‘And the Beaumonts?’ I asked. ‘You did not mention them!’
Gaveston smiled, recalling the glory of the handsome courtier who had first dazzled me some four years earlier.
‘Give those sweet cousins my warmest wishes. Tell them I did not hurt their interests in Scotland, their precious estates.’
I grasped the opportunity. ‘What mischief?’ I asked, squeezing his hands. ‘What mischief was planned in Scotland?’
Gaveston just shook his head.
‘And my mistress, her grace the queen, you have not mentioned her.’
‘More subtle than a serpent.’ Gaveston echoed Rosselin’s words. When I pressed him to explain, he would say no more.
‘And the Aquilae, your squires, all dead. My lord, did you have a hand in that?’
‘Of course. I let them fly high, only to fall like Lucifer — all of them, never to rise again.’
‘But did you have a hand in their deaths?’
‘Yes and no.’ Again Gaveston refused to be drawn, saying that these were matters for the mercy seat and the shriving of a priest. He grew agitated and leaned forward in a rattle of chains. ‘Mathilde, you’ll stay with me? I mean to the end. I do not want to be alone. Please?’
I was about to refuse, to barter for what he might still be able to tell me.
‘Please?’ His grip grew tighter. ‘Make sure my corpse is not treated like that of a crushed dog.’
I promised. Gaveston was still not reconciled to death. Now and again he would return to the king, wondering if royal forces were approaching Warwick Castle. I doused such false hopes; to encourage them would have been cruelty itself. Gaveston heard me out, eyes closed, then returned to his reminiscing, recalling past glories, until a harsh rattling at the door made him fall silent. A Dominican from the nearby priory was ushered in. Warwick’s henchmen introduced him as Brother Alexander.
‘I have come to shrive you, my lord.’ Alexander was a stout, cheery-faced friar who refused to be cowed by either circumstance or surroundings.
I prised my hand loose from Gaveston, rose from the stool and offered it to the Dominican. He gently asked me to withdraw, as well as the others. He must have caught my suspicion, because he fished into his wallet and produced a warrant from the prior of his house, countersigned by the Earl of Warwick, giving him licence to shrive the prisoner. I studied this, handed it back and nodded in agreement. Gaveston just crouched, fingers to his lips, a look of stark recognition in his eyes. He was going to die, and no one would save him! I could not bear that stricken look. I gestured to Brother Alexander and walked to the door; the guards ushered me out, then locked and bolted it. I meant to return to my own chamber, but the captain of Warwick’s guard made me stay.
‘It’s best, mistress. My lord says you must stay here until this business is finished.’
An hour must have passed before Brother Alexander knocked for the door to be opened. Outside he grasped me by the elbow and led me away towards the main gate to the bailey.
‘Stay with him, mistress.’ He peered at me through the gloom. ‘Lord Gaveston has done such evil, plotted such malice.’ He paused. ‘I cannot tell you what is covered by the seal of the sacrament, but he said something strange. How you had saved him from the deepest sin.’
I could only stare back, as mystified as he was. I returned to Gaveston. He realised death was imminent and had fallen to his prayers, asking me to join him as he recited his Aves. A short while later they came for him: Welsh archers from Lancaster’s retinue; tough, resolute men, faces bearded, their heads cowled, all stinking of leather and sweat. They strode into the death house, dragged Gaveston to his feet and unceremoniously pushed him out into the bailey, where the earls, led by Lancaster, were already horsed, hooded and cloaked against the early-morning cold. The hooves of their great destriers sparked the cobbles as if these beasts were aware of the bloody, grim business being planned. Lancaster and the rest looked like spectres from the halls of the dead, high in the saddle, black shadows against the brightening sky. Lancaster pushed his horse forward, his pinched, pale features peering from the deep cowl.
‘Gascon,’ his voice was filled with hate, ‘come now, come now, your fate is decided.’
Gaveston ignored him. He stared up at the reddish glow lightening the sky. He fumbled with his chains and turned towards me.
‘A witch once prophesied,’ he hissed, ‘that I would die at the waking hour.’
‘Come,’ Lancaster repeated.
The horsemen drew away. The guard of Welsh archers closed in around us and we left through the gatehouse, down the steep path, the trees and bushes on either side silent witness to what was happening. No retainers massed, preparing to throw filth; no jeering crowd. The earls had decided that if this was to be done it had to be done swiftly. We did not leave through the town but along a rutted alleyway snaking like a rabbit run under the overhanging houses. Signs creaked in the breeze. The rattle of horses’ hooves carried like some sombre drumbeat. If anyone heard, no one dared show it. Windows remained blackened, shutters fast shut. No door opened. No tired voice asked what evil was being plotted at such an early hour. The occasional darting shadow made me jump as a cat fled for shelter. The mournful howls of a dog echoed through the harsh calls of crows disturbed from their plundering on the midden heaps. No beggar whined for alms. No one dared approach these great ones hurrying another to summary execution.
The smell of saltpetre and ordure grew less offensive as we reached the end of the alleyway and emerged on to a winding country lane. I was sweaty and breathless. Gaveston stumbled, only to be cruelly pulled up and hurried on. Now free of the houses, I glanced around. In the strengthening light, I glimpsed a steep wooded hill. One of the archers breathed the name ‘Blacklow’, and I gathered that this was where Gaveston’s soul would be dispatched to God. We left the track-way, going through a half-open gate. The horsemen reined in. Lancaster lifted a hand and pointed to the line of trees.
‘Take him — now!’
Gaveston was given no time to object. He was bundled forward by three of the archers. I was breathless, tired and eager for rest. Gaveston turned, face pallid as a ghost through the murk.
‘Mathilde,’ he hissed, ‘please!’
I followed the archers as they pushed their prisoner forward in a clatter of chains. He turned once more to ensure I followed. We entered the line of trees, a sombre, desolate place. No bird sang. Nothing rustled in the undergrowth, as if all God’s creatures sensed what was being planned. I glanced back. The earls still sat on their horses like a host of demons, watching, silent, hungry for this man’s death, eager to see his hot blood splash.
‘Far enough,’ one of the archers breathlessly announced. He dragged Gaveston to the ground. The prisoner crouched, praying loudly, frantically trying to recall lines from the Office for the Dead.
‘Mistress?’ The archer approached me. ‘You need not stay any longer.’
‘I know Ap Ythel,’ I whispered, ‘captain of the king’s archers.’
‘Ap Ythel.’ The man seemed to forget why he was here. ‘Now there’s a great archer, a true soul.’ He lapsed into Welsh.
I replied haltingly with the few words and phrases Ap Ythel had taught me.
‘Mistress?’ The archer whispered.
I opened my purse, took out three silver pieces and gave them to him.
‘Let it be swift,’ I said. ‘Let him not see it.’
The archer pocketed the silver pieces and sauntered back to Gaveston. I glanced around. I can still recall it. That haunted wood. The sky brightening through the black outline of the trees. Ghostly figures. The archers in their hoods. The creak of leather. The glint of weapons. The pervasive stench of drenched rotting undergrowth, and those horsemen silent, sombre, waiting even as Gaveston gasped out his final Vespers.