The Poison Maiden

Chapter 2

Guido fell quiet as the bells of myriad churches along the north bank of the Thames — St Peter the Little, St Martin, All Hallows the Great and others — tolled the Angelus. We passed Downgate. Above us reared the gloomy mass of London Bridge, its rails adorned with the severed heads of Scottish chieftains who had been hanged, drawn and quartered at St Paul’s or Smithfield. Pickled and preserved, they were displayed as a warning to other rebels. The arches of the bridge yawned like the cavernous mouth of some great beast. The water surged faster, full and furious between the starlings. The captain of the barge shouted orders; one last pull and the oars came up and we shot like an arrow through the watery darkness. I sat tense and only opened my eyes when we entered calmer waters and glimpsed the brooding walls, turrets and gatehouse of the Tower.

We left our barge at a grim-looking quayside and made our way under the massive Lion Gate, across drawbridges spanning a stinking moat and through the Barbican, which reeked of the animal smells from the royal menagerie. A close, narrow place, with blind walls and cobbled pathways, all under the watchful eyes of royal troops who manned the crenellations, towers and gatehouses. Time and again we were stopped as we proceeded deeper into the royal fortress. We crossed the outer bailey, busy with men-at-arms wheeling out and readying the great engines of war, the catapults and trebuchets a sure sign of troubled times. At the entrance of the inner bailey we met Sir John de Cromwell, the stone-faced constable. He was dressed in half-armour, clearly anxious about the crisis at Westminster but too politic to ask. He was the king’s officer, and he told us in a blunt, terse fashion how his task was to ensure that the Tower remained loyal to the Crown. He took us across the rain-sodden green, where huge ravens and hooded crows prodded at the ground with cruel yellow beaks, and up into the four-square Norman keep.

Langton’s chamber, a cavernous cell with a small antechamber, lay next to the Chapel of St John the Evangelist. It was well-furnished room with lancet windows, some shuttered, others screened with horn paper. Turkey rugs warmed the floor and large paintings hung on hooks to offset the grimness of the walls. One in particular caught my attention, The Parade of the Seven Vices led by Pride: a mighty bishop stood admiring himself in a mirror held up for him by a grotesque-faced horned demon. I wondered if Gaveston had insisted that the painting be placed prominently beside the good bishop’s bed. Langton himself looked unabashed by his imprisonment or his surroundings.

The room was stifling hot. A fire blazed in the hearth; braziers and chafing dishes crackled and spluttered. Langton, stretched out on the great bed, was dressed in a simple gown, a thick fur cloak over his shoulders, legs and feet already bared. He was impatient for treatment. Guido and I immediately scrutinised the angry-looking red ulcer. The open sore looked clean, with little infection. I recommended it be washed in salt and wine, then treated with crushed ale-hoof or ground ivory as well as powdered moss mixed with grains of dried milk. Guido, surprisingly, as physicians rarely concur, offered to prepare the recipe and asked the waiting Cromwell to bring the necessary ingredients from the Tower stores. I stood back and studied Langton. A burly, red-faced man with popping eyes and a codfish mouth, he had a swollen belly, fat, heavy thighs and short, muscular arms. I found it difficult to imagine him in episcopal robes. Yet for all his weight, he was quick and lithe in his movements. He turned and stared closely up at me, I caught the cunning in his soul, the scrutiny of a sharp, twisting mind.

‘You must be,’ he scratched his thinning grey hair, ‘Isabella the queen’s little shadow.’

The statement proved how much he knew about the doings of the court.

‘Give my most loyal greetings and rich blessings to your mistress, girl.’

‘I will, Father,’ I retorted. ‘As I give you hers and mine.’ Langton stared at me, threw his head back and laughed raucously. Then he flapped his heavy hands, beating the coverlet either side of him.

‘Very, very good,’ he chuckled. ‘Well, girl, let Master Guido do his business, although your soft touch,’ he leered at me, ‘would also be welcome.’

‘Master Guido’s hands are just as soft.’ I bowed and left Guido to his ministrations. Servants arrived with mortar and pestle, a bowl of hot water and phials of powder from the Tower stores. Guido tactfully walked me away.

