The Poison Maiden

Chapter 13

I remember that ride back. The sky had clouded. Peals of bells rang out as protection against the impending thunder and lightning. The day’s business was well underway, shops open, stalls laid out, water-bearers, ale-sellers, butter wives and herb wives all selling their wares. Tinkers and pedlars accosted us, eager to do business. A red-faced market bailiff strode about proclaiming the recent injunction against the use of stubble, straw or reeds in any house or tavern, as they were inclined to flare and burn easily. We continued our journey back to Westminster, taking the road that wound down to the royal mews, past the exquisitely carved cross to Queen Eleanor, along King’s Street and on to the Royal Way. The crowds were busy, people moving up and down to the palace and abbey, and the sheer throng, clamour and chaos forced us to pause now and again. A line of lay brothers from the abbey were bringing in the corpses of three beggars found frozen to death in the nearby meadows. The hue and cry had also been raised. People shouting, ‘Harrow, harrow!’ and armed with any weapon they could lay their hands on, were chasing two fugitives who’d robbed a shop near Clowson Stream. As we turned into Seething Lane, a group of bailiffs from Newgate had cornered an escaped felon hiding in some ruins; he was being dragged out to suffer the immediate sentence of death, forced to kneel, his head pressed against a log whilst a bailiff armed with a two-edged axe hacked at his neck. I turned away. Demontaigu whispered the ‘Miserere’. Such a scene agitated my mind, teeming as it was with images, pictures and memories. I had concentrated on one path, totally ignoring other evidence until I had read those etchings on the wall of John Highill’s chamber.

Once back at Westminster, I asked Demontaigu to accompany me to Burgundy Hall and immediately asked to see Isabella. She was entertaining leading aldermen of the city, resplendent in their scarlet robes. Only when they left could I see her alone. Demontaigu waited outside. Isabella looked magnificent in cloth of gold, her beautiful hair hidden under a white veil held in place by a green chaplet. She looked strangely at me as I knelt before her like a penitent waiting to be shriven. I clasped my hands, placed them in her lap and stared up at her. At first my words came haltingly, but I soon gained confidence. I told her everything I suspected, and what must be done. Now and again she would hold up her bejewelled fingers, ask me a question, then tell me to continue. When I had finished, she sat staring down at me and shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Impossible, yet probable,’ she whispered, then leaned forward and kissed me full on the lips. She took my face between her hands, pressing gently, staring into my eyes.

‘Mathilde, I have always seen you as my alter ego, my soul, my confidante. Do you remember the teachings of the school? If a hypothesis is true in part, then it is possible that it is true in all aspects. Well, let us test it.’ She asked me to summon Demontaigu and Ap Ythel to her chamber. When they arrived, she swore them to secrecy. Ap Ythel objected to this, saying his first duty was to the king. Isabella countered this. ‘No, sir, your first duty is to the Crown, and I am part of that. If what I say is the truth, then the king will be pleased. You are to search Burgundy Hall from its rafters to the cellars, every nook, every corner, every cranny. You must look for anything out of place, not just a weapon hidden away or a damaged bolt on a door, but anything where it should not be. Then come back and report to me.’

Once she had dismissed them, she sent a page boy for the supervisor of the king’s works, the clerk responsible for the cleaning of the latrines and cesspits. The man came all nervous and fell immediately to his knees. Isabella assured him all was well.

‘I have one question, sir. You must keep that and your answer confidential until I speak to my husband.’

The man swallowed hard, nodding vigorously.

‘What was the cause of the blockage to the latrines and sewers?’

The clerk shrugged and spread his hands. ‘Mistress, you know how narrow the runnels are; they become easily clogged. What is lying down there is rotting but bulky enough to create a blockage.’

‘And?’ Isabella asked imperiously. ‘What did you find? Sir, I do not wish a full description of what you dragged from the sewers and cesspits; just what caused the blockage, the foul smells in this palace.’

‘Simple enough, your grace,’ he replied quickly. ‘Cloth, coarse wool, some wire, hardened parchment-’

‘Except,’ I intervened, ‘surely it is rare for so many sewers and latrines to become blocked at the same time, unless they feed into the one pit?’

‘Yes, I did wonder about that,’ the clerk mumbled, ‘how different latrines became blocked at the same time, but there again, it can happen. Page boys, squires, maids,’ he smiled nervously at me, ‘they could do it deliberately. Now they are cleared and run clean, flushed with water.’

My mistress thanked and dismissed him. After he’d gone, she asked me to help her undress. Once finished, she stood on a turkey carpet in the centre of her chamber dressed only in a bed-robe, her long hair falling down almost to her shoulder blades. She looked older, her face drawn; the way her eyes kept moving from left to right to left betrayed her agitation, her nervousness at what she had to do.

‘Mathilde, it is best if you retire to your chamber. I wish to be alone.’

I bowed and left. Of course, I visited Guido, but he was now out of bed, dressed and shaved, his hair oiled and crimped. He explained how the queen dowager and her children had returned to their own quarters in the Old Palace. I asked him about Agnes. Guido raised his eyes heavenward.

‘My mistress sent her to Marigny on some errand; that was yesterday evening, and she has not returned. Why do you ask, Mathilde?’

I replied that I wished to speak to her, thanked him and left. He called after me how he hoped to visit me, as he would soon be joining the queen dowager. I returned to my own chamber, locked and bolted the door, prepared my chancery desk and started to write down my thoughts, this time more coherently, in a logical form, like a peritus in the chancery drawing up a bill of indictment.

Demontaigu and I had returned to Westminster as the bells rang the Angelus, so it was late afternoon before a page boy asked me to join my mistress in her chambers. She seemed more calm and poised.

‘Mathilde, we must wait upon Ap Ythel and Demontaigu. If they discover what we suspect, then I must approach the king, not you. It is my hour, my day. So tell me again.’

I did so, sitting opposite her as if telling a story, my words no longer stumbling. I had hardly finished when Ap Ythel and Demontaigu, dirt-marked, their clothing all stained, asked for an audience. Once the door was closed and both were seated on stools before the queen, Demontaigu glanced at Ap Ythel, who nodded.

‘Your grace, Mathilde, I must apologise. We found other weapons in the gardens, daggers and swords, but nothing else until we came to the cellars. In Burgundy Hall,’ Ap Ythel used his hands to demonstrate, ‘the cellars are dug deep and stretch virtually from one end of the building to the other. They are small rooms, each cut off by a jutting wall; they not only serve as storerooms, but also support the building above. Wine casks and other provisions are kept there. We found something else: bulging skins, sacks full of oil tied tightly at the neck, pushed behind barrels or wedged tightly into corners.’

