Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (20 page)

Edward and Isabella knelt at their own prie-dieu. Gaveston and others of the royal party gathered in a special enclosure to their right. At the top of the sanctuary steps stood Lincoln, Pembroke and their entourage. I was relegated to standing in the hallowed precincts of the Lady Chapel with its statue of the Madonna clothed as Queen of Heaven, the Divine Infant resting on her lap, little hands raised in blessing. Beneath the statue, protected by an exquisite glass case framed in gold and studded with precious gems, lay the abbey’s greatest relic, the Cincture Cord once worn by the Virgin. My eyes drifted to that as they did to the various tombs in the royal mausoleum: Edward the Confessor’s in magnificent red and gold; Edward I’s sombre black purbeck marble; close to it the gracefully carved tomb of his beloved first queen, Eleanor of Castile. I remembered how the old king had supposedly wept himself to sleep at her death and marked the stages of her funeral cortège south with gloriously sculpted soaring stone crosses. A thought occurred to me, but I let it go. Perhaps, on reflection, I should have seen it as a prayer brought by the invisible hands of some angel. However, on that particular Sunday, angels scarce moved in the harsh, tense atmosphere of the abbey sanctuary. The previous evening members of the Lords’ retinues had met those of Gaveston as both groups took horses down to the river to water. The Lords’ retainers had accused Gaveston of being
quasi rex
– almost a king – as well as being a coward, hiding behind his royal master and refusing to meet his accusers. Gaveston’s retainers had replied with a spurt of invective, calling the Lords nicknames. According to Isabella’s hushed, hasty whisper when I met her before the mass, these insults, the creation of Gaveston’s nimble wit, had apparently struck home. Gloucester was a whoreson; Lincoln Burst Belly; Warwick the Black Dog of Arden; Pembroke Joseph the Jew; Lancaster the Churl. I turned my head and looked around the great drum pillars of the abbey. The Lords stood stone-faced and hard-eyed, muttering amongst themselves. Now and again they would turn towards Gaveston and his coterie, fingers touching the scabbards on their brocaded belts.
Deo gratias
, all weapons had wisely been left with the lay brothers in the Galilee Porch of the abbey.

The mass continued. At the kiss of peace, the
osculum Pacis
, Edward immediately left his prie-dieu to greet Gaveston. They embraced warmly, kissing each other on the cheek. The king then strolled over to Lincoln and, without pausing, shook his hand before returning to clasp his wife and kiss her gently. A growl of protest at such a hasty insult to their leader rose from the Great Lords and their retinues clustered on the sanctuary steps. Abbot Kedyngton, sensing what was happening, moved swiftly on to acclaim: ‘
Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi
’ – ‘Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world’. At last the mass ended, with the sub-prior’s powerful voice singing, ‘
Ite missa est
’ – ‘the mass is now finished’ – to be greeted by the thundering response of the choir, ‘
Deo Gratias
’ – ‘thanks be to God’.

‘And thanks be true!’ whispered a voice behind me. I turned. Guido was smiling at me. Agnes, whey-faced, eyes all tearful, stood beside him.

‘If we can leave here,’ Guido hissed, ‘without sword or dagger play, then the age of miracles truly hasn’t past.’ His words were almost drowned by the shrill call of the trumpets. Edward and his queen left their prie-dieus in solemn procession. Isabella looked magnificent in sky blue and gold, a white gauze veil hanging down either side of her face, a jewelled chaplet around her forehead. Edward and Gaveston were dressed alike as if they really were brothers, two princes of the blood, in red and gold cotehardies of stiffened brocade embroidered with silver thread, ermine-lined mantles warming their shoulders, on their feet beautifully decorated blood-red ankle shoes. Gaveston walked slightly behind the king and queen. They first visited the Lady Chapel, then the Tomb of the Confessor, and at each Edward and Isabella offered pure wax candles in silver holders. Afterwards they returned to the sanctuary. They had hardly reached the top of the steps when Ap Ythel and a host of armed Welsh archers emerged from the shadowy transepts to seal the royal party in a phalanx of steel. The king and queen went down the steps along the nave to the south door, which would lead them through the abbey grounds and into the palace. Guido, Agnes and I followed. I glimpsed Demontaigu, who raised a hand in greeting.

