The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 5

Isabella and I had little time to reflect or discuss what had happened. In preparation for her possible departure for England, the princess’s household had expanded to include more servants. Many of these I simply cannot remember. Reflecting on the past is like standing at the mouth of an alleyway eagerly waiting for someone, or something, to appear. You are aware of many others but your soul, your heart, your eyes search only for what you want. So it was with the people about the princess, porters, maids, soldiers, retainers. Moreover, I always avoided them, remembering the power of the Secreti as well as the popular adage that Judas always has a smiling face and kissing lips. I could trust no one.

On that same evening of our return from the city, both Isabella and I were summoned to the tribunal chamber where King Philip sat enthroned behind an oval oaken table. The king was dressed in a blue robe or coat emblazoned with golden lilies, a relic of St Louis hanging on a chain around his neck, fingers brilliantly decorated with precious rings. On either side sat Marigny and Nogaret, garbed in black like crows. Behind the king hung an exquisitely embroidered arras demonstrating how his great ancestor St Louis approached the port of Damietta, a vigorous, striking picture of armoured knights on snorting destriers beneath gorgeous banners. In the background was a pure blue sea, and guiding it all, the Holy Spirit in the form of a snow-white dove with eyes of amethyst and wings edged with gold. The Holy Spirit, however, did not hover close in that council chamber. King Philip was seething with anger (though he could dissemble with the best) after his confrontation with Casales, his icy-blue eyes hard as glass. He kept tapping the table, head slightly cocked as if listening to the crackling from the braziers. Knight bannerets stood around dressed in royal livery, their hands resting on their swords. One, however, his sword-belt between his feet, sat on a stool to Marigny’s right, a handsome-faced man with oiled black hair, neat beard and moustache. In looks he reminded me of Rossaleti. He sat slightly forward, smiling at the princess. The more I stared, the more certain I became that I had met him before.

Marigny spoke for the king, describing the marriage negotiations, expressing his royal master’s deep frustration at Edward of England. At last King Philip held up his hand for silence, eyes fixed on his daughter. Oh, I remember that arrogant gaze! Now steeped in years, I still wonder why I didn’t spring to my feet and accuse him of the truth, pour out the horrid litany of his hideous sins against Uncle Reginald, his own daughter, me and all the others. The answer, I suppose, was that, is that, I was young, I wanted to live, yet there was more. In the Tower of London and elsewhere I have looked upon fabulous beasts such as Edward of England’s favourite leopard, a ferocious animal which would have torn me to pieces, yet I could only stare and watch. King Philip was the same. On that particular evening, as he talked about the death of Pourte, the attack on Casales and the dangers threatening the princess, he acted the leopard, dangerous, cunning, twisting and turning. I glanced around. Isabella’s brothers were not present. I could have taken pride at driving them away, but in truth I only played a part. Louis and Philippe, now sober, were keeping their distance because they were not arrogant fools. The presence of Casales, the possible imminence of their sister’s nuptials, not to mention the brooding wrath of their father, had cooled their wicked ardour.

On that freezing December evening, in the season of expectant souls, King Philip was certainly intent on his daughter’s welfare. He dramatically described the danger which had threatened her during the attack. He never once glanced at me, but Marigny’s sallow face, with those unblinking eyes, dark pools of ambition and power, studied me as if seeing me for the first time. I learnt a lesson then that I’ve never forgotten. In mundo hominum — in the world of men — women are like children and the old; they are not ignored, they are not even noticed, they don’t even exist, until it matters. My heart warmed to Monsieur de Vitry. He had recognised that truth, acted upon it and so kept me safe. Casales had not recognised me, nor did the knight sitting on the stool whom Philip now introduced as Sir Bernard Pelet, loyal subject, former member of the accursed Templar order, who, according to the king, had done so much to bring God’s justice, and the crown’s, to the full. Philip proudly announced how Pelet was to be Isabella’s master-at-arms, custos hospicii, keeper of her household both here and in England. Pelet, God curse him, basked in such praise like a cat before a fire.

Isabella must have sensed my mood; she answered quickly and prettily, whilst I could only stare in silent horror. I had met Pelet before, but again I’d been in the shadows. Uncle Reginald had once talked warmly of him as a good knight at the Temple treasury, when in fact he had been the traitor at the feast. I’d heard enough of the chatter and the gossip to learn that Pelet had been most ferocious in bringing accusations against his former comrades and, possibly, had had a hand in my own uncle’s downfall. I could not even look at him, and I was greatly relieved when the meeting ended.

