Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (11 page)

‘Your grace?’

‘Mathilde,
ma cherie
?’

‘Would Langton know?’

‘Perhaps.’ Edward’s smile faded. ‘But we will come to our perfidious bishop and your visit to him in my own good time.’ He left the threat hanging in the air. I recalled my words to Demontaigu, how Chapeleys had died in our care.

‘We believe,’ Gaveston said brusquely, ‘that the Demoiselle Venimeuse meddles in our present troubles, but that is suspicion only; we have no firm evidence.’

‘Perhaps you are just casting about.’

‘My lady,’ Edward wagged a finger at Isabella, ‘I wish to God that was true. Pax-Bread,’ he smiled thinly, ‘has assured me I am not.’ The king chewed the corner of his lip, staring at me as if challenging me to ask who Pax-Bread was. I kept silent. Edward was fickle. He could sit and argue with a groom about a brass buckle as if the man was his born brother, only to change abruptly, demanding all the rights and appurtenances of kingship. I stared past him at the weak sunlight pouring through the lattice window, and prayed quietly that I would be able to meet Demontaigu later that day.

‘Pax-Bread?’ Isabelle asked softly.

‘If Philip has his spies, so do we,’ Gaveston explained. He eased the folds of his cotehardie, undoing the clasp of the cambric shirt beneath. ‘Pax-Bread’s true name is Edmund Lascelles, a Gascon, a close friend of my family. One of the finest pastry cooks under God’s heaven. He is also the most subtle of spies. He hates Philip and did good work for the old king exploiting one of Philip’s few weaknesses.’ Gaveston paused at Isabella’s sharp gasp.

‘Your father, my lady, is well known for his sweet tooth: he relishes tarts, blancmanges, pastries, jellies, creams and sugars. Pax-Bread soon rose to prominence in Philip’s kitchens as a man who would serve delectable dishes when the claret and osier had been drunk. Tongues eventually turn loose, even in the French king’s private chambers, especially when Philip dines with Marigny and others of his ilk. Of course, no bird flies free for ever. Pax-Bread . . .’ Gaveston smiled. ‘An appropriate name, is it not? The bread passed between friends at the
osculum pacis
, the kiss of peace during the mass. Anyway, Pax-Bread fell under suspicion and was forced to flee to our garrison at Boulogne; that was at the end of February. He spent a great deal of time trying to cast off his pursuers. In case he never reached London, he sent us a letter.’ Gaveston dipped into his cotehardie and drew out a parchment. He gave this to Isabella, who undid it, read it, pulled a face and, when Gaveston nodded, passed it to me.

The letter was well written. It began:
Monsieur Pierre s’avisera
– ‘Monsieur Pierre, be well advised.’ It then delivered a list of pastry, herbal and other items. These were written in sentences of eight words, every third word now underlined in green ink. The words thus scored were:
s’avisera
,
demoiselle
,
venimeuse
,
ageant
,
grande
,
damage
,
parmi
,
seigneurs
’,
employa
,
ombres
,
Jean
,
Haute
,
Mont
, ‘
a
’,
verité
,
Secrète
,
Solomon
,
Annonciation
.

‘The emphasis is mine,’ Gaveston explained, ‘a code Pax-Bread and I often used. Put these words together and Pax-Bread is advising us to be aware that the Poison Maiden will do great damage amongst the Lords.’

‘
Les ombres
, the shadows?’ I asked.

‘More precisely,’ Edward intervened, ‘they like to be called Tenebrae – the Darkness: that’s the Latin translation. They are professional assassins skulking in London, one of the more vicious gangs that can be hired by the city fathers to settle grudges with each other.’

‘And Pax-Bread is claiming the Poison Maiden will use these?’

‘Of course.’

‘Against whom?’

Gaveston coughed and stared full at me.

‘You, my lord,’ I breathed. ‘Yes, that would be logical. If your opponents took up arms, they could be called traitors, but an attempt on you by some secret, silent assassin couldn’t be laid at their door.’

‘We should move,’ Isabella declared, ‘not stay here.’

‘Not yet.’ Gaveston held up a hand. ‘The palace is secure, Burgundy Hall even more so. This game has to be played out. You understand that? The problem is to be dealt with immediately. To retreat now would mean defeat. The king must show he is master in his own home.’ Gaveston spread his hands. ‘Westminster is the royal palace, its abbey the royal mausoleum. If he cannot rule here, where else?’

‘And the other references, such as Solomon and the Annunciation?’

