Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (17 page)

‘Their bodies,’ she thrilled, ‘were wonderfully preserved. Mathilde, is that not miraculous?’

I said it was, a God-given sign. I tried not to catch Guido’s eye as he stood next to the queen dowager. One look from him showed me how both he and Agnes were bored to yawning with this constant description of relics. The queen dowager gathered us around the hearth. Madeira sack was served with sugared biscuits, and without any bidding, Margaret continued her description of holy relics, adding how she hoped one day to return to France to worship the Crown of Thorns that her saintly ancestor Louis had bought from Baldwin of Constantinople. Her babbled list also included the baby linen of the Son of God; the lance, sponge and chain of His Passion, a portion of a true cross, Moses’ rod, the skull of St John the Baptist, not to mention the platter Abraham used to feast the angels before they visited Sodom and Gomorrah. Guido intervened, wondering about whether the true cross had really been discovered.

‘No, no.’ The queen dowager waved a finger like a magister in the schools. ‘According to what I have read, St Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine, found three crosses in a cellar forty-two feet in depth dug under Mount Calvary. These were the crosses on which Our Lord and the two thieves were crucified, but there was nothing to show which of the three was the true cross. So a dead body was laid on each. In two cases nothing happened, but when the corpse was placed on the third, it was immediately restored to life, and that’s how Helena knew she had found the true cross. It was made out of four trees,’ she continued breathlessly. ‘The portion from the earth to the cross is cypress, so the sweet smell might counteract the smell of a decaying body. The crosspiece is of palm, indicating the victory of Christ. The foot of the cross is fashioned from cedar, which is well preserved when in the earth, whilst the wooden inscription was of olive, signifying peace.’ Margaret paused. ‘Mathilde, where is her grace?’

I’d been sitting in front of the fire, my eyes growing heavy, still tired from the previous day’s excursions. As soon as Margaret asked her question I leaned forward and replied, God knows why, ‘Madam, I bring you good news. My lady does not feel well; she is suffering from sickness in the morning. In a word, my lady, the queen might be pregnant.’

Mirabile dictu!
The effect of my words was startling. Margaret drew back, her face lost that sanctimonious look; no more pious, elegant gestures. She looked abruptly younger, her face harder, those eyes questioning. I could see the beauty there as well as a close resemblance to her brother. Beside her the Countess Margaret just gaped like a landed fish. Agnes clapped her hands excitedly. Guido immediately demanded symptoms and signs. How was the morning sickness, high in the queen’s stomach or low? Would it last the morning or was it assuaged by food? Had she taken dried bread? That could help. I just simpered back how I might be mistaken. I regretted my impetuosity, yet as I’ve said, God knows why I spoke as I did. Perhaps the idea had taken root the previous evening, a symptom of my own desperation or watching Isabella turn like a bird trapped in a house. The king’s opponents had to be distracted, even if it was for a short while, from their relentless pursuit of him. The prospect of an heir might cool their malevolent hostility, lessen the rancour of the Great Lords.

The queen dowager soon recovered from her surprise and said she would light a taper before the Confessor’s tomb. I swore all to secrecy, even though everyone knew such a secret would never remain so at court.

‘
Ma belle fille
,’ Margaret breathed. ‘No better place for her than here at Westminster, the House of Kings.’

‘And the Virgin’s shrine,’ Countess Margaret breathlessly intervened, ‘its precious relic.’

‘Yes, yes, her grace must wear that, the Virgin’s girdle,’ the queen dowager claimed triumphantly.

Once again we were back to relics. My mind, nimble as a clerk’s pen, skipped and jumped at the implications of what I’d said. The queen dowager and the countess heatedly discussed whether Canterbury on St Swithun’s was the appropriate shrine for Isabella to visit. They were still debating this when we gathered to dine in the queen dowager’s wood-panelled parlour on aloese of beef, pike in gelatine sauce, dishes of peas and onions with sippets. After the platters and tranchers were cleared, Agnes d’Albret excused herself. I did likewise, saying I must wait on the queen to see if all was well, though I would return soon enough. In truth, I wanted to hasten away and warn my mistress. To my horror, Guido the Psalter offered to accompany me whilst the queen’s servants prepared the pears in wine syrup. I had no choice but to smilingly agree. We took our leave. However, once we were in the gallery with its wall paintings depicting the glorious exploits of the Confessor, Guido plucked at my sleeve and took me into a window embrasure overlooking Old Palace Yard. I leaned against the cold plaster while that devilish-eyed, nimble-witted teller of tales once again expressed his joy at the news about the queen. He peered down the gallery to ensure no eavesdropper lurked.

