The Poison Maiden

Chapter 11

Later that evening, my mistress left to join the king and Gaveston for a private supper party. I was always excluded from such meetings. The Evangelist be my witness, Isabella rarely talked about what happened there. On that night, I recalled what she’d said about staying close to the king. God knows how she did that. Perhaps Edward welcomed unreserved support for his favourite when no one else gave it. Perhaps her friendship for Gaveston confirmed the king’s perception of his own morality. If Isabella, his beautiful young queen and wife, accepted the favourite, then what fault was there in it? The chroniclers have written about Isabella as the Virago, the Jezebel. They talk of her arrogance, her adultery, her wickedness — that is only monks feeding on their own pleasures. Isabella had many virtues; chief amongst these was her patience, tried and tested long before she ever came to England. She could wait and watch. She would accept insults and jibes with the sweetest smile, then smile and smile again. ‘A time and place under heaven for everything,’ so says Ecclesiasticus; it could well have been Isabella’s personal motto.

On that particular evening, once the queen had left, I was closeted in my own chamber, warm and secure, the doors and shutters locked, a brazier crackling, a copper chafing dish fiery with charcoal nearby. I wrapped a cloak about me, prepared my writing tray and reflected like any good student of physic on the symptoms I had observed.

Primo: the Poison Maiden, Ancilla Venenata, La Demoiselle Venimeuse. Who was she, he or it? An actual person, or more than one? An event, as Guido had suggested, such as the king’s marriage to Isabella, or even Gaveston’s liaison with Edward? The old king had certainly fulminated against the Poison Maiden, raged about her very existence, but why? Was she a spy or some hideous obstacle or weakness at the English court that Philip of France could exploit? The connection between the Poison Maiden and the Louvre Palace was definite. Edmund Lascelles, commonly known as Pax-Bread, had fled from France bringing privileged information, perhaps about the Poison Maiden, which had eventually proved to be his death warrant. The same was true of Chapeleys. He might have had his own theories about the Poison Maiden, and he too had died. The Poison Maiden, however mysterious, certainly existed. The old king, Edward, Philip of France, Isabella, Pax-Bread and Chapeleys had all made clear reference to this.

Secundo: the King and his idol. Edward and Gaveston were literally besieged at Westminster. The exchequer was empty. They had some troops but little support amongst the Great Lords. Were they waiting for the earls to exhaust themselves, to utterly deplete their treasures? But then what? How would the stalemate be broken? Did Edward anticipate help from some unexpected source? Yet where would such assistance come from?

Tertio: the Great Lords. They were camped in Westminster and its surrounding fields, but for how long? Did they have a spy at the royal court? Did they know more than they pretended? Who was secretly supporting them? Philip of France, the papacy? How could they continue to sustain the swollen retinues they had brought south?

Quatro: Philip of France and his Spiders. The French king was certainly fishing in troubled waters. Ostensibly to protect the interests of his beloved daughter, but what else? To provoke Edward to turn in fury on his lords? To weaken the kingdom with civil war? Was Philip hoping eventually to abandon the Great Lords and force Edward to rely solely on him, as well as force the English king to support his own cruel attack on the Templars? Or was there something else? Did Philip hope to create civil war in England so as to seize the wine-rich province of Gascony and bring it under Capetian hegemony once and for all. Did he plot to remove both Edward and Gaveston? But that would jeopardise Isabella and, surely, weaken French influence. And Philip’s present alliance with the Lords, would that last, or was he simply playing a game? Had the Poison Maiden assumed a role in this? Would the king’s enemies eventually move into open warfare? That reference to assassins: les ombres, or the Tenebrae? Had the king’s enemies hired killers, professional assassins to deal with Gaveston? If so, who were these, and where were they? When would they attack and how?

Quinto: Pax-Bread’s letter. Most of it simply confirmed the real dangers confronting the English king as well as the existence of the Poison Maiden, but those references to Jean, Haute and Mont: what did they mean? Was the ‘Jean’ mentioned in that letter the person Pax-Bread had referred to in his conversation with Alvena about ‘old Jean’ and the hymn he sang?

Sexto: Pax-Bread’s murder. According to Alvena, Pax-Bread was anxious and fearful. He had fled from France and sheltered in London, but someone had hunted him down. He had lodged at the Secret of Solomon but left the safety of that noisy tavern to meet a mysterious Agnes, allegedly sent by Gaveston, who in turn claimed to have no knowledge of such a messenger. Why had Pax-Bread, so openly fearful, gone out into the dark to meet that stranger, and why was his chamber stripped of any trace of him? The doors and shutters all locked from within? Who was Agnes? How could she kill a man like Pax-Bread, already wary and vigilant against any attack? I studied my cipher and wrote on. Pax-Bread could have gone straight to Westminster but delayed at the Secret of Solomon, which meant French agents might have been scouring the city for him. Pax-Bread, I concluded, had made a hideous mistake — he must have thought he was safe as long as he never approached the palace.

