The Poison Maiden

Chapter 12

I left the chamber bemused by the queen dowager and Guido, but I was too agitated to reflect. I had assured Demontaigu that La Maru’s attack was simply a strand of the tapestry I wove. By the gospel, it was not! Now alone, I felt sick and tired. My belly bubbled. My mind flitted like some sparrow caught in a room. I needed to soothe my humours. I have confessed how I pick out events in the same way candlelight draws your eye to a certain scene, colour or thread in some tapestry or painting. Or better still, I felt like a watchman on the parapet walk of a castle. One minute follows another. Hours drift by. Days, weeks and months merge into one. A whole series of menial tasks is begun and finished, then abruptly the watchman sees the far beacon flare, signalling danger. The hurly-burly time has arrived. Armed men are ready, bowstrings tightened, quivers filled, daggers sharpened, war belts strapped on. Yes, that was me. Daily routine tasks until the perilous days gathered like an ice-cold mist seeping under doors, finding its way into my life through cracks and crevices. One comfort I treasured, which soothed the soul: my love of physic and knowledge of herbs.

I was still curious about the poison fed to Guido, so on my return to my warm, welcoming chamber, I opened my book coffer, that treasure chest of various treatments: Palladius’ De Agricultura; the Monk of Cerne’s Nomina Herbarum; that famous Latin poem by Macer, ‘De Virtutibus Herbarum’; the Herbarium of Apuleius; Isidore of Seville’s Etymologiae; and that erudite woman Hildegard of Bingen’s Liber Subtilitatum Diversarum. My uncle had owned all of these and used them to educate me as keenly as my theologian would depend on the canon of scripture or the teachings of the fathers. When he had been arrested, these manuscripts had been seized, but Isabella had brought copies from the Louvre library, and when various monasteries and abbeys asked what present they could give her, she always asked for a certain book, manuscript or thesis, be it the legends of Arthur, a collection of Goliard songs or a medical treatise. She admired the latter, having a deep interest in herbs, particularly, as she ruefully remarked, those ‘nine dark shades of night’ that calmed all humours and healed all ailments, per omnia saecula saeculorum — for ever and ever; in other words, poisons!

I leafed through the manuscripts, taking careful note of certain entries. I then decided to go to my own small herbarium in one of the palace gardens. Now Burgundy Hall has gone, and Westminster has changed as if it is some living thing. However, in those spring days of 1308, the king’s private palace, guarded by its own curtain wall, consisted of a long hall with buildings added on so small courtyards and gardens were formed. Edward had entertained ambitious plans for these, hoping to develop orchards, vineyards, lawns for peacocks and sprightly herons, and a rabbit park, build small watermills and dovecotes, as well as sink fish and stew ponds to house fine pike and whiting. All, of course, remained unfinished. Parts of the garden were fox-ridden, with weeds and gorse growing almost waist high. Now according to Albertus Magnus, a sophisticated herber should include a trellised loggia, a walled area of square herb beds, a flowery mead with arbours and a hedged garden containing a fountain. There were none of these. My physic garden did not have the required sixteen beds; it was makeshift and rough. I had dug the soil myself and planted what I could.

I left my chamber and went out through a small postern door into the garden. Ghostly smells of both summer and autumn greeted me, the sweet odour of rotting apples mingling with the fragrance of wild flowers thrusting up beneath the blackthorn hedges, which heralded the change in season with their own whitening flowers. I had brought a list of the herbs I needed: the rich, mildew-like blue gromwell, which flowered on limestone walls and was so useful in curing irritations of the skin; ground ivy, found winding its way about the orchard trees, so healing of congestion and the rheums; harebell, which flourished in the long wild grass, very valuable for staunching bleeding and compressing wounds. I stared round that wild overgrown place, the birds skimming over bush and grass, the flowers flashing in colour, the full richness of spring making itself felt. I walked over to my herber and stared down in desperation at the weeds clogging the soil, clawing around it like the fingers of a miser would precious stones. All about me the palace lay silent. The garden, however, was alive with the chirping of birds hunting among the fertile foliage. Small insects hovered noisily over a weed-encrusted carp pond. I glanced up abruptly and glimpsed a shadow at one of the arrow-slit windows. I smiled to myself, looked again, but there was nothing. The garden lay beneath the royal quarters. I wondered if the shadow had been that of Isabella, or even the king, but why the mystery?

