The Poison Maiden

Chapter 4

Somewhere a trumpet blared. My blood chilled. Would it come down to that? I wondered. A bloody affray here in the palace grounds, men-at-arms fighting as the Lords tried to seize Gaveston and drag him off? Arraigning him for treason? What then? Edward would unfurl his banner. Civil war would rage in a fight to the death. What would happen to Isabella, to me? Why should I be worried about the death of a servant maid? Yet one glance at that anguished mother’s face, and I knew it was important. We reached the huddle of Old Palace buildings, outhouses, wings and lean-tos. Rebecca’s mother led us down a stone-paved passageway, dark and hollow-sounding, reeking of dirty clothes and rotting vegetables. At the end was a narrow chamber; inside, nothing but broken coffers and chests. Rebecca’s mother explained how the maids and servants came here to leave their possessions and take whatever livery they had to wear to serve in the kitchens and pantries. She pointed out the pegs on the wall where they hung their clothes. In the far corner was a recess; she gestured towards it.

‘Rebecca,’ she whispered, ‘she was found there by a kitchen boy.’

I went in. It was dark, nothing more than a large corner smelling rather stale. I turned and came back.

‘Was there anything missing?’

‘Not that I know,’ the woman replied. ‘Just poor Rebecca’s life.’

‘So let me understand. Your daughter came here and prepared herself for service. There would be others present.’

‘She was late,’ the mother replied, ‘I remember that. If she was late when she came in, there’d be no one else here. No one saw her.’

I closed my eyes and reflected. Rebecca would come in and the assassin would strike. I did not believe the murderer was Robert. He was a man who could scarce tie a knot in a hurry, never mind use a garrotte string so expertly. I walked back down the passageway and out into the yard. I stared around and realised the building was not far from Demontaigu’s chamber, scarcely a stone’s throw away. The Old Palace was such a maze, it was easy to lose any sense of direction. Now lawyers move on evidence but sometimes the heart can proclaim the truth. I passionately believed that in some way, Rebecca’s death was connected with that of Chapeleys, though how and why remained a mystery.

‘What will you do, mistress?’ Rebecca’s mother clasped her hands as if in prayer. ‘What will you do?’

‘I shall see the queen.’ I smiled. ‘Don’t worry, there is hope yet.’

When I returned to Burgundy Hall, I was surprised to be informed by Ap Ythel that not only had Isabella returned, but his grace and my lord Gaveston were also in the queen’s apartments. I gathered up my skirts and hurried up the stairs, running down passageways, brushing past guards and surprised chamberlains. I almost burst into the queen’s apartments. Edward and Gaveston were there, dressed in dark green silken cotehardies over red leggings, their feet pushed into leather boots. They slouched in their chairs like two young men eager and fresh for the day’s events, totally unaware of the great dangers threatening them. The king clambered to his feet and, seizing my hand, kissed my fingers. Gaveston gave me the most mocking of bows. Isabella came out of her bedchamber wiping her hands on a napkin. She stood, folding the napkin, staring coolly at me. I felt as if I was in the presence of conspirators. Now you may question how a leech and apothecary should be admitted into the secret councils of the king. I too was a member of his inner chamber, someone who could move in and out, speak to him as you would to a brother or sister. However, in the end, for those who speculate on court ritual, the charges against Edward when he was deposed included the allegation that he conversed and related to people of the common sort. I am proud to be included in that number. Oh yes, nineteen years later, during the hurly-burly time, I was interrogated on why he had discussed Negotium Regis, royal business, with someone of my ilk. I answered, why not? I was in his chamber, the confidante of his wife, Queen Isabella. I also had no illusions. If the king went down, what little hope did I have? I had no choice but to support him. Oh the Articuli Damnati, as well as the Ordinances of the Lords, accused Edward of ‘taking counsel where he should not have’. In truth, that was prompted by malicious jealousy. The Great Ones regarded themselves as the king’s God-given councillors. Edward disagreed, and for all I know, so did God.

