‘Bertrand,’ I spoke over my shoulder, ‘I want you to go, but I will write a letter.’
‘To whom?’
‘To you, my heart.’ I turned and smiled. ‘Please go to York. Once you are safely in that city, open the letter and do what I ask.’
By noon of that day, both Dunheved and Demontaigu had left. Once they’d gone, Warwick’s chamberlain visited me and insisted that I move to what he called ‘more comfortable quarters’ in the castle guest chamber above the great hall. After that, I was left to my own devices. Food and drink were brought up to my room, whilst I was invited to go down to the communal refectory when the castle bell tolled at dawn, noon and just before dusk.
Warwick ignored me. Now that he had seized Gaveston, he was determined to bring as many of the earls as possible into his plan. They hastened to agree. Red-haired, white-faced Lancaster, Edward’s own cousin, and the earls of Arundel, Hereford and Gloucester arrived like hawks to the feast. They and their households, a horde of armed retainers, clattered through the gatehouse into the bailey, to be greeted by Warwick himself. I mixed with the servants, helping where I could with cuts and scrapes, or offering advice. Once people know you are skilled in physic, they insist on regaling you with the state of their health: what is wrong with them and what can be done. From these I learnt that Warwick was determined to try Gaveston by due process of law, give him what could be called a fair trial, then condemn him to death for treason. To continue the semblance of law, he insisted that two justices holding commissions of oyer and terminer in the adjoining counties, Sir William Inge and Sir Henry Spigurnel, were to be included in his net, and persuaded them to move their court to Warwick Castle.
We had arrived on the twelfth of June; on the seventeenth, Warwick moved to terminate matters. He and the other great earls, accompanied by the two justices, sat in judgement in the great hall. Gaveston, his face shaved, hair all cropped like a felon, was prepared for trial. He was allowed to bathe, and was dressed in a simple tunic of dark blue, loaded with chains and brought to the hall, where his judges sat on a dais behind the high table. They came swiftly to sentence. No one, apart from a few clerks and guards, was allowed to attend or witness. Gaveston was not permitted to speak or plead, remaining gagged throughout his trial. Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, was both judge and prosecutor. He accused Gaveston of a litany of heinous crimes: refusing to stay in exile, stealing and spoiling royal treasure, weakening the Crown, being the source of bad counsel to the king, refusing to obey the ordinances of the earls. The list of charges covered every breach Gaveston had made both in statute law and in the ordinances of the earls. The result was a foregone conclusion. He was summarily condemned to death. Sharp-featured Lancaster summed up the proceedings. He offered Gaveston one concession: because of his dignity as an earl, and more importantly, being brother-in-law to de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, he would not suffer the full rigour of the punishment for treason. Instead of being hanged, drawn and quartered, he would merely be decapitated. Sentence was to be carried out almost immediately. There was nothing I or anyone could do. Pembroke sent the most powerful protests, appealing to the University of Oxford to intervene or mediate. From the rumours sweeping the castle, Edward at York was almost beside himself, dispatching pitiful pleas to the earls, to Philip of France and Pope Clement V at Avignon, all to no avail. The earls were obdurate: Gaveston would die.
I tried to visit the prisoner, only to be turned away. I thought I would never see him again. Then, in the early hours of the nineteenth of June, a furious hammering at my door roused me. Warwick and his leading henchmen waited in the darkened gallery outside, faces lit by cresset torches. Warwick was calm, cold and courteous as ever. He sketched a bow, then gestured with his fingers.
‘Come down, come now.’ Again the gesture. ‘The Gascon upstart has asked for one friend and you are it. He wishes to speak to you.’
I hastily dressed and followed Warwick and his coterie down the stairs, not to the dungeons as I expected but over to the castle death house, a narrow whitewashed room adjoining the chapel. The sky was beginning to lighten. Despite being midsummer, the cool breeze made me shiver, and I wondered what would happen. The death house was heavily guarded. The unlocked door was pushed open and I was ushered in. Gaveston crouched by the far wall, the heavy chains on his wrists and ankles clasped fast to iron rings. He’d been given a crucifix, a jug of wine, a pewter goblet and a platter of bread, cheese and some dried fruit. The room was clean but stark, rather chilly in aspect and reeking of embalming fluids. Warwick respectfully pushed me over. Gaveston looked up. In the light of the evil-smelling tallow candle on a nearby table, the former royal favourite looked unrecognisable. The glossy black hair was all shaven, the once smooth olive-skinned face sallow and emaciated, his cheeks rather sunken. The purple-red bruises were fading, but his lips were still swollen and his right eye was half closed. Warwick picked up a stool and placed it opposite Gaveston.
‘Your friend,’ the earl declared. ‘Gascon upstart.’ Only then did Warwick’s voice soften. ‘I urge you,’ he spoke slowly, evenly, emphasising each word, ‘look to your soul! This will be your last day on earth.’
I sat down on the stool even as Gaveston lowered his head, shoulders shaking.
‘No mercy,’ Warwick whispered. ‘None at all! His grace the king cannot save you. A priest will come to shrive you. I urge you, look to your soul. Mistress Mathilde, do you wish something to drink, some food?’
I shook my head.
‘So be it,’ Warwick murmured and strode away leaving two of his men, mailed and harnessed for war, standing guard at the locked and bolted door.
From outside I could hear Warwick’s shouts, his insistence that no one was to be let in or out without his express permission. I sat on the stool and stared pitifully. Gaveston cried for a little longer, then, in a clatter of chains, pulled himself up to lean against the wall. That once beautiful face looked ghastly, but he tried to smile.
‘I asked for you, Mathilde.’ He stretched out his hands. ‘Hold my hand. I do not want to die alone.’
I moved the stool closer, grasping his hand. It was cold, as if already dead. I stared around that narrow, close place with its stained tables and strange, musty smells. Somewhere in the darkness a rat squeaked, and in the corner above, a fly caught in a tangled spider’s web struggled in a noisy whir of wings. Gaveston followed my gaze.
‘I’m truly trapped, Mathilde. The case presses hard against me.’
‘You are, my lord, God save you. You must expect no pardon. What can I do for you?’
Gaveston took a deep breath, still clutching my hand like a frightened child. He gave me messages for friends at court, his love for his wife Margaret de Clare and their infant daughter, his profound contrition for all or any offences against them. He fought to control his voice.
‘Tell my brother the king,’ he whispered, ‘that in death, as in life, I am, was and always shall be his sole comrade.’ He paused to weep quietly, then he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and mentioned other people. His voice eventually faltered. He asked me for a set of Ave beads. I gave him my own, which he clumsily put round his neck.