I decided to calm my agitation by weeding the soil before I went searching for herbs. A derelict outhouse built against the palace wall was used to store picks, hoes and shovels. I went in and grasped a hoe that was standing in a cobweb-filled corner. As I pulled it out, I glimpsed the leather sack pushed hard against it. I cut the cord around its neck and peered in. The sack contained three arbalests, heavy Brabantine crossbows. I pulled one out. The wood was thick and polished, its powerful twine cord supple, the lever oiled and easy to move, the groove smooth, ready for the barbed bolts, pouches of which lay at the bottom of the sack. Alarmed and curious, I hid the sack away and hurried back into the palace.

Ap Ythel had gone into the city, but I found his lieutenant, a sandy-headed Welshman named Ap Rhys, dicing with some of his comrades in the small guardroom near the gatehouse. I begged him to come with me. His companions whistled and joked in their lilting voices. Ap Rhys was about to refuse, but he caught my fearful expression so he shrugged, put his dice back into his wallet and followed me across the garden to that small outhouse. I pulled the sack out, Ap Rhys helping me. He emptied the contents on to the soil and crouched down.

‘Arbalests,’ he exclaimed, ‘and pouches! Do you know how they got here, mistress?’

I shook my head. ‘Do you?’ I asked.

Ap Rhys made a face.

‘Tell me.’ I crouched down beside him. ‘If I was to attack the king or this palace, how would I do it?’

He scratched his head. ‘Mistress, I’m an archer, a bowman, not an assassin. You think these were left here for such mischief?’

‘Perhaps.’ I recalled Robert the groom’s words and that sinister reference to the Tenebrae.

‘Don’t be alarmed.’ Ap Rhys put the pouches back into the sack and tied the twine around the neck. ‘I will take these.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll not tell anybody.’ He caught my curious look. ‘Mistress,’ he grinned, ‘this may not be the work of some enemy hostile to our king; more likely a thief. We have stores here. It is not unknown for soldiers to try to make a quick profit. They steal bows, daggers, crossbows, hide them away, then take them into the city markets.’ He kicked the sack, then picked it up. ‘You’d get a pouch of silver for these.’

‘Ap Rhys?’

‘Yes, mistress?’ He walked back.

‘When Ap Ythel returns, tell him what we found and where.’ I held my hand up. ‘And ask him this. If the three of us were planning to attack his grace the King, or my lord Gaveston, or both, how would we do it? Please.’ I grasped his hand. ‘In this, favour me?’ Ap Rhys nodded, adding that he’d do anything for a pretty face, then sauntered off.

I decided to leave the herbs. I was tired, still agitated. I returned to my own chamber, drank half a goblet of wine and tended to the braziers. I took off my shoes and upper gown and lay down on the bed, wrapping myself tightly in its coverlet. I only intended to sleep for a while but it was dark when Isabella shook me awake.

‘Quick, quick, Mathilde,’ she urged. ‘His grace the king and my lord Gaveston need to see you.’ She was garbed in a fur-lined cloak with a deep hood. She shook me roughly, the capped candle in her left hand dazzling my eyes. I climbed out of bed and made myself ready as swiftly as possible. Ap Ythel and some of the archers were waiting in the passageway outside. Ap Ythel’s expression told me everything. They had found something in the church at New Temple. Isabella confirmed this in hushed, excited whispers as we went along the shadow-filled gallery.

The king and Gaveston were waiting, swatched in costly night robes. Both were rejoicing, sharing a two-handled loving cup between them. The chamber was bathed in candlelight and the cause of their joy was plain to see: coffers, caskets, chests, boxes and bags all open to reveal a king’s ransom in gold and silver coin, jewels and an array of precious goblets, belts, necklaces, rings, pectoral crosses and costly gems, all sparkling in the bright light. Edward and Gaveston had drunk deeply. Once Ap Ythel had withdrawn, Edward roaring at him to keep close guard outside, both men embraced me, hugging me close and smothering me in their exquisite perfume. Edward scooped up a pile of gold and silver coins and pressed them into my hands.

‘What else do you want?’ he asked.

