The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 6

Wenlok’s death cast a shadow over the Christmas celebrations. Philip and his ministers ostensibly grieved deeply but the truth was that the French court regarded Wenlok as an old man who’d been sent on an arduous journey in the depths of winter; he’d simply suffered a seizure and died. His corpse was washed and embalmed, his walnut coffin crammed with tablets of perfume and sacks of herbs then sealed for dispatch as swiftly as possible back to Westminster.

Once again I journeyed down to the death house, where two grimy-faced retainers were preparing the abbot’s body whilst a member of Wenlok’s retinue, a young chaplain called Robert of Reading, recited the office of the dead. He’d reached the words ‘Ah, good Jesu — leave me not reprobation, think my soul caused thy Incarnation’, the sombre phrases rolling out made all the more solemn by the Latin. I stood swathed in a cloak; the death house was bitterly cold. I watched intently whilst slipping Ave beads through my fingers. I had placed at the head of the corpse the winter flowers the princess had sent, together with an evergreen spray. Now I scrutinised the cadaver carefully. Rigor mortis had of course, by St Stephens Day, turned the dead flesh marble hard, but I also noticed the faint purple-red rash on the hairy stomach; the same had appeared on the dead man’s cheeks, whilst his tongue and lips were purpled as if with wine. Philip’s physicians might have entertained suspicions, but who dared to voice them? Or again, they might have been ignorant of hemlock in all its forms, be it garden or water hemlock. Death always occurs quickly, from commencement to finish, perhaps in no more than three hours, whilst the effects would have been hastened depending on whether the poison was distilled from the fruit of the hemlock, its leaves or, more deadly still, a root over a year old. Wenlok’s age and weariness, not to mention the wine, might have enhanced its malignant effects.

The door of the death house opened and Sandewic came in carrying a requiem candle. He placed this on the corpse table, crossed himself and abruptly left. He was waiting for me outside, blowing on his mittened fingers and stamping his feet. The ground was slippery with ice so he offered me his arm. I could see he was in discomfort with a soreness in the ear and throat.

‘Come,’ I invited him, ‘the princess would like to see you and I can practise my skills.’

He grinned mischievously and patted my hand.

‘Truly fortunate I am. I never thought a damsel so fair and young would show such affection.’

We lapsed into teasing, so reminiscent of my days with Uncle Reginald that tears burnt my eyes, which I quickly put down to the cold. Sandewic stopped halfway across the yard and stared out over the wasteland. Servants were pulling Yule logs to the cavernous kitchen doorway, escorted by maids, their arms full of evergreen holly, its blood-red berries full and rich. Others carried tendrils of ivy, all to decorate the kitchen, butteries and servants’ chambers, for St Stephen’s was their day of celebration.

‘He was murdered, wasn’t he, my lord Wenlok?’

I stared coolly back.

‘As was Pourte, as Casales nearly was? As I might be?’ Sandewic hawked and spat.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why do you say that?’

He was about to reply when Casales and Rossaleti came through the doorway carrying funeral candles, capped against the breeze, which they wanted to place on the corpse table. They paused to greet us. Casales looked anxious and drawn.

‘My lord.’ Casales came as close as he could, talking quietly in the English tongue. ‘My lord, the sooner we are gone from here-’

‘Ay,’ Sandewic interrupted, ‘but we must await the will of princes.’

We exchanged pleasantries with them, then continued into the palace, where I made Sandewic comfortable in the princess’s quarters. I examined his ears and throat carefully, then I prepared a solution of warm water, heavily salted, and told him to breathe it in through his nose. He did so, choking and spluttering, coughing up the infected phlegm. After he’d finished I poured warmed oil, specially distilled, into his ears to loosen the hard wax. I gave him vervain for his throat and dressed a small ulcer on his leg with a herbal poultice.