Outside, the sunshine was brilliant; a beautiful spring day was promised. Crowds pressed against the three-deep line of men-at-arms. Behind me I heard shouts from the Lords and their retainers. How Gaveston was a coward, a minion, a catamite! The insults were drowned by further trumpet blasts and the choir intoning the ‘Christus Vincit’. Edward seemed determined to accept the applause of the crowds, who appeared captivated by his queen. She and her husband were greeted with showers of flower petals and cries of ‘
Vivat regina
’ or the coarse bellowing of ‘God save ye’ and ‘Praise and honour to ye’.

Once back in the enclosed garden of Burgundy Hall, the gates firmly sealed behind us, the royal party relaxed. Edward’s shoulders slumped as he took off the jewelled chaplet around his head. Gaveston, however, was livid with fury at the accusations of cowardice hurled at him. He undid his furred mantle, calling for sword and dagger, intent on going back to confront his tormentors. Gaveston might have been many things, but he was no coward. Edward plucked him by the arm; Gaveston shrugged this off. Eventually, both Isabella and the queen dowager blocked his path. The king hastily called for a tray of sweet wines and silver platters of honey toast with pine nuts. He undid his own furred mantle and led Gaveston along to a flower-covered arbour with cushioned turf seats. They sat there like two boys, heads together, talking softly. Ap Ythel took up guard on the black-and-white chequerboard stone path leading down to it: a sign that the king and his favourite were not to be disturbed.

We all broke up, drifting to different parts of the garden. Strange, on that particular morning I glimpsed Mortimer of Wigmore for the first time. Handsome as the devil, of athletic build, sharp-faced and keen-eyed, he wore his black hair long, his face completely shaven. He was dressed sombrely in dark fustian with blood-red boots on which silver spurs clinked. He had recently been in Ireland strengthening English defences against possible Scottish invasion. He was with his uncle, that old reprobate and pot of wickedness Mortimer of Chirk, a man of evil reputation, with his prematurely white hair framing a face as cruel as that of a bird of prey.

‘Now there’s night and day,’ Guido whispered in my ear. ‘The younger Mortimer is a knight but his uncle is a killer, given custody of two Welsh princes he was! Poor boys were later found floating in a river. Mortimer of Chirk then had the impudence to claim their lands.’

‘Not all plants and herbs,’ I retorted, ‘are what they appear.’

‘Ah.’ Guido gently pushed me with his shoulder. ‘How does it go, Mathilde? “This painted rose is not the whole. Who paints the flower paints not its fragrant soul”?’

‘Guido!’ The queen dowager, dressed like a mother abbess, with the countess Margaret garbed like her novice, swept towards us. ‘Are you trying to seduce Mathilde with poetry?’

‘No, madam, with herbs,’ I teased back, ‘and with little success.’

Isabella walked over. We all moved towards the shade of some willows planted against a reed-fringed carp pond. Everyone felt slightly embarrassed that the king and Gaveston were still deep in conversation in the arbour. The queen dowager, to cover this, explained how the previous evening she and Guido had been discussing herbs and their potency – she glanced sideways at Isabella – especially in childbirth.

‘And what is your opinion, Mathilde?’

‘None, madam.’

Margaret’s finely plucked eyebrows arched. Just for a heartbeat I realised how mask-like her face was, how the austere veil and wimple also served as a disguise.

‘None,’ I repeated. ‘A woman in pregnancy should avoid all medicines and herbs where possible.’

‘And your authority for that?’ The queen dowager was now clearly interested.

‘My uncle . . .’ I paused at Isabella’s warning glance. ‘He served as a physician in Outremer. He conversed with the wise amongst the Arabs, whose theories were similar to those of the ancients, Galen and Hippocrates:
natura fiat natura
– that nature should be nature, or, more precisely, leave nature alone. My uncle observed native women. How in pregnancy they avoided drinking or eating anything out of the ordinary. In the main, their pregnancies were untroubled, their childbirth straightforward and the infants themselves healthy. He compared this with certain court ladies of the West who eat and drink all sorts of concoctions with harmful results. Let me give you one example,’ I continued. ‘Broom has silvery-blue leaves which, when crushed, exude a pale yellowish oil. Now as you may know, madam, this is often used to rub on the skin to repel flies and other irritants. However, it also affects the muscles, and in a pregnant woman may induce early contractions and bring about a miscarriage.’

‘Very, very good. You see, Marguerite,’ the queen dowager turned to the countess, using the French version of her name as she often did, ‘you too must consult with Mathilde when you become pregnant.’

