The Poison Maiden

Chapter 8

I grasped Demontaigu’s arm. He was pale, unshaven and unwashed, like a man who’d suffered a bad night’s sleep and a day equally as troublesome. I was not able to converse with him, but followed Spit Boy as he led us through the palace grounds down to King’s Steps. It was early evening. A waiting barge took us quickly towards Queenshithe, where we disembarked. Spit Boy, who regarded it all as a great game, scampered before us like a puppy leading us through the streets. The day was dying, the city emptying. I suffered what I call the horrors, an eerie blood-chilling experience that has never waned over the years: it is provoked by moving swiftly from one extreme to another. I’ve sheltered in comfortable courts, in luxurious palaces, in chambers lined with tapestries, only to step into a world completely different. I have often reflected on this. How the times I’ve lived in are not moderate, but intense in every way. I have worshipped in cathedrals where the stone arches like a hymn and the light pours through beautiful multicoloured glass to bathe the nave in all the glory of heaven. And yet I’ve passed through those same cathedral doors on to its steps where beggars, with wounds turning green, plead for alms; madcaps and malaperts perform strange dances; and hermits, maddened by their own vision of God, preach the horrors of hell and the wickedness of the world. In the square below, bodies dangle from scaffolds, the breath choking out through their twisted throats even as the last beautiful notes of the cathedral choir echo in my ear.

So it was that evening as we hastened through the emptying streets. Traders were taking down stalls, whilst half-naked men, women and children fought over scraps scattered on the cobbles. A beggar, drunk on cheap ale, tried to kiss an ancient whore clasped in the stocks. Dogs tore the corpse of a bloated cat. A friar crouched over a fallen man, hissing the words of a penitential psalm. A madman prayed before the statue of a saint high in its stone niche, whilst beside him, a gallant undid the bodice of a whore and greedily felt her full breasts. Bailiffs were beating a drunk. The cage on the Tun in Cheapside was full of dark figures scampering and leaping about shouting obscenities, whilst further down the thoroughfare, a group of bedesmen moved from house to house singing the Salve Regina. A knight in half-armour returning from a tourney passed by on his black destrier like the figure of death. A tousle-headed bearded giant, dressed in the fraying skin of a horse, stood on the steps of a church. He shook the great cudgel he carried and shouted how he had been sent by the Baptist to search out Herod and smash his skull. Images, memories, a mix of fears and terrors at all I saw and heard. Spit Boy raced ahead of us, leaping like a March hare. Demontaigu, head down, cowl pulled over his face quietly mouthed a prayer. I felt like stopping and screaming at the tensions that surrounded me. I swiftly turned, eyes searching for any pursuer, but the dark twisting lanes were empty. Shadows drifted across. I could not tell if they were part of my world or some strange other. We continued on, and at last reached the Secret of Solomon.

Mine Host met us in the noisy taproom, eager to keep the matter, as he put it, tapping his swollen fleshy nose, ‘sub rosa’. He led us into the garden and across to an outhouse. Spit Boy went ahead of us, hopping like a flea on a hot plate, screeching at the top of his voice how it was all horrid murder and the victim was terrible to see with his popping eyes and swollen tongue. Mine Host roared at him to be quiet and led us into the outhouse. He took a lantern horn off its hook and brought it closer so we could view the corpse more clearly. Spit Boy had spoken the truth. Pax-Bread in life had been comely; death had turned him ugly, his face all puffy and livid because of the red-purple weal from the garrotte string around his neck.

‘He was found early this morning,’ Mine Host declared, ‘by scavengers clearing a nearby brook. He was brought here, the nearest tavern. A coroner came and declared that it was a “death other than his natural one”. The knave demanded his fee, drank a pot of ale, gobbled a platter of diced pork and left. I’m supposed to pay the full cost of burial.’

I opened my purse and thrust a silver coin in to his hand. ‘That should cover everything; if not, Spit Boy knows where to come.’

‘Very good.’ Mine Host mopped his brow with his dirty apron. ‘Get Hawisa,’ he breathed. Spit Boy scampered off.