Isabella, busy with certain lists from her father, wandered across to watch. She always had a firm stomach, my mistress, despite all her exquisite courtly ways. She was particularly fascinated by the final potion I mixed for Sandewic, taken from the kitchens and apothecary stores: finely ground dry moss, soaked in an astringent and mixed with the powdered cream of very stale milk. I informed both that I did not know how it acted but it was a sure cure for many internal infections when the body’s humours turned hot and the patient felt as if he was on fire. Sandewic was definitely feverish. He slowly relaxed, drinking the cup of posset Isabella prepared at the hearth. He informed me how he distrusted all physicians and then questioned me closely on my skill and where I had studied. I told the tale I had so carefully prepared and rehearsed like a scholar does a syllogism. Sandewic believed me, or I think he did. In turn I questioned him on the deaths of Wenlok and Pourte, but he was on his guard, although he grudgingly conceded that he was suspicious about both their deaths.

‘The night Pourte died,’ he declared, ‘Casales and Rossaleti were closeted with des Plaisans and Nogaret. Apparently Pourte declared he was too tired to attend; he had to sleep. Consequently he was alone. It’s possible that the real murderer or murderers hired assassins, the same who later attacked Casales.’ The old knight continued as if talking to himself. ‘But last night, how could Lord Wenlok be poisoned except by someone at his own table?’

‘Or before,’ I interrupted. ‘Hemlock is a creeping poison.’

‘True,’ Sandewic agreed. ‘I have spoken to Marigny. Liar though he may be, he claims Lord Wenlok was very quiet, tense, as if unwell from the very beginning of the banquet. He drank and ate very little.’ Sandewic stretched out his infected leg on the footstool and sighed in relief. ‘I feel better!’ he murmured. ‘It’s good to sit, to be warm. I pity poor Wenlok. Sir John Baquelle,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘is a good man, but he has dismissed the Abbot’s death as an act of God. Baquelle is more interested in the present business.’

‘Which is?’

‘My lady, your marriage, of course!’

‘And Edward of England?’ Isabella snapped her fingers, eager to return to a question which constantly vexed her. ‘He changed his mind just like that!’

‘An arrow is loosed!’ Sandewic growled. ‘It may fly, it may rise, but eventually it has to fall.’ He tapped the arm of the chair. ‘Your marriage, my lady, is set as if in stone. There is no other way.’ He yawned. ‘As for Templars? Well, the head of that order is France, and if that’s cut off, what use the arm or leg? Mon seigneur the king knows that. He will not imprison or torture the Templars, but he is eager to seize their wealth.’

‘My lord,’ I asked, still fascinated by what he’d said about the murders, ‘do you know of a Monsieur de Vitry?’

‘I’ve heard the name. Marigny mentioned something about a massacre. Wasn’t he a merchant who played an important role in the collection of your mistress’s dowry?’ He looked at me. I never answered, so he stared into the fire.

‘Do Pourte, Casales, Wenlok, Baquelle and you,’ I asked, ‘have anything in common?’

The old knight, growing tired and dreamy-eyed, thinking perhaps of other Yuletides as the ancients do when dozing before a fire, simply shrugged. Now I am old, I recognise that feeling of surrender, of preparing for the final rest, to sleep forever. Sandewic shut us off. Then he abruptly straightened in his chair, still ignoring my question, put on his boots, gathered his cloak, thanked the princess and left. I was sad when he was gone. It was as if the fire had dulled or the candle wicks dimmed. I sat on the footstool warming my hands. Isabella came behind me, pressing her hands on my shoulders.

‘There’s a hidden tension,’ she whispered, ‘ghosts so fierce they gather in the gloom around us and look on. Abbot Wenlok’s death is dismissed as an unfortunate accident, but Casales and Rossaleti, so I hear, as well as Sandewic, are apprehensive and fearful. Oh Mathilde, what shall we do?’ She leaned her face against the back of my head. ‘We are,’ she whispered, ‘in the presence of terrors. I must tell you. Father watches me like a basilisk does its victim. Pelet’s death has gone unmentioned but not forgotten. Marigny’s men have been here. You are summoned to the Chambre Ardente at the hour of vespers. You must go alone.’

