The Confession of Piers Gaveston (15 page)

And, credulous though they are, it would truly be asking too much of Edward and Meg to believe that I had just happened to find a baby girl with my hair and eyes lying abandoned on a tree stump in the forest or that my tender heart had compelled me to buy her from a band of gypsies.

So we thought of a plan. I would persuade my perpetually drunken brother Guillaume to claim her as his baseborn daughter. Given his feckless and volatile nature, no one would look askance if I were to take her into my household and raise her alongside any children Meg and I might have. And such was his behavior when he was in his cups, making amorous advances to statues and dancing wild jigs to the accompaniment of fiddles played by giant frogs that no one else could hear or see, that even if he revealed the truth doubt would always cling to it. But now, for kindness’ sake, I must delay a little while, it would be cruel to bring a child into the household when Meg’s grief was so fresh and keen. But in time …

“I know you do, Child,” Agnes said gently, “and if you are not averse to rising early, before the King does, we might arrange it.”

“I shall be up with the sun if need be!”

“Nay, love, not quite so early!” she chuckled. “You must have some rest!”

Early the next morning I crept out of the castle and, with Agnes and Dragon, hastened to Grunella’s cottage.

Amy recognized me and reached out her plump little arms to me. Even now I bask in the memory of the love and trust I saw in her dark eyes as she nestled against me and reached up a soft baby fist to grasp a handful of my hair. When I raised my hand to gently pry it free her fingers closed around mine. She gurgled and cooed happily when I kissed and tickled her. And when she grew weary she slept with her head upon my shoulder, her black curls soft against my cheek.

In those fleeting hours true contentment and complete acceptance were mine; they were my daughter’s precious gift to me.

My dearest Amy, I never expect your eyes shall gaze upon these words. And no illusions act as a comforting balm to my mind. I know if you ever know anything about me it will be only stories and slander, you shall never hear a single laudatory word spoken about me, for upon the scales of decency I weigh feather-light. But by the grace of the Lady, may the memory of my love for you remain in your mind, even if it be dim as a dying rush-light. In those all too brief hours I spent with you, you restored to me what I thought was lost forever. You loved me for myself alone. With your innocent mind unfettered by what others say and think of me, you saw and loved the real me. And with all my heart I thank you for it!

LORD OF MISRULE
 

It was I who found the bean in the custard, so I must take the gaudy motley-colored crown of the Lord of Misrule and preside over the Christmas festivities and lead the court in their games and revelry.

As I stood at the head of the great trestle table, in Edward’s accustomed place, and raised my cup of wassail in the traditional toast of “Drink and be well!” the Earl of Warwick grumbled: “Now Gaveston has been given his proper title, for he is Lord of Misrule indeed, and not just at Christmas but the whole year round!”

“Indeed!” seconded Lancaster.

“Indeed!” chorused Lincoln.

“Indeed!” agreed Pembroke.

“Forsooth, My Lords,” I laughed, “all these ‘Indeeds!’ Why not an ‘Aye!’ or a ‘To be sure!’? The parrot His Majesty gave me has a greater diversity of phrases than have you three!”

Laughter rang loud and long around the table. The earls frowned and had the disapproval in their eyes been daggers I would most surely have been struck dead.

“Well you can be sure that I would not care to hear any of the phrases your parrot has acquired!” Lancaster pompously informed me, still smarting no doubt because of the gaudy colored ribbons I had tied in his beard when I found him sprawled senseless by the hearth that morning after a night spent carousing. He did not notice them before the entire court had seen and I tweaked them and danced round him as if he were a Maypole asking if he had mistaken Christmas for May Day.

“Verily, My Lord,” I said with an impish shake of my bell-trimmed cap, “you have put me in my place indeed! And, I must confess, my parrot says nothing but ‘Pretty Piers’ as Edward taught him until I am like to scream or dine on roast parrot!”

“Oh husband!” Meg exclaimed. “You would not really harm the poor bird? He is so pretty and clever!”

“Nay, sweeting,” I smiled down at her, “I spoke only in jest. I shall not have the parrot roasted, nor baked or boiled either; instead, I shall send him home to Wallingford with you.”

“Oh Piers!” she cried, her face wreathed in smiles. “I would love that! But will you not miss him? Uncle Edward gave him to you!”

I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Only as I would miss a splinter that had been plucked from my finger. Be of good cheer, my sweet, it is your parrot now and he will be far happier with such a pretty mistress as you. Perhaps you can even teach him some phrases of which My Lord of Lancaster will approve!”

“Oh Piers, you are so good to me!”

“Thank you, my dear Meg, I have always tried to be; I am glad I have not failed.” I raised her hand and pressed it to my lips.