‘Chapeleys,’ he leaned closer, ‘the clerk who was found hanging?’

‘What about him?’

‘Langton’s clerk?’

‘Yes.’

‘I returned early this morning to the Tower. I wanted to ensure Langton’s leg was healing. The king instructed me to do so as well as inform our noble bishop that Chapeleys had committed suicide,’ he shrugged, ‘or been murdered.’ Guido wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Langton talked briefly about Chapeleys. Our fat bishop called him thriftless and unreliable, even hinting that he might have been my lord Gaveston’s spy on him.’

‘And?’ I was impatient to meet my mistress.

‘A fabulist, Langton claimed, Chapeleys was a pickle-brain, a man whose ambition outstripped his talents. An outrageous liar whose tongue must be blistered with his many falsehoods. Langton also told me an incredible story about a French spy or agent called the Poison Maiden, maliciously opposed to the English Crown. He claimed he’d heard similar tales but openly mocked them. Apparently rumours about this Poison Maiden were known to the old king’s chancery clerks, one of whom was Chapeleys. Anyway, Chapeleys informed Langton how he believed that the Poison Maiden, ‘La Demoiselle Venimeuse’, was not a person but a canker at the heart of the kingdom.’

‘Pardon?’ I shook my head, genuinely mystified.

‘Edward’s marriage to Isabella,’ Guido murmured, ‘the alliance between England and France. Chapeleys maintains it provided Philip with a road into the affairs of this kingdom. According to Langton, Chapeleys had chattered about how the old king had agreed to such an alliance under duress, as had our present sovereign. Apparently Chapeleys was a scripture scholar who also specialised in canon law, and he argued that such a marriage, arranged by force and pressure, was invalid. According to him, our present king could have his marriage vows annulled, repudiate Queen Isabella and marry another.’

I stared down into the yard. The day was brightening, yet I was aware of the cold, seeping draughts, of how the trees clustered near the far wall were still black and stark. Winter was not just a season but a state of mind. I hid my disquiet. I’d certainly heard similar gossip. How Isabella’s marriage was forced on the English Crown by the Papacy and the French king through solemn treaty and holy vows. If the English had repudiated it, Gascony, England’s last possession in France, would have been occupied by Philip’s troops. Edward himself had been reluctant to honour such a treaty. He had only agreed because Bruce threatened his northern shires. His Great Lords were bitterly opposed to Gaveston, and Edward could not afford to send ships, men and money to defend the wine-rich province of Gascony, its prosperous port of Bordeaux and the fertile fields and vineyards that stretched beyond.

‘Some of the Lords,’ Guido added, ‘would certainly support the king’s repudiation of the French marriage. Langton also referred to this. I suspect our good bishop was shocked by Chapeleys’ sudden desertion and violent death, hence his garrulousness. According to him, the Lords want to see the back of Gaveston but they might also wish to see Isabella and her dowry returned. They argue how the king could start again, marry a different princess from Hainault, Brabant or even Spain.’ Guido shook his head. ‘I have discussed this with the queen dowager; she believes it is only chaff in the wind.’

‘And Chapeleys?’

‘Apparently he tried to urge Langton to take this matter up with the king, win his freedom, forsake his fellow bishops and, on the king’s behalf, petition the Holy Father for an annulment to his marriage with Isabella.’

‘And would Clement have agreed to that?’

‘According to Chapeleys, Clement might agree if the Templars were suppressed and Edward supported the papacy against Philip. Langton told me this as I tended him. In the end, however, Langton, like the queen dowager, dismissed Chapeleys as a tickle-wit, a malt-worm. At the time, mistress, I thought it was one strand of gossip amongst others until I heard your news: the Queen’s pregnancy would certainly end any talk of an annulment.’

‘Could Chapeleys have been murdered?’ I asked. ‘For what he said?’

Guido pulled a face. ‘Chapeleys was apparently a clack-tongue, eager to escape the Tower. He may have been ready to tell any lie.’

‘So he could have been silenced for what he said? Or perhaps he realised what he was doing, what might happen to him, and turned to despair.’

A door opened further down the gallery; Guido put a finger to his lips. ‘We shall speak later.’ Then he was gone.

