield, all besmirched and rent. Our captor was determined that no rescue attempt should be made; we would journey directly and swiftly to his own estates and the mighty fastness of Warwick Castle. Word would soon reach both Pembroke and the king, and Warwick was determined not to be trapped.
On our journey we were kept well away from Gaveston. Our entire cavalcade was ring-bound by Warwick’s soldiers, armed men on horse and foot who swept the highways, thoroughfares and adjoining fields free of all travellers, the curious or anyone who approached even within bowshot. Gaveston was constantly abused. One night he was forced to sleep in a ditch, the next lowered into a pit and held fast by ropes. The favourite now accepted the inevitable. He recovered his dignity, refusing to beg for any mercy or the slightest concession. Once we reached Warwick, the earl had him taken off the nag and forced him to walk through the streets to the approaches of the castle. The townspeople had been summoned by heralds to witness the humiliation. Warwick tied a rope around Gaveston’s waist and processed into the town with the hatless, barefooted royal favourite, staggering behind him. The earl was preceded by heralds, trumpeters and standard-bearers, whilst Gaveston’s arms were worn by a beggar, specially hired, a madcap who imitated Gaveston’s staggering walk, provoking the crowd to more laughter and jeers. The prisoner was pelted with dirt, horse manure and all kinds of filth. Horns were blown, bagpipes wailed. Finally, as a warning of what was to come, just before we left the crowd to climb the steep hill to the gatehouse of Warwick Castle, Gaveston was forced to stand between two forked gibbets either side of the thoroughfare. Each bore the gruesome cadaver of a hanged felon. He was made to acknowledge both corpses to the screech of bagpipes and roars of abuse. The procession then continued. Once inside the castle, Warwick consigned Gaveston to its dungeons, with the stinging remark that he who had called him a dog was now chained up for good. He provided myself, Demontaigu and Dunheved with three dusty chambers high in the keep; his message was stark enough: ‘Stay if you wish, but you are certainly not my honoured guests.’
The following morning, after we’d attended Dunheved’s mass in the small castle chapel, we were confronted outside by a group of Warwick’s henchmen. They bore messages from their master. No one would be allowed to see the prisoner, and it was best if we left. The message was tinged with menace, a quiet threat. I seized the opportunity to persuade Demontaigu and Dunheved that Warwick would not hurt me; it was best if they left and immediately journeyed to York to inform both king and queen. At first Dunheved demurred. Demontaigu was also concerned about my safety. I replied that if I was left alone and vulnerable, Warwick would take special precautions that I was not harmed; he would not wish to incur the queen’s wrath. Dunheved agreed with me. The Dominican had changed since we’d left Scarborough Castle. He was more withdrawn, as if reflecting on something, always busy with his beads, lips mouthing silent prayers. He promised that he would first journey to a nearby Dominican house, where he could ask his good brothers there to keep a watchful eye on what happened at Warwick and so provide whatever help they could. Once his decision was made, he rose from where we were seated at the ale-table in the castle buttery. He clasped my hand, exchanged the kiss of peace, then left without a further word. I followed him to the door and watched as he hastened across the inner bailey towards the great keep.