The Poison Maiden

Chapter 10

Strange, I sit and reflect on this page of my chronicle. How the events of that long-lost Sunday opened a path to so much. The loose thread in a tapestry of lies and deceits. Truly our words and actions are seeds for the sowing. They quicken and thrust up, all ripe for the harvesting. Nevertheless, at the time, the sinister threading of that sombre tapestry continued to be woven. Guido was now in the royal infirmary, visited by court physicians. Queen Margaret, all tearful and piteous, like a damsel from some Chapel Perilous, entreated me to take special care of him. I did so.

At first Guido vomited and retched, and his bowels became loose. Red rashes appeared on his skin. He continued to have some difficulty breathing. I purged him with fresh water and fed him on broths thickened and rich. The danger passed. The queen dowager with her children, the countess, Agnes and a few other chosen retainers moved into Burgundy Hall to personally supervise Guido’s recovery. Where possible, I slipped out of the palace, away from my care of Guido and other duties, to meet Demontaigu. He was still absorbed with his own troubles and the possibility of a traitor, a Judas man, amongst his brethren. He told me how many of his comrades had now scattered into hiding. I told him about Guido. Demontaigu believed the intended victim must have been Gaveston. According to him, the Great Lords were seething at the favourite’s victory over Alexander of Lisbon, who, Demontaigu ruefully reflected, had suffered little more than a few knocks and bruises, the blow to his pride being the worst. Demontaigu also confirmed what Isabella had secretly confided in me. The Great Lords gathered at Westminster were becoming restless. They had brought their retinues into the city and the daily cost of maintaining their men under arms was biting deep. Edward and Gaveston’s strategy began to emerge. They might be under siege at Burgundy Hall, protected only by the power and sacredness of the Crown, but the Great Lords were spending their revenues on this costly exercise. Some of them were already negotiating with the Bardi, the Italian bankers in Lombard Street, for fresh loans. Winchelsea was drawing heavily on the revenues of Canterbury as well as daily reminding the king about the transfer of New Temple Church.

Demontaigu was deeply intrigued by Winchelsea’s interest in a Temple church. On the Wednesday following the concilium, he invited me to the private celebration of mass in his locked chamber. Despite the surroundings, the makeshift altar and pewter vessels, it was, as always, a solemn, sacred occasion. I found it deeply intriguing. Demontaigu often quoted the bishop’s oath from the ritual when a priest was ordained: ‘The Lord has sworn a great oath. He will not repent of that oath. You are a priest for ever according to the order of Melchisedech.’

‘I will always celebrate my daily mass,’ Demontaigu confided in me. ‘Whatever the cost!’

I watched him that morning breathing the sacred words over the host and the chalice, transforming them into the Body and Blood of the risen Christ. I could not ignore the fact that I loved this man, who was also a priest sworn to celibacy. I had asked him about this earlier in the year, before the clouds gathered and the dangers threatened. He had been teasing me about my bold eyes and purposeful poise.

‘How,’ I’d retorted, eyes fluttering like any dainty maid, ‘can you be so attracted by the flesh when you are sworn to chastity?’

Demontaigu glanced sadly at me, blinked and looked away before turning back to kiss me fiercely on the forehead.

‘I am sworn to chastity but not forbidden to fall in love.’ He smiled. ‘There is no vow or oath against that.’

On that particular morning I remembered those words as Demontaigu finished his mass. Afterwards I helped clear away the sacred vessels, which he kept concealed in a locked iron-bound coffer. I would have loved to discuss the matter of his priesthood again, but Marigny’s words about my mother were beginning to nag and tug at my soul. Demontaigu was also more concerned about his brethren and Ausel’s determination to discover the Judas amongst them.

