Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (26 page)

‘So you will not move against the favourite?’

‘I did not say that, Mathilde. All I will ensure is that my name is not on that list. Now come.’ She got to her feet. ‘What is that magpie riddle? Let’s dance to it. How does it go, Mathilde?’

‘One for anger, two for mirth . . .’

‘Ah, that’s right.’ Isabella took it up. ‘Three for a wedding, four for birth, five for rich, six for poor, seven for a bitch, eight for a whore, nine for burying, ten for a dance, eleven for England, twelve for France. You see, Mathilde, I have learnt it well. Now come . . .’ She spread her hands. ‘Show me the dance.’

My mistress was in a strange mood. When we had finished, she collapsed on the bed, laughing, begging me to bring some fresh water. She straightened up, drained the cup and handed it back to me.

‘Mathilde, let us go to St Stephens’ Chapel and pray for your mother. After that,’ she gestured across the tables strewn with manuscripts, ‘my lord wishes to entertain me and the Lord Gaveston. I will be absent this evening. You need not be in attendance.’ She peered at me. ‘I will leave you to your own thoughts. Perhaps it is time, yes, we try to thread this maze.’

Later that evening, my mistress left to join the king and Gaveston for a private supper party. I was always excluded from such meetings. The Evangelist be my witness, Isabella rarely talked about what happened there. On that night, I recalled what she’d said about staying close to the king. God knows how she did that. Perhaps Edward welcomed unreserved support for his favourite when no one else gave it. Perhaps her friendship for Gaveston confirmed the king’s perception of his own morality. If Isabella, his beautiful young queen and wife, accepted the favourite, then what fault was there in it? The chroniclers have written about Isabella as the Virago, the Jezebel. They talk of her arrogance, her adultery, her wickedness – that is only monks feeding on their own pleasures. Isabella had many virtues; chief amongst these was her patience, tried and tested long before she ever came to England. She could wait and watch. She would accept insults and jibes with the sweetest smile, then smile and smile again. ‘A time and place under heaven for everything,’ so says Ecclesiasticus; it could well have been Isabella’s personal motto.

On that particular evening, once the queen had left, I was closeted in my own chamber, warm and secure, the doors and shutters locked, a brazier crackling, a copper chafing dish fiery with charcoal nearby. I wrapped a cloak about me, prepared my writing tray and reflected like any good student of physic on the symptoms I had observed.

Primo: the Poison Maiden, Ancilla Venenata, La Demoiselle Venimeuse. Who was she, he or it? An actual person, or more than one? An event, as Guido had suggested, such as the king’s marriage to Isabella, or even Gaveston’s liaison with Edward? The old king had certainly fulminated against the Poison Maiden, raged about her very existence, but why? Was she a spy or some hideous obstacle or weakness at the English court that Philip of France could exploit? The connection between the Poison Maiden and the Louvre Palace was definite. Edmund Lascelles, commonly known as Pax-Bread, had fled from France bringing privileged information, perhaps about the Poison Maiden, which had eventually proved to be his death warrant. The same was true of Chapeleys. He might have had his own theories about the Poison Maiden, and he too had died. The Poison Maiden, however mysterious, certainly existed. The old king, Edward, Philip of France, Isabella, Pax-Bread and Chapeleys had all made clear reference to this.

Secundo: the King and his idol. Edward and Gaveston were literally besieged at Westminster. The exchequer was empty. They had some troops but little support amongst the Great Lords. Were they waiting for the earls to exhaust themselves, to utterly deplete their treasures? But then what? How would the stalemate be broken? Did Edward anticipate help from some unexpected source? Yet where would such assistance come from?

Tertio: the Great Lords. They were camped in Westminster and its surrounding fields, but for how long? Did they have a spy at the royal court? Did they know more than they pretended? Who was secretly supporting them? Philip of France, the papacy? How could they continue to sustain the swollen retinues they had brought south?

Quatro: Philip of France and his Spiders. The French king was certainly fishing in troubled waters. Ostensibly to protect the interests of his beloved daughter, but what else? To provoke Edward to turn in fury on his lords? To weaken the kingdom with civil war? Was Philip hoping eventually to abandon the Great Lords and force Edward to rely solely on him, as well as force the English king to support his own cruel attack on the Templars? Or was there something else? Did Philip hope to create civil war in England so as to seize the wine-rich province of Gascony and bring it under Capetian hegemony once and for all. Did he plot to remove both Edward and Gaveston? But that would jeopardise Isabella and, surely, weaken French influence. And Philip’s present alliance with the Lords, would that last, or was he simply playing a game? Had the Poison Maiden assumed a role in this? Would the king’s enemies eventually move into open warfare? That reference to assassins:
les ombres
, or the Tenebrae? Had the king’s enemies hired killers, professional assassins to deal with Gaveston? If so, who were these, and where were they? When would they attack and how?

