The Confession of Piers Gaveston (3 page)

Agnes accompanied me, and neither of us cared a mite about the other men’s jests that I was the only soldier they had ever known who brought his nurse with him on campaign. Cooks, wives, and harlots they could well understand, but a nursemaid for a grown man unencumbered by children? “Mark me; I have set a new fashion!” I declared and went on my merry way. Agnes has always been the constant in my life, the only one who truly knows and loves me, and I would not have been parted from her for the world, nor she from me.

I acquitted myself well and seemed to have a natural aptitude for soldiering. Though by no means was it easy! On the contrary, the training was arduous and grueling, more rigorous than anything I had ever known. Everyday, when I returned to my tent at sunset, I was hobbling like an old woman, so sore I could hardly move. I spent hours soaking in my copper bathtub in water just as hot as I could stand, endeavoring to drive the soreness out. And afterwards, when I gingerly lowered myself onto my cot, it was not fragrant oils Agnes rubbed into my skin, but strong liniment. Every part of my body ached, especially my arms, shoulders, back, and thighs. From dawn till dusk I was learning to wield the weapons of war, the crossbow, broadsword, mace, lance, and shield, to move in a suit of heavy, clanking armor and chain-mail, and to fight on solid ground and astride a horse.

One evening, when I lay sleeping upon my cot, still on my stomach after my massage, my naked body glistening with, and reeking of, liniment, the captain who had charge of my training came into my tent. I started awake at the touch of his hand upon my back. He bade me to remain as I was. He had a proposition for me. We both knew I had the makings of a great soldier, I was making excellent progress, and there was no reason why I should not advance further and faster. His hand roved downward, over the small of my back, and lingered meaningfully upon my bottom. The decision was mine to make, he said, his fingers questing, I could suffer the slow and agonizing repetition of these same exercises day after day for a very long time, or I might progress at a swifter pace, as my quick mastery of each successive skill warranted.

It was obvious what he wanted, and his hands parting my thighs made it even more so. I protested that I was weary to the bone and ached all over.

“Then a little more soreness won’t matter; will it?” he asked.

I said I supposed not and let him do as he liked while I lay like a corpse beneath him, though he seemed not to mind, and afterwards departed my tent with a smile after flipping a penny onto my back. Alone once again, I lay there feeling empty and cold inside, and missing my spaniel; she had died of old age the year before. It was at such times that I always missed her most.

He was by no means my first; far from it in fact. I’d had lovers before, both male and female. For me sex is money, sex is power, sex is survival!

I lost my virtue early. It was stolen from me in the most violent, ugly, and terrifying manner imaginable, as part of a secret bargain struck between my uncle— a most unscrupulous innkeeper—and the lodger who occupied the best room.

Greedy for the coins proffered him; my uncle sold me without a care or remorse. I was nine years old at the time. After I recovered, I would have no more of family charity. And so a boy-harlot I became. It was my idea entirely; no one forced or persuaded me. Agnes was horrified and wept when she found out what I had done and begged me to desist. “Do not walk this path, Piers!” she pleaded, but I had already decided. I know it all sounds rather cold and calculating, and far too weighty a decision for such a young child to make, but sometimes the truth is like that, and I was already old beyond my years. My rapist had opened my eyes to my allure, and my value. The Goddess gifted me with great beauty, the kind that inspires awe and takes the beholder’s breath away, and as a male and a child I was doubly forbidden. Sodomy, like witchcraft, can lead straight to the stake and—if you believe in that sort of thing—an eternity of hellfire afterwards.

And I, with my dark, precocious, come-hither eyes and knowing smile, was temptation personified, and the coins came pouring in.

