Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (28 page)

‘Mathilde speaks the truth,’ Isabella declared sharply.

I held her gaze and glimpsed the change. Just that remark, the tone of her voice, a mere shift in her eyes, a fleeting expression. She was now growing openly tired of Gaveston’s pre-eminence, of her husband’s slavish dependence on his favourite.

‘Mathilde is a good student of physic,’ she continued. ‘She notes the symptoms and searches for the cause. My lord, order Ap Ythel and my Lord Gaveston’s Kernia immediately to the New Temple Church Find the effigy of Pembroke. Have the flag-stones,
sub pede
, near or beneath the feet of each monument lifted. See what can be found. Search must also be made for this John Highill.’ She laughed quietly. ‘Pax-Bread was too clever:
Jean
,
Haute
and
Mont
– John High Mountain. Langton gave us the correct translation: John High Hill literally, John Highill in fact. He must have been a clerk, an advocate or
peritus
.’

‘I agree.’ Gaveston tactfully intervened. ‘I am sure he was one of your late,’ his voice was laced with sarcasm, ‘beloved father’s clerks.’

Edward shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured, ‘I cannot remember.’ He straightened in the chair, stared down at his feet, then rose quickly. ‘Searches,’ he murmured, ‘careful but swift searches must be made. Madam,’ he bowed to Isabella, patted me gently on the head as if I was a pet dog and walked to the door, clicking his fingers at Gaveston to follow. Isabella sat like a statue, only starting as the door slammed shut behind her husband and his favourite.

‘How long, Mathilde?’ she whispered, her gaze shifting to me. ‘Gaveston at Matins! Gaveston at Prime! Gaveston at Terce! Gaveston at Nones! Gaveston at Vespers and Gaveston at Compline! What do you advise?’

‘Wait, your grace.’

‘Wait, your grace,’ Isabella mimicked. Her expression changed and she smiled dazzlingly at me. She slowly rose to her feet. ‘Wait, Mathilde.’ She stretched out a hand and helped me up.

‘We’ll wait, but in the mean time, we will dance. I have also written a play.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘It’s a dialogue between two souls on the theme: is it easier to love those far away than those closer to you?’ And, laughing and teasing, she led me out of the chamber back to her own quarters.

The late afternoon passed in the tolling of abbey bells. Noises from the courtyards drifted along the gallery. We heard shouts and listened to the clatter of horses leaving the stables. Isabella and I tried to divert ourselves, but the queen declared she was tired and retired to her private chamber saying she wished to be alone. I was about to return to mine when I received a message that Demontaigu was in the waiting hall. I went to meet him. We sat, I remember, under a tapestry depicting the Lady of the Lake grasping Excalibur. It was certainly a time of war; news that something was afoot had swept the palace, courtyards and baileys of Burgundy Hall. Ap Ythel was assembling his men. Cohorts of Kernia also gathered under the watchful eye of knights of the royal household, the king’s bully boys all coiffed and armoured, warhorses snorting as they stirred restlessly under a forest of pennants and banners. Gaveston himself was to lead the cavalcade in a show of force along the Westminster bank and into New Temple. Demontaigu and I watched them from a window. Ap Ythel came bustling by. He stopped and explained how the Great Lords, thinking the king was moving against them, were also summoning their forces. Edward had sent Ingelram Berenger to give his personal assurances that the royal array was only on royal business involving the Templars. Demontaigu stiffened at this. After Ap Ythel left, I explained what I had haltingly informed him of on our return from the city.

