Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (30 page)

‘Ap Rhys told me,’ he whispered, ‘what you found and what you asked. Mistress,’ he looked over his shoulder, ‘our discussion could be construed as treason. An attack upon the king and my lord Gaveston would be impossible during the day. They are closely guarded, even if they go into the gardens or baileys.’ Ap Ythel pointed to a window. ‘They are protected. If they hunt, a
comitatus
of royal knights, mounted men-at-arms and archers accompanies them.’

‘And at night?’

‘Mistress, you have seen the gatehouse to Burgundy Hall? The curtain walls are patrolled, windows are bolted and barred. The only weaknesses are three postern doors: you use one for the garden; the other two are further along, both leading on to galleries that run beneath the royal quarters, but again, those doors are bolted, barred and regularly checked.’ Ap Ythel patted me on the shoulder. ‘Ap Rhys is probably correct. The arbalests were stolen from the armoury to be sold in some city market.
S’avisera
, be advised.’ He grinned. ‘The demons that stalk by midnight and the terror that lurks by noonday will not strike you.’

I watched him go. Ap Ythel might have been a skilled archer, a loyal retainer, an excellent singer, but he was certainly no prophet!

A short while later Isabella and I were escorted back to her quarters, down the long galleries, torches and lanternlight sending the darkness dancing. Once inside her private chamber, Isabella dropped her cloak and immediately knelt on the cushioned prie-dieu before a triptych of the Virgin Mary and Child.

‘You’d best leave, Mathilde, I will call the maids.’ Isabella spoke without moving. ‘Send a message to Demontaigu. He must accompany you tomorrow morning. Oh, Mathilde! Outside, the season changes. The blackthorn flowers and the seeds burst into life; so it is here, Mathilde, the season of change is thrust upon us.’ Her voice rose. ‘I am queen, the descendant of kings and saints. My son will carry the sacred blood of both Plantagenet and Capet.’ The rest came as a hiss. ‘Soon there will be no room for Gascon upstarts, remember that!’

I did so, as Demontaigu and I shivered on our journey to Bethlehem Hospital the following morning. We left the palace while the stars hung heavy in the rain-washed skies. Demontaigu advised we take horses and journey round the old city wall rather than risk a river passage through the darkness. He had not celebrated his dawn mass but murmured how the Matins we were about to attend were, for the moment, more important. A cold, hard ride. During it I told him all that had happened. When I’d finished he pulled down the muffler protecting his face.

‘As regards to Langton’s treasure, our master might have well agreed to that. New Temple and its halls have many secret places. I am sure,’ he sighed, ‘Edward will send Drokensford and his exchequer clerks to ransack every nook and cranny of the grounds. As to that theft . . .’ He blew out his breath and stroked his horse’s neck. ‘Langton may have been given a key or even taken the treasure himself. And the arbalests?’ Demontaigu reined in, turning his horse slightly to face me. He leaned forward and grasped the reins of my palfrey. ‘What you discovered, Mathilde, is very serious. I don’t think those arbalests were stolen from the armoury. The garden is ringed on all four sides by walls?’

‘Yes, but there is a gate connecting two wings of the palace.’

‘Someone could climb over it?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘The garden is overgrown, a desolate, tangled place.’

Demontaigu cleared his throat. Pushing back his hood, he stared up at the sky. On the cold breeze floated the sound of barking dogs and the cockcrow from some nearby farm. The first light of dawn was beginning to dim the stars. He let go of my reins and turned his horse’s head, and we rode on in silence. To our right was the old city wall, to our left the open heathland stretching up to the dark mass of St Bartholomew’s hospital. We passed St Botolph’s Church in Aldersgate and turned north towards Cripplegate. An eerie grey morning now coming to life as farmers, their carts piled high with produce, cracked whips, urging their horses along the rutted tracks towards the city markets. On the open moor, a swirling mist made our journey more difficult, shrouding trees and hiding the path in front of us. Demontaigu hung his sword and dagger belt from his saddle horn; his gauntleted fingers kept moving to this as dark shapes emerged abruptly from the murk: wandering tinkers, a Dominican friar holding a cross before him, city bailiffs with an escaped prisoner shackled between them. Outside Cripplegate, the huge stocks were full of drunken miscreants and whores caught soliciting in forbidden areas. They screamed and yelled a torrent of abuse at their tormentors; the city beadles stood around grinning as clasps were fastened imprisoning heads, legs, wrists and ankles. The six-branched scaffolds close by had apparently been used the day before, the corpses now ripening to full-blown. The stinking carts of scavengers clustered by the city ditch emptying their filthy mixture of rubbish, offal and human waste, all coated in a foulsome slime, along with the bloated corpses of dead animals: dogs, cats and farmyard birds. A funeral procession, ghostly in all its aspects, capped candles glowing and bells ringing, emerged out of the murk; the sombre voice of the priest chanted the ‘Dirige’ whilst the mourners, cloaked and cowled, seemed like lost souls crossing the bleak landscape of hell.

