The Poison Maiden

Chapter 9

We met the Lords mid-afternoon, deep in the enclosure of the abbey precincts. The garden was ringed on three sides by buildings that soared above us, brooding buttresses, carved cornices, glorious stonework and the occasional stained-glass window that caught the sun and dazzled in brilliant colours. The fourth wall was ornamentally crenellated; it even had a small military gatehouse above its double-door entrance. The abbot’s garden was what a poet might call a subtle conceit. Carefully positioned to catch the sun, it possessed all the elaborate ostentation of a planned garden, with sunken pavements, smoothed lawns, garden plots, herb banks, benches of limestone, turf seats and tunnelled arbours with copper poles tied with willow cord over which rose plants and vine shoots climbed. Small stew ponds glittered. Lead-lined pools splashed and gurgled under water gushing out from fountains carved in the shape of bronze falcons. On either side of the gatehouse four luxurious yew trees blossomed, representing, so the abbot told us, the Blessed Trinity and the Virgin Mary. The central lawn had been prepared for the concilium. An eye-catching pavilion displaying the abbey arms, three doves on a green background, had been erected. Inside stretched a long trestle table covered with waxen cloth; along this, cups, goblets, tranchers and bowls glittered in the light pouring through the vents in the top and sides of the pavilion. The sweet scent of herbs mixed with the fragrance from the bowls of freshly cut flowers and the perfumed smoke from gilt-edged incense boats filled to the brim with burning grains. Chairs and a cluster of stools stood at each end for the Lords and the queen dowager’s party. In the centre, on each side, were throne-like chairs for Robert Winchelsea and Abbot Kedyngton, who would act as mediators and arbitrators.

We were all ushered in. The queen dowager took her seat, as did the leading earls, Lincoln, Pembroke and Warwick. Lincoln was soft-faced, with a mop of white hair. He smiled genially and sat clasping his pot belly. On his left was Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, tall and angular with a sallow, pinched face; his raven-black moustache and beard, neatly clipped, emphasised a thin-lipped, womanish mouth. He sat narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips as if wondering whether he should really be present. On Lincoln’s right sat the Earl of Warwick. He was cold and distant, a hard face made even more so by the small, unblinking eyes and broken nose, his protuberant mouth like that of an angry mastiff. Dishes were served. A light collation if I remember well: venison pastries followed by dishes of marchpayne, and red, white and sweet wines. I singled one of these out, Maumeneye, tasting of pine nuts, cinnamon and other spices. Sitting on a stool behind the queen dowager, I loudly whispered that such a wine should not be served to my mistress in her present condition. A reminder about Isabella’s possible good news.

Abbot Kedyngton said the grace. Winchelsea bestowed his blessing and reminded everyone that each meal was a reflection of the Eucharist, so it should be conducted in peace and harmony. We had little choice. They all sat and ate as we did. The queen dowager sent her cup to the three lords, a sign of great trust, but any further dialogue was impossible. Abbot Kedyngton had been cunning. Any real conversation between the two parties, or among themselves, was cleverly obstructed. The flaps of the pavilion had been folded back and a choir of novice monks chanted romantic songs, including a favourite of mine. I recall the opening words:

‘Sweet lady, innocent and pleasing,

I must take my leave of you.

I do so with heavier heart

Than any man could ever imagine.’

I watched Winchelsea. He sat in his throne-like chair garbed in the brown robe of a friar. He was red-faced, his high cheekbones and sunken eyes portraying his anger, bony fingers brusquely tapping the table showing he wished to proceed. Eventually Kedyngton left the pavilion. The choir fell silent. Once the abbot had returned, Winchelsea, with little ceremony apart from a nod in the direction of the queen dowager, turned to Lincoln.

‘My lord, you have certain matters to lay before us.’