I closed my eyes and murmured a prayer.

‘There was more,’ Ap Ythel continued. ‘Small casks of saltpetre, fire powder, your grace. I served with the late king four years ago when he besieged Stirling. I saw him use such oil and powder to crack the hardest stone.’

‘And these lie throughout the cellar?’ Isabella asked.

‘Yes, your grace. Once sworn to secrecy, the master of the stores, the cellarer, and the master of the pantry and the kitchen were questioned, but no one knew anything about these things. In fact, as we interrogated them, I could tell they were concerned. One candle, one torch. .’

‘And what would have happened?’ Isabella asked.

‘Burgundy Hall would have been turned into a roaring inferno,’ Demontaigu replied. ‘The oil and powder together with the dry wood, wine and other stores in the cellar would create a fire hotter than a furnace. Some of the hall is built of wood. The flames would simply roar up, bursting through one floor after another whilst draughts would sweep the fire the length of the building. Within a few heartbeats, your grace, and I do not exaggerate, Burgundy Hall would become hell on earth. I have seen such fires spread; it doesn’t wait, it actually leaps, the smoke itself can choke you.’

I stared at the tapestry on the wall: a gift to the queen from the scholars of St Paul’s. It described the legend of Medusa, who lived in the furthest extremes of Africa where the hot earth is burnt by fire at sunset. Medusa cradled her own severed head whilst from her neck swarmed hissing serpents, their flickering tongues spitting blood. Vipers hung loose around her body as those awful eyes in that severed head glared out. The picture caught my mood of horror.

‘They meant to kill us all,’ I whispered. ‘If that cellar was lighted at the dead of night, the fire would spread, and the king, my lord Gaveston. .’ I stared at Isabella. She sat, face hard, eyes bright with anger. ‘No one would have survived, or very few.’

‘I thought of that,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘Your grace, every man and woman would have had to look after themselves. Can you imagine his grace the king, Lord Gaveston, yourself, Mathilde? Even if you did escape, stumbling out, shocked, burnt, coughing and spitting, any assassin lurking in the dark would find it easy to strike.’

‘And these hellish cellars?’ Isabella asked sharply.

‘They are now being secretly cleared,’ Ap Ythel declared, ‘the oil and powder loaded into carts. Tonight these will be taken into the meadows south of the abbey where they will be closely guarded. My men are under oath, no one is to know!’

‘Good.’ Isabella rose to her feet; immediately we all did the same. ‘I have learnt enough.’ She turned to me. ‘If a hypothesis be true in one part, then it is probably true in all its aspects. Mathilde, gentlemen, I shall return.’ She swept out, shouting for pages and squires to escort her to the king.

Demontaigu and Ap Ythel went out into the gallery. I followed, closing the door behind me and summoning a page to stand on guard. Ap Ythel shook his head.

‘The enemy within,’ he murmured, ‘that’s how my people were conquered by the great Edward, the enemy within!’ He and Demontaigu left, determined to conduct one more final search and ensure that what Isabella had called those ‘hellish cellars’ were clear of all danger. I returned to my own chamber, locked the door and crouched over a small brazier, gathering warmth from the glowing coals. I picked up a coverlet and wrapped it around my shoulders. I found myself cold, shivering as the horror of what could have happened dawned. My uncle had told me about fire powder. Even a farmer’s lad would know the danger of blending oil, wine, dry wood and saltpetre; the flames would have raced through those cellars and up, turning Burgundy Hall and all within it into a living torch. Eventually I calmed my soul. I heated some wine, drank the hot posset and returned to my own studies. There was a gap, one piece of evidence I needed, but for that, I would have to wait. I dozed for a while; the abbey bells tolling for Vespers woke me. Shortly afterwards Ap Ythel, now dressed smartly in the royal livery, knocked on my door. The king had summoned me to his own chambers, where the queen was waiting.

As I walked along the galleries, I could sense the change. Virtually every man in Ap Ythel’s comitatus, together with the Kernia, stood on guard. Ap Ythel whispered how all the gates and postern doors to the hall had been locked and secured. No one was allowed in or out without the king’s express approval. Inside the royal chamber, Edward was pacing up and down like the leopard I’d seen in its cage at the Tower. He was full of rage. Dressed only in a cambric shirt, hose pushed into a pair of black boots with the spurs still clinking, a jacket of tawny fustian around his shoulders, he kept pacing up and down. Gaveston, dressed more elegantly, lounged in a window seat, left hand covering the bottom half of his face. Isabella sat in the king’s great chair, like some effigy or statue of the Virgin. She never moved, not even when I entered. The king snapped his fingers and ordered me to kneel on a cushion beside her. For a while he just raged, a torrent of filthy abuse. At last he calmed himself, came over, stroked my hair, patted me carefully under the chin then strangely enough — but that was Edward — knelt down before his queen, leaning back to sit on his heels.

‘Ap Ythel will search this palace,’ he commented. ‘I’ve had the treasure taken to the Tower. Cromwell can look after it. Mathilde, you have given my lady good advice and counselling; your reward will come.’ He held up a hand, fingers splayed. ‘The prisoner will be brought here in the early hours, confined, chained and securely guarded. You will question him, but first, my lady,’ he turned to the queen, ‘you will issue a summons to Marigny and the others for an audience with you shortly after the Jesus mass tomorrow morning. You know what to say?’

‘And afterwards?’

Edward shrugged. ‘Do what you have to, but do it swiftly. We can only risk one more night. The decision is yours. As I have said, no blood. Let time be the executioner.’

Afterwards Isabella, still hard of face and sharp of voice, came to my chamber. She described Edward’s rage at what she had told him, particularly about the plot to fire Burgundy Hall. She also reported, with some satisfaction, Gaveston’s fear.

‘Our noble lord is wary, much more so than I thought. You know his friendship with Agnes is because he uses her as a spy on his wife, the Countess Margaret, though,’ Isabella sighed, ‘she is so benighted, she’d scarce notice anything untoward. My lord will leave Burgundy Hall soon,’ she continued, ‘move well away from London. He and Gaveston will probably take shelter behind the walls of Windsor Castle, where Edward will find it easier to summon the shire levies. He is still determined on war. Gaveston has already sent secret messages and bribes to Lincoln and Pembroke. Langton’s wealth is being well used. Both earls are to be admitted to Burgundy Hall tonight for secret talks with the favourite.’ Isabella chewed on her lower lip. ‘I shall take advantage of that to return to my lord. I need to lecture him about his duties to me and the governance of this kingdom. Mathilde,’ she leaned forward and stroked my face, ‘you have done well, but as in any hunt, I must be in at the kill. Remember that! Pray and prepare that tomorrow our forced guest confesses the truth. Any further delay will only alert the enemy. The hours pass; soon the gossip will begin.’