‘The Secret of Solomon is a tavern in an alleyway off Cheapside. Pax-Bread is saying he’ll be there today, the Feast of the Annunciation. Mathilde,’ Gaveston breathed out noisily, ‘royal messengers are watched; Isabella’s household not so closely. After all, her grace,’ he pulled a face, ‘is supposed to detest me as much as Winchelsea does. You, Mathilde, can be trusted. We want you to meet Pax-Bread at the Secret of Solomon.’ He smiled lazily. ‘Demontaigu, the queen’s clerk, can go with you. He is acceptable, yes?’

I stared back, determined not to blush or be disconcerted. ‘Anyway,’ Gaveston plucked a sweetmeat from the dish, ‘you can go and discover what Pax-Bread really knows.’ He fished in his wallet and slipped across an impression of his seal. ‘Show him that; he will trust you.’

‘When, my lord?’

‘When I am finished.’

‘My lord,’ I was determined to question those other items mentioned in Pax-Bread’ s letter, ‘
Jean Haute Mont à la verité
– John High Mountain has the truth. What does that mean?’

Gaveston shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you, Mathilde; Pax-Bread will. Now Chapeleys? Her grace has told us already, but you must relate everything that happened.’

I did so. Edward and Gaveston heard me out. The favourite kept still, now and again staring up at the rafters as if weighing the worth of what I said. I also described the murder of Rebecca Atte-Stowe and my faint suspicion that her death was part of the mystery surrounding Chapeleys’ murder. At the mention of Robert’s attack on Ingleram Berenger and my plea that the king should show mercy, Edward raised a hand.

‘Undoubtedly Chapeleys’ death is most regrettable. He apparently had something to say. However, unbeknown to you, Mathilde, he had already written to me, asking to be relieved of his duties at the Tower. He declared that he was innocent of any charges and asked why he had been punished along with Langton. He then made the most surprising confession: that Langton had hinted at the true identity of the Poison Maiden.’ Edward paused for effect.

‘Who, my lord?’

‘Me,’ declared Gaveston, his face hard and humourless. ‘According to Langton, I am Philip’s creature, planted at the heart of my lord’s affections to wreak hideous damage.’ He forced his voice to remain calm. ‘I created chaos and division between my lord and his late father; the same between the king and his barons, not to mention his grace and his bride as well as between Edward and Philip of France.’

I stared across at Isabella. She looked startled by the logic of the revelation. According to all the evidence, Langton was correct. Gaveston had caused deep, rancorous division at the English court.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Gaveston whispered. ‘In more senses than one it’s true.’

‘Yet it’s not!’ Edward countered. ‘Relations between my late father and myself were never cordial, God rest his bones. As for the barons, my good father fought them as I do now. I should have ripped Chapeleys’ tongue out, but what was the use? He was simply repeating what Langton had said. His trial for treason would only have proclaimed the matter to the world. In the end I decided to let him rot in the Tower . . .’

‘Is that why you sent Mathilde to treat Langton’s ulcer?’ Isabella asked. ‘To find out more?’

‘Ah,
ma coeur
.’ Edward smiled at Isabella. ‘You are right. I wondered if Chapeleys had anything more to say. I doubted it; just a repetition of his foul lies. However, I do wonder, and always will, what that circle surmounted by a cross with the letter P inside signifies? As for the words “basil” and
sub pede
. . .’ Edward shrugged. ‘Chapeleys may have been murdered. More probable is that overcome with fear, he decided to take his own life. Now, as for Robert Atte-Gate . . .’ He pushed back his chair, rose, strolled to the door and opened it.

‘Ap Ythel,’ he shouted. The captain of the King’s Welsh archers, small, dark-faced and wiry, swaggered into the room and went to sink to one knee.

‘No need for that.’ Edward clapped the Welshman on the shoulder. ‘Take some of your lovely boys and go to the dungeons in the Old Palace gatehouse. Drag Robert Atte-Stowe out to the gallows, put a noose around his neck—’

‘Your grace,’ I begged.

‘Put a noose,’ Edward insisted, ‘round his neck and turn him off the ladder,’ he held up a hand, ‘for no more than a few heartbeats, then cut him down. Proclaim that the king will not allow weapons to be drawn in his palace against his servants.’ Edward dug into his purse and tossed a silver coin, which Ap Ythel caught. ‘Give Robert that. Take him back to the stables, and tell the
avener
, the keeper,’ he translated for Ap Ythel, ‘to give him preferment. Finally, instruct that hapless groom to present himself at the office of the Chancery of the Red Wax. A full pardon for his crimes will be issued to him. Should he ever do it again, however, I will hang him myself!’

