Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (21 page)

The queen dowager called her name. I hastily assured her that I would do what I could. I asked if she knew of Pax-Bread or a tavern known as the Secret of Solomon. She shook her head, looked at me quizzically and hastened away.

We met the Lords mid-afternoon, deep in the enclosure of the abbey precincts. The garden was ringed on three sides by buildings that soared above us, brooding buttresses, carved cornices, glorious stonework and the occasional stained-glass window that caught the sun and dazzled in brilliant colours. The fourth wall was ornamentally crenellated; it even had a small military gatehouse above its double-door entrance. The abbot’s garden was what a poet might call a subtle conceit. Carefully positioned to catch the sun, it possessed all the elaborate ostentation of a planned garden, with sunken pavements, smoothed lawns, garden plots, herb banks, benches of limestone, turf seats and tunnelled arbours with copper poles tied with willow cord over which rose plants and vine shoots climbed. Small stew ponds glittered. Lead-lined pools splashed and gurgled under water gushing out from fountains carved in the shape of bronze falcons. On either side of the gatehouse four luxurious yew trees blossomed, representing, so the abbot told us, the Blessed Trinity and the Virgin Mary. The central lawn had been prepared for the
concilium
. An eye-catching pavilion displaying the abbey arms, three doves on a green background, had been erected. Inside stretched a long trestle table covered with waxen cloth; along this, cups, goblets, tranchers and bowls glittered in the light pouring through the vents in the top and sides of the pavilion. The sweet scent of herbs mixed with the fragrance from the bowls of freshly cut flowers and the perfumed smoke from gilt-edged incense boats filled to the brim with burning grains. Chairs and a cluster of stools stood at each end for the Lords and the queen dowager’s party. In the centre, on each side, were throne-like chairs for Robert Winchelsea and Abbot Kedyngton, who would act as mediators and arbitrators.

We were all ushered in. The queen dowager took her seat, as did the leading earls, Lincoln, Pembroke and Warwick. Lincoln was soft-faced, with a mop of white hair. He smiled genially and sat clasping his pot belly. On his left was Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, tall and angular with a sallow, pinched face; his raven-black moustache and beard, neatly clipped, emphasised a thin-lipped, womanish mouth. He sat narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips as if wondering whether he should really be present. On Lincoln’s right sat the Earl of Warwick. He was cold and distant, a hard face made even more so by the small, unblinking eyes and broken nose, his protuberant mouth like that of an angry mastiff. Dishes were served. A light collation if I remember well: venison pastries followed by dishes of marchpayne, and red, white and sweet wines. I singled one of these out, Maumeneye, tasting of pine nuts, cinnamon and other spices. Sitting on a stool behind the queen dowager, I loudly whispered that such a wine should not be served to my mistress in her present condition. A reminder about Isabella’s possible good news.

Abbot Kedyngton said the grace. Winchelsea bestowed his blessing and reminded everyone that each meal was a reflection of the Eucharist, so it should be conducted in peace and harmony. We had little choice. They all sat and ate as we did. The queen dowager sent her cup to the three lords, a sign of great trust, but any further dialogue was impossible. Abbot Kedyngton had been cunning. Any real conversation between the two parties, or among themselves, was cleverly obstructed. The flaps of the pavilion had been folded back and a choir of novice monks chanted romantic songs, including a favourite of mine. I recall the opening words:

I watched Winchelsea. He sat in his throne-like chair garbed in the brown robe of a friar. He was red-faced, his high cheekbones and sunken eyes portraying his anger, bony fingers brusquely tapping the table showing he wished to proceed. Eventually Kedyngton left the pavilion. The choir fell silent. Once the abbot had returned, Winchelsea, with little ceremony apart from a nod in the direction of the queen dowager, turned to Lincoln.

‘My lord, you have certain matters to lay before us.’

