‘Come, come.’ The king shook back his hair. He grasped me tightly by the hand and led me to the narrow table with four high-backed chairs placed around it. In the middle was a tray bearing a jug of white wine and a mazer full of sweetmeats. Edward and Gaveston sat at either end, Isabella and I opposite each other. At first the king seemed expansive, still drunk from the night before, eyes glittering in the candlelight. Gaveston was more subdued. The favourite collected four goblets from a side dresser and poured the wine, studying me carefully. I concealed my own surprise. Of course, in the intrigue swirling round Westminster, everyone was suspect. Edward slumped in his chair as he realised what lay before him. For a short while the mask slipped: the king rested his head on his hand, blew his cheeks out and glanced under his eyebrows around the table.
On that March morning, the Feast of the Annunciation, Edward finally shrugged off the bonhomie of the previous evening when he’d swept into the Grande Chambre of Burgundy Hall. Now he looked tired and harassed. The secretum concilium began quietly enough.
‘What do we have?’ Edward murmured. ‘Pierre?’ He glanced down at his beloved, the man whom Winchelsea called ‘the king’s idol’. ‘What do have? What can we do?’
‘At the moment, very little,’ the favourite replied. He leaned his elbows on the table, cupping his face in his hands. ‘We have a few knight bannerets,’ he explained languidly, ‘companies of men-at-arms, archers and my Kernia. Burgundy Hall is well fortified, protected and provisioned.’ He wiped his hands on a napkin. ‘Even though these foul odours and the smells of the midden curl everywhere. However,’ he glanced up, ‘the Lords have brought their retinues to lie at Westminster Abbey. From what I gather, more arrive every day. They have the support of Holy Mother Church; the bishops deeply resent Langton’s detention in the Tower. They have united behind Winchelsea, who regards me as Satan incarnate. Rumours abound that our good archbishop intends to excommunicate me with bell, book and candle.’
Gaveston continued grimly, ‘The Lords seem well resourced with gold and silver. We have little, and because Westminster is virtually under siege, no sheriff or bailiff dares to present his accounts or deliver his monies at Easter. Langton was treasurer; undoubtedly he amassed a fortune which, sire, should truly belong to you, but no one can find it. Langton lodges in the Tower. He is gambling that he can hold out longer than you. He may well be right.’
Gaveston tapped the tabletop. ‘The Lords have been joined by the envoys,’ he bowed smilingly towards Isabella, ‘of Philip of France. They demand, as a matter of honour to you, madame, that I be removed-’
‘Trust me, my lord,’ Isabella interrupted. ‘My honour is not my father’s main concern.’ She shrugged prettily. ‘Indeed,’ she continued, ‘I doubt very much if he is bothered at all about me or my status.’
‘But you will continue to act the part?’ Edward asked testily.
‘My lord,’ Isabella retorted, ‘I have been acting the part for as long as I can remember.’
Gaveston smiled boyishly at Isabella, who blushed slightly.
‘My lady is correct.’ Gaveston rose to his feet to refill the four small goblets. He served Isabella, the king, then myself, before taking his seat and sipping thoughtfully at his own goblet. ‘Philip of France is more concerned with the Templars. The Abbot of St Germain carries letters from him and Pope Clement. They demand the total destruction of the order within the power of England, be it in Carlisle or Bordeaux in Gascony.’
Gaveston glanced quickly at me. I wondered if he knew Demontaigu’s true identity. The king’s next words chilled me.
‘Philip may be in the market to barter one for the other,’ he said softly. ‘The destruction of the Templars for Pierre’s safety. But I cannot agree to that.’
My heart skipped a beat.
‘I cannot do it,’ the king insisted. ‘Not that I have any great allegiance to the Temple.’ He waved a hand. ‘I am kept close here at Westminster. If I issue letters authorising the destruction of the Temple, the Great Lords would simply seize their property and estates in towns and shires. I would not profit. What use is that to us?’
‘So how will this end?’ Isabella’s voice was surprisingly sharp. ‘The Great Ones will gather in Westminster Hall or the abbey chapter house. They will draw up a bill, articles of condemnation, they will attempt to put my lord Gaveston before their council. They may even indict, attempt to try him.’
Edward nodded in agreement. ‘They will,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, they will. .’ He put his fingers to his face, unable to finish the sentence. Gaveston sat with the palms of his hands flat against the tabletop; a slight sweat laced his face. Edward pushed back his chair, head to one side as if listening to the various sounds of the palace. ‘Lincoln and the earls are well provisioned, but they are also well advised.’ He stared tearfully down at his favourite.
‘A traitor?’ Isabella asked. ‘Here in your midst?’
‘What could he or she betray?’ Edward mocked. ‘What secret plans do we have? Whom could we plot with? No, it is more subtle than that.’ He turned to me, right eye drooping, a cold, hard glance. ‘Mathilde, you are a physician, or you say you are.’ He let the spiteful words hang like a noose as he studied me, then his face relaxed. He took off a silver ring from his little finger and pushed it across the table towards me.
‘I am sorry!’
Isabella was glaring at her husband. Gaveston had his head down. I stretched, took the ring and sent it rolling back.
‘Your grace, I am very grateful for the gift, but in the circumstances, I think you need all the treasure you have. Moreover, if you go down, what need will I have for silver?’
Edward stared in astonishment. He opened his mouth to object, but Gaveston laughed merrily, clapping his hands.
‘Your grace,’ he quipped, ‘a physician tells the truth. A rare event!’
The king roared with laughter; the tension disappeared. Edward, hands joined, leaned across the table.
‘Mathilde, my dear, you study the symptoms of an ailment, then search for its cause, yes?’
‘Of course, sire.’
‘So it is here,’ the king continued. ‘The Lords are united, well provisioned and advised. They treat my demands with impunity. They mockingly reject the mediation of my good stepmother, the Queen Dowager Margaret. One of them even hinted that she should go on pilgrimage, the longest she can find.’