‘My lord,’ the archer’s voice sounded like the clap of doom, ‘you must stand up.’
‘So I must.’ Gaveston struggled to his feet and tapped himself under the chin. ‘Are you, sir, going to remove my head? I’m far too beautiful for that.’
‘True, my lord.’ The archer stretched out his hand. ‘Let me clasp yours before you go.’
Gaveston did so. The archer moved swiftly, a blur of movement. He had secretly drawn his long stabbing dagger. Now he pulled Gaveston towards him as if to embrace him, and plunged the blade deep into his heart. Even I, who had begged for such a swift ending, was surprised. Gaveston stood, then crouched, falling back. The archer hurriedly caught him, withdrawing his dagger even as he lowered Gaveston tenderly to the ground. I went and knelt beside the stricken man. Already his eyes were clouding in death; blood was bubbling through his nose and mouth. He turned slightly, coughing, and tried to mouth the word ‘Edward’. His fingers fluttered; I grasped them. Gaveston stared hard at me, then he shuddered and fell back.
‘He is dead!’ the archer announced. ‘Mistress, I beg you, walk away.’ One of the other archers had produced a two-headed axe, which he’d kept in a sack. I stumbled away and stared at those horsemen, vengeful wraiths. I heard the archers whisper, followed by the rattle of chains. Gaveston’s body was straightened out, his neck positioned on a fallen tree trunk.
‘Now,’ the archer murmured hoarsely.
I heard the rasp of leather, then a chilling thud. I took a deep breath and turned. Gaveston’s body, slightly jerking, lay sprawled on the ground. A little distance away was the head, the eyes half closed, the lips of the blood-encrusted mouth slightly parted. The archer picked the head up between his two hands, careful of the blood spilling out. He carried it before him, stepped past me, out of the line of trees, and held it up so that the horsemen could see. One of these, probably Lancaster, raised his hand. The archer turned, took the severed head back and gently placed it beside the trunk of the body, now swimming in blood.
‘Come, mistress.’ The archer seized my arm. ‘Come now, leave him here.’
‘I cannot,’ I whispered. I felt cold and frightened. I found it difficult to breathe; my stomach clenched. The archers talked to each other in Welsh. One produced a small wineskin, unstoppered it and forced it between my lips, making me take a gulp, then he stood back.
‘Mistress,’ he whispered, ‘you cannot stay here, not in the shadows.’
‘I have to,’ I replied. ‘I promised.’
The archers talked amongst themselves, shrugged and bade me farewell. They left the trees, walking leisurely back to the waiting horsemen. The earls and their retinue departed. I just crouched, watching them go, wiping the sweat from both brow and cheeks. I found it difficult to move; even more so to turn and look at the horror awaiting me. The darkness faded. The sun began to rise. I stretched out on the grass, turning on my side as if I was in bed like a child, trying to control my breathing. The woods remained silent. Eventually I felt composed enough. I rose and walked back to Gaveston’s battered corpse. The blood was beginning to dry. The severed head had tipped slightly, the skin now turning a dullish grey. I moved it gently, trying not to look at those half-closed eyes. The skin was clammy cold. I had to repeat to myself that the essence of Gaveston, his soul, his spirit, had long gone to God. These were simply his mortal remains, to be treated with as much dignity as I could muster. I felt determined; I refused to be cowed by Lancaster’s brutality.
I walked out of the wood and down to the road, where I begged for help. Eventually four shoemakers bringing their goods into Warwick agreed for a silver piece to help me. They stopped their cart, took off a ladder and followed me back into the wood. God bless them! They were sturdy men. They asked few questions, but simply put the corpse on the ladder, the head wrapped in a sack beside it, and loaded the remains on to their cart. I persuaded them to make the short journey to Warwick Castle, where I demanded entrance. Warwick himself came down, dressed in half-armour, a goblet of wine in his hand. He walked out, refusing to even glance at the grisly burden resting in the cart.