Warwick fished beneath the table and handed Lincoln a scroll tied with a green ribbon. The earl undid this, laying it out flat. First he respectfully saluted Winchelsea and Kedyngton and thanked the latter for his hospitality. Lifting his head, he complimented the queen with sweet words, ignoring the table-rapping of Pembroke and Winchelsea. He then listed the
gravamina
– the grievances – of the earls, followed by the
articuli
, or articles that would bring about redress. I listened carefully. Mere words then, dusty words now, but they reflected the earls’ hatred for Gaveston. The document, prepared by some clever lawyer or chancery clerk, soon touched on the heart of the problem. It wasn’t that Edward loved Gaveston or showered favours on him, but that he had ignored those who, by birth, were his natural advisers and councillors, entrusting both the realm and the council to an upstart. In a word, they wanted Gaveston dead, but they disguised this in smooth words and clever phrases. They insisted a parliament be called to redress a whole series of grievances, and demanded a commitment by Edward that he would rule justly; that he would seek the advice of those qualified by birth and God’s good grace to give it. Above all, Gaveston must go. The earls wanted him arrested and imprisoned to answer the charges levelled against him: abusing the royal favour, stealing royal treasure, violating the peace of the kingdom. I could list more, but go to any chronicle or the chancery archives and you will find it there, the same indictment Lincoln published on that clear March day so many, many years ago.

The earls were not in the mood for conciliation. Lincoln rapped the table with his knuckles, insisting that what they demanded must be completed before Easter without any let or hindrance. Once he had finished, Winchelsea turned to the queen dowager. The archbishop was a born fighter, a man used to the move and counter-move of debate and hot words. He had no love for the young king, or his father, and now all his venom and hatred spilled out. He warned the king, through the queen dowager, how he was violating his coronation oath, whilst his imprisonment of Langton was a direct attack on the Church. Edward risked the horrid sentence of excommunication that Winchelsea would certainly pass against Gaveston. Winchelsea then moved on to other matters. He conveyed to the queen dowager how deeply distraught the Holy Father was about the treatment of the Church in England, as well as Edward’s obstinate refusal to take effective measures against the Templars. Those words chilled my heart. I glanced at the queen dowager. She sat, her beautiful face all masked, eyes slightly closed, head turned as if listening very carefully to what was being said.

Once Winchelsea was finished, Abbot Kedyngton invited the queen dowager to reply. Margaret simply sat staring down at the tabletop. She turned to her left as if going to speak to me, then to the right where Margaret of Cornwall, Agnes and Guido sat. Finally she put her face in her hands and began to weep; quiet, subdued, shoulders shaking. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hands and, lifting her head, solemnly made the sign of the cross. Then she began to speak, first rather faintly, so the earls at the end of the table had to strain to catch her words. Nevertheless, she had prepared well. She talked of the glories of her late husband’s reign, of the community of the realm; of Bracton’s principle, ‘what affects all must be approved by all’; of her stepson’s tender years; of his need for good advice; of his love for his realm, his natural affection for the Great Lords, and how Gaveston enjoyed a unique position in the king’s heart and life. She then moved to my mistress. At first she hinted, then she became clearer. The queen might be pregnant, expecting an heir; this was not a time for conflict or dissension. The community of the realm must unite. The king must be given time to reflect on the grievances and demands of his earls. She would do her utmost to advance their cause but there was no need for haste. It was apparent from her words that she had negotiated and met individually with each of the Great Lords; Lincoln, Warwick and Pembroke were clearly moved by what she said. Winchelsea was more obdurate.

‘There are other issues,’ he trumpeted, his beaked nose cutting the air, red spots of anger blooming high on his sunken cheeks. ‘The Holy Father is most insistent, the Templar order must be crushed.’

‘Hush, my lord,’ the queen dowager intervened. ‘Matters are still
sub judice
– I understand that King James of Aragon is equally determined to discover the truth behind the allegations against the Templars and has delayed proceedings.’