Over the elaborate marzipan subtleties and wobbling jellies I saw Edward glowering at me from the other end of the table. With a saucy smile I raised my cup to him.

The Lord of Misrule had decreed that the King and Queen should sit together at the foot of the table, in the seats of honor, to be sure, but surrounded by the dullest members of the court, so that they must either sit in silence or turn to each other unless they would be bored to tears or slumber. An ancient and decrepit countess sat beside Edward, recounting her numerous ailments in vivid detail. And beside Isabelle was a crusty old general who lived and breathed for precise military maneuvers and the glory of his past campaigns.

Edward glared back at me and stabbed his fork into a roast capon as if it were his mortal enemy.

Now I was ever mindful of the need for a royal heir, and the persistent charge that I kept Edward from Isabelle’s bed. I bade Agnes learn the pattern of the Queen’s courses and made Edward go to her when her womb was ripe for planting. Quarrels, chicanery, potions, I shamelessly made use of them all, anything to send him from my bed to hers. Indeed, I did everything but follow him into her chamber and sit by the bed and give instructions! I would have done that too, but I daresay Isabelle would have disapproved.

I always did love to keep Christmas at Langley and see the Great Hall arrayed with boughs of holly and evergreens. I can see it now, lit with candles all around, and the rushes heady with the scent of spices. I can even taste the little Yule Men crafted of gingerbread and the warm, sweet wassail. There were brightly clad minstrels, acrobats, jugglers, and mummers, masques and pantomimes, merry country dances, full of leaps and turns and kicks, and games galore. Edward’s favorite was Hoodman Blind and he could play at it for hours, as carefree as a child.

I danced, drank, and whirled about; jesting, laughing, and teasing, until my head grew light, then I let Edward lead me to a window-seat. I beckoned a servant to bring me one of the mincemeat pies, baked oblong to represent the Christ Child’s cradle and seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves for the gifts of the Three Magi. I broke it in two and gave half to Edward then sent him off for another game of Hoodman Blind, promising that I would join him soon, then I settled back to watch the merry company.

Oh how I laughed to see Lancaster in his gaudy green and blinding yellow stripes clumsily demonstrating dance steps to a group of ladies. He stroked his little gold beard and sidled close to one to whisper in her ear and ended by tangling his jeweled collar in the veil dangling from her tall brocade headdress. His eyes often sought his wife, and every time they found her, surrounded by a bevy of admirers, his attentions to the ladies grew more ardent as if to say “I care as little for you as you care for me!” though everyone knows he would leap to death and woe to win her. Yet there is not a man in the world that Alice despises more than Tom of Lancaster. When they were betrothed she declared that she would rather starve to death than wed him, but hunger pangs proved mightier than her convictions. After all, she is Burstbelly’s daughter, and she has inherited his appetite, but fortunately not his rotund figure. To be avenged on Tom, Alice plays the wanton and keeps from giving him his much desired heir by taking the herbs Agnes gives her. But I know that her heart truly belongs to Ebulo L’Estrange, a humble squire in her husband’s service. I chanced upon them once, coupling in the royal stables while The Buffoon’s horse looked on, no doubt neighing his approval. That was how Alice and I became friends; we like to trade confidences and saucy banter, and I have sometimes connived to help her spend an hour alone with Ebulo. And yes, we have bedded together a few times, just because we could, laughing at the thought of what it would do to Lancaster if he ever found out.

The Black Dog sat apart, nursing his ale, glowering by the fire with a pack of wolfhounds resting round his feet and nosing for scraps in the rushes. I really do not understand why he hates me so! But upon one another we have this strange effect. Whenever I come into his presence he is like a bull seeing red and snorts and seethes as if he would charge at me. While I at the same time feel I must provoke him just because he is there glaring at me and the veins in his temples are throbbing as if they would burst free from beneath his skin and slither away like snakes. It excites me, like risking everything on a single throw of the dice. I cannot help myself, I know what I am doing, and I know that I should not, but for the life of me, I just cannot behave whenever Warwick is near!

The Earl of Lincoln sat watching the dancers and calling out greetings to his friends, a Yule Man in one hand and a mincemeat pie in the other, his ample belly straining against his yellow silk tunic. He really is a jolly man with his white curls and apple cheeks. Burstbelly is an apt name for him; he strokes his paunch and gazes down upon it fondly like a mother-to-be, so I cannot imagine why he took such grievous offense when I dubbed him such. Yea, I do admit, one night when I was far into my cups and acting wild I jabbed him with a pin to see if it would burst and go flat, but on the morrow I did apologize and offer a soothing rose salve. But he would not accept my apology and said the Devil could take me and my salve.

