The Confession of Piers Gaveston (13 page)

THE FOLLY OF GOOD INTENTIONS
 

When I set foot on English soil for the first time after my yearlong Irish exile I had such hopes. Foolishly, I thought everything would be different now that I had proven myself. The earldom of Cornwall and all the honors I had lost were restored to me, and Edward’s pestering of the Pope had returned me to the Church’s good graces. I was brimming over with good intentions. I promised myself I would strive to be on agreeable terms with everyone and to curb my wicked tongue. Ah, how miserably I failed!

And to delight Edward, I who am accused of taking all and giving nothing, brought back musicians and storytellers, beautifully crafted ornaments and musical instruments, finely bred wolfhounds, and the best Irish horseflesh, as gifts for him. But the moment he saw me, dressed in emerald velvet and surrounded by a bevy of Irish attendants, all of them chosen for their wild, uncouth appearance, the better to accentuate my slight build and the elegance of my clothes and bearing, the only flesh Edward was interested in was my own, everything else could wait. He seized my hand and rushed me straight to his bed, intent only upon his own pleasure, ignoring the startled, angry, and appalled faces of the Queen and court as they stepped aside to hastily make way for us. Aye, things were off to a rollicking, but not a very promising, start! I had not even been back at court an hour and everyone was already damning and reviling me for consuming the King’s attention and leading him into degeneracy.

Shortly afterwards we celebrated my return with a magnificent tournament at my castle of Wallingford.

Edward had given me a suit of red-gold armor studded with emeralds. I was so proud of it that I would have nothing shield its magnificence and left off my silk surcoat; I would have only the green and yellow ostrich plumes swaying atop my helmet to represent my colors. Truly it was the most beautiful armor, when the sun struck it glowed fiery as a sunset!

To receive my favors, I rode up to the royal box where Edward and Isabelle sat comfortably ensconced in cushioned chairs with servants to fan them and serve wine, sweet cakes, and meat pies.

There had been a slight disagreement about whose favor I should wear. Thus it was both my young wife and royal lover who leaned down to present their tokens to me while Isabelle sat stiff-backed and icy-eyed in her chair looking every bit the Ice Queen in white satin.

Ignoring Edward’s scowl, I went first to Meg.

Smiling softly, she took the diaphanous pink veil from her headdress and bound it carefully round my upper arm, making sure the knot was secure and that it would not hamper my movements. When she began to draw away I reached up and lightly caressed her cheek and, rising in the gilded saddle of my great black charger, I kissed her gently.

At Edward’s wounded cry I smiled and went to him. His blue eyes stormy with jealousy, he leaned down and hung round my neck a blue ribbon embroidered with silver lilies from which a gold leopard with black enameled spots dangled; royal emblems—the lilies and leopards of England. And then he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me hard upon the mouth, leaning so far over the edge that he nearly tumbled out of the box.

My horse snorted and pawed to signal his displeasure as I grasped Edward to keep him from falling even as I struggled to stay in the saddle. Edward’s attendants hastened to pull him back into the box while my squire retrieved his hat from the ground where my horse had trampled it. I took it and, with a pert little half-bow, returned it to His Majesty.

With an embarrassed frown, Edward set the battered bonnet back on his head and tossed the tattered, dirt-streaked gauzy blue liripipe over his shoulder.

“Well, if no one else desires to kiss me …” I paused playfully, “then I shall away to the tiltyard and try for the gold ring!”

The prize that day was to be a circlet of gold to be presented to the winner by the Queen, which he was then in courtly tradition supposed to give to his lady-love.

“Go then, My Lord,” Isabelle said coldly, “no one else here desires to kiss you, though you might ride round to the other boxes and inquire there!”

“Nay, it would only weaken me,” I sighed, “and I need all my strength for the joust!” And I turned my horse and rode off to arm myself for the first contest.

One by one I rode against them, Lancaster, Lincoln, Warwick, and Pembroke, all great jousters in their day.

My lance caught Lancaster’s side and he toppled backwards from the saddle in a flip.

As the crowd cheered me, I gave my lance to my squire and spun my horse round and called to Lancaster: “What a splendid back-flip, My Lord! You are not only a buffoon but an acrobat as well! Shall you entertain us tonight while we are at table? Oh do say you will!”

Lancaster tore off his helmet and flung it aside. “You impertinent strutting cockerel, may the Devil take you!”

With a wink and a wave to him I went to prepare myself for the next contest.

I rode against Lincoln next. And it took all my skill! Just as my lance was about to strike, the leather straps upon his armor snapped, strained to breaking by his great belly, and the breastplate fell away. It would have been a fatal blow to an unarmored chest. My horse was going at full charge and it was only at the last instant that I managed to veer aside.

With a great sigh, the crowd, tense and white-faced, sat back, relieved that tragedy had been so narrowly averted.

Burstbelly dealt the offending breastplate a savage kick and vowed he would never ride against me again. It was my witchcraft, he insisted, that broke the straps and only the infinite mercy of the Lord in Heaven had saved him from certain death.

“Blame your great belly, My Lord, and not me!” I retorted as I turned away, incensed and saddened.

It took two passes before my lance splintered against Warwick’s shield and down he went. Indeed, the blow struck so hard I was nearly unhorsed myself.

He lay flat in the dirt, struggling beneath the weight of his armor to sit up. When his squire came rushing to assist him, Warwick kicked the boy and sent him sprawling. And then he looked at me with such black hatred in his eyes as I sat triumphantly astride my horse, preening the plumes upon my helm and smiling.

“May God have mercy on you, Gaveston, for if you ever fall into my hands you shall not have it from me! Call me The Black Dog if you like, you insufferable devil-damned popinjay, but, mark my words; you will feel my bite someday!