‘Who is she?’ Demontaigu asked.

Again Mine Host tapped his nose. Spit Boy came hurtling back, eager for another coin. I gave one to him and his companion, a young scullery maid, red-faced, desperate to keep the flimsy hat firmly over her thick hair. She yelped as she caught sight of Pax-Bread’s corpse and stared round-eyed at me.

‘Dead!’ she screeched. ‘Mistress, he wasn’t when I saw him!’

I grasped her hands. ‘Hawisa, stay calm, just tell me what happened.’

‘I didn’t know about this,’ Mine Host blustered, ‘not until the corpse was found. She took the message up. She should have told me, but there again, the taproom was busy.’

‘Hush now. Please.’ I gestured at the corpse. ‘Cover that.’

Spit Boy, disappointed at not being able to view the macabre sight more closely, came and stood by Hawisa.

‘Tell her,’ he hissed, ‘what you know. You’ ll get another coin!’

‘He,’ Hawisa pointed at the sheeted corpse, ‘was in the tavern. I was in the kitchen. I was hot, so I came out into the yard, you know, towards the rear gate. This woman came out of the dark. At first I thought she was some apple squire, a pimp or a whore.’

‘Describe her.’

‘Mistress, I’ve told you it was very dark. She looked like a nun.’

‘A nun?’

‘Yes, there was a wimple round her face. In the faint light her skin looked smooth; her voice was soft. I said, “Mistress how fare ye?” and she replied, “I have a message for him.”’ Hawisa pointed at the corpse. ‘She gave me his name. I replied, “How will he know, what are you called?” “Agnes,” she replied. “Give him this.” She handed me a coin and thrust a leather pouch into my hand. I ran back into the tavern, went into a corner and opened the pouch. I thought it might be coins, but it was a roll of parchment. Very thin, with some letters on it.’ She shrugged. ‘I cannot read. The pouch also contained two waxen seals.’

‘What mark did they carry?’

‘A large bird: a hawk, maybe an eagle. Anyway, she said that I would be rewarded by him, he’d give me another coin. So I ran up the stairs; the taproom was very busy. I knocked on the door. Master Pax-Bread was lying on his bed, boots all off. I think he’d been drinking. I told him what had happened and gave him the pouch. He read the parchment, took the seals, examined them carefully, then nodded, saying he would be down shortly. I stayed until he tossed me a coin, then I left. I returned to the kitchen, and that was the last I saw or heard of him.’

I thanked both Hawisa and Spit Boy, and they disappeared.

‘So,’ I grasped Mine Host’s arm and walked him over to the sheeted corpse, ‘I have given you money for his burial, sir. You claim he came in from his pleasures and went up the stairs to his room. A short while later that kitchen wench brought Pax-Bread a message asking him to meet a stranger, a woman, outside the rear gate. But after that, nothing?’

‘Nothing,’ Mine Host agreed, wiping his hands on his jerkin. ‘Mistress, it wasn’t until his corpse was brought in and the coroner made his judgement that Hawisa told me. .’

Demontaigu and I left the tavern. Out in the street it was quieter now. Somewhere a night bird screeched. Doors opened and shut. Shutters banged and clattered. A dog barked up an alleyway. Shadows flittered across the pools of light. Demontaigu grasped me by the arm and led me down the street, then into the comfortable warmth of a small alehouse. The taproom was noisy, with two men shouting at each other about an impending cockfight. The ale master looked us up and down and led us into a small chamber beyond smelling sweetly of apples. He waved us to a table in the far corner. Demontaigu ordered stoups of ale, some bread freshly baked and a pot of butter. We ate and drank in silence. Demontaigu was obviously despondent. For a while he kept his head down, more intent on his food and drink. Now and again his lips moved as if he was having a quiet conversation with himself, then he began to speculate on Pax-Bread’s murder.

‘Undoubtedly the wench Agnes!’ he murmured, biting into the bread, then gestured at the eerie painting hanging against the far wall. It showed a cat dressed as a bishop shepherding a flock of sparrows clothed in the red garb of whores.