Quinto: Pax-Bread’s letter. Most of it simply confirmed the real dangers confronting the English king as well as the existence of the Poison Maiden, but those references to
Jean
,
Haute
and
Mont
: what did they mean? Was the ‘Jean’ mentioned in that letter the person Pax-Bread had referred to in his conversation with Alvena about ‘old Jean’ and the hymn he sang?

Sexto: Pax-Bread’s murder. According to Alvena, Pax-Bread was anxious and fearful. He had fled from France and sheltered in London, but someone had hunted him down. He had lodged at the Secret of Solomon but left the safety of that noisy tavern to meet a mysterious Agnes, allegedly sent by Gaveston, who in turn claimed to have no knowledge of such a messenger. Why had Pax-Bread, so openly fearful, gone out into the dark to meet that stranger, and why was his chamber stripped of any trace of him? The doors and shutters all locked from within? Who was Agnes? How could she kill a man like Pax-Bread, already wary and vigilant against any attack? I studied my cipher and wrote on. Pax-Bread could have gone straight to Westminster but delayed at the Secret of Solomon, which meant French agents might have been scouring the city for him. Pax-Bread, I concluded, had made a hideous mistake – he must have thought he was safe as long as he never approached the palace.

Septimo: Chapeleys. He had been Langton’s clerk and wished to escape from the Tower, allegedly with information useful to the king. Langton had been most dismissive about him. Nevertheless, Chapeleys had fled to Westminster and lodged in a secure chamber, where he should have been safe. Yet though that room was locked from the inside, he had been found hanging from a window-door. The suicide of a man frightened witless? But he had seemed very determined to approach the king, and had shown no sign of that numbing fear that prompts a soul to take his own life. Yet if it was murder, how was it done? Chapeleys might have been a clerk, but he was alert and would have fought for his life. There was no sign of any violence or anyone seen approaching that chamber, except for that mysterious cloaked woman glimpsed by Robert the groom. What had happened to the contents of Chapeleys’ chancery bag? Stolen, burnt or both? And that scrap of parchment with the word ‘basil’, a circle with a P in the centre, surmounted by a cross and the phrase
sub pede
, underfoot. What did that all mean?

Octavo: Rebecca Atte-Stowe. Who did kill her? Why? Was her murder part of this mystery or just an unfortunate occurrence, the result of some vicious in-fighting amongst servants?

Nono: Agnes d’Albret. Why was she so withdrawn, so anxious to enter Isabella’s household? Was it simply fear at being returned to France? What did she mean by her question: are you not suspicious? Did she have a secret relationship with Gaveston? If so, why, and to what purpose?

Decimo: Guido the Psalter. Was he the intended victim of that poisoning? If so, why? Or was it Gaveston? How was that water glass tainted? What poison was used? I reflected on the trick Isabella had played on Marigny and Alexander of Lisbon, and smiled. Nevertheless, the potion Guido had drunk seemed more noxious. I had searched my leech books, but as yet could find no trace of a poison with that distinctive perfume.

Undecimo: the Templars. Would Edward persecute them in return for Philip’s patronage and support? Was there a traitor amongst the brethren? How did Alexander of Lisbon know so much about that secret meeting at the Chapel of the Hanged? And New Temple Church? Why was Winchelsea so eager to gain possession of it? What was so special about it? Why had he referred to Pembroke’s ancestors being buried there? Was Winchelsea acting for himself, the Great Lords or his fellow bishops?

I smiled and put the pen down. Prince amongst the bishops was Langton! I recalled what Uncle Reginald had taught me. ‘Mathilde,’ he told me on one occasion, ‘always go back to the prime cause, the very first instance. I remember,
ma petite
, a powerful merchant from Dijon. He was lodging in Paris and came to the Temple because of violent pains in his stomach, a loosening of the bowels. I asked him to list precisely what he had eaten and drunk. He assured me it had been the best meat, the freshest bread and the most fragrant wines. I was puzzled. I asked him what had happened since he came to Paris. He told me he had received some very bad news and I wondered whether the humours of the mind had interfered with those of the stomach and bowel. The cause of his sickness might be worry rather than rancid meat.’

I recalled those words as I sat huddled in that chair studying my cipher.
Go back to the prime cause.
Langton was the prime cause! The murder of Chapeleys occurred only after we had visited the good bishop. He might well be one of the principal causes of the mysteries and murders surrounding us. I sat, reflected and plotted. Midnight came and went. I reached my decision. Could Langton be trapped?