As God is my witness, I shall send you back to Hell where you belong if it is the last thing I do!” he roared then stormed off the field. When another of his squires came running with a goblet of wine he cuffed him soundly on the ear, downed the wine in a single gulp, and dashed the goblet onto the ground.

“I see that losing graciously is a lost art!” I said as my eyes followed him to the bench where he sat down alongside The Buffoon and Burstbelly, all of them glowering murderously at me. How it maddened them, to be bruised, defeated, and begrimed, while I remained in the saddle unscathed, preening my plumes and flaunting my prowess.

I see now that I was blind that day. I did not realize how much I hurt their pride. I never thought how they must feel, these proud, war-hardened men, not a one of whom, save Lancaster, was under forty, to be unhorsed with such ease by the foppish, arrogant, young, willow-slim peacock who adorned the King’s bed. Had I let them unhorse me things might have gone better for us all, such a gesture might have salved their injured pride and given them a small measure of satisfaction at my expense, which my own pride could so easily afford.

The Earl of Pembroke was the last to challenge me. We missed each other on the first pass.

“One moment, My Lord!” I called, circling round to face him before we returned to our marks. I rode up to him and grasped the blunt end of his lance. “Did I never tell you how much I long to feel your lance?” I asked as I suggestively caressed the tip.

Angrily, he snatched it away. “Can you not leave off flirting and jesting long enough to joust?”

On the second try his lance glanced lightly off my shield in a blow that I would term “caressing.”

“There, Gaveston, now you have felt my lance!” he cried.

“My Lord of Pembroke, are you flirting with me?” I teased.

“Certainly not!” He slammed his visor down with a sharp clang and rode back to his mark.

“This time you shall feel mine!” I called. “Though be forewarned, my caresses are bolder!”

On the third try the tip of my lance bounced off his shield and struck his chest.

There was a great cry of alarm as he fell with a fearsome crash and lay silent and still. I quickly dismounted and ran to him.

With a groan he sat up and removed his helmet.

The crowd sank back, sighing with relief.

“Do not look down upon me, Gaveston!” he said as he glared up at me and disdained the offer of my hand. “Remember instead that the day will come when you also shall be forty and some insolent young puppy will unhorse then stand gloating over you!”

“Nay, My Lord, you mistake my intent!” I cried. “My mother told me never to look down upon someone unless I meant to help them up.”

I offered him my hand again and this time he grudgingly accepted it.

“Sound advice,” he nodded, grimacing as he rose. “It is a pity your mother did not also tell you not to get into the King’s bed, mock your betters, or let money flow through your fingers like water!”

“I was but seven when she died, My Lord, and there were many subjects we never touched upon.”

“I am sorry to hear that as it is plain you lacked proper guidance. You may relinquish my hand now.”

“Must I?” I pouted as he snatched it away.

“Yes, now go and claim your prize!”

“That is what I am trying to do, My Lord, but you rebuff me at every turn! My friend the Earl of Richmond accuses me of fancying you,” I confided. “Naturally, I denied it, but only because it’s true!”

“Aye, you are trying!” Pembroke asserted. “Trying my patience!”

“Confess it, My Lord; I rattle you like the glass in a casement when it thunders!”

“Nay, Gaveston, I will not! Methinks you would deem it flattery if I were to tell you what a damnable nuisance you are!”

“Well … if it were done in the right spirit …”

“Oh, go away! Go fetch your gold ring and leave me be! I daresay the King has begun to wonder why you tarry!”

I shrugged. “If he asks I shall tell him.”

“I daresay you would!” Pembroke snapped and stalked off to join the other earls I had defeated.

“Verily, My Lord, I shall have to don mourning for your dead sense of humor again!” I called after him.

As a fanfare of trumpets announced my triumph, I approached the royal box where Isabelle angrily thrust the gold ring onto the end of my lance then resumed her chair.

My horse shook his mane and stamped his hooves impatiently as everyone waited to see what I would do.

At one such tournament, years ago before I married, I had given the gold ring to Agnes, causing Edward to weep for nearly a week. It would be the height of chivalry to present it to the Queen. Or I might provoke Lancaster to the point of murder by giving it to his wife. Or … I darted a mischievous glance at Pembroke whose expression told me not to even consider it. Meg would be the most proper recipient. And, of course, there was Nedikins toying anxiously with the frayed ends of his liripipe and gazing at me hopefully. So many choices and everyone waiting for me to make up my mind!

I nudged my mount and approached the royal box.

Dipping my lance, I deposited the gold ring gently on the lap of Meg’s pink silk gown.

“For our daughter, Madame,” I said with a bow, and it was thus that I announced that we were expecting a child.

Meg laid a hand tenderly upon her belly though it had barely begun to swell.

“A daughter, My Lord? You sound so certain!”

“I am certain! A daughter it shall be! Agnes is never mistaken about these things!”

Then, seeing the furious scowl with which Edward was regarding me while his fingers shredded the ends of his liripipe, I thought it best to bow and retreat, leaving all to exclaim in wonderment that The Gascon had actually made a child.

Naturally Edward followed me. He found me in the tiring pavilion amidst the clutter of knights and squires, barber-surgeons, weaponry and armor. I had already doffed my armor, and, stripped to the waist, my chest glistening with sweat and my hair thoroughly damp with it, I sat on a bench drinking wine, which Dragon urged me to sip slowly lest I become ill from imbibing the cold liquid too quickly.

“Out!” Edward ordered. “All of you!” he added, his gaze lingering meaningfully upon Dragon. Edward dislikes Dragon only a little less than he does Agnes. He loathes his scaly skin and ravaged face and cannot bear to see him touch me.

There was laughter in my eyes as I shrugged and got wearily to my feet, jerking my head for Dragon to follow me, as I joined the weary and confused throng heading back out into the hot sun.

“Not you!” Edward glowered.