Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (32 page)

‘Your grace, Mathilde, I must apologise. We found other weapons in the gardens, daggers and swords, but nothing else until we came to the cellars. In Burgundy Hall,’ Ap Ythel used his hands to demonstrate, ‘the cellars are dug deep and stretch virtually from one end of the building to the other. They are small rooms, each cut off by a jutting wall; they not only serve as storerooms, but also support the building above. Wine casks and other provisions are kept there. We found something else: bulging skins, sacks full of oil tied tightly at the neck, pushed behind barrels or wedged tightly into corners.’

I closed my eyes and murmured a prayer.

‘There was more,’ Ap Ythel continued. ‘Small casks of saltpetre, fire powder, your grace. I served with the late king four years ago when he besieged Stirling. I saw him use such oil and powder to crack the hardest stone.’

‘And these lie throughout the cellar?’ Isabella asked.

‘Yes, your grace. Once sworn to secrecy, the master of the stores, the cellarer, and the master of the pantry and the kitchen were questioned, but no one knew anything about these things. In fact, as we interrogated them, I could tell they were concerned. One candle, one torch . . .’

‘And what would have happened?’ Isabella asked.

‘Burgundy Hall would have been turned into a roaring inferno,’ Demontaigu replied. ‘The oil and powder together with the dry wood, wine and other stores in the cellar would create a fire hotter than a furnace. Some of the hall is built of wood. The flames would simply roar up, bursting through one floor after another whilst draughts would sweep the fire the length of the building. Within a few heartbeats, your grace, and I do not exaggerate, Burgundy Hall would become hell on earth. I have seen such fires spread; it doesn’t wait, it actually leaps, the smoke itself can choke you.’

I stared at the tapestry on the wall: a gift to the queen from the scholars of St Paul’s. It described the legend of Medusa, who lived in the furthest extremes of Africa where the hot earth is burnt by fire at sunset. Medusa cradled her own severed head whilst from her neck swarmed hissing serpents, their flickering tongues spitting blood. Vipers hung loose around her body as those awful eyes in that severed head glared out. The picture caught my mood of horror.

‘They meant to kill us all,’ I whispered. ‘If that cellar was lighted at the dead of night, the fire would spread, and the king, my lord Gaveston . . .’ I stared at Isabella. She sat, face hard, eyes bright with anger. ‘No one would have survived, or very few.’

‘I thought of that,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘Your grace, every man and woman would have had to look after themselves. Can you imagine his grace the king, Lord Gaveston, yourself, Mathilde? Even if you did escape, stumbling out, shocked, burnt, coughing and spitting, any assassin lurking in the dark would find it easy to strike.’

‘And these hellish cellars?’ Isabella asked sharply.

‘They are now being secretly cleared,’ Ap Ythel declared, ‘the oil and powder loaded into carts. Tonight these will be taken into the meadows south of the abbey where they will be closely guarded. My men are under oath, no one is to know!’

‘Good.’ Isabella rose to her feet; immediately we all did the same. ‘I have learnt enough.’ She turned to me. ‘If a hypothesis be true in one part, then it is probably true in all its aspects. Mathilde, gentlemen, I shall return.’ She swept out, shouting for pages and squires to escort her to the king.

Demontaigu and Ap Ythel went out into the gallery. I followed, closing the door behind me and summoning a page to stand on guard. Ap Ythel shook his head.

‘The enemy within,’ he murmured, ‘that’s how my people were conquered by the great Edward, the enemy within!’ He and Demontaigu left, determined to conduct one more final search and ensure that what Isabella had called those ‘hellish cellars’ were clear of all danger. I returned to my own chamber, locked the door and crouched over a small brazier, gathering warmth from the glowing coals. I picked up a coverlet and wrapped it around my shoulders. I found myself cold, shivering as the horror of what could have happened dawned. My uncle had told me about fire powder. Even a farmer’s lad would know the danger of blending oil, wine, dry wood and saltpetre; the flames would have raced through those cellars and up, turning Burgundy Hall and all within it into a living torch. Eventually I calmed my soul. I heated some wine, drank the hot posset and returned to my own studies. There was a gap, one piece of evidence I needed, but for that, I would have to wait. I dozed for a while; the abbey bells tolling for Vespers woke me. Shortly afterwards Ap Ythel, now dressed smartly in the royal livery, knocked on my door. The king had summoned me to his own chambers, where the queen was waiting.