Ap Ythel bowed and left. Edward closed the door and leaned against it. I remember that day so clearly, even the insignia on Gaveston’s rings as he clenched his hands open and shut. He had scarcely heeded the king’s judgement on Robert Atte-Gate, still absorbed with Chapeleys’ allegation against him. Edward, too, seethed with rage, hence his treatment of the groom, a mixture of savagery and mercy that made the king so unpredictable: on one breath cruel ruthlessness, on the next unexpected generosity.

‘Kill him!’

Gaveston threw himself back in the chair so violently I heard its padded frame creak. Both Isabella and I started. The favourite had swiftly changed from the charming courtier; his face was now tight with anger. Isabella warned me with her eyes to be careful.

‘Kill? Kill who, my lord?’ she asked gently.

‘Langton!’ Gaveston jabbed a finger at me. ‘Mathilde, do that for us. Go back to the Tower and dress that fat old prelate’s weeping leg, rub in a poison, give him some deadly potion, watch him gargle and choke on it.’

‘And then what, my lord?’ Isabella gently insisted. ‘Give Winchelsea and Lincoln their martyr? Allow Philip of France to crow like a cock to the world about what you have done? Permit Clement to issue bulls of excommunication against Langton’s murderers? Raise all hands against you?’

There was silence in the chamber. Edward pushed himself away from the door and walked round to Isabella. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently kissed the top of her head.

‘
Ma douceur
,’ he whispered, ‘is correct.’ He returned to his chair and wrinkled his nose. ‘The foul odours of the galleries and passageways can be smelled even here.’

‘The sewers are blocked or choked.’ Gaveston swiftly broke from his tantrum, ‘They must be cleaned. Ap Ythel, when he returns, will bring in scavengers and rakers.’ He pulled himself up in the chair. ‘We have our own sewers and runnels to clear. Listen now.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Margaret, the queen dowager, is busy on our behalf. She mediates with the Lords. She may not achieve much.’ He grinned. ‘She and my good lady wife are more interested in Glastonbury and Arthur than Westminster and Edward. Perhaps she chatters in the wind, but Winchelsea and the rest cannot refuse her. To do so would offer great insult. The queen dowager is delaying matters yet at the same time giving his grace the appearance of negotiating with his adversaries. No one can object to that.’

‘We know,’ Edward intervened, ‘that Queen Margaret tires of this, eager now that spring has come to go on pilgrimage. More importantly, Philip of France is urging his beloved sister to mind her own business and go back to her prayers; even better, to throw in her lot with Winchelsea and Lincoln. My dear stepmother, of course, has refused. She has no love for Winchelsea or Lincoln.’

‘My lord,’ Isabella interrupted, ‘how do you know that?’

‘Because my beloved stepmother tells me.’

‘And?’

‘As does her minstrel-leech Guido the Psalter, not to mention Agnes d’Albret.’ Edward laughed softly at our surprise.

‘Guido has no love for Philip of France. He does not wish to return there and he is dependent on our favour. Agnes d’Albret is no different. She was sent by Philip to keep an eye on his pious sister, your holy aunt. Agnes does that, but she divulges all to us.’ Edward pulled a face. ‘She does not want to return to Paris and marry an elderly
seigneur
. Not only are they informants, but at our instruction, they encourage the queen dowager to plead on our behalf.’ Edward bowed to Isabella. ‘My lady, I would be grateful if you would continue your good offices in this matter. On Sunday next, the twenty-seventh of March, the queen dowager will meet Winchelsea and the rest in the Abbot of Westminster’s gardens. Mathilde must join her. You must also encourage our beloved stepmother not to withdraw but to remain here at Westminster. Point out,’ Edward added, ‘that soon it will Easter. How his grace the king is so pleased with her efforts that she will be allowed to hold the Virgin’s cincture, the great reliquary housed in the Lady Chapel of the abbey. Now, as there is no more . . .’ Edward stared at Gaveston. Both king and favourite were eager to go. They rose abruptly. Isabella and I hastened to follow. Edward and Gaveston bowed as we curtsied. The favourite pointed to Pax-Bread’s letter still lying on the table.

‘Make a fair copy, Mathilde. Her grace can hold it secure for me.’ Then they were gone, changeable as ever, shouting and laughing along the gallery, Edward insisting on a hunt, a wild ride through the moorlands to the north of the abbey. Isabella sat listening intently, head down, staring at a ring on her finger. She let her hand fall away, stretched and picked up her wine cup.