‘Four of our comrades died after the attack on us in the Chapel of the Hanged.’ Demontaigu acknowledged my surprise. ‘Eternal rest be given them. One died suddenly; he had a weak heart. Others received wounds which turned rotten. Either that,’ he sighed, ‘or like other brothers they just lost the will to live. I have prayed for them. Other priests have sung the requiem. Now,’ he placed the keys of the coffer in his wallet, ‘Winchelsea hungers for New Temple Church.’ He opened a leather satchel, and fishing amonst its contents, drew out and unrolled a finely drawn map of London. Head close to mine, he pointed out the location of New Temple, with its frontage on the Thames. He described how a curtain wall circled the church, hall, barracks, stables and other outbuildings. I stared fascinated as he explained how the church was circular, a replica of the Temple in Jerusalem; the long chancel beside it had been added later. Staring at that map, I immediately recalled Chapeleys’ drawing of a circle with a letter P in the centre.

‘Pembroke,’ I whispered. ‘Winchelsea claimed that the Earl of Pembroke’s ancestors are buried in the Templar church.’

‘True,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘but not his direct family; rather that of William Marshal and his descendants, who first held the title of Pembroke.’

‘And when was New Temple Church seized?’

‘Last January.’

‘And Langton, when was he arrested?’

‘Earlier in the autumn.’

‘So your king died in July last, and Langton was his treasurer.’ I tried to curb my excitement, my thoughts pressing in. ‘Who was in charge of New Temple Church, its preceptor, its master?’

‘You know that, Mathilde! William de la More: he is now under house arrest at Canterbury.’

I bit my lip to hide my excitement at the first crack of light piercing the vaulting black mysteries around us. Demontaigu could see I was absorbed but I dared not speak, a skill my uncle taught me: to reflect, plan and never act hastily. I kissed Demontaigu absent-mindedly on the cheek and left his chamber pretending, as I often did, to be carrying a pannier of documents from one of the queen’s clerks. I went down across the yard. A cool, calm day was promised. The sun was strengthening, the sky freshening. I heard my name called. Robert the groom, dressed in dark fustian, a leather apron flapping about him, hurried out of an outhouse. He explained how he had been inspecting horses’ hooves. Drying his mud-strewn hands on his apron, he asked if he could speak to me. I nodded. He was sweaty-faced beneath his tousled hair. Breathlessly he thanked me for my help, gingerly feeling his neck.

‘I thought I’d hang, mistress.’

‘You were fortunate, Robert. You drew a dagger on a royal official in the king’s own palace; that’s treason.’

Robert cheerfully conceded his own stupidity but begged me to come into the outhouse as he had a present, a gift for me. Still distracted, I agreed. We walked into the warm, musty darkness, past the stalls into a small enclosure with its crude pieces of furniture. On an old barrel that served as a table, a battered lantern horn glowed. Robert drew his dagger and, inserting it between two wooden slats fixed to the wall, prised up the bar behind. He grinned over his shoulder at me.

‘I know how to do this.’ The small recess beyond, built into the stone wall, served as a secure coffer. Robert took something out and slammed back one of the slats then the other on which the wooden bar was fixed. I watched curiously as he used his dagger to pierce the gap to ensure the bar had fallen down on to its clasp. I recalled those window shutters at the Secret of Solomon. Robert, intent on his gift, opened his hand and offered me a carving of a horse, small but exquisitely rendered, lifelike in all its fine detail.

‘I did that myself.’ He waggled his shoulders in embarrassment. ‘I could be a carpenter, mistress.’

‘Its beautiful,’ I smiled, ‘thank you.’

‘A gift, mistress, it’s the best I could do.’

‘And Anstritha?’ I teased. ‘Is she sweeter towards you?’

Robert blushed.

‘There’s something else, mistress.’ He accompanied me out into the yard. ‘On the night Rebecca was murdered,’ he stammered, ‘I was looking for her. I crossed the Old Palace Yard near the door to the stairs where that clerk,’ he nervously cleared his throat, ‘the one you know. He has his lodgings in the corner?’

‘Demontaigu?’

‘Yes, and where that other clerk was found hanging from the window-door.’ Robert licked his lips. ‘On that night everybody was getting ready for the feast. The yard was deserted; I glimpsed a shadowy figure. .’

‘Man or woman?’

‘Oh, definitely a woman. She wore a cloak but I glimpsed the kirtle beneath. She went in through the door to the staircase leading to your clerk’s chamber.’

‘You have a description?’