Septimo: Chapeleys. He had been Langton’s clerk and wished to escape from the Tower, allegedly with information useful to the king. Langton had been most dismissive about him. Nevertheless, Chapeleys had fled to Westminster and lodged in a secure chamber, where he should have been safe. Yet though that room was locked from the inside, he had been found hanging from a window-door. The suicide of a man frightened witless? But he had seemed very determined to approach the king, and had shown no sign of that numbing fear that prompts a soul to take his own life. Yet if it was murder, how was it done? Chapeleys might have been a clerk, but he was alert and would have fought for his life. There was no sign of any violence or anyone seen approaching that chamber, except for that mysterious cloaked woman glimpsed by Robert the groom. What had happened to the contents of Chapeleys’ chancery bag? Stolen, burnt or both? And that scrap of parchment with the word ‘basil’, a circle with a P in the centre, surmounted by a cross and the phrase sub pede, underfoot. What did that all mean?

Octavo: Rebecca Atte-Stowe. Who did kill her? Why? Was her murder part of this mystery or just an unfortunate occurrence, the result of some vicious in-fighting amongst servants?

Nono: Agnes d’Albret. Why was she so withdrawn, so anxious to enter Isabella’s household? Was it simply fear at being returned to France? What did she mean by her question: are you not suspicious? Did she have a secret relationship with Gaveston? If so, why, and to what purpose?

Decimo: Guido the Psalter. Was he the intended victim of that poisoning? If so, why? Or was it Gaveston? How was that water glass tainted? What poison was used? I reflected on the trick Isabella had played on Marigny and Alexander of Lisbon, and smiled. Nevertheless, the potion Guido had drunk seemed more noxious. I had searched my leech books, but as yet could find no trace of a poison with that distinctive perfume.

Undecimo: the Templars. Would Edward persecute them in return for Philip’s patronage and support? Was there a traitor amongst the brethren? How did Alexander of Lisbon know so much about that secret meeting at the Chapel of the Hanged? And New Temple Church? Why was Winchelsea so eager to gain possession of it? What was so special about it? Why had he referred to Pembroke’s ancestors being buried there? Was Winchelsea acting for himself, the Great Lords or his fellow bishops?

I smiled and put the pen down. Prince amongst the bishops was Langton! I recalled what Uncle Reginald had taught me. ‘Mathilde,’ he told me on one occasion, ‘always go back to the prime cause, the very first instance. I remember, ma petite, a powerful merchant from Dijon. He was lodging in Paris and came to the Temple because of violent pains in his stomach, a loosening of the bowels. I asked him to list precisely what he had eaten and drunk. He assured me it had been the best meat, the freshest bread and the most fragrant wines. I was puzzled. I asked him what had happened since he came to Paris. He told me he had received some very bad news and I wondered whether the humours of the mind had interfered with those of the stomach and bowel. The cause of his sickness might be worry rather than rancid meat.’

I recalled those words as I sat huddled in that chair studying my cipher. Go back to the prime cause. Langton was the prime cause! The murder of Chapeleys occurred only after we had visited the good bishop. He might well be one of the principal causes of the mysteries and murders surrounding us. I sat, reflected and plotted. Midnight came and went. I reached my decision. Could Langton be trapped?

We arrived at the Tower mid-morning. A royal barge, oared by eight stout boatmen displaying the royal livery, shot like an arrow through the turbulent waters of the Thames. A veil of mist hung heavy, thick and threatening. A page boy in the prow blew harshly on a hunting horn to warn all other craft to pull aside. Above me in the canopied stern flapped a broad pennant boasting the royal arms, golden leopards on a scarlet background. On my left, through the shifting mist, I glimpsed the might of the city: the gabled, red-tiled mansions of the merchant princes; the spires and towers of churches and monasteries, nunneries and chapels; the various quaysides piled high with goods and thronged with crowds. Alongside the wharves was a glorious display of ships: merchantmen, Venetian galleys and Hanseatic cogs. These moved majestically among herring ships, fishing boats, oyster smacks and coracles. Now and again, glimpses of the horrid cruelty of life caught my gaze. Gallows, black and stark. River pirates hanging by their necks from quayside rings. The corpse collectors, dispatching skiffs and punts to bring in the cadavers floating amongst the bankside reeds or bobbing mid-current, turning and twisting, rising and falling as if in preparation for the final resurrection. The air was rich with a variety of smells and odours, the corruption, refuse and rottenness mingling with spices, wood smoke, salted fish, spilt wine and dried seaweed, as well as the fragrances from the precious cargoes nestling in the foulsome holds of the various ships.