I continued on my way. The guards allowed me back into Burgundy Hall. I was halfway along the path when I heard my name called. Ap Ythel came out of a side chamber of the gatehouse and, clutching his sword, hurried up the path. He informed me how Robert the groom, apart from a sore neck – the Welshman grinned at that – was most grateful for my intervention. Robert had asked, if I graciously agreed, could he thank me himself sometime? I absent-mindedly agreed and hurried on to my mistress’ chambers. I found these busy. Maids of the household and other servants were bringing up costly cloths from London merchants eager to gain the queen’s favour. Their precious fabrics were being laid out over chests, coffers, stools and tables. Isabella, golden hair hanging loose, and dressed in a simple russet gown, was assessing the cloth with her household steward, Walter de Boudon. She expressed surprise at my sudden return, but caught my glance and we withdrew into her bedchamber, its coverlets and sheets still in disarray. She grasped a bolster and sat on the edge of the bed like a little girl, legs swinging, looking up at me all expectant.

‘My dearest aunt wishes to send me Goliath’s tooth, which, I suppose, is ten pounds in weight, or has she discovered Veronica’s finger or the Magdalene’s toe?’

‘Your beloved aunt,’ I retorted, ‘now believes you are pregnant.’

Isabella dropped the bolster as I told her what had happened. I half apologised but explained my reasons, especially how such news might gain more time, perhaps startle the king’s opponents into silence. Isabella sat fascinated, head slightly to one side, assessing what I’d said. Her lovely face changed, eyes half closed, skin tight, lips slightly parted as she clicked her tongue. She picked up the fallen bolster and cradled it as if holding a child.

‘Oh Mathilde, you’ve not only released a fox into the hen-coop but locked it in. No, no,’ she laughed, ‘sometimes it’s necessary to lead others by the nose as you would a donkey. I’ll reflect on what you said. In a sense it is mere prattle, but it will be interesting to sow the seed and watch it grow. After all,’ she smiled, ‘that is why I’m here, is it not, to conceive a son?’

‘Or not,’ I replied and told her about my meeting with Guido and what he’d said.

‘Now there’s a flaunting jack,’ Isabella murmured, ‘but what he said could be true. Does Edward wish to get rid of me so as to be alone with Gaveston, or vice-versa?’ She shrugged. ‘Do some of the Lords, those petulant hunchbacked toads, wish me gone because I’m French?’ She smiled thinly. ‘Or there’s himself, a man unfit for any place but hell, and speaking of toads, never hung poison on a fouler one!’

‘My lady?’

‘My father!’ Isabella quipped. ‘Has he sent that unholy trinity Marigny and the rest, treacherous as Judas’ kisses, simply to undo it all?’ She picked up the bolster and threw it down. ‘Think, Mathilde! Philip bitterly opposes Gaveston, so Philip meddles. Edward, besieged in his own kingdom, locked up in his own palace, retaliates. He spurns me, baggage and all. I’m dispatched along the Dover road to a cog ready to take me back to Calais or Boulogne.’ Isabella spread her hands. ‘Philip’s heart is stuffed with deceits; lies lie thick on his tongue. If that happened, Mathilde, my father would have reason for war. He’d appeal to the pope, to the princes of Europe, yes, even to Edward’s disaffected lords. Philip’s troops would overrun Gascony whilst another army landed at Dover. If that happened, my blessed father would be one step closer to being the new Charlemagne of Europe.’

‘Is that possible?’ I asked.

‘A year ago,’ Isabella rose to her feet, ‘did you think the Templars could be so quickly destroyed? Oh yes, I fully understand how the old king, Chapeleys, perhaps even Langton, regarded me as the Poison Maiden, a threat hanging over the English Crown for the last twelve years. Ah well, sorrows never walk alone, but bring a host of others.’ Isabella studied me closely, almost standing on tiptoe as if searching my eyes. ‘I, we, cannot leave here, Mathilde, not to France, certainly not to Philip.’ She patted me on the arm. ‘God save me if I was pregnant; perhaps my sorrows would be halved.’ She walked to the door and turned swiftly. ‘Langton,’ she exclaimed, ‘you must visit Langton again, Mathilde. He is playing the devil’s own game here. God knows if he told Guido the truth. My father always thought the English bishops were idle baits, but not Langton. A true serpent, Mathilde! I’m sure there is more than one clasp of the chain linking our beloved bishop to those disaffected lords. Anyhow, you must return to my blessed aunt. I’m sure she has much more to say. Please reassure her that the workmen are clearing the foul smells of Burgundy Hall, so perhaps she could visit me?’