The Poison Maiden

Chapter 7

Such advice was easily given yet hard to act upon. By the time we reached the main gate of Burgundy Hall and the welcoming faces of Ap Ythel and his archers, I felt exhausted. My legs were weak, my stomach queasy, eager to retch. Demontaigu gently kissed me good night and slipped away. Ap Ythel took me into the royal quarters, up the stairs, past chamberlains and servants hurrying here and there on various tasks. The smell was still fetid and rank. I commented on this. Ap Ythel shrugged apologetically.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘the drains and sewers, the latrines and garderobes will be cleaned.’ He gestured at servants laying out pots of crushed herbs. Sweet smoke curled from incense boats whilst the brazier coals had been heavily coated with aromatic powder. I knew Isabella was going to be busy that day meeting representatives of the French envoys, so I was surprised when a chamberlain insisted on taking me to the king’s chamber. Edward, Gaveston and Isabella were sitting before the fire, heating chestnuts on the coals and ladling out hot posset from a deep silver-engraved wassail bowl. All three turned as I came in, the chamberlain announcing in a carrying voice that I had just arrived. Edward and Gaveston were dressed as they had been early that day, the boots they’d kicked off thickly caked with mud. The king rose and came towards me. I would like to think that was courtesy, but I suspect he could tell from my face and the smuts of dirt on my cloak and kirtle that something had happened. He grasped my hands and gently kissed the fingertips, his eyes studying mine closely.

‘You are late.’ Isabella’s voice was soft and languorous. She and Gaveston were sitting so close I felt a pang of jealousy. These Great Ones also had their own secrets, part of their lives hidden from me.

‘All went well?’ Edward asked.

‘No, my lord,’ I replied wearily. I took off my cloak, curtsied towards my mistress and the king and almost stumbled towards the stool Gaveston pushed between himself and the queen. ‘No, my lord, all did not go well. Nor do I feel well.’ I slumped down before the fire and told them everything that had happened at the Secret of Solomon, our visit to the Domus Iucundarum, and the possibility that Pax-Bread was dead. All merriment faded. The king gnawed angrily on his thumb. Gaveston put his face in his hands. Isabella stared down at her lap, playing with the ring she had taken off, moving it round as if it was something living. I informed them about the attack on us, how I had been so shaken Demontaigu had taken me into a tavern to allow my tremors to pass, hence my agitation. Isabella looked sharply at me as if she did not believe that. The king, however, cursed quietly under his breath.

For a while they discussed the possibilities between themselves. I stared around, becoming aware of the rich blue, red and gold tapestries hanging on the wall; the gleaming polished furniture: the comfortable turkey rugs; the pewter, silver and gold jewel-encrusted pots, cups and jugs on an open shelved aumbry. The wealth and power of these two men were such a sharp contrast to the desperation and fear of that ghostly crypt and my fearful, frenetic departure from it. Memories remained. The door burning. The Noctales breaking in. Dark figures against the light. The whirr of arrows. The cries and shrieks of wounded men. Such a contrast! Edward and Gaveston now wished to be alone. Isabella and I returned to the queen’s quarters where, half-asleep, I almost limped to a settle in front of the fire.

‘Mathilde? Mathilde?’ Isabella shook me from my reverie. ‘Are you tired? You look very pale.’ She touched the sleeve of my kirtle, picking at a charred fragment then moving her finger to a stain of oil on the white cuff of one of my sleeves. She touched me lightly on the face. ‘Mathilde, your friends are mine, your enemies mine. I have left France. My father is my enemy; so are his envoys, his mercenaries. Yes,’ she plucked at the sleeveless gown over her tawny kirtle and spread her hands, ‘even my father’s sons, my own brothers. What Demontaigu was, what he is, poses no threat to me or mine.’ She sat down on a chair next to me. ‘Mathilde,’ she whispered hoarsely, and I glimpsed the fear in her light blue eyes. ‘Mathilde,’ she insisted, ‘we are pressed close here: either Edward concedes or we face great troubles. Have you heard the whispers? Some assert that not only Gaveston should go but the king also.’ She paused, breathing noisily. ‘If that comes about, Mathilde, what happens to us, to me, to you? My lord requires time. We have to play the great game, and play it well. Publicly I oppose my husband. Everyone, including my beloved aunt, continues to believe that. So tomorrow you must dine with her, provide some excuse, say I am not well, but,’ her hand fell to caress mine, ‘win time for my lord. Say whatever you have to to encourage the queen dowager to continue her negotiations with Winchelsea and the rest.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, whatever you have to! Now, come.’ She kicked off her slippers. ‘It is time we slept. My lord will not visit me tonight or invite me to share his bed. So stay with me, Mathilde, like the young women we could have been. We shall lie next to each other and whisper against the world. .’