I reflected on the day’s beginnings. I had met my mistress early. She’d not even murmured her Matins, still heavy-eyed after her rich supper with the king and Gaveston. She heard me out patiently, smiled understandingly and agreed. Demontaigu was summoned, I could tell by his wine-rich breath how he had just celebrated the Eucharist. Isabella sleepily dictated a short letter and instructed him to accompany me to the Tower to tend to Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. Demontaigu acted the faithful clerk. Once the letter was finished, he strapped on his war belt, threw his cloak around his shoulders and accompanied me across the mist-filled palace grounds to King’s Steps and the waiting barge. On reflection, it was a sombre start to a sombre day. Murder would greet me. Blood would be spilt. God be my witness, I tremble at my sins, scarlet red, but what else could I do?

I suppose the terrors of the day stretched back to the start. Even as our barge pulled away from the quayside, I glimpsed that cowled figure hurrying down the green-slimed steps to the waiting wherry. The mist closed in, but later, just before we reached the starlings and arches of London Bridge, I glimpsed that wherry again. I was certain it was the same one, but kept my peace. Demontaigu sat huddled beside me, praying his beads. We landed safely at the Tower wharf, teeming and bustling like a hive in summer. Memory still holds fast from that day. Glimpses, scenes, pictures like those miniatures in a psalter that catch your eye as you thumb its pages. Four old soldiers begged for alms, dressed in black with red crosses daubed on their foreheads. They shouted how their eyes had been removed and the skin stitched tight by infidels in Outremer. Beside them a madwoman sang the Salve Regina, those prophetic words ringing out: ‘Hail Holy Queen, Mother of mercy. Hail our life, our sweetness and our hope.’ Prisoners, roped by neck, hand and foot, shuffled in filthy rags towards the dungeons beneath the Tower gate. Men-at-arms and archers were busy imposing order with their staves. A king’s knight, astride his caparisoned warhorse, watched them closely. A lady perched daintily on a palfrey trotted by across the cobbles, the hooded hawks on her wrists eager to be free, their jesse-bells tingling above the raucous cries of fishermen, oyster wives, fruit traders and tinkers. An old man pushed his infirm wife in a wheelbarrow, bawling at everyone to stand aside. A market bailiff followed a peasant, live fluttering poultry tied to his back. The official was waiting for the man to place his bird on the ground so he could charge him stallage. Beadles were grasping a squealing fat-bellied sow so as to cut its tail as a punishment for wandering into this marketplace. Smoke and fumes from tanneries and lime-burners drifted across. The stinking badness of the air caught at nose and throat. A dog nudged at two corpses dragged from the river. Three madcaps, bells sewn to their clothes, hastened up to offer a dance. Demontaigu pushed them aside and, one hand on his sword, the other on my elbow, guided me through the soaring, gloomy gateway. Officers and serjeants mailed and helmeted, thronged about us, faces almost concealed by coifs and cowls. The stink of leather, sweat, tar and salt was all-pervasive. Torches guttered in the breeze; above us, the sharp-toothed portcullis hung like a threat. We went along narrow lanes and alleys watched by hooded archers, arrows notched to bows. We crossed baileys, cobbled yards and muddy enclosures where engines of war reared up, ghastly, threatening shapes against the sky. A place of contrasts. Yards full of children playing amongst mastiffs, chickens pecking at the ground, geese strident in their screeching, cattle bellowing. All the noises and smells of the farmyard and stable mingled with those of the kitchen, washtub and bathhouse. In the distance, however, dull roars from the royal beastry sounded, whilst above us, as if watching our every footstep, black-winged ravens floated like demons.

At last we reached the great four-square Norman tower. The serjeant explained how Lord Cromwell, the constable, was out provisioning stores in Petty Wales. He offered Cromwell’s apologies and led us up the steep steps, unlocking doors on to the landing and Langton’s comfortable chamber. Some of the shutters had been removed from the lancet windows to allow in air whilst the good bishop was warming himself over a brazier. He exclaimed in surprise at my arrival but seemed welcoming enough. Demontaigu murmured how he was only my escort and left for the nearby chapel of St John. I hurriedly excused myself and followed whilst Langton shouted at the serjeant to bring fresh wine for his visitor as well as some sweetmeats from the Tower kitchen. I followed Demontaigu across the narrow passageway and asked what troubled him. He undid his sword belt, let it slip to the ground and explained how Ausel might come to the Tower quayside. He wondered what news he might bring. Demontaigu’s voice echoed hollow even as Langton’s instructions to the serjeant rang out through the opened doors. I stood still, listening carefully, recalling our first visit to the bishop.