‘Agnes d’Albret?’ I mocked. ‘Slipping along the dark alleyways of London to a common tavern, enticing Pax-Bread into the shadows, then garrotting him? I don’t think so. Bertrand, you are tired!’

‘Whoever it was,’ he retorted heatedly, ‘carried Gaveston’s seals.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose the favourite could disguise himself, even though he is a warrior. There is talk of him having a woman’s heart in a man’s body. Gossip and chatter cast him as a king’s catamite, his lover a male bawdy-basket.’

‘The malicious clacking of tongues,’ I retorted, ‘chaff in the wind!’ I paused. Isabella and I often reflected on the true relationship between Edward and Gaveston. They undoubtedly loved each other, but as Isabella had whispered in my ear, had they ever lain together like man and wife? I always viewed it as a matter of no concern to myself.

‘Anyway. .’ I spoke up, then remembered where I was, and drew closer and whispered in Demontaigu’s ear. ‘Why should Gaveston kill his own man?’

‘To silence him on other matters. Think, Mathilde! Pax-Bread arrives at the Secret of Solomon, he rests and relaxes. He expects a meeting with Gaveston or someone the favourite will send. He visits Alvena at the Domus Iucundarum; he returns only to be lured out by that woman and murdered.’

‘True, according to Alvena, Pax-Bread was very wary. He would only meet someone he could utterly trust, and that’s not the end of the mystery,’ I continued. ‘Whoever murdered Pax-Bread somehow walked into the Secret of Solomon, slipped into his chamber and removed all Pax-Bread’s possessions, though how he, she or they came and left without being noticed is a mystery. The room was locked and bolted from the inside. Why? Of course,’ I whispered, ‘they wanted to seize anything Pax-Bread had brought; they were also determined to create the impression that he had fled. But why all this mystery? Pax-Bread told Hawisa to go and that he’d be down shortly, yet no one saw him leave.’ I shook my head. ‘We do not know what was written in that parchment note, and those seals? Only Gaveston, or someone close to him, would be able to produce them.’

‘Shadows,’ Demontaigu breathed. ‘Parvae substantiae — of little substance.’ His voice turned bitter. ‘What is it to me? What do I care about pompous princes who fight other pampered lords so they can do what they want for themselves without any thought for others? For the likes of my brethren, the Templars, rotting in dungeons, facing scandalous allegations, denied even a fair trial-’

‘And why should I care,’ I interrupted angrily, ‘for men who once lorded it over others?’

‘Does that include your uncle?’

‘He was my uncle,’ I retorted. ‘Whatever else he was is, as you say, parvae substantiae. I mourn my uncle, Bertrand, because he was my uncle, because he loved me. I loved him, yet he was murdered in a barbaric, ignominious fashion.’

Demontaigu sighed and put his face into his hands. He took a deep breath and let his hands fall away.

‘Pax-Bread was murdered,’ he declared. ‘This business of the Poison Maiden, all I’m saying. .’ He shook his head. ‘I want to break free of it, look after my own.’

‘Bertrand,’ I seized his hands between mine, ‘there is a right and wrong here. Philip of France is truly wicked. He made his daughter what she is and, to a certain extent, what you and I now are. We are here because of what he did. I agree Edward and Gaveston are no saints. I do not wear their colours and neither do you. Both are fickle-hearts and would betray us if it so suited them.’ I paused. ‘Bertrand, I study the world of herbs. Some, like belladonna, are pure poison; others, such as broom, contain some good if used correctly. So it is with us. I agree with the psalmist: all men are liars. I also accept his advice: put not your trust in princes. However, in this vale of wickedness, Edward and Gaveston are our best protection against the malice of Philip. My world has come down to this: to care for and protect my mistress, you and myself; to me that’s all. The rest?’ I shrugged. ‘God knows I did not want it this way, yet God only knows why that’s the way it is. Philip is a noxious plant. He has poisoned my life and those I care deeply for. If I can, I will do all in my power to uproot him and his. True, what I say is nothing to do with the love of Christ or the virtue of religion. Yet I do take comfort in the fact that God may wish to use me to achieve his own mysterious purposes.’ I punched Demontaigu playfully in the arm. ‘I believe the Poison Maiden, whoever he, she or they may be, is of Philip’s making. They threaten us so I will threaten back. We have to be prudent and cunning. Put on our masks to face their masks.’