The following morning, dressed in a snow-white wimple, a kirtle and a sleeveless gown of heaven blue, one of Isabella’s ermine-fringed cloaks wrapped about my shoulders, I presented myself to the queen dowager’s chamberlains in the King’s House, that ancient part of Westminster Palace overlooking the Old Yard. I arrived early, so confusion ensued as pages and servants gathered up the two young princes named after the places of their birth, Edmund of Woodstock and Thomas of Brotherton. Guido the Psalter and Agnes d’Albert supervised the infants’ departure with their nurses to the children’s chambers further down the gallery. Once the infants and their entourage had disappeared, Guido and Agnes returned and escorted me into the inner sanctum, where the queen dowager and Countess Margaret presided. They were dressed like peas from the same pod in red and gold cotehardies, dark fur mantles with costly linings about their shoulders loosely tied with silvertasselled cords and clasped with precious brooches. Both wore ridiculous-looking gold-coloured barbettes and fillets to hide their hair as if they were nuns in some convent rather than princesses of the blood. They were sitting close together, poring over a manuscript stretched out across a wooden frame. According to the queen dowager’s excited murmur, this was a monkish account of the discovery of Arthur and Guinevere at Glastonbury.

‘Their bodies,’ she thrilled, ‘were wonderfully preserved. Mathilde, is that not miraculous?’

I said it was, a God-given sign. I tried not to catch Guido’s eye as he stood next to the queen dowager. One look from him showed me how both he and Agnes were bored to yawning with this constant description of relics. The queen dowager gathered us around the hearth. Madeira sack was served with sugared biscuits, and without any bidding, Margaret continued her description of holy relics, adding how she hoped one day to return to France to worship the Crown of Thorns that her saintly ancestor Louis had bought from Baldwin of Constantinople. Her babbled list also included the baby linen of the Son of God; the lance, sponge and chain of His Passion, a portion of a true cross, Moses’ rod, the skull of St John the Baptist, not to mention the platter Abraham used to feast the angels before they visited Sodom and Gomorrah. Guido intervened, wondering about whether the true cross had really been discovered.

‘No, no.’ The queen dowager waved a finger like a magister in the schools. ‘According to what I have read, St Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine, found three crosses in a cellar forty-two feet in depth dug under Mount Calvary. These were the crosses on which Our Lord and the two thieves were crucified, but there was nothing to show which of the three was the true cross. So a dead body was laid on each. In two cases nothing happened, but when the corpse was placed on the third, it was immediately restored to life, and that’s how Helena knew she had found the true cross. It was made out of four trees,’ she continued breathlessly. ‘The portion from the earth to the cross is cypress, so the sweet smell might counteract the smell of a decaying body. The crosspiece is of palm, indicating the victory of Christ. The foot of the cross is fashioned from cedar, which is well preserved when in the earth, whilst the wooden inscription was of olive, signifying peace.’ Margaret paused. ‘Mathilde, where is her grace?’

I’d been sitting in front of the fire, my eyes growing heavy, still tired from the previous day’s excursions. As soon as Margaret asked her question I leaned forward and replied, God knows why, ‘Madam, I bring you good news. My lady does not feel well; she is suffering from sickness in the morning. In a word, my lady, the queen might be pregnant.’