‘Mathilde, what it is?’

‘Nothing, mon coeur.’ I smiled. ‘Just memories.’

I returned to Langton’s chamber. He was now wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak; he sat enthroned, gold pectoral winking in the light, fingers fiddling with his episcopal ring. To be sure, there was little priestly about Langton: thick, solid and squat, an untidy mat of iron-grey hair now hiding his tonsure. He looked, in truth, what he was in fact: a clever bully boy. He would have made an excellent captain of the rifflers, those violent gangs in London’s underworld hired by powerful merchants who wished to trade in dagger-thrust and violent swordplay. A clever man, despite his slobbery lips and wine-flushed face. My uncle often quoted the old proverb: ‘You can tell a man’s health by his eyes.’ As I took my seat on the quilted stool, I recalled one just as accurate and ancient: ‘You can also tell a man’s soul by his eyes’; Langton’s, hidden in folded creases of fat, were young and clear, full of arrogant mischief. Gaveston called him a bag of poison or something similar, but Langton was wily and astute. He would have made Edward a cunning ally; instead the king had made him a venomous enemy.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries. I handed over Isabella’s courtesy letter and decided to follow the path I’d chosen. I chattered like a sparrow in spring. How Guido was ill. How both the king and my mistress were concerned about the bishop’s health, particularly the ulcers on his legs. I talked as if highly nervous, spilling out court gossip, and all the time those young, clever eyes in that old, weathered face studied me carefully. I needed to touch Langton, examine those ulcers. He claimed his legs were now healing beautifully. I immediately replied how the danger was not the ulcers but the fresh skin: it must heal completely and not be broken. Langton continued to study me. I undid the clasp of my cloak and the laces to the neck of my gown gathered tightly around my throat. I did so daintily and prettily, leaning forward and smiling at that fox, who truly thought he was hosting a capon for dinner. He asked me to pour some wine and invited me to join him. I did so. I slurped at the goblet and bit into a sweetmeat, dates coated in honey. The sweetness filled my mouth. I cleared my throat and gossiped on, giggling when Langton leaned forward. He gently squeezed one of my breasts, then caressed it admiringly. Eventually he agreed that the ulcers, perhaps, should be inspected. He stood up, threw his robe on to the chair, lifted the linen shift beneath and pulled down his hose as if he was a boy stripping for a swim in the river. He waddled over to the bed and threw himself down, leaning back against the bolsters and patting the coverlet beside him. I went across and pushed back the quilt. The ulcers had healed beautifully to faint red-purplish marks. I examined these, letting my fingers knead the vein-streaked flesh beneath his knee. Langton’s hand came out again and grasped my breast, stroking the nipple. I laughed coyly. Still chattering about the court, I moved from one item to another.

‘The king still pursues the Templars,’ I murmured, hiding my revulsion at that old man’s touch. ‘He believes that New Temple Church conceals their wealth; he is determined to search there.’ Immediately, Langton tensed. I could feel the muscles in the leg go hard and rigid, and his hand fell away. ‘And there is a great to-do amongst the chancery clerks,’ I continued. ‘They are searching for a man, someone who served the old king: John Hot. . or High. .’

‘John Highill.’

‘Yes, that’s right!’

The name had slipped out before Langton could stop himself. Again there was that tension. I stood back and stared down at those fleshy legs.

‘My lord,’ I smiled, ‘you are correct: the scars have healed. You are very fortunate. Can I recommend that you wash your legs daily in hot water and some precious soap from Castile, then rinse well. Keep as much irritation as you can off the skin.’

I continued my chatter about the joust between Gaveston and the Portuguese knight; the king’s feastings; what the Court would do at Easter, but I could see I’d hit my mark. Langton was no longer interested in me. He sat on the bed, eyes staring, lips murmuring, lost in his own thoughts. I hastily made my farewells. Demontaigu joined me outside. I put a finger to my lips. We hastened down the steps and out on to the green, where the waiting serjeant escorted us back to the great cobbled yard beyond the Lion Gate. I was excited, pleased at my own cunning, forgetful of danger. Ah well, arrogance is a slippery plank and I paid the price. We’d hardly gone through the gate when I glimpsed Ausel, dressed like a friar, his head shaven, standing on a small barrel lecturing the crowd, drawing them in with the power and oratory of his sermon: ‘May the day perish when I was born. Why did I not die newborn? Perish when I left the womb? If that had happened, I should now be lying in peace, wrapped in restful slumber with the kings and high lords of earth who build themselves vast vaults crammed with precious jewels. Down there in death, bad men bustle no more! There the weary rest for ever. .’