I slept little that night, Burgundy Hall lay wrapped in silent darkness, broken occasionally by faint chanting from the abbey, the tolling of bells or the calls from the guardsmen and watchmen. I wondered if the king’s vigilance and the deployment of troops would warn our enemy, but there again, such alarums were common. Nevertheless, time was of the essence. We had to strike hard, and as swiftly as possible. I returned to my writing until I grew restless and wandered the galleries and passageways like some ghost. The threatened thunderstorm swept up the Thames, blocking out the moon and stars. Stark flashes of lightning illuminated the shadow-filled galleries, bringing to life the grotesque faces of the babewyns and gargoyles carved on corbels and lintels. I stopped and closed my eyes, suppressing a shiver. On a night like this, in those hellish cellars, torches would have been thrown; a conflagration caused which could have ended it all. I walked quickly back to my chamber, closing the door, pulling across the bolts. I continued my reflections, fell asleep and was roused by a pounding on the door. Demontaigu and Ap Ythel had returned. They were both dressed in half-armour, war belts strapped around their waists, hoods and cloaks saturated with rain. Demontaigu made a mock bow.

‘Mathilde, my lady, your guest has arrived.’

They took me along the galleries. I peered through a window. The grey light of dawn revealed that the thunderstorm had swept on, the clouds were breaking. They took me down to the cellars, and a small adjoining room used by the clerks of the stores; it was secured by a heavy oaken door with bolts and lock. Inside was a red-brick wall with a grille high up to allow in light and air. On a ledge beneath this sat Langton, seething with rage. He was swathed in a heavy cloak, hands and feet manacled. He was about to curse at Ap Ythel, but as the Welshman placed down the lantern horn, Langton saw me and smiled, drawing in his breath so his nostrils flared. He slouched back against the wall.

‘The cause of my destruction,’ he murmured as Ap Ythel and Demontaigu slammed the door shut behind them. He lifted his manacled hands and shook a finger at me. ‘You, Mathilde, represent my great weakness. I have little regard for women, and it has been my undoing. I realised that as soon as you left. I understood why you wanted to examine my leg, and those references about New Temple and Master Highill. Very clever! And I was warned about you, Mathilde! They did warn me. Ah well, pride has its own fall. Arrogance is a sin.’ He beat his breast mockingly. ‘I confess, I confess, peccavi, peccavi — I have sinned, I have sinned.’

‘My lord,’ I stood over him to show I was not frightened, ‘my lord, I wish to make you an offer.’

Langton’s shrewd eyes crinkled up. ‘An offer? I never thought I’d sit in a cellar and be questioned by a maid, a scullion wench.’

‘My lord, insults are like the patter of the rain: they fall but don’t remain. Do you wish to go back to the Tower, spend your time in confinement? The king has your treasure and a full understanding of your secret doings. If you confess-’

‘If I confess!’ Langton mocked.

‘If you confess. .’ I continued remorselessly, ‘freedom, the return of your temporalities, restoration to your see, no fine, no disgrace. Re-admittance into your king’s love. What can you lose, my lord? The friendship of the Lords and other bishops? They will see your release as just vindication for their pleas. Who else?’ I cocked my head, staring at him; his glance told me he knew exactly who I was talking about. He stared down at the floor, then back up, his face drained of all arrogance, eyes watchful, lips slightly pursed.

‘Mathilde, I apologise for my mockery, for my bullying of you. I am supposed to be a man of God, though I often fail. God gave me sharp wits.’ He held both hands up as if in prayer. ‘I will hear your confession, and if you tell the truth, you have my word, as sacred as if sworn on the Gospels, you shall hear mine.’

In the end, I heard Langton’s confession as he first heard mine. He sat throughout, a half-smile on that podgy face, those cunning eyes shifting from anger to admiration then to self-mockery. A tortured soul, Langton! Once I’d finished, he beat his breast again.

‘I have sinned, I have sinned,’ he mocked. ‘Pilate asked what was truth and didn’t wait for an answer, but you will, won’t you, Mathilde?’

An hour must have passed before I hammered on that heavy door for it to be opened. I nodded at Demontaigu, put a finger to my lips and returned to my own quarters. I stripped, washed, dressed and prepared myself. A page came whispering that her grace was now ready, whilst the Lord Marigny and other French envoys were also assembled. When I reached my mistress’ private chamber, she had prepared it well. All was cleared; a chair for herself, a stool beside it for me. Four other chairs, taken from the chancery room in the palace, high-backed with soft quilted seats, were placed before us. Isabella had dressed most demurely in a dark-green gown, her hair piled up beneath a wimple, almost in mockery of a certain fashion. She was nun-like in manner, her face all coy and simpering. She rose, nodded at me and gestured at the page to bring in Marigny and the others.

Isabella acted the part beautifully. She greeted her father’s emissaries, waving them to the seats, asking if they wished anything to eat or drink. Of course Marigny, full of curiosity, refused, eager for the business in hand. Isabella sat down, gesturing that they do likewise. Four demons in all: Marigny, Nogaret, Plaisans and Alexander of Lisbon. He sat slightly to one side, the other two fiends either side of Marigny, all dressed in the official livery of the French king, elegant blue and silver robes, rings of office glittering on their fingers.

‘Madam?’ Marigny, one hand on his chest, bowed and smiled. ‘We received your invitation yesterday evening. I understand the queen dowager is also here. Your grace wishes to see her?’

‘My good aunt,’ Isabella replied, ‘pursues her own business. Monsieur, I’ve asked you to come to answer one question and one question only.’

The smile faded from Marigny’s face.

‘Oh yes,’ Isabella added, ‘I also want to tell you something.’

‘Your grace?’ Marigny spread his hands.

‘First, where is Agnes d’Albert? The lady-in-waiting from my beloved aunt’s retinue?’

‘Ah.’ Marigny closed his eyes.

Plaisans and Nogaret moved uneasily; Alexander of Lisbon looked perplexed. The great demon’s lieutenants had sensed something was very wrong.