‘Come, come.’ The king shook back his hair. He grasped me tightly by the hand and led me to the narrow table with four high-backed chairs placed around it. In the middle was a tray bearing a jug of white wine and a mazer full of sweetmeats. Edward and Gaveston sat at either end, Isabella and I opposite each other. At first the king seemed expansive, still drunk from the night before, eyes glittering in the candlelight. Gaveston was more subdued. The favourite collected four goblets from a side dresser and poured the wine, studying me carefully. I concealed my own surprise. Of course, in the intrigue swirling round Westminster, everyone was suspect. Edward slumped in his chair as he realised what lay before him. For a short while the mask slipped: the king rested his head on his hand, blew his cheeks out and glanced under his eyebrows around the table.

On that March morning, the Feast of the Annunciation, Edward finally shrugged off the bonhomie of the previous evening when he’d swept into the Grande Chambre of Burgundy Hall. Now he looked tired and harassed. The secretum concilium began quietly enough.

‘What do we have?’ Edward murmured. ‘Pierre?’ He glanced down at his beloved, the man whom Winchelsea called ‘the king’s idol’. ‘What do have? What can we do?’

‘At the moment, very little,’ the favourite replied. He leaned his elbows on the table, cupping his face in his hands. ‘We have a few knight bannerets,’ he explained languidly, ‘companies of men-at-arms, archers and my Kernia. Burgundy Hall is well fortified, protected and provisioned.’ He wiped his hands on a napkin. ‘Even though these foul odours and the smells of the midden curl everywhere. However,’ he glanced up, ‘the Lords have brought their retinues to lie at Westminster Abbey. From what I gather, more arrive every day. They have the support of Holy Mother Church; the bishops deeply resent Langton’s detention in the Tower. They have united behind Winchelsea, who regards me as Satan incarnate. Rumours abound that our good archbishop intends to excommunicate me with bell, book and candle.’

Gaveston continued grimly, ‘The Lords seem well resourced with gold and silver. We have little, and because Westminster is virtually under siege, no sheriff or bailiff dares to present his accounts or deliver his monies at Easter. Langton was treasurer; undoubtedly he amassed a fortune which, sire, should truly belong to you, but no one can find it. Langton lodges in the Tower. He is gambling that he can hold out longer than you. He may well be right.’

Gaveston tapped the tabletop. ‘The Lords have been joined by the envoys,’ he bowed smilingly towards Isabella, ‘of Philip of France. They demand, as a matter of honour to you, madame, that I be removed-’

‘Trust me, my lord,’ Isabella interrupted. ‘My honour is not my father’s main concern.’ She shrugged prettily. ‘Indeed,’ she continued, ‘I doubt very much if he is bothered at all about me or my status.’

‘But you will continue to act the part?’ Edward asked testily.

‘My lord,’ Isabella retorted, ‘I have been acting the part for as long as I can remember.’

Gaveston smiled boyishly at Isabella, who blushed slightly.

‘My lady is correct.’ Gaveston rose to his feet to refill the four small goblets. He served Isabella, the king, then myself, before taking his seat and sipping thoughtfully at his own goblet. ‘Philip of France is more concerned with the Templars. The Abbot of St Germain carries letters from him and Pope Clement. They demand the total destruction of the order within the power of England, be it in Carlisle or Bordeaux in Gascony.’

Gaveston glanced quickly at me. I wondered if he knew Demontaigu’s true identity. The king’s next words chilled me.

‘Philip may be in the market to barter one for the other,’ he said softly. ‘The destruction of the Templars for Pierre’s safety. But I cannot agree to that.’

My heart skipped a beat.

‘I cannot do it,’ the king insisted. ‘Not that I have any great allegiance to the Temple.’ He waved a hand. ‘I am kept close here at Westminster. If I issue letters authorising the destruction of the Temple, the Great Lords would simply seize their property and estates in towns and shires. I would not profit. What use is that to us?’

‘So how will this end?’ Isabella’s voice was surprisingly sharp. ‘The Great Ones will gather in Westminster Hall or the abbey chapter house. They will draw up a bill, articles of condemnation, they will attempt to put my lord Gaveston before their council. They may even indict, attempt to try him.’

Edward nodded in agreement. ‘They will,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, they will. .’ He put his fingers to his face, unable to finish the sentence. Gaveston sat with the palms of his hands flat against the tabletop; a slight sweat laced his face. Edward pushed back his chair, head to one side as if listening to the various sounds of the palace. ‘Lincoln and the earls are well provisioned, but they are also well advised.’ He stared tearfully down at his favourite.

