Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Visions of hell! I have witnessed many, but that first journey across the swollen, tempest-tossed Narrow Seas was a true descent into Hades. Gusty gales, crashing waves, the ship rising and falling as it fought the seething sea. Salt water gushed everywhere, stinging cold, flying spray sharp as a razor; the giddiness, the nausea, the sheer terror of being imprisoned within wooden walls against the brute passion of nature. I retched and vomited, no longer caring. Nevertheless, one memory survives. The king came down and knelt beside me, his smiling face coaxing me to drink pure water; he stroked my hair, telling me not to be afraid, calling me by my name, saying I shouldn’t worry. Later he helped me up on to the deck. I became aware of whirling, star-lit skies, the surge of the wild sea and the blasting force of the wind. The king held me very close, telling me to breathe the fresh air, not to think but to rejoice! I was leaving France; I was free of the malignant power of Philip. He then took me back down, wrapped me in a cloak and knelt by Isabella shivering in her cot-bed, rubbing her hands, talking quickly in English which I could not understand.

I fell asleep. When I awoke, dawn had broken. Screams from the deck above sent me hurrying out. The Margaret had sighted land but the crew had assembled to watch their king flay a man who had fallen asleep during his night watch. The unfortunate had been guilty of nothing but exhaustion yet, clad only in a soiled loincloth, he was lashed to the mast, his back criss-crossed with bloody scars from the cane a sweaty-faced Edward held in his hand. The king stood, chest heaving, teeth bared, eyes staring. The flogging ceased as I reached the top step. I grasped a rope to steady myself against the swell. The king lifted the cane, glimpsed me then threw it to the deck, shouting that the man should be released. The sailor was unbound and collapsed on to the deck. Edward took a pail of salt water and poured it over the man’s scarred back; the sailor screamed. Edward knelt beside him, turned him over and, shouting for the captain, took the proffered cup of wine, forcing it between the man’s lips. He then rose, dug into his purse, forced a gold coin into the man’s clenched fist, kicked him gently in the ribs and hurried on to the poop to stand by the pilot.

The Margaret made its way in under the brooding cliffs of Dover and the soaring castle which dominated them. We disembarked on barges and boats. Isabella was quite ill and had to be carried ashore. I staggered behind, so absorbed with being back on land, I hardly noticed the retinue awaiting us. Isabella was carefully housed in her litter, and I was about to join her when the shrill blast of trumpets echoed through the mist. We were on the quayside, which was dank, wet and reeking of salty fish. The mist shifted and a wall of brilliant colour advanced through the murk. I was aware of a tall, slender, dark-haired man dressed brightly as the sun walking towards Edward, who stood a little ahead of us ringed by Sandewic, Casales and others of the royal retinue. I leaned against the litter and stared as if I was seeing a vision. Behind the sun-dressed man trooped a cohort of what appeared to be gaudily dressed children, jumping and leaping, the bells on their costumes tinkling out. Beside these strode standard-bearers carrying banners emblazoned with the insignia of a scarlet eagle, its wings outstretched; and following hastily on, a group of noblemen and women dressed in the finery of the court. Gaveston in all his glory had arrived! Edward did not wait but ran towards him, arms outstretched. They met and embraced, hugging and kissing, ignoring the protests and exclamations of the lords and ladies who had accompanied Gaveston as well as those coming up the steps from the barges and boats.

At the time these were simply shapes, hot-eyed, choleric-faced individuals, cloaked and furred, fingers, wrists and throats glittering with jewellery; men and women who, at first, were mere shadows, though in time they would touch my life with their ambition, greed, vindictiveness, vices and virtues, talents and weaknesses. I could not immediately give them names, but their titles were already known. Guy Beauchamp, the dark-browed Earl of Warwick; Aymer de Valence, slender as a snake with the pious face of a priest; Thomas of Lancaster, tall and angular, with pallid features, a hooked nose and arrogant grey eyes; Bohun of Hereford, squat and burly; and, of course, Mortimer of Wigmore. On that day, however, it was Gaveston and Gaveston alone. The king dragged him by the arm back to the litter, pulling aside its curtains. Both men squatted down. Gaveston moved on to his knees; grasping the princess’s hands, he kissed them both on the palms and the backs, offering her undying fealty.

Isabella, exhausted after the sea voyage, struggled to sit up against the cushions. She replied in a strong voice how pleased she was to finally meet her ‘sweet cousin’. Once again Gaveston bowed, head going down in deep obeisance before, one hand on the king’s shoulder, he forced himself up and stood looking down at me.

Gaveston was a truly beautiful man. He was dressed in cloth-of-gold jerkin, hose and costly cape beneath a pure woollen cloak thrown dramatically back over his shoulders. A brilliant amethyst brooch clasping the collar of his jerkin glowed in the dappled light, long white fingers glittered with precious stones, whilst the perfume from his robes smelt exquisite. He stood as tall as Edward with dark hair and fair, smooth-shaven skin; a girlish face, soft-eyed and full-lipped. At first glance he seemed effeminate, but a closer look revealed a firm chin and a thin, imperious nose whilst those liquid brown eyes mirrored a shifting range of emotions. Even then, in those few heartbeats of our first meeting, Gaveston changed, eyes and mouth wrinkling in a welcoming smile until he tilted his head back and heard the muttering around him. Immediately his face hardened, lower lip jutting out, eyes narrowing, skin tightening in anger, rendering his high cheekbones more prominent. He glanced imperiously around, then stared back at me; he smiled, shrugged, grasped my fingers and kissed them, welcoming me in a clear, vibrant voice, his courtly French tinged with a slight accent.

Around us swirled what I had first thought were the cohort of children; they were in fact the king’s jesters, the stulti, mimi et histriones so beloved of Edward of England. Little men and women dressed garishly in chequered cloth and multicoloured hose, some had their pates shaven in the form of a tonsure and marked with a cross. They rejoiced in names such as Maud Make-Joy and Robert the Fool, Dulcia Wifestof, Griscote (Grey Bread), Visage (The Face) and Magote (the Ape). Some of them were sensible, others clearly made fools by either God or nature. They all danced round the king and Gaveston, made a fuss of Isabella and myself, leaping and cavorting even as the king finally greeted the sullen-faced nobles who’d gathered with their wives to welcome him.

So, so many years ago, yet the memories come hurtling back clear and stark. It was a time of dreams, like the waking time after a deep sleep. The schoolmen talk of distinguishing between what is real and what is not; perhaps they have it wrong. There are no differences, just varying, conflicting realities. I was free of France, yet in a way I was not. I had been pitched and tossed on the Narrow Seas to be caught up in the murky swirl of the English court. I had been confined within walls of wood but now I was hurried up the steep, winding path to the forbidding fortress of Dover with its yawning great gatehouse. We went in under soaring towers and sombre walls, along narrow galleys and passageways into a broad cobbled bailey, busy as a Paris street. Smiths and tinkers hammered and clattered, horses neighed, fleshers sliced carcasses and hung them on hooks so the blood would drain into the waiting buckets. Dogs barked, ponies reared and whinnied. Children screamed as the womenfolk busied themselves over washing vats. The filthy ground seemed to swell and move. I was giddy and nauseous. People appeared, a moving sea of faces either smiling or forbidding. Greetings were offered, then at last we were alone in a stark but comfortable room at the base of one of the towers: a cavernous chamber with arrow slits for windows, its walls and floors warmed with coloured cloths and rugs. Chafing dishes and braziers were plentiful, whilst a strong fire glowed in the great hearth. A huge four-poster bed dominated the room, its fringed curtains pulled back, the linen sheets warmed with pans of fiery charcoal.