I whirled round. Isabella looked frightened. ‘There is nothing I can do, as yet,’ she pleaded.

‘What do they want?’

‘To question you.’

‘About what?

‘Perhaps who you really are. .’ The princess’s voice trailed off.

I spent the remainder of that day feverishly preparing myself. Isabella tried to help, distracting me with chatter about our intended departure. Casales and Rossaleti came, eager to explain how the English king felt secure in Boulogne, a port on the Narrow Seas well within the county of Ponthieu, an enclave of Normandy still under English influence. They openly confessed that Edward entertained great suspicion towards his ‘sweet cousin of France’, especially after the deaths of Pourte and Wenlok, not to mention the attack on Casales. Surprisingly, neither betrayed any suspicions about Wenlok’s death but repeated how, on his journey to the Ile de France, the abbot complained frequently of feeling unwell, which they thought was due to a hard sea crossing in the depth of winter. They also talked about Isabella’s journey, reassuring us both that the royal ship, The Margaret of Westminster, would provide a safe and secure passage. Rossaleti was desperately anxious about that; he pleaded with the princess to join her, as the Margaret was much safer than the other cogs available. Isabella laughingly agreed. The two men left, and as the bells of Sainte Chapelle tolled the call for vespers, two knight bannerets, accompanied by a Dominican friar, presented themselves and asked me to accompany them.

They were brusque and severe. I collected my cloak, squeezed Isabella’s hand and joined them. We went down the stairs, threading our way through the passageways and galleries, all lit by candles, and across ice-cold courtyards to the Chambre Ardente, which was housed in the base of a soaring tower. The Chambre Ardente was, in theory, the royal household court, similar to that held by the marshal in England. In practice, however, the Chambre was an inquisitorial court with all the powers of oyer and terminer, to listen and decide on indictments; it could, if it wished, impose the death penalty. The chamber itself was cavernous. Torches provided light as well as cast shadows over what had to be hidden. Its red-brick walls were covered in thick embroidered tapestries, depicting all forms of judgement. On one, Christ, ghostlike, swathed in swirling drapery, presided. Below the divine throne all kinds of demons prowled, waiting for judgement to be passed. A veritable gallery of hideous figures, bearded and winged, with scaly skin and manes of fire, readied to grab the hapless sinners to rip out their bowels and crunch their hearts. In the corner, specially illuminated by a fiery brazier, St Michael weighed souls in a set of scales as a devil reached to grab one for his supper. The purpose of this tableau, springing to life in the shifting light, was to instil terror and fan the flames of fear. I vowed I would show no weakness.

Around the chamber stood royal guards, whilst scribes crouched busily over writing tables. At the far end, on a dais, sat Marigny behind a high oaken table, his red hair gleaming in the torchlight. His two minions, Nogaret and des Plaisans, sat on either side, with hooded clerks perched like ravens at each end, pens poised. Marigny beckoned me forward on to the dais, gesturing at a stool before the table. I approached and sat down.

‘Mathilde, welcome.’

‘Seigneur, why am I here?’

Marigny, surprised, leaned across, hunter’s eyes staring from that pallid face, mouth puckered in disbelief at such insolence.

‘This is the court of the royal household. You are a member of that household. You are to be summoned here as we wish.’

‘Seigneur, why?’

‘Mathilde, are you in God’s grace?’ des Plaisans asked.

‘If I am, sir, I beg God to keep me there, and if I am not, I humbly ask Him to return me there. Why do you ask?’

‘You act the wise woman,’ Nogaret simpered, ‘or something else. You know a great deal about simples and potions.’

‘So do the royal physicians. What are you hinting at, that I’m a witch?’

‘No.’ Des Plaisans sat back in the shadows.

‘Mathilde, Mathilde,’ Nogaret took up the attack, ‘you’re not being tried.’

‘So why am I here?’