Demontaigu tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Stay here, Mathilde.’ I stood and watched the people mill across the great cobbled expanse. A group of city bailiffs led prostitutes found touting for custom down to the thews. The poor women’s heads had been completely shorn, and they were forced to wear striped gowns, their humiliation emphasised by two bagpipe players who screeched noisily, attracting a crowd to shout abuse and hurl offal, bones, anything they could lay their hands on. I watched them go even as the Gabriel bell tolled from nearby churches summoning the faithful to say one Pater, Ave and Gloria, as well as stop work for the noonday drink. Scavengers arrived, the great iron-rimmed wheels on the slung carts crashing across the ground. The scavengers, burly men dressed in motley rags, always had an eye for profit: they quickly seized a goose, wrung the bird’s neck and immediately dropped it into a sack hanging on the inside of the cart. The owner ran up protesting, but the chief scavenger referred to the city ordinances: how a goose found wandering where it shouldn’t forfeited all rights; its neck could be wrung and its flesh belonged to the man who found it. The great market area began to empty as people made their way to taverns and alehouses for the noonday refreshments. I stood on tiptoe, wondering where Demontaigu had gone, wishing I had accompanied him. I abruptly felt a presence behind me. I looked over my shoulder and glimpsed a sharp nose and glittering eyes, even as I felt the dagger prick my skin just beneath the shoulder blade.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon?’

‘Yes?’ I tried to control my panic. ‘I am Mathilde de Clairebon. I carry the queen’s warrant.’

‘For all I care, you can carry God Almighty’s!’

I caught the accent and tried to turn; the dagger dug deeper.

‘Very well, Mathilde de Clairebon, do exactly what I say. Walk on. Attempt to scream, run, fight or struggle and this dagger will be through you in less than a heartbeat.’

We went down a ribbon-thin alleyway leading to the Customs House, which fronted the Wool Wharf. I was ordered to keep my hands hanging by my sides and attempt no mischief. My attacker had chosen well. The runnel was narrow and dark, with recesses between the crumbling houses on either side: the path to the underworld, inhabited by spitting cats and thin-ribbed mongrels. Small, shabby alehouses fronted it; gloomy entrances led into deeper darkness; there was the occasional makeshift stall manned by rogues who watched us pass. Counterfeit beggars squatted in nooks and crannies counting their ill-gotten gains.

‘A plump, pleasant capon for the plucking,’ a voice rang out. ‘Remember us when you’re finished!’

My assailant pushed me on; halfway down, he shoved me violently into a small enclosure to my left, a gap between two houses sealed off by a soaring wall. I was pushed against this so hard the stones scored my back. My assailant, one hand holding the dagger beneath my heart, tipped back his deep cowl to reveal a young face, smooth-skinned, eyes glinting with malice. He pressed on the dagger, his ale-soaked breath hot on my face.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon, I am La Maru, formerly a member of Alexander of Lisbon’s entourage. That Portuguese turd, that by-blow of a sow, has now dismissed me. He claimed he had to on the orders of your royal bitch of a mistress. Yet Mathilde,’ he sighed noisily, ‘I was only carrying out orders. I came to this water-drenched cesspit, and after a few days I am turned out of my lodgings, away from my companions.’

He spoke Norman French fluently with that particular Burgundian tone, slightly nasal. My fears passed. I felt cold and watchful. This man had terrorised my mother; now he hoped to do the same to me. He searched me roughly, snatching off my wallet and small purse, a ring from my left hand, a brooch from my gown, a bangle from my wrist. I recalled Langton and acted all simpering, the pretty distressed damoiselle. I know the words and actions to perfection. I pleaded. He thrust his mouth to my ear and whispered some obscenity about my mother. I recognised a killer. He would show me no mercy. La Maru’s soul was full of gloomy halls and sombre rooms; he was whittled away like a rotting tree, the poison deep-soaked. He grew excited, clawing at my breast. I struggled weakly. He lifted the hem of my skirt, his hand searching beneath. My hard cloth belt hindered him. One hand holding the dagger, the other searching my skin, he was trapped.