Still sleepy, I went down on my knees as I slipped the coins safely into a pouch on the inside of my robe.

‘A title?’ Gaveston teased.

‘Pardons,’ I answered quickly. ‘Your grace,’ I gestured round, ‘what happened?’

‘As you said.’ The king dragged a chair across; he sat down and waved at Gaveston and Isabella to make themselves comfortable.

‘My lord?’

Edward turned to Gaveston. The favourite took another deep drink and passed the cup to the king. I glanced quickly at Isabella. She sat there all docile, a fixed smile on her face, but I could see anger in those light-blue eyes as she played with the tendrils of her hair. Gaveston whispered to the king, and the loving cup was passed to her. Isabella drank quickly, not taking her eyes off me. Gaveston explained how he and Ap Ythel had arrived at the Templar church.

‘The postern door was sealed and locked. We of course had the key. Strange,’ Gaveston wagged a finger at me, ‘I shall return to that. Inside, Mathilde, well it was the first time I’d ever been there. A solemn place, full of ghosts and ancient memories, beautiful paintings on the wall and nine stone effigies on the floor. At first I was reluctant. I felt as if I was committing blasphemy. Ap Ythel examined the paving stones just beneath each of those effigies which bore the title of Pembroke. We found nothing, and then I remembered what you had told us: sub pede — seven letters in all. I counted the paving stones from the feet of William Marshal, the premier Earl of Pembroke; the seventh stone was loose. To the naked eye, nothing was amiss. We used bars and levers. The paving stone came up, and beneath was a wooden slat expertly placed there to keep it firm. The slat was wedged tightly in. We removed it, and underneath was a rope ladder, neatly coiled. We loosened and unrolled it. Ap Ythel, holding a torch, went down; I followed. The cavern beneath was square, formed on each side by rough ancient stone, airless and musty but definitely used as a treasure hold. We lit the cresset torches in the walls,’ Gaveston gestured round, ‘and found Langton’s hoard. Drokensford and his exchequer clerks calculate a treasure of at least seventy thousand pounds sterling.’

I gasped in astonishment.

‘There could have been more,’ Edward intervened testily, ‘but someone had been there before us.’

I glanced at Isabella. She had curbed her anger and smiled tenderly at me.

‘Who, we don’t know,’ Gaveston retorted. ‘We entered by the corpse door; it was locked and sealed. The other doors were barred and bolted.’ He shook his head. ‘To my memory, the seals were unbroken before we entered.’

‘Was New Temple guarded?’ Isabella asked.

‘A few men-at-arms.’ Edward shrugged. ‘I and my council thought it held no treasure.’

‘Your grace,’ I bowed, ‘how do you know the treasury had been entered?’

‘One coffer had been forced,’ Gaveston replied, ‘two large sacks emptied. Drokensford believes five to six thousand pounds has been removed. But. .’ He handed the loving cup back to the king and rubbed his face.

‘Langton will be beside himself with rage. He must be told.’ Isabella’s voice turned harsh. ‘He may have removed some of that treasure himself after it was placed there.’

‘Yet when he was arrested,’ the king remarked, ‘he proclaimed himself penniless. His chambers were searched, and nothing was found.’

‘He may have given it to someone else. But in the mean time,’ Isabella continued, ‘my lords, I beg you. Be prudent, be cunning! Use this wealth to entice the likes of Pembroke and Lincoln into your camp. To quote the great Augustine: “flectamur nec flectimur” — “let us bend before the storm lest we break under it”. We must concede more to the Great Lords, even if it is only for a time.’ Her words sobered Edward and Gaveston, who glanced sheepishly at each other like boys being lectured by their mother.

‘Lincoln and Pembroke,’ Isabella continued, ‘are the most susceptible, or at least so I understand.’ She smiled thinly. ‘They are certainly beginning to baulk at my father’s envoys over their long stay and their meddling in what they call the affairs of the English crown.’

‘I suspected that,’ replied Edward, cradling the loving cup, ‘but how do you know it?’

‘My lord, they have spies in Burgundy Hall. I certainly have mine amongst them. My lord Mortimer has listened to the chatter; a few more days and the cracks will appear, but,’ she clenched her hands in her lap, ‘we must be cunning. We must plot, use this treasure to our advantage. However, rewards to those who have earned them. Mathilde has asked for pardons.’