‘My lord bishop believes in the natural order of things, Mathilde. You are young and female.’

‘If he wants,’ I whispered back, ‘I can go into London and secure the services of a sixty-year-old physician who might prescribe oleum cataellorum.’

Guido glanced quizzically at me.

‘Live cats boiled in olive oil,’ I murmured. ‘It won’t cure him, possibly kill him, but will keep his honour intact.’

Guido spluttered with laughter. I patted him gently on the shoulder and walked out of the antechamber. When we had first entered, I had noticed the clerk cowled and hunched at the chancery desk. He was still busy poring over some manuscripts in the light of capped candles. Demontaigu had placed his war belt on a stool nearby and apparently gone into the Chapel of St John. From the chamber behind me Langton’s voice bellowed at Guido. I was about to join Demontaigu when the hooded figure turned abruptly. A peaked white face peeped out of the hood, deep-set eyes and bony features dominated by a nose as hooked as a scythe.

‘Mistress,’ his lips hardly moved, ‘I understand you are from the king. I must go back with you.’ The words came more as a hiss than a whisper.

‘Must, sir?’ I drew closer, aware of my voice echoing. ‘Why must?’

‘My name is Chapeleys,’ the man gabbled. ‘I am a clerk.’ He glanced quickly at the chamber door, tilting his head towards Langton’s bellowing. ‘I am his clerk but I am no prisoner here. I must see the king. I have information.’

I gestured towards the other door. He followed me out into the gloomy recess.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why now?’

‘It is urgent,’ Chapeleys insisted. He drew so close I could smell his fear. ‘I am no prisoner,’ he repeated. ‘I can come and go as I wish. I must see the king.’

I glanced back at the half-open door; the glow of candlelight seemed to have followed us. I became acutely aware of the massy grey stone, the hollow, empty feel of that forbidding place. Chapeleys must have eavesdropped on my conversation with Langton and decided to seize his opportunity. The bishop was the king’s enemy, and therefore, by implication, mine. I glanced at Chapeleys’ peaked face.

‘Why are you so frightened?’

‘I have information,’ Chapeleys retorted. ‘His grace must know it.’

I pointed to the stairwell. ‘If you are free to go, monsieur, then go, take your cloak. You have money?’

Chapeleys replied that he had.

‘Go to the Palace of Westminster,’ I declared. ‘Let no one see you. You know St Benedict’s Chapel in the Old Palace?’

Chapeleys nodded.

‘Stay near the Lady Altar,’ I insisted. ‘I shall meet you there immediately on my return.’

Chapeleys scurried about, and a short while later hastened out cloaked and hooded. I glimpsed the poignard pushed into the sheath on his waist and the small leather chancery pouch that he raised before slipping down the stone staircase. I stood and listened. Langton was still bellowing at Guido. I walked into the Chapel of St John, lit by a host of candles glowing around the statue of the Evangelist. Their flickering light illuminated a grisly wall-painting of St John being boiled alive, though he emerged unscathed from his torments. Demontaigu was kneeling before the statue of the Evangelist, hands clasped, head down. I went over and joined him.

‘Mon coeur.’ My hand brushed his.

‘How is Langton?’ He turned.

I shrugged. ‘Another fat shepherd bemoaning his lot.’

Demontaigu smiled. I quickly told him about Chapeleys. He put a finger to his lips and drew me deep into the shadows on the other side of the statue. For a while he just crouched staring into the darkness.

‘Mathilde,’ he turned, ‘you called me mon coeur; so I am, as you are mine.’

‘Even though you are a priest?’ I teased, blinking back the tears.

‘What I am, Mathilde, is not what I feel. To be close to you is to be. .’ He paused.

‘Loved?’ I asked, aware of my question echoing around that cavernous chamber, its juddering light bringing the frescoes to life.

