Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (5 page)

Oh yes, Margaret, the saint, the bore, the empty head. Ah well, I should have been more prudent and reflected on the adage:
Cacullus non facit monachum
: ‘the cowl doesn’t make the monk’. Or in her case, the wimple the nun! On a stool at the far side of Margaret sat the queen dowager’s constant companion and kindred spirit, Margaret de Clare, sister of Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester, and wife to Peter Gaveston. An ill-matched pair surely, or, perhaps, one fashioned in heaven, for de Clare did not interfere in Gaveston’s affairs. She was whey-faced, redeemed only by expressive eyes and an ever-petulant mouth. De Clare adored the queen dowager, and imitated her in every way, particularly her piety and her public passion for relics and pilgrimages. I deemed both of them pious simpletons, but then I was green in matters of the heart, whilst experience is the harshest teacher. Isabella secretly dubbed them ‘the great Margaret and the lesser’ or ‘the Holy Margaret and the even holier’. She could mimic both to perfection: their sanctimonious expressions, dull looks and monotonous gabbling about the sanctity of a shard of shin bone.

On that particular day, despite her innocent looks and questioning blue eyes, Isabella had been teasing them both about the so-called glories of Glastonbury Abbey, where the bodies of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere had allegedly been found during the late king’s reign, together with the magical sword Excalibur and the mystical Grail Cup of Christ. The two saintly Margarets (and I write as I saw at that moment of time) warbled like songbirds about visiting Glastonbury later in the spring and wondered if her grace would like to join them. My mistress, as she later informed me, bit back her screamed reply. Due to the Lords, she could scarcely leave Westminster whilst her household exchequer was empty; she simply lacked the silver to travel. Of course, as always, she behaved herself, winked at me and innocently asked if the revenues of the good abbey had greatly increased due to their miraculous discoveries. The queen dowager was on the verge of a new homily about the mystical rose bush at the abbey, a sprig she claimed sprouted from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, when Guido the Psalter intervened. He and Agnes d’Albret were also of the queen dowager’s entourage and were usually present whenever we met her. From the start I was wary of Agnes, a young woman just past her twentieth summer, tall and slim, a mop of fiery red hair framing a peaked white face with slanted green eyes and a pert, mischievous mouth. She was dressed in a high-collared tight-fitting kirtle of tawny sarcanet, and sat throughout the dowager’s sermon studying me carefully, as well she might. She was a kinswoman of both the Abbot of St Germain and Marigny, who had just arrived in England and were lodged elsewhere in the abbey precincts. She seemed friendly enough, though she must have known about the deep rancour between myself and the French court.

Guido the Psalter acted differently. An apothecary, a leech, his real name was Pierre Bernard, a Parisian who’d allegedly left France due to an unfortunate incident at the Sorbonne when a magister was stabbed during a tavern brawl. Guido had fled for sanctuary to England, where he successfully petitioned the queen dowager for protection against her brother’s law officers and won a place in her household. A most resourceful man, he was both minstrel and jongleur; Guido was also skilled in leechcraft, an apothecary learned in matters of physic. I had met him quite frequently since his arrival in England after the coronation of Isabella. He seemed a lively, merry soul, with his sensitive, smooth features and close-cropped black hair. I was fascinated by his long fingers, white as lily stalks. Guido claimed he could feel pain from a patient merely by pressing his fingertips against the flesh. I did not believe him. Yet he was no jackanapes or counterfeit man. He openly mocked superstitions such as the power of the emerald being such a protection against poison that if a toad looked at it, its eyes would crack. He also quietly confessed that the queen dowager’s interest in relics and elaborate pilgrimages were tedious in the extreme. Oh yes he did, clever man! Ah well, the scriptures rightly say, ‘Judge not and ye shall not be judged.’ I say, judge and he shall be truly surprised! On that day Guido caught my eye, winked, and when his mistress paused in her description of the mystical rose of Glastonbury, swiftly intervened.