‘I shall undo my belt,’ I stammered. He agreed. My hands fell to the buckle, then to the narrow sheath, cleverly hidden, holding an Italian blade, long and thin like a bodkin, with a razor tip and sharp serrated edges. I grasped it. La Maru was intent on his pleasures. I thrust deep into the right side of his belly, just beneath the ribcage, a hard upward cut. The shock alone made him drop his dagger. He staggered back, eyes startled, mouth gaping, a hideous gargling at the back of his throat. I followed up and struck again swiftly, deadly.

‘God knows,’ I breathed, ‘I never sought your death.’

La Maru stood shocked, blood spilling out of his nose and mouth like water from a cracked pot. He stared at me, eyes glazing over in death, slumped to his knees and lurched on his side on to the filth-strewn ground. I knelt down, hastily gathering my possessions and his dagger. A shadow moved to my right. I whirled round. A hooded, venomous face peered down at the two daggers I held.

‘The choice is yours!’ I hissed. ‘The same for you,’ I gestured with my hand, ‘or you can take what you want and escort me out of here.’

I have never seen a corpse plundered so swiftly, so expertly just like a pillager on a battlefield. My unexpected visitor, stinking of the alleyway, stripped La Maru’s body, bundling everything into the man’s cloak. I gestured with the daggers.

‘Monsieur, after you.’

He smiled thinly. I brought up the daggers. ‘Others wait for me on the quayside.’ He led me out back down the alleyway. He kept his word. Dark shapes moved out of doorways and recesses but he had drawn his knife, so they slunk back. I gathered he must have made enough profit for a month, let alone a day! When I reached the end of the alleyway, he mockingly waved me forward then disappeared back into the gloom. I went across the cobbles. I was unaware of anyone around me. My body was clammy with sweat, my heart thudding. My dress and gown were dirty, unbuttoned and loosed.

‘Mathilde!’ Demontaigu appeared before me.

I just leaned against him, letting everything slip from my hands to the cobbles. He embraced me, shouting at a beggar man to stay well away. He crouched down and picked up what I had dropped. He helped me lace my dress, put back the bodkin knife and gently escorted me to a nearby alehouse, where he ordered wine and food. He didn’t eat — I recalled that on certain days Demontaigu fasted — he just fed me like a mother would a child. After a while the coldness went. The shivering terrors and fears receded. On reflection, I had no choice. My words to La Maru were the truth. He had brought his own death upon himself. I told Demontaigu what had happened. He listened, and then, as if eager to divert me, said he had been with Ausel, who had told him the rumours amongst the brethren how the Temple still held great treasures. A similar story had originated from Canterbury, where William de la More, master of the Templar order in England, was incarcerated. I nodded in agreement.

‘I know what treasure it is,’ I forced a smile, ‘and where it is hidden.’

Two hours later, washed and changed, I knelt on a cushion decorated with silver asphodels in the king’s own chamber. Edward lounged. Isabella sat to his right, Gaveston on his left, leaning against a table staring intently at me. I had told the queen about my suspicions and she had immediately sought this audience with her husband. Edward’s opulent chamber was littered with boots, spurs, baldrics, belts, cloaks, a knife, even pieces of horse harness. He seemed more interested in the sleek peregrine falcon perched on his wrist, its sharp, neat head hidden by a hood. As I talked, he played with the little bells attached to the bird’s claws. However, when I began to describe my suspicions, he handed the falcon to Gaveston, who put it on a perch near the oriel window at the far side of the room. The king leaned forward, head slightly turned as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying. Gaveston simply nodded in excitement. Isabella, as usual, kept her face impassive, though when I caught her gaze, she winked slowly and smiled in encouragement. Once I had finished, Edward turned in his chair, staring at Gaveston as if disbelieving every word I had uttered.

‘Mathilde speaks the truth,’ Isabella declared sharply.

I held her gaze and glimpsed the change. Just that remark, the tone of her voice, a mere shift in her eyes, a fleeting expression. She was now growing openly tired of Gaveston’s pre-eminence, of her husband’s slavish dependence on his favourite.

‘Mathilde is a good student of physic,’ she continued. ‘She notes the symptoms and searches for the cause. My lord, order Ap Ythel and my Lord Gaveston’s Kernia immediately to the New Temple Church Find the effigy of Pembroke. Have the flag-stones, sub pede, near or beneath the feet of each monument lifted. See what can be found. Search must also be made for this John Highill.’ She laughed quietly. ‘Pax-Bread was too clever: Jean, Haute and Mont — John High Mountain. Langton gave us the correct translation: John High Hill literally, John Highill in fact. He must have been a clerk, an advocate or peritus.’

‘I agree.’ Gaveston tactfully intervened. ‘I am sure he was one of your late,’ his voice was laced with sarcasm, ‘beloved father’s clerks.’