‘Mistress, the light was fading. I just noticed how swift she was. I had troubles of my own. I forgot it, I was more concerned about Rebecca, it’s just that. .’

‘What, Robert?’

‘What’s happening here, mistress? I mean, who was that woman, and what about those workmen going in and out of Burgundy Hall?’

‘What about them, Robert?’

‘Mistress, as you know,’ he smiled ruefully, scraping his mud-caked boots on the cobbles, ‘I’m hot-tempered. Everyone knows that! A year ago, around Martinmas, I was drinking in the Pot’s Yard, a tavern near the Royal Mews next to the Queen’s Cross. I stabbed a man. He was only lightly wounded but I fled to the sanctuary; you know, the enclosure north of the abbey where the sheriff’s men cannot pursue. .’

I knew all about the sanctuary enclosure, an ancient privilege where malefactors, wolfsheads and outlaws could shelter unscathed, free from the reaches of the sheriffs and their bailiffs. A place of villainy. A melting pot of wickedness, it still is. I was surprised that Robert should be in such company. I half listened to his story, then he paused, fingering the leather apron.

‘Strange, mistress! Some of those workmen in Burgundy Hall, I’ve seen them before in the sanctuary.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Mistress, you never forget some faces: the cast in the eye, the scar, the way a man walks or sits, but there again, I might be mistaken.’ He shrugged. ‘After all, I have been in sanctuary; now I work in the royal stables. Perhaps they too have secured honest employment.’

I thanked him and walked across the palace yard, down alleyways and narrow paths. I took a wrong turn and came out on to the broad field that separates the palace from the abbey. Apparently it was Laver Day, when the chancellor of the abbey had to provide fresh straw for mattresses and bath mats as well as supply wood for the calefactory, the warm room, where the monks would bathe in tubs of oak; this was preceded by the head-shaving, when the monks sat in two rows in the cloisters awaiting for the attentions of the barber. Labourers were now organising all this. Carts full of fresh straw, linen towels, jars and pots were lining up outside the south door of the abbey. I was caught by the beauty of the massive soaring stone, the buttresses, pillars, gleaming new stonework and precious glass glinting in the windows. I walked along a path, just stopping where the carts turned as they trundled down towards the abbey. A bell clanged. I was about to walk away when I smelled a flowery fragrance, almost the same as I’d noticed in that water glass Guido had drunk from. I hurried after the cart from where the smell seemed to originate. The lay brother sat half asleep, clasping the harness straps; he glanced in surprise but, at my insistence, reined in.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes!’ He smiled at the silver coin between my fingers. ‘How can I help you, mistress?’

‘This cart is sweet-smelling.’

‘Why, yes, it carries herbs for the monks’ baths; always get the best they do.’

‘What herb?’

‘Mistress, I am a carter by trade, a lay brother by profession, I am no-’

‘Apothecary?’

‘Yes, mistress, that’s where I’ve been, down to the spicery on the quayside.’

‘Do you have a list of what you are carrying?’

‘Of course.’

Someone shouted at the lay brother to move his cart; he just raised a hand, fingers curled in an obscene gesture. He gave me the parchment. I handed over another coin. I unrolled the spicery scroll, noting the various herbs listed: rosemary, violet, lavender, dry hops and others. I memorised as much as I could, then thanked him, returned it and hurried down a lane that would lead back into the palace grounds. At the entrance to Burgundy Hall, I asked Ap Ythel if all was well. He replied by asking why it shouldn’t be. I enquired about the workmen. He shrugged and said they came and went; the latrines and garde-robes had apparently become heavily clogged. They had been cleaned and the refuse taken down to the river. Some of the workmen, he admitted, were lazy and tended to wander off if not properly supervised.

‘The king indulges them,’ he declared in that sing-song voice. ‘Anyway, mistress, you have a visitor.’ He shook his head. ‘A messenger, but first the queen dowager has left strict instructions that you must go and see her. Master Guido is not yet fully recovered.’

