The Confession of Piers Gaveston (23 page)

At last the procession halted and a pitiful little white donkey was brought for me. “An ass for an ass!” those about me quipped. It was not an act of mercy, but of expediency; all games grow tiresome after a time. There was no saddle and the donkey’s hide chafed my flesh and brought me fresh agony. And it was such a dainty beast that my feet scraped the ground. I tried to draw up my knees and at the same time struggled not to fall with my hands still bound behind my back.

When we reached Warwick Castle they took off my chains and I was cast into the dungeon. Exhausted and aching, I lay upon the cold stone floor, welcoming its chill against my burning flesh. But they were not done with me yet. Some of Warwick’s men elected to sample “The Favorite,” to see what all the fuss was about. Their actions were not born of lust but of a desire to hurt and humiliate.

They were brutal and coarse, peppering my body with blows and kicks, ramming their cocks into me, tearing my skin, and making me bleed. But through it all they took special care to leave my face unmarked, “so the King will be sure and recognize his minion when we send your head back to him!” It would have been futile to resist, I was weary and weak, and there were too many of them, so I lay submissive and still, and bit my fist to suppress my screams. I was thankful for the darkness that hid my tears. Then it was over. Chuckling heartily and clapping each other upon the back, they filed out to reward themselves with a flagon of ale. And I was left alone in darkness.

I lay on my stomach, striving to stay still, for each movement, no matter how slight, brought fire-tipped arrows of pain. Even if by some miracle my life were spared, I think I would die anyway. I think their blows and kicks may have broken or burst something inside me, there is such pain in my stomach, sides, and back, and when I must ease my bladder there is yet more pain and blood. And the soles of my feet fester and throb in a way that reminds me of the day my hands were burned.

Here in this dungeon there is no bed or blankets for me, not even straw, only hard stone floors and walls that ooze with dampness and stink, and a pair of torches mounted in iron sconces too high to afford much light or offer even a vestige of warmth. The cold no longer feels good against my skin. I never realized how difficult it is to remain still.

As I lay there, my body broken and shivering, I endeavored to stave off the pain with my mind. I thought of my daughters, Amy and Joan. It brought me a measure of bittersweet comfort to remember holding them. Amy used to try to teethe on “La Cerise,” she was like a little magpie, her bright eyes and eager little hands always going straight for my jewelry. I shut my eyes and tried to imagine both my daughters as women grown. Joan, delicate-boned and slight, with an air of fragility and milk-pale skin, and a wealth of red-gold hair cascading down her back. And Amy, with her black hair and eyes; Agnes says she is the image of me and my mother combined. I hope she will grow up a loyal daughter of the Goddess, and that Grunella will teach her about the Isle of Apples and how to heal with herbs, so that my mother’s beliefs, and my own, will live on and the circle will not be broken. And, on a more frivolous note, when she is of an age to take an interest in such things, I hope she will favor gowns of red and black and love rubies just like me.

And then my thoughts turned to Meg, almost eighteen, and so soon to be a widow. She will look beautiful in black! Forgive me, I know I should not be flippant at a time like this; but my wit is the only weapon that is left to me. Do not cry for me, my sweet, I am not worth your tears. You have a good heart, Meg; you should find someone worthy to share it with, someone who knows how to love and will never take you for granted. You deserve to be the cherished center of someone’s world! Do not be like some widows and consecrate your life to the memory of your dead husband. Forget me, and, if you can, forgive me!

I longed to be tended by Agnes, to have my wounds dressed and to be given a potion to dull the pain. I wanted to be bathed, to be cleansed of all the blood, dirt, filth, spit, semen, and sweat. And, most of all, I longed to lay my head upon her shoulder one last time. Agnes is the only one who will truly mourn me because she is the only one who really knows me. She knows why I am what I am, and she knew me long before I became notorious. Her hands brought me into this world; she knows I am not evil.