I thought Demontaigu’s silence was due to all these distractions, but eventually he grasped my horse’s reins and led me into the courtyard of one of those taverns that serve the roads leading into London. We stabled our horses. Inside the spacious taproom, Demontaigu secured a table close to the roaring fire and ordered bowls of oatmeal, steaming hot and mingled with milk and honey. Such occasions I recall: the fire, the warmth, the hot food, the savoury ale in leather tankards. Demontaigu put his spoon down, blowing on the oatmeal, and grinned quickly at me.

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about Ap Ythel. When I served in Outremer, one of the great dangers was the Old Man of the Mountain; you must have heard of him. He and his followers lived in a secluded castle deep in some valley in the desert. He would choose his victim, then send them a warning: a sesame cake, usually placed in their private chamber to show that they could never be safe. Now and again this assassin turned his attention to us Templars, particularly before the fall of Acre.’ Demontaigu picked up his horn spoon. ‘One thing we learnt: never flee, but wait. The Old Man’s murderous emissaries, drugged and armed, would come stealthily enough. Our task was to trap them. Perhaps the same must be done at Westminster yet.’ He sighed. ‘Leaving the arbalests in such an open way was very clumsy. I shall certainly have words with Ap Ythel. However,’ Demontaigu leaned across the table and grasped both my hands, ‘for the matter of the pardon, I deeply thank you. You are right, Mathilde, sooner or later, today or tomorrow, I will have to confess my true identity. Pardons or letters of protection will afford some defence to myself and Ausel.’

‘And if the king moves against the Templars?’

‘I suspect he would give us clear warning, perhaps ten days to leave the kingdom.’

I caught my breath.

‘Don’t worry.’ Demontaigu picked up his horn spoon. ‘For the time being,’ he winked at me, ‘I’ll stay close to your apron strings.’

We continued our journey around the city. Church bells were summoning the faithful to the Jesus mass. Beacons flared in steeples. The mist began to thin. It was still freezing cold, so we were pleased to reach the high curtain wall of Bethlehem Hospital. A lay brother admitted us; others took our horses, and we were ushered into the waiting chamber. For a while I sat half asleep. Demontaigu remained lost in his own thoughts. Now and again he would get up and walk around the room as if inspecting the limewashed walls, or stand tapping his boot against the polished red tiles on the floor. A bleak chamber, stripped of all ornament except for the roughly carved cross and the sturdy makeshift furniture; clean and sweet-smelling, warmed by braziers. I had explained to the lay brother who greeted us that we wished to see the master about John Highill. The lay brother looked at us perplexed, but nodded and, fingers to his lips, hurried away. Now there was a knock on the door. The lay brother re-entered, apologising for the delay but saying that the master would be with us shortly. However, he had a visitor for Master Demontaigu; did he wish to see him? Demontaigu looked at me in surprise and nodded. The lay brother disappeared and returned escorting an old man slightly stooped, skin burnt almost black by the sun, head almost bald except for a few tufts of hair above the ears and at the back. He rested on a stick, tapping it on the tiles as he made his way over, scuttling like a beetle towards Demontaigu. He stopped and stared up.

‘Master Bertrand Demontaigu, you do not remember me?’

Demontaigu stepped back, staring in disbelief. ‘Joachim Hermeri!’ he whispered. ‘Joachim Hermeri, by all the saints.’ He went forward, clasped the old man and brought him to the stool next to mine so he could enjoy the warmth of the brazier. Joachim stared shrewdly at me with watery eyes. He waited until Demontaigu took his seat, then cackled with laughter, shoulders shaking.

‘I heard the lay brother, he came into the refectory. He said there was a visitor from the court, a young mistress escorted by a military clerk called Demontaigu.’ He rubbed bony knuckles on Demontaigu’s knee. ‘Oh, I’ve heard how our order is finished, but I remember you, Demontaigu.’