‘Why are you interested in Agnes d’Albret?’ Marigny asked softly.

‘Because I am,’ Isabella replied. ‘She petitioned to join my household. She went to see you in your quarters and has not returned.’

‘Agnes d’Albret,’ Marigny replied, choosing his words carefully, ‘is not well, Madam, an evil humour.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It would be best if she returned to the French court. The queen dowager herself has admitted that, perhaps, her presence is no longer required here. In fact, Madam Agnes has already left for Dover; a French cog waits there.’

‘Ah well.’ Isabella stood up.

The look of surprise on the faces of Marigny’s companions was almost comical.

‘Your grace?’ Marigny rose to his feet. ‘Is that all?’

‘I asked you a question,’ Isabella retorted, ‘where is Agnes d’Albret? You have answered it. What more can I say?’ She gestured at the door.

Marigny and the rest hurriedly recollected themselves and bowed.

‘Oh, messieurs, I almost forgot.’ Isabella took a step forward. ‘When you return to France — and perhaps you may be leaving earlier than you think — tell my good father how my husband, his grace the king, knows who the Poison Maiden is.’

Marigny paused, mouth gaping. Oh, the sight was sweet revenge! He stared like a man hit by a club, hands halfway up, mouth opening and closing, eyes darting.

‘My lady, your grace,’ he stammered, ‘what is this?’

‘Messieurs,’ Isabella replied sweetly, ‘our audience is over. My pages and squires will show you out.’

Marigny would have stayed, but Isabella flailed her hand. ‘Monsieur, I have other business.’

Once they had gone, the door slamming shut behind them, Isabella sat down, fingers to her face, and giggled like a girl. ‘Oh Mathilde,’ she took her hands away, ‘for years I have wished to do that! Now, my sweet,’ she turned to me, ‘my revered aunt and her imp Guido the Psalter; let us talk to them.’

The queen dowager sensed something was wrong as soon as she took her seat. She stared in suspicion at her niece, dressed so mockingly in the same attire and fashion as herself. Beside Margaret, Guido, in red and gold jerkin and blue hose, looked uncomfortable; he kept staring back at the door where Isabella’s squires and pages had plucked his dagger from its sheath.

‘Beloved niece,’ the dowager began, ‘something is wrong? Guards are everywhere, there is gossip of great danger. .’

‘Beloved aunt,’ Isabella retorted, ‘there is, but it will pass.’

‘So why have you invited me here?’

‘To accuse you of treason, vile and heinous, against me, my husband and the power of England.’

Margaret made to rise.

‘Please stay!’ Isabella warned. ‘Leave this chamber now, and you and yours will be arrested.’ She gestured at Guido. ‘He’ll be hanged out of hand. I have the power; just a few heartbeats and you, the Poison Maiden, will be incarcerated, whilst you, sir, assassin, spy, a truly treacherous soul, will be hanging from the gatehouse beams.’ She spread her hands. ‘The choice is yours.’

‘I will protest!’

‘Of course you will! The Lord Satan does eternally.’

‘My lady, your grace. .’ Guido squirmed in his chair.

‘Keep your peace!’ Isabella snapped. ‘You, sir, are before justices of oyer and terminer. You are on trial for your life. Outside men gather who will be your executioners. Will you resist or listen?’

Guido slouched back in the chair, but the shock of his predicament flushed his face, eyes bright and startling, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

‘There are two people missing,’ Isabella declared cheerfully,

‘Margaret, Countess of Cornwall, but she is not needed for these matters, and Agnes d’Albret. Margaret, where is she?’

The queen dowager gazed solemnly back. Guido made to speak.

‘Langton has confessed all,’ I interjected. My words stung like the lash of a whip. Margaret started in horror. Guido groaned openly.

‘The indictment?’ Isabella spoke softly. ‘Mathilde?’

‘Madam,’ I tried to catch and hold Margaret’s gaze, ‘you are Philip of France’s sister, very close to him. Your brother occupied English-held Gascony and forced a peace treaty on old Edward of England. He was to marry you; his son, the Prince of Wales, your niece Isabella. Philip was determined that the throne of the Confessor, which stands so close to this place, be occupied by a prince of the Capetian blood. He was ruthlessly set on it. The marriage took place but the old king had taken a viper to his bosom. You were his wife but you were also Philip’s spy at the heart of the English court. Now in ancient times, a female assassin, the Poison Maiden, was sent into the enemy camp, to wreak as much damage as she could. You were, are, Philip of France’s Poison Maiden. You betrayed your husband’s secrets to his arch-enemy-’

‘What proof do you have of this?’ Margaret yelled, no longer the pious widow, the nun-like dowager; more like some furious harridan from the slums of St Denis or Cheapside.

‘Very little,’ I agreed. ‘Except that the old king, your husband, must have warned you, probably in a letter that no longer exists, transcribed by his faithful servitor John Highill. Or perhaps, in a moment of weakness, he confided his anxieties to that clerk of the secret seal. Your husband enjoyed the romances about Arthur and the great Alexander. In one of the poems about the Conqueror of the World, the King of India sent Alexander many precious gifts, including a beautiful maiden whom he had fed and poisoned until she had the nature of a venomous snake. Seduced by her loveliness, Alexander, according to the story, rushed to embrace her but her touch, her bite, even her sweat, the poem declares, would have been fatal to him. He would have been killed except for the intervention of his wise adviser, the philosopher Aristotle.’ I paused. ‘That is why your late husband used the phrase Poison Maiden to describe you, only in his case he had embraced you!’

The queen dowager was staring full at me, her face strangely younger, more beautiful, eyes rounded in anger. I could see her attraction to the old king, who must have been torn between anger and lust. Guido kept his head down, fingering with the buckle on a wallet strapped to his belt.

‘As I said, in the old king’s eyes you were the Poison Maiden, sent to seduce, to betray. He lusted after your body, determined to seek his own revenge through pleasure, but he never really trusted you.’

‘He loved me!’ Margaret hissed, her face pushed towards me.

‘I do not doubt that, madam,’ I replied, ‘but he had been cuckolded, trapped in a marriage with the sister of his enemy.’

‘He was no cuckold.’

‘In a sense he was. You put your brother the King of France’s interests before those of your husband, Edward of England. He knew that, but like any cuckold did not wish to proclaim it abroad. What could the old king do? He was bound by solemn treaty and the bonds of holy marriage. He could do nothing except fulminate. Two other people knew the full truth. The old king’s treasurer and confidant Walter Langton, and the clerk John Highill. The latter grew old and witless and expressed his sorrow at his royal master’s plight by composing a mock version of the “Salve Regina” — the ancient hymn to the Virgin.’