‘You have won the princess’s favour so quickly. .’ He paused.

‘I cannot answer for my mistress; you must ask her yourself.’

‘Mathilde,’ Marigny’s face wrinkled in amusement, ‘do not be afraid.’

‘Who claims I am?’

Marigny leaned his elbows on the table, rocking backwards and forwards as if considering my reply. I steeled myself. I hated these men, so why should I be afraid of their questions? I had been in the household of Uncle Reginald, the hardest taskmaster. He had acted like a magister from the schools as he questioned me on what I’d observed and studied even after some errand into the city. He would loose questions like a master bowman would arrows. I was prepared, I was skilled. I thought of him then. I thanked God for his iron discipline. Marigny fluttered his fingers, gesturing at the others to keep quiet. He picked up a scrap of parchment.

‘Mathilde, you were recommended by Monsieur de Vitry.’

‘I was.’

‘He was recently murdered.’

‘God rest him, and may the cross of Christ bring his assassins to speedy justice.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Marigny murmured. ‘Did you attend the funeral of this great friend?’

‘I never said he was a great friend. I lit a taper and paid for a requiem mass to be sung.’

‘Very good.’ The reply came in a hiss. ‘And you are from Poitiers, Mathilde de Clairebon?’

‘Of course. My mother was a widow, my father an apothecary, hence my knowledge of potions.’ I knew by rote what Monsieur de Vitry had taught me.

‘You seemed very interested in the deaths of Lord Pourte and Abbot Wenlok.’

‘No, sir, I wasn’t; but my mistress was. After all, they were English envoys dispatched to her. I went where she told me. I lit corpse candles when she told me.’

‘Where is the cathedral at Poitiers?’

‘On the Rue de la Chaine.’

‘Its name?’

‘Notre Dame la Grande, but there is another cathedral,’ I chattered on, ‘that of St Pierre. However, the place I loved to pray at was the Baptistry of St Jean with its very old font, an eight-sided pool dug into the ground. Did you know?’ I leaned forward as if excited. ‘It has a fresco from ancient times, of the Emperor Constantine. I-’

‘What is this? Why the delay? Mathilde, I have been waiting.’

I’d heard the door to the chamber open, and when I turned, Isabella, shrouded in her robe, golden hair hanging all loose, stood in the doorway, a polished mirror in one hand, a jewelled comb in the other. Everyone in the chamber, including the three fiends behind the table, sprang to their feet.

‘What is this?’ Isabella repeated, sweeping into the chamber. ‘I thought you had summoned my servant because of my imminent departure, but this?’ Her voice thrilled with anger. ‘Is this a court? What are the accusations? Who is the plaintiff? My lord,’ her voice assumed a more strident, petulant tone, ‘I am the Princess Royal, soon to be Queen of England. In a brief while I must leave my father’s house. I need Mathilde, there is so much to do, so little time to do it, so why is she here?’

‘My lady.’ Marigny came round the table, hands extended. ‘Mathilde can return to you. We are simply questioning her to make sure that she is a fit companion for you-’

‘I will be the best judge of that!’ Isabella snapped, staring into the darkness behind Marigny. ‘And tell my beloved father so!’

I, too, gazed into the shadows behind the table. Philip undoubtedly lurked there, closely watching these proceedings.

‘Mathilde,’ Isabella snapped her fingers, ‘come, we have things to do. My lords.’ She made the most courteous of bows and, beckoning to me, swept out of the chamber.

Once we’d left, the princess hurried like a woman possessed along the galleries, eager to place as much distance as possible between herself and those she had left. We walked through the royal cloisters, an eerie experience. Frost whitened the grass of the garth. A cloying mist curled, its tendrils sweeping in as if seeking the gargoyles squatting at the tops of pillars or hidden in corners. Demons carved in stone glared balefully down at us. I gazed up at the sky and heaved a sigh of relief: the moon was at half-quarter. I’d always been haunted by a childhood tale of terror which claimed that during the time of the full moon, gargoyles and other strange demons sprang to life and went prowling through the darkness, seeking whom they could devour. On such a black night, hurrying from the Chambre Ardente with its own devils of flesh and blood, I could well believe such a tale.