‘A traitor?’ Isabella asked. ‘Here in your midst?’

‘What could he or she betray?’ Edward mocked. ‘What secret plans do we have? Whom could we plot with? No, it is more subtle than that.’ He turned to me, right eye drooping, a cold, hard glance. ‘Mathilde, you are a physician, or you say you are.’ He let the spiteful words hang like a noose as he studied me, then his face relaxed. He took off a silver ring from his little finger and pushed it across the table towards me.

‘I am sorry!’

Isabella was glaring at her husband. Gaveston had his head down. I stretched, took the ring and sent it rolling back.

‘Your grace, I am very grateful for the gift, but in the circumstances, I think you need all the treasure you have. Moreover, if you go down, what need will I have for silver?’

Edward stared in astonishment. He opened his mouth to object, but Gaveston laughed merrily, clapping his hands.

‘Your grace,’ he quipped, ‘a physician tells the truth. A rare event!’

The king roared with laughter; the tension disappeared. Edward, hands joined, leaned across the table.

‘Mathilde, my dear, you study the symptoms of an ailment, then search for its cause, yes?’

‘Of course, sire.’

‘So it is here,’ the king continued. ‘The Lords are united, well provisioned and advised. They treat my demands with impunity. They mockingly reject the mediation of my good stepmother, the Queen Dowager Margaret. One of them even hinted that she should go on pilgrimage, the longest she can find.’

Isabella laughed sharply at that.

‘Something or someone is uniting them; that is the cause of our present troubles.’ Edward shrugged. ‘Who, what, why, we don’t know. Is it the Poison Maiden?’ He pointed at Isabella. ‘You told me that you once heard your father, in secret council with his coven in the gardens of the Louvre, talk of La Demoiselle Venimeuse, the Ancilla Venenata.’

‘Just words,’ Isabella warned. ‘I also listened to the chatter of the clerks of my father’s secret chancery; even they wondered who this Demoiselle Venimeuse really could be.’

‘As did my father,’ Edward added bitterly. ‘About seven or eight years ago he was here at Westminster. One night I came to his chambers. My father’s rages were famous. On that occasion, he was furious. He tore at the servants’ hair, beat them and threw them against the walls. He was ranting and screaming. I dared not enter the chamber. Later, a retainer told me how the cause of this rage was someone called the Poison Maiden. My father said that great damage had been done by her, but what he meant, no one understood. On my accession, I asked the clerks if they knew, even men like Drokensford of the secret chancery. They replied how they’d heard passing reference to the Poison Maiden, but nothing more.’

‘Your grace?’

‘Mathilde, ma cherie?’

‘Would Langton know?’

‘Perhaps.’ Edward’s smile faded. ‘But we will come to our perfidious bishop and your visit to him in my own good time.’ He left the threat hanging in the air. I recalled my words to Demontaigu, how Chapeleys had died in our care.

‘We believe,’ Gaveston said brusquely, ‘that the Demoiselle Venimeuse meddles in our present troubles, but that is suspicion only; we have no firm evidence.’

‘Perhaps you are just casting about.’

‘My lady,’ Edward wagged a finger at Isabella, ‘I wish to God that was true. Pax-Bread,’ he smiled thinly, ‘has assured me I am not.’ The king chewed the corner of his lip, staring at me as if challenging me to ask who Pax-Bread was. I kept silent. Edward was fickle. He could sit and argue with a groom about a brass buckle as if the man was his born brother, only to change abruptly, demanding all the rights and appurtenances of kingship. I stared past him at the weak sunlight pouring through the lattice window, and prayed quietly that I would be able to meet Demontaigu later that day.

‘Pax-Bread?’ Isabelle asked softly.

‘If Philip has his spies, so do we,’ Gaveston explained. He eased the folds of his cotehardie, undoing the clasp of the cambric shirt beneath. ‘Pax-Bread’s true name is Edmund Lascelles, a Gascon, a close friend of my family. One of the finest pastry cooks under God’s heaven. He is also the most subtle of spies. He hates Philip and did good work for the old king exploiting one of Philip’s few weaknesses.’ Gaveston paused at Isabella’s sharp gasp.