Margaret, violent with rage, would have lunged at me, but surprisingly, Guido grasped her arm while Isabella leaned forward.

‘Kinswoman, I do not wish to summon Ap Ythel to restrain you.’

‘Highill,’ I resumed, ‘became witless but his veiled attack on you meant he was committed to Bethlehem Hospital, where he continued his rantings, even scrawling on a wall.’

Guido’s head came up, eyes all fearful.

‘Oh yes,’ I declared, ‘Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiae. In Highill’s confused mind this became Salv. Reg. Sin. Cor. Mat. Dis., or, in full, Salve Regina sine corona, Mater Discordiae. Instead of “Hail Queen of Heaven, Mother of Mercy” his version, translated from his clerkly cipher, was: “Hail Queen without a crown, Mother of Discord”, his perception of you. The old king must have been furious with him, yet what crime had Highill committed except tell the truth? Hence, Bethlehem Hospital. Chapeleys also knew something about this, though perhaps not the whole truth. He had the wit to keep silent, but he made a reference to it on a scrap of parchment found in his chamber: an unfinished word, “basil”. I thought he was referring to a basilisk. Chapeleys, however, like Highill was a scholar of Greek. In that tongue the complete word, Basilea, means queen.’

‘Rantings and ravings!’ scoffed Margaret, glaring hot-eyed at my mistress.

‘Wait, wait,’ Isabella murmured.

‘In a sense, the old king had his revenge,’ I continued. ‘You were never crowned, were you? Almost nine years in England but never taken to Westminster. No crown lowered on to your head. Your skin never anointed with the holy chrism. I thought of that when I was close to Eleanor’s tomb in the Abbey. Did you hate your late husband, madam? He died at Burgh-on-Sands last July. You were there tending to him.’ I let the implied accusation hang in the air before continuing. ‘After his death, your role as the Poison Maiden did not end, but came to full flower in the new king’s reign. You acted as your brother’s spy, informing him about Lord Gaveston’s pre-eminence and the new king’s confrontation with his Great Lords. Philip of France must have been delighted. He made one mistake: the royal pastry cook Edmund Lascelles, commonly known as Pax-Bread, overheard his secret conspiracy and somehow discovered that the Poison Maiden was again bent on mischief. I do wonder if Pax-Bread actually knew the identity of the Poison Maiden. Or just that Philip greatly relied upon her to do great mischief against the power of England. Now Pax-Bread was a spy. He’d served the old king but he’d also served Lord Gaveston, changing horses, as it were, mid-stream. He must also have learnt something about Highill and written a letter warning the king and Gaveston about the dangers facing them.’ I paused. ‘We’ll never fully comprehend how much Chapeleys and Pax-Bread really knew, because you had both murdered.’

‘Pax-Bread,’ Margaret scoffed, ‘who is he?’

‘Oh, you knew! By the February of this year, madam, you were playing the two-faced Janus: the sanctimonious queen dowager trying to mediate between the young king and his opponents-’

‘Nonsense!’

‘And Philip of France’s sister,’ I declared, ‘determined on assisting him in all his subtle schemes.’

‘What is your proof?’

‘Langton has truly confessed,’ Isabella intervened. ‘He hopes for a pardon for all offences and the restoration of his temporalities.’

‘Traitor!’ The word escaped Guido, now torn between fear and anger.

‘You were no mediator,’ I declared. ‘Langton was your secret ally before he was arrested late last autumn. He’d already moved treasure from his hoard at New Temple to assist you. You used that to bribe the likes of Pembroke and Lincoln. You met those Great Lords at banquets in your private chambers, and bribed them with wine, silver, gold and flattery.’

‘And anything else?’ Isabella whispered.

‘How dare you!’ Margaret was now beside herself with rage. She sprang to her feet but a clatter outside the door forced her back. ‘My children?’ Her voice turned weary.

‘They are safe,’ Isabella retorted. ‘Safer than we would have been in Burgundy Hall.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In a while. Continue, Mathilde.’

‘The Great Lords and Langton were delighted by your secret sustenance and comfort. You reached an unwritten agreement with them.’ I paused, watching those hate-filled eyes. Margaret’s hands fell to the cord around her waist, and I wondered if she had a knife concealed.

‘You would act as mediator but advise them on as much as you could about the king’s secret councils.’

‘But surely in time the Great Lords,’ Margaret jibed, ‘would inform Edward about my so-called deviousness? I was vulnerable to any of them betraying me.’

‘Nonsense,’ I replied. ‘What proof did they have? I suspect you dealt with only Langton, Pembroke and Lincoln and no one else.’ I paused. ‘You would negotiate with them individually. Why should Langton expose you as the Poison Maiden? No one would believe him, whilst he would lose a valuable ally. As for Lincoln and Pembroke — oh, you’d play the wise woman who wanted to help your stepson, whom you so admire, whilst fully understanding the Great Lords’ aversion to the favourite. Moreover, why should Lincoln and Pembroke confess to plotting against the king? They would hardly wish to incriminate themselves, so they scarce would mention you. They would understand your role. You portrayed yourself as the pious queen dowager, deeply concerned by her stepson’s actions, alarmed at the rise of the Gascon favourite. Of course, Langton’s fall from grace, his sudden arrest, the attack on the Templars, the seizure of their estates, particularly New Temple Church, was an obstacle. However, you clearly tried to resolve that by pleading with your stepson to cede New Temple to Winchelsea so the Lords could gain control over Langton’s secret hoard. They could then have continued their opposition indefinitely whilst working hard for Langton’s release.’ I paused, planning my next words carefully. ‘Now the royal prosecutors,’ Margaret started at the implied threat, ‘will argue that your ultimate plan was to weaken the king and his kingdom, make it more malleable for your brother to eventually subdue. The Lords might sense this but, of course, blinded by their hatred for Gaveston, tolerate such meddling. In truth they were unaware of your real plot.’ Guido muttered something in the patois of the Paris slums. A prayer? A curse? I could not say, but those few words assured me I had struck to the heart.

‘Plot? Real plot?’ The queen dowager was flustered, her face snow white, eyes desperate.