Once back in her own chamber Isabella dismissed the sleepy pages and maids and took me into the window enclosure, sitting me down beside her. She opened the latched door and stared out, oblivious to the cold breeze pouring in.

‘Strange,’ she murmured, ‘when I was a child I heard a sermon by a Franciscan preacher about the devil. He described Satan as having a face blackened by soot, his hair and beard falling down to his feet. His eyes were of glowing iron, sparks sprang from his mouth and evil-smelling smoke billowed out of his mouth and nostrils. He had feathered wings sharp as thorns, his hands bound by manacles.’ Isabella grasped my arm and drew me closer, resting her lovely head on my shoulder. ‘Then Mother died. I rose one night, came here and opened this latch window. It was a beautiful summer’s night. In the cloisters below my father was strolling with his coven in the cloisters. They wore their capuchons and deep-sleeved robes; bats were squeaking, rooks calling. On that night I changed my mind about the devil. The true demons were out there and the bats and crows, their servants, came flying out of the sleeves of the robes of my father and his minions. On that same night I dreamed an owl flew into my mouth, sat down on my heart and embraced it with its taloned claws. In my nightmare I went hunting with my father in the woods of Fontainebleau; they say it’s haunted by the devil, riding a dog, scouring the woods with a troop of demons dressed in black. Anyway, I felt as if I was condemned to ride those woods for ever.’ She lifted her head. ‘Dreams, physician, how can you explain them, eh? A trick of the digestion or humours out of harmony, fanciful theories?’ Isabella closed the window. ‘Mathilde, I always remember that evening. What I thought, what I saw, what I felt when I dreamed: I thought I was trapped in hell, but now I am to be freed. You must come with me. I need you.’

‘My lady, I am grateful.’

‘Don’t.’ Isabella drew a deep breath and rose to her feet. ‘Don’t be grateful.’ She picked up a set of Ave beads, lacing them through her fingers. ‘Just be careful, Mathilde! The demons may know who you are and they may try, just once more.’

Warnings are like birds; they come and go, quickly forgotten, especially in that busy Christmas season. The feasting and revelry over the twelve days of the holy feast culminated in the ceremonies of the boy bishop and other jester antics of the Epiphany. During this season the English envoys were constant visitors to Isabella, dancing attendance on her, Baquelle in particular eager to describe London and its importance. On reflection Baquelle was a busybody, full of his own importance. Lord Wenlok’s death hardly concerned him, even though it was he who was charged with arranging the dispatch of the abbot’s embalmed corpse back to his brethren at Westminster, a task he accomplished as if sending a basket of wheat or a tun of wine. Sandewic grew more taciturn, studying me closely as if trying to reach a decision. Casales and Rossaleti worked closely together; through them I learnt the news of the two courts. How the confrontation between the English king and his leading earls had intensified, whilst in Scotland the war leader Bruce was threatening England’s northern marches. In Paris the passion of the Templars continued with denouncings, torture, mock trials and false convictions, followed by bloody execution. I prayed on my knees for those unfortunates. I lit tapers for their souls. I gazed into the night and vowed vengeance, but my time had not yet come.

After Marigny’s questioning I also reflected on de Vitry and his household, slaughtered by that mysterious assassin. Had he been lurking there when I entered? Who could it have been? Even Sandewic, a seasoned warrior, could not annihilate an entire household so quickly. And Sir Hugh Pourte falling like a stone from that window? Was the outside wall scaled by black-garbed assassins? And Lord Wenlok ending his pompous life writhing on the floor like a wounded dog? Why had they all been killed? Murder or a series of accidents? All a mystery, but those were my green days of youth before I’d passed through the Valley of Deadly Nightshade and walked the Meadows of Bloody Murder. Moreover, I was distracted. The French court were now preparing to leave, one busy day following another. The list of Isabella’s possessions grew as her father insisted that she be a resplendent bride, a royal Capetian princess, soon to be Queen of England and the mother of a long line of kings.