We arrived at the Tower mid-morning. A royal barge, oared by eight stout boatmen displaying the royal livery, shot like an arrow through the turbulent waters of the Thames. A veil of mist hung heavy, thick and threatening. A page boy in the prow blew harshly on a hunting horn to warn all other craft to pull aside. Above me in the canopied stern flapped a broad pennant boasting the royal arms, golden leopards on a scarlet background. On my left, through the shifting mist, I glimpsed the might of the city: the gabled, red-tiled mansions of the merchant princes; the spires and towers of churches and monasteries, nunneries and chapels; the various quaysides piled high with goods and thronged with crowds. Alongside the wharves was a glorious display of ships: merchantmen, Venetian galleys and Hanseatic cogs. These moved majestically among herring ships, fishing boats, oyster smacks and coracles. Now and again, glimpses of the horrid cruelty of life caught my gaze. Gallows, black and stark. River pirates hanging by their necks from quayside rings. The corpse collectors, dispatching skiffs and punts to bring in the cadavers floating amongst the bankside reeds or bobbing mid-current, turning and twisting, rising and falling as if in preparation for the final resurrection. The air was rich with a variety of smells and odours, the corruption, refuse and rottenness mingling with spices, wood smoke, salted fish, spilt wine and dried seaweed, as well as the fragrances from the precious cargoes nestling in the foulsome holds of the various ships.

I reflected on the day’s beginnings. I had met my mistress early. She’d not even murmured her Matins, still heavy-eyed after her rich supper with the king and Gaveston. She heard me out patiently, smiled understandingly and agreed. Demontaigu was summoned, I could tell by his wine-rich breath how he had just celebrated the Eucharist. Isabella sleepily dictated a short letter and instructed him to accompany me to the Tower to tend to Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. Demontaigu acted the faithful clerk. Once the letter was finished, he strapped on his war belt, threw his cloak around his shoulders and accompanied me across the mist-filled palace grounds to King’s Steps and the waiting barge. On reflection, it was a sombre start to a sombre day. Murder would greet me. Blood would be spilt. God be my witness, I tremble at my sins, scarlet red, but what else could I do?

I suppose the terrors of the day stretched back to the start. Even as our barge pulled away from the quayside, I glimpsed that cowled figure hurrying down the green-slimed steps to the waiting wherry. The mist closed in, but later, just before we reached the starlings and arches of London Bridge, I glimpsed that wherry again. I was certain it was the same one, but kept my peace. Demontaigu sat huddled beside me, praying his beads. We landed safely at the Tower wharf, teeming and bustling like a hive in summer. Memory still holds fast from that day. Glimpses, scenes, pictures like those miniatures in a psalter that catch your eye as you thumb its pages. Four old soldiers begged for alms, dressed in black with red crosses daubed on their foreheads. They shouted how their eyes had been removed and the skin stitched tight by infidels in Outremer. Beside them a madwoman sang the Salve Regina, those prophetic words ringing out: ‘Hail Holy Queen, Mother of mercy. Hail our life, our sweetness and our hope.’ Prisoners, roped by neck, hand and foot, shuffled in filthy rags towards the dungeons beneath the Tower gate. Men-at-arms and archers were busy imposing order with their staves. A king’s knight, astride his caparisoned warhorse, watched them closely. A lady perched daintily on a palfrey trotted by across the cobbles, the hooded hawks on her wrists eager to be free, their jesse-bells tingling above the raucous cries of fishermen, oyster wives, fruit traders and tinkers. An old man pushed his infirm wife in a wheelbarrow, bawling at everyone to stand aside. A market bailiff followed a peasant, live fluttering poultry tied to his back. The official was waiting for the man to place his bird on the ground so he could charge him stallage. Beadles were grasping a squealing fat-bellied sow so as to cut its tail as a punishment for wandering into this marketplace. Smoke and fumes from tanneries and lime-burners drifted across. The stinking badness of the air caught at nose and throat. A dog nudged at two corpses dragged from the river. Three madcaps, bells sewn to their clothes, hastened up to offer a dance. Demontaigu pushed them aside and, one hand on his sword, the other on my elbow, guided me through the soaring, gloomy gateway. Officers and serjeants mailed and helmeted, thronged about us, faces almost concealed by coifs and cowls. The stink of leather, sweat, tar and salt was all-pervasive. Torches guttered in the breeze; above us, the sharp-toothed portcullis hung like a threat. We went along narrow lanes and alleys watched by hooded archers, arrows notched to bows. We crossed baileys, cobbled yards and muddy enclosures where engines of war reared up, ghastly, threatening shapes against the sky. A place of contrasts. Yards full of children playing amongst mastiffs, chickens pecking at the ground, geese strident in their screeching, cattle bellowing. All the noises and smells of the farmyard and stable mingled with those of the kitchen, washtub and bathhouse. In the distance, however, dull roars from the royal beastry sounded, whilst above us, as if watching our every footstep, black-winged ravens floated like demons.