Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (14 page)

‘The king’s business,’ he shouted as loud as any herald, and the bolts were drawn. Demontaigu beckoned me closer as the gates swung open. A young woman dressed like a novice nun in black from head to toe, an ivory-coloured wimple framing her lovely face, gestured at us to come in. I noticed how the white ruffs at her neck and wrists offset the bleakness; I also glimpsed the carmine-coloured nails as well as the bright red pointed shoes peeping out from beneath the black kirtle. She smiled gracefully, sketched a curtsy and led us up the well-swept path. Only then did I notice the two men, pug-nosed and aggressive, sheltering behind the gate, which they now swung shut.

A flowery arbour trellis shrouded the path with plants climbing up across the top; on either side of this lawns, herb banks and flowerbeds budded under the spring sun. At the end of the path, steps led up to a metal-studded black door with grilles and eyelets, like that of a convent. Our guide pulled at the brightly polished copper bell. The door swung open and she invited us into a rather stark parlour with cushioned stools, benches and tables. The walls were a brilliant white, with linen paintings stretched over wooden board fastened to the plaster, each showed a young woman busy about some household task. Demontaigu studied one of these, grinned and sat down on the bench beside me. The Novice, as I now thought of her, stood smiling demurely down at us. She moved from the door as a more mature woman, harsh-faced, dressed in a similar fashion to the Novice, swept into the room. She glanced in surprise at me, but shrugged and, rounding on Demontaigu, spoke quickly in Norman French, demanding to examine the seals. She did so carefully before sweeping out of the chamber, beckoning the Novice to join her. Demontaigu whispered, lips almost touching my ear, ‘
In hoc loco muri oculos auresque habent
– in this place the walls have eyes as well as ears’. He rose, tapped one of the paintings and came and stood over me. ‘Alvena is here,’ he whispered.

A short while later there was a knock on the door and a young lady entered. She was dressed like the Novice, though her gown was dark green, the wimple blood red. She had skin as white as a water lily, brows as black as jet, an impish face with laughing eyes, snub nose and full lips. She offered us Leche Lumbard and dates in spiced wine, but we refused.

‘Then what can I do for you?’ she asked mischievously. ‘The hour is early. We sisters usually rest and begin our service after Vespers.’ She looked questioningly at me.

‘Not here,’ I murmured, moving to the door.

The young woman shrugged, pulled a face and brushed past me, going back down the passageway. I heard the mutter of conversation. Alvena started to come back. A voice called. She returned; more conversation, then she appeared out of the gloom, slightly flushed, eyes more wary.

‘Mother Superior says we may sit in the garden.’

We made ourselves comfortable on a stone bench outside. For a short while Alvena chattered about the flowers, how she looked forward to summer and how lovely it was to sit here especially in the evening and watch the sunset.

‘Pax-Bread?’ I declared. ‘Edmund Lascelles? He came here last night, didn’t he? He visited you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, eyes rounding in surprise. ‘I don’t know if I can help.’

‘Mistress,’ I retorted, turning to face her squarely, ‘you can answer our questions either here or in the gatehouse at Westminster. We know Edmund Lascelles sent Spit Boy here to arrange an assignment with you after Vespers. He came here?’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’

‘Tell me – and please, mistress, the truth, or it’s the gatehouse and much rougher questioning. We mean you no harm,’ I insisted. I took two silver coins from my purse. ‘These are yours. I assure you, we mean no harm.’

Alvena’s demeanour changed, her face hard, no more pretence. She pocketed the coins and stared across the grass as if fascinated by a thrush jabbing at the soil.