Edward shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured, ‘I cannot remember.’ He straightened in the chair, stared down at his feet, then rose quickly. ‘Searches,’ he murmured, ‘careful but swift searches must be made. Madam,’ he bowed to Isabella, patted me gently on the head as if I was a pet dog and walked to the door, clicking his fingers at Gaveston to follow. Isabella sat like a statue, only starting as the door slammed shut behind her husband and his favourite.

‘How long, Mathilde?’ she whispered, her gaze shifting to me. ‘Gaveston at Matins! Gaveston at Prime! Gaveston at Terce! Gaveston at Nones! Gaveston at Vespers and Gaveston at Compline! What do you advise?’

‘Wait, your grace.’

‘Wait, your grace,’ Isabella mimicked. Her expression changed and she smiled dazzlingly at me. She slowly rose to her feet. ‘Wait, Mathilde.’ She stretched out a hand and helped me up.

‘We’ll wait, but in the mean time, we will dance. I have also written a play.’ She grinned mischievously. ‘It’s a dialogue between two souls on the theme: is it easier to love those far away than those closer to you?’ And, laughing and teasing, she led me out of the chamber back to her own quarters.

The late afternoon passed in the tolling of abbey bells. Noises from the courtyards drifted along the gallery. We heard shouts and listened to the clatter of horses leaving the stables. Isabella and I tried to divert ourselves, but the queen declared she was tired and retired to her private chamber saying she wished to be alone. I was about to return to mine when I received a message that Demontaigu was in the waiting hall. I went to meet him. We sat, I remember, under a tapestry depicting the Lady of the Lake grasping Excalibur. It was certainly a time of war; news that something was afoot had swept the palace, courtyards and baileys of Burgundy Hall. Ap Ythel was assembling his men. Cohorts of Kernia also gathered under the watchful eye of knights of the royal household, the king’s bully boys all coiffed and armoured, warhorses snorting as they stirred restlessly under a forest of pennants and banners. Gaveston himself was to lead the cavalcade in a show of force along the Westminster bank and into New Temple. Demontaigu and I watched them from a window. Ap Ythel came bustling by. He stopped and explained how the Great Lords, thinking the king was moving against them, were also summoning their forces. Edward had sent Ingelram Berenger to give his personal assurances that the royal array was only on royal business involving the Templars. Demontaigu stiffened at this. After Ap Ythel left, I explained what I had haltingly informed him of on our return from the city.

‘God and his Angels.’ Demontaigu clasped my hand. ‘Of course. The old king died in the summer; Langton must have known he was for the fall. He secretly hid his treasure hoard in one of the safest place, New Temple, the principle house of our order in this kingdom. The Templars,’ he added bitterly, ‘bankers as well as warriors.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Langton must have thought it would be the securest place on earth, protected by knights whose allegiance was more to God and the pope than any earthly king. What a spin of Fortune’s wheel! Langton falls but so does the Temple, suddenly, savagely! Few people would know about any hidden treasure.’ He sighed. Most of those are probably dead, fled or in strict confinement like our master.’ Demontaigu laughed, put his face into his hands then glanced up. ‘Like rivers rushing into one,’ he murmured, ‘the old king dies; Langton panics! He hides his money away with the Temple. The Templars fall; Langton is imprisoned in the Tower. That old fox must be beside himself! He still plots,’ Demontaigu looked at me, ‘from prison. Langton the spider cannot rest, he knows it is only a matter of time before that treasure is discovered. So he offers it, or at least part of it, to Winchelsea, who is already inflamed with righteous anger that one of his fellow bishops has been imprisoned. Of course, Winchelsea would be only too willing to agree. The king is starved of money, whilst the Great Lords’ retinues are becoming costlier by the day. Such a treasure, if it fell into Winchelsea’s hands, would eventually force Edward to come to terms.’

‘So,’ I replied, ‘Winchelsea attempts to secure New Temple, a reasonable demand, as surety of the king’s good faith, a property in that misty twilight that separates the ecclesiastic from the secular. Edward would be tempted to agree. What use to him an empty church, barracks and hall already looted and pillaged of any treasures?’

‘And of course,’ Demontaigu added quickly, ‘the surrender of New Temple would be seen as a public move against the order whilst Winchelsea, Langton and their allies seized the treasure hoard.’

‘I believe. .’ I stopped, half listening to the armoured clatter below, ‘Chapeleys knew about this treasure and wished to barter such information, amongst other things, with the king. Langton must have been furious at Chapeleys’ escape. He may have had a hand in his murder.’

‘But how?’