‘Your father, my lady, is well known for his sweet tooth: he relishes tarts, blancmanges, pastries, jellies, creams and sugars. Pax-Bread soon rose to prominence in Philip’s kitchens as a man who would serve delectable dishes when the claret and osier had been drunk. Tongues eventually turn loose, even in the French king’s private chambers, especially when Philip dines with Marigny and others of his ilk. Of course, no bird flies free for ever. Pax-Bread. .’ Gaveston smiled. ‘An appropriate name, is it not? The bread passed between friends at the osculum pacis, the kiss of peace during the mass. Anyway, Pax-Bread fell under suspicion and was forced to flee to our garrison at Boulogne; that was at the end of February. He spent a great deal of time trying to cast off his pursuers. In case he never reached London, he sent us a letter.’ Gaveston dipped into his cotehardie and drew out a parchment. He gave this to Isabella, who undid it, read it, pulled a face and, when Gaveston nodded, passed it to me.

The letter was well written. It began: Monsieur Pierre s’avisera — ‘Monsieur Pierre, be well advised.’ It then delivered a list of pastry, herbal and other items. These were written in sentences of eight words, every third word now underlined in green ink. The words thus scored were: s’avisera, demoiselle, venimeuse, ageant, grande, damage, parmi, seigneurs’, employa, ombres, Jean, Haute, Mont, ‘a’, verite, Secrete, Solomon, Annonciation.

‘The emphasis is mine,’ Gaveston explained, ‘a code Pax-Bread and I often used. Put these words together and Pax-Bread is advising us to be aware that the Poison Maiden will do great damage amongst the Lords.’

‘Les ombres, the shadows?’ I asked.

‘More precisely,’ Edward intervened, ‘they like to be called Tenebrae — the Darkness: that’s the Latin translation. They are professional assassins skulking in London, one of the more vicious gangs that can be hired by the city fathers to settle grudges with each other.’

‘And Pax-Bread is claiming the Poison Maiden will use these?’

‘Of course.’

‘Against whom?’

Gaveston coughed and stared full at me.

‘You, my lord,’ I breathed. ‘Yes, that would be logical. If your opponents took up arms, they could be called traitors, but an attempt on you by some secret, silent assassin couldn’t be laid at their door.’

‘We should move,’ Isabella declared, ‘not stay here.’

‘Not yet.’ Gaveston held up a hand. ‘The palace is secure, Burgundy Hall even more so. This game has to be played out. You understand that? The problem is to be dealt with immediately. To retreat now would mean defeat. The king must show he is master in his own home.’ Gaveston spread his hands. ‘Westminster is the royal palace, its abbey the royal mausoleum. If he cannot rule here, where else?’

‘And the other references, such as Solomon and the Annunciation?’

‘The Secret of Solomon is a tavern in an alleyway off Cheapside. Pax-Bread is saying he’ll be there today, the Feast of the Annunciation. Mathilde,’ Gaveston breathed out noisily, ‘royal messengers are watched; Isabella’s household not so closely. After all, her grace,’ he pulled a face, ‘is supposed to detest me as much as Winchelsea does. You, Mathilde, can be trusted. We want you to meet Pax-Bread at the Secret of Solomon.’ He smiled lazily. ‘Demontaigu, the queen’s clerk, can go with you. He is acceptable, yes?’

I stared back, determined not to blush or be disconcerted. ‘Anyway,’ Gaveston plucked a sweetmeat from the dish, ‘you can go and discover what Pax-Bread really knows.’ He fished in his wallet and slipped across an impression of his seal. ‘Show him that; he will trust you.’

‘When, my lord?’

‘When I am finished.’

‘My lord,’ I was determined to question those other items mentioned in Pax-Bread’ s letter, ‘Jean Haute Mont a la verite — John High Mountain has the truth. What does that mean?’

Gaveston shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you, Mathilde; Pax-Bread will. Now Chapeleys? Her grace has told us already, but you must relate everything that happened.’

I did so. Edward and Gaveston heard me out. The favourite kept still, now and again staring up at the rafters as if weighing the worth of what I said. I also described the murder of Rebecca Atte-Stowe and my faint suspicion that her death was part of the mystery surrounding Chapeleys’ murder. At the mention of Robert’s attack on Ingleram Berenger and my plea that the king should show mercy, Edward raised a hand.

