Paul Doherty - The Darkening Glass

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.

‘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.