Guido, in fact, was still pallid-faced and weak. He leaned against the bolsters with Agnes on his left, the queen dowager sitting on the bed feeding him broth. She welcomed me with the sanctimonious expression she had developed to such perfection. Agnes looked solemn, lower lip jutting out, lost in her own thoughts. Guido stretched out his hand and grasped mine.

‘Mathilde, the physicians came to bleed me. No.’ He let go of my hand. ‘I refused. Mathilde, what poison was it? Have you discovered?’

‘I don’t know. Some herb or flower with a perfumed smell. I’ve consulted the leech books, but as you know, different powders can smell the same.’

‘Henbane, foxglove, belladonna,’ he held his stomach, ‘it could have been any of those. Thank God for you, Mathilde. I remember now,’ he smiled, ‘sitting down at Gaveston’s chair. I had not taken my wine; his water glass looked full and untouched.’

‘Didn’t the odour alarm you?’

‘No, no, I took a deep draught. True, I smelt the perfume,’ he shrugged, ‘of flowers, or herbs. I thought it was a fragrance from the feast. I’m recovering, Mathilde, still weak but I wish to thank you, as well as beg you,’ he licked his lips, ‘to discover what the poison was.’ He leaned back against the bolsters. ‘Her grace thinks I may not have been the intended victim but the Lord Gaveston-’

‘Never mind that,’ the queen dowager interjected. ‘Once you’ve recovered, we shall all, including Agnes, go on pilgrimage to give thanks to the Lord’s Precious Blood at Hailes Abbey. Do you know, Mathilde, the Abbey itself. .’

I fled that sick-chamber as soon as I could and hastened along to Isabella’s quarters. In the waiting hall clustered servants and men-at-arms; Ap Ythel’s archers sober-dressed in their dull brown and green livery compared to the flame-haired members of Gaveston’s Irish mercenaries, with thier flamboyant garb and long hair. All these gathered in window alcoves, enclosures and entrances or just squatted on the ground with their backs to the wall, eating, drinking and dicing, waiting either to be called for some task or to be relieved of their duty. The passageway leading down to the queen’s chamber was guarded by a cluster of household knight in half-armour, swords drawn, resplendent in their blue and gold livery. I stared round, looking for the messenger, and glimpsed a grey-haired man, his high-heeled boots mud splattered, the hood of his green cloak pushed back to reveal weatherbeaten skin, deep-set eyes and a neatly clipped beard and moustache. The kindly face was familiar. I went towards him. He glimpsed me, smiled and rose. I remembered Raoul Foucher, a neighbour of my parents’ farm near Bretigny, a landowner and trader in skins and leather goods, a righteous man who often visited my mother. We clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace. Raoul, beneath all the pleasantries, was anxious to speak alone. I took him beyond the bar, and one of the royal knights escorted us down the passageway to sit on the quilted seats in a deep window enclosure. I asked Raoul if he needed something to eat or drink. He just grasped my hand.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon.’ He spoke slowly, as if I’d forgotten my own patois. ‘Mathilde, it is good to see you. The guards told me how close you are to the queen.’ He winked. ‘You always were clever, Mathilde. Now listen. I am in London only one day. I must return to Dover by the end of the week when the cog La Cinquieme returns from Wissant. I have brought no letter from your mother; she thought that might be dangerous. No, no,’ he shook his head, ‘your mother is well. She sends her love. Like all of us she is getting older, but my sons help on the farm. All was quiet.’ He shrugged. ‘Season followed season. No one knew where you’d gone after the arrest of your uncle and the chaos in Paris. It was the same out in the country-side. Templar houses and properties were seized and ransacked, their communities arrested and carted off to prison. Tales became common about the torture, degradation and cruel execution of Templars. Royal proclamations described them as sons of Satan, sodomites, idolaters, heretics and warlocks. Few people believed such lies. This was a matter for the king, his lust for gold, his greed for power.’ He paused. ‘You sent a message to your mother that you were safe, yes?’

I nodded.