Warwick fished beneath the table and handed Lincoln a scroll tied with a green ribbon. The earl undid this, laying it out flat. First he respectfully saluted Winchelsea and Kedyngton and thanked the latter for his hospitality. Lifting his head, he complimented the queen with sweet words, ignoring the table-rapping of Pembroke and Winchelsea. He then listed the gravamina — the grievances — of the earls, followed by the articuli, or articles that would bring about redress. I listened carefully. Mere words then, dusty words now, but they reflected the earls’ hatred for Gaveston. The document, prepared by some clever lawyer or chancery clerk, soon touched on the heart of the problem. It wasn’t that Edward loved Gaveston or showered favours on him, but that he had ignored those who, by birth, were his natural advisers and councillors, entrusting both the realm and the council to an upstart. In a word, they wanted Gaveston dead, but they disguised this in smooth words and clever phrases. They insisted a parliament be called to redress a whole series of grievances, and demanded a commitment by Edward that he would rule justly; that he would seek the advice of those qualified by birth and God’s good grace to give it. Above all, Gaveston must go. The earls wanted him arrested and imprisoned to answer the charges levelled against him: abusing the royal favour, stealing royal treasure, violating the peace of the kingdom. I could list more, but go to any chronicle or the chancery archives and you will find it there, the same indictment Lincoln published on that clear March day so many, many years ago.

The earls were not in the mood for conciliation. Lincoln rapped the table with his knuckles, insisting that what they demanded must be completed before Easter without any let or hindrance. Once he had finished, Winchelsea turned to the queen dowager. The archbishop was a born fighter, a man used to the move and counter-move of debate and hot words. He had no love for the young king, or his father, and now all his venom and hatred spilled out. He warned the king, through the queen dowager, how he was violating his coronation oath, whilst his imprisonment of Langton was a direct attack on the Church. Edward risked the horrid sentence of excommunication that Winchelsea would certainly pass against Gaveston. Winchelsea then moved on to other matters. He conveyed to the queen dowager how deeply distraught the Holy Father was about the treatment of the Church in England, as well as Edward’s obstinate refusal to take effective measures against the Templars. Those words chilled my heart. I glanced at the queen dowager. She sat, her beautiful face all masked, eyes slightly closed, head turned as if listening very carefully to what was being said.

Once Winchelsea was finished, Abbot Kedyngton invited the queen dowager to reply. Margaret simply sat staring down at the tabletop. She turned to her left as if going to speak to me, then to the right where Margaret of Cornwall, Agnes and Guido sat. Finally she put her face in her hands and began to weep; quiet, subdued, shoulders shaking. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hands and, lifting her head, solemnly made the sign of the cross. Then she began to speak, first rather faintly, so the earls at the end of the table had to strain to catch her words. Nevertheless, she had prepared well. She talked of the glories of her late husband’s reign, of the community of the realm; of Bracton’s principle, ‘what affects all must be approved by all’; of her stepson’s tender years; of his need for good advice; of his love for his realm, his natural affection for the Great Lords, and how Gaveston enjoyed a unique position in the king’s heart and life. She then moved to my mistress. At first she hinted, then she became clearer. The queen might be pregnant, expecting an heir; this was not a time for conflict or dissension. The community of the realm must unite. The king must be given time to reflect on the grievances and demands of his earls. She would do her utmost to advance their cause but there was no need for haste. It was apparent from her words that she had negotiated and met individually with each of the Great Lords; Lincoln, Warwick and Pembroke were clearly moved by what she said. Winchelsea was more obdurate.

‘There are other issues,’ he trumpeted, his beaked nose cutting the air, red spots of anger blooming high on his sunken cheeks. ‘The Holy Father is most insistent, the Templar order must be crushed.’

‘Hush, my lord,’ the queen dowager intervened. ‘Matters are still sub judice — I understand that King James of Aragon is equally determined to discover the truth behind the allegations against the Templars and has delayed proceedings.’

Winchelsea nodded angrily. ‘But there is the question of New Temple Church,’ he riposted, ‘which lies within my archdiocese. It is the heart and centre of the Templar order in this kingdom. I am, my lady, more than prepared to accept what you say on condition that New Temple Church and its environs be handed over to the See of Canterbury. After all,’ he pointed at dark-faced Pembroke, ‘it is not just a Templar church, is it? It also holds the remains of your revered ancestors.’