Mirabile dictu! The effect of my words was startling. Margaret drew back, her face lost that sanctimonious look; no more pious, elegant gestures. She looked abruptly younger, her face harder, those eyes questioning. I could see the beauty there as well as a close resemblance to her brother. Beside her the Countess Margaret just gaped like a landed fish. Agnes clapped her hands excitedly. Guido immediately demanded symptoms and signs. How was the morning sickness, high in the queen’s stomach or low? Would it last the morning or was it assuaged by food? Had she taken dried bread? That could help. I just simpered back how I might be mistaken. I regretted my impetuosity, yet as I’ve said, God knows why I spoke as I did. Perhaps the idea had taken root the previous evening, a symptom of my own desperation or watching Isabella turn like a bird trapped in a house. The king’s opponents had to be distracted, even if it was for a short while, from their relentless pursuit of him. The prospect of an heir might cool their malevolent hostility, lessen the rancour of the Great Lords.

The queen dowager soon recovered from her surprise and said she would light a taper before the Confessor’s tomb. I swore all to secrecy, even though everyone knew such a secret would never remain so at court.

‘Ma belle fille,’ Margaret breathed. ‘No better place for her than here at Westminster, the House of Kings.’

‘And the Virgin’s shrine,’ Countess Margaret breathlessly intervened, ‘its precious relic.’

‘Yes, yes, her grace must wear that, the Virgin’s girdle,’ the queen dowager claimed triumphantly.

Once again we were back to relics. My mind, nimble as a clerk’s pen, skipped and jumped at the implications of what I’d said. The queen dowager and the countess heatedly discussed whether Canterbury on St Swithun’s was the appropriate shrine for Isabella to visit. They were still debating this when we gathered to dine in the queen dowager’s wood-panelled parlour on aloese of beef, pike in gelatine sauce, dishes of peas and onions with sippets. After the platters and tranchers were cleared, Agnes d’Albret excused herself. I did likewise, saying I must wait on the queen to see if all was well, though I would return soon enough. In truth, I wanted to hasten away and warn my mistress. To my horror, Guido the Psalter offered to accompany me whilst the queen’s servants prepared the pears in wine syrup. I had no choice but to smilingly agree. We took our leave. However, once we were in the gallery with its wall paintings depicting the glorious exploits of the Confessor, Guido plucked at my sleeve and took me into a window embrasure overlooking Old Palace Yard. I leaned against the cold plaster while that devilish-eyed, nimble-witted teller of tales once again expressed his joy at the news about the queen. He peered down the gallery to ensure no eavesdropper lurked.

‘Chapeleys,’ he leaned closer, ‘the clerk who was found hanging?’

‘What about him?’

‘Langton’s clerk?’

‘Yes.’

‘I returned early this morning to the Tower. I wanted to ensure Langton’s leg was healing. The king instructed me to do so as well as inform our noble bishop that Chapeleys had committed suicide,’ he shrugged, ‘or been murdered.’ Guido wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Langton talked briefly about Chapeleys. Our fat bishop called him thriftless and unreliable, even hinting that he might have been my lord Gaveston’s spy on him.’

‘And?’ I was impatient to meet my mistress.

‘A fabulist, Langton claimed, Chapeleys was a pickle-brain, a man whose ambition outstripped his talents. An outrageous liar whose tongue must be blistered with his many falsehoods. Langton also told me an incredible story about a French spy or agent called the Poison Maiden, maliciously opposed to the English Crown. He claimed he’d heard similar tales but openly mocked them. Apparently rumours about this Poison Maiden were known to the old king’s chancery clerks, one of whom was Chapeleys. Anyway, Chapeleys informed Langton how he believed that the Poison Maiden, ‘La Demoiselle Venimeuse’, was not a person but a canker at the heart of the kingdom.’

‘Pardon?’ I shook my head, genuinely mystified.

‘Edward’s marriage to Isabella,’ Guido murmured, ‘the alliance between England and France. Chapeleys maintains it provided Philip with a road into the affairs of this kingdom. According to Langton, Chapeleys had chattered about how the old king had agreed to such an alliance under duress, as had our present sovereign. Apparently Chapeleys was a scripture scholar who also specialised in canon law, and he argued that such a marriage, arranged by force and pressure, was invalid. According to him, our present king could have his marriage vows annulled, repudiate Queen Isabella and marry another.’