And, though I would much rather forget, I thought of John, Earl of Richmond. Rarely have I ever felt so hurt and betrayed. Indeed, Edward, no one but you has ever wounded and disillusioned me more! But I will not let the veil of pain prevent me from seeing the truth and telling it plain. We were lovers, but we were never in love. We were comfortable together, our affection, I thought, was warm and deep. I was furious when he spanked me, but later I thanked him for it. With this gesture he showed that he thought more of me than I did of myself. And in the years that followed, although we did often comport ourselves like randy beasts, there were talks, and walks, and so much laughter, and always, when we were apart, long letters. He never belittled me or dismissed some issue of statecraft or a scientific or philosophical concept as being too complex for my untutored mind to grasp. I always thought we would go on forever. I thought we were happy together. Verily, I have searched my mind and there was nothing to suggest it would end as it did! Did he ever, I wonder, truly care for me? Was I just another conquest? Or was I just a joke? Did he secretly laugh at me? I’m so tired of all these games! The players take their masks off and no one is really who or what they pretend to be! Were I to go on living, never again would I believe in anyone’s sincerity. If it happened once, it can happen again! Trust no one, lock up your heart and throw away the key! The pain of loneliness is sharp, but the pain that comes with losing someone you love and trust is sharper, especially when you discover that it was all a lie. Trust and Love, they are a Fool’s game, and I’m glad to be dealt out, even if it is by Death. I don’t want to play anymore. I’m tired.

And yes, Edward, I thought of you. I know by now you must be wondering if I had a thought left to spare for you. In truth, I thought of you a great deal. And I have tried hard not to be bitter and resentful at the end. But I have failed, so I will take my thoughts with me to the grave.

From the length of the stubble bearding my face some days must have passed before the guard Geoffrey came to me. I lay motionless and taut as he knelt beside me and laid a hand upon my back. Throughout my life I have been touched by a great many men and women, and at interpreting their desires I have become adept. This man would have me, whether I wished it or not, and I needed an ally in this place. I had two desires left—to die clean and decently clad and to ensure the delivery of this book—so I did what was required.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to concentrate, to see myself as I was before I came to this sorry fate. In my mind’s eye I saw myself standing before my silver mirror, freshly bathed, my face clean-shaven and my hair newly washed and combed sleek, my body healthy and strong, slender and seductively arrayed in emerald brocade, glistening with golden threads, with a belt of gold roses with diamond centers about my waist, rings on my fingers, and jeweled chains about my neck. I held this picture in my mind and willed myself to roll over onto my back.

Pain flashed like lightning along my spine and I nearly fainted, but then I remembered the secret for enduring pain. Agnes had taught it to me when I was seven, when she maneuvered my shoulder back into its socket and tended my burned hands. As I remembered her words it was as if I heard her dear voice speaking to me out of the darkness: “Pain is like an ocean, Child, wild and roiling. You cannot fight it! When you try to swim against the current it only tires you, and in the end it will drag you down! You must go with it, Piers, swim with the pain!” I pictured the pain as a stormy, churning ocean and myself as a lone swimmer, flowing with the current, letting it carry me. Then, reverting to the vision of myself, elegant in all my former glory, I looked up at Geoffrey and laid my hand upon his chest.

“Pleasure,” I said with a knowing smile and a look of invitation in my eyes, “can be taken by force or given freely.”

Geoffrey smiled and called me “a little slut” as I drew him down to me and kissed him, nipping his bottom lip playfully between my teeth.

I have been a whore since I was nine, Edward; I know all the tricks of the trade. I made him think I desired him. But when he rolled me over and I lay upon my stomach while he had his way with me I bit my fist until I tasted blood and tears coursed down my face. And I thought of you, Edward; make of that what you will!

Soon afterwards I was dragged up to the Great Hall to face my judges. I stood before them with the tattered remnants of my shirt tied round my waist, filthy, naked, bearded, and bruised. To combat the shame, I did as I had done with Geoffrey and imagined myself in peacock splendor. I held my head up high; I would not grovel or give way to tears! I would not beg for my life! Indeed, I did not account it worth begging for!

“I have no help, every remedy is in vain, so let the will of the earls be done!” I said tartly and let them prattle on about my alleged treason while I yawned and rolled my eyes.

I shall not dwell upon the charges; they have all been stated before. The verdict was a bygone conclusion, and I was quickly condemned to die.

“From being just a tiny spark of light you became a blazing star outshining all the rest! Now we shall put out that light forever!” Lancaster proclaimed.

A little while later, Warwick descended into the dungeon. “This is your last day, Gaveston,” he announced, “use it well; you’ve a rendezvous with the headsman tonight on Blacklow Hill, so prepare your soul. Shall I send you my priest?”

“I want no priest of yours!” I said hotly.

“Well pray to the Devil then,” he shrugged.