‘For whom?’ Gaveston leaned forward.

I took a deep breath.

‘The truth as always.’ Isabella glanced warningly at me.

I confessed my help and assistance for Templars, the true identity of Demontaigu and others. Gaveston nodded in approval. Edward, in truth, didn’t really care. My mistress confirmed Demontaigu’s loyalty, his hostility to Philip and all the power of France. Edward, however, was bored, eager to return to his revelry. Since Demontaigu was loyal, the enemy of his enemy, and patronised by his queen, there was no need to discuss it. I stared at a glorious tapestry hanging on the wall behind the king. It showed scenes from the Romance of Alexander, the great conqueror on the battlefield or in his pavilion receiving the spoils of his enemy. The silence deepened until Edward softly clapped his hands, a common gesture to show he had reached a decision, and shrugged lazily.

‘Demontaigu is no threat to me or mine. I cannot issue a pardon to him or others for being Templars; that would go against the pope’s instructions.’ He bared his teeth like a dog. ‘However, I will issue general pardons, letters of protection at the behest of the queen, so Demontaigu and two of his comrades can be brought into the king’s peace.’ He gestured at me. ‘The clerks of the chancery will draw these up, to be issued under the Privy Seal.’ He clapped his hands again and whispered to Gaveston. The favourite rose and crossed to the huge chancery table. He brought back a thin scroll, which he thrust into my hands, then stood over me and stroked my hair. I held his gaze; those lazy, good-humoured eyes were marble hard, as if he was assessing my loyalty. He stroked my hair once again, tipped me lightly under the chin and rejoined the king.

‘John Highill,’ Gaveston sighed, taking his seat, ‘that scroll tells you all. Highill was a master from the schools of Cambridge, a principal clerk in the office of the secret seal in the old king’s reign. He and Chapeleys were a pair, both apparently trained for the priesthood, knowledgeable in Latin, Greek and other tongues. Anyway, in 1299, after he had passed his sixtieth summer, Highill became witless. He was given a pension and dispatched to Bethlehem Hospital outside Bishopsgate.’ Gaveston leaned forward. ‘You know the place, Mathilde? Good.’ He flicked his hands. ‘Take your silver and gold. Collect your pardons and go. But first, tomorrow morning, discover what Highill knows, or might have known.’

Isabella, as if to emphasise her own authority, asked me to wait outside. The gallery, despite the late hour, was packed with Ap Ythel’s men waiting for orders about the treasure. Its find had caused great excitement amongst them, as the archers realised they were not only to be rewarded but would also receive their long-awaited wages. Ap Ythel plucked me by the sleeve and took me away from the rest.

‘Ap Rhys told me,’ he whispered, ‘what you found and what you asked. Mistress,’ he looked over his shoulder, ‘our discussion could be construed as treason. An attack upon the king and my lord Gaveston would be impossible during the day. They are closely guarded, even if they go into the gardens or baileys.’ Ap Ythel pointed to a window. ‘They are protected. If they hunt, a comitatus of royal knights, mounted men-at-arms and archers accompanies them.’

‘And at night?’

‘Mistress, you have seen the gatehouse to Burgundy Hall? The curtain walls are patrolled, windows are bolted and barred. The only weaknesses are three postern doors: you use one for the garden; the other two are further along, both leading on to galleries that run beneath the royal quarters, but again, those doors are bolted, barred and regularly checked.’ Ap Ythel patted me on the shoulder. ‘Ap Rhys is probably correct. The arbalests were stolen from the armoury to be sold in some city market. S’avisera, be advised.’ He grinned. ‘The demons that stalk by midnight and the terror that lurks by noonday will not strike you.’

I watched him go. Ap Ythel might have been a skilled archer, a loyal retainer, an excellent singer, but he was certainly no prophet!

A short while later Isabella and I were escorted back to her quarters, down the long galleries, torches and lanternlight sending the darkness dancing. Once inside her private chamber, Isabella dropped her cloak and immediately knelt on the cushioned prie-dieu before a triptych of the Virgin Mary and Child.

