At last an accord was reached. The earls expressed their delight and hopes that Isabella was truly enceinte. They sent her their loyal felicitations, and as for the matter in hand, they would postpone their demands for Parliament to be reconvened. They understood how the king would be absorbed with his young wife so the business of council would have to wait. On her part, the queen dowager promised to bring their grievances before the king, as well as Winchelsea’s specific request regarding New Temple Church. Other minor matters were swiftly dealt with and the meeting ended.
The queen dowager, hand in hand with Lincoln, led the way out of the pavilion into the garden. I heard Agnes’ hissed exclamation and glanced to my right. Marigny, Nogaret and Plaisans had appeared. They were just within the gateway, with two other men standing in the shadows behind them. These followed Marigny as he walked across the grass towards the queen dowager. I recognised Alexander of Lisbon and one of his lieutenants. The French envoys were all dressed in sombre clothes with the odd flurry of white at collar and cuff. They walked with power, their arrogance obvious; they didn’t even bother to bring along the Abbot of St Germain, who was only a figure-head. They all wore knee-high boots coated in mud, spurs clinking ominously. They’d apparently come from the hunt and were now eager to join a fresh one.
I abruptly recalled being in a beautiful meadow with my father many years previously, a warm summer’s day, the grass ruffling under a gentle breeze. We were watching hares, golden skins glowing as they danced in the freshness of the morning. Abruptly floating shadows darkened the meadow as buzzards swooped in to hover threateningly. So it was on that day. Marigny and his coven were a cluster of hawks come to seek fresh quarry. They grouped around Lincoln and the queen dowager whilst abbey lay brothers scurried up to serve pewter cups brimming with chilled Rhenish wine.
‘How low the king has fallen,’ Guido murmured. ‘The envoys of France gather like carrion crows on a carcass. In the old king’s day they’d have had their backsides kicked and been sent packing.’
‘They claim,’ Agnes murmured, ‘that their main concern is her grace the queen, how Gaveston has usurped her position.’
‘Nonsense!’ Guido hissed. ‘Philip meddles for Philip and for no one else. Be not tender towards Marigny, Agnes.’
I could sense a quarrel was brewing. I felt tired, uneasy. I wanted to be alone. I walked across the lawn to a barrel chair facing the herb beds, placed, I suppose, so the abbot could sit and savour their sweetness. I sat down, sipping at the wine a servant handed to me. I was determined to make sense of all I’d seen and heard. Memories and images danced through my mind like sparks above the coals. So absorbed was I, I jumped as the shadows grouped around me. I glanced up, shading my eyes. Marigny, Nogaret and Plaisans, with Alexander of Lisbon standing behind like a grim black crow, were grouped around me. Marigny cradled his cup against his chest. He smiled like old Renard studying a capon he’d trapped.
‘Why, Mathilde de Clairebon.’ He leaned down. ‘So far from home, so lonely.’
‘And yet so happy!’ I retorted. ‘Well, I was until a few heartbeats ago.’
Plaisans sniggered. Nogaret slurped at his wine. Alexander of Lisbon studied me as if trying to place me. I wondered then if he knew the full truth about Demontaigu and myself. Marigny toasted me with his cup.
‘We’ve discovered a great deal about you, Mathilde de Clairebon, niece of Sir Reginald de Deynecourt, physician general no less in the now disgraced Templar order.’
‘You murdered him!’
Marigny waved a hand like a master correcting a particularly recalcitrant scholar. ‘No, no, Mathilde, you don’t know the truth.’
‘Something we must have in common.’
‘We could have a great deal more. .’
‘Oh, we do, my lord. I hate you! If I can, I will kill you.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘You do not frighten me, you and your fellow crow-souls,’ I hissed, ‘toad-spawn, killers, liars, perjurers, blood-soaked assassins.’
Marigny stepped back, and for a moment I glimpsed his confusion at such a retort.
‘We could ask for your return to France. We could demand it.’
‘You could also ask the sun not to set.’
‘Your mother, Mathilde?’
‘Don’t talk of her!’ My hand felt for the dagger concealed in its hidden sheath in my belt.
‘Oh, I. .’ Marigny paused, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps. .’
‘Mathilde, are you well?’
I whirled round. Guido was striding across.
‘Mathilde, come.’ He gestured. ‘You must meet my lord Abbot.’ He glanced anxiously at me, then at my group of taunters.
‘We are talking,’ Marigny demanded. ‘I do not need your presence Master Guido, better known as Pierre Bernard. The Provost of Paris would certainly like to meet you. As for Mathilde-’ His words were cut short, their dagger-like message never delivered. A trumpet shrilled three times from beyond the gate, followed by a pounding that shook both doors. Lay brothers hastened to open them. Gaveston, dressed completely in chainmail beneath a livery of scarlet and gold, silver-rolled spurs clasped about his mailed ankles, coif pulled over his head, ornate helmet swinging from the cantle of his saddle, rode slowly through the gate like the Bringer of Battles. Behind him walked three squires, two of them carrying banners, the third a trumpet. On Gaveston’s left arm was a triangular shield emblazoned with the eagle arms of his house, in his right hand a mailed leather gauntlet. All conversation died. Marigny hurried away. Gaveston remained motionless; his superb dark destrier, in full battle armour, pawed the ground as if eager for the charge. The favourite stood high in his stirrups.
‘I have been called a coward!’ Gaveston’s voice thrilled with passion. ‘I am no coward.’ He flung the gauntlet down. ‘I challenge any man here to meet me.’
The assembled company simply stood and gaped. The destrier snorted, shaking its head. Pembroke moved to go forward, but Lincoln gripped his arm. Marigny, one hand raised in peace, walked forward.
‘My lord. .’
‘Either pick up the gauntlet,’ Gaveston jibed, ‘or stand aside, sir.’
Alexander of Lisbon pushed his way through and picked up the gauntlet, beating it against his thigh to clear the dust. Then he threw it back at Gaveston, who caught it deftly.
‘I am Alexander of Lisbon, a knight.’ The Portuguese voice was harsh as it echoed round the garden. ‘I accept your challenge.’
The favourite leaned down, gently stroking the neck of his warhorse. ‘I recognise you, Alexander of Lisbon. You are a knight, and if it is to be done, then it is best if we finish this business quickly. The tourney ground behind the Old Palace within the hour?’
The Portuguese nodded. Gaveston turned his horse and, followed by his squires, slowly left, the gates slamming shut behind him. Immediately the festivities were forgotten. Household retainers, squires, pageboys and servants were sent scurrying through the abbey and palace announcing the news. Winchelsea openly protested that the challenge was against the Truce of God, an agreement demanded by the Church that tournaments be banned between Thursday evening and Monday morning so as to avoid the holy days of Friday and Sunday. His words went unheeded. I slipped out, hurrying back across the abbey grounds into the palace and through the gatehouse into Burgundy Hall. Of course, my mistress already knew. Edward and Gaveston had planned this carefully. Isabella was ready, cloaked and hooded.