Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (23 page)

The king pulled a face but nodded. He patted Gaveston on the arm and remarked how such a concession was perhaps worth it to keep a Great Lord. The candles burnt low. Fat blobs of wax formed on the gilt-edged spigots. The king’s hounds were allowed in to feed on the scraps. The musicians tried again. Servants hurried in and out, clearing the table. I was becoming impatient to leave. Isabella looked tired and heavy-eyed. The banqueting chamber filled with flickering shadows. I noticed Guido had left his seat. I was about to fill my mistress’ water glass when Ap Ythel came hurrying into the chamber.

‘Sire,’ he announced, bowing low. He raised himself, trying to control his breathing, and clapped noisily. The sound of the harp and lute died. Edward and Gaveston glanced up. ‘Sire.’ Something about Ap Ythel’s face and tone made my stomach clench. ‘Mistress Mathilde,’ he gestured at me, ‘you’d best come.’

‘What is it, man?’ Edward bellowed.

‘Master Guido has collapsed in the garderobe!’

‘No, no!’ The queen dowager’s fingers flew to her lips.

‘Drunk!’ Gaveston scoffed.

‘I think not, my lord. He is ill. He claims he might have been poisoned.’

‘How?’ demanded Agnes, pushing away her wine goblet. ‘We drank from the same jugs . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she stared to where Guido had been sitting. ‘The water . . .’

‘Sire, my lords,’ I pushed back my chair, ‘Master Guido needs my help. I beg you not to drink or eat any more.’

Isabella nodded in agreement. Edward sprang to his feet, shouting that the hall should be secured. I followed Ap Ythel out along the dark, draught-filled galleries to a garderobe at the far end; a small vaulted chamber built into the wall under a narrow window. The door to this was flung open, and a lantern horn on a hook just inside shed a pool of light. Servants carrying torches and candles were grouped around a man kneeling in the garderobe, head over the wooden bench with a hole in the middle leading down to a gulley that fed into an iron-bound barrel. Guido was vomiting; every so often he would kneel back on his heels as if to rise, only to lurch forward again to retch noisily. I pushed my way through. Using my authority and Ap Ythel’s presence, I dispatched a servant for bowls and napkins. Guido, as God is my witness, was, at that moment, very sick.

Ap Ythel and I managed to get him to stand. He was pallid-faced, sweat-laced and retching, complaining of pains in his belly, weakness in his legs and tightness in his chest. Ap Ythel said he should be taken to the royal infirmary, a sheltered room on the top floor of the palace above the royal quarters. I agreed, and followed them up to the spacious chamber. The walls of lime-coloured plaster were scrubbed clean, the floorboards polished to a shine. It was well aired by two casement windows. In between these stood a broad four-poster bed with a canopy of dark blue, its sheets, bolsters and coverlets clean and crisp to the touch. On the wall opposite hung a huge crucifix with paintings either side showing a blond-haired, freshly shaved Christ in gorgeous robes healing the sick and raising the dead. We managed to put Guido into bed, half propping him up with bowls on either side of him. I hastily scrutinised him – he was clammy, and a red rash had appeared on his arm and the top part of his stomach. I ordered Ap Ythel to bring fresh water and forced Guido to drink. He was encouraged to retch and vomit; closet stools were also brought.

‘For a while,’ I declared, ‘the contagion will press down on his bowels. We must try and purge the poison from him.’

I sniffed at the sick man’s mouth. The wine and food odours were obvious, but there was something else, the bittersweet fragrance of a flower I could not place. I hastened back to the Grande Chambre, where the king and Gaveston had set up a summary court of oyer and terminer. Cooks, scullions, servants and maids, terrified out of their wits, were being roughly questioned in the presence of Ap Ythel’s archers. These were no longer the laughing, singing yeomen who lounged in gardens and yards, teasing and joking with the maids. Their dark faces were now sombre, hoods pulled up, packed quivers slapping on their backs, bows over their shoulders, long stabbing dirks in sheaths or rings on their belts. These men were devoted to Edward and an attack upon him was an attack upon them. The mood in the hall was oppressive, chilling and threatening. The archers pushed and prodded the servants forward to kneel before Edward and Gaveston; who sat behind the trestle table like justices intent on a hanging. Isabella was stone-faced. The countess sobbed prettily, whilst the queen dowager immediately jumped to her feet when she saw me, almost hysterical about her ‘dear Guido’. I hastily assured her and hurried to whisper in Isabella’s ear. She nodded.