I stared down into the yard. The day was brightening, yet I was aware of the cold, seeping draughts, of how the trees clustered near the far wall were still black and stark. Winter was not just a season but a state of mind. I hid my disquiet. I’d certainly heard similar gossip. How Isabella’s marriage was forced on the English Crown by the Papacy and the French king through solemn treaty and holy vows. If the English had repudiated it, Gascony, England’s last possession in France, would have been occupied by Philip’s troops. Edward himself had been reluctant to honour such a treaty. He had only agreed because Bruce threatened his northern shires. His Great Lords were bitterly opposed to Gaveston, and Edward could not afford to send ships, men and money to defend the wine-rich province of Gascony, its prosperous port of Bordeaux and the fertile fields and vineyards that stretched beyond.

‘Some of the Lords,’ Guido added, ‘would certainly support the king’s repudiation of the French marriage. Langton also referred to this. I suspect our good bishop was shocked by Chapeleys’ sudden desertion and violent death, hence his garrulousness. According to him, the Lords want to see the back of Gaveston but they might also wish to see Isabella and her dowry returned. They argue how the king could start again, marry a different princess from Hainault, Brabant or even Spain.’ Guido shook his head. ‘I have discussed this with the queen dowager; she believes it is only chaff in the wind.’

‘And Chapeleys?’

‘Apparently he tried to urge Langton to take this matter up with the king, win his freedom, forsake his fellow bishops and, on the king’s behalf, petition the Holy Father for an annulment to his marriage with Isabella.’

‘And would Clement have agreed to that?’

‘According to Chapeleys, Clement might agree if the Templars were suppressed and Edward supported the papacy against Philip. Langton told me this as I tended him. In the end, however, Langton, like the queen dowager, dismissed Chapeleys as a tickle-wit, a malt-worm. At the time, mistress, I thought it was one strand of gossip amongst others until I heard your news: the Queen’s pregnancy would certainly end any talk of an annulment.’

‘Could Chapeleys have been murdered?’ I asked. ‘For what he said?’

Guido pulled a face. ‘Chapeleys was apparently a clack-tongue, eager to escape the Tower. He may have been ready to tell any lie.’

‘So he could have been silenced for what he said? Or perhaps he realised what he was doing, what might happen to him, and turned to despair.’

A door opened further down the gallery; Guido put a finger to his lips. ‘We shall speak later.’ Then he was gone.

I continued on my way. The guards allowed me back into Burgundy Hall. I was halfway along the path when I heard my name called. Ap Ythel came out of a side chamber of the gatehouse and, clutching his sword, hurried up the path. He informed me how Robert the groom, apart from a sore neck — the Welshman grinned at that — was most grateful for my intervention. Robert had asked, if I graciously agreed, could he thank me himself sometime? I absent-mindedly agreed and hurried on to my mistress’ chambers. I found these busy. Maids of the household and other servants were bringing up costly cloths from London merchants eager to gain the queen’s favour. Their precious fabrics were being laid out over chests, coffers, stools and tables. Isabella, golden hair hanging loose, and dressed in a simple russet gown, was assessing the cloth with her household steward, Walter de Boudon. She expressed surprise at my sudden return, but caught my glance and we withdrew into her bedchamber, its coverlets and sheets still in disarray. She grasped a bolster and sat on the edge of the bed like a little girl, legs swinging, looking up at me all expectant.

‘My dearest aunt wishes to send me Goliath’s tooth, which, I suppose, is ten pounds in weight, or has she discovered Veronica’s finger or the Magdalene’s toe?’

‘Your beloved aunt,’ I retorted, ‘now believes you are pregnant.’

Isabella dropped the bolster as I told her what had happened. I half apologised but explained my reasons, especially how such news might gain more time, perhaps startle the king’s opponents into silence. Isabella sat fascinated, head slightly to one side, assessing what I’d said. Her lovely face changed, eyes half closed, skin tight, lips slightly parted as she clicked her tongue. She picked up the fallen bolster and cradled it as if holding a child.

‘Oh Mathilde, you’ve not only released a fox into the hen-coop but locked it in. No, no,’ she laughed, ‘sometimes it’s necessary to lead others by the nose as you would a donkey. I’ll reflect on what you said. In a sense it is mere prattle, but it will be interesting to sow the seed and watch it grow. After all,’ she smiled, ‘that is why I’m here, is it not, to conceive a son?’

‘Or not,’ I replied and told her about my meeting with Guido and what he’d said.