‘God and his Angels.’ Demontaigu clasped my hand. ‘Of course. The old king died in the summer; Langton must have known he was for the fall. He secretly hid his treasure hoard in one of the safest place, New Temple, the principle house of our order in this kingdom. The Templars,’ he added bitterly, ‘bankers as well as warriors.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Langton must have thought it would be the securest place on earth, protected by knights whose allegiance was more to God and the pope than any earthly king. What a spin of Fortune’s wheel! Langton falls but so does the Temple, suddenly, savagely! Few people would know about any hidden treasure.’ He sighed. Most of those are probably dead, fled or in strict confinement like our master.’ Demontaigu laughed, put his face into his hands then glanced up. ‘Like rivers rushing into one,’ he murmured, ‘the old king dies; Langton panics! He hides his money away with the Temple. The Templars fall; Langton is imprisoned in the Tower. That old fox must be beside himself! He still plots,’ Demontaigu looked at me, ‘from prison. Langton the spider cannot rest, he knows it is only a matter of time before that treasure is discovered. So he offers it, or at least part of it, to Winchelsea, who is already inflamed with righteous anger that one of his fellow bishops has been imprisoned. Of course, Winchelsea would be only too willing to agree. The king is starved of money, whilst the Great Lords’ retinues are becoming costlier by the day. Such a treasure, if it fell into Winchelsea’s hands, would eventually force Edward to come to terms.’

‘So,’ I replied, ‘Winchelsea attempts to secure New Temple, a reasonable demand, as surety of the king’s good faith, a property in that misty twilight that separates the ecclesiastic from the secular. Edward would be tempted to agree. What use to him an empty church, barracks and hall already looted and pillaged of any treasures?’

‘And of course,’ Demontaigu added quickly, ‘the surrender of New Temple would be seen as a public move against the order whilst Winchelsea, Langton and their allies seized the treasure hoard.’

‘I believe . . .’ I stopped, half listening to the armoured clatter below, ‘Chapeleys knew about this treasure and wished to barter such information, amongst other things, with the king. Langton must have been furious at Chapeleys’ escape. He may have had a hand in his murder.’

‘But how?’

‘I don’t know. Somehow Langton discovered Chapeleys had not left on some errand but had deserted him. He sent a message, God knows how or when, but it must have been shortly after we left the Tower.’

‘To whom?’

‘To the Poison Maiden or others hostile to the king. Chapeleys was murdered. The assassin made it look as if it was suicide, but that was because he, or she, didn’t want to provoke suspicion that Chapeleys may have had something very valuable to sell. I am sure whatever was in that chancery bag was seized, read, then destroyed.’ I stared across the hall at a shield fixed between two of the lancet windows emblazoned with the brilliant blue and white colours of Norfolk.

‘How,’ I murmured, ‘could Langton act so swiftly? Ah well.’ I turned and edged closer to Demontaigu. ‘You wished to see me?’

‘To apologise.’ Demontaigu blinked. ‘This morning at the Tower wharf? I should not have left you.’

‘You said you were sorry,’ I fluttered my eyelids, ‘at leaving a damsel in distress.’ I joked and flirted, trying to blot out La Maru’s ugly face, the dagger, his crawling touch, the blood bubbling out of his mouth.

‘Brave face hides anxious heart,’ Demontaigu teased back.

‘Brave face hides hard heart,’ I retorted. ‘You are a warrior, I’m a physician of sorts . . .’

‘Of sorts?’

‘No,’ I held my hand up, ‘I know what I am. God knows, Bertrand, sometimes a bridge is reached and you just have to cross it. This morning La Maru came determined to kill me. Whenever that happened, wherever, it would have been him and me. It would have ended in a death, his, mine or both.’

‘I bought you a present, a
consolamentum
.’

Demontaigu drew from his jerkin a psalter bound in calfskin, its cover studded with precious stones to form a Celtic cross and Ave beads. The pages were gold-lined and of the finest parchment, the writing in an elegant script, the letters black and clear. A collection of prayers, poems, songs and psalms; the first letter of each verse was decorated in a miniature bejewelled picture displaying exotic creatures from Celtic legends. I scanned the opening lines of the first poem, ‘St Patrick’s Breastplate’: ‘I rise up today, God’s power with me.’ I read on to hide how deeply touched I was by the gift.

‘Reparation,’ Demontaigu murmured.

‘I wish it was adoration!’ I teased back. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I kissed him on the cheek, cradling that book, now tattered and worn, as I do every night as I lie on my bed. I clasp it and close my eyes. I’m back in Burgundy Hall. Demontaigu is beside me, his face, his warmth. I vividly recall him as a comforting light in the murderous murk gathering around us. Embarrassed at the time, I went to return the book.

‘My gift,’ Demontaigu insisted. ‘It is the last produced by the scriptorium of my order.’