The countess blushed with embarrassment. The queen dowager was about to return to her questioning when Edward and Gaveston came strolling over arm in arm. The king’s face was wreathed in smiles; Gaveston was still tight-lipped, his handsome face, so ivory pale and smooth, reflecting the fury seething within him: eyes glittering, high cheekbones more pronounced, the usually generous lips now a thin, bloodless line.

‘Come, come.’ Edward freed his arm and clapped his hands. ‘Let us celebrate.’ He gestured round. ‘This beautiful morning pales in significance beside the beautiful women who now grace it. Guido, tell us that amusing tale about the old knight, his young wife and the chastity belt with two keys.’

This provoked laughter, and the guests drew closer. Guidio, a born mimic, played out the tale to the assembled company. Edward bawled in merriment at its conclusion, beating a gloved hand against his thigh. The bells of the abbey abruptly tolled, marking the passing hours. Midday would soon be here and gone. Edward whispered to Gaveston, who drifted over towards me. He placed a hand gently on my shoulder and steered me away from the rest, back towards the vaulted entrance to the garden. He paused as if staring at the corbels on either side of the gateway; babewyns and gargoyles glared stonily back, horrid faces with bugling eyes and gaping mouths. From the abbey floated the faint sounds of singing, a hymn to the Virgin Mary – ‘Alma Mater Dulcis’.

‘Poor Pax-Bread is dead,’ Gaveston tapped my shoulder, ‘and all he brought gone, yes, Mathilde?’

I told him exactly what we had learnt. Gaveston gently stroked my shoulder, then squeezed it hard. I stared into that lovely face, those half-open eyes with their lazy, slightly mocking gaze. He leaned down and kissed me full on the lips, then turned back, arm around my shoulder as if we were to enter the gateway.

‘Pax-Bread is dead; he cannot help me any more.’ He glanced down at me. ‘The Poison Maiden has seen to that. I will light a taper to guide him on his way and have a chantry mass sung to help him meet his God. As for his murderer . . .’ Gaveston chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Agnes – that was the assassin’s name?’ He shook his head. ‘Not our Agnes! She isn’t the killing sort; too gentle, more used to damask than a dagger. I doubt if she could crush a flea, let alone garrotte a man. Yet . . .’ He moved his head from side to side, like a merchant assessing the value of some goods. I recalled Demontaigu’s words from the night before. Gaveston was cold; no mourning for poor Pax-Bread who’d been cruelly murdered for his loyalty to this royal minion.

‘Yet what, my lord?’

‘The seals. Someone close to me must have given them to the murderer.’

‘Or you, my lord?’

Gaveston turned, hands on his hips, and smiled chillingly down at me, so beautiful, so graceful! I could smell the rich perfume, almost feel the warmth of his splendid body through the brocade and taffeta; such an elegant man, with no mark or blemish. Yet there was a darkness there. The favourite bowed mockingly, waggled his fingers at me and swaggered off.

The royal party now made to leave. Edward and Gaveston moved amongst their household retainers distributing small gifts. Isabella, deep in conversation with Mortimer of Wigmore, laughed heartily at some story he was telling. Nearby hovered some of the ladies of her chamber, eager for Isabella to leave so she could change her robes of state. The queen dowager and her novice were paying their respects to burly-faced Abbot Kedyngton, who had joined us late. Guido waved at me and mouthed the word ‘relic’. I grinned back and turned at the touch on my elbow. Agnes, her hood pulled up against the sun, gestured with her hand. I followed her into the shade of a trellis walk. She appeared anxious; she had certainly lost her air of impudent mischievousness.

‘Mistress Mathilde, I ask a favour. Would it be possible to be given a place in the queen’s household? Not her private chamber, but any of her departments, the spicery or the chapel?’

‘You are not happy serving the queen dowager?’

She paused, gently brushing my arm, eyes brimming with tears, lower lip quivering. ‘They are not happy with me. The queen dowager hints that I am too friendly with the French envoys, particularly Seigneur Marigny.’

‘Are you?’

‘Mistress, I have to please so many people, which makes it tiresome. Guido has even questioned whether I spy for them. He has no love for the French envoys and none for their master.’

‘And do you?’

‘Mistress, when the queen dowager meets the envoys, I have to chat and gossip. They single me out, they question me.’ Agnes flailed a hand. ‘I cannot offend them. Mathilde, I do not wish to return to France to some loveless marriage. I like it here, there a freedom . . .’