After Warwick left me, Geoffrey brought my satchel and warm water. I was surprised to find my gem-encrusted book and some coins still inside, but as he pointedly informed me: “We are men bent on seeing Justice done, not thieves and scavengers like you, Gaveston!”

It was a laborious process, I was in so much pain, but he helped me bathe and dress then shaved my face for me. I chose a simple but fine black cloth tunic, black silk hose, and a leather belt decorated with silver filigree in a pattern of crescent moons and lilies. And since I would not be needing it again, and the collar would only impede the sword, I tore my spare shirt into bandages and wrapped them round my feet before drawing on my boots. Thus arrayed for death, I sat down to finish this memoir, content with the knowledge that I die worthy of the portrait painter.

I will never disillusion or disappoint you, Edward, by growing ugly or old. I will remain frozen in time, like a dragonfly caught in amber, perpetually on the threshold of eight-and-twenty and keep forever my place in your heart.

There is the rattle of locks and chains. The heavy door swings open with a shrill squeak. There are footsteps on the stairs, the purposeful tread of boots, and the clank of armor. They have come for me!

I am determined to make a good death since I could not make a good life!

Au revoir, my dearest, I go to eat of the magic apples and become eternal, live long and prosper, and be well and happy! And know that when your time to live is past, and the boat that bears you to the Isle of Apples arrives, I will be waiting for you!

Come Death, and with thy fingers close my eyes, Or if I live, let me forget myself.

—from Edward II by Christopher Marlowe

Postscript
 

Written by Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, June 22
^nd
in the year of Our Lord 1324

All has come to nothing! England teeters on the brink of war and I am dying! The ship creaks and sways upon the waves that carry me to France. Pray that I arrive in time so that, just once more, I may pull Edward back from the brink of disaster; like The Fool in a deck of Tarot cards, he is about to stride smiling blithely off the precipice! But I fear both my body and my will shall fail me. There are moments when I cannot draw air into my lungs and a sharp pain pierces my chest and flashes like lightning along my arm.

The Despensers, father and son, rule the realm, and Edward frivols and fawns on Hugh the younger and fancies himself both loved and in love, while Isabelle consoles herself in the arms of Roger Mortimer.

For love of Hugh, Edward has flouted the King of France and war portends unless I can soothe the sovereign’s injured pride.

Warwick and Lancaster are dead. The first by cancer of the stomach or poison depending on who tells the tale, and the other by the axe two years ago, beheaded per Edward’s pleasure upon a hill to remind him of how Gaveston died.

But now I must tell of Gaveston, it is for him that I have taken up my pen. I owe him that, for, like Edward, I also failed him. And I have already delayed too long although it was years ago that this book came into my hands when Edward left it lying singed and battered with its spine broken upon the hearth while, with the royal physician’s aid, he grappled against rage, grief, and madness. Isabelle picked it up and threw it into the fire again then followed the physician into Edward’s bedchamber. But I snatched it out, I couldn’t let it burn, I wanted to know, I had to know, what he had written. That was twelve years ago. I kept it and it has been with me ever since. I could not destroy it. Piers taught me something vital—never judge a man by the mask he wears.

I saw him in my dreams last night, laughing, young, and carefree, dressed all in white, spinning in a shower of apple blossoms. And he spoke to me: “Just because it’s a dream doesn’t mean it’s not real.” Is there an Isle of Apples after all as he believed or is Heaven what we make it? Lord forgive me if by wondering I do blaspheme!

Now I must turn back to that fateful June of 1312 and the day, the night, June 9
^th
, for which I shall always reproach myself.

Piers had been well enough to sit a horse that day, but as the afternoon progressed his strength began to falter. I decided to stop at Deddington. My castle of Bampton was nearby and I knew my lady-wife to be in residence, so I thought I might go and pass a pleasant night with her. I should have taken Piers with me, but he seemed so weary. It was a grave misjudgment on my part. But I thought he would be safe; Deddington is such a quiet, secluded little place!

I saw Piers settled comfortably at the rectory and we dined together. While I made arrangements for my departure he sat upon the window-seat. A previous guest had left a lute behind and he took it up and played a mournful air. I did not understand the words; they were in a language unknown to me. Spanish, he told me afterwards, taught to him by a nobleman who had briefly been his lover. And then, as God is my witness, I do not know what possessed me! It happened so quickly; impulsively! I said to him, half-jestingly: “I had no idea before this misfortune brought us together that you were so accomplished! If you were a woman His Majesty would have a serious rival in me to have you for a mistress!”