It was easy. All I had to do was smile, take off my clothes, think of the coins and the food, shelter, shoes and clothing they would buy, and pretend that their kisses and caresses did not leave me feeling numb, empty, and cold inside. And soon the words “pleasure” and “pretense” became one inside my mind, and upon the bedsheets I became a most accomplished play-actor. My body quickly learned the rules of the game, and how to deliver what was expected, but I never felt the spark of passion. But I didn’t care. Now horses carried us on our travels, we were garbed and shod in nothing but the finest, and we dined upon the best fare the innkeepers and my patrons could provide. They gave me jewels and furs, some even claimed to love me, but to them my heart was a locked door. One gentleman swore I was worth my weight in gold and sat me naked upon a scale then, true to his words, counted out the coins accordingly. He squandered his entire fortune upon me. I heard he died in an almshouse two years later, damned and disgraced, disowned by his family, without a penny to his name. He did not heed my warning: “Loving me is expensive.” He said I was worth it. Did he still think so at the end, I wonder?

As for the captain who had his way with me, well I soon had my way with him! And I made it clear that my favors do not come so cheaply! I was never a penny whore; at nine I was worth more than nine whores put together, and at fourteen my value certainly hadn’t fallen! And when my horse was killed beneath me in battle I had a new black charger with four white feet worth three times the value of any other horse in the King’s army and a squire to attend to my new horse, armor, and weaponry. It was the captain’s decision, made when he found me weeping outside the King’s tent, waiting to report my rape.

I continued to serve in the English army, soldiering and playing harlot whenever time and chance permitted. Then, while in Scotland on one of his many campaigns, King Edward singled me out for an unprecedented honor—I was to join the household of the Prince of Wales in the hope that I might prove a good influence on that flighty, feckless young man.

Young Edward, it seemed, was altogether lacking in the masculine attributes and princely dignity that his father considered essential for a future king. Military pursuits made the Prince yawn and roll his eyes in boredom, and he habitually fell asleep at tournaments, though he enjoyed hunting and riding to a certain extent. He loved pageantry and display, to stage theatricals, and to keep low company, consorting with the likes of ditch-diggers and bargemen. And he liked nothing better than to scamper up a ladder and thatch a cottage roof, or spend a day digging ditches, trimming hedges, or rowing in the fens. To his mind, there were no pleasures greater.

In my person, the King explained, were embodied all the best qualities of a refined gentleman and a seasoned soldier; courtier and warrior perfectly balanced, each in just the right measure. I was neither too rugged and coarse, nor too delicate and effete despite my middling height and willow-slender build. If I were to become the Prince’s companion, it was hoped that, in time, he might come to emulate me. There are many who say now in hindsight—myself included—that it was the worst mistake Edward Longshanks ever made!

The year was 1300, a new century and a new beginning for me, when Agnes, Dragon, and I arrived at Langley, the Prince’s country manor in Hertfordshire. I was sixteen, the same age as Prince Edward himself. My memories of that day are so keen it might have happened yesterday!

The Great Hall where the Prince was to receive me was the most splendid I had ever seen. Its walls were painted in cheerful shades of red and yellow, decorated with bright, colorful shields and a mural of jousting knights. Musicians in the Prince’s blue and gold livery played in the gallery overhead, filling the air with the pleasing harmony of fife, lute, tabor, and harp. And sweet-scented rushes cushioned the stone floor. Sumptuously arrayed nobles, haughty and aloof, ranged themselves in two rows leading to the royal dais and eyed me with interest and suspicion.

I was dressed humbly, but well, in a red wool tunic with black silk hose and soft, high, black leather boots. A black leather belt cinched my waist, because I must have something to hang my sword and purse from, and at the same time served to further accentuate my slenderness. My black wool cloak was fastened at the shoulder with my most precious possession, the brooch that had been my mother’s favorite—a silver crescent moon paved with sparkling diamond chips; it was the only thing of hers I had been able to save. My black hair was freshly washed and trimmed to chin-length, and, unlike most men, I disdained to wear a beard or moustache and kept my face clean-shaven instead—the better to invite caresses I’ve found. Besides, a beard might detract from my mouth—sensual, arrogant, and inviting all at the same time, the kind of mouth that makes people either want to kiss me or slap me, though some find it exceedingly difficult to decide between the two.