‘Oh yes! The Great Lords and Langton did not fully understand Philip’s subtle moves on the chessboard. He dreams, doesn’t he, of being the new Charlemagne, dominating kings, princes and popes? He hopes to control everything through marriages. My mistress married her husband and Philip used Lord Gaveston’s rise to meddle more deeply in the affairs of this kingdom. In the beginning he hoped Edward would become his client king, but now to the real plot.’ I leaned forward. ‘What if both King Edward and his favourite disappeared, were killed in a fire or assassinated soon afterwards? To whom could the Lords turn? Which prince has Plantagenet blood? Edward has no sons; that only leaves, madam, your infant offspring, Edmund of Woodstock and Thomas of Brotherton. My mistress, if she survived the plot, would be dispatched back to France, the poor widow. You, however, madam, would enter your glory. The queen mother of future kings, possibly regent of the kingdom guided, of course, by brother Philip and his minions! Little wonder you became so agitated at the possibility that your niece might be pregnant; that would have posed problems!’

Margaret sat tense, shaking her head.

‘Sweet kinswoman,’ Isabella’s voice thrilled with sarcasm, ‘is that why I was to die as well?’

Margaret refused to meet her gaze.

‘And you,’ I turned, ‘Guido the Psalter, Pierre Bernard — you are no fugitive from French justice. You are no supporter of Edward, whatever you pretend. You are a high-ranking member of the Secreti, Philip’s coven of spies and assassins, dispatched to England to assist Queen Margaret. You know a great deal about murder, and such skills were certainly needed. You pretended to be Marigny’s enemy when you are, in fact, close to his heart. You act the jester when in truth you’re a Judas. You are here to protect, sustain and nourish Philip’s great enterprise. However, nothing under the sun goes as smoothly as we would wish; obstacles and problems afflict even princes. You were here to remove such obstacles. Chapeleys was the first. He wished to be free of the Tower, to negotiate with the king. I doubt if he knew the full plot, but he’d learnt where Langton had hidden his treasure hoard and, perhaps, that the queen dowager was not to be trusted. When he came here, Chapeleys brought some proof of his allegations but that was burnt by his assassin. Whiling away the hours, however, he took out a scrap of parchment, and using what he thought was a secret cipher, carefully made note of his intended revelations.’

‘But. .’ Guido stumbled over his words.

‘Listen,’ Isabella replied harshly, ‘don’t plead, don’t lie. You, sir, had me marked down for death!’

‘You accompanied Demontaigu and myself to the Tower. You are your mistress’ messenger to Langton, who, of course, denies all knowledge of Philip’s plot though he would bear witness to your treachery. On that day you acted the skilled physician, a leech conversing with Langton while tending to his leg, but as Langton was talking loudly, you crept back to the door, where you overheard Chapeleys pleading with me. After that clerk had left, you followed me to the Chapel of St John the Evangelist. You were probably already suspicious of Demontaigu. On that day you made a discovery: not only was Demontaigu a Templar, but he was planning to meet with his separated brethren the following evening at the Chapel of the Hanged.’

‘I never overheard you,’ Guido stammered.

‘Oh yes you did,’ I mocked. ‘I returned to the Tower, as you well know. I left Langton’s chamber, re-entered that chapel and recalled the events of that day: talking to Chapeleys, then moving into St John’s to converse with Demontaigu. You’re an accomplished spy, Master Guido, used to eavesdropping, to listening secretly, as you did that day. I would wager you were suspicious about the preacher on the Tower quayside. The way he approached Demontaigu, who whirled round to face him.’ I never waited for an answer. ‘You’re a clerk from the secret chancery — you would recognise a cipher, a hidden message, when you heard one. In the end you hastened back to warn Marigny. He and Alexander of Lisbon plotted the attack on the Templars at the Chapel of the Hanged. You would take care of Chapeleys and immediately. .’ I paused, listening to sounds outside, and took a deep gulp of fresh spring water from a cup.

‘You discovered that Chapeleys was lodged in Demontaigu’s chamber. The royal banquet was about to begin. You entered the maidservants’ quarters, a shabby, ill-lit room where they keep their cloaks and other clothing. You stole some of these. You dressed quickly in disguise. You’re a mimer, Guido, able to act different parts. You did not wish to be glimpsed hastening across the palace yards and up darkening staircases. You made a mistake. You were disturbed by a maid, Rebecca Atte-Stowe. You killed that poor woman and continued with your devious plot. You slipped out into the dark; you’d wait for Demontaigu to go into the banquet. Chapeleys would be alone in that chamber and easily fooled. Did you mimic me or declare that Demontaigu or I had sent you? Chapeleys, lonely and vulnerable, was tricked into opening that door. Again the garrotte string was used and Chapeleys was killed. The contents of his chancery pouch were quickly emptied, studied and burnt. You then dragged his corpse across to the window-door. You took the fire rope; one end was tied to a ring on the wall, the other you lashed tightly around Chapeleys’ neck. The rope was thick and coarse; you positioned it so that the weal in the still warm flesh would hide all signs of the garrotte string. You doused all lights, pushed open those window-doors and hanged poor Chapeleys. To deepen the mystery, you locked and bolted the chamber door from inside, compelling proof that Chapeleys simply despaired, burnt his papers and hanged himself. You then used that same rope around the corpse of your victim to clamber down into the darkness. You quickly removed your disguise and hastened to join the banquet in Burgundy Hall. You were the king’s special guest. The guards at the main gateway knew you. People were coming and going. No evidence to show that you had just carried out a foul deed.’

Guido sat staring at me. I noticed he had taken a small scroll from the wallet in his belt. I glimpsed the edges of a purple seal. He followed my gaze.

‘You have no proof for your allegations.’ His voice was quiet, calm, as if that manuscript restored his confidence.

‘Sometimes logic is its own proof,’ I retorted. ‘As I said, nothing goes as smoothly as planned. Edmund Lascelles, Pax-Bread, an English spy in the court of France, had been discovered and had fled to England. The Secreti followed him here. They noted that he’d lodged at the Secret of Solomon, yet they could do nothing and did not wish to provoke suspicion. Instead they passed this information to Marigny and his coven, who informed you, Master Guido. Once again disguised as a woman, with your smooth face and gift for mimicry, you slipped into the night. You approached the Secret of Solomon and inveigled a maid to take Pax-Bread a message. You gave her a copy of Lord Gaveston’s seals-’

‘How would I have obtained them?’

‘Quite easy, Guido: your mistress here has access to all sorts of documents. She has, I know, received letters from Lord Gaveston. You simply detached two of the seals to persuade Pax-Bread to leave that tavern. You sent him a note advising him to flee, taking everything without being noticed. You wanted to make sure that he left no evidence in his chamber.’