‘Loved!’ he agreed. ‘To be with you is to feel a fullness I have never experienced before. Oh yes,’ he winked, ‘I have said enough.’ He grasped a tendril of my hair. ‘Sometimes, Mathilde, I believe in nothing except you. You are my God, my religion.’ He stroked my cheek with a finger then his hand dropped away. ‘Oh Mathilde, I know that I am also a priest, a Templar whose beloved order has been destroyed. I and my companions are being hunted down like rats in a barn. A year ago we were the glory of Europe; now the kings of the earth have turned against us. No, listen, Mathilde.’ He brushed aside any interruption. ‘Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales are back in England. They act on the authority of the pope; Philip of France has seen to that. They hunt not only us, but our treasure, our relics. For now, Mathilde, don’t be anxious, I am safe. I have explained that being a nuntius, a messenger of my order, I rarely stay in one place long enough for Philip’s agents to acquaint themselves with me. Others are not so fortunate; they must keep to the shadows.’ He glanced quickly over my shoulder. ‘You also know that when we can, we strike back. Now one of our serjeants, a Frenchman named Jean Ausel, and others have arrived in this country to wreak vengeance. Ausel is an assassin, a skilled killer, a warrior. He also searches for our treasure, some of which — indeed, a great deal of which,’ Demontaigu added bitterly, gesturing at the door, ‘was held by Langton before he fell. If Ausel were here, Mathilde, he would kill Langton. Now Chapeleys wishes to flee. I wonder if he knows something about the lost treasure.’

‘Bertrand,’ I asked, a nameless fear almost choking my breath, ‘what is going to happen?’

‘I cannot say, Mathilde,’ he replied hoarsely, ‘but Chapeleys is a symptom of the times. Men are choosing sides. Langton has chosen his. If he was free he would go along with Winchelsea and the rest. This business at Westminster, the king and his lords, they spin like two hawks locked in flight and neither can break free. The king will have to go to war, yet he has no strength. Gaveston could be arrested and killed, Edward would never let such a matter rest. Meanwhile Philip of France is meddling furiously. We still have friends close to Philip’s secret chancery. They claim Philip intends to bring about a revolution in England.’

He shook his head at my exclamation.

‘The French king is casting his net far and wide. Rumours shed no light, but gossip from Philip’s secret chancery claims that he is using someone called the Ancilla Venenata.’

‘The Poison Maiden?’ I exclaimed.

Bertrand lifted his hand. I listened. The faint hum of conversation had died. We clambered quickly to our feet. I left Demontaigu in the chapel and returned to Langton’s chamber. Guido had finished and was washing his hands at the lavarium just inside the doorway. Langton was making himself comfortable on the bed. I quietly prayed that he would not call for Chapeleys, but he was more concerned with his goblet of wine. Guido dried his hands, turned and bowed. Langton fluttered his fingers and we were gone.

Cromwell and a group of archers escorted us back down through the Lion Gate. The constable made his swift farewells and we walked on to the quayside. The afternoon was drawing on. Stinking, vulgar gusts of smoke billowed across from the nearby tanning sheds. Assayers of the Fish were arguing with oystermen; these had brought in their catches and were waiting to unload baskets on to the quayside. The assayers, however, insisted that they check the baskets to ensure that the oysters were fresh and not the remains of the previous day’s haul. The oystermen were furious in their own defence.

A line of fleshing carts was also off-loading supplies, messy hunks of freshly slaughtered meat. Blood swilled across the cobblestones, and the butchers had to fight off a pack of hungry dogs as well as a crowd of beggars who scrambled on all fours hunting for scraps. River pirates, four in number, were kneeling on the edge of the quayside, nooses around their necks. An undersheriff bellowed out their crimes to a crowd of curious bystanders as a Crutched Friar, hand raised in blessing, moved from man to man to give absolution. I caught the words ad aeternam vitam — ‘to eternal life’. The undersheriff heartily agreed with this. The friar had scarcely finished when the red-faced law officer simply kicked each of the condemned men over the edge of the quayside. The drop to the water below was long; the nooses around the prisoners’ necks tightened brutally. I could hear the strangled gasps and groans as the undersheriff bellowed how the corpses would hang for three turns of the tide and would not be released for burial until then. As we continued to push our way through the throng, a carrying voice caught our attention. Demontaigu paused and whirled round.

‘Hurry if you wish,’ the voice bellowed. ‘Listen, sons of Esau, vilior est humana caro quam pellis ovina — man’s flesh is more worthless than sheepskin.’