New household officials gathered. Isabella’s retinue became swollen with the appointees in every department: the kitchen, the buttery, the chancery, hanaper and chapel. Of course, many of these were Secreti, placemen appointed by Marigny. Others were chosen by Isabella herself, men and women such as her nurse Joanna, who’d served her as a child. A few were complete strangers; one in particular had significance for the future, a Gascon, Jean de Clauvelin, from a small village, or so he claimed, outside Bordeaux, now working in Soissons. He was a notary who had acted as attorney for the Abbey of St Jean des Vignes; a dry-eyed, scrawny-headed, dusty-faced man with a nervous tic in his right cheek, ink-stained fingers and constantly dripping nose. Despite his appearance Jean was most skilled in chancery work; even so Isabella was surprised at his appointment and petitioned her father for the reason. King Philip’s reply was curt: de Clauvelin was an accomplished man who would be acceptable to the English court. Isabella pulled a face when she heard this but did not demur. On one thing, however, she was determined, reminding me of our mutual oath. In public she would act her part, but never, in the company of her household, must she and I discuss what she termed res secretae or les affaires secretes — secret matters, a promise both of us kept. True, God knows, our secret circle increased, but that was the way of it, I swear on the Gospels, on my soul. Isabella was queen, later ruler of England for over twenty years, but she never broke that oath until Mortimer. Ah yes, Mortimer, but he was a new world of fresh beginnings. I strike my breast — mea culpa, mea culpa — but I digress.

Isabella’s wardrobe became filled to overflowing, crammed with precious goods. Two crowns ornamented with gems, gold and silver drinking vessels, precious spoons, fifty silver porringers, twelve great silver dishes and twelve small ones, dresses of gold, silver, velvet, satin and shot taffeta, gowns of green cloth from Douai, six beautifully marbled and six of rose scarlet. Costly furs, hundreds of yards of linen, night cloths, shifts and cloaks were provided together with splendid tapestries emblazoned with lozenges of gold depicting the arms of France, England and Navarre. Throughout these preparations, however, she remained highly anxious, more about me than herself. She asked me time and again what had happened in the Chambre Ardente. Every time I answered she would nod and concede that her father’s minions dare not do anything against me because of her, at least nothing direct. Nevertheless I was to be careful. She made a practice of publicly sharing whatever I ate, whilst I accompanied her everywhere. Murder, however, creeps soft and sly.

On occasions I had to perform errands to the city for my mistress. I loved such outings, especially expeditions to the left bank of the Seine. Nothing was more refreshing than crossing the bridge, past the Petite Chatelet and into the narrow winding lanes with their tall gabled houses rising up from the cobbles, leaning towards each other, one storey stacked above the other. The lower ones were decorated with incredible carvings of fantastical beasts and creatures. I loved to dally and stare at these as I did the forest of scrolled, painted signs of the shops and stalls offering a wide range of goods. It was good to stand at stone fountains or pause under the arched shrines at every corner with torches burning in constant prayer beneath. The shifting sea of colour and smells, the ordinary chatter of the day soothed the soul; the constant braying of horses and pack animals answered by the yip of dogs or drowned by the strident shouting of journeymen above the clanging of bells. Despite Isabella’s strictures I needed such visits, an escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the court. Usually I would cross the bridge accompanied by two Genoese bowmen, cheerful rogues specially chosen by the princess, brothers Giacomo and Lorenzo, small and squat, with tough, scarred faces. They were twins, two friendly gargoyles; the only way I could tell the difference between them was that Giacomo had a slight cast in one eye.

