I shall describe the scene as memories, pricked by danger, return like whirling snowflakes in a flurried storm. A triumphant, gorgeous occasion! Gaveston looked resplendent in green and white silk, full of his own prowess. Edward sat laughing, slapping the table in glee. Ap Ythel, dark-faced, deployed his archers around the chamber and in the galleries and rooms beyond. The Welsh captain assured Gaveston that the cause of the foul odours had now been removed. Gaveston shouted back that he wished other, more fetid smells could be as easily expunged. The food was served by a myriad of servants. A stream of dishes came from the royal kitchens along a passageway under the choir loft at the far end of the hall. Musicians grouped in the loft above tried to play but eventually gave up due to the shouts and laughter from the king and his favourite.
I remember certain dishes: juschelle stuffed with egg and herbs; Carmeline beef; boiled and spiced veal; oat-stuffed pike. Isabella was watchful and tense, as she always was when her husband was in his cups. The king could be generous but he was also fickle-tempered. He could move swiftly from bonhomie to heart-breaking cruelty. When he announced loudly how he hoped she was enceinte, Isabella grimaced with annoyance. Nevertheless, there was no stopping the queen dowager; she eventually persuaded Edward to listen to her. She asked Gaveston and Guido to exchange seats so that the favourite could also learn what had been discussed and agreed. Gaveston playfully teased that he was Lord of Misrule and now was not the time for advice. Eventually, persuaded by Margaret and Isabella, and slurping noisily from his wine cup, the favourite staggered to his feet and waved Guido to his vacant throne-chair. I was distracted between Agnes and trying to listen to the queen dowager. What I remember at the time is what I recall now. Guido had taken his wine cup, though he had drunk sparsely during the meal. I definitely remember him sipping at the Venetian glass of water Gaveston had left behind. The banquet continued. Edward and Gaveston were laughing at Winchelsea’s petulance, only to sober at the queen dowager’s mention of New Temple Church.
The king pulled a face but nodded. He patted Gaveston on the arm and remarked how such a concession was perhaps worth it to keep a Great Lord. The candles burnt low. Fat blobs of wax formed on the gilt-edged spigots. The king’s hounds were allowed in to feed on the scraps. The musicians tried again. Servants hurried in and out, clearing the table. I was becoming impatient to leave. Isabella looked tired and heavy-eyed. The banqueting chamber filled with flickering shadows. I noticed Guido had left his seat. I was about to fill my mistress’ water glass when Ap Ythel came hurrying into the chamber.
‘Sire,’ he announced, bowing low. He raised himself, trying to control his breathing, and clapped noisily. The sound of the harp and lute died. Edward and Gaveston glanced up. ‘Sire.’ Something about Ap Ythel’s face and tone made my stomach clench. ‘Mistress Mathilde,’ he gestured at me, ‘you’d best come.’
‘What is it, man?’ Edward bellowed.
‘Master Guido has collapsed in the garderobe!’
‘No, no!’ The queen dowager’s fingers flew to her lips.
‘Drunk!’ Gaveston scoffed.
‘I think not, my lord. He is ill. He claims he might have been poisoned.’
‘How?’ demanded Agnes, pushing away her wine goblet. ‘We drank from the same jugs. .’ Her voice trailed off as she stared to where Guido had been sitting. ‘The water. .’
‘Sire, my lords,’ I pushed back my chair, ‘Master Guido needs my help. I beg you not to drink or eat any more.’
Isabella nodded in agreement. Edward sprang to his feet, shouting that the hall should be secured. I followed Ap Ythel out along the dark, draught-filled galleries to a garderobe at the far end; a small vaulted chamber built into the wall under a narrow window. The door to this was flung open, and a lantern horn on a hook just inside shed a pool of light. Servants carrying torches and candles were grouped around a man kneeling in the garderobe, head over the wooden bench with a hole in the middle leading down to a gulley that fed into an iron-bound barrel. Guido was vomiting; every so often he would kneel back on his heels as if to rise, only to lurch forward again to retch noisily. I pushed my way through. Using my authority and Ap Ythel’s presence, I dispatched a servant for bowls and napkins. Guido, as God is my witness, was, at that moment, very sick.
Ap Ythel and I managed to get him to stand. He was pallid-faced, sweat-laced and retching, complaining of pains in his belly, weakness in his legs and tightness in his chest. Ap Ythel said he should be taken to the royal infirmary, a sheltered room on the top floor of the palace above the royal quarters. I agreed, and followed them up to the spacious chamber. The walls of lime-coloured plaster were scrubbed clean, the floorboards polished to a shine. It was well aired by two casement windows. In between these stood a broad four-poster bed with a canopy of dark blue, its sheets, bolsters and coverlets clean and crisp to the touch. On the wall opposite hung a huge crucifix with paintings either side showing a blond-haired, freshly shaved Christ in gorgeous robes healing the sick and raising the dead. We managed to put Guido into bed, half propping him up with bowls on either side of him. I hastily scrutinised him — he was clammy, and a red rash had appeared on his arm and the top part of his stomach. I ordered Ap Ythel to bring fresh water and forced Guido to drink. He was encouraged to retch and vomit; closet stools were also brought.
‘For a while,’ I declared, ‘the contagion will press down on his bowels. We must try and purge the poison from him.’
I sniffed at the sick man’s mouth. The wine and food odours were obvious, but there was something else, the bittersweet fragrance of a flower I could not place. I hastened back to the Grande Chambre, where the king and Gaveston had set up a summary court of oyer and terminer. Cooks, scullions, servants and maids, terrified out of their wits, were being roughly questioned in the presence of Ap Ythel’s archers. These were no longer the laughing, singing yeomen who lounged in gardens and yards, teasing and joking with the maids. Their dark faces were now sombre, hoods pulled up, packed quivers slapping on their backs, bows over their shoulders, long stabbing dirks in sheaths or rings on their belts. These men were devoted to Edward and an attack upon him was an attack upon them. The mood in the hall was oppressive, chilling and threatening. The archers pushed and prodded the servants forward to kneel before Edward and Gaveston; who sat behind the trestle table like justices intent on a hanging. Isabella was stone-faced. The countess sobbed prettily, whilst the queen dowager immediately jumped to her feet when she saw me, almost hysterical about her ‘dear Guido’. I hastily assured her and hurried to whisper in Isabella’s ear. She nodded.
‘This is mummery,’ she agreed, ‘nothing to the good. My lord?’ Her voice rang out strong and carrying, echoing around the banqueting chamber.
Edward, surprised, turned.