Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (33 page)

‘Oh yes,’ Isabella added, ‘I also want to tell you something.’

‘Your grace?’ Marigny spread his hands.

‘First, where is Agnes d’Albert? The lady-in-waiting from my beloved aunt’s retinue?’

‘Ah.’ Marigny closed his eyes.

Plaisans and Nogaret moved uneasily; Alexander of Lisbon looked perplexed. The great demon’s lieutenants had sensed something was very wrong.

‘Why are you interested in Agnes d’Albret?’ Marigny asked softly.

‘Because I am,’ Isabella replied. ‘She petitioned to join my household. She went to see you in your quarters and has not returned.’

‘Agnes d’Albret,’ Marigny replied, choosing his words carefully, ‘is not well, Madam, an evil humour.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It would be best if she returned to the French court. The queen dowager herself has admitted that, perhaps, her presence is no longer required here. In fact, Madam Agnes has already left for Dover; a French cog waits there.’

‘Ah well.’ Isabella stood up.

The look of surprise on the faces of Marigny’s companions was almost comical.

‘Your grace?’ Marigny rose to his feet. ‘Is that all?’

‘I asked you a question,’ Isabella retorted, ‘where is Agnes d’Albret? You have answered it. What more can I say?’ She gestured at the door.

Marigny and the rest hurriedly recollected themselves and bowed.

‘Oh, messieurs, I almost forgot.’ Isabella took a step forward. ‘When you return to France – and perhaps you may be leaving earlier than you think – tell my good father how my husband, his grace the king, knows who the Poison Maiden is.’

Marigny paused, mouth gaping. Oh, the sight was sweet revenge! He stared like a man hit by a club, hands halfway up, mouth opening and closing, eyes darting.

‘My lady, your grace,’ he stammered, ‘what is this?’

‘Messieurs,’ Isabella replied sweetly, ‘our audience is over. My pages and squires will show you out.’

Marigny would have stayed, but Isabella flailed her hand. ‘Monsieur, I have other business.’

Once they had gone, the door slamming shut behind them, Isabella sat down, fingers to her face, and giggled like a girl. ‘Oh Mathilde,’ she took her hands away, ‘for years I have wished to do that! Now, my sweet,’ she turned to me, ‘my revered aunt and her imp Guido the Psalter; let us talk to them.’

The queen dowager sensed something was wrong as soon as she took her seat. She stared in suspicion at her niece, dressed so mockingly in the same attire and fashion as herself. Beside Margaret, Guido, in red and gold jerkin and blue hose, looked uncomfortable; he kept staring back at the door where Isabella’s squires and pages had plucked his dagger from its sheath.

‘Beloved niece,’ the dowager began, ‘something is wrong? Guards are everywhere, there is gossip of great danger . . .’

‘Beloved aunt,’ Isabella retorted, ‘there is, but it will pass.’

‘So why have you invited me here?’

‘To accuse you of treason, vile and heinous, against me, my husband and the power of England.’

Margaret made to rise.

‘Please stay!’ Isabella warned. ‘Leave this chamber now, and you and yours will be arrested.’ She gestured at Guido. ‘He’ll be hanged out of hand. I have the power; just a few heartbeats and you, the Poison Maiden, will be incarcerated, whilst you, sir, assassin, spy, a truly treacherous soul, will be hanging from the gatehouse beams.’ She spread her hands. ‘The choice is yours.’

‘I will protest!’

‘Of course you will! The Lord Satan does eternally.’

‘My lady, your grace . . .’ Guido squirmed in his chair.

‘Keep your peace!’ Isabella snapped. ‘You, sir, are before justices of oyer and terminer. You are on trial for your life. Outside men gather who will be your executioners. Will you resist or listen?’

Guido slouched back in the chair, but the shock of his predicament flushed his face, eyes bright and startling, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

‘There are two people missing,’ Isabella declared cheerfully,

‘Margaret, Countess of Cornwall, but she is not needed for these matters, and Agnes d’Albret. Margaret, where is she?’

The queen dowager gazed solemnly back. Guido made to speak.

‘Langton has confessed all,’ I interjected. My words stung like the lash of a whip. Margaret started in horror. Guido groaned openly.

‘The indictment?’ Isabella spoke softly. ‘Mathilde?’