‘I am originally from Poitou,’ she declared. ‘I came here four years ago. Master Lascelles met me in Cock Lane where I was doing service in a boarding house. He offered better: this place under the care and protection of Mother Superior. Our guests are, how can I put it, carefully selected? Not everyone is allowed through that gate. Edmund is kind and gentle. He is also a superb pastry cook. He often delighted us as much as we delighted him.’ She laughed softly. ‘Then he had to return to France. Occasionally he returned to London. He would always visit me, bring me some present. Last night he did the same but this time there was no present. Edmund was usually cheerful, a merry soul, but yesterday he was silent and withdrawn. It took some time for him to relax, a few cups of wine, some soft music. I asked him what the matter was. He just shook his head and said he was on king’s business and that he was frightened. I must admit, mistress,’ she glanced sharply at me, ‘he was so fearful that even I became cautious, especially when he said he felt as if he was followed to this house. I asked him by whom. He just shook his head and we fell to our games. Afterwards I pressed him: what was his business? Why was he so frightened? He told me he was staying at the Secret of Solomon and that he would return this evening.’ She glanced at me. ‘He won’t, will he?’

‘No, mistress, he will not, because he cannot. He seems to have disappeared.’ I quickly told her what we’d found at the tavern.

Alvena swallowed hard. ‘This is not my business.’ She made to rise but I pressed her back. ‘Did he say anything,’ I insisted, ‘anything at all?’ Alvena stared down at her hands, soft and white, the nails neatly pared and painted. She moved in a gust of fragrant perfume, her hand pushing back the ruffle at her neck to scratch the sweat. The woman was fearful, wondering whether to speak or not.

‘What danger could you be in, mistress?’ I asked.

‘Danger?’ She laughed sharply. ‘No danger, not for me anyway!’ She murmured, ‘Edmund said something rather strange. After I pressed him about his worry, he declared that great danger lurked at Westminster. How old Jean might be as mad as a March hare but he had the truth of it and he sang the right hymn. I asked him what he meant. By then Edmund was deep in his cups, more interested in his pleasures. Of course,’ she shrugged, ‘I encouraged him in that.’ She rose to her feet and turned to face us. ‘I owe a great deal to Edmund. If something has happened to him, then I shall weep. I shall be sorry. I shall light a candle. Remember him in my prayers.’ She stood swaying gently, studying our faces carefully. ‘Do you think ill of me, mistress?’

I shook my head. ‘Each soul has its path,’ I replied. ‘Only God knows the truth.’

‘You have kind eyes, and you, sir,’ she looked at Demontaigu, ‘are you a priest?’

I realised how sharp this young woman was.

‘What I am,’ Demontaigu smiled, ‘only God knows. Do you have anything else to tell us, mistress?’

She shook her head, made to go, but came back and crouched before us, one hand resting on Demontaigu’s knee. ‘Go with God,’ she whispered. ‘You have been kind, so I shall give you clear warning. You talk of danger. There is no danger for me here, but,’ she gestured with her head, ‘beyond that gate our porters have seen three men sheltering in the trees.’

‘Moon People?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘No, no.’ She shook her head again. ‘Not Moon People. These are well armed, hooded and visored. Monsieur,’ Alvena rose, smiled at Demontaigu and touched me gently on the cheek, ‘mademoiselle, take care.’

Alvena left in a rustle of skirts. Demontaigu rose to his feet. I tried to control the shivering, the fear curdling my belly.

‘Bertrand, shall we leave by another way?’

He shook his head grimly. ‘They’ll have the entire house watched. It’s best if we leave by the gate. Walk quickly, yet act as if we suspect nothing. Above all, move swiftly but keep with me.’ He unhitched the arbalest from the hook on his war belt, plucked a bolt from the small pouch, wound the cord back and placed it in the groove, taking great care that the catch was primed. ‘Hide this beneath your cloak. Do not loose until I give the order.’

I took the arbalest, though first I had to dry my hands on my cloak. Demontaigu noticed this and cupped my face in his hands. He kissed me gently on the brow and on the lips, holding me tenderly, staring into my eyes.

‘I feel the same as you, Mathilde, the guttering in the belly, the clammy sweat, your breath coming hard. Forget that. Once we leave this house, we are going to meet three men who will try to kill us.’

‘What if they do so from afar?’

‘I doubt it.’ Demontaigu shook his head. ‘There is more to it than that. I suspect they want us alive, to question, to interrogate to discover what we know. Now come.’