Once alone, Isabella cleared her inner chamber except for a page who was instructed to sit by the door and play a gentle tune on the viol.

‘Something soft,’ the princess whispered, ‘to soothe the soul.’ She didn’t talk, but sat in her throne-like chair and, picking up a household roll, began to read it as if fascinated by the expenses of her buttery. Never once did she glance up at me. I wanted to be alone. I went across to the writing carrel fixed against the wall beneath a painting celebrating the Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple. Isabella often sat there studying her horn book, inspecting her accounts or writing out some letter for a clerk. I sat down, my back to her, aware of the viol’s melody rising and falling, the distant sounds of the palace, Isabella gently humming under her breath. For a while I could only fight the emotions which boiled in my heart and sent my blood coursing so that the humours in my belly turned sour. Pelet was to join us! An assassin, a Judas! I rose and took down the leech book, to study an infusion to soothe my anger, but found myself turning the pages to study the elements of deadly nightshade, foxglove and other powerful poisons. I was already thinking of revenge.

Lost in my studies, I was startled when Isabella put her hands on my shoulders, kissing me gently on the back of my head. I turned round. The viol-playing had ceased, the chamber was empty. Isabella was dressed in her nightshift, her hair loosed. She pressed a goblet of hot mulled wine into my hand and stared down at the page I was studying.

‘Listen, Mathilde no, no, no!’ She shook her head. ‘Not that way! Come, come.’ She made me prepare for sleep. After we had drunk the wine, she insisted I share her bed. I doused the candles and lay beside her in the dark. In the faint light I could glimpse the golden sheen of her hair. She leaned over and touched my cheek. ‘I used to creep in and lie beside my mother.’ She edged closer, staring at me through the darkness. ‘She would tell me stories about Spain, about Rodrigo Diaz, known as El Cid, or she’d describe Santiago, the great mountain shrine to St James. I used to feel so close.’ She paused. ‘Do you know any stories, Mathilde?’ She was trying to distract me, so I told her one from Bretigny about a hobgoblin who ate proud princesses. Isabella laughed and seized my hand. ‘Soon,’ she stifled a giggle, ‘I will lie with Edward of England. Have you ever lain with a man, Mathilde?’

‘Only in my dreams, my lady.’

Isabella laughed again. ‘Mathilde, swear, swear that you will do nothing to hurt Pelet.’

I remained silent.

‘Swear,’ she breathed, ‘and you shall have my sacred oath that I will take care of that devil! Mathilde, I promise you.’

I swallowed my pride and hot words and promised.

‘Good.’ Isabella rolled over on her back.

‘So much mystery,’ she breathed. ‘The attack on the Templars: the massacre at Monsieur de Vitry’s: Pourte’s death; the assault on Casales.’ She rolled over on to her side again. ‘Casales even maintains the clerk murdered near the charnel house of the Innocents shows how dangerous it is for him to be here. They say the clerk, Matthew of Crokendon, was with a young woman. He was seen walking with her in the cemetery.’ Again she touched me lightly on the cheek. ‘Be careful, Mathilde, that you are not recognised.’

I closed my eyes and I listened to Isabella’s soft breathing. I pushed my hot hand between the smooth cold sheet and the feather-filled bolster.

‘And your father?’ I asked. ‘What does he say?’

‘He believes. .’ Isabella paused. ‘He believes there are those in England bitterly opposed to my marriage. They would like nothing more than to create mayhem in these negotiations. De Vitry was used by my father in the collection of my dowry, Pourte was a confidant of the English king and Lord Gaveston, as is Casales; they both supported the marriage. There are those in the English council chamber who’ll be quick to point out that not even English envoys are safe in France.’

‘Who leads these?’ I asked.

‘The English king’s uncle, Henry Lacey, Earl of Lincoln, and Edward’s powerful cousin, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster.’ She paused as if listening into the dark. ‘Marigny has even hinted, God forbid, that danger threatens me, hence Pelet.’

‘And you?’ I asked.

‘Soon I will reach my fourteenth summer, Mathilde, yet sometimes I feel like an old crone steeped in the frenetic turbulence of intrigue. My marriage is a matter of papal arbitration; Clement V of Avignon is my father’s creature. The English are also bound by solemn treaty, yet, Mathilde, to answer your question, we are figures in some dark, devious and wicked game waiting to be played out. So, be careful, especially over Pelet. You promised?’

‘And I promise again.’