‘I have an even more wondrous story,’ he declared, ‘about a land inhabited by pickled fish-men, an eel-faced, beetle-browed race, very warlike, who live on raw flesh. They are opposed by mermen stoats, who, in their upper parts, resemble men, and in their lower, weasels—’

Abruptly the door was flung open, and Edward and Gaveston, swathed in heavy cloaks, swept into the chamber, furred hoods pulled back, their hair laced with rain. Both strode across, pushing their way through to the fire. They were followed by Hugh de Spencer of Glamorgan, a strange-looking individual with his receding hair tied in a queue at the nape of his neck, his ruddy face unshaven, his deep-set eyes glaring furiously around, mouth all aggressive as if expecting to confront the king’s enemies there and then. Old de Spencer! I was there when they hacked his body to bits outside Bristol and fed it to starving dogs. Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, the king’s cousin, followed, silent like a shadow, his pinched face tense under tangled hair. When Lancaster was taken out to execution, little boys threw snowballs at him. However, that was all for the future. I promised to tell the story as it unfolded from start to finish. I suppose it all began then, when the king strode into that chamber. We rose to greet him. He unbuckled his cloak, let it fall to the ground and thrust his backside towards the fire.

‘The royal arse,’ he declared, bowing at both the queen dowager and Isabella, ‘is frozen as hard as a bishop’s heart!’

Gaveston slipped quietly on to the vacated stool next to his wife, his beautiful face wreathed in that infectious smile. Gaveston was truly handsome, his hair neatly cut, his face oiled and sensitive. He was graceful in all his gestures. He also bowed at the two queens and impishly blew a kiss in my direction before seizing his wife’s silk-mittened fingers and lifting them to his lips even as he patted her affectionately on the thigh. Agnes, Guido and myself immediately withdrew from the circle but the king, still rubbing his backside, beckoned imperiously at us.

‘No, no, Mathilde, and you, Guido. My ladies.’ He bowed once again at the two queens, who sat staring up at him. I caught the questioning look of adoration in Margaret’s eyes, as if completely bemused by her royal stepson. Edward sniffed noisily. ‘Guido, Mathilde, I have need of you. Langton is in the Tower, he has an ulcerated leg. He mistrusts the leeches and once again has asked for you, Master Guido. I have agreed, but,’ he continued, right eye almost closed, ‘to show my deep concern, Mathilde will also attend on him. Thus my Lord Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, cannot whine to his fellow bishops that he has been ill treated.’

A short while later myself, Guido and Bertrand Demontaigu left King’s Steps aboard a royal barge pulled by eight liveried oarsmen. A page stood in the prow tending the lantern horn and blowing noisily on a trumpet to warn off other craft. We sat in the stern shielded by a canopy emblazoned with the royal arms. Above us a blue, scarlet and gold pennant snapped in the breeze, proclaiming that this barge was on royal service. Demontaigu sat muffled in his cloak. He kept his distance as if he was a relative stranger, the royal household clerk he pretended to be, acting as if resentful at being plucked from his comfortable chancery chamber for this cold journey along a mist-hung Thames. He was armed with sword and dagger. These he placed across his knees, grasping them close, then glanced quickly at me, those lustrous dark eyes full of merriment. He murmured that famous prayer of travellers and pilgrims:

Guido heard this and laughed softly. He said he feared neither God nor man. On reflection, he was telling the truth. He was certainly dressed for that journey like a popinjay, in a puffed jacket and a richly embroidered cloak, gifts from the queen dowager, who appeared to have more than a tender regard for him. Demontaigu, as if tired of listening to Guido’s praise of his mistress, asked about Langton and why he was imprisoned in the Tower.

‘Hatred,’ Guido replied. ‘Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, was the old king’s treasurer. Time and again he tried to rein in the spending of Edward when he was Prince of Wales. He often had violent confrontations with the prince over his lavish expenditure as well as his friendship with Gaveston. When the old king died,’ Guido pulled a face, ‘Langton fell.’

