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Authors: Paul Doherty
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courses were served. I was prudent about what I drank, as was Agnes, who, in mocking tones, speculated on the king’s problems and his love for Gaveston. I kept my own counsel. I recognised Agnes to be a shrewd and subtle soul hiding behind a constant smile while she watched and judged. A scholarly mind as well: she could comment knowledgeably on Tristan and Isolde whilst referring to the wonders of Friar Bacon’s Opera Maioria and his reputation as a possible sorcerer.
I was relieved when, just before the frumenty was served, jesters and tumblers appeared: those joculatores , small dwarves, male and female, whom Edward and Gaveston loved. These cavorted around the hall, jumping and tumbling, whistling, singing and farting raucously. They introduced themselves as Henry the Horny, Matilda Make-love, Griscot the Groper and Mago the Mewler. These minstrelli – little servants – could do what they wanted. They aped Winchelsea’s pious walk, one standing on the shoulders of the other, and, just as the archbishop looked as if he was about to take offence, they turned their attention to Edward and his favourite, imitating the way the pair of them sat, drank and ate as if joined at the hip. The entire assembly burst into laughter, led by the king and Gaveston, who pelted the dwarves with precious items and sent them scattering around searching for these prizes. The frumenty was then served, followed by tarts and quinces. The king left his seat to circulate amongst the guests. Agnes and I had risen to join our mistresses when a serjeant-at-arms, his royal livery rain-soaked, slipped into the hall. He immediately went across to Demontaigu, who been accosted by master Guido. From Demontaigu’s expression, I could tell some major hurt had occurred. He spoke briefly to Guido and beckoned me across. Agnes followed, intrigued by the interruption. I had no choice but to let her. Demontaigu didn’t wait. He and Guido hurried from the hall out into the kitchen yard. Men-at-arms stood about, their torches spluttering in the wet.
‘It’s Chapeleys,’ Demontaigu murmured when I joined him. ‘He is dead. Hanged himself!’
Chapter 3
The leading men of the Kingdom hated him [Gaveston] because only he was favoured by the King.
Vita Edwardi Secundi
‘Who is Chapeleys?’ Guido asked.
‘Sir,’ Demontaigu gestured back at the door, ‘I must ask you to return. You too, Mistress Agnes. This concerns me. A man sheltering in my chamber has died. Mathilde, Ingleram Berenger has asked for you to attend.’ Demontaigu didn’t wait for an answer, but spun on his heel.
I made my apologies to Guido and Agnes and hurried after him.
‘Bertrand?’ I asked. ‘Ingleram Berenger, he is a physician, the royal coroner.’
‘Precisely!’ Demontaigu snapped. ‘He did not ask for you, but I need you, Mathilde. Come, you’ll see.’
It was a freezing cold evening, a stark contrast to the warm splendour of the Grande Chambre. Once we’d left Burgundy Hall, Demontaigu guided me by the elbow down needle-thin alleyways, across derelict gardens and deserted yards, dark as a devil’s mouth except for the flickering torches of the men-at-arms hurrying before us. In the far distance, on the corner of a building, I glimpsed torchlight and the glitter of armoured men. I soon realised it was the outside of Demontaigu’s chamber. I drew closer and glimpsed Chapeleys hanging by his neck from the window-door, open above him. An eerie, sinister scene. The corpse hung slack about a yard from the ground, arms and legs swaying slightly as if the man was still alive. I reckoned the drop from the window-door was at least another two. At first glance, to all intents and purposes, Chapeleys had opened that small window-door and, with one end of the escape rope clasped to that ring in the wall, fashioned a noose with the other, slipped this over his head and stepped into eternal night. The men-at-arms staring up at the corpse let us through. I peered at
I was relieved when, just before the frumenty was served, jesters and tumblers appeared: those joculatores , small dwarves, male and female, whom Edward and Gaveston loved. These cavorted around the hall, jumping and tumbling, whistling, singing and farting raucously. They introduced themselves as Henry the Horny, Matilda Make-love, Griscot the Groper and Mago the Mewler. These minstrelli – little servants – could do what they wanted. They aped Winchelsea’s pious walk, one standing on the shoulders of the other, and, just as the archbishop looked as if he was about to take offence, they turned their attention to Edward and his favourite, imitating the way the pair of them sat, drank and ate as if joined at the hip. The entire assembly burst into laughter, led by the king and Gaveston, who pelted the dwarves with precious items and sent them scattering around searching for these prizes. The frumenty was then served, followed by tarts and quinces. The king left his seat to circulate amongst the guests. Agnes and I had risen to join our mistresses when a serjeant-at-arms, his royal livery rain-soaked, slipped into the hall. He immediately went across to Demontaigu, who been accosted by master Guido. From Demontaigu’s expression, I could tell some major hurt had occurred. He spoke briefly to Guido and beckoned me across. Agnes followed, intrigued by the interruption. I had no choice but to let her. Demontaigu didn’t wait. He and Guido hurried from the hall out into the kitchen yard. Men-at-arms stood about, their torches spluttering in the wet.
‘It’s Chapeleys,’ Demontaigu murmured when I joined him. ‘He is dead. Hanged himself!’
Chapter 3
The leading men of the Kingdom hated him [Gaveston] because only he was favoured by the King.
Vita Edwardi Secundi
‘Who is Chapeleys?’ Guido asked.
‘Sir,’ Demontaigu gestured back at the door, ‘I must ask you to return. You too, Mistress Agnes. This concerns me. A man sheltering in my chamber has died. Mathilde, Ingleram Berenger has asked for you to attend.’ Demontaigu didn’t wait for an answer, but spun on his heel.
I made my apologies to Guido and Agnes and hurried after him.
‘Bertrand?’ I asked. ‘Ingleram Berenger, he is a physician, the royal coroner.’
‘Precisely!’ Demontaigu snapped. ‘He did not ask for you, but I need you, Mathilde. Come, you’ll see.’
It was a freezing cold evening, a stark contrast to the warm splendour of the Grande Chambre. Once we’d left Burgundy Hall, Demontaigu guided me by the elbow down needle-thin alleyways, across derelict gardens and deserted yards, dark as a devil’s mouth except for the flickering torches of the men-at-arms hurrying before us. In the far distance, on the corner of a building, I glimpsed torchlight and the glitter of armoured men. I soon realised it was the outside of Demontaigu’s chamber. I drew closer and glimpsed Chapeleys hanging by his neck from the window-door, open above him. An eerie, sinister scene. The corpse hung slack about a yard from the ground, arms and legs swaying slightly as if the man was still alive. I reckoned the drop from the window-door was at least another two. At first glance, to all intents and purposes, Chapeleys had opened that small window-door and, with one end of the escape rope clasped to that ring in the wall, fashioned a noose with the other, slipped this over his head and stepped into eternal night. The men-at-arms staring up at the corpse let us through. I peered at
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