Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

‘My lord,’ Isabella, cloaked in furs before the fire, stretched out a delicate hand towards the flames, ‘tell me plainly about your king. He protests great love for me, yet-’

‘My lady,’ Casales intervened, ‘Edward of England-’

‘I know,’ Isabella merrily interrupted, ‘is a stark, fair bachelor standing over six feet, well proportioned, of goodly features. His hair is golden, his eyes are blue, his face comely to the eye. A skilled horseman, a warrior bloodied in the wars of Scotland, a true knight. He loves his friends and is much given to hunting.’ Isabella parodied the nasal twang of a nun breathlessly reciting a well-known litany. ‘But if he loves me, why does he delay? Is not our marriage a matter of papal decree, of solemn treaty between our countries, so why this tarrying? What is the real reason? What manner of man is my future husband?’

Rossaleti nervously cleaned his mouth with his tongue and glanced away, the consummate courtier, the skilled scribe. Casales was much different: a solitary, brooding man, very conscious of his injury, quick-tempered, nevertheless astute enough to understand Isabella’s impatience. He smiled, coughed and opened his mouth to reply. Isabella, sitting to his right, leaned over and touched him gently on the arm.

‘Please,’ she begged, ‘no more fanciful phrases or courtly courtesies.’

Casales sighed and stretched in his chair. He was dressed in a loose shirt and hose under a thick military cloak; on the floor beside him lay his war-belt. Being an accredited envoy, he was one of the few allowed to carry arms in the royal presence.

‘My seigneur the king,’ he began carefully, ‘well, I have known him as long as I have the Lord Gaveston.’ He glanced at Rossaleti and brought a finger to his lips, a sign that he was speaking in secreto, sub sigillo silentii — in secret, under the seal of silence.

‘As the father, so the son,’ Casales continued wearily, ‘or sometimes the opposite. Mon seigneur was only a child when his beloved mother Eleanor of Castile died. The present king’s father loved her passionately. After her death, when her corpse was brought south to London for burial at Westminster, the old king built a splendid cross at every place the cortege rested.’ He glanced quickly at Isabella. ‘I tell this to show Edward’s abiding passion for his first wife. When Eleanor was alive, the English court was filled with music. After she died,’ he grimaced, ‘the music stopped. The only time I remember the old king asking for minstrels was to distract his mood when his physicians had to let blood.’

‘He loved her so much?’ Isabella whispered.

‘Oh yes,’ Casales agreed. ‘Edward the First was a man of iron, of fiery temper; he almost killed a servant who hurt a favourite falcon. The royal birds were the only things he loved after his wife died. When they fell ill, he even sent wax replicas of them to the shrine of the Blessed Thomas of Canterbury to seek a cure. It’s a pity, my lady, he didn’t love his heir half as much. Prince Edward was raised by himself in a palace at King’s Langley in Hertfordshire. A lonely boy, he was left to his own pursuits, his pet camel and leopard, or sailing along the river with his bargemaster Abscalom. Friendships with the sons of servants flourished; the prince often became involved in their rustic pursuits, ignoring the code of arms or the discipline of the horn book. He grew like some neglected plant. By the time the king, his father, realised this, it was too late; the child begets the man. Prince Edward was lonely. He entertained strange fancies and created a mythical brother.’ Casales ignored Isabella’s sharp gasp.

‘My lord,’ I asked, ‘he has brothers?’

‘Half-brothers.’ Casales smiled at me. ‘The issue of the old king’s second wife, Margaret of France, my lady’s aunt; they are still mere babes. No, the prince wanted a brother, a companion. Forsaken by all, he grew to resent his father, and all this took flesh in Lord Peter Gaveston, who joined the royal household in Gascony. My lady, Gaveston was the brother the prince hungered for, his blood companion, playing Jonathan to Prince Edward’s David.’ He spread his hands. ‘As the scriptures say, “David’s love for Jonathan surpassed all others.”’ Casales drew a deep breath. ‘Prince Edward’s attachment to Gaveston deepened, they became one soul. The old king objected, but the prince was adamant. His father tried to punish and humiliate him but it made no difference. Prince Edward even asked his father to create Gaveston Earl of Cornwall. The old king, notorious for his furious rages, made even worse by an ulcerated leg, physically attacked his son, hitting and kicking him, screaming that he was a knave and that he heartily wished he could leave his crown to another. Gaveston was immediately exiled.’ Casales rubbed his face. ‘Once the old king died last July, Gaveston was recalled and ennobled, made Earl of Cornwall and married to the king’s niece, Margaret de Clare. The earls of Lincoln and Lancaster opposed such advancement of a commoner, a Gascon whose mother, allegedly, was a witch. But mon seigneur was obdurate. It is not just a matter of Gaveston, but of opposing the will of his dead father, be it Scotland, the oppression of his ministers-’

‘Or my marriage?’ Isabella interjected.

‘Yes, my lady,’ Casales confessed. ‘And now you have the truth of it. Whatever his father wanted Edward our king wishes to overturn, desperate to kick against the goad, so only God knows where it will lead.’ Casales turned to me, glancing narrow-eyed. ‘Have you ever been lonely, Mathilde? Do you know what it is to be by yourself?’

Of course I could have told the truth, but to these two men I was what I pretended to be, a lady-in-waiting, dame de chambre , a commoner much favoured by the princess. I realised what Casales was implying. He’d made his decision about me: I was a favourite of the princess and, therefore, must understand the importance of Gaveston. I hastily agreed, though I should have reflected more carefully on what he’d asked. Casales moved on, committed to telling the truth. He explained how Edward of England was lashing out against any who had opposed him during his youth. He specifically mentioned Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, former treasurer of the old king, who had tried to curb the prince’s expenditure. He had now been stripped of office and arrested.

‘And what do you think will happen?’ Isabella asked.

Casales raised his good hand.

‘ Mon seigneur the king is a greyhound lithe and fast, he twists and turns. In refusing your marriage he taunts his father and yours, God forgive him. In this he is supported by Lord Gaveston, but in the end,’ Casales nodded at the casement window, ‘day dawns and dies, night falls, the passing of the hours cannot be stopped.’

‘Is that how you view my wedding?’ Isabella teased.

Casales sipped from his wine cup. He ignored my mistress’s question and made an admission, a startling one; I remember it well.

‘The old king,’ he said as if speaking to himself, ‘was a cold, freezing frost upon all our souls, hard of heart and iron of will.’ Casales raised his maimed wrist. ‘I was a member of his battle group at Falkirk when we defeated Wallace. My lady, forget the tales of gentle knights. In battle the soul becomes ferocious. At Falkirk I was surrounded by a party of Scots and dragged off my horse. I fought for my life and I lost my hand. A barber surgeon cleaned the stump, pouring boiling tar on the torn flesh. The old king passed me by; he paused, stared down and said I was fortunate. “Better men have lost more”: that was the old Edward of England; he could chill to the very marrow.’