‘A note?’ Guido scoffed. ‘In Lord Gaveston’s hand? How could I-’

‘Very easily,’ I said. ‘You’re a spy, an assassin. Lord Gaveston would not write a note; a clerk would do that. Pax-Bread would notice nothing amiss. The note was one thing, the seals were another. In that note you warned Pax-Bread to take everything. He filled his pannier bags, bolted the door from the inside and climbed out of the window, banging the shutters behind him, first the one on his left then the other to his right so the bar inside fell down into the clasp. I have seen that done; it is quite common. There’s a cupboard here in this palace where even a groom could show you how to seal a door by bringing the bar down, as well as opening it by inserting a knife. Pax-Bread thought nothing was amiss. He knew he was being hunted. He was being warned by his patron to leave the Secret of Solomon as quickly and quietly as possible. A spy, he followed that order faithfully, taking all his possessions, fully hoping the king and Lord Gaveston would protect him. I suspect you may have laid a siege ladder against that window to help him climb down. In the darkness, however, you were waiting for him with your garrotte string, and Pax-Bread paid for his mistakes with his life.’

‘Yet I was poisoned!’ Guido blustered. ‘I was ill. You saw that! I drank what was intended for the Lord Gaveston.’

‘Foolishness,’ I replied. ‘Guido, you are skilled in physic and the potency of herbs. I now know all I need about what Apuleius calls Violata odorata. What confused me was the fact that there are so many species of this herb, as well as its distinctive smell. Now the violet’s roots and seeds can provoke ill humours of the belly, vomiting, slight breathing difficulties, looseness of the bowels and the occasional skin rash. In a word, sir, you poisoned yourself with a herb that is not malignant but gives every sign that it is. You hoped I would never find out. No wonder you kept asking me if I’d discovered what herb had been used, hinting it must be noxious whilst you used your skills to depict yourself as a very sick man.’

Guido shook his head in disbelief.

‘You are a liar!’ I accused. ‘You peddle stories as it suits your whim. You spread confusion and lies — as you tried to when you took me out into the gallery. You wanted to muddy the waters with your own theories. Langton did the same by declaring Gaveston was really the Poison Maiden, a public insult to the favourite whilst concealing the Poison Maiden’s true identity. You also concealed the truth. You depicted Langton as dismissive of Chapeleys. You misrepresented what Chapeleys believed. You were desperate. You said you’d been sent back to the Tower to treat Langton after Chapeleys was killed.’ I shook my head. ‘You were reporting back to him about Chapeleys’ death-’

‘I was sent there.’

‘No, sir, you, or rather your mistress, asked the king for you to be sent back. Edward, thinking it was of little importance, agreed. What harm was there in that? A clever deception like your so-called poisoning.’

‘Lies!’ Guido gasped. ‘I was ill.’

‘You were pretending,’ I retorted. ‘You needed to stay here in Burgundy Hall. As I said, violet causes stomach cramps, rashes, a loosening of the bowels but nothing dangerous. You pretended it was something more malignant. Your mistress, the queen dowager, persuaded Gaveston to take your chair. You put the violet in the water glass near the favourite’s chair and drank it. You were in Burgundy Hall and intended to stay there.’

‘But I was the queen dowager’s messenger.’

‘So?’

‘I could come and go as I wished.’

‘Master Guido, so you could! Ap Ythel made a strange remark about you. He called you the lord of the garderobes. When my suspicions were quickened, I asked him what he meant. He explained how, when you came into Burgundy Hall, you often visited the garderobes. He thought you might have suffered some stomach ailment. I don’t think so. You used hidden cloths, broken pottery, any rubbish at hand which could be concealed to block the holes of the latrines and cesspits, which in turn would provoke foulsome odours.’

‘And why should I do that?’

‘Master Guido, it would not be the first occasion that latrines, cesspits and sewers have been used against the very place they serve. The Surveyor of the Royal Works was brought in. The cleaning of cesspits and latrines is unsavoury work. He hired labourers. A coven of assassins known as Tenebrae — les ombres, the shadows — used this to infiltrate their own members into Burgundy Hall as workmen. Days passed. A stream of labourers went backwards and forwards. The assassins mingled with these, outlaws and wolfsheads recruited from the sanctuary of Westminster. They brought in sacks, covered barrows that concealed skins of oil and barrels of fire powder. Even if these were checked, a Welsh archer might conclude they were simply commodities to be used in cleaning the latrines. I doubt if the wolfsheads themselves realised the full significance of what they were doing. The vigilance of the guards was relaxed. His grace the king, with his well-known love of mixing and talking with labourers, worthy though it might be, did not help matters. The oil and powder were secretly stored in the cellars of Burgundy Hall.’ I stared hard at Guido, who was now fumbling with the parchment held in his hand. ‘I do not know the full truth,’ I continued. ‘Arbalests, swords and daggers were also found. I thought they’d been placed to divert suspicions. I now believe I was wrong. You didn’t want anyone to discover what was being planned. I suspect those powerful arbalests were hidden away for the assassins to use against anyone who escaped from Burgundy Hall, powerful weapons, deadly bolts and quarrels that could be loosed in the dark at some unfortunate staggering out against the light of the flames.’

‘I know nothing of this,’ the queen dowager declared. She moved her chair a little away from Guido, a gesture not lost on her servant.

‘Madam,’ Isabella accused, ‘that is why Guido acted the way he did, pretending to be poisoned, his life at risk; you wanted that!’

The queen dowager stared bleakly back. Isabella turned and nodded at me.

‘Madam, you would arrange to leave Burgundy Hall, but Guido would stay. He was recovering; in time he would become accepted. One night he’d prepare a grease wick, as you would for a lamp, only longer and thickly coated with oil. One end would be placed against the fire powder, the other lit by him. The ensuing conflagration would devastate Burgundy Hall. God knows what other devilry he was planning during his stay here: stairwells blocked, doors wedged shut. Master Guido would escape to plot whatever mischief was required afterwards, including the death of any survivors.’

‘John Highill?’ Isabella murmured.