‘Fierce, little spear-maiden.’ Bertrand kissed me full and sweet on the lips. So swiftly, my spate of words dried up. I went to kiss him back but he brushed my lips with his fingers.

‘Mathilde, Mathilde, listen to my confession. I am a priest; I consecrate the bread and wine, turning them into Christ’s body and blood. Yet here I am in the fleshy sinews of life,’ he smiled thinly, ‘fighting all kinds of demons.’

‘My uncle,’ I retorted, ‘once discussed the same with me. He said a Templar is dedicated to the love of God and his neighbour. He not only struggles against flesh and blood, but also wages a spiritual war against the Lords of the Air. Uncle Reginald talked of a clash of realities; of how life should be and how it really is. How we would like to do good but often simply do what we have to.’

‘And the Eucharist, Christ’s body and blood? Did your uncle Reginald talk about that? Would he explain why I celebrate mass in the morning and fight for my life in the evening?’

‘Yes, I think he would. Whether you found his answer acceptable or not would be a matter for you. He claimed that Christ became man to become involved in the petty but vicious politics of Nazareth, of Galilee, so why should we now reject those of the Louvre, Westminster or Cheapside?’

Demontaigu sat staring at the hanging on the wall. Abruptly, from the taproom, as if some invisible being had been listening to what we’d said, a beautiful voice carolled. I do not know if it was a boy or a girl, but the song was haunting and heart-tingling. It was about ruined dreams, yet the second verse described how those same dreams, although never realised, made it all worthwhile. Tears stung my eyes. I watched the moths, small and golden, hover dangerously round the candle flame. Demontaigu’s hand covered mine.

‘Mathilde, let’s move to the point of the arrow.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I met Ausel today. We Templars house a traitor close to our heart. No, no, listen. The only people who knew about when and where we were to meet last night were Ausel, myself and Padraig. Ausel and I are responsible for organising such conventicles, and as far as the time and place are concerned, only as few as possible are informed, including our leaders. The rest were only told to meet at a certain point at a certain time. They were then brought to the Chapel of the Hanged. None was given the time to inform Alexander of Lisbon so he could bring so many men to that place. The Noctales were prepared, Mathilde; they let us go in and thought they had us trapped.’ He paused. ‘At first I blamed those taken up and imprisoned in Newgate, but they wouldn’t have known.’

I pushed away my platter and tankard. In the corner a spider clambered down into the heart of its web to feed on an imprisoned fly. A cat moved out into the shadows. A mouse screeched in the corner, whilst cold air seeped through the ale chamber, ruffling the smelly rushes and dousing a candle. I wanted to leave. We had discussed the harsh realities of life; Demontaigu had just told me one of these. His news was chilling.

‘You have suspicions?’

‘No one, Mathilde, but any Templar caught last night would have expected little mercy. That is the problem we always face: betrayal. This is the first time, in England, that we have suspected a traitor amongst us.’ Demontaigu turned to face me. ‘What we need is protection, pardons so that we can move freely. At this moment in time we live in the murky twilight between the law and being declared utlegatum — beyond it. Alexander of Lisbon, or any reward hunter, can trap, imprison, even kill us. We have lost the favour of both God and man. The king has ordered our arrest, the pope has declared us excommunicate. In truth, I should not even be celebrating mass. Mathilde, this cannot go on. I am a realist. The Templar order has been destroyed, and will never reconvene. We need protection. If we cannot get it here, then we will move into Scotland.’ He gazed expectantly at me.

I knew what he was asking. Isabella often petitioned the chancery to issue pardons under the privy seal, but for that, she would need royal approval.

‘You’d have to name yourself,’ I murmured, ‘confess who you really are. Bertrand, King Edward is fickle. He could hang you from a beam, embrace you as a brother, or dismiss it as a matter of petty importance.’