‘Undoubtedly Chapeleys’ death is most regrettable. He apparently had something to say. However, unbeknown to you, Mathilde, he had already written to me, asking to be relieved of his duties at the Tower. He declared that he was innocent of any charges and asked why he had been punished along with Langton. He then made the most surprising confession: that Langton had hinted at the true identity of the Poison Maiden.’ Edward paused for effect.

‘Who, my lord?’

‘Me,’ declared Gaveston, his face hard and humourless. ‘According to Langton, I am Philip’s creature, planted at the heart of my lord’s affections to wreak hideous damage.’ He forced his voice to remain calm. ‘I created chaos and division between my lord and his late father; the same between the king and his barons, not to mention his grace and his bride as well as between Edward and Philip of France.’

I stared across at Isabella. She looked startled by the logic of the revelation. According to all the evidence, Langton was correct. Gaveston had caused deep, rancorous division at the English court.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Gaveston whispered. ‘In more senses than one it’s true.’

‘Yet it’s not!’ Edward countered. ‘Relations between my late father and myself were never cordial, God rest his bones. As for the barons, my good father fought them as I do now. I should have ripped Chapeleys’ tongue out, but what was the use? He was simply repeating what Langton had said. His trial for treason would only have proclaimed the matter to the world. In the end I decided to let him rot in the Tower. .’

‘Is that why you sent Mathilde to treat Langton’s ulcer?’ Isabella asked. ‘To find out more?’

‘Ah, ma coeur.’ Edward smiled at Isabella. ‘You are right. I wondered if Chapeleys had anything more to say. I doubted it; just a repetition of his foul lies. However, I do wonder, and always will, what that circle surmounted by a cross with the letter P inside signifies? As for the words “basil” and sub pede. .’ Edward shrugged. ‘Chapeleys may have been murdered. More probable is that overcome with fear, he decided to take his own life. Now, as for Robert Atte-Gate. .’ He pushed back his chair, rose, strolled to the door and opened it.

‘Ap Ythel,’ he shouted. The captain of the King’s Welsh archers, small, dark-faced and wiry, swaggered into the room and went to sink to one knee.

‘No need for that.’ Edward clapped the Welshman on the shoulder. ‘Take some of your lovely boys and go to the dungeons in the Old Palace gatehouse. Drag Robert Atte-Stowe out to the gallows, put a noose around his neck-’

‘Your grace,’ I begged.

‘Put a noose,’ Edward insisted, ‘round his neck and turn him off the ladder,’ he held up a hand, ‘for no more than a few heartbeats, then cut him down. Proclaim that the king will not allow weapons to be drawn in his palace against his servants.’ Edward dug into his purse and tossed a silver coin, which Ap Ythel caught. ‘Give Robert that. Take him back to the stables, and tell the avener, the keeper,’ he translated for Ap Ythel, ‘to give him preferment. Finally, instruct that hapless groom to present himself at the office of the Chancery of the Red Wax. A full pardon for his crimes will be issued to him. Should he ever do it again, however, I will hang him myself!’

Ap Ythel bowed and left. Edward closed the door and leaned against it. I remember that day so clearly, even the insignia on Gaveston’s rings as he clenched his hands open and shut. He had scarcely heeded the king’s judgement on Robert Atte-Gate, still absorbed with Chapeleys’ allegation against him. Edward, too, seethed with rage, hence his treatment of the groom, a mixture of savagery and mercy that made the king so unpredictable: on one breath cruel ruthlessness, on the next unexpected generosity.

‘Kill him!’

Gaveston threw himself back in the chair so violently I heard its padded frame creak. Both Isabella and I started. The favourite had swiftly changed from the charming courtier; his face was now tight with anger. Isabella warned me with her eyes to be careful.

‘Kill? Kill who, my lord?’ she asked gently.

‘Langton!’ Gaveston jabbed a finger at me. ‘Mathilde, do that for us. Go back to the Tower and dress that fat old prelate’s weeping leg, rub in a poison, give him some deadly potion, watch him gargle and choke on it.’

‘And then what, my lord?’ Isabella gently insisted. ‘Give Winchelsea and Lincoln their martyr? Allow Philip of France to crow like a cock to the world about what you have done? Permit Clement to issue bulls of excommunication against Langton’s murderers? Raise all hands against you?’