‘Now there’s a flaunting jack,’ Isabella murmured, ‘but what he said could be true. Does Edward wish to get rid of me so as to be alone with Gaveston, or vice-versa?’ She shrugged. ‘Do some of the Lords, those petulant hunchbacked toads, wish me gone because I’m French?’ She smiled thinly. ‘Or there’s himself, a man unfit for any place but hell, and speaking of toads, never hung poison on a fouler one!’

‘My lady?’

‘My father!’ Isabella quipped. ‘Has he sent that unholy trinity Marigny and the rest, treacherous as Judas’ kisses, simply to undo it all?’ She picked up the bolster and threw it down. ‘Think, Mathilde! Philip bitterly opposes Gaveston, so Philip meddles. Edward, besieged in his own kingdom, locked up in his own palace, retaliates. He spurns me, baggage and all. I’m dispatched along the Dover road to a cog ready to take me back to Calais or Boulogne.’ Isabella spread her hands. ‘Philip’s heart is stuffed with deceits; lies lie thick on his tongue. If that happened, Mathilde, my father would have reason for war. He’d appeal to the pope, to the princes of Europe, yes, even to Edward’s disaffected lords. Philip’s troops would overrun Gascony whilst another army landed at Dover. If that happened, my blessed father would be one step closer to being the new Charlemagne of Europe.’

‘Is that possible?’ I asked.

‘A year ago,’ Isabella rose to her feet, ‘did you think the Templars could be so quickly destroyed? Oh yes, I fully understand how the old king, Chapeleys, perhaps even Langton, regarded me as the Poison Maiden, a threat hanging over the English Crown for the last twelve years. Ah well, sorrows never walk alone, but bring a host of others.’ Isabella studied me closely, almost standing on tiptoe as if searching my eyes. ‘I, we, cannot leave here, Mathilde, not to France, certainly not to Philip.’ She patted me on the arm. ‘God save me if I was pregnant; perhaps my sorrows would be halved.’ She walked to the door and turned swiftly. ‘Langton,’ she exclaimed, ‘you must visit Langton again, Mathilde. He is playing the devil’s own game here. God knows if he told Guido the truth. My father always thought the English bishops were idle baits, but not Langton. A true serpent, Mathilde! I’m sure there is more than one clasp of the chain linking our beloved bishop to those disaffected lords. Anyhow, you must return to my blessed aunt. I’m sure she has much more to say. Please reassure her that the workmen are clearing the foul smells of Burgundy Hall, so perhaps she could visit me?’

I made my farewells. As I approached the gatehouse, the sounds of carpenters and masons echoed raucously. Now the Angelus rest was finished, the labourers were returning to their work. Ap Ythel, busy tying the points of his hose, came striding up the path.

‘Mathilde, the queen dowager’s man Guido, that lord of the latrines, has been looking for you. I told him you were still closeted with the queen.’ Ap Ythel smiled. ‘He asked if the new perfume in Burgundy Hall was a Welsh fragrance. I told him it was probably Gascon, but,’ he nodded to the main door of the hall, ‘the workmen have solved the problem. The latrines and gulleys need to be cleansed. It will take a few more days until the stench has gone. Tell our pert Gascon that.’

I promised to do so, my mind on other matters. I reached the upper gallery of the Old Palace and hastened along to the queen dowager’s chamber. I passed a window and glimpsed movement in the yard below. Agnes d’Albret, her cowl half hiding her head and face, slipped out of the line of trees and paused. Another figure followed, a man. He glanced up at the sky, and just for a few heartbeats I recognised Gaveston’s handsome face. Agnes turned and stroked his arm. The favourite grasped her hand, and drawing her closer, kissed her full on the brow and lips before slipping back into the trees. I stood dumbfounded. Agnes might be informing the favourite of what was happening, but was there something else? The way they’d parted seemed more like lovers after a secret assignation. I hurried on. By the time I reached the queen dowager’s apartments, Guido was entertaining her and the countess with stories in the patois of the scholars of the left bank of the Seine, explaining how mariage was slang for hanging; arques petits were little dice, and empz corpses. At the same time he was showing how a dice could be cogged and loaded so it fell the way the thrower wanted, translating it as frouer des gours arques and explaining how such counterfeits must always have an accomplice, a lookout against the Angelz, the archers of the Provost of Paris. Agnes interrupted this, bursting in all hot and flustered. Countess Margaret, however, for reasons best known to herself, suddenly began listing her favourite months of the year. She declared how January was one of these because the last of the Yuletide feasts, the ‘Day of the Boy Bishop’, was celebrated then, and how, in her father’s manor at Oswestry, sausage, meat and game bird were, after the Feast of the Epiphany, hung from the kitchen’s rafters to be smoked and dried.