Pembroke nodded vigorously. Margaret replied that she understood and would place such a petition before the king. The earls appeared to be mollified. Nevertheless, I felt a deep unease. The magistri scholae — the masters of the schools — will pose the question: Quod erat demonstrandum — what must be proved? They argue that all matters must be brought under the rigour of the intellect. Yet surely we are more than this? One of the great attractions of herbs is that they are more than the sum total of their parts, root, stalk and flower. They may also contain a benevolence or a malignancy hidden to the eye. If that is true of simple plants, how much more of us, body, mind and soul? I listened to that debate. Oh, it was logical, but it contained something else, hidden and dangerous. Hindsight makes philosophers of us all, yet at the time, I smelled treachery. I sensed all this must end in violence. Gaveston was certainly marked down by the Angel of Death. The fury seething within these Great Lords was obvious. Little did I realise the full malice of Edward’s opponents.

At last an accord was reached. The earls expressed their delight and hopes that Isabella was truly enceinte. They sent her their loyal felicitations, and as for the matter in hand, they would postpone their demands for Parliament to be reconvened. They understood how the king would be absorbed with his young wife so the business of council would have to wait. On her part, the queen dowager promised to bring their grievances before the king, as well as Winchelsea’s specific request regarding New Temple Church. Other minor matters were swiftly dealt with and the meeting ended.

The queen dowager, hand in hand with Lincoln, led the way out of the pavilion into the garden. I heard Agnes’ hissed exclamation and glanced to my right. Marigny, Nogaret and Plaisans had appeared. They were just within the gateway, with two other men standing in the shadows behind them. These followed Marigny as he walked across the grass towards the queen dowager. I recognised Alexander of Lisbon and one of his lieutenants. The French envoys were all dressed in sombre clothes with the odd flurry of white at collar and cuff. They walked with power, their arrogance obvious; they didn’t even bother to bring along the Abbot of St Germain, who was only a figure-head. They all wore knee-high boots coated in mud, spurs clinking ominously. They’d apparently come from the hunt and were now eager to join a fresh one.

I abruptly recalled being in a beautiful meadow with my father many years previously, a warm summer’s day, the grass ruffling under a gentle breeze. We were watching hares, golden skins glowing as they danced in the freshness of the morning. Abruptly floating shadows darkened the meadow as buzzards swooped in to hover threateningly. So it was on that day. Marigny and his coven were a cluster of hawks come to seek fresh quarry. They grouped around Lincoln and the queen dowager whilst abbey lay brothers scurried up to serve pewter cups brimming with chilled Rhenish wine.

‘How low the king has fallen,’ Guido murmured. ‘The envoys of France gather like carrion crows on a carcass. In the old king’s day they’d have had their backsides kicked and been sent packing.’

‘They claim,’ Agnes murmured, ‘that their main concern is her grace the queen, how Gaveston has usurped her position.’

‘Nonsense!’ Guido hissed. ‘Philip meddles for Philip and for no one else. Be not tender towards Marigny, Agnes.’

I could sense a quarrel was brewing. I felt tired, uneasy. I wanted to be alone. I walked across the lawn to a barrel chair facing the herb beds, placed, I suppose, so the abbot could sit and savour their sweetness. I sat down, sipping at the wine a servant handed to me. I was determined to make sense of all I’d seen and heard. Memories and images danced through my mind like sparks above the coals. So absorbed was I, I jumped as the shadows grouped around me. I glanced up, shading my eyes. Marigny, Nogaret and Plaisans, with Alexander of Lisbon standing behind like a grim black crow, were grouped around me. Marigny cradled his cup against his chest. He smiled like old Renard studying a capon he’d trapped.

‘Why, Mathilde de Clairebon.’ He leaned down. ‘So far from home, so lonely.’

‘And yet so happy!’ I retorted. ‘Well, I was until a few heartbeats ago.’

Plaisans sniggered. Nogaret slurped at his wine. Alexander of Lisbon studied me as if trying to place me. I wondered then if he knew the full truth about Demontaigu and myself. Marigny toasted me with his cup.

‘We’ve discovered a great deal about you, Mathilde de Clairebon, niece of Sir Reginald de Deynecourt, physician general no less in the now disgraced Templar order.’