‘Madam,’ I tried to catch and hold Margaret’s gaze, ‘you are Philip of France’s sister, very close to him. Your brother occupied English-held Gascony and forced a peace treaty on old Edward of England. He was to marry you; his son, the Prince of Wales, your niece Isabella. Philip was determined that the throne of the Confessor, which stands so close to this place, be occupied by a prince of the Capetian blood. He was ruthlessly set on it. The marriage took place but the old king had taken a viper to his bosom. You were his wife but you were also Philip’s spy at the heart of the English court. Now in ancient times, a female assassin, the Poison Maiden, was sent into the enemy camp, to wreak as much damage as she could. You were, are, Philip of France’s Poison Maiden. You betrayed your husband’s secrets to his arch-enemy—’

‘What proof do you have of this?’ Margaret yelled, no longer the pious widow, the nun-like dowager; more like some furious harridan from the slums of St Denis or Cheapside.

‘Very little,’ I agreed. ‘Except that the old king, your husband, must have warned you, probably in a letter that no longer exists, transcribed by his faithful servitor John Highill. Or perhaps, in a moment of weakness, he confided his anxieties to that clerk of the secret seal. Your husband enjoyed the romances about Arthur and the great Alexander. In one of the poems about the Conqueror of the World, the King of India sent Alexander many precious gifts, including a beautiful maiden whom he had fed and poisoned until she had the nature of a venomous snake. Seduced by her loveliness, Alexander, according to the story, rushed to embrace her but her touch, her bite, even her sweat, the poem declares, would have been fatal to him. He would have been killed except for the intervention of his wise adviser, the philosopher Aristotle.’ I paused. ‘That is why your late husband used the phrase Poison Maiden to describe you, only in his case he had embraced you!’

The queen dowager was staring full at me, her face strangely younger, more beautiful, eyes rounded in anger. I could see her attraction to the old king, who must have been torn between anger and lust. Guido kept his head down, fingering with the buckle on a wallet strapped to his belt.

‘As I said, in the old king’s eyes you were the Poison Maiden, sent to seduce, to betray. He lusted after your body, determined to seek his own revenge through pleasure, but he never really trusted you.’

‘He loved me!’ Margaret hissed, her face pushed towards me.

‘I do not doubt that, madam,’ I replied, ‘but he had been cuckolded, trapped in a marriage with the sister of his enemy.’

‘He was no cuckold.’

‘In a sense he was. You put your brother the King of France’s interests before those of your husband, Edward of England. He knew that, but like any cuckold did not wish to proclaim it abroad. What could the old king do? He was bound by solemn treaty and the bonds of holy marriage. He could do nothing except fulminate. Two other people knew the full truth. The old king’s treasurer and confidant Walter Langton, and the clerk John Highill. The latter grew old and witless and expressed his sorrow at his royal master’s plight by composing a mock version of the “Salve Regina” – the ancient hymn to the Virgin.’

Margaret, violent with rage, would have lunged at me, but surprisingly, Guido grasped her arm while Isabella leaned forward.

‘Kinswoman, I do not wish to summon Ap Ythel to restrain you.’

‘Highill,’ I resumed, ‘became witless but his veiled attack on you meant he was committed to Bethlehem Hospital, where he continued his rantings, even scrawling on a wall.’

Guido’s head came up, eyes all fearful.

‘Oh yes,’ I declared, ‘
Salve Regina
,
Mater Misericordiae
. In Highill’s confused mind this became
Salv. Reg. Sin. Cor. Mat. Dis.
, or, in full,
Salve Regina sine corona, Mater Discordiae
. Instead of “Hail Queen of Heaven, Mother of Mercy” his version, translated from his clerkly cipher, was: “Hail Queen without a crown, Mother of Discord”, his perception of you. The old king must have been furious with him, yet what crime had Highill committed except tell the truth? Hence, Bethlehem Hospital. Chapeleys also knew something about this, though perhaps not the whole truth. He had the wit to keep silent, but he made a reference to it on a scrap of parchment found in his chamber: an unfinished word, “basil”. I thought he was referring to a basilisk. Chapeleys, however, like Highill was a scholar of Greek. In that tongue the complete word,
Basilea
, means queen.’

‘Rantings and ravings!’ scoffed Margaret, glaring hot-eyed at my mistress.

‘Wait, wait,’ Isabella murmured.