Now, once the festivities of Christmas were finished, sometime after the Feast of the Relatio Pueri Jesu de Aegypto on 7 January, the crowds on the bridge were too pressing. Giacomo declared we would take a boat from the royal wharf to the Quai des Augustins on the far bank. The Princess was sending back to a parchmenter a bulky parcel of certain goods found wanting. I remember that morning so well. Casales, Rossaleti, Sandewic and Baquelle were in Isabella’s chambers. The English envoys, increasingly concerned about the amount of goods being stockpiled, were engaged in teasing banter with Isabella’s officials. I wanted to escape and instructed Giacomo that we would go before noon. We left the palace, and the crowds milling along the bridge confirmed our decision to take a royal boat across the fog-bound river. We hurried down to the wharf, where our craft had been prepared. I sat in the stern, grasping a hunter’s horn; Giacomo asked me to blow it every so often so as to alert other boats on the river, whilst he lit the lantern hanging from a hook on the prow. The two brothers grasped the oars, grinning wickedly at me. I always filled the mouth of the horn with spittle, which made them guffaw with laughter. They bent over the oars, giggling and chattering to each other. To humour them I blew a long braying blast; through the mist other horns answered whilst flaring lanterns winked warningly. Our boat surged forward to be caught by the river to twist and shudder on its current.

Death is surely like a shaft loosed out of the darkness. We had hardly gone far when I heard a sound to my right, the mist shifted and the huge sharp prow of a large war-barge was almost upon us, bearing down with hawk-like speed. It crashed into us, dead in the centre. The two Genoese simply went under. I slipped down into the swirling dark water, the cold numbing me until I panicked, gulping mouthfuls as I sank into the gloomy-green bubble-strewn depths. Giacomo and Lorenzo were already drifting corpses weighted down by their cuirasses and war-belts. I didn’t know if they could swim. I could. After all, the rushing streams and weed-strewn ponds and lakes of Bretigny nourish many plants, so I’d learnt to swim as I had to walk. The real danger was my heavy boots and cloak. I kicked and shrugged these off and broke to the surface. All was silent and deserted except for the distant noise of horns and the mist-shrouded glow of lamps. I lunged out, hoping I was swimming back towards the royal quayside, and screamed as a boat pulled alongside. Torches flared, rough hands grasped my shoulders. I kicked and screamed until a hard voice shouted:

‘Taisez vous, taisez vous, nous vous aidons!’ Be quiet, be quiet, we are helping you.

I was dragged aboard, glimpsing dusty, seamed faces; one of these bent over me, chattering like a sparrow. I became aware of the stench of raw fish and struggled to sit up, coughing and retching. I was safe amongst these poor fishermen. They gathered around me asking questions. I begged them to search for my escort. They did so but it was fruitless. The raw cold gave me a fit of the shivers. The fishermen said they had to leave, they could do no more, comforting me with goblets of raw wine, declaring that such accidents on the river were common, especially when the sea mist rolled in. Nevertheless, I could see even they were suspicious. The war-barge which had hit us had quickly disappeared. I’d glimpsed no lantern light on its prow, heard no horn to betray its presence. No alarm had been raised. All I could remember was its shooting speed, like that of a lunging snake.

The fishermen wrapped me in coarse blankets, sat me in the stern and brought me back to the Maison du Roi at the centre of the palace. The captain of the guard, realising what had happened, sent a message before us. Isabella, accompanied by Casales, Rossaleti and Sandewic, hastened down to the courtyard to meet me. She thanked the fishermen lavishly, instructing Casales to take their names for future rewards, while Rossaleti was sent back for a small cup of silver which Isabella pushed into their hands. Casales and Rossaleti were full of questions; Sandewic remained tight-lipped, staring at me intently, his falcon-like eyes cold and hard, shaking his head as if talking to himself. Isabella asked where Baquelle was; Sandewic gestured with his head towards the gatehouse.

‘Gone to the city.’

‘I hope he is safe,’ Isabella whispered.