‘Deo Gratias, Mathilde.’ She laughed abruptly. ‘Let’s go back to hobgoblins. Shall we call Louis one?’

Such were the days as we waited, one following another. Casales dispatched letters and messengers back to his masters in England. Advent prepared to give way to Christmas. Boughs of evergreen appeared in the chapel. The priests wore vestments of purple and gold and empty cribs were set up in the royal cloister as the palace prepared itself for the feast of Christmas. The huntsmen thundered out, verderers and hawkers driven by their passion for the chase and the kill. The royal larders become stocked to overflowing with venison, boar, rabbit, plover, quail and duck. The palace galleries and chambers echoed with music as the choirs rehearsed the ‘O’ antiphons of Advent as well as the hymns for Christmas, haunting melodious tunes, bittersweet, about a Virgin maid bringing forth the God child in the bleak heart of winter.

The days were short and dark, bitterly cold, so we kept to our chambers. Every day was purgatory, with Pelet trying to act the perfect, gentle knight towards both of us. Never once did such a fair face hide such a foul heart; a traitor, a coward, a Judas incarnate. Isabella, however, openly favoured him, and as the days passed, I wondered if she’d remembered her vow. Casales and Rossaleti now became constant visitors to the princess’s chambers, yet as the negotiations flagged, their courtesies sounded more hollow. Isabella, who discussed the matter secretly with me, seized her opportunity when the two men shared wine in her chamber just before vespers on Laetare Sunday in Advent.

‘My lord,’ Isabella, cloaked in furs before the fire, stretched out a delicate hand towards the flames, ‘tell me plainly about your king. He protests great love for me, yet-’

‘My lady,’ Casales intervened, ‘Edward of England-’

‘I know,’ Isabella merrily interrupted, ‘is a stark, fair bachelor standing over six feet, well proportioned, of goodly features. His hair is golden, his eyes are blue, his face comely to the eye. A skilled horseman, a warrior bloodied in the wars of Scotland, a true knight. He loves his friends and is much given to hunting.’ Isabella parodied the nasal twang of a nun breathlessly reciting a well-known litany. ‘But if he loves me, why does he delay? Is not our marriage a matter of papal decree, of solemn treaty between our countries, so why this tarrying? What is the real reason? What manner of man is my future husband?’

Rossaleti nervously cleaned his mouth with his tongue and glanced away, the consummate courtier, the skilled scribe. Casales was much different: a solitary, brooding man, very conscious of his injury, quick-tempered, nevertheless astute enough to understand Isabella’s impatience. He smiled, coughed and opened his mouth to reply. Isabella, sitting to his right, leaned over and touched him gently on the arm.

‘Please,’ she begged, ‘no more fanciful phrases or courtly courtesies.’

Casales sighed and stretched in his chair. He was dressed in a loose shirt and hose under a thick military cloak; on the floor beside him lay his war-belt. Being an accredited envoy, he was one of the few allowed to carry arms in the royal presence.

‘My seigneur the king,’ he began carefully, ‘well, I have known him as long as I have the Lord Gaveston.’ He glanced at Rossaleti and brought a finger to his lips, a sign that he was speaking in secreto, sub sigillo silentii — in secret, under the seal of silence.

‘As the father, so the son,’ Casales continued wearily, ‘or sometimes the opposite. Mon seigneur was only a child when his beloved mother Eleanor of Castile died. The present king’s father loved her passionately. After her death, when her corpse was brought south to London for burial at Westminster, the old king built a splendid cross at every place the cortege rested.’ He glanced quickly at Isabella. ‘I tell this to show Edward’s abiding passion for his first wife. When Eleanor was alive, the English court was filled with music. After she died,’ he grimaced, ‘the music stopped. The only time I remember the old king asking for minstrels was to distract his mood when his physicians had to let blood.’

‘He loved her so much?’ Isabella whispered.

‘Oh yes,’ Casales agreed. ‘Edward the First was a man of iron, of fiery temper; he almost killed a servant who hurt a favourite falcon. The royal birds were the only things he loved after his wife died. When they fell ill, he even sent wax replicas of them to the shrine of the Blessed Thomas of Canterbury to seek a cure. It’s a pity, my lady, he didn’t love his heir half as much. Prince Edward was raised by himself in a palace at King’s Langley in Hertfordshire. A lonely boy, he was left to his own pursuits, his pet camel and leopard, or sailing along the river with his bargemaster Abscalom. Friendships with the sons of servants flourished; the prince often became involved in their rustic pursuits, ignoring the code of arms or the discipline of the horn book. He grew like some neglected plant. By the time the king, his father, realised this, it was too late; the child begets the man. Prince Edward was lonely. He entertained strange fancies and created a mythical brother.’ Casales ignored Isabella’s sharp gasp.