I had planned to go down to tend my herbs, which I’d begun to cultivate in the palace gardens. I was about to ask Demontaigu to join me when a page boy came hurrying up to breathlessly inform me that the queen dowager wished to see me. Demontaigu raised his eyes heavenwards. I kissed him on the cheek and, hiding the psalter under my cloak, followed the page. The queen dowager was in her usual poise of a devout nun. She was sitting by Guido’s bed feeding him watered wine. Nearby, Agnes, who looked drawn and tired, avoided my gaze and tended to the queen dowager’s baby sons, Edmund of Woodstock and Thomas of Brotherton. The boys, apparently exhausted after their play, were lying on cushions half asleep. I greeted Guido, who looked stronger, a full colour returned to his face. He was apparently impatient to return to duties, though the queen dowager dismissed this, saying a few more days’ rest would help. Queen Margaret patted her wimple and asked what all the excitement was about. Had any progress been made? I decided on the truth, or at least part of it. I told her how the king had decided to investigate certain rumours, that a great treasure lay hidden in New Temple Church, close to one of the Pembroke effigies. She and Guido expressed their joy, gabbling how such treasure would assist the king. Did I know, Guido asked, how the king had come by this information? I shrugged and said he was searching for many things, including an old clerk named John Highill. Did her grace recall that name? She pulled a face, and replied that she’d heard the name but couldn’t recall the face or person.

‘I suppose he was one of my husband’s old servitors,’ she murmured. ‘But Mathilde,’ she smiled; this time those cold, beautiful eyes crinkled in amusement, ‘Guido,
Deo gratias
, is better. I thank you.’ She sighed and gestured lovingly at her red-faced, heavy-eyed baby sons. ‘I’ve little time for anything, going backwards and forward between the palace and here. Little time for politic, even less time for prayer, but,’ she patted the coverlet, ‘Guido, you must stay here until you are better. The countess will visit you and so will Agnes and, if she is not too busy, dear Mathilde.’

I left the chamber bemused by the queen dowager and Guido, but I was too agitated to reflect. I had assured Demontaigu that La Maru’s attack was simply a strand of the tapestry I wove. By the gospel, it was not! Now alone, I felt sick and tired. My belly bubbled. My mind flitted like some sparrow caught in a room. I needed to soothe my humours. I have confessed how I pick out events in the same way candlelight draws your eye to a certain scene, colour or thread in some tapestry or painting. Or better still, I felt like a watchman on the parapet walk of a castle. One minute follows another. Hours drift by. Days, weeks and months merge into one. A whole series of menial tasks is begun and finished, then abruptly the watchman sees the far beacon flare, signalling danger. The hurly-burly time has arrived. Armed men are ready, bowstrings tightened, quivers filled, daggers sharpened, war belts strapped on. Yes, that was me. Daily routine tasks until the perilous days gathered like an ice-cold mist seeping under doors, finding its way into my life through cracks and crevices. One comfort I treasured, which soothed the soul: my love of physic and knowledge of herbs.

I was still curious about the poison fed to Guido, so on my return to my warm, welcoming chamber, I opened my book coffer, that treasure chest of various treatments: Palladius’
De Agricultura
; the Monk of Cerne’s
Nomina Herbarum
; that famous Latin poem by Macer, ‘De Virtutibus Herbarum’; the Herbarium of Apuleius; Isidore of Seville’s
Etymologiae
; and that erudite woman Hildegard of Bingen’s
Liber Subtilitatum Diversarum
. My uncle had owned all of these and used them to educate me as keenly as my theologian would depend on the canon of scripture or the teachings of the fathers. When he had been arrested, these manuscripts had been seized, but Isabella had brought copies from the Louvre library, and when various monasteries and abbeys asked what present they could give her, she always asked for a certain book, manuscript or thesis, be it the legends of Arthur, a collection of Goliard songs or a medical treatise. She admired the latter, having a deep interest in herbs, particularly, as she ruefully remarked, those ‘nine dark shades of night’ that calmed all humours and healed all ailments,
per omnia saecula saeculorum
– for ever and ever; in other words, poisons!