‘Either way,’ Demontaigu conceded, ‘this must be brought to an end.’ He patted my hand. ‘Think about it, but the hour is growing late; we must return.’

We did so without incident. Demontaigu left me at the gatehouse of Burgundy Hall. Ap Ythel was dicing with a group of archers in the guardhouse. He grinned and gestured with his head towards the main door of the hall.

‘It smells a little sweeter now, mistress. The masons and carpenters have been very busy.’ His voice took a wry tone. ‘Even his grace helped to clean one of the refuse ditches.’

This provoked muted laughter from his companions. The king’s fascination for physical labour, be it thatching a roof or digging a ditch, was common knowledge at the court. Some mocked it. Others claimed it was a legacy of the prince being left to his own devices by his warlike father. The old king had relegated his son to the care of servants and labourers at the palace of King’s Langley, where the young prince had spent his youth consulting and consorting with companions such as Absalom the boatman. I thanked Ap Ythel and passed into the hall. My mind was a jumble of mosaic pieces. Yes, that was what is was like: those miniature paintings you find in a Book of Hours, so small, yet so complex, full of detail and observation. Pax-Bread’s naked corpse, that horrible blue-red mark around his throat; Agnes and Gaveston touching each other; Hawisa staring at me wide-eyed — had she been lying? Demontaigu’s tight face in that alehouse. Ap Ythel staring slyly up at me as I passed.

The galleries and staircases were a blaze of light. The workmen were still busy, surly faces peeping out of heads and capuchons. Carpenters planed wood for new shafts for the garderobes. Masons studied charts and plans. Even then, albeit distracted, I noticed how many were milling about at such a late hour. Yet that was Edward: he showed greater tolerance for labourers and artisans than his fellow princes or lords. The queen’s chamber was equally busy. Isabella was choosing gowns for the solemn high mass the next morning. We had little time to talk. I told her about my visit to The Secret of Solomon. She heard me out, nodded, and promised to tell Edward and Gaveston, adding that tomorrow’s meeting between the queen dowager and the earls was of more importance. She teased me about how the news of her so-called pregnancy had now swept the palace. I asked her if she had told the truth to the king. She winked at me.

‘Perhaps.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps not, we will see.’

The rest I cannot recall, a swirl of events. The mass the next morning celebrated the solemn liturgy of Lent. The abbot, prior and sub-prior, clothed in glorious purple and gold, almost hidden by the rich gusts of incense, offered the holy sacrifice. A magnificent occasion. The choir intoned the introit, kyrie and other verses in the majestic tones of plainchant. The candles clustered on the high altar and elsewhere blazed. Sunlight poured through the glazed coloured glass to shimmer on the gilded cornices and precious chalices, patens and pyxes along the ivory, white and red-embroidered altar cloths.

Edward and Isabella knelt at their own prie-dieu. Gaveston and others of the royal party gathered in a special enclosure to their right. At the top of the sanctuary steps stood Lincoln, Pembroke and their entourage. I was relegated to standing in the hallowed precincts of the Lady Chapel with its statue of the Madonna clothed as Queen of Heaven, the Divine Infant resting on her lap, little hands raised in blessing. Beneath the statue, protected by an exquisite glass case framed in gold and studded with precious gems, lay the abbey’s greatest relic, the Cincture Cord once worn by the Virgin. My eyes drifted to that as they did to the various tombs in the royal mausoleum: Edward the Confessor’s in magnificent red and gold; Edward I’s sombre black purbeck marble; close to it the gracefully carved tomb of his beloved first queen, Eleanor of Castile. I remembered how the old king had supposedly wept himself to sleep at her death and marked the stages of her funeral cortege south with gloriously sculpted soaring stone crosses. A thought occurred to me, but I let it go. Perhaps, on reflection, I should have seen it as a prayer brought by the invisible hands of some angel. However, on that particular Sunday, angels scarce moved in the harsh, tense atmosphere of the abbey sanctuary. The previous evening members of the Lords’ retinues had met those of Gaveston as both groups took horses down to the river to water. The Lords’ retainers had accused Gaveston of being quasi rex — almost a king — as well as being a coward, hiding behind his royal master and refusing to meet his accusers. Gaveston’s retainers had replied with a spurt of invective, calling the Lords nicknames. According to Isabella’s hushed, hasty whisper when I met her before the mass, these insults, the creation of Gaveston’s nimble wit, had apparently struck home. Gloucester was a whoreson; Lincoln Burst Belly; Warwick the Black Dog of Arden; Pembroke Joseph the Jew; Lancaster the Churl. I turned my head and looked around the great drum pillars of the abbey. The Lords stood stone-faced and hard-eyed, muttering amongst themselves. Now and again they would turn towards Gaveston and his coterie, fingers touching the scabbards on their brocaded belts. Deo gratias, all weapons had wisely been left with the lay brothers in the Galilee Porch of the abbey.