‘In a sense, the old king had his revenge,’ I continued. ‘You were never crowned, were you? Almost nine years in England but never taken to Westminster. No crown lowered on to your head. Your skin never anointed with the holy chrism. I thought of that when I was close to Eleanor’s tomb in the Abbey. Did you hate your late husband, madam? He died at Burgh-on-Sands last July. You were there tending to him.’ I let the implied accusation hang in the air before continuing. ‘After his death, your role as the Poison Maiden did not end, but came to full flower in the new king’s reign. You acted as your brother’s spy, informing him about Lord Gaveston’s pre-eminence and the new king’s confrontation with his Great Lords. Philip of France must have been delighted. He made one mistake: the royal pastry cook Edmund Lascelles, commonly known as Pax-Bread, overheard his secret conspiracy and somehow discovered that the Poison Maiden was again bent on mischief. I do wonder if Pax-Bread actually knew the identity of the Poison Maiden. Or just that Philip greatly relied upon her to do great mischief against the power of England. Now Pax-Bread was a spy. He’d served the old king but he’d also served Lord Gaveston, changing horses, as it were, mid-stream. He must also have learnt something about Highill and written a letter warning the king and Gaveston about the dangers facing them.’ I paused. ‘We’ll never fully comprehend how much Chapeleys and Pax-Bread really knew, because you had both murdered.’

‘Pax-Bread,’ Margaret scoffed, ‘who is he?’

‘Oh, you knew! By the February of this year, madam, you were playing the two-faced Janus: the sanctimonious queen dowager trying to mediate between the young king and his opponents—’

‘Nonsense!’

‘And Philip of France’s sister,’ I declared, ‘determined on assisting him in all his subtle schemes.’

‘What is your proof?’

‘Langton has truly confessed,’ Isabella intervened. ‘He hopes for a pardon for all offences and the restoration of his temporalities.’

‘Traitor!’ The word escaped Guido, now torn between fear and anger.

‘You were no mediator,’ I declared. ‘Langton was your secret ally before he was arrested late last autumn. He’d already moved treasure from his hoard at New Temple to assist you. You used that to bribe the likes of Pembroke and Lincoln. You met those Great Lords at banquets in your private chambers, and bribed them with wine, silver, gold and flattery.’

‘And anything else?’ Isabella whispered.

‘How dare you!’ Margaret was now beside herself with rage. She sprang to her feet but a clatter outside the door forced her back. ‘My children?’ Her voice turned weary.

‘They are safe,’ Isabella retorted. ‘Safer than we would have been in Burgundy Hall.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In a while. Continue, Mathilde.’

‘The Great Lords and Langton were delighted by your secret sustenance and comfort. You reached an unwritten agreement with them.’ I paused, watching those hate-filled eyes. Margaret’s hands fell to the cord around her waist, and I wondered if she had a knife concealed.

‘You would act as mediator but advise them on as much as you could about the king’s secret councils.’

‘But surely in time the Great Lords,’ Margaret jibed, ‘would inform Edward about my so-called deviousness? I was vulnerable to any of them betraying me.’

‘Nonsense,’ I replied. ‘What proof did they have? I suspect you dealt with only Langton, Pembroke and Lincoln and no one else.’ I paused. ‘You would negotiate with them individually. Why should Langton expose you as the Poison Maiden? No one would believe him, whilst he would lose a valuable ally. As for Lincoln and Pembroke – oh, you’d play the wise woman who wanted to help your stepson, whom you so admire, whilst fully understanding the Great Lords’ aversion to the favourite. Moreover, why should Lincoln and Pembroke confess to plotting against the king? They would hardly wish to incriminate themselves, so they scarce would mention you. They would understand your role. You portrayed yourself as the pious queen dowager, deeply concerned by her stepson’s actions, alarmed at the rise of the Gascon favourite. Of course, Langton’s fall from grace, his sudden arrest, the attack on the Templars, the seizure of their estates, particularly New Temple Church, was an obstacle. However, you clearly tried to resolve that by pleading with your stepson to cede New Temple to Winchelsea so the Lords could gain control over Langton’s secret hoard. They could then have continued their opposition indefinitely whilst working hard for Langton’s release.’ I paused, planning my next words carefully. ‘Now the royal prosecutors,’ Margaret started at the implied threat, ‘will argue that your ultimate plan was to weaken the king and his kingdom, make it more malleable for your brother to eventually subdue. The Lords might sense this but, of course, blinded by their hatred for Gaveston, tolerate such meddling. In truth they were unaware of your real plot.’ Guido muttered something in the patois of the Paris slums. A prayer? A curse? I could not say, but those few words assured me I had struck to the heart.