The two ruffians opened the gate. Once we were through, Demontaigu walked so briskly I almost ran to keep up with him.

‘Did I tell you that story, Mathilde,’ Demontaigu’s voice rose, ‘about the disreputable clerk who visited the Cistercians at Clairvaux to see what he could rob? He stayed a year hoping to steal their precious candlesticks from the altar but found it difficult to plan . . . In the trees to the left,’ he whispered. ‘However, this man,’ he continued loudly, ‘because he spent a year in such a holy place found that he was converting to needing the grace of God more than the candlesticks, so he confessed his sins and entered the order.’

Demontaigu threw back his cloak.

‘And there’s the other story. Once, in the monastery of St Benigny, I saw a devil: it was just after dawn, a little thin man, black-eyed, with sunken cheeks and receding hair. He was hunchbacked and dirty, dressed in garish rags. They are here,’ he added in a whisper.

I glanced up. We were well away from the gate, almost approaching the trees when the three emerged, cowled and visored, long cloaks hanging to their ankles, faces masked, with only slits for their eyes and mouth.

‘Good brothers three,’ Demontaigu shouted, ‘how are you?’

Closer and closer we drew. The men, taken by surprise, didn’t know what to do.

‘The one in the centre,’ Demontaigu murmured, ‘he is the leader.’

The gap between us closed. The three recovered, cloaks were thrown back, swords and daggers drawn. They hastened towards us.

‘Now, Mathilde, now!’

I paused, pushed back my own cloak and brought up the arbalest. Our opponents were running towards us. I took aim, released the catch and the bolt flew sure and fast, powerful testimony to the training Uncle Reginald had given me in Paris. The quarrel struck the leader deep in the chest. He screamed as he was flung back. The other two, disconcerted, separated from each other and paused. Demontaigu rushed in, sword and dagger whirling as he attacked the man on his right. The other looked at me. I was already putting a second bolt into the groove. He hesitated, made for Demontaigu, then turned back to me. I fumbled with the catch, then released it. The bolt whirred out. At such close range it had a deadly impact, piercing the man in the face just beneath the left eye, shattering skin, bone and muscle. Blood spurted out through nose and mouth as he staggered back crying and shrieking, a horrid sound. Demontaigu was a knight, a trained swordsman. The third ruffian was no match. He almost fell upon Demontaigu’s sword; it sliced up into his belly as Demontaigu plunged his dagger deep into the side of his assailant’s neck. So quickly! Isn’t it strange how swiftly Death comes? There on the heathland, the trees moving gently, the distant sounds of a dog barking, children shouting. Three men killed, blood spurting out of ear, nose and mouth. The one Demontaigu had attacked died quickly, as did the first whom I’d loosed at: the quarrel had cut deep, straight into his heart. The man who had taken the bolt in the face lay screaming and moaning on the ground. Demontaigu went over. Dropping his sword and moving his dagger to his right hand, he knelt, cupping the man’s chin between his fingers, forcing him to look up.

‘You are dying,’ he murmured. ‘I am a priest. No physician under the sun can save you. Tell me now and I will shrive you. Lascelles, Pax-Bread?’

‘Gone!’ muttered the man, gargling on his own blood. ‘Taken.’ Then his head fell slack.

Demontaigu whispered the words of absolution, sketched a blessing in the air and came back to me. I stood clutching the crossbow, shivering at the cold.

‘Mathilde.’ Demontaigu prised the crossbow from my fingers and placed it gently on the grass beside me. He took my hands, cupping them in his, rubbing hard so I could feel the warmth.

‘So swift?’ I murmured. ‘So swift.’

Demontaigu embraced me, putting his hand behind my head, pushing my face into the side of his neck. ‘Mathilde, they didn’t expect it. They hoped we would be terrified, stand still, perhaps turn to flee, not advance towards them, attack vigorously and deadly as any knight on horseback. Now their souls have gone to God, and if one of them spoke the truth, so has Lascelles.’ He let me go.