When I spoke these words his arms went round my neck and … he kissed me! I gasped and pulled away. It all happened so suddenly! Yet when I looked into his eyes there was no seduction there, no teasing or coquetry, only longing, naked and deep. But it was not of the lustful kind, no; it was a yearning of the soul that went too deep to measure. When I close my eyes I can still see those eyes, and his lips, slightly parted, hopeful and atremble. And in that instant my anger fled. I could not reproach him.

Piers divined my thoughts and saw the rejection in my eyes. Eyes downcast, he nodded to show that he understood, and drew away from me and bent to retrieve the lute from where it had fallen on the floor. And despite all the years that have passed I still cannot account for what I did next. I took his face between my hands, tilted it so he would look at me, and then I kissed his brow most tenderly.

Through the open window I saw that the sky was all aglow in hues of orange and rose and I knew if I were to reach Bampton before nightfall I must depart.

“Sleep well, Piers,” I said softly, “and I shall see you in the morning.” And he in turn bid me good night and asked that I convey his greetings to my lady-wife.

As I mounted my horse, I looked up at the window and saw him leaning there, framed in ivy, watching me, a slender, wistful figure dressed in red and black. I’ve never forgotten. That was the last time I saw him alive.

And all that night, though I enjoyed the embraces of my lady-wife, it was those eyes I thought of. Like some unquiet spirit they haunted me, and still do.

When I arrived back at Deddington in the gray light of dawn I found him gone. The men I had left to guard him had remained at their posts, indifferent to his fate, and let Warwick and Lancaster take him. The beautiful white greyhound lay dead across the bed with her neck broken. I nearly sank down and wept in outrage and despair, but I did not. Instead, I rode forth to seek help.

I sought aid in Oxford, from the University, lawyers, and justices, and also from the Earl of Gloucester, the brother of Gaveston’s wife. “Let him die as he deserves!” they all said. “While Gaveston lives England will never know peace!” So I rode on to Warwick Castle where I argued long and vigorously with War-wick and Lancaster. Gaveston was my prisoner and they had no right to remove him from my custody, I railed, furthermore, I had pledged everything I possessed upon his safety. They laughed in my face, called me a fool, and told me to “learn to negotiate more cautiously.” They would not let me see him either, so I never knew until I read his words that he did not blame me, for in the days and years that followed many rumors flourished that I betrayed him into their hands. I am glad to know that he never doubted me or felt any anger or bitterness towards me. Had he desired to, Piers could have destroyed me with but a few strokes of his pen.

Had he known of it, Edward would never have forgiven me for that kiss. I myself was present as he read and saw him summon the Earl of Richmond and chase him all around the room and beat him savagely about the head with the book, the pearls popping free and the emeralds cutting into his scalp, before Edward collapsed weeping on the floor and banished him to Scotland. But about that kiss Piers kept silent and protected me. From beyond the grave, he commanded Edward not to punish me. Had he not done so, I fear I might have gone the way of Lancaster; blinded by the madness of grief, Edward was determined to punish all who had played a part in Gaveston’s demise. And I was counted among Gaveston’s enemies. But Edward did not hold me to my pledge, he did not take my lands and titles away, and until two years past, when the cunning Despensers stepped fully into prominence, I was his chief advisor. “Pembroke the Peacemaker” they called me and it was my steady hand that kept the ship of state from floundering.

It was Gaveston’s misfortune that I, being a man of honor, expected to find the same honor in others, when in truth they had none. And so they killed him.

I have had the details of his execution from several who witnessed it.

Piers met them boldly at the foot of the stairs, confident, nonchalant, and smiling. Anyone who says he fell on his knees and wept and begged for mercy is either misinformed or a liar.

“My Lord of Lancaster, Edward shall be very angry with you if you spoil my looks by striking off my head!” he chided saucily.

But Lancaster was not amused. “It is my greatest hope that the day will come when my royal cousin shall thank me for what I am about to do,” he said solemnly. “I have spent many hours upon my knees praying that one day, when all his grief and anger are spent, he will understand that what I do now I do for the good of Edward and England alike. You cannot be allowed to live, Gaveston; you do not deserve to live!”