‘Even though he is a bishop?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘He could be pope of the whole world!’ Guido replied drily.

‘The new king hates him. Langton was stripped of dignity, wealth and office and committed to the Tower.’

‘Why?’ I asked, staring into the bank of mist that swirled like a host of ghosts across our barge.

‘The king regards him as a meddler who will side with the Lords. Langton is fiercely opposed to Gaveston.’

‘But so are others.’ I wiped the river spray from my face.

‘True.’ Guido nodded. ‘The other reason is treasure. The king’s exchequer is empty. Rumour has it that Langton owns over fifty thousand pounds of silver, besides a hoard of gold and precious jewels. Some of it is Templar treasure, lodged with him by the order before it fell. The king has asked for this. Langton claims such wealth is a myth, that he is poor as a friar. Searchers from the royal exchequer have ransacked his properties but cannot find any trace. Hence my lord Langton stays in the Tower until he remembers where he has put his money.’

Guido leaned forward and shouted at the captain of the guard to make more speed. I stared across the water. The Thames ran dark and strong; a sharp, biting wind forced my head down but it also stirred the mist to break and reveal the other craft along that busy river. Oystercatchers, fishing smacks, barges and boats full of produce thronged the waterways as they headed for the wharves of Queenshithe, Garlickhithe and Timberhithe. Cogs from Bordeaux, sails furled, manoeuvred to dock at the wine wharf, whilst a flotilla of powerful war cogs, flying the colours of the Hanse, made their way up to the German enclosure at the Steelyard. The air reeked of oil, fish, tar and spice. These odours mingled with the stench from the great loads of refuse, excrement, offal, dead animals and rotting food disgorged into the Thames by the gong barges as well as the city rivers of the Fleet and Walbrook. Now and again the dangers of the time manifested themselves. Great high-sided war barges flying the various-coloured pennants of the Lords and packed with men-at-arms and archers, made their way ominously down to Westminster.

‘God preserve us,’ whispered Guido, gesturing at them. ‘Lincoln, Pembroke, Winchelsea and the rest are determined on Gaveston’s trial. My mistress has interceded, mediated, pleaded.’ He sighed noisily. ‘It is of little use.’

Guido fell quiet as the bells of myriad churches along the north bank of the Thames – St Peter the Little, St Martin, All Hallows the Great and others – tolled the Angelus. We passed Downgate. Above us reared the gloomy mass of London Bridge, its rails adorned with the severed heads of Scottish chieftains who had been hanged, drawn and quartered at St Paul’s or Smithfield. Pickled and preserved, they were displayed as a warning to other rebels. The arches of the bridge yawned like the cavernous mouth of some great beast. The water surged faster, full and furious between the starlings. The captain of the barge shouted orders; one last pull and the oars came up and we shot like an arrow through the watery darkness. I sat tense and only opened my eyes when we entered calmer waters and glimpsed the brooding walls, turrets and gatehouse of the Tower.

We left our barge at a grim-looking quayside and made our way under the massive Lion Gate, across drawbridges spanning a stinking moat and through the Barbican, which reeked of the animal smells from the royal menagerie. A close, narrow place, with blind walls and cobbled pathways, all under the watchful eyes of royal troops who manned the crenellations, towers and gatehouses. Time and again we were stopped as we proceeded deeper into the royal fortress. We crossed the outer bailey, busy with men-at-arms wheeling out and readying the great engines of war, the catapults and trebuchets a sure sign of troubled times. At the entrance of the inner bailey we met Sir John de Cromwell, the stone-faced constable. He was dressed in half-armour, clearly anxious about the crisis at Westminster but too politic to ask. He was the king’s officer, and he told us in a blunt, terse fashion how his task was to ensure that the Tower remained loyal to the Crown. He took us across the rain-sodden green, where huge ravens and hooded crows prodded at the ground with cruel yellow beaks, and up into the four-square Norman keep.