‘You murdered him!’

Marigny waved a hand like a master correcting a particularly recalcitrant scholar. ‘No, no, Mathilde, you don’t know the truth.’

‘Something we must have in common.’

‘We could have a great deal more. .’

‘Oh, we do, my lord. I hate you! If I can, I will kill you.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘You do not frighten me, you and your fellow crow-souls,’ I hissed, ‘toad-spawn, killers, liars, perjurers, blood-soaked assassins.’

Marigny stepped back, and for a moment I glimpsed his confusion at such a retort.

‘We could ask for your return to France. We could demand it.’

‘You could also ask the sun not to set.’

‘Your mother, Mathilde?’

‘Don’t talk of her!’ My hand felt for the dagger concealed in its hidden sheath in my belt.

‘Oh, I. .’ Marigny paused, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps. .’

‘Mathilde, are you well?’

I whirled round. Guido was striding across.

‘Mathilde, come.’ He gestured. ‘You must meet my lord Abbot.’ He glanced anxiously at me, then at my group of taunters.

‘We are talking,’ Marigny demanded. ‘I do not need your presence Master Guido, better known as Pierre Bernard. The Provost of Paris would certainly like to meet you. As for Mathilde-’ His words were cut short, their dagger-like message never delivered. A trumpet shrilled three times from beyond the gate, followed by a pounding that shook both doors. Lay brothers hastened to open them. Gaveston, dressed completely in chainmail beneath a livery of scarlet and gold, silver-rolled spurs clasped about his mailed ankles, coif pulled over his head, ornate helmet swinging from the cantle of his saddle, rode slowly through the gate like the Bringer of Battles. Behind him walked three squires, two of them carrying banners, the third a trumpet. On Gaveston’s left arm was a triangular shield emblazoned with the eagle arms of his house, in his right hand a mailed leather gauntlet. All conversation died. Marigny hurried away. Gaveston remained motionless; his superb dark destrier, in full battle armour, pawed the ground as if eager for the charge. The favourite stood high in his stirrups.

‘I have been called a coward!’ Gaveston’s voice thrilled with passion. ‘I am no coward.’ He flung the gauntlet down. ‘I challenge any man here to meet me.’

The assembled company simply stood and gaped. The destrier snorted, shaking its head. Pembroke moved to go forward, but Lincoln gripped his arm. Marigny, one hand raised in peace, walked forward.

‘My lord. .’

‘Either pick up the gauntlet,’ Gaveston jibed, ‘or stand aside, sir.’

Alexander of Lisbon pushed his way through and picked up the gauntlet, beating it against his thigh to clear the dust. Then he threw it back at Gaveston, who caught it deftly.

‘I am Alexander of Lisbon, a knight.’ The Portuguese voice was harsh as it echoed round the garden. ‘I accept your challenge.’

The favourite leaned down, gently stroking the neck of his warhorse. ‘I recognise you, Alexander of Lisbon. You are a knight, and if it is to be done, then it is best if we finish this business quickly. The tourney ground behind the Old Palace within the hour?’

The Portuguese nodded. Gaveston turned his horse and, followed by his squires, slowly left, the gates slamming shut behind him. Immediately the festivities were forgotten. Household retainers, squires, pageboys and servants were sent scurrying through the abbey and palace announcing the news. Winchelsea openly protested that the challenge was against the Truce of God, an agreement demanded by the Church that tournaments be banned between Thursday evening and Monday morning so as to avoid the holy days of Friday and Sunday. His words went unheeded. I slipped out, hurrying back across the abbey grounds into the palace and through the gatehouse into Burgundy Hall. Of course, my mistress already knew. Edward and Gaveston had planned this carefully. Isabella was ready, cloaked and hooded.

‘Good, good,’ she whispered, grasping my arm, eyes bright with excitement. ‘Men’s fury, like their seed, must spurt out, then we’ll have a time of peace. Come, Mathilde.’