‘You’d best leave, Mathilde, I will call the maids.’ Isabella spoke without moving. ‘Send a message to Demontaigu. He must accompany you tomorrow morning. Oh, Mathilde! Outside, the season changes. The blackthorn flowers and the seeds burst into life; so it is here, Mathilde, the season of change is thrust upon us.’ Her voice rose. ‘I am queen, the descendant of kings and saints. My son will carry the sacred blood of both Plantagenet and Capet.’ The rest came as a hiss. ‘Soon there will be no room for Gascon upstarts, remember that!’

I did so, as Demontaigu and I shivered on our journey to Bethlehem Hospital the following morning. We left the palace while the stars hung heavy in the rain-washed skies. Demontaigu advised we take horses and journey round the old city wall rather than risk a river passage through the darkness. He had not celebrated his dawn mass but murmured how the Matins we were about to attend were, for the moment, more important. A cold, hard ride. During it I told him all that had happened. When I’d finished he pulled down the muffler protecting his face.

‘As regards to Langton’s treasure, our master might have well agreed to that. New Temple and its halls have many secret places. I am sure,’ he sighed, ‘Edward will send Drokensford and his exchequer clerks to ransack every nook and cranny of the grounds. As to that theft. .’ He blew out his breath and stroked his horse’s neck. ‘Langton may have been given a key or even taken the treasure himself. And the arbalests?’ Demontaigu reined in, turning his horse slightly to face me. He leaned forward and grasped the reins of my palfrey. ‘What you discovered, Mathilde, is very serious. I don’t think those arbalests were stolen from the armoury. The garden is ringed on all four sides by walls?’

‘Yes, but there is a gate connecting two wings of the palace.’

‘Someone could climb over it?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘The garden is overgrown, a desolate, tangled place.’

Demontaigu cleared his throat. Pushing back his hood, he stared up at the sky. On the cold breeze floated the sound of barking dogs and the cockcrow from some nearby farm. The first light of dawn was beginning to dim the stars. He let go of my reins and turned his horse’s head, and we rode on in silence. To our right was the old city wall, to our left the open heathland stretching up to the dark mass of St Bartholomew’s hospital. We passed St Botolph’s Church in Aldersgate and turned north towards Cripplegate. An eerie grey morning now coming to life as farmers, their carts piled high with produce, cracked whips, urging their horses along the rutted tracks towards the city markets. On the open moor, a swirling mist made our journey more difficult, shrouding trees and hiding the path in front of us. Demontaigu hung his sword and dagger belt from his saddle horn; his gauntleted fingers kept moving to this as dark shapes emerged abruptly from the murk: wandering tinkers, a Dominican friar holding a cross before him, city bailiffs with an escaped prisoner shackled between them. Outside Cripplegate, the huge stocks were full of drunken miscreants and whores caught soliciting in forbidden areas. They screamed and yelled a torrent of abuse at their tormentors; the city beadles stood around grinning as clasps were fastened imprisoning heads, legs, wrists and ankles. The six-branched scaffolds close by had apparently been used the day before, the corpses now ripening to full-blown. The stinking carts of scavengers clustered by the city ditch emptying their filthy mixture of rubbish, offal and human waste, all coated in a foulsome slime, along with the bloated corpses of dead animals: dogs, cats and farmyard birds. A funeral procession, ghostly in all its aspects, capped candles glowing and bells ringing, emerged out of the murk; the sombre voice of the priest chanted the ‘Dirige’ whilst the mourners, cloaked and cowled, seemed like lost souls crossing the bleak landscape of hell.

I thought Demontaigu’s silence was due to all these distractions, but eventually he grasped my horse’s reins and led me into the courtyard of one of those taverns that serve the roads leading into London. We stabled our horses. Inside the spacious taproom, Demontaigu secured a table close to the roaring fire and ordered bowls of oatmeal, steaming hot and mingled with milk and honey. Such occasions I recall: the fire, the warmth, the hot food, the savoury ale in leather tankards. Demontaigu put his spoon down, blowing on the oatmeal, and grinned quickly at me.