‘And I thought I was safe.’ Demontaigu smiled.

‘Oh, I know all the news,’ Joachim whispered, ‘all the names, but I’m safe here. Who’d think of coming to Bethlehem Hospital, a house for the witless and the moonstruck? Who would believe my ranting and ravings? You see, mistress, once I was a Templar, wasn’t I, Demontaigu?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but hurried on. ‘I was at the fall of Acre. I was a serjeant, a standard-bearer. When Acre fell, I and others escaped across the desert. I tell you this, mistress, I saw things that brought me here. The good monks at Charterhouse who first cared for me thought it best. They didn’t believe me. I told them about young Fulk; he came from Poitou, also a standard-bearer. He was bitten by a basilisk. He hardly felt any pain from the bite, and his outward appearance was normal, but the poison stole through his blood secretly! A creeping fire invaded his marrow and kindled flame in his innermost parts. The poison sucked up the moisture next to his vital organs and dried his mouth of saliva. No sweat flowed to relieve his body. He couldn’t even cry. He burnt all over and searched desperately for water.’ Hermeri leaned on his stick. I glanced across at Demontaigu, who just shook his head. ‘Then there was Beltran, bitten by a basilisk in the leg, he was. The basilisk left a fang there. Beltran had to tear it away but the flesh near the bite broke up and shrivelled until it laid the whole bone bare. The gash grew wider and wider, and before long Beltran’s calves dissolved and his knees were stripped of skin. Neck, thighs and groin dripped with corruptive matter, trickling down into a puddle of filth. That is all I can remember.’ He peered up the ceiling, lower lip jittering. ‘Those basilisks lord it over the desert, their wings carry them high. No creature is safe from them, mistress, not even elephants; I understand the king has one of those at the Tower. Ah well, such is my story.’ And without further ado he got up, bowed at both of us and shuffled out.

Demontaigu rose and followed. He opened the door, looked swiftly outside and closed it again.

‘Is that true?’

‘He was lucid enough to remember I was a Templar.’ Demontaigu sat down. ‘I recall Hermeri; his eyes, lips and gestures. When Acre fell, many Templars died. Others were taken prisoner by the infidels; a few did escape across the desert. Perhaps Joachim was telling the truth. He must have seen things, experienced fears we don’t know of, but who believes him? I have met Templars found lost, wandering in the desert. They are never the same again; they have bouts of lunacy as if struck by the moon. They jibber and jabber, then become as rational and clear-thinking as the next man. What I suspect is that Joachim has been visited by some of our brethren. They would come to a place like this for shelter and protection. They may have talked to him about me and others and so freshened his memories of his Templar days. Ah well, he is harmless enough.’

I gazed at the crucifix. Joachim’s story about the basilisk reminded me sharply of the word Chapeleys had written. Had he been referring to a basilisk, or something else? A tap on the door and the grey-faced master of the hospital entered. He was garbed in the dark robes of an Augustinian friar. He sketched a blessing, studied me carefully, then turned to Demontaigu.

‘I understand you have come to see Master Highill?’

‘He is here?’ I asked, forcing the master to address me.

‘He was,’ he replied, ‘at least until yesterday.’

I rose to my feet. ‘Brother, we are here on king’s business. We carry warrants and letters if you wish to see them. Master Highill, where is he?’

‘He is in his chamber.’ The master looked me up and down. I curbed my temper.

Demontaigu half drew his sword and let it fall back. The slither of steel startled the friar. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

‘I apologise. I have been up most of the night.’ He opened his eyes, turned to the crucifix and blessed himself. ‘Yester evening, Master Highill was visited by a Franciscan nun, or so she claimed to be, from the House of Minories. He had been ill and was in his bedchamber. The Franciscan was closeted with him, then left. Later, when one of the brothers was doing his rounds before the candles were doused, he knocked at Master Highill’s door, and receiving no answer he went in. At first he thought Master Highill was fast asleep, but feeling for the blood beat in his neck, realised he had died.’

‘At what hour did this nun come?’

‘Oh . . . just before Compline. She said she wished to see Master Highill. She claimed to be his distant relative and had heard he was ailing, which was true. We took her down to his chamber and left her there. I mean . . .’ the master spread his hands, ‘what harm could a nun do?’