When we reached the tourney park, the stands were already filling. The old tournament ground or lists have now gone, replaced by a more splendid affair. In my day it comprised a long barrier covered with coloured canvas. The fighting ground itself was ringed by a palisade two yards high; this in turn was encircled by a fence about fourteen feet tall. In between the two were the stands, and in the centre, with a clear view of the lists, the royal box draped in blue and gold, all being busily prepared by liveried servants. We waited for the king. Edward arrived jubilant as a boy. He swung a richly brocaded cloak about his shoulders, shouting that he was prepared to wager on Gaveston’s victory. Everything was frenetic. Heralds, trumpeters and grooms were running around. The list was scrutinised, straw scattered around to break any fall. Sunday or not, the stands filled: monks, clerks, servants, not to mention the retinues of the Great Lords, all eager to gain entry. Edward and Isabella, escorted by those members of the household nimble enough on their feet, pressed into the royal box and sat on their throne-like chairs. Ap Ythel, sweat-faced and cursing, tried to impose order, pushing back the throng to allow a breathless queen dowager to sit alongside Isabella. Around the tourney ground, the stands filled. Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, emerged as master of ceremonies, riding into the list emblazoned in the glorious colours of his house. Pennants and banners were flown. The lists cleared. Gaveston, fully armoured, face and head hidden beneath an ornate helmet with a leaping fox on top, entered the far side of the tilting yard. Alexander of Lisbon, garbed in black, an old-fashioned helmet over his head, cantered in escorted by two of his coven. Both combatants were called to the centre of the list, and de Clare had quiet words with them. The herald announced that the course would be run with blunted lances. After three turns, swords would be used.

I cannot remember all the details. A beautiful spring day slowly dying; the tourney ground bathed in sunlight and shadow; the royal box packed to overflowing; the excited crowds, puffs of dust rising; traders trying to earn a quick profit with jugs and buckets of wine as well as ‘the clearest spring water’. Then silence, an ominous quiet. Once the two combatants rode back to either end of the lists, trumpets blared. Banners and pennants were raised and lowered. Gaveston, astride his destrier, sat motionless as if carved out of stone. Alexander of Lisbon raised his shield and couched his lance, bringing it up and down as if testing the weight and poise. De Clare rode out to face the king across the lists. Edward lifted a hand. De Clare followed suit. Edward’s hand fell. Trumpets shrilled. De Clare’s hand opened. The red silk pennant floated like a leaf falling to the ground. Both fighters, as if possessed by some invisible fury, urged their horses forward. Both were skilled riders. Their destriers broke from a trot into a gallop, faster and faster, hooves churning the earth. They met in a shatter of lances. Gaveston swayed in the saddle. The crowd leapt to its feet but the favourite regained his poise. Again they faced each other. Fresh lances were brought. Squires gathered round checking girth and harness. De Clare rode forward. Edward raised his hand again. I sat beside my mistress on a faldstool, peering over the rim of the decorated rail. The red silk fell. The charge began. The hammering hooves, the creak of leather and the resounding clash as both combatants splintered their lances on each other’s shields. I studied the crowd and wondered if Demontaigu was there. I glanced over the rail. Gaveston had taken off his helmet, splashing water across his face. Alexander of Lisbon was doing likewise. Squires and pages went under the horses’ withers, testing saddle straps and stirrups. Alexander of Lisbon asked for a new shield. Once again de Clare rode towards the king. Alexander of Lisbon came forward, shield slightly up, lance couched. Gaveston put on his helmet and grasped the lance from a squire, but then surprised his retainers by refusing the shield.

‘Foolish boy! Foolish boy!’ the king breathed.