There was silence in the chamber. Edward pushed himself away from the door and walked round to Isabella. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently kissed the top of her head.

‘Ma douceur,’ he whispered, ‘is correct.’ He returned to his chair and wrinkled his nose. ‘The foul odours of the galleries and passageways can be smelled even here.’

‘The sewers are blocked or choked.’ Gaveston swiftly broke from his tantrum, ‘They must be cleaned. Ap Ythel, when he returns, will bring in scavengers and rakers.’ He pulled himself up in the chair. ‘We have our own sewers and runnels to clear. Listen now.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Margaret, the queen dowager, is busy on our behalf. She mediates with the Lords. She may not achieve much.’ He grinned. ‘She and my good lady wife are more interested in Glastonbury and Arthur than Westminster and Edward. Perhaps she chatters in the wind, but Winchelsea and the rest cannot refuse her. To do so would offer great insult. The queen dowager is delaying matters yet at the same time giving his grace the appearance of negotiating with his adversaries. No one can object to that.’

‘We know,’ Edward intervened, ‘that Queen Margaret tires of this, eager now that spring has come to go on pilgrimage. More importantly, Philip of France is urging his beloved sister to mind her own business and go back to her prayers; even better, to throw in her lot with Winchelsea and Lincoln. My dear stepmother, of course, has refused. She has no love for Winchelsea or Lincoln.’

‘My lord,’ Isabella interrupted, ‘how do you know that?’

‘Because my beloved stepmother tells me.’

‘And?’

‘As does her minstrel-leech Guido the Psalter, not to mention Agnes d’Albret.’ Edward laughed softly at our surprise.

‘Guido has no love for Philip of France. He does not wish to return there and he is dependent on our favour. Agnes d’Albret is no different. She was sent by Philip to keep an eye on his pious sister, your holy aunt. Agnes does that, but she divulges all to us.’ Edward pulled a face. ‘She does not want to return to Paris and marry an elderly seigneur. Not only are they informants, but at our instruction, they encourage the queen dowager to plead on our behalf.’ Edward bowed to Isabella. ‘My lady, I would be grateful if you would continue your good offices in this matter. On Sunday next, the twenty-seventh of March, the queen dowager will meet Winchelsea and the rest in the Abbot of Westminster’s gardens. Mathilde must join her. You must also encourage our beloved stepmother not to withdraw but to remain here at Westminster. Point out,’ Edward added, ‘that soon it will Easter. How his grace the king is so pleased with her efforts that she will be allowed to hold the Virgin’s cincture, the great reliquary housed in the Lady Chapel of the abbey. Now, as there is no more. .’ Edward stared at Gaveston. Both king and favourite were eager to go. They rose abruptly. Isabella and I hastened to follow. Edward and Gaveston bowed as we curtsied. The favourite pointed to Pax-Bread’s letter still lying on the table.

‘Make a fair copy, Mathilde. Her grace can hold it secure for me.’ Then they were gone, changeable as ever, shouting and laughing along the gallery, Edward insisting on a hunt, a wild ride through the moorlands to the north of the abbey. Isabella sat listening intently, head down, staring at a ring on her finger. She let her hand fall away, stretched and picked up her wine cup.

‘My lady?’

‘My lady is wondering, Mathilde.’

‘About Guido and Agnes?’

Isabella shrugged. ‘At court, everyone watches everyone else. Who blames Guido and Agnes? They have to walk their own path. If my husband and Gaveston didn’t know better, they would certainly ask you about me.’

‘And Pax-Bread?’

‘Yes.’ Isabella nodded. ‘Gaveston did not bring him here to Westminster, which means Pax-Bread is still being pursued. It shows how dangerous it is. Someone is watching what is happening. Then there is the Poison Maiden. Interesting that Langton alleged it might be Gaveston. Little wonder my husband wondered if it was me. What is the Poison Maiden, Mathilde? Who is she? Or is it a he? Or a group of people? Dominus benedicit nos,’ she added. ‘Mathilde, we shall, perhaps, talk later. Now you must go. Pax-Bread will be waiting.’ She straightened in her chair and smiled dazzlingly at me. ‘And tomorrow I want you to teach me that Goliard dance.’