‘Mistress Mathilde. You cannot stay here. You cannot bring him here. This business is finished.’ He turned and walked back into the gatehouse even as I screamed abuse at him, begging him for the love of God and His Beloved Mother to show some pity for the dead.
‘Mistress,’ one of the shoemakers whispered, ‘we have done what we can; it is best if we take him back from where he came.’
They turned the cart round despite my protest. We were about to leave, go back through that alleyway Gaveston had been marched along to execution, when I heard my name called. I turned. Brother Alexander, dressed in his black and white robes, stood at the corner of a street; behind him was a cart driven by lay brothers from his house. The Dominican walked over, his face all smiles.
‘Mistress Mathilde, Mistress Mathilde.’
He helped me down from the shoemakers’ cart, and for a while just stood holding my hands, lips moving as he quietly recited the requiem.
‘My lord Gaveston’s corpse.’ He gestured at the cart. ‘You have it there. Mistress, you’ve kept your promise. You fulfilled your vow. We will now take it.’
I could not object. What could I do? Brother Alexander called across to his colleagues. Gaveston’s remains were transferred from the shoemakers to the Dominicans. The friar turned to me, lifted his hand, sketched a blessing in the air, then left. I watched the cart rattle away.
Brother Alexander was true to his word. The Dominicans, God bless them, took Gaveston’s mortal remains to their house at Oxford. Here they were washed, embalmed and rubbed with balsam, the head stitched back with silver twine, and placed in an open casket. If I remember correctly, it was two years before the king finally agreed to the burial of the embalmed corpse of the man he loved ‘beyond all others’.
Chapter 10
By God’s soul, he acted like a fool!
I returned to Warwick Castle but was not allowed entry. A kindly chamberlain agreed to go to my chamber above the hall and brought down all my belongings. He even gave me a linen parcel of food and a small wineskin. I thanked him and took lodgings in a spacious tavern in the town. I used the gold and silver pieces stitched into a secret pocket on my belt to hire a well-furnished chamber. I also went out into the marketplace and bought some new clothes, for I felt dirty, soiled, polluted by what I’d seen. I returned to my chamber, stripped, washed, anointed my body and dressed.
Afterwards I took my old clothing in a bundle down to a beggar at the corner of an alleyway and thrust it into her hands. I stayed at the tavern three days, resting and eating. I gave the tavern master a coin to advise me who was staying there and where they were going. On the fourth day I met a group of wool merchants travelling to York; they kindly agreed that I could join their company.
Three days later I reached York and made my way to the Franciscan house. Father Prior made me welcome but assured me that the court, both king and queen, had now moved to the more grand furnishings of St Mary’s Abbey, though I was most welcome to stay in their guest house. Master Bertrand Demontaigu had also visited but was now absent on business elsewhere. The prior added that he was surprised at Demontaigu’s requests but had conceded to them in the hope that the mysterious deaths that had occurred in his friary church could be resolved. God bless those friars: they welcomed me as if I was their sister. I was given the most comfortable chamber and savoury food. The following morning Demontaigu returned.
We met in the same rose garden where Lanercost and all the other Aquilae had sprawled laughing and drinking when we brought the news about the massacre out on the moors. Now it seemed a lifetime away. The garden was silent, heavy with summer fragrance, a change from the stark bleakness of Scarborough, that horrid line of trees on Blacklow Hill, Gaveston’s corpse saturated in its own blood, the severed head of a once splendid earl lying in the undergrowth like a piece of pork on a flesher’s stall. I confided in Bertrand all the fears haunting my soul, the images and dreams, the phantasms and nightmares that plagued my mind. Bertrand sat on the turf seat beside me, clutching my hand, watching my face, very much like the confessor he was. Once I’d finished, he informed me of how the king was distraught at his favourite’s death yet strangely unwilling to move against the assassins of his beloved brother Gaveston. Rumours, Demontaigu confided, were flying as thick and fast as feathers in a hen coop.