‘And that smell,’ she declared smilingly. (God knows she could act as witless as a butterfly!) ‘It always makes me feel homely and comfortable.’

The queen dowager took up the point, declaring that June was her favourite month because she could remember the royal gardeners culling the red roses of Provence to be crushed so as to obtain their perfumed, soothing oil whilst their petals were woven into sweet-scented garlands. The conversation moved on to gardens in general: the classic arrangement of sixteen beds, one for each variety of herb, whilst the larger kitchen garden, or hortus, had eighteen, divided by a path into neat rows sheltered from the sun. The queen dowager asked me about the peony. I explained how the plant was named after Paeon, physician to the ancient gods, and was to be regarded as the plant of the moon. Guido mockingly quoted Pliny on the subject; how the peony could be both male and female and should only be garnered at night, whilst a string of dried peony beads were a sure protection against evil.

During the conversation, I watched Agnes closely. She was undoubtedly agitated, refusing to meet my eye, casting about, acting very disconcerted. If she talked, she chattered aimlessly then lapsed into silence. Under my direction, the conversation moved from flowers to the meeting arranged for the morrow after solemn high mass in the abbot’s garden. The queen dowager, after making pleasantries, conceded there was little more she could do. Winchelsea and Lincoln, leaders of the disaffected lords, were demanding the immediate convocation of a parliament to publish their gravimina — their grievances against Gaveston. I intimated how my mistress’ possible pregnancy must not be overlooked. The queen dowager accepted this, but replied that the king would have to concede something to the Lords. Nevertheless, Margaret promised to reflect on what I had told her; she declared that she hoped for the best but planned for the worst.

The queen dowager was undoubtedly uncertain and unsure. She’d lost her usual calm poise, and as if to distract us all, announced that we should play Hoodman’s Blind, Guido being the Hoodman. Countess Margaret, God bless her simple soul, rapturously agreed. I reluctantly joined in, helping to pull the hood over Guido’s head then scattering with the rest as he began to play about, trying to catch us. I moved and turned. I wished to be away when Agnes abruptly caught me by the arm.

‘Is it safe?’ she whispered.

‘Is it safe what?’ I answered.

‘To cross over,’ she replied. ‘Mathilde, you tell your news, but how will this end? Are you not suspicious?’ Then she hastened away as Guido came blundering towards us.

Eventually Guido caught the countess Margaret and the game stopped. The hood was taken off and passed to her, and all was about to begin again when there was a knock on the door. Ap Ythel came in, bowed and beckoned towards me. I made my excuses to the queen dowager and joined him in the gallery outside.

‘Deo gratias,’ I murmured.

Ap Ythel looked at me strangely.

‘Deo gratias,’ I repeated. ‘I could not play another second.’

The Welshman grinned.

‘You have another game waiting for you, mistress, down at the gate. The clerk Demontaigu, he is there with a lad called Spit Boy, come from the Secret of Solomon tavern. He says he must have urgent words with you. .’

I hastened down. Demontaigu stood solemn-faced. Spit Boy, sweat-soaked, thrust his hand out, eager for the coin I pressed into his palm.

‘You must come, my master is most insistent.’ He beckoned at me. ‘He has something to show you.’

‘What?’ I asked, pulling my cloak about me. I thanked Ap Ythel and led them away from the gate.

‘There’s a corpse,’ Spit Boy whispered hoarsely, ‘stiff and cold as a poker. He’s lying in the tavern, the man you were asking about, Pax-Bread? He’s been murdered, mistress.’ Spit Boy dragged a finger across his throat. ‘A piece of rope around here, tied tight, eyes bulging, mouth gaping, tongue sticking out! A horrible sight. Mistress, you must come and see for yourself.’