‘No one believed the stories about men like your uncle, but we considered that a matter for the Great Ones of the land. I never thought your mother was in any danger until last month. Groups of horsemen, black-garbed mercenaries called Noctales, appeared in Bretigny. They proclaimed they were there to hunt down fugitive Templars, though according to common knowledge, very few had escaped. To put it bluntly, Mathilde, for at least ten days, using royal warrants, the Noctacles requisitioned your mother’s farm.’ He let go of my hands and rubbed his face. ‘The experience was not pleasant. You know the law: royal troops, armed with writs of purveyance, can quarter on any chateau, village or farm.’

‘My mother wasn’t hurt?’

‘No. I went down there. The Noctales were bully boys, the dregs of the slums. They helped themselves to food and wine, roistering and sleeping in the stables and barns. I did my best. I objected, asking why Catherine de Clairebon should be their sole host.’

‘Was their leader Alexander of Lisbon?’

Raoul pulled a face. ‘No, the leader of these crows was a Burgundian called La Maru. He was, is, I think, a defrocked cleric. He was different from the rest, cold-eyed with a weasel soul. He rejected my plea, saying I should complain to the king at the Louvre or, if I wanted to, Mathilde de Clairebon sheltering amongst the Goddams at Westminster. I understood from your mother that La Maru made this reference time and again before he left, promising they might well return before midsummer.’

I tried to control my fears. Raoul knew, I knew, my mother knew, and so did Marigny, the root cause of such abuse, hence that unfinished threat in the abbey gardens. I was being punished, warned through my mother because of my hostility towards Philip and his minions from hell. I questioned Raoul most closely but he could say no more. Perhaps he was being kind and wished to save me from the litany of petty cruelties and indignities inflicted upon my mother. He was nervous, anxious to be gone from such strange surroundings. I told him to wait, hurried to my own chamber and brought from my precious store two small purses of silver coins. I explained that one was for him, the other for my mother. He refused. I still thrust both into his hands, and begged him to reassure her of my love and tell her that I was well but, for the moment, could not return to France as it would be too dangerous. He listened carefully, promised me he would do all he could and left.

Un bon homme, Monsieur Foucher. I have a special Book of Hours, once beautiful, its vellum cover now tattered, aged with use, stained and frayed. At the back, like any good bedeswoman or chancery priest, I have a list of those souls I pray for. People who did what they could when there were so many reasons why they should pass by on the other side. Raoul is one of these. After he left, I fled to my own chamber and crouched in the corner, staring at the light pouring through the lancet window. I sat huddled, seething with fear, hate, revenge and a deep, cloying sense of despair. When would this all end? I stared at the bleak crucifix and prayed for an end to my heart bubbling like a cauldron, full to the brim with disorderly, dangerous humours. My gaze wandered to a triptych of St Anne, mother of the Virgin, bending over her precious child. I prayed to her even as I recognised the words of Augustine: how demons can cloak themselves in thick, moist bodies such as steam from a pot or foul gases from a marsh. Did such demons prowl now, wrapped and wafted in the perfumes of this palace, drifting along its corridors and galleries, sliding like a mist, searching for the gaps and crevices in the armour of my soul? I prayed to St Anne and breathed in deeply. Images of my mother floated through my mind. I’d always been closer to my father than to her. I believed I was more the expression of her love for him than the object of her love. Nevertheless, the ties of the womb are the strongest. I wept for how her gentleness must have suffered at the hands of the Noctales. God forgive me, I seethed with hate for Marigny, Alexander of Lisbon and La Maru.

A tap on the door roused me from my reverie. A pageboy, hair all tousled, pushed his cheeky face through.

‘Mademoiselle Mathilde, you must come, the queen waits for you.’

I rose to my feet, straightened my dress and hurried after him into the gallery. The queen was in her own private chamber. She was sitting on the edge of her hung bed, its gorgeous tapestries bundled back over the rods above her. She was dressed in a linen shift gathered high at the neck, her feet pushed into silver-gold slippers, her long hair hanging free down to her shoulders. She was humming to herself as she arranged the playing cards Marigny had brought her from France, sorting them into sections: hearts, trefoils, pikes and squares. She sat as if immersed in this, unaware of anything else as I closed the door behind me. By then I knew her. Isabella was at her most dangerous when she looked the most innocent!