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about Ap Ythel. When I served in Outremer, one of the great dangers was the Old Man of the Mountain; you must have heard of him. He and his followers lived in a secluded castle deep in some valley in the desert. He would choose his victim, then send them a warning: a sesame cake, usually placed in their private chamber to show that they could never be safe. Now and again this assassin turned his attention to us Templars, particularly before the fall of Acre.’ Demontaigu picked up his horn spoon. ‘One thing we learnt: never flee, but wait. The Old Man’s murderous emissaries, drugged and armed, would come stealthily enough. Our task was to trap them. Perhaps the same must be done at Westminster yet.’ He sighed. ‘Leaving the arbalests in such an open way was very clumsy. I shall certainly have words with Ap Ythel. However,’ Demontaigu leaned across the table and grasped both my hands, ‘for the matter of the pardon, I deeply thank you. You are right, Mathilde, sooner or later, today or tomorrow, I will have to confess my true identity. Pardons or letters of protection will afford some defence to myself and Ausel.’

‘And if the king moves against the Templars?’

‘I suspect he would give us clear warning, perhaps ten days to leave the kingdom.’

I caught my breath.

‘Don’t worry.’ Demontaigu picked up his horn spoon. ‘For the time being,’ he winked at me, ‘I’ll stay close to your apron strings.’

We continued our journey around the city. Church bells were summoning the faithful to the Jesus mass. Beacons flared in steeples. The mist began to thin. It was still freezing cold, so we were pleased to reach the high curtain wall of Bethlehem Hospital. A lay brother admitted us; others took our horses, and we were ushered into the waiting chamber. For a while I sat half asleep. Demontaigu remained lost in his own thoughts. Now and again he would get up and walk around the room as if inspecting the limewashed walls, or stand tapping his boot against the polished red tiles on the floor. A bleak chamber, stripped of all ornament except for the roughly carved cross and the sturdy makeshift furniture; clean and sweet-smelling, warmed by braziers. I had explained to the lay brother who greeted us that we wished to see the master about John Highill. The lay brother looked at us perplexed, but nodded and, fingers to his lips, hurried away. Now there was a knock on the door. The lay brother re-entered, apologising for the delay but saying that the master would be with us shortly. However, he had a visitor for Master Demontaigu; did he wish to see him? Demontaigu looked at me in surprise and nodded. The lay brother disappeared and returned escorting an old man slightly stooped, skin burnt almost black by the sun, head almost bald except for a few tufts of hair above the ears and at the back. He rested on a stick, tapping it on the tiles as he made his way over, scuttling like a beetle towards Demontaigu. He stopped and stared up.

‘Master Bertrand Demontaigu, you do not remember me?’

Demontaigu stepped back, staring in disbelief. ‘Joachim Hermeri!’ he whispered. ‘Joachim Hermeri, by all the saints.’ He went forward, clasped the old man and brought him to the stool next to mine so he could enjoy the warmth of the brazier. Joachim stared shrewdly at me with watery eyes. He waited until Demontaigu took his seat, then cackled with laughter, shoulders shaking.

‘I heard the lay brother, he came into the refectory. He said there was a visitor from the court, a young mistress escorted by a military clerk called Demontaigu.’ He rubbed bony knuckles on Demontaigu’s knee. ‘Oh, I’ve heard how our order is finished, but I remember you, Demontaigu.’

‘And I thought I was safe.’ Demontaigu smiled.

‘Oh, I know all the news,’ Joachim whispered, ‘all the names, but I’m safe here. Who’d think of coming to Bethlehem Hospital, a house for the witless and the moonstruck? Who would believe my ranting and ravings? You see, mistress, once I was a Templar, wasn’t I, Demontaigu?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but hurried on. ‘I was at the fall of Acre. I was a serjeant, a standard-bearer. When Acre fell, I and others escaped across the desert. I tell you this, mistress, I saw things that brought me here. The good monks at Charterhouse who first cared for me thought it best. They didn’t believe me. I told them about young Fulk; he came from Poitou, also a standard-bearer. He was bitten by a basilisk. He hardly felt any pain from the bite, and his outward appearance was normal, but the poison stole through his blood secretly! A creeping fire invaded his marrow and kindled flame in his innermost parts. The poison sucked up the moisture next to his vital organs and dried his mouth of saliva. No sweat flowed to relieve his body. He couldn’t even cry. He burnt all over and searched desperately for water.’ Hermeri leaned on his stick. I glanced across at Demontaigu, who just shook his head. ‘Then there was Beltran, bitten by a basilisk in the leg, he was. The basilisk left a fang there. Beltran had to tear it away but the flesh near the bite broke up and shrivelled until it laid the whole bone bare. The gash grew wider and wider, and before long Beltran’s calves dissolved and his knees were stripped of skin. Neck, thighs and groin dripped with corruptive matter, trickling down into a puddle of filth. That is all I can remember.’ He peered up the ceiling, lower lip jittering. ‘Those basilisks lord it over the desert, their wings carry them high. No creature is safe from them, mistress, not even elephants; I understand the king has one of those at the Tower. Ah well, such is my story.’ And without further ado he got up, bowed at both of us and shuffled out.