As I walked along the galleries, I could sense the change. Virtually every man in Ap Ythel’s
comitatus
, together with the Kernia, stood on guard. Ap Ythel whispered how all the gates and postern doors to the hall had been locked and secured. No one was allowed in or out without the king’s express approval. Inside the royal chamber, Edward was pacing up and down like the leopard I’d seen in its cage at the Tower. He was full of rage. Dressed only in a cambric shirt, hose pushed into a pair of black boots with the spurs still clinking, a jacket of tawny fustian around his shoulders, he kept pacing up and down. Gaveston, dressed more elegantly, lounged in a window seat, left hand covering the bottom half of his face. Isabella sat in the king’s great chair, like some effigy or statue of the Virgin. She never moved, not even when I entered. The king snapped his fingers and ordered me to kneel on a cushion beside her. For a while he just raged, a torrent of filthy abuse. At last he calmed himself, came over, stroked my hair, patted me carefully under the chin then strangely enough – but that was Edward – knelt down before his queen, leaning back to sit on his heels.

‘Ap Ythel will search this palace,’ he commented. ‘I’ve had the treasure taken to the Tower. Cromwell can look after it. Mathilde, you have given my lady good advice and counselling; your reward will come.’ He held up a hand, fingers splayed. ‘The prisoner will be brought here in the early hours, confined, chained and securely guarded. You will question him, but first, my lady,’ he turned to the queen, ‘you will issue a summons to Marigny and the others for an audience with you shortly after the Jesus mass tomorrow morning. You know what to say?’

‘And afterwards?’

Edward shrugged. ‘Do what you have to, but do it swiftly. We can only risk one more night. The decision is yours. As I have said, no blood. Let time be the executioner.’

Afterwards Isabella, still hard of face and sharp of voice, came to my chamber. She described Edward’s rage at what she had told him, particularly about the plot to fire Burgundy Hall. She also reported, with some satisfaction, Gaveston’s fear.

‘Our noble lord is wary, much more so than I thought. You know his friendship with Agnes is because he uses her as a spy on his wife, the Countess Margaret, though,’ Isabella sighed, ‘she is so benighted, she’d scarce notice anything untoward. My lord will leave Burgundy Hall soon,’ she continued, ‘move well away from London. He and Gaveston will probably take shelter behind the walls of Windsor Castle, where Edward will find it easier to summon the shire levies. He is still determined on war. Gaveston has already sent secret messages and bribes to Lincoln and Pembroke. Langton’s wealth is being well used. Both earls are to be admitted to Burgundy Hall tonight for secret talks with the favourite.’ Isabella chewed on her lower lip. ‘I shall take advantage of that to return to my lord. I need to lecture him about his duties to me and the governance of this kingdom. Mathilde,’ she leaned forward and stroked my face, ‘you have done well, but as in any hunt, I must be in at the kill. Remember that! Pray and prepare that tomorrow our forced guest confesses the truth. Any further delay will only alert the enemy. The hours pass; soon the gossip will begin.’

I slept little that night, Burgundy Hall lay wrapped in silent darkness, broken occasionally by faint chanting from the abbey, the tolling of bells or the calls from the guardsmen and watchmen. I wondered if the king’s vigilance and the deployment of troops would warn our enemy, but there again, such alarums were common. Nevertheless, time was of the essence. We had to strike hard, and as swiftly as possible. I returned to my writing until I grew restless and wandered the galleries and passageways like some ghost. The threatened thunderstorm swept up the Thames, blocking out the moon and stars. Stark flashes of lightning illuminated the shadow-filled galleries, bringing to life the grotesque faces of the babewyns and gargoyles carved on corbels and lintels. I stopped and closed my eyes, suppressing a shiver. On a night like this, in those hellish cellars, torches would have been thrown; a conflagration caused which could have ended it all. I walked quickly back to my chamber, closing the door, pulling across the bolts. I continued my reflections, fell asleep and was roused by a pounding on the door. Demontaigu and Ap Ythel had returned. They were both dressed in half-armour, war belts strapped around their waists, hoods and cloaks saturated with rain. Demontaigu made a mock bow.

‘Mathilde, my lady, your guest has arrived.’