‘My lord,’ I asked, ‘he has brothers?’

‘Half-brothers.’ Casales smiled at me. ‘The issue of the old king’s second wife, Margaret of France, my lady’s aunt; they are still mere babes. No, the prince wanted a brother, a companion. Forsaken by all, he grew to resent his father, and all this took flesh in Lord Peter Gaveston, who joined the royal household in Gascony. My lady, Gaveston was the brother the prince hungered for, his blood companion, playing Jonathan to Prince Edward’s David.’ He spread his hands. ‘As the scriptures say, “David’s love for Jonathan surpassed all others.”’ Casales drew a deep breath. ‘Prince Edward’s attachment to Gaveston deepened, they became one soul. The old king objected, but the prince was adamant. His father tried to punish and humiliate him but it made no difference. Prince Edward even asked his father to create Gaveston Earl of Cornwall. The old king, notorious for his furious rages, made even worse by an ulcerated leg, physically attacked his son, hitting and kicking him, screaming that he was a knave and that he heartily wished he could leave his crown to another. Gaveston was immediately exiled.’ Casales rubbed his face. ‘Once the old king died last July, Gaveston was recalled and ennobled, made Earl of Cornwall and married to the king’s niece, Margaret de Clare. The earls of Lincoln and Lancaster opposed such advancement of a commoner, a Gascon whose mother, allegedly, was a witch. But mon seigneur was obdurate. It is not just a matter of Gaveston, but of opposing the will of his dead father, be it Scotland, the oppression of his ministers-’

‘Or my marriage?’ Isabella interjected.

‘Yes, my lady,’ Casales confessed. ‘And now you have the truth of it. Whatever his father wanted Edward our king wishes to overturn, desperate to kick against the goad, so only God knows where it will lead.’ Casales turned to me, glancing narrow-eyed. ‘Have you ever been lonely, Mathilde? Do you know what it is to be by yourself?’

Of course I could have told the truth, but to these two men I was what I pretended to be, a lady-in-waiting, dame de chambre, a commoner much favoured by the princess. I realised what Casales was implying. He’d made his decision about me: I was a favourite of the princess and, therefore, must understand the importance of Gaveston. I hastily agreed, though I should have reflected more carefully on what he’d asked. Casales moved on, committed to telling the truth. He explained how Edward of England was lashing out against any who had opposed him during his youth. He specifically mentioned Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, former treasurer of the old king, who had tried to curb the prince’s expenditure. He had now been stripped of office and arrested.

‘And what do you think will happen?’ Isabella asked.

Casales raised his good hand.

‘Mon seigneur the king is a greyhound lithe and fast, he twists and turns. In refusing your marriage he taunts his father and yours, God forgive him. In this he is supported by Lord Gaveston, but in the end,’ Casales nodded at the casement window, ‘day dawns and dies, night falls, the passing of the hours cannot be stopped.’

‘Is that how you view my wedding?’ Isabella teased.

Casales sipped from his wine cup. He ignored my mistress’s question and made an admission, a startling one; I remember it well.

‘The old king,’ he said as if speaking to himself, ‘was a cold, freezing frost upon all our souls, hard of heart and iron of will.’ Casales raised his maimed wrist. ‘I was a member of his battle group at Falkirk when we defeated Wallace. My lady, forget the tales of gentle knights. In battle the soul becomes ferocious. At Falkirk I was surrounded by a party of Scots and dragged off my horse. I fought for my life and I lost my hand. A barber surgeon cleaned the stump, pouring boiling tar on the torn flesh. The old king passed me by; he paused, stared down and said I was fortunate. “Better men have lost more”: that was the old Edward of England; he could chill to the very marrow.’

Casales’ honesty, though refreshing, did not lighten our mood. Isabella wondered if Edward of England would face war rather than submit to the wishes of his father and hers. She said we would send a personal letter and a brooch from her jewellery box. Casales and Rossaleti were planning to spend Christmas at Westminster and were already preparing to leave for Wissant. Rossaleti, I remember, was greatly disquieted. He confided to both the princess and myself that he had a deep fear of rivers and seas, so for him a winter crossing of the Narrow Seas was one of the horrors of hell. Perhaps he had a premonition of his own death, which was more than Pelet did.

