Paul Doherty - The Darkening Glass

‘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.

‘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.