‘What is wrong, Mathilde? You’ve been back some time, I understand? Yet you did not hurry to see your mistress.’ She gestured at a stool close to the bed. I sat down and told her everything that had happened. She kept playing with the cards and, after I had finished, continued to arrange them into sets of four.

‘Do you know, Mathilde,’ she gathered one set into her hand and clenched them tightly, ‘while you were gone, I went across to the abbey; the good brothers, I understand, are preparing for their head-shearing. Anyway, I examined the misericords, the carvings beneath the stalls where the monks sit. Grotesque scenes! A witch riding a cat, a man fighting a dog, a mock bishop, Samson tearing a lion’s jaws, and next to that, a jackal devouring a disinterred corpse. I wondered, Mathilde, do such paintings reflect the humours of our tangled souls? Let us forget about our problems here.’ She stared at me with those icy blue eyes, her lower lip clenched between her teeth. ‘Your poor mother, Mathilde, what shall we do about her?’ She threw the cards on the bed and lifted a finger. ‘I shall certainly write to my father. What I don’t want is to be like Herod in that play we are preparing for Easter. You remember?’

I nodded, though I scarcely did. Isabella had a love of such mummery and liked nothing better than to hire players and watch their comic antics. She was a keen reader of their texts and had learnt some of the lines, which she would mouth with the leading characters.

Isabella closed her eyes. ‘Remember Herod’s line? “Out, out, out! I stamp. I stare. I look about! I rant! I rage! Now I am mad. The brat of Bethlehem? He shall be dead.”’

‘Mistress?’ I queried.

‘Mathilde,’ Isabella opened her eyes, ‘we must not rant and shout but sit and watch. This is the waiting time. We must be subtle, as full as trickery as our opponents. So, let us think, then let us prepare. .’

Two days later my mistress, clothed in shimmering cloth of gold, her chair of state strewn with blue silk tapestries boasting the gorgeous lilies of France, invited Enguerrand de Marigny and Alexander of Lisbon to share sweet wines from Spain and honey-coated cakes. The ostensible reason was to thank the Portuguese for accepting Gaveston’s offer of battle as well as commiserate with him for injuries received. Isabella, the perfect minx, her hair and beautiful face framed by a snow-white wimple, a gold circlet round her head, had issued the invitation and received the Lord Satan and his imp, as she called them, in her inner chamber. Marigny, of course, dared not refuse. Moreover, he was full of curiosity as well as diplomatic questions about whether Isabella was enceinte. He came clad in the dark, rich robes of a lawyer, except for a froth of white around his throat and wrists; rings glittered on his fingers; around his neck was a silver chain carrying a large gold fleurde-lis — a sign that he enjoyed his royal master’s personal favour. Alexander was clothed in the usual black cotehardie and leggings, a white cambric shirt beneath. He looked unaffected by his fall except for mild purple bruising on the right side of his face, a sprain to his wrist and a slight limp. Both were ingratiating to my mistress. I was ignored. The Lord Fox, his sharp, pointed features frozen in a smile, red hair combed and coiffed, darting green eyes full of malice, did glance sharply at me; his thin lips twisted in a smile before he returned all adoringly to my mistress with a litany of false flatteries. Alexander of Lisbon, dark face smouldering, tried to ape such subtle deceit but found it more difficult.

I served goblets of sweet wines and silver dishes of sweetmeats and frumentaries. My mistress was a born actor, playing the part, the gracious queen, the gentle hostess. I recalled those accounts I had drawn up for the plays to be staged at Easter: ‘Pontius Pilate paid five shillings. Demons one shilling and fourpence. The man who imitated a cock crowing, fourpence. The drapers who acted the end of the world, three shillings. The person who kept the fire at hell’s mouth, fourpence.’ I reflected on these as I watched my mistress closely. She was acting. She saw everything as a play: the various parts were assigned, the roles to be played, and she had to deliver her lines. She was a mistress of the moment, the dramatic change, the subtle tone. She allowed Marigny to treat her as if she was some infant babbling away, then abruptly put her goblet down and leaned back in her chair.