A preacher dressed in garish rags advanced through the throng towards us. He was of medium height, hair cut close about a lean, sun-darkened face. Beside him scampered a hideous beggar on all fours, wooden slats fastened to his knees, one more in each hand, his filthy face half hidden by matted hair.

‘Know ye,’ the preacher paused before us and pointed at the beggar, ‘how low he is, yet when a man dies, he is lower than this: his nose grows cold, his face turns white, his nerves and brain break, his heart splits in two. Oh so repent! If not today, then tomorrow at the darkening hour. Go to church with all your brethren. Be not hanged like Judas! Confess your sins!’ The preacher swept away, the beggar clattering beside him.

Guido muttered some witticism and hastened down the river-stained steps to the waiting barge.

‘Ausel has delivered his message,’ Demontaigu whispered.

I glanced at him in puzzlement.

‘Tomorrow,’ Demontaigu murmured, ‘around Vespers, the brothers will meet at the Chapel of the Hanged.’ He would say no more. We hurried down and climbed into the barge. The ropes were cast off and we made our way back to Westminster.

The journey was uneventful. Master Guido made us laugh with his mimicry of Langton — so sharp and accurate I almost forgot about Chapeleys. Langton’s man was a chancery clerk, so the guards would admit him into the palace precincts. To be sure, Westminster Palace has changed; it is always changing, and that is the problem. New buildings, old buildings, wings added to this or that. Little wonder the king had built Burgundy Hall, his self-contained manor house. Some of the palace buildings dated back to the Conqueror’s time and even before that. A warren of dark winding passageways, outside staircases, makeshift bridges and countless outhouses ranged around yards and gardens. A host of names described this cluster of buildings, which extended further than a large village: the Pastry Yard, the Paved Passage, the Royal Buttery, the Privy Kitchen, the Inner Court, the Outer Court, the Fish Court, the Fleshers’ Court, the Boulevard, the Vintners’ Ward: a maze of buildings, baileys, outhouses, chancery and exchequer offices. I found it bewildering. Demontaigu, however, had carefully studied the tangled spread. He knew its secret ways and forgotten postern doors because, as he explained, a fugitive like himself must always be prepared to flee. Such words chilled me. I asked him about Ausel, but he shook his head and led me across a garden, still frozen hard, in through a sombre-looking doorway, down a dark passageway, up a staircase and into the gloomy Chapel of St Benedict.

The chapel was no more than a square vaulted room, where flickering sconce torches illuminated the wall paintings, most of which were of birds and symbols from Scripture: the phoenix, the pelican, the mermaid. I recall one painting: an owl mobbed by magpies, an allegory on how the idle busybodies and gossips of this world mock wisdom. I wondered if Chapeleys was a wise man. The small chancel was hidden in gloom, but the Lady Chapel to the right glowed in candlelight. Chapeleys was sitting there on a stool, staring up at a statue of the Virgin depicted as the Queen of Heaven embracing the Holy Infant. As soon as he saw us, he leapt to his feet and shuffled out of the half-light like some timorous mouse. He looked askance at Demontaigu until I introduced him as one of the queen’s clerks.

‘I must see the king, I must see the king!’ Chapeleys glanced around at the silhouettes dancing against the walls. A rat scuttled across the chipped tiled floor. Fingers to his lips, he moaned and clutched the chancery pouch more tightly, as if it was a talisman against the menacing gloom. I could not calm him or make sense of the clammy dread that held him fast. I explained that he could not see the king immediately — it was the Eve of the Annunciation and that night Edward intended to feast and celebrate in the great hall, a gesture of friendship towards the Great Lords and the French envoys. In truth, it was a mere sop to prolong matters even further.

‘Yes, yes.’ Chapeleys nodded. ‘What then?’

‘You can stay with me,’ Demontaigu declared. He was studying Chapeleys curiously as if assessing his worth. ‘You are Langton’s clerk?’

‘Of course I am!’

‘His treasure,’ Demontaigu took a step forward, ‘you know where his treasure is?’

Chapeleys would have scuttled away if I hadn’t grasped his arm.

‘Monsieur,’ I gestured with my hand for Demontaigu to stand back, ‘the questions my friend is asking will be repeated when you meet the king. His grace will demand answers. But for the moment, no more questions.’