Demontaigu rose and followed. He opened the door, looked swiftly outside and closed it again.

‘Is that true?’

‘He was lucid enough to remember I was a Templar.’ Demontaigu sat down. ‘I recall Hermeri; his eyes, lips and gestures. When Acre fell, many Templars died. Others were taken prisoner by the infidels; a few did escape across the desert. Perhaps Joachim was telling the truth. He must have seen things, experienced fears we don’t know of, but who believes him? I have met Templars found lost, wandering in the desert. They are never the same again; they have bouts of lunacy as if struck by the moon. They jibber and jabber, then become as rational and clear-thinking as the next man. What I suspect is that Joachim has been visited by some of our brethren. They would come to a place like this for shelter and protection. They may have talked to him about me and others and so freshened his memories of his Templar days. Ah well, he is harmless enough.’

I gazed at the crucifix. Joachim’s story about the basilisk reminded me sharply of the word Chapeleys had written. Had he been referring to a basilisk, or something else? A tap on the door and the grey-faced master of the hospital entered. He was garbed in the dark robes of an Augustinian friar. He sketched a blessing, studied me carefully, then turned to Demontaigu.

‘I understand you have come to see Master Highill?’

‘He is here?’ I asked, forcing the master to address me.

‘He was,’ he replied, ‘at least until yesterday.’

I rose to my feet. ‘Brother, we are here on king’s business. We carry warrants and letters if you wish to see them. Master Highill, where is he?’

‘He is in his chamber.’ The master looked me up and down. I curbed my temper.

Demontaigu half drew his sword and let it fall back. The slither of steel startled the friar. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

‘I apologise. I have been up most of the night.’ He opened his eyes, turned to the crucifix and blessed himself. ‘Yester evening, Master Highill was visited by a Franciscan nun, or so she claimed to be, from the House of Minories. He had been ill and was in his bedchamber. The Franciscan was closeted with him, then left. Later, when one of the brothers was doing his rounds before the candles were doused, he knocked at Master Highill’s door, and receiving no answer he went in. At first he thought Master Highill was fast asleep, but feeling for the blood beat in his neck, realised he had died.’

‘At what hour did this nun come?’

‘Oh. . just before Compline. She said she wished to see Master Highill. She claimed to be his distant relative and had heard he was ailing, which was true. We took her down to his chamber and left her there. I mean. .’ the master spread his hands, ‘what harm could a nun do?’

‘Do you think Master Highill was murdered?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘I don’t know,’ the Master replied. ‘There was no mark of violence. The cup he kept on the table beside the bed was dried and cleaned. Master Highill liked his wine. You’d best see yourself. Oh,’ he turned at the door, ‘there is something else. Master Highill was old and frail, so when he died, little suspicion was provoked. However, when we began to list his possessions, we found virtually everything gone. We know he had a psalter, some ledgers, the bits and pieces an old man collects over the years, all missing. .’

He led us out of the small chamber and down clean, lime-washed passages. The master was an excellent physician. No rushes cluttered the polished floorboards; everything was clean; herb pots and sweet-smelling pomander hung against the walls or from rafters. We turned a corner, and I paused. I caught the same smell as I had from Guido’s breath, that flowery, sweet odour.

‘Master, what is that smell?’

He came back. ‘Lavender. .’

‘Yes, yes, I recognise that, but beneath it, another?’

‘Crushed violet,’ the master replied. ‘We had some left from last summer. We find it very powerful against malignant odours and foul stenches.’

‘Of course!’ I smiled at him. ‘Violet!’ I thanked him and we walked on.