‘I don’t know. Somehow Langton discovered Chapeleys had not left on some errand but had deserted him. He sent a message, God knows how or when, but it must have been shortly after we left the Tower.’

‘To whom?’

‘To the Poison Maiden or others hostile to the king. Chapeleys was murdered. The assassin made it look as if it was suicide, but that was because he, or she, didn’t want to provoke suspicion that Chapeleys may have had something very valuable to sell. I am sure whatever was in that chancery bag was seized, read, then destroyed.’ I stared across the hall at a shield fixed between two of the lancet windows emblazoned with the brilliant blue and white colours of Norfolk.

‘How,’ I murmured, ‘could Langton act so swiftly? Ah well.’ I turned and edged closer to Demontaigu. ‘You wished to see me?’

‘To apologise.’ Demontaigu blinked. ‘This morning at the Tower wharf? I should not have left you.’

‘You said you were sorry,’ I fluttered my eyelids, ‘at leaving a damsel in distress.’ I joked and flirted, trying to blot out La Maru’s ugly face, the dagger, his crawling touch, the blood bubbling out of his mouth.

‘Brave face hides anxious heart,’ Demontaigu teased back.

‘Brave face hides hard heart,’ I retorted. ‘You are a warrior, I’m a physician of sorts. .’

‘Of sorts?’

‘No,’ I held my hand up, ‘I know what I am. God knows, Bertrand, sometimes a bridge is reached and you just have to cross it. This morning La Maru came determined to kill me. Whenever that happened, wherever, it would have been him and me. It would have ended in a death, his, mine or both.’

‘I bought you a present, a consolamentum.’

Demontaigu drew from his jerkin a psalter bound in calfskin, its cover studded with precious stones to form a Celtic cross and Ave beads. The pages were gold-lined and of the finest parchment, the writing in an elegant script, the letters black and clear. A collection of prayers, poems, songs and psalms; the first letter of each verse was decorated in a miniature bejewelled picture displaying exotic creatures from Celtic legends. I scanned the opening lines of the first poem, ‘St Patrick’s Breastplate’: ‘I rise up today, God’s power with me.’ I read on to hide how deeply touched I was by the gift.

‘Reparation,’ Demontaigu murmured.

‘I wish it was adoration!’ I teased back. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I kissed him on the cheek, cradling that book, now tattered and worn, as I do every night as I lie on my bed. I clasp it and close my eyes. I’m back in Burgundy Hall. Demontaigu is beside me, his face, his warmth. I vividly recall him as a comforting light in the murderous murk gathering around us. Embarrassed at the time, I went to return the book.

‘My gift,’ Demontaigu insisted. ‘It is the last produced by the scriptorium of my order.’

I had planned to go down to tend my herbs, which I’d begun to cultivate in the palace gardens. I was about to ask Demontaigu to join me when a page boy came hurrying up to breathlessly inform me that the queen dowager wished to see me. Demontaigu raised his eyes heavenwards. I kissed him on the cheek and, hiding the psalter under my cloak, followed the page. The queen dowager was in her usual poise of a devout nun. She was sitting by Guido’s bed feeding him watered wine. Nearby, Agnes, who looked drawn and tired, avoided my gaze and tended to the queen dowager’s baby sons, Edmund of Woodstock and Thomas of Brotherton. The boys, apparently exhausted after their play, were lying on cushions half asleep. I greeted Guido, who looked stronger, a full colour returned to his face. He was apparently impatient to return to duties, though the queen dowager dismissed this, saying a few more days’ rest would help. Queen Margaret patted her wimple and asked what all the excitement was about. Had any progress been made? I decided on the truth, or at least part of it. I told her how the king had decided to investigate certain rumours, that a great treasure lay hidden in New Temple Church, close to one of the Pembroke effigies. She and Guido expressed their joy, gabbling how such treasure would assist the king. Did I know, Guido asked, how the king had come by this information? I shrugged and said he was searching for many things, including an old clerk named John Highill. Did her grace recall that name? She pulled a face, and replied that she’d heard the name but couldn’t recall the face or person.

‘I suppose he was one of my husband’s old servitors,’ she murmured. ‘But Mathilde,’ she smiled; this time those cold, beautiful eyes crinkled in amusement, ‘Guido, Deo gratias, is better. I thank you.’ She sighed and gestured lovingly at her red-faced, heavy-eyed baby sons. ‘I’ve little time for anything, going backwards and forward between the palace and here. Little time for politic, even less time for prayer, but,’ she patted the coverlet, ‘Guido, you must stay here until you are better. The countess will visit you and so will Agnes and, if she is not too busy, dear Mathilde.’