Chapeleys seemed comforted. He followed us out of the chapel and down into an empty courtyard. We crossed the grounds, up into a wing of the Old Palace where Demontaigu lodged.

‘It’s safe here.’ Demontaigu, breathing heavily as we reached the top of the stairs, pointed down the ill-lit passageway. ‘My chamber is in the corner. It was once part of the royal quarters, so the door is secured by bolts and lock.’

Chapeleys appeared reluctant.

‘There is no other place,’ I explained. ‘You will be safe. I swear that, Master Chapeleys.’

At last he agreed, and Demontaigu unlocked his chamber. The door was heavy, reinforced with iron studs and metal clasps; the hinges were of thick, hard leather. The lock, probably fashioned by a skilled London craftsman, was fitted in the door so the key could be turned from both the outside and the inside. Demontaigu locked it behind us and pulled the bolts across, then stood back, aware of how he must not frighten this cowed clerk any further.

‘Look, sir!’ I pleaded. ‘You will be safe.’

Chapeleys stared around Demontaigu’s chamber. In the poor light, it looked like a monastic cell, the walls lime-washed, a crucifix hanging above the cot-bed, the windows all shuttered. Demontaigu opened two of these whilst I took a tinder and lit the capped candles and lantern horn. Chapeleys went round patting the wall, even checking the shutters; finally he moved into the far recess. Demontaigu’s chamber was unique. It stood on a corner, and in one wall was a small window-door about five feet high and a yard across. In former times it must have been used to draw up supplies from carts waiting in the yard below. Near this a great iron clasp driven into the wall held one end of a coil of rope that could be used to escape from the chamber if a fire broke out. Chapeleys satisfied himself that the window-door was barred and bolted, then came back and sat on a stool, staring around. He still clutched his chancery bag. I was tempted to ask him what it contained, but the man was sorely affrighted.

Demontaigu left, saying he would bring some bread, cheese and a jug of wine. Chapeleys kept to his own musings as I walked around. I sat on the bed, stared at the crucifix, then across at the chancery desk and its high-backed chair beneath one of the windows. Everything was tidy: no parchments, nothing out of place. I went across and lifted the lid of a chest. Inside there were some scrolls and books. I picked one up, a beautifully covered psalter, but hastily put it back, feeling guilty at such intrusion. The chamber was stark and very austere; apart from the crucifix, nothing decorated the walls. The drapes on the bed were neat, the bolsters carefully placed. On a small table beside the bed was a cup, a candlestick and a night light; on a stool near the door more jugs and cups. Demontaigu was both a priest and a soldier, and the chamber reflected this. Yet it wasn’t cold; there was something warm and welcoming about it, safe and secure.

Demontaigu returned. I had bolted the door behind him, and as I now drew these back, Chapeleys jumped to his feet as if expecting a horde of armed men to invade the room. Demontaigu made him sit at the table and poured him a goblet of wine; he even cut his bread and cheese, treating him as tenderly as a mother would a frightened child. I watched carefully. At first Chapeleys was reluctant to eat, but at last he took a generous swig of wine and seemed to relax. Demontaigu pushed a brazier closer to him.

‘Listen, man.’ Demontaigu crouched beside Chapeleys, hand resting on his arm. ‘You may sleep here. If you must,’ he gestured at the dagger still pushed in Chapeleys’ belt, ‘carry that close. Once we leave, do not open that door to anyone except myself or someone we send. Do you understand?’

Chapeleys, his mouth full of bread and cheese, nodded.

‘I will see the king?’ he spluttered.

‘Tomorrow morning after the Jesus mass,’ I reassured him.

Chapeleys, a little more comforted, undid his cloak and let it fall over the back of the chair. Demontaigu followed me to the door.

‘I must go,’ I said, staring up at him. ‘My mistress waits. We must prepare for the banquet tonight. You will come?’

‘I am one of the household,’ he replied smilingly. ‘I must be there. I will settle this anxious soul, then return to my chancery office.’ He lifted my hand, kissed it and opened the door, and I slipped out into the cold darkness. I made a mistake that night. I thought Chapeleys was safe. In fact he was no more than a condemned man, waiting for execution to be carried out.