Verily, I know this dwelling upon my appearance gives the impression of vanity, nor will I plead “not guilty” to such a charge, but as I write this I do not know what roads this memoir will travel down, whether it will be tossed contemptuously into the fire by one of my enemies, rendered unreadable by Edward’s copiously flowing tears, or preserved and passed down through the centuries. If the latter be the case, then it might be of interest to future generations to know my outer appearance as well as the inner workings of my mind. Myself, when I read a story, I always like to be able to picture the characters, and maybe you do as well.

I confess I was terrified as I approached the dais where the Prince sat, or rather lolled, under a gold-fringed canopy, yawning and sleepy-eyed, in a throne-like chair. But I hid it well; by this time I had already become adept at concealing my emotions, hiding them behind a shield of false confidence, flippancy, and nonchalance.

And what of the Prince himself? Edward was a toweringly tall buttercup blonde with cornflower blue eyes and a fresh-faced complexion that radiated life, innocence, and good health. He was richly clad in a celestial blue satin tunic embroidered with gold and yellow roses, blue silk hose, and shoes with absurdly long points at the toes adorned with gold embroidery and large yellow silk rosettes. A circlet of gold crowned his blonde hair, worn long with the ends curling up. He slouched there half-asleep, with a white greyhound dozing at his feet, and his Fool seated on the steps, his head level with the Prince’s knees. Yet the moment his languid blue eyes lighted upon me it was as if he had been doused with ice water, he sat up so quick and alert!

“Piers Gaveston, Your Grace,” his chamberlain announced as I knelt before him.

The Prince gestured for me to rise even as he struggled to his feet, stumbling over the greyhound and his ridiculous shoes, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the jester’s head, causing the little gold bells on the Fool’s motley-colored cap to jingle. He righted himself and tripped his way down the steps, nearly falling into me.

Instinctively, I reached out to steady him, and he stood there before me, regarding me with the most sheepish and endearing grin that went, like an arrow, straight to my heart. Then he began to speak.

“I … I am … Prince … Prince …”

As though any introduction was required! Not a soul was present who did not know who he was, yet his own name seemed to have escaped his mind!

“Edward!” his sister Mary, a frequent visitor to the court despite her nun’s vows, hissed, helpful and bemused.

“Edward … Prince Edward,” he nodded, though I had the distinct impression that had she said Edmund or Clarence he would have introduced himself as such and never noticed the mistake.

The Fool, however, was not one to bite his tongue and spoke the words that were in all our minds:

“Forsooth, Prince Edward, one would think you had just been introduced to some comely damsel instead of a lad!”

We all laughed then, even the Prince, though the roses in his cheeks bloomed brighter still.

The greyhound was sniffing round my boots and, to give the Prince time to compose himself, I asked: “May I?” indicating that I wished to pet the dog.

“Anything!” he breathed. “You may do anything you like!”

“Thank you, My Lord,” I smiled, “I love dogs.”

“Then you shall have a puppy!” Edward, ever generous, declared. “I have written to my sister Elizabeth requesting that she send her white greyhound to mate with mine, for I … I have a great … Desire …” the word seemed to stick in his throat as his eyes gazed deep into mine. “… to have some puppies from them, and you shall have one!”

“Thank you, My Lord,” I answered. “For your kindness I am most grateful.”

Court etiquette required that I kneel and bow my head to give evidence of my humble gratitude, but the Prince put out his hands to stay me.

“Nay, my friend, do not bow to me!” And then, to the consternation of all, he embraced me!

It was then, I think, that the first seeds of hatred were sown against me. They saw I had a sort of power over him. Courtiers are natural born schemers, they are raised on suspicions and crafty machinations calculated to secure royal favor, and they knew at once that a serious rival had entered the field. And, it is an ugly truth that must be said, the English are notoriously hostile to foreigners, and the Gascon lilt in my voice rendered me a moving target for their barbed and well-aimed insults.

After this brief introduction to the Prince, my servants and I were escorted to my chamber. I was weary from my journey and flopped gratefully onto the feather bed, and Dragon came to tug off my boots.