‘My Lord Marigny, tell my father I may not be enceinte. I deeply regret, but perhaps I will not bear a child, at least this year.’

Marigny’s eyes fluttered. He slurped noisily at the goblet and glanced sharply at me as if wondering whether this had been a trap all along.

‘I wish now,’ Isabella’s voice became hard, ‘to move to another matter. Alexander of Lisbon, are you enjoying that wine?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Do you know it is poisoned?’

The Portuguese almost dropped the goblet but grasped it in time. Marigny leaned forward, hand extended; Isabella fluttered her fingers and he quickly withdrew.

‘Your grace,’ the Portuguese gabbled, ‘you are joking?’

‘Think, sir,’ Isabella continued, ‘Mathilde here poured the wine. She distilled a concoction in yours.’ She sipped from her own goblet. ‘Do you feel the effects, an irritation in your stomach?’

Alexander of Lisbon’s dark face creased in concern. He licked his lips and put the goblet down.

‘Your grace would not poison me?’

‘Why not?’ Isabella retorted.

Marigny sat, eyes darting from Isabella to me then back again.

‘Your grace, what is this? I am your father’s envoy.’

‘So you are, Monsieur Marigny. You wage war against my husband and his favourite, as do I, you know that.’ Isabella smoothed over the lie. ‘You bring this man here to do your bidding. Is that not so, Alexander of Lisbon?’

The Portuguese nodded. He was now clutching his stomach, staring agitatedly at my mistress.

‘I think we should talk about Mathilde, Monsieur Marigny,’ Isabella continued. ‘You are her enemy. She is yours. We both know the reason why. Last month, Alexander of Lisbon, your men, under a Burgundian named La Maru, were quartered in her mother’s farm: Catherine de Clairebon of Bretigny, do you remember that? Swiftly now, and I might tell you how to heal yourself.’

Alexander of Lisbon nodded quickly.

‘That must stop,’ Isabella said quietly. ‘Do you understand me, Monsieur Marigny? That shall stop! You, sir, if you have dealings with Mathilde de Clairebon, deal solely with her, like two warriors in a list, but her mother, an ageing widow — surely, sir, the rules of combat exclude her?’

Marigny half smiled. ‘And my companion,’ he asked, ‘Alexander of Lisbon? Is he to fall ill like Master Guido, to vomit and retch? How would your husband explain that? What does that say of you, mistress?’

‘Do I have your word,’ Isabella insisted, ‘that Catherine de Clairebon of Bretigny will not be abused or ill treated?’

‘I cannot say. . I. . I do not know. .’ Marigny paused. Alexander, white-faced, was clutching his stomach in apparent discomfort.

‘Yes you do,’ Isabella insisted, ‘as will my father in my next letter to him. I will tell him that is my wish. Catherine de Clairebon is to be treated most tenderly and fall within his love as she must within yours, Monsieur de Marigny! Do I have your word? If I do not, your friend and companion will certainly fall ill. I shall still write to my father explaining how you frustrated my wishes. Do I have your word?’

Marigny shrugged. ‘Your grace, provided your father agrees, you have my word.’

‘And you, Monsieur Alexander?’ Isabella turned, all smiles, and the Portuguese, hand on his stomach, stared fearfully at her. ‘Do I have yours?’

‘Yes, your grace,’ he gasped.

‘And this La Maru — he has now come from France? He is with you here in England?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘He is to be dismissed from your company immediately, without stipend or payment. Do you agree?’

Alexander of Lisbon looked quickly at Marigny, who nodded imperceptibly.

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Good.’ Isabella rose to her feet, walked across to a side table and poured a beaker full of water, then took it back and thrust it into the Portuguese’s hand. ‘Drink, Alexander.’ She patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘You have nothing more than a mustard paste in your stomach. No, no.’ She daintily held up a hand to fend off his protest. ‘The point I am trying to make is that this time what you drank was innocent; it will cause some discomfort, but it will pass. Next time, Alexander of Lisbon, if you try to hurt Catherine de Clairebon or any of her family and friends in France, the potion you shall drink will be deadly.’