The banquet later that evening was a splendid affair. Edward had agreed to it at the request of the queen dowager.

‘On that evening,’ he proclaimed, ‘all animosity and hostility will be set aside. We will entertain both the French envoys and the leading lords to a splendid feast in the great dining hall at Burgundy.’

I spent the time before the banquet helping my mistress to prepare for it. Isabella was determined to look magnificent. She did, in a gown of white satin decorated with roses, a crimson girdle around her waist, a golden chaplet of silver lilies with a net of gold sewn with pearls over her magnificent blond hair. She and her husband, also gorgeously attired in a gown of blanched damask embroidered with golden lions, led the principal guests into the hall. Behind them strolled Gaveston, dressed in purple and white silk, holding the hand of his wife Margaret. He bowed to the left and the right as if he was the most favoured person on earth. The rest followed: Queen Dowager Margaret in a high-necked dress of dark green, a white veil framing her prim features; behind her, the principal lords, Lancaster, Lincoln, Pembroke and Hereford, clustered around Robert de Winchelsea, who was garbed in plain brown robes as if he wished to proclaim his austerity and asceticism to all. The Grande Chambre of Burgundy Hall was ablaze with light from hundreds of beeswax candles fixed in their spigots and holders. A range of great Catherine wheels, lowered on pulleys from the raftered ceiling, their rims holding a host of more candles, provided further light. The walls were covered with tapestries and hangings depicting lions and eagles, clear homage to the king and Gaveston, in gold, green, violet and red, whilst silver crowns and golden leopards intermingled with painted scenes from the great romance of Tristan and Isolde. At the top of the Chambre, the royal table on the long high dais was covered by a gorgeous canopy of cloth of gold fringed with silver tassels. The table itself was sheeted with ivory-coloured damask. On this the silver and jewel-encrusted goblets, cups, mazers, bowls and jugs shimmered brilliantly around a magnificent salt cellar carved in the shape of a castle and studded with precious stones. On either side of the dais were ranged two other tables similarly adorned, with a fourth completing the square.

To the left of the tables a fierce fire roared in a huge, elegantly carved hearth. At the far end of the Grande Chambre, above a moulded wooden screen, a loft housed the royal musicians, who, with lyre, fife, harp, tambour and other instruments, played soft melodious tunes. These were soon drowned by the blast of trumpets announcing the beginning of the banquet. Winchelsea intoned the grace, bestowing his ‘Benedicite’ in a peevish voice. The trumpets blared again and the royal cooks paraded into the hall carrying the main dish, a huge boar’s head, its flared nostrils and curving tusks ringed and garnished with rosemary and bay. While the cooks circled the tables, a boy in the music loft carolled the famous invitation:

‘The boar’s head in splendour I bring,

With garlands and herbs as fresh as the spring,

So I pray you all to help me sing

And be as merry as birds on the wing.’

The feasting began. Napkins of white linen worked in golden damask and decorated with flowers, knots and crowns were shaken loose. Cups glittering with jasper, agate, beryl or chalcedoni were brimmed from the finest casks of Gascony wines. The fluted, silver-edged glasses set before each guest were filled with sweet wines such as vernage and osey. Dish after dish streamed from the kitchens: white broth with almonds, leg of mutton in lemons, capons in deuce, aloes of beef. The king intended to impress his opponents with this display of royal lavishness. The ‘only blemish in the cream’, to quote the old proverb, were certain rank smells and fetid odours plaguing the galleries and passageways of Burgundy Hall. I had also noticed these, whilst just before the feast, Isabella had complained loudly about them. She rightly declared that they had been noticeable for the last three days, and insisted that the easement chambers, latrines, sewers and garderobes be cleaned and purged.