Gaveston had decided to show his courage by riding the third course without a shield. Alexander of Lisbon appeared perplexed. His horse turned from side to side, and the Portuguese expertly brought it back under control. I recalled what Demontaigu had said about Alexander: how he had served in campaigns against the Moors both in Spain and along the River Tagus in his native Portugal. Gaveston seemed rather shocked, shoulders hunched, head forward as if something terrible had happened. De Clare, however, was watching the king, whose hand rose and fell. The red silk pennant floated down. Alexander broke into a charge. Gaveston waited for a few heartbeats, then he too came on. I watched intently. The saints be my witness! I have never seen anything so daring or courageous. Alexander of Lisbon’s lance was now pointed directly at Gaveston’s unprotected chest. Even though the favourite was wearing mail, one thrust could be fatal, yet just before they met, Gaveston displayed his incredible skill. He actually swayed in the saddle but at the same time kept his lance directly on Alexander of Lisbon’s shield. The Portuguese missed. Gaveston’s lance hit him full on. The Portuguese rocked in the saddle. He dropped his shield in an attempt to gather his reins but he was lost. His horse was at full charge. Alexander tipped from the saddle and, with a resounding crash, sprawled flat on the ground. For a few heartbeats there was silence, and then the entire crowd, led by the king, jumped to its feet clapping and shouting, praising the Gascon’s courage. Trumpets blared. Heralds and squires thronged into the lists. Alexander of Lisbon’s Noctales ran across; two carried a stretcher, though their leader seemed stunned rather than hurt. He staggered to his feet, took off his helmet and threw it to the ground. At least he had the courtesy to turn and raise his hand in salute to Gaveston, who was now riding round the tourney list, lance raised, to receive the acclaim and plaudits of the crowd. He stopped before the king, lowering the tip of his lance to a few inches before Edward’s face. The king was smiling. Gaveston took off his helmet and handed it to a squire who came running up. Edward undid a rich bejewelled bracelet from his wrist, clasped it shut and placed it on the tip of the lance.

‘Well run, my lord, you are the victor!’

Gaveston bowed, his lance came up, and the glittering bracelet slipped down the pole. He saluted the queen and, turning his horse, rode in triumph from the tourney ground.

I sprang to my feet and went behind the king and queen. To the right of the royal box clustered the Lords with Marigny and his companions. The look of fury on their faces told me everything.

Despite Gaveston’s victory, the murderous darkness, unbeknown to me, was gathering thick and fast. The king and his favourite were jubilant at the victory and immediately withdrew into the fastness of Burgundy Hall to celebrate. I recall passageways lit with torches. Servants hurried around. Edward had already arranged for the beautiful Grande Chambre at the heart of his palace to be prepared. The hearth was ablaze, the flames curling up and cracking the scented dried logs. On pillars either side of this, a grinning wodwose gaped out with other mantle-faces. Ceremonial shields, vividly proclaiming the royal arms of England, France, Castile, Gascony and Scotland in a variety of brilliant colours, ranged along each wall. Beneath these were arrayed eye-catching murals and hangings. In one darkened corner stood a camel embalmed and stuffed after death, in the other a fully grown lion, apparently pets of the king when he was a boy. These grotesque beasts, dead yet looking so alive, peered out on to a splendid scene. A great trestle table, covered in cere-white cloth, was laid out. The most exquisite goblets, cups, jugs, platters and bowls of gold and silver, along with cups of pure Venetian glass, glittered like lights in the glow from the fire and candles. The king, clapping his hands, strode about proclaiming loudly that he had no doubt about the outcome of the tourney. I recalled stories I’d heard: how Gaveston was a superb jouster, a warrior despite his foppish ways. Both he and his royal master now wished to celebrate their victory and the humiliation of their enemies. The king sat on a throne at one end of the table, Gaveston on a similar chair at the other. The queen dowager and Isabella sat on the king’s left and right. Margaret was intent on telling Edward about the details of the concilium in the abbot’s gardens. The Countess of Cornwall sat on Gaveston’s right with myself on her left. Guido and Agnes were also included.

I shall describe the scene as memories, pricked by danger, return like whirling snowflakes in a flurried storm. A triumphant, gorgeous occasion! Gaveston looked resplendent in green and white silk, full of his own prowess. Edward sat laughing, slapping the table in glee. Ap Ythel, dark-faced, deployed his archers around the chamber and in the galleries and rooms beyond. The Welsh captain assured Gaveston that the cause of the foul odours had now been removed. Gaveston shouted back that he wished other, more fetid smells could be as easily expunged. The food was served by a myriad of servants. A stream of dishes came from the royal kitchens along a passageway under the choir loft at the far end of the hall. Musicians grouped in the loft above tried to play but eventually gave up due to the shouts and laughter from the king and his favourite.