All three of the English envoys decided to search for Baquelle, whilst Isabella took me into the kitchens. I stripped and wrapped myself in a thick robe, soft slippers on my feet, then squatted in front of the great roaring fire and drank mulled wine until I drifted into sleep. When I woke I was in Isabella’s chamber, none the worse for such an ordeal, though frightened and fearful. I wanted to scream at the princess that we should leave. She just sat on the edge of the bed grasping my hand, stroking it carefully, questioning me closely. She agreed it was no accident. I, too, was certain of that, but as for why and who was responsible. . Isabella explained that when I’d left she’d been talking with the English envoys. The appearance of her brothers, smiling maliciously, had provoked her unease; they’d come up pretending they wanted to talk to the English but then sauntered off. I asked if she thought they were responsible. Isabella shook her head. She said she didn’t know, but confided that all three, together with Marigny and Nogaret, would escort us to England after the coronation. She ordered food from the kitchens and fed me herself. Now and again she’d pause, patting me on the arm, muttering in Navarrese, a sign of her own deep agitation.

After that I never left the palace. I remained haunted by those chilling images, the sharp curved prow, the boat bearing down on us, the Genoese bowmen, arms and legs splayed, floating down into the green darkness, the icy waters wrapping around me. Who had planned it, why? Were they waiting for us? I’d made a mistake. Our preparations that morning had been loudly proclaimed, Giacomo and Lorenzo going down to the royal wharf searching for a boat. Such anxieties vexed my mind and gnawed at my heart. Of course the attack was meant to look like an accident, but what was its sinister root? The malice of the princes, Isabella’s brothers? Marigny’s suspicions? King Philip’s resentment at my closeness to his daughter? Or was it something else?

Uncle Reginald had instructed me always to study cause and effect, to gather evidence, yet in my heart, I was convinced the attack had something to do with the massacre at the de Vitry mansion. Marigny had specifically questioned me on that, but why? Had the lonely assassin been hiding there all the time, watching me closely? Had I seen something the importance of which I did not recognise at the time?

Sandewic came to visit me. He brought me a present, a copy of Trotula’s writings which he’d bought in the Latin Quarter. The rough old soldier pushed this at me, saying that he was grateful I had survived, adding that he was even more grateful that his rheums and fever had disappeared whilst the ulcer on his leg had healed beautifully. He was clumsy and off-hand. He wished to talk with me but he was still suspicious and wary, so after a short while he again mumbled his thanks and left. As for the rest, my mishap was viewed as an unfortunate incident; courtesies were offered, polite messages sent, but it was a mere speck on the court preparations. By the Feast of St Hilary these were completed and the heralds proclaimed the day and hour of departure.

A long line of carts, carriages and pack animals crossed the Seine bridges, skirting the city, heading north-east into the barren, frozen countryside towards Boulogne. An uncomfortable, jolting journey. The great power of France, banners and pennants fluttering, moved slowly through the bleak countryside, levying purveyance as it went, resting at royal manor houses, palaces, priories and monasteries. Isabella and I journeyed in a carriage stiffened with cushions but still jarringly uncomfortable; we would often change and risk the bracing air by riding soft-eyed palfreys. At night we ate, drank and warmed ourselves, then slept the sleep of exhaustion. It was a hard, coarse winter. The countryside never seemed to change, just rutted track-ways winding past ice-bound fields, meadows and pasturelands, all shrouded by those soaring hedgerows and deep ditches so common in Normandy. The peasants, learning of our approach, gathered their goods and stock and fled, but the seigneurs, priors and abbots had no choice but to smile falsely and welcome our arrival as a great privilege.

Isabella and I kept to ourselves. Now and again we tried to distinguish and name the different plants we noticed or speculate about what would happen in Boulogne. The English envoys were often in attendance but they too became numbed with the sheer grind of the passing days. At last we approached the coast, the countryside giving way to sand-strewn hills and wastelands. A salty, bitter sea wind cut at our faces yet we all rejoiced as the spires and turrets of Boulogne came into sight.