Two days after the meeting with Casales and Rossaleti, I began to suffer nausea and cramps in the belly, as did the princess. Her stomach, like mine, was strong, so I first thought this might be due to the malevolence of the princes, Louis and Philippe. That precious pair delighted in perpetrating malicious tricks such as putting a dead rat on a chair, leaving the dung of one of the palace lurchers outside our chambers or knocking aside a servant as he brought us food and drink. They were men with the narrow souls of spiteful boys. On the second day our symptoms increased, with heavy sweats and vomiting. By the morning of the third day, however, the infection began to diminish. Pelet was not so fortunate. He too was seized with violent cramps, shuddering under a ferocious chill. Isabella herself administered to him, as did a gaggle of royal physicians. I tried to intervene, but the princess brusquely ordered me away.

In the end the good doctors were unable to help. They recommended poultices and potions to drain the malignance from the humours, but Pelet continued to weaken. He eventually lost consciousness and died within seven days of the onset of the infection. By then I was fully recovered. I felt no compassion for Pelet, especially when he ranted about shadows clustering around his bed. He lapsed into his native tongue of Langue d’Oc, screaming at the crucifix for mercy. ‘He who sows the tempest reaps the whirlwind’, or so Scripture would have us believe. Pelet was an assassin many times over. God wanted his soul for judgement. I could only stand and watch the effects of arsenic poisoning run their natural course. I thought it most fitting. After all, Uncle Reginald with his manuscripts was as much an authority on poisons and noxious potions as the Scriptures are on theology. A little arsenic may help the stomach, but too much and a powerful fever seizes its victim. That was Pelet’s fate. I recognised the symptoms, the good physicians didn’t. On reflection Isabella must have served us both something to sicken our humours, perhaps a little stone-crop or pepper mixed with heavy vinegar to create an illusion. The royal physicians, as is their custom, could only grasp their manuals and urine jars, shake their heads and moan about the fevers and agues of the day and congratulate Isabella and myself on our miraculous recovery.

Isabella acted the professional mourner. She placed the coins on Pelet’s eyes and lighted a taper before the rood screen in La Sainte Chapelle. Of course, Philip and his coterie may have suspected, but at the time arsenic was rare, whilst mine and Isabella’s sickness pointed to a sudden infection which Pelet couldn’t fight, a twist of fate, mere mischance. Isabella’s subterfuge was deception enough. She never uttered a word to me, and when I tried to speak, pressed her fingers against my lips.

‘Gone to God, Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘to answer the cries of vengeance for spilling innocent blood.’

I couldn’t think of a more fitting epitaph. By then Casales and Rossaleti had left for England, but two days before Christmas, the very evening Pelet’s corpse was dispatched into the city for burial, a mud-spattered messenger thundered into the palace courtyard. The news he brought soon spread through the palace: Casales and Rossaleti were returning! On their way to Boulogne, near Montreuil, they had met three new English envoys, Sir Ralph Sandewic, constable of the Tower of London; Lord Walter Wenlok, Abbot of Westminster; and Sir John Baquelle, knight. These three had braved the freezing Narrow Seas to bring startling news. Edward of England had acceded to all the French demands. The marriage to Isabella would go ahead. The English king even named the place: the Cathedral of Notre Dame at Boulogne, in the county of Ponthieu, a strip of Normandy still under the rule of the English crown. The marriage would take place in the New Year, and certainly no later than the Feast of the Conversion of St Paul, 25 January. The messenger carried a letter sealed by both Casales and Rossaleti summarising their news; this was proclaimed throughout the royal residence and again by Marigny at a splendid banquet hastily convened in the Fleur-de-lis Chamber at the centre of the palace.

The joy of Philip and his ministers was evident. No cost was spared. Musicians with rebec, tambour and viol played merry tunes, whilst jugglers, tumblers, clowns and jesters entertained the royal household. We all feasted on succulent venison and the juiciest flesh of fish fresh from the royal stew ponds, followed by beef and pork served in a wine-based sauce, thickened with capon meat and almonds and seasoned with cloves and sugar. A minstrel disguised as the Angel Gabriel sang a robust song dedicated to Isabella:

She stands in her satin gown,

If anyone touches her,

The gown rustles,

Eia —

She stands in her golden gown,

Her face like a rose and her mouth like a

flower,

Eia.

