Paul Doherty: The Darkening Glass

And my place in all this? Well, it was not all leisurely strolls along closed walks; sitting in a carrel enjoying the rich smell of roses from the cloister garden; riding in a litter or astride some gentle palfrey as the royal cavalcade, under a forest of brilliant banners and pennants, moved from one palace to another. So how can I describe it? It’s like looking back down a torchlit passageway where the shadows dance and the light picks out certain gleaming objects to catch the eye. Or like breasting a hill, when your gaze sweeps the horizon, searching for a spire or the crenellated battlements of a tower. So it was looking back at that Easter of 1312, when the Saviour’s Resurrection was greeted with a clash of steel as swords and daggers were unsheathed, banners unfurled and war horses harnessed for battle. The great earls, the lords of Lancaster, Warwick, Pembroke and Hereford, began the hunt. Edward might be king, Isabella might be pregnant, the French might be threatening Gascony, the Wolf Pope, Philip’s creature Clement V, might nestle in Avignon and hurl imprecations against the great Templar order, but the chaos and crisis in England only deepened, more specks against the darkening glass. Gaveston was marked for the slaughter. In the last four years he had been exiled, judged and condemned. He and the king, however, remained obdurate, bargaining for a place in the sun. In the end, negotiations in shady porticoes and flower-filled alcoves, with their consequent indentures, promises, proclamations and schedules, all proved fruitless. Gaveston’s status was to be settled by the sword.

We waited at York whilst a host of scurriers and messengers galloped the length and breadth of the kingdom as Edward and Gaveston sought support. So desperate were they that Gaveston even sent one of his Aquilae into Scotland to treat secretly with Robert the Bruce, the Scottish rebel, whose ragged troops had overrun most of Edward’s castles and fortresses and now threatened the northern marches. Scottish raiding parties drove like daggers through the soft meadowlands south of the great wall. I pause in my writing and stare at the word ‘Aquilae’, the name given to Gaveston’s squires, his trusted henchmen and household guard. Yes, there were five in number: Philip Leygrave, Robert Kennington, Geoffrey Lanercost, Nicholas Middleton and John Rosselin. All of mixed parentage: English fathers and Gascon mothers. Men-at-arms trained in war, the Aquilae reminded me of lurcher hounds, ready to hunt at their master’s whistle. Handsome young men, swaggering in their short jerkins, cambric shirts and tight hose, yet deadly all the same, despite their foppish ways, curled coiffed hair, painted eyes and fastidious manners. They strutted about in their long high-heeled boots of ox-blood Cordova, yet the war-belts slung like a woman’s girdle around their slim waists carried dagger, poignard and sword, expertly sheathed and ready to be drawn. They boasted Gaveston’s arms, especially the blood-red spread-eagle. They lounged and settled outside his chamber, bejewelled fingers not far from dagger hilts. They called themselves the Aquilae Petri, ‘Peter’s Eagles’, and others responded by playing further on the Latin tag, as aquilae petri was also the name given to a precious jewel. Edward’s favourite jester, a dwarf clad in Lincoln green from head to toe, like Robin of the Hood, teased them with that, so what began as a slight insult was eventually accepted as a compliment.

It was one of these Gemstones, Geoffrey Lanercost, who had been sent north of the border to treat with Bruce. God knows what madcap scheme the king had dreamed up. Scottish help against his own earls? A refuge for Gaveston? In return for what? Recognition of Bruce’s claims? Isabella prayed that it remained a secret. If the great seigneurs of the kingdom could prove that Edward was ready to surrender their estates in Scotland for his Gascon hen-groper, then all of England would betray him. Such fey schemes didn’t concern me. Isabella’s well-being did.

On that afternoon in Easter week, I sat in the cloister of the Franciscan house. My mistress was sleeping. Bertrand Demontaigu and I, with other members of the secret Templar coven, planned to go out and meet some of their brethren fresh from Scotland. We were to assemble at Devil’s Hollow, a deserted farmstead out in the moors, well beyond the bar and gates of York. The friary had fallen silent. April in all its trimness was making itself felt in bursts of greenery and brilliantly coloured flowers. A shadow fell across me. I glanced up. Brother Stephen Dunheved, Dominican confessor to both the king and, quite lately, Isabella, stood staring down at me. From the very beginning Dunheved was a strange one, with his neat tonsure, smooth, round, olive-coloured face, gentle eyes and soft mouth above a slightly jutting jaw. A wolf disguised as a lamb! The way he held his head betrayed the fanaticism burning like a firebrand in his devious soul.

‘ Benedicite, mea filia .’ Dunheved threaded his Ave beads through soft, plump fingers.

‘ Benedicite, Pater ,’ I replied. Dunheved sat down next to me as he always did, as if we were fellow conspirators. He then turned to whisper in my ear, his breath hot against my face.

‘Are you at peace, Mathilde?’

‘I was, Brother!’

He smiled, patted my hand then glanced around.

I recalled how this Dominican often sought me out. He pointed at the stout riding boots peeping from beneath my kirtle.

‘You are travelling? Her grace is sending you. .?’

‘Her grace is resting,’ I interrupted. ‘I wish to God I could.’

‘Will this ever end, Mathilde?’ Dunheved lifted his Ave beads and gestured at the Pity, a carving of the Virgin, the crucified Christ lying across her lap; above them both soared an empty black cross. ‘The Resurrection,’ he breathed. ‘Mathilde de Clairebon, Mathilde de Ferrers,’ he smiled, ‘or have you taken the title now usually given to you: Mathilde of Westminster? Ah well.’ He didn’t wait for an answer; he rarely did.

‘We are being crucified now, but when will the green shoots of our passion bear fruit?’ He edged closer. ‘Mathilde,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘advise the queen. Tell her to persuade the king that my lord Gaveston must go into exile.’

‘It’s finished,’ I retorted without thinking. ‘The king is tired of demands. He does not want the likes of Lancaster and Pembroke dictating what is to happen.’

‘Then consummatum est ,’ the Dominican whispered. ‘Is that what you are saying, Mathilde? Who will defend us if civil war breaks out? I thought I’d left my soldiering days behind! I am God’s priest now, not His squire.’ He paused as the bells clanged in the high tower of the church. ‘Slightly askew,’ he murmured.

‘What is?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, nothing!’ he replied, and patted me once again on the hand.

I turned and studied this enigmatic Dominican: the high cheekbones, the wary eyes, the firm chin, neatly shaved, the dimple in his right cheek. A man, I thought at the time, who saw his will as God’s and rested serene in that final judgement. A soul very much at peace with himself, determined on his course. Dunheved gathered his black and white robes more tightly around him. He fingered the cord around his waist, moving to the three knots representing his solemn vows of obedience, poverty and chastity. Then he murmured something about God’s will being done, rose and pattered away. I watched him leave. A man to be kept under careful scrutiny, I reflected. A conviction that lasted for at least fifteen years after that fatal Easter of 1312.

‘Mathilde, Mathilde!’

I glanced around. Demontaigu, cloaked, booted and spurred, stood in the doorway leading off from the cloisters to the chapter house.