Isabella sat back on the throne-like chair, hands folded across her stomach. She smiled sweetly at her two guests.

‘You see, Monsieur Marigny, I too have power and influence. If I cannot protect those I love, what princess am I? What queen am I? Reflect carefully on what I have said and done today. Moreover, what can you do: protest to my father in Paris? He’ll be angry, but in his secret chamber, he will reflect and laugh behind his hand at what happened. And you, Master Alexander — do you want to tell your company how you were tricked and deceived by a mere girl and her maid?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. You delivered a warning to Mathilde. I have delivered one back. I have drawn a line; cross that line and we will be enemies. Observe the truce, and so shall I. You see, Monsieur Marigny,’ Isabella held her hands up, clasping them together as if in prayer, ‘what my husband and Lord Gaveston do is one concern; what happens in my own household is another. You must observe the division, you must observe the line. Do I have your word?’

Marigny cocked his head to one side and stared impudently at my mistress as if assessing her for the first time.

‘Your grace,’ he leaned forward, ‘do you wish to have further words with us? My companion, as you can see, is distressed and we should retire.’

‘I have spoken what I wish, Monsieur Marigny. You and Alexander of Lisbon may withdraw.’

Marigny and the Portuguese rose to their feet. The Lord Satan bowed. He was about to turn away but, of course, he had to say it, end our meeting with some subtle flattery.

‘Your grace,’ he smiled, ‘now I can see you are truly your father’s daughter.’

‘And so I am, Monsieur Marigny,’ Isabella replied, ‘and you must remember that. I tell you this.’ Her voice thrilled slightly. ‘Monsieur Marigny, you should look to yourself and to your own. You tie yourself to my father’s belt, and if he rises, you rise with him, but have you ever thought what happens when he falls, if he falls?’

Marigny looked shocked, as if he had never contemplated such a possibility.

‘You should be careful, Monsieur Marigny. The world is changing, and so must you. I bid you adieu.’

Once they had gone, Isabella leaned forward, face in her hands, and giggled quietly to herself. She let her fingers fall away.

‘Well, Mathilde, did we do well?’

‘Very well, your grace, very well indeed.’

Isabella took a deep breath and sighed noisily.

‘Mathilde, what I said to Marigny is true. Everything is changing. This is a time of weeping and waiting. Yet I’ll confess this to you. One day my Lord Gaveston must go. He cannot remain dancing on the green for ever.’

‘You oppose him, mistress?’

‘No, Mathilde, I do not. I have studied Edward most closely; I must control him as any woman must a man. Edward and Gaveston,’ she locked two fingers together, ‘they are not two but one: one body, one soul, one heart. Some day, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, the Great Lords will seize Gaveston and kill him. Once he dies, Edward will retreat like a hermit into his cell. He will hide deep within his soul and plot vengeance. Anyone who had anything to do with Gaveston’s fall or destruction will rue the day. When that happens. .’ Isabella half smiled, ‘I want to ensure that my name is not on that list of those who caused his fall.’

‘So you will not move against the favourite?’

‘I did not say that, Mathilde. All I will ensure is that my name is not on that list. Now come.’ She got to her feet. ‘What is that magpie riddle? Let’s dance to it. How does it go, Mathilde?’

‘One for anger, two for mirth. .’

‘Ah, that’s right.’ Isabella took it up. ‘Three for a wedding, four for birth, five for rich, six for poor, seven for a bitch, eight for a whore, nine for burying, ten for a dance, eleven for England, twelve for France. You see, Mathilde, I have learnt it well. Now come. .’ She spread her hands. ‘Show me the dance.’

My mistress was in a strange mood. When we had finished, she collapsed on the bed, laughing, begging me to bring some fresh water. She straightened up, drained the cup and handed it back to me.

‘Mathilde, let us go to St Stephens’ Chapel and pray for your mother. After that,’ she gestured across the tables strewn with manuscripts, ‘my lord wishes to entertain me and the Lord Gaveston. I will be absent this evening. You need not be in attendance.’ She peered at me. ‘I will leave you to your own thoughts. Perhaps it is time, yes, we try to thread this maze.’