‘This is mummery,’ she agreed, ‘nothing to the good. My lord?’ Her voice rang out strong and carrying, echoing around the banqueting chamber.

Edward, surprised, turned.

‘My lady?’

‘This is not justice.’ Isabella waved at the terrified servants. ‘You have no proof or evidence they were involved. Why should they wish to harm anyone in this hall?’ Her words were greeted by a murmur of assent from the servants. ‘My lord,’ she gestured at me, ‘this mystery is to be prised open with a dagger rather than a mallet.’

Edward glanced at Gaveston. The favourite sat hunched in his chair, red spots of anger high in his cheeks. He clicked his tongue and stared at the huddle of servants as if he wished to behead them all with his sword. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He muttered something to himself, glanced at the king and nodded. The hall was cleared; only members of the royal party remained. Edward imperiously beckoned me forward to the far side of the table. I went to kneel.

‘My lord!’ Isabella hissed.

Gaveston placed a hand on Edward’s arm. The king, fickle as the moon, smiled and waved me to a chair next to his wife. The atmosphere changed. Edward flicked his hand at the table crowded with cups, platters and mazers.

‘Mathilde,
ma petite
, we are listening.’

I swiftly told him about Guido’s ailments and symptoms. Edward heard me out, then ordered me to move round the table and scrutinise the various cups and bowls. In the end I could find nothing amiss except for the beautifully fluted Venetian water glass set for Gaveston but drunk by Guido – empty except for a few dregs. I caught the same strange flowery smell I had detected from Guido and the garderobe, which I had inspected on my return to the banqueting chamber. A sharp, brief discussion took place as to how the water could have been poisoned. Matters were complicated by the possibility that Guido may have been the intended victim rather than Gaveston. The queen dowager described the French envoys’ open hostility to her squire, a malice I had also witnessed earlier in the day. Yet again, what are words and looks? Perhaps they should have been more closely scrutinised at the time. The queen dowager added that such an attempt was likely following Guido’s open delight at the Lord Gaveston’s victory. Edward sat nodding, speaking quietly to himself in Castilian, the tongue of his beloved mother, a strange habit that manifested itself whenever he was deeply agitated. Questions were asked about how the poison was introduced. Everyone realised the futility of pursuing any logical answer. Servants had clustered around the table, household retainers had come and gone, even members of the royal party had left their seats to approach Gaveston to offer their congratulations at his victory. This was the only allusion, veiled though it was, that the assassin might have been one of our company.

Strange, I sit and reflect on this page of my chronicle. How the events of that long-lost Sunday opened a path to so much. The loose thread in a tapestry of lies and deceits. Truly our words and actions are seeds for the sowing. They quicken and thrust up, all ripe for the harvesting. Nevertheless, at the time, the sinister threading of that sombre tapestry continued to be woven. Guido was now in the royal infirmary, visited by court physicians. Queen Margaret, all tearful and piteous, like a damsel from some Chapel Perilous, entreated me to take special care of him. I did so.