They took me along the galleries. I peered through a window. The grey light of dawn revealed that the thunderstorm had swept on, the clouds were breaking. They took me down to the cellars, and a small adjoining room used by the clerks of the stores; it was secured by a heavy oaken door with bolts and lock. Inside was a red-brick wall with a grille high up to allow in light and air. On a ledge beneath this sat Langton, seething with rage. He was swathed in a heavy cloak, hands and feet manacled. He was about to curse at Ap Ythel, but as the Welshman placed down the lantern horn, Langton saw me and smiled, drawing in his breath so his nostrils flared. He slouched back against the wall.

‘The cause of my destruction,’ he murmured as Ap Ythel and Demontaigu slammed the door shut behind them. He lifted his manacled hands and shook a finger at me. ‘You, Mathilde, represent my great weakness. I have little regard for women, and it has been my undoing. I realised that as soon as you left. I understood why you wanted to examine my leg, and those references about New Temple and Master Highill. Very clever! And I was warned about you, Mathilde! They did warn me. Ah well, pride has its own fall. Arrogance is a sin.’ He beat his breast mockingly. ‘I confess, I confess,
peccavi
,
peccavi
– I have sinned, I have sinned.’

‘My lord,’ I stood over him to show I was not frightened, ‘my lord, I wish to make you an offer.’

Langton’s shrewd eyes crinkled up. ‘An offer? I never thought I’d sit in a cellar and be questioned by a maid, a scullion wench.’

‘My lord, insults are like the patter of the rain: they fall but don’t remain. Do you wish to go back to the Tower, spend your time in confinement? The king has your treasure and a full understanding of your secret doings. If you confess—’

‘If I confess!’ Langton mocked.

‘If you confess . . .’ I continued remorselessly, ‘freedom, the return of your temporalities, restoration to your see, no fine, no disgrace. Re-admittance into your king’s love. What can you lose, my lord? The friendship of the Lords and other bishops? They will see your release as just vindication for their pleas. Who else?’ I cocked my head, staring at him; his glance told me he knew exactly who I was talking about. He stared down at the floor, then back up, his face drained of all arrogance, eyes watchful, lips slightly pursed.

‘Mathilde, I apologise for my mockery, for my bullying of you. I am supposed to be a man of God, though I often fail. God gave me sharp wits.’ He held both hands up as if in prayer. ‘I will hear your confession, and if you tell the truth, you have my word, as sacred as if sworn on the Gospels, you shall hear mine.’

In the end, I heard Langton’s confession as he first heard mine. He sat throughout, a half-smile on that podgy face, those cunning eyes shifting from anger to admiration then to self-mockery. A tortured soul, Langton! Once I’d finished, he beat his breast again.

‘I have sinned, I have sinned,’ he mocked. ‘Pilate asked what was truth and didn’t wait for an answer, but you will, won’t you, Mathilde?’

An hour must have passed before I hammered on that heavy door for it to be opened. I nodded at Demontaigu, put a finger to my lips and returned to my own quarters. I stripped, washed, dressed and prepared myself. A page came whispering that her grace was now ready, whilst the Lord Marigny and other French envoys were also assembled. When I reached my mistress’ private chamber, she had prepared it well. All was cleared; a chair for herself, a stool beside it for me. Four other chairs, taken from the chancery room in the palace, high-backed with soft quilted seats, were placed before us. Isabella had dressed most demurely in a dark-green gown, her hair piled up beneath a wimple, almost in mockery of a certain fashion. She was nun-like in manner, her face all coy and simpering. She rose, nodded at me and gestured at the page to bring in Marigny and the others.

Isabella acted the part beautifully. She greeted her father’s emissaries, waving them to the seats, asking if they wished anything to eat or drink. Of course Marigny, full of curiosity, refused, eager for the business in hand. Isabella sat down, gesturing that they do likewise. Four demons in all: Marigny, Nogaret, Plaisans and Alexander of Lisbon. He sat slightly to one side, the other two fiends either side of Marigny, all dressed in the official livery of the French king, elegant blue and silver robes, rings of office glittering on their fingers.

‘Madam?’ Marigny, one hand on his chest, bowed and smiled. ‘We received your invitation yesterday evening. I understand the queen dowager is also here. Your grace wishes to see her?’

‘My good aunt,’ Isabella replied, ‘pursues her own business. Monsieur, I’ve asked you to come to answer one question and one question only.’

The smile faded from Marigny’s face.