“My Lord of Lancaster, even if you live to be a hundred you shall never match all the hours I have spent upon my knees!” Piers boasted with that famous Gas-con swagger. “Why if I had a gold coin for every time I have gone down upon my knees … Oh, come to think of it, I do!” He threw back his head and his laughter rang throughout the dungeon.

And then, with nimble grace, he darted up the stairs.

“Come along then, I would be done with this!” he called back over his shoulder as the guards rushed to surround him.

It was accounted witchcraft by those who had seen the bruised and battered body beneath his clothes that he was able to move at all, let alone with such ease and grace.

At the top of the stairs he turned and looked down at Lancaster.

“The Lady gave me life, My Lord, so who are you to take it away? Do no harm lest it come back to you threefold! Remember that, Tom of Lancaster, and what you do to me someone may someday do to you!”

Lancaster shivered under Gaveston’s piercing gaze.

“Take him away! In God’s name, take him away!” he ordered and brusquely shooed the other guards to go on ahead of him. When he thought no one was looking, he surreptitiously crossed himself.

Some weeks later, when the hour was late and he was far into his cups, Lancaster confided to me that when Gaveston spoke these words and looked at him thus, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “The Gascon had unnatural powers,” he slurred as he drank himself into oblivion, “I’m glad I sent him to Hell where he belongs!”

And I, knowing what came later and how Lancaster died, have to wonder, was it some kind of divine retribution or mere coincidence? Or was it another of Gaveston’s games? Did he only seem to foretell the future? After all, Piers knew Edward better than anyone. Lancaster murdered the object of Edward’s grand obsession, and it doesn’t take the Oracle of Delphi to predict that Edward would seek vengeance. Then again, standing on the threshold of Death, maybe Piers truly did catch a glimpse of the future.

I only know that on the 22
^nd
day of March in the year 1322, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, his head and feet bare, and clad in the coarse robe of a penitent, ascended St. Thomas’s Hill, just outside the walls of his own castle, to die a traitor’s death. He was mounted on a worthless, flea-bitten, bag-of-bones white donkey and accompanied by a cheering, jeering mob of peasants who pelted him with offal. It took three strokes of the axe to sever his head. But I digress, and now, I must return to Gaveston.

At the top of Blacklow Hill two soldiers guided him to stand before a large flat-topped stone that seemed to glow an eerie white in the moonlight. There was a sizable crowd present despite the late hour; men, women, and children, they had all come to watch The Gascon die.

All was still as Piers gazed down upon the stone. No breeze was stirring nor did anyone make a sound. Many expected him to break then and beg for mercy. Instead, he looked up at the moon, and, spreading his arms in a gesture of entreaty, began to speak in a voice clear and steady: “Lady, Mother of us all, hear my plea! Send a boat to convey me quickly to the Isle of Apples!”

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a breeze stirred the trees, causing the rustling branches to incline towards Piers as if they were nodding.

All around, guards and peasants crossed themselves and backed away from him with fear in their eyes. Some clasped rosaries or crucifixes if they had them or made signs with their hands against witchcraft and the evil eye. Others fled.

But Piers, appearing completely confident and serene, merely bowed his head and fervently uttered “Thank you!”

Was it some sort of chicanery? Gaveston—and his old nurse Agnes too—had an uncanny knack for predicting the weather; did he read some sign and know a breeze was about to blow? Or did some higher power answer his prayer? I do not know.

There was a priest present, for none would have it said that they had denied him this consolation in his final hours, but Piers disdained his offer of confession.

“I am done with games!” he declared, his eyes and voice hot and adamant.

And though the priest besought him earnestly to think of his immortal soul and repent his evil ways, Piers would not hear him. He silenced him with a look and waved him away. Then Lancaster, flanked by the Earls of Hereford and Arundel, read the sentence, but Piers interrupted to ask the whereabouts of War-wick.

“As you can see, he is not here!” Lancaster snapped.

“Ah, so The Black Dog prefers to keep to his kennel!” Piers exclaimed. “He has the courage to send me to my death but it doesn’t extend to seeing the deed done!”

Lancaster glared furiously at Piers for a long moment then continued reading.

“And may God have mercy on your soul for no one else will!” he finished sharply. “Piers Gaveston, have you any last words?”

With an impish sparkle in his eyes, and a nod of mock solemnity, Piers answered: “Yes, My Lords.” And after a lingering pause to further irritate Lancaster, flippantly announced: “My feet hurt!”