‘Ah, yes.’ I pointed at Guido. ‘I have talked about what you planned. Let me return to what you did. A hideous mistake, Master Guido. I tricked Langton into revealing the name of John Highill, an old chancery clerk who ranted strangely and was closeted in Bethlehem Hospital. Apart from the king, Lord Gaveston and my mistress, only you, the queen dowager and Langton knew about my discovery. Highill died mysteriously at the hands of a supposed Franciscan nun. A matter of logic, Master Guido! That nun was either you or your mistress. Cowled and hooded, in the dark, with your talent for mime, you visited Highill. He liked his wine and you mingled a poison in it. Highill died. You cleansed the cup, stole his possessions and slipped away.’

‘I was ill here in Burgundy Hall!’

‘You were well enough,’ I scoffed. ‘And as you said, you are the queen dowager’s messenger, who could wander as he wished. Indeed, who would notice? Who would care?’ I paused. ‘The queen dowager comes and goes, sweeping in and out; who would notice the veiled lady-in-waiting carrying her baby sons, perhaps? Who would suspect it was Guido the Psalter? And if you were found missing from your sick-bed? Well, Guido has gone for a walk.’

Guido made to object.

‘You’re a killer,’ I insisted, ‘you dispatched those assassins against myself and Demontaigu. You, her,’ I jabbed a finger at Margaret, ‘and Marigny. We troubled you, didn’t we? You tried to find out what we knew! You wanted to stop our prying and snooping! Slit our throats! An unfortunate incident out on the heathland! A clerk and his maid barbarously slain by footpads!’

‘And Agnes d’Albret? Isabella’s voice was harsh.

‘Agnes,’ I replied, ‘was dangerous. Friendly with my Lord Gaveston, on whose wife she spied, she may have become suspicious. She may have noticed anomalies and contradictions but had little proof, or the status, to make any allegation. She even asked me if I’d observed anything wrong. Agnes first wanted to be safe, to find refuge in my mistress’ household. She fell under suspicion, so she was dispatched on a simple errand to Marigny, who knew what to do: seize her and send her as swiftly as possible back to France!’

Guido rose to his feet, not threatening but rather awkwardly. The queen dowager tried to grasp his wrist but he knocked her hand away.

‘Madam,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘this is finished. We must follow our own paths. I have,’ he bowed respectfully to Isabella, ‘a commission from your august father. I, Pierre Bernard, commonly known as Guido the Psalter, am a member of King Philip’s secret council, a special envoy carrying your father’s personal seal. I lie within the jurisdiction of the power of France. If charges are to be brought, I demand-’

Isabella raised a hand. ‘No more, no more,’ she murmured. ‘We expected as much. Go, sir, but as you pass through the hall of attendance, do tell the earls Pembroke and Lincoln that,’ she smiled falsely, ‘you are hastening to join my Lord Marigny at his lodgings elsewhere in this palace. As God lives, my father will know soon enough about you. I bid you adieu.’

Surprised, Guido gauchely bowed to both Isabella and Margaret, smirked at me and left.

‘And you, dearest kinswoman.’ Isabella’s voice thrilled, and once again I realised how consummate a mask-wearer she truly was. She disliked her aunt intensely and now made this obvious.

‘I am the queen dowager.’

‘So you are, and so you will remain, madam.’ Isabella rose. ‘You and your children will be taken back to one of your residences. Preferably,’ she mocked, ‘as far away as possible from me, but close enough to some mouldering relic. You can babble about them, visit the shrines, but this time it will be genuine, not a cover for your intriguing. As for my father,’ Isabella clicked her tongue, ‘you can tell him whatever you like. However, this charade of my husband, Gaveston, me and the power of France is all ended. I am Edward of England’s queen, crowned and anointed, the mother of future kings. Oh, go!’ She sat down, her voice weary. ‘In God’s name, madam, go! My husband sees no advantage in publicising your disgrace or humiliating you.’

Margaret rose, sketched a bow, glared hatefully at me and swept from the chamber. Isabella patted the stool beside her as I returned from closing the door. For a while we sat in silence. I went to speak. Isabella took a ring from her finger and pressed it into my hands.

‘A gift,’ she whispered, eyes smiling, ‘one my mother gave me. I now give it to you, Mathilde, with my love.’ She put her finger to her lips and walked over to a window. She stood there for a while, then put her face into her hands and stood, shoulders shaking. I made to rise.

‘No,’ she whispered without turning, ‘no, let me weep for what is, for what has been, but above all for what could have been.’ She continued to stand staring through the window.

There was a loud knock on the door. Isabella made a sign. I hastened to open it. Demontaigu stepped through. He was dressed in black leather jerkin and breeches. I noticed the blood-stains on his high-heeled boots. He placed his war belt on the floor and knelt.

‘Your grace.’

‘Is it done?’ Isabella asked without turning.

‘As you said,’ Demontaigu replied. ‘Pierre Bernard, known as Guido the Psalter, was intent on rejoining Lord Marigny. Lincoln and Pembroke will bear witness to that. No servant of this kingdom would seize him, but we were waiting.’

Isabella glanced bleakly over her shoulder at him.

‘My brethren and I were just beyond the gateway, Ausel and the rest. Guido the Psalter came swaggering out like a cock in a yard. We surrounded him. We gagged his mouth and bound his hands. No one noticed. I don’t think anyone really cared.’

‘And?’

‘We took him into the northern meadow just beyond the Great Ditch on Tothill Lane. We released his bonds and accused him of being what he was, a spy, a traitor and an assassin. At first he pleaded, but then accepted his fate. We allowed him to confess and took him over to a tree stump. Ausel cut his head off. He and the brothers have taken his corpse to the House of the Crutched Friars for burial. I sent money for the requiem mass. Madam,’ Demontaigu declared, ‘Bernard deserved his death. He brought it on himself.’

‘Thank you.’ Isabella turned away. ‘Please,’ she glanced swiftly over her shoulder, ‘please wait outside.’

Demontaigu rose, bowed, nodded at me and left. Only when the door closed did Isabella walk back; even then the lengthening shadows concealed her tear-streaked face.

‘This charade is over. I am queen; let Gaveston have his day. My husband will concede to the Lords through bribes, concessions and intimations of what Philip of France really intended, which will turn their hearts back to their king. We will move to Windsor. I will persuade Edward to let Gaveston go into honourable exile, perhaps with my Lord Mortimer, the king’s lieutenant in Ireland.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, Gaveston will return, but believe me, Mathilde de Clairebon — or should I say Mathilde of Westminster? This charade will end. Oh yes, I remember the maxim: never go to war unless you have to, never fight a battle unless you are going to win. However, on a day of my choosing, at a time of my choosing, at a place of my choosing, I, Isabella, will end this charade for good!’