The Grande Chambre had been specially perfumed against this, but other matters soon demanded my attention. I sat at the table facing the dais and watched the drama being played out. Edward, his golden hair now crowned with a jewelled chaplet, was deep in conversation with Gaveston on his right. On his left, Isabella sat like a beautiful statue, staring unseeingly down the hall, playing the role of the vulnerable, neglected wife to perfection. Next to her the two saintly Margarets were passing something between them. They lifted their hands in unison as if carolling the Alleluia. I quickly surmised they had found a new relic. The French envoys had been separated and placed amongst the great English lords. I recognised the portly Abbot of St Germain. He had the balding head and shiny face of an overweight cherub. I was more interested in my enemies, led by Marigny, lean of face and red of hair. Even from where I sat, I could almost catch his cynical glance, those lips ever ready to curl in derision. Then the other two demons: Nogaret the lawyer, the constant smile on that bloated bag of a face belied by the pursed lips and contemptuous eyes; and next to him Plaisans, Nogaret’s alter ego, an angry-faced man who reminded me of a mastiff with his jowly jaws and aggressive mouth. The rest I knew by sight. Winchelsea the Prophet, with his lean face, sunken cheeks and darting eyes, sat next to Lancaster and Despencer, whilst Lincoln, a white-haired and pleasant-faced courtier, listened intently to Nogaret and Plaisans. I glimpsed Marigny lean back and snap his fingers. A shadow deeper than the rest stepped forward and filled the Viper’s goblet. I recognised the dark, handsome face of Alexander of Lisbon, leader of the Noctales. Dressed in black like a priest for a requiem, Alexander apparently also served as the Viper’s cup-bearer. I smiled to myself. Marigny apparently trusted no one! I glanced down my own table to see if Demontaigu had also glimpsed his enemy, but he was deep in conversation with a servitor. I wondered about the meeting planned for the morrow at the Chapel of the Hanged.

‘You are not eating, mistress?’

I turned. Agnes d’Albret was smiling at me. She pointed to my bowl of white almond, the silver trancher with its strips of beef. I grasped the silver-edged knife and cut a slice.

‘I am glad I sit next to you,’ simpered Agnes, determined on making conversation. She touched the red pimples at the side of her mouth. I recommended camphor and vinegar mixed with celandine water. ‘Wash three times a day,’ I smiled, ‘and keep your face free of powders and unguents; they pollute the skin.’ Agnes was clever. She used her petty ailments to draw me into conversation about my knowledge of physic, my days in France, as well as my service with Isabella, who, whenever I glanced up, still sat as if carved out of marble whilst her husband roistered with Gaveston. The lesser courses were served. I was prudent about what I drank, as was Agnes, who, in mocking tones, speculated on the king’s problems and his love for Gaveston. I kept my own counsel. I recognised Agnes to be a shrewd and subtle soul hiding behind a constant smile while she watched and judged. A scholarly mind as well: she could comment knowledgeably on Tristan and Isolde whilst referring to the wonders of Friar Bacon’s Opera Maioria and his reputation as a possible sorcerer.

I was relieved when, just before the frumenty was served, jesters and tumblers appeared: those joculatores, small dwarves, male and female, whom Edward and Gaveston loved. These cavorted around the hall, jumping and tumbling, whistling, singing and farting raucously. They introduced themselves as Henry the Horny, Matilda Make-love, Griscot the Groper and Mago the Mewler. These minstrelli — little servants — could do what they wanted. They aped Winchelsea’s pious walk, one standing on the shoulders of the other, and, just as the archbishop looked as if he was about to take offence, they turned their attention to Edward and his favourite, imitating the way the pair of them sat, drank and ate as if joined at the hip. The entire assembly burst into laughter, led by the king and Gaveston, who pelted the dwarves with precious items and sent them scattering around searching for these prizes. The frumenty was then served, followed by tarts and quinces. The king left his seat to circulate amongst the guests. Agnes and I had risen to join our mistresses when a serjeant-at-arms, his royal livery rain-soaked, slipped into the hall. He immediately went across to Demontaigu, who been accosted by master Guido. From Demontaigu’s expression, I could tell some major hurt had occurred. He spoke briefly to Guido and beckoned me across. Agnes followed, intrigued by the interruption. I had no choice but to let her. Demontaigu didn’t wait. He and Guido hurried from the hall out into the kitchen yard. Men-at-arms stood about, their torches spluttering in the wet.

‘It’s Chapeleys,’ Demontaigu murmured when I joined him. ‘He is dead. Hanged himself!’