The object of all this merriment and rejoicing remained ivory-faced, blue eyes staring. She hardly drank at all but sat, lips moving wordlessly. Once the banquet was over and the king’s favourite lurchers had been allowed into the chamber, Isabella withdrew, gesturing at me to follow. She ordered the pages who carried the flambeaux to escort her to the small chapel she was accustomed to visit. Once inside she dismissed them, telling me to lock and bolt the door. The chapel was freezing cold, its brazier nothing more than a pile of ash and cinders. Isabella, ignoring my protests, took off her gown and robes. Dressed in nothing but her shift, she walked barefoot up to the sanctuary and prostrated herself about two yards before the rood screen. Stretched out on the ice-cold flagstones, she crept forward like a penitent crawling to kiss the cross on Good Friday and lay beneath the rood screen, arms extended, face down. I tried to cover her with my cloak, but she shrugged it off. I squatted at the foot of a pillar, the cold creeping up my own legs, the muscles of my back cramping in discomfort. Palace bells marked the passing hour, but still the princess lay as if asleep. Eventually she rose, dressed and smiled at me, pinching my cheek.

‘Mathilde, I have given thanks for my deliverance from hell. Now come,’ she teased, ‘tonight we pray, tomorrow we act all merry.’

Casales, Rossaleti and the other three English envoys arrived early on Christmas Eve bearing gifts and letters from Philip’s ‘sweet cousin’ the King of England. Isabella was ordered to meet them in the royal council chamber shortly after the Angelus. Casales and Rossaleti, however, still unshaven and ill-kempt after their hasty return, first attended her in her chamber to explain the status, power and purpose of the other three envoys. Both sat close to the hearth, muttering about the freezing weather and how it chilled their very bones, before describing the men Isabella would meet. Sandewic was an old soldier, Keeper of the Tower and Justice of Gaol-delivery at Newgate, the most foul prison in London and the last resting place of many outlaws. ‘He’s hanged more felons than I’ve drunk cups of wine,’ Casales exclaimed. ‘A royal bully-boy, an intimate friend of the old king, he loves that grim fortress the Tower of London; he regards it as his own personal fief. He even pays for the upkeep of its small chapel, St Peter Ad Vincula, from his own pocket. Sandewic is fierce,’ Casales continued, ‘the English crown’s man, body and soul! He once arrested a papal tax collector who’d vexed the old king; he took the tax collector’s money and told the fellow to be out of the kingdom within three days or he’d hang him from the Tower walls.’

‘Oh dear!’ Isabella pretended to be frightened. ‘And is Sir John Baquelle a greater beast?’

‘Ah, Baquelle is a London merchant, a friend of Pourte’s, rich and powerful. A justice of the city. Whereas the citizens of London are terrified of Sandewic, Baquelle they hate because he’s a royal appointment.’

‘And Lord Walter Wenlok?’

‘Abbot of Westminster,’ Rossaleti scoffed, ‘and very much aware of it.’ He coughed, recollecting himself. ‘He’s been abbot for over twenty years, a close friend of the old king and a special confidant of the new. He is much liked by my Lord Gaveston.’

‘And the death of Pourte and the attack on you?’ Isabella asked. ‘What are your thoughts now?’

‘Suspicion is not evidence,’ Casales replied, chewing his lip. ‘Of course mon seigneur the king knows of it and has protested.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘But that is just straw in the wind.’

‘And my betrothed’s abrupt change of mind?’

‘Only God knows!’ Casales murmured. ‘My lady,’ he smiled, ‘soon to be your grace. Perhaps the change is just hard politic, the inevitable.’

My lady glanced sharply at Rossaleti, who nodded.

‘My lady,’ Casales repeated, ‘this is not some speech from a romance, but please remember, mon seigneur the King of England has undiminished love for you.’

‘And the Lord Gaveston?’ Isabella’s ambiguous question startled Casales, who glanced quickly at Rossaleti. The clerk just smiled serenely back as if that answer was not his to give.

‘Mon seigneur the king,’ Casales hastily declared, ‘loves his lady, whilst his love for Lord Gaveston is that for a dear brother. These new envoys will assure you of this.’

‘In which case, monsieur,’ Isabella rose, smoothing down the folds of her gown, ‘it is time we met our visitors.’