I remember certain dishes: juschelle stuffed with egg and herbs; Carmeline beef; boiled and spiced veal; oat-stuffed pike. Isabella was watchful and tense, as she always was when her husband was in his cups. The king could be generous but he was also fickle-tempered. He could move swiftly from bonhomie to heart-breaking cruelty. When he announced loudly how he hoped she was enceinte, Isabella grimaced with annoyance. Nevertheless, there was no stopping the queen dowager; she eventually persuaded Edward to listen to her. She asked Gaveston and Guido to exchange seats so that the favourite could also learn what had been discussed and agreed. Gaveston playfully teased that he was Lord of Misrule and now was not the time for advice. Eventually, persuaded by Margaret and Isabella, and slurping noisily from his wine cup, the favourite staggered to his feet and waved Guido to his vacant throne-chair. I was distracted between Agnes and trying to listen to the queen dowager. What I remember at the time is what I recall now. Guido had taken his wine cup, though he had drunk sparsely during the meal. I definitely remember him sipping at the Venetian glass of water Gaveston had left behind. The banquet continued. Edward and Gaveston were laughing at Winchelsea’s petulance, only to sober at the queen dowager’s mention of New Temple Church.

The king pulled a face but nodded. He patted Gaveston on the arm and remarked how such a concession was perhaps worth it to keep a Great Lord. The candles burnt low. Fat blobs of wax formed on the gilt-edged spigots. The king’s hounds were allowed in to feed on the scraps. The musicians tried again. Servants hurried in and out, clearing the table. I was becoming impatient to leave. Isabella looked tired and heavy-eyed. The banqueting chamber filled with flickering shadows. I noticed Guido had left his seat. I was about to fill my mistress’ water glass when Ap Ythel came hurrying into the chamber.

‘Sire,’ he announced, bowing low. He raised himself, trying to control his breathing, and clapped noisily. The sound of the harp and lute died. Edward and Gaveston glanced up. ‘Sire.’ Something about Ap Ythel’s face and tone made my stomach clench. ‘Mistress Mathilde,’ he gestured at me, ‘you’d best come.’

‘What is it, man?’ Edward bellowed.

‘Master Guido has collapsed in the garderobe!’

‘No, no!’ The queen dowager’s fingers flew to her lips.

‘Drunk!’ Gaveston scoffed.

‘I think not, my lord. He is ill. He claims he might have been poisoned.’

‘How?’ demanded Agnes, pushing away her wine goblet. ‘We drank from the same jugs. .’ Her voice trailed off as she stared to where Guido had been sitting. ‘The water. .’

‘Sire, my lords,’ I pushed back my chair, ‘Master Guido needs my help. I beg you not to drink or eat any more.’

Isabella nodded in agreement. Edward sprang to his feet, shouting that the hall should be secured. I followed Ap Ythel out along the dark, draught-filled galleries to a garderobe at the far end; a small vaulted chamber built into the wall under a narrow window. The door to this was flung open, and a lantern horn on a hook just inside shed a pool of light. Servants carrying torches and candles were grouped around a man kneeling in the garderobe, head over the wooden bench with a hole in the middle leading down to a gulley that fed into an iron-bound barrel. Guido was vomiting; every so often he would kneel back on his heels as if to rise, only to lurch forward again to retch noisily. I pushed my way through. Using my authority and Ap Ythel’s presence, I dispatched a servant for bowls and napkins. Guido, as God is my witness, was, at that moment, very sick.

Ap Ythel and I managed to get him to stand. He was pallid-faced, sweat-laced and retching, complaining of pains in his belly, weakness in his legs and tightness in his chest. Ap Ythel said he should be taken to the royal infirmary, a sheltered room on the top floor of the palace above the royal quarters. I agreed, and followed them up to the spacious chamber. The walls of lime-coloured plaster were scrubbed clean, the floorboards polished to a shine. It was well aired by two casement windows. In between these stood a broad four-poster bed with a canopy of dark blue, its sheets, bolsters and coverlets clean and crisp to the touch. On the wall opposite hung a huge crucifix with paintings either side showing a blond-haired, freshly shaved Christ in gorgeous robes healing the sick and raising the dead. We managed to put Guido into bed, half propping him up with bowls on either side of him. I hastily scrutinised him — he was clammy, and a red rash had appeared on his arm and the top part of his stomach. I ordered Ap Ythel to bring fresh water and forced Guido to drink. He was encouraged to retch and vomit; closet stools were also brought.