The mass continued. At the kiss of peace, the osculum Pacis, Edward immediately left his prie-dieu to greet Gaveston. They embraced warmly, kissing each other on the cheek. The king then strolled over to Lincoln and, without pausing, shook his hand before returning to clasp his wife and kiss her gently. A growl of protest at such a hasty insult to their leader rose from the Great Lords and their retinues clustered on the sanctuary steps. Abbot Kedyngton, sensing what was happening, moved swiftly on to acclaim: ‘Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi’ — ‘Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world’. At last the mass ended, with the sub-prior’s powerful voice singing, ‘Ite missa est’ — ‘the mass is now finished’ — to be greeted by the thundering response of the choir, ‘Deo Gratias’ — ‘thanks be to God’.

‘And thanks be true!’ whispered a voice behind me. I turned. Guido was smiling at me. Agnes, whey-faced, eyes all tearful, stood beside him.

‘If we can leave here,’ Guido hissed, ‘without sword or dagger play, then the age of miracles truly hasn’t past.’ His words were almost drowned by the shrill call of the trumpets. Edward and his queen left their prie-dieus in solemn procession. Isabella looked magnificent in sky blue and gold, a white gauze veil hanging down either side of her face, a jewelled chaplet around her forehead. Edward and Gaveston were dressed alike as if they really were brothers, two princes of the blood, in red and gold cotehardies of stiffened brocade embroidered with silver thread, ermine-lined mantles warming their shoulders, on their feet beautifully decorated blood-red ankle shoes. Gaveston walked slightly behind the king and queen. They first visited the Lady Chapel, then the Tomb of the Confessor, and at each Edward and Isabella offered pure wax candles in silver holders. Afterwards they returned to the sanctuary. They had hardly reached the top of the steps when Ap Ythel and a host of armed Welsh archers emerged from the shadowy transepts to seal the royal party in a phalanx of steel. The king and queen went down the steps along the nave to the south door, which would lead them through the abbey grounds and into the palace. Guido, Agnes and I followed. I glimpsed Demontaigu, who raised a hand in greeting.

Outside, the sunshine was brilliant; a beautiful spring day was promised. Crowds pressed against the three-deep line of men-at-arms. Behind me I heard shouts from the Lords and their retainers. How Gaveston was a coward, a minion, a catamite! The insults were drowned by further trumpet blasts and the choir intoning the ‘Christus Vincit’. Edward seemed determined to accept the applause of the crowds, who appeared captivated by his queen. She and her husband were greeted with showers of flower petals and cries of ‘Vivat regina’ or the coarse bellowing of ‘God save ye’ and ‘Praise and honour to ye’.

Once back in the enclosed garden of Burgundy Hall, the gates firmly sealed behind us, the royal party relaxed. Edward’s shoulders slumped as he took off the jewelled chaplet around his head. Gaveston, however, was livid with fury at the accusations of cowardice hurled at him. He undid his furred mantle, calling for sword and dagger, intent on going back to confront his tormentors. Gaveston might have been many things, but he was no coward. Edward plucked him by the arm; Gaveston shrugged this off. Eventually, both Isabella and the queen dowager blocked his path. The king hastily called for a tray of sweet wines and silver platters of honey toast with pine nuts. He undid his own furred mantle and led Gaveston along to a flower-covered arbour with cushioned turf seats. They sat there like two boys, heads together, talking softly. Ap Ythel took up guard on the black-and-white chequerboard stone path leading down to it: a sign that the king and his favourite were not to be disturbed.