We went down to the council chamber. Everything was prepared as if for a mass, candles glowing along the polished table, the fire fiercely crackling the scented pine logs, the braziers sparkling, the tapestry-covered walls hidden in the shadows, pierced no doubt by peep-holes and confessional gaps where Marigny and his Secreti could lurk. The three envoys were grouped at the far end of the table. Sandewic was what he looked, a veteran soldier, an old knight, who’d kept his fealty to God and his king. I took to him immediately; my heart warmed to his blunt goodness. He reminded me so much of Uncle Reginald. Looking back, I realise, in truth, that some men possess an innate decency, a richness of the soul. Sandewic was one of these. He had a falcon-like face, a beaked nose, a hard mouth and glaring eyes beneath bushy brows. He was dressed in the old fashion, no fripperies, simply a long, sleeveless dark-green gown over a jerkin of rich murrey, a sword-belt wrapped round his waist, a silver chain of office hanging about his neck. Sandewic’s steel-grey hair straggled down to his shoulders though his white moustache and beard were neatly clipped. He knelt when Isabella approached, kissed her hands then, most movingly, turned to me and did the same, clasping my fingers. My soul kissed his, my life touched his. Jesu miserere mei; his brutal death struck deep and hard with me.

Baquelle was different, small, fat and pompous, a radiant, jolly face under a mop of black hair. He was dressed in the finest jagged coat, particoloured hose and blood-red Cordovan riding boots. Baquelle didn’t know whether to bluster or fawn, whilst his so-called courtly speech was clumsy enough to make Rossaleti hide his smile. A true merchant prince full of his own importance, he was very much the royal envoy and gave my mistress the sketchiest of bows.

Lord Walter Wenlok, Abbot of Westminster, was garbed in the black robes of a Benedictine but they were of the purest wool and edged with ermine, whilst his stiffened hood, pulled elegantly back, was lined with costly purple samite. Wenlok was proud in both manner and appearance. The tonsure on his head neatly cut, his smooth-shaven patrician face composed in a mask of sanctimonious serenity. A thin-lipped, arrogant-eyed man who, in the circumstances, should have looked into his soul and the coming call for its reckoning rather than emphasising his power. He stretched out a claw-like hand so we could kiss his thick abbatial ring. Isabella did so quickly, I followed suit, then we settled down to exchange pleasantries. Courteous questions provoked courteous answers. Old Sandewic, however, broke from this.

‘My lady,’ he leaned against the table, ‘you shall certainly be called Isabella La Belle. You will win the hearts of all loyal subjects with your beauty and grace.’

My mistress blushed slightly and bowed her head in thanks.

‘Mon seigneur,’ Sandewic continued, ignoring a vexed glance from Wenlok, ‘is greatly desirous of meeting you. All is prepared. You have apartments at the Tower; clean, swept and hung with the most beautiful tapestries. Every luxury will be yours. At Westminster, after the recent fire, your chambers have been completely refurbished. Outside the gardens are newly turfed and trellised, their stew ponds drained and cleaned. You even have your own quayside at Queen’s Bridge, repaired as of new.’ The old knight beamed around at his companions, but his hand kept going to his ear; I could tell that his nose and throat were inflamed with the rheums. Such ailments did not diminish his enthusiasm and deep admiration for Isabella’s beauty. I recalled the legendary love between Edward I and his Queen Eleanor of Castile; perhaps Sandewic hoped that this might happen again.

‘At Dover,’ Sandewic continued brusquely, ‘mon seigneur has prepared the royal ship The Margaret of Westminster, named after your noble aunt. Both it and its escort of boats and barges have been completely refurbished. The royal ship contains new wardrobes and butteries fitted for your comfort.’

Isabella caught Sandewic’s enthusiasm. The atmosphere became most relaxed, wine was served, sweetmeats offered. Baquelle and Wenlok now followed Sandewic’s lead. The merchant described the eagerness of Londoners to see their new queen, whilst Wenlok extolled the beauties of Westminster Abbey where she would be crowned. Isabella thanked them prettily, excused herself and withdrew to revel in what had so unexpectedly happened.

King Philip now emerged in all his glory. He had Edward at his feet; his daughter would be Queen of England and his grandson would sit at Westminster and wear the Confessor’s crown. The joyfulness and merriment of the French Christmas court became a heavy perfume. The Angels’ Mass was celebrated at midnight followed by the Dawn Mass then the Shepherds’ Mass, glorious liturgical ceremonies, the priests vested in the gold and white robes of the great feast. The royal chapel rang with hymns: ‘Hodie ego Genui te’ — ‘This day I have begotten you’; and ‘Puer natus nobis’ — ‘A child is born’. The air became rich with incense, as if some perfumed mist had come down from heaven and God’s glory joined with ours in all the receptions, carols, dances, mummers’ plays and festivals. It was hard to decide whether King Philip was celebrating the birth of the Christ child or the future birth of his grandson.