‘For a while,’ I declared, ‘the contagion will press down on his bowels. We must try and purge the poison from him.’

I sniffed at the sick man’s mouth. The wine and food odours were obvious, but there was something else, the bittersweet fragrance of a flower I could not place. I hastened back to the Grande Chambre, where the king and Gaveston had set up a summary court of oyer and terminer. Cooks, scullions, servants and maids, terrified out of their wits, were being roughly questioned in the presence of Ap Ythel’s archers. These were no longer the laughing, singing yeomen who lounged in gardens and yards, teasing and joking with the maids. Their dark faces were now sombre, hoods pulled up, packed quivers slapping on their backs, bows over their shoulders, long stabbing dirks in sheaths or rings on their belts. These men were devoted to Edward and an attack upon him was an attack upon them. The mood in the hall was oppressive, chilling and threatening. The archers pushed and prodded the servants forward to kneel before Edward and Gaveston; who sat behind the trestle table like justices intent on a hanging. Isabella was stone-faced. The countess sobbed prettily, whilst the queen dowager immediately jumped to her feet when she saw me, almost hysterical about her ‘dear Guido’. I hastily assured her and hurried to whisper in Isabella’s ear. She nodded.

‘This is mummery,’ she agreed, ‘nothing to the good. My lord?’ Her voice rang out strong and carrying, echoing around the banqueting chamber.

Edward, surprised, turned.

‘My lady?’

‘This is not justice.’ Isabella waved at the terrified servants. ‘You have no proof or evidence they were involved. Why should they wish to harm anyone in this hall?’ Her words were greeted by a murmur of assent from the servants. ‘My lord,’ she gestured at me, ‘this mystery is to be prised open with a dagger rather than a mallet.’

Edward glanced at Gaveston. The favourite sat hunched in his chair, red spots of anger high in his cheeks. He clicked his tongue and stared at the huddle of servants as if he wished to behead them all with his sword. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He muttered something to himself, glanced at the king and nodded. The hall was cleared; only members of the royal party remained. Edward imperiously beckoned me forward to the far side of the table. I went to kneel.

‘My lord!’ Isabella hissed.

Gaveston placed a hand on Edward’s arm. The king, fickle as the moon, smiled and waved me to a chair next to his wife. The atmosphere changed. Edward flicked his hand at the table crowded with cups, platters and mazers.

‘Mathilde, ma petite, we are listening.’

I swiftly told him about Guido’s ailments and symptoms. Edward heard me out, then ordered me to move round the table and scrutinise the various cups and bowls. In the end I could find nothing amiss except for the beautifully fluted Venetian water glass set for Gaveston but drunk by Guido — empty except for a few dregs. I caught the same strange flowery smell I had detected from Guido and the garderobe, which I had inspected on my return to the banqueting chamber. A sharp, brief discussion took place as to how the water could have been poisoned. Matters were complicated by the possibility that Guido may have been the intended victim rather than Gaveston. The queen dowager described the French envoys’ open hostility to her squire, a malice I had also witnessed earlier in the day. Yet again, what are words and looks? Perhaps they should have been more closely scrutinised at the time. The queen dowager added that such an attempt was likely following Guido’s open delight at the Lord Gaveston’s victory. Edward sat nodding, speaking quietly to himself in Castilian, the tongue of his beloved mother, a strange habit that manifested itself whenever he was deeply agitated. Questions were asked about how the poison was introduced. Everyone realised the futility of pursuing any logical answer. Servants had clustered around the table, household retainers had come and gone, even members of the royal party had left their seats to approach Gaveston to offer their congratulations at his victory. This was the only allusion, veiled though it was, that the assassin might have been one of our company.