Winchelsea nodded angrily. ‘But there is the question of New Temple Church,’ he riposted, ‘which lies within my archdiocese. It is the heart and centre of the Templar order in this kingdom. I am, my lady, more than prepared to accept what you say on condition that New Temple Church and its environs be handed over to the See of Canterbury. After all,’ he pointed at dark-faced Pembroke, ‘it is not just a Templar church, is it? It also holds the remains of your revered ancestors.’

Pembroke nodded vigorously. Margaret replied that she understood and would place such a petition before the king. The earls appeared to be mollified. Nevertheless, I felt a deep unease. The
magistri scholae
– the masters of the schools – will pose the question:
Quod erat demonstrandum
– what must be proved? They argue that all matters must be brought under the rigour of the intellect. Yet surely we are more than this? One of the great attractions of herbs is that they are more than the sum total of their parts, root, stalk and flower. They may also contain a benevolence or a malignancy hidden to the eye. If that is true of simple plants, how much more of us, body, mind and soul? I listened to that debate. Oh, it was logical, but it contained something else, hidden and dangerous. Hindsight makes philosophers of us all, yet at the time, I smelled treachery. I sensed all this must end in violence. Gaveston was certainly marked down by the Angel of Death. The fury seething within these Great Lords was obvious. Little did I realise the full malice of Edward’s opponents.

At last an accord was reached. The earls expressed their delight and hopes that Isabella was truly enceinte. They sent her their loyal felicitations, and as for the matter in hand, they would postpone their demands for Parliament to be reconvened. They understood how the king would be absorbed with his young wife so the business of council would have to wait. On her part, the queen dowager promised to bring their grievances before the king, as well as Winchelsea’s specific request regarding New Temple Church. Other minor matters were swiftly dealt with and the meeting ended.

The queen dowager, hand in hand with Lincoln, led the way out of the pavilion into the garden. I heard Agnes’ hissed exclamation and glanced to my right. Marigny, Nogaret and Plaisans had appeared. They were just within the gateway, with two other men standing in the shadows behind them. These followed Marigny as he walked across the grass towards the queen dowager. I recognised Alexander of Lisbon and one of his lieutenants. The French envoys were all dressed in sombre clothes with the odd flurry of white at collar and cuff. They walked with power, their arrogance obvious; they didn’t even bother to bring along the Abbot of St Germain, who was only a figure-head. They all wore knee-high boots coated in mud, spurs clinking ominously. They’d apparently come from the hunt and were now eager to join a fresh one.

I abruptly recalled being in a beautiful meadow with my father many years previously, a warm summer’s day, the grass ruffling under a gentle breeze. We were watching hares, golden skins glowing as they danced in the freshness of the morning. Abruptly floating shadows darkened the meadow as buzzards swooped in to hover threateningly. So it was on that day. Marigny and his coven were a cluster of hawks come to seek fresh quarry. They grouped around Lincoln and the queen dowager whilst abbey lay brothers scurried up to serve pewter cups brimming with chilled Rhenish wine.

‘How low the king has fallen,’ Guido murmured. ‘The envoys of France gather like carrion crows on a carcass. In the old king’s day they’d have had their backsides kicked and been sent packing.’

‘They claim,’ Agnes murmured, ‘that their main concern is her grace the queen, how Gaveston has usurped her position.’

‘Nonsense!’ Guido hissed. ‘Philip meddles for Philip and for no one else. Be not tender towards Marigny, Agnes.’

I could sense a quarrel was brewing. I felt tired, uneasy. I wanted to be alone. I walked across the lawn to a barrel chair facing the herb beds, placed, I suppose, so the abbot could sit and savour their sweetness. I sat down, sipping at the wine a servant handed to me. I was determined to make sense of all I’d seen and heard. Memories and images danced through my mind like sparks above the coals. So absorbed was I, I jumped as the shadows grouped around me. I glanced up, shading my eyes. Marigny, Nogaret and Plaisans, with Alexander of Lisbon standing behind like a grim black crow, were grouped around me. Marigny cradled his cup against his chest. He smiled like old Renard studying a capon he’d trapped.