We all broke up, drifting to different parts of the garden. Strange, on that particular morning I glimpsed Mortimer of Wigmore for the first time. Handsome as the devil, of athletic build, sharp-faced and keen-eyed, he wore his black hair long, his face completely shaven. He was dressed sombrely in dark fustian with blood-red boots on which silver spurs clinked. He had recently been in Ireland strengthening English defences against possible Scottish invasion. He was with his uncle, that old reprobate and pot of wickedness Mortimer of Chirk, a man of evil reputation, with his prematurely white hair framing a face as cruel as that of a bird of prey.

‘Now there’s night and day,’ Guido whispered in my ear. ‘The younger Mortimer is a knight but his uncle is a killer, given custody of two Welsh princes he was! Poor boys were later found floating in a river. Mortimer of Chirk then had the impudence to claim their lands.’

‘Not all plants and herbs,’ I retorted, ‘are what they appear.’

‘Ah.’ Guido gently pushed me with his shoulder. ‘How does it go, Mathilde? “This painted rose is not the whole. Who paints the flower paints not its fragrant soul”?’

‘Guido!’ The queen dowager, dressed like a mother abbess, with the countess Margaret garbed like her novice, swept towards us. ‘Are you trying to seduce Mathilde with poetry?’

‘No, madam, with herbs,’ I teased back, ‘and with little success.’

Isabella walked over. We all moved towards the shade of some willows planted against a reed-fringed carp pond. Everyone felt slightly embarrassed that the king and Gaveston were still deep in conversation in the arbour. The queen dowager, to cover this, explained how the previous evening she and Guido had been discussing herbs and their potency — she glanced sideways at Isabella — especially in childbirth.

‘And what is your opinion, Mathilde?’

‘None, madam.’

Margaret’s finely plucked eyebrows arched. Just for a heartbeat I realised how mask-like her face was, how the austere veil and wimple also served as a disguise.

‘None,’ I repeated. ‘A woman in pregnancy should avoid all medicines and herbs where possible.’

‘And your authority for that?’ The queen dowager was now clearly interested.

‘My uncle. .’ I paused at Isabella’s warning glance. ‘He served as a physician in Outremer. He conversed with the wise amongst the Arabs, whose theories were similar to those of the ancients, Galen and Hippocrates: natura fiat natura — that nature should be nature, or, more precisely, leave nature alone. My uncle observed native women. How in pregnancy they avoided drinking or eating anything out of the ordinary. In the main, their pregnancies were untroubled, their childbirth straightforward and the infants themselves healthy. He compared this with certain court ladies of the West who eat and drink all sorts of concoctions with harmful results. Let me give you one example,’ I continued. ‘Broom has silvery-blue leaves which, when crushed, exude a pale yellowish oil. Now as you may know, madam, this is often used to rub on the skin to repel flies and other irritants. However, it also affects the muscles, and in a pregnant woman may induce early contractions and bring about a miscarriage.’

‘Very, very good. You see, Marguerite,’ the queen dowager turned to the countess, using the French version of her name as she often did, ‘you too must consult with Mathilde when you become pregnant.’

The countess blushed with embarrassment. The queen dowager was about to return to her questioning when Edward and Gaveston came strolling over arm in arm. The king’s face was wreathed in smiles; Gaveston was still tight-lipped, his handsome face, so ivory pale and smooth, reflecting the fury seething within him: eyes glittering, high cheekbones more pronounced, the usually generous lips now a thin, bloodless line.

‘Come, come.’ Edward freed his arm and clapped his hands. ‘Let us celebrate.’ He gestured round. ‘This beautiful morning pales in significance beside the beautiful women who now grace it. Guido, tell us that amusing tale about the old knight, his young wife and the chastity belt with two keys.’