At first Guido vomited and retched, and his bowels became loose. Red rashes appeared on his skin. He continued to have some difficulty breathing. I purged him with fresh water and fed him on broths thickened and rich. The danger passed. The queen dowager with her children, the countess, Agnes and a few other chosen retainers moved into Burgundy Hall to personally supervise Guido’s recovery. Where possible, I slipped out of the palace, away from my care of Guido and other duties, to meet Demontaigu. He was still absorbed with his own troubles and the possibility of a traitor, a Judas man, amongst his brethren. He told me how many of his comrades had now scattered into hiding. I told him about Guido. Demontaigu believed the intended victim must have been Gaveston. According to him, the Great Lords were seething at the favourite’s victory over Alexander of Lisbon, who, Demontaigu ruefully reflected, had suffered little more than a few knocks and bruises, the blow to his pride being the worst. Demontaigu also confirmed what Isabella had secretly confided in me. The Great Lords gathered at Westminster were becoming restless. They had brought their retinues into the city and the daily cost of maintaining their men under arms was biting deep. Edward and Gaveston’s strategy began to emerge. They might be under siege at Burgundy Hall, protected only by the power and sacredness of the Crown, but the Great Lords were spending their revenues on this costly exercise. Some of them were already negotiating with the Bardi, the Italian bankers in Lombard Street, for fresh loans. Winchelsea was drawing heavily on the revenues of Canterbury as well as daily reminding the king about the transfer of New Temple Church.

Demontaigu was deeply intrigued by Winchelsea’s interest in a Temple church. On the Wednesday following the
concilium
, he invited me to the private celebration of mass in his locked chamber. Despite the surroundings, the makeshift altar and pewter vessels, it was, as always, a solemn, sacred occasion. I found it deeply intriguing. Demontaigu often quoted the bishop’s oath from the ritual when a priest was ordained: ‘The Lord has sworn a great oath. He will not repent of that oath. You are a priest for ever according to the order of Melchisedech.’

‘I will always celebrate my daily mass,’ Demontaigu confided in me. ‘Whatever the cost!’

I watched him that morning breathing the sacred words over the host and the chalice, transforming them into the Body and Blood of the risen Christ. I could not ignore the fact that I loved this man, who was also a priest sworn to celibacy. I had asked him about this earlier in the year, before the clouds gathered and the dangers threatened. He had been teasing me about my bold eyes and purposeful poise.

‘How,’ I’d retorted, eyes fluttering like any dainty maid, ‘can you be so attracted by the flesh when you are sworn to chastity?’

Demontaigu glanced sadly at me, blinked and looked away before turning back to kiss me fiercely on the forehead.

‘I am sworn to chastity but not forbidden to fall in love.’ He smiled. ‘There is no vow or oath against that.’

On that particular morning I remembered those words as Demontaigu finished his mass. Afterwards I helped clear away the sacred vessels, which he kept concealed in a locked iron-bound coffer. I would have loved to discuss the matter of his priesthood again, but Marigny’s words about my mother were beginning to nag and tug at my soul. Demontaigu was also more concerned about his brethren and Ausel’s determination to discover the Judas amongst them.

‘Four of our comrades died after the attack on us in the Chapel of the Hanged.’ Demontaigu acknowledged my surprise. ‘Eternal rest be given them. One died suddenly; he had a weak heart. Others received wounds which turned rotten. Either that,’ he sighed, ‘or like other brothers they just lost the will to live. I have prayed for them. Other priests have sung the requiem. Now,’ he placed the keys of the coffer in his wallet, ‘Winchelsea hungers for New Temple Church.’ He opened a leather satchel, and fishing amonst its contents, drew out and unrolled a finely drawn map of London. Head close to mine, he pointed out the location of New Temple, with its frontage on the Thames. He described how a curtain wall circled the church, hall, barracks, stables and other outbuildings. I stared fascinated as he explained how the church was circular, a replica of the Temple in Jerusalem; the long chancel beside it had been added later. Staring at that map, I immediately recalled Chapeleys’ drawing of a circle with a letter P in the centre.

‘Pembroke,’ I whispered. ‘Winchelsea claimed that the Earl of Pembroke’s ancestors are buried in the Templar church.’

‘True,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘but not his direct family; rather that of William Marshal and his descendants, who first held the title of Pembroke.’

‘And when was New Temple Church seized?’