The mass continued. At the kiss of peace, the osculum Pacis, Edward immediately left his prie-dieu to greet Gaveston. They embraced warmly, kissing each other on the cheek. The king then strolled over to Lincoln and, without pausing, shook his hand before returning to clasp his wife and kiss her gently. A growl of protest at such a hasty insult to their leader rose from the Great Lords and their retinues clustered on the sanctuary steps. Abbot Kedyngton, sensing what was happening, moved swiftly on to acclaim: ‘Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi’ — ‘Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world’. At last the mass ended, with the sub-prior’s powerful voice singing, ‘Ite missa est’ — ‘the mass is now finished’ — to be greeted by the thundering response of the choir, ‘Deo Gratias’ — ‘thanks be to God’.
‘And thanks be true!’ whispered a voice behind me. I turned. Guido was smiling at me. Agnes, whey-faced, eyes all tearful, stood beside him.
‘If we can leave here,’ Guido hissed, ‘without sword or dagger play, then the age of miracles truly hasn’t past.’ His words were almost drowned by the shrill call of the trumpets. Edward and his queen left their prie-dieus in solemn procession. Isabella looked magnificent in sky blue and gold, a white gauze veil hanging down either side of her face, a jewelled chaplet around her forehead. Edward and Gaveston were dressed alike as if they really were brothers, two princes of the blood, in red and gold cotehardies of stiffened brocade embroidered with silver thread, ermine-lined mantles warming their shoulders, on their feet beautifully decorated blood-red ankle shoes. Gaveston walked slightly behind the king and queen. They first visited the Lady Chapel, then the Tomb of the Confessor, and at each Edward and Isabella offered pure wax candles in silver holders. Afterwards they returned to the sanctuary. They had hardly reached the top of the steps when Ap Ythel and a host of armed Welsh archers emerged from the shadowy transepts to seal the royal party in a phalanx of steel. The king and queen went down the steps along the nave to the south door, which would lead them through the abbey grounds and into the palace. Guido, Agnes and I followed. I glimpsed Demontaigu, who raised a hand in greeting.
Outside, the sunshine was brilliant; a beautiful spring day was promised. Crowds pressed against the three-deep line of men-at-arms. Behind me I heard shouts from the Lords and their retainers. How Gaveston was a coward, a minion, a catamite! The insults were drowned by further trumpet blasts and the choir intoning the ‘Christus Vincit’. Edward seemed determined to accept the applause of the crowds, who appeared captivated by his queen. She and her husband were greeted with showers of flower petals and cries of ‘Vivat regina’ or the coarse bellowing of ‘God save ye’ and ‘Praise and honour to ye’.
Once back in the enclosed garden of Burgundy Hall, the gates firmly sealed behind us, the royal party relaxed. Edward’s shoulders slumped as he took off the jewelled chaplet around his head. Gaveston, however, was livid with fury at the accusations of cowardice hurled at him. He undid his furred mantle, calling for sword and dagger, intent on going back to confront his tormentors. Gaveston might have been many things, but he was no coward. Edward plucked him by the arm; Gaveston shrugged this off. Eventually, both Isabella and the queen dowager blocked his path. The king hastily called for a tray of sweet wines and silver platters of honey toast with pine nuts. He undid his own furred mantle and led Gaveston along to a flower-covered arbour with cushioned turf seats. They sat there like two boys, heads together, talking softly. Ap Ythel took up guard on the black-and-white chequerboard stone path leading down to it: a sign that the king and his favourite were not to be disturbed.
We all broke up, drifting to different parts of the garden. Strange, on that particular morning I glimpsed Mortimer of Wigmore for the first time. Handsome as the devil, of athletic build, sharp-faced and keen-eyed, he wore his black hair long, his face completely shaven. He was dressed sombrely in dark fustian with blood-red boots on which silver spurs clinked. He had recently been in Ireland strengthening English defences against possible Scottish invasion. He was with his uncle, that old reprobate and pot of wickedness Mortimer of Chirk, a man of evil reputation, with his prematurely white hair framing a face as cruel as that of a bird of prey.
‘Now there’s night and day,’ Guido whispered in my ear. ‘The younger Mortimer is a knight but his uncle is a killer, given custody of two Welsh princes he was! Poor boys were later found floating in a river. Mortimer of Chirk then had the impudence to claim their lands.’
‘Not all plants and herbs,’ I retorted, ‘are what they appear.’
‘Ah.’ Guido gently pushed me with his shoulder. ‘How does it go, Mathilde? “This painted rose is not the whole. Who paints the flower paints not its fragrant soul”?’
‘Guido!’ The queen dowager, dressed like a mother abbess, with the countess Margaret garbed like her novice, swept towards us. ‘Are you trying to seduce Mathilde with poetry?’
‘No, madam, with herbs,’ I teased back, ‘and with little success.’
Isabella walked over. We all moved towards the shade of some willows planted against a reed-fringed carp pond. Everyone felt slightly embarrassed that the king and Gaveston were still deep in conversation in the arbour. The queen dowager, to cover this, explained how the previous evening she and Guido had been discussing herbs and their potency — she glanced sideways at Isabella — especially in childbirth.
‘And what is your opinion, Mathilde?’
‘None, madam.’
Margaret’s finely plucked eyebrows arched. Just for a heartbeat I realised how mask-like her face was, how the austere veil and wimple also served as a disguise.
‘None,’ I repeated. ‘A woman in pregnancy should avoid all medicines and herbs where possible.’
‘And your authority for that?’ The queen dowager was now clearly interested.
‘My uncle. .’ I paused at Isabella’s warning glance. ‘He served as a physician in Outremer. He conversed with the wise amongst the Arabs, whose theories were similar to those of the ancients, Galen and Hippocrates: natura fiat natura — that nature should be nature, or, more precisely, leave nature alone. My uncle observed native women. How in pregnancy they avoided drinking or eating anything out of the ordinary. In the main, their pregnancies were untroubled, their childbirth straightforward and the infants themselves healthy. He compared this with certain court ladies of the West who eat and drink all sorts of concoctions with harmful results. Let me give you one example,’ I continued. ‘Broom has silvery-blue leaves which, when crushed, exude a pale yellowish oil. Now as you may know, madam, this is often used to rub on the skin to repel flies and other irritants. However, it also affects the muscles, and in a pregnant woman may induce early contractions and bring about a miscarriage.’