This provoked laughter, and the guests drew closer. Guidio, a born mimic, played out the tale to the assembled company. Edward bawled in merriment at its conclusion, beating a gloved hand against his thigh. The bells of the abbey abruptly tolled, marking the passing hours. Midday would soon be here and gone. Edward whispered to Gaveston, who drifted over towards me. He placed a hand gently on my shoulder and steered me away from the rest, back towards the vaulted entrance to the garden. He paused as if staring at the corbels on either side of the gateway; babewyns and gargoyles glared stonily back, horrid faces with bugling eyes and gaping mouths. From the abbey floated the faint sounds of singing, a hymn to the Virgin Mary — ‘Alma Mater Dulcis’.

‘Poor Pax-Bread is dead,’ Gaveston tapped my shoulder, ‘and all he brought gone, yes, Mathilde?’

I told him exactly what we had learnt. Gaveston gently stroked my shoulder, then squeezed it hard. I stared into that lovely face, those half-open eyes with their lazy, slightly mocking gaze. He leaned down and kissed me full on the lips, then turned back, arm around my shoulder as if we were to enter the gateway.

‘Pax-Bread is dead; he cannot help me any more.’ He glanced down at me. ‘The Poison Maiden has seen to that. I will light a taper to guide him on his way and have a chantry mass sung to help him meet his God. As for his murderer. .’ Gaveston chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Agnes — that was the assassin’s name?’ He shook his head. ‘Not our Agnes! She isn’t the killing sort; too gentle, more used to damask than a dagger. I doubt if she could crush a flea, let alone garrotte a man. Yet. .’ He moved his head from side to side, like a merchant assessing the value of some goods. I recalled Demontaigu’s words from the night before. Gaveston was cold; no mourning for poor Pax-Bread who’d been cruelly murdered for his loyalty to this royal minion.

‘Yet what, my lord?’

‘The seals. Someone close to me must have given them to the murderer.’

‘Or you, my lord?’

Gaveston turned, hands on his hips, and smiled chillingly down at me, so beautiful, so graceful! I could smell the rich perfume, almost feel the warmth of his splendid body through the brocade and taffeta; such an elegant man, with no mark or blemish. Yet there was a darkness there. The favourite bowed mockingly, waggled his fingers at me and swaggered off.

The royal party now made to leave. Edward and Gaveston moved amongst their household retainers distributing small gifts. Isabella, deep in conversation with Mortimer of Wigmore, laughed heartily at some story he was telling. Nearby hovered some of the ladies of her chamber, eager for Isabella to leave so she could change her robes of state. The queen dowager and her novice were paying their respects to burly-faced Abbot Kedyngton, who had joined us late. Guido waved at me and mouthed the word ‘relic’. I grinned back and turned at the touch on my elbow. Agnes, her hood pulled up against the sun, gestured with her hand. I followed her into the shade of a trellis walk. She appeared anxious; she had certainly lost her air of impudent mischievousness.

‘Mistress Mathilde, I ask a favour. Would it be possible to be given a place in the queen’s household? Not her private chamber, but any of her departments, the spicery or the chapel?’

‘You are not happy serving the queen dowager?’

She paused, gently brushing my arm, eyes brimming with tears, lower lip quivering. ‘They are not happy with me. The queen dowager hints that I am too friendly with the French envoys, particularly Seigneur Marigny.’

‘Are you?’

‘Mistress, I have to please so many people, which makes it tiresome. Guido has even questioned whether I spy for them. He has no love for the French envoys and none for their master.’

‘And do you?’

‘Mistress, when the queen dowager meets the envoys, I have to chat and gossip. They single me out, they question me.’ Agnes flailed a hand. ‘I cannot offend them. Mathilde, I do not wish to return to France to some loveless marriage. I like it here, there a freedom. .’

The queen dowager called her name. I hastily assured her that I would do what I could. I asked if she knew of Pax-Bread or a tavern known as the Secret of Solomon. She shook her head, looked at me quizzically and hastened away.