The hospital was built round a cloister garden. Highill’s chamber was just off this, really nothing more than a narrow closet. Like the rest of the place, the floorboards were clean and polished, the walls whitewashed and hung with dried herbs. A narrow cot-bed stood in the corner. There was some paltry furniture and a coffer, its lid back, the clasp broken. On the bed, covered by a sheet, lay Highill’s corpse: an old man, obviously frail, his cheeks sunken, white hair brushed back, the lower part of his face covered in untidy stubble. He wore the dark-green gown of all inmates; his head rested slightly back, his nose sharp and pointed, lips half open. To all intents and purposes an old man who had died in his sleep. However, when the master showed us more coffers, small caskets and chests piled in a corner, he explained how various items that he knew had been there were now missing. He suspected that the previous night’s mysterious visitor had taken them.

‘Why was Master Highill placed in Bethlehem?’

The master pulled the sheet back over the dead man’s face.

‘He was a senior clerk in the secret chancery,’ he remarked, ‘or so he told us. We know he had been in royal service, but his wits had wandered. Sometimes he talked about his days with the old king as if he was very close to him, though few believed him. Mistress, many men and women are brought here because of their delusions. Master Highill could be quiet, but sometimes he’d burst into song, something that always frightened me a little. You know the “Salve Regina” sung at the end of Compline? Well, Master Highill would sing that, but a blasphemous version. I cannot remember the exact words: instead of “Mother of Mercy” it was “Mother of Discord”. I ordered him to stop this. He did, but on occasion I found him writing the same words.’ The master pointed to a painting, a piece of vellum in a wooden frame, which hung on a hook from the wall. ‘Ah yes, that’s it.’ He took down the painting, an Agnus Dei surrounded by the Five Wounds of Christ, and showed me the marks beneath.

At first I couldn’t make them out. I took a candle and, holding it against them, studied the scrawl. I stared in disbelief: they struck a chord, a memory. I asked Demontaigu to copy down what was written there: Salv. Reg. Sin. Cor. Ma. Disc.

Once he had finished, I asked the master for a description of the nun who had visited the night before, but he shrugged and shook his head.

‘She was wimpled with a deep hood. No one took much notice. She came in the dark, asked to see Master Highill, then left.’ He pulled a face. ‘Who cares about an old man, or a nun visiting him to give him solace?’

Distracted, I thanked him and left. We collected our horses from the stables and made our way back to Westminster, riding along the busy tracks following the city wall down towards the Thames. My mind was a blizzard of thoughts and memories. Even as I read those scratch marks out to Demontaigu, I realised I had discovered something important, though I couldn’t fully comprehend it. Demontaigu tried to draw me into conversation, but I shook my head. I gathered my cloak about me, grasped the reins and let my horse plod on. I was totally unaware of the day or the people around me. At last Demontaigu, exasperated, reined in outside the entrance to the Gate of Antioch, a prosperous-looking tavern just past Bishopsgate.

‘Mathilde, for the love of God at least talk to me.’

We stabled our horses and took some food and jugs of cantle in the warm taproom. Although absorbed, I was also excited, on the verge of resolving sinister mysteries. Those arbalests still bothered me, as well as Demontaigu’s words about a trap. Over bowls of hot potage I questioned him further. At last he put his horn spoon down, tapping the table with it.

‘Mathilde, why are you questioning me about this?’

‘I’m stating the obvious.’ I replied. ‘If you were to plot a secret attack on the king and Gaveston in Burgundy Hall, would you use such heavy arbalests?’

‘No,’ he replied quickly, ‘they are ponderous, heavy to carry, slow to load. What are you saying, Mathilde?’

‘I was meant to find them.’ I told him about the shadow I’d glimpsed at the window. ‘The king shelters behind the walls of Burgundy Hall. He believes he is safe. We know there are those who wish to do great hurt to either him or Lord Gaveston. So what do we do? We look beyond Burgundy Hall for the attack. We expect weapons to be hidden away so secret assassins can come crawling over the walls, seize them and carry out their assault. But that’s not going to happen. We are looking for the enemy beyond the walls when the enemy-’

‘Is already within?’ he asked.

‘Precisely!’ I replied. ‘The enemy is already inside, but who are they and where are they hiding? I don’t know. It is time we returned to Westminster.’