The Earl of Pembroke stood amongst those watching Edward play Hoodman Blind, a slight smile upon his lips and a cup of wassail in his hand. Mayhap as Lord of Misrule I should go and command a kiss? But, nay, I would rather it was given freely! Of all my enemies, Pembroke is my favorite. He is like a candle burning steady at the heart of a storm and I am drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Perhaps someday I shall succeed and make him shake with laughter. I would puncture his pomposity the way I tried to burst Lincoln’s belly!

The elder and the younger Hugh Despenser were also of this crowd, stern-faced amongst all the smiling ones. Can they not leave off talking of statecraft even at Christmas? Forsooth, they do sore vex me, and I shall not write another word about either of them until it becomes necessary! Hugh Despenser can write a chronicle of his own life when he is facing death and justify himself if he can!

Isabelle was amongst the players. She was a vision of beauty and grace in her cloth-of-silver and purple velvet gown with amethysts round her neck and on the coif that contained her fair hair.

Meg sat nearby, watching, too shy to join in the game, but she seemed content and was smiling and applauding the players’ crafty dodges. The pretty little spaniel I had given her lay upon her lap. “Methinks your arms and your heart long for a warm little body to hold,” I said when I placed the silky-haired brown and white puppy in her arms, “and I thought this little girl might please you.”

And young ginger-haired Hugh Audley stood nearby, watching Meg with his warm brown eyes. Whenever I see this sweet, shy lad gazing wistfully at my wife I feel sick with self-loathing. Here, given time, might have been a true love match. But Meg never notices him; I stand in the way and past me she cannot see. It is true, life touches life, and one person can be like a pebble dropped into a pond creating ripples that spread far and wide. Poor child, she thinks she loves me!

As I sat upon the window-seat, content to watch the others and eat my pie, I spied my three brothers coming towards me. In that instant my appetite fled and I called Blanche and fed her the rest of the mincemeat pie. It was pointless to run away; I could tell by the determined set of their faces that they would track me down like a pack of hunting hounds.

“Piers,” Arnaud, the eldest and our father’s namesake, began, “we would speak with you.”

“But I would not speak with you, it is Christmas and I would enjoy myself, now go away!” I snapped peevishly.

“And so you may!” Raimond said indulgently. “We would only have a little speech with you! Surely that is not too much to ask of one’s brother at Christmas? Remember, Piers, it is the season for charity!”

“Very well,” I sighed, “say on then; to the point, please, and quickly!”

“I want to be a governor!” Arnaud announced.

“And I also want to be a governor!” said Raimond.

“And what would you be governor of?” I asked.

Neither had anywhere particular in mind, it was only the honor, the title, the stipend, they coveted.

“And what of you, Guillaume?” I asked the youngest of this avaricious trio. “Do you want to be a governor too?”

Arnaud and Raimond chortled. “His head’s too muddled by drink to be a governor!”

“Nay, Piers,” Guillaume answered, his voice slurred and a silly grin spreading across his face, “it is the wine merchant again! Not another drop will he vouchsafe me until I settle with him! Come along, Piers,” he draped an arm about my shoulders, “do your duty towards your brother as you know you should! I shall tell Edward you bedded the wine merchant if you do not help me!”

“Mayhap I did,” I shrugged, freeing myself from his unwelcome embrace, “many merchants have had me.”

“Catamite! Whore!” Arnaud hissed. “You are a disgrace to the name of Gaveston! You will lie with anyone! And we will tell Edward so if we are not created governors!”

“Anyone who is not poxed and has money enough to pay me,” I corrected, “I am not entirely without standards. And if I am such a disgrace to you then by all means disown me, go back to soldiering,” I glanced at their middles once fit and firm now grown paunchy and soft with easy living, “and trouble me no more!”

“Now Piers,” Arnaud interjected quickly, “perhaps I spoke hastily …”

“Aye,” Raimond nodded vigorously, “Arnaud you did speak hastily! It is Christmas as Piers said and we should not be troubling him when he wants only to enjoy himself! Now, Piers, if you will just give us your word that you will speak to Edward about our governorships …”

“What about the wine merchant?” Guillaume interjected.

“Oh a pox on the wine merchant and you, you drunken sot!” Arnaud cried, elbowing Guillaume sharply aside.

And then, as was bound to happen sooner or later, my first and third brothers were rolling upon the floor, grappling amongst the rushes, and making free with their fists, teeth, and kicks, screaming insults and curses above the lively Christmas music, and attracting a small crowd, some of whom even placed wagers upon who the victor would be and cheered them on accordingly.

“Piers! They are killing each other! Will you not do something?” Raimond cried as he flung himself down, struggling to separate them, and promptly had his nose bloodied by Guillaume’s fist for his pains.

“Nay,” I sighed, standing and stepping carefully around them, “let them; it will be two less worries with which I must contend.”

Verily, those three have knocked enough teeth out of each other’s heads to string a necklace!