On Christmas evening, in the Fleur-de-Lis Chamber, Philip staged a great banquet: four tables in a square cordoned off by screens draped with gorgeous tapestries depicting the Glories of the Lilies and the exploits of the Capets. On the high table Philip, Marigny and Nogaret sat with Wenlok and Baquelle. On the second his three sons entertained Casales and Rossaleti; I noticed Louis glaring at me spitefully. On the third table sat important clerics, diplomats and officials. On the fourth, opposite her father, Isabella attended by me, entertained Sandewic and the leading clerks of the English embassy. A truly splendid feast, with soup of ground capon thickened with almond milk and served with pomegranates and red comfits. Roast dishes, kid cooked in cream, ducks and chicken, crayfish set in jelly, followed by frumenty. Musicians played lustily and choirs of silver-voiced boys carolled sweetly.

Oh, I remember that evening well. Murder also joined us. I was sitting next to Sandewic and quickly realised that he was not only present as an envoy; in the eyes of the English king, at least, he was to replace Pelet as Custos, keeper or protector of the princess’s household once it left for Boulogne. Sandewic first apologised for not giving me a gift, then handed me his dagger with its beautiful curved blade and ivory handle. I thought he was deep in his cups, but he pressed this gift on me, pushing the gold and red sheath into my hands, his eyes brimming with tears.

‘I had a daughter once,’ he murmured. ‘You have her eyes and ways.’ He then turned away to talk to one of the clerks. I could see he was melancholic. I had already exchanged gifts with my mistress; she had given me a copy of Hildegard of Bremen’s sayings with its most famous edged in gold: Oh man look to man, for man has the heavens and earth and all other created things lie within him. He is one with them and all things are hidden within him. In return I’d given the princess a ring, a gift from my Uncle Reginald which she much admired. At the feast I sipped my wine and watched Philip toast the taciturn Wenlok of Westminster, wondering what I could give Sandewic, who reminded me so much of my uncle with his stern looks and gentle ways. I touched him on the shoulder; he turned back all eager-eyed.

‘Gold and silver have I none,’ I retorted brightly, echoing the words of St Peter in Acts, ‘but what I have, I give thee freely.’

‘Which is, mademoiselle?’

‘Sir, you suffer from the rheums, your limbs ache and your head is heavy and dulled.’

‘A wise woman, Mathilde!’

‘Wise enough, sir, to know that warm oil, salted water and a potion of vervain would help you.’

Sandewic thought I was teasing him, but once assured, he accepted my help, apologising as old men do for his obvious discomfort. Nevertheless, he was cunning and astute. He drank sparsely of the different wines and was describing his beloved Tower with its great four-walled donjon, girdling walls and yawning gateways when we were abruptly distracted by a commotion at the king’s table. Lord Abbot Wenlok seemed in difficulties. He had slumped back in his chair, gripping the table as if experiencing a severe giddiness. Servants and retainers clustered about. Sandewic rose from his chair, the English clerks following. Isabella glanced sharply at me, indicating I follow. At first I thought the Benedictine lord had drunk too much. They had taken him into a small chancery room and made him comfortable on the floor, pushing brocaded cushions under his head. Wenlok, however, seemed unaware of what was happening; he twitched and convulsed, muttering about the cold stoniness in his feet and legs.

A physician was hastily summoned, but Lord Wenlok’s distress increased, his words becoming garbled; he retched but could not even spit into the maplewood bowl thrust under his mouth. He lay back, croaking hoarsely. More cushions were pushed under him. The death rattle echoed in his throat. Sandewic knelt beside him and tried to comfort him, but the Lord Abbot, head going from side to side, eyes stark in distress, mouth gaping for breath, was unable to respond. A priest was called. He muttered the words of absolution above the dying man’s hideous sounds. Wenlok shook violently, gave a loud gasp then lay still, head falling to one side.

I crouched beside Sandewic, pretending to offer solace even as I pressed my fingers against the abbot’s leg, stomach and hand. I felt the hardness of the muscles, as if rigor mortis had already set in. I knew more than those physicians. I had studied the properties of every type of hemlock, be it poisoned parsnip or any other variety. I recognised its singular symptoms, recalling Plato’s descriptions of Socrates’ death amongst the Ancients: the stiffening of the limbs, the creeping loss of feeling, the strangulated breath followed by the final convulsions. Abbot Wenlok had been poisoned, hemlock mixed with wine, but why, how and by whom?