Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (10 page)

‘Robert, listen,’ I whispered. ‘You will not hang. What happened?’

‘Nothing!’ He shook the chains. ‘Nothing at all! An ordinary day! We quarrelled as we always did, then Rebecca left. The next thing I knew was the alarm being raised after her corpse was discovered.’ He sobbed for a while, then pushed himself up. ‘I’m innocent, mistress, but what’s the use? I drew a knife on Berenger, he’ll see me hang.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Once outside, I asked Rebecca’s mother to take me to where the corpse had been found. As we hurried through the drizzle, I caught the tension from the men-at-arms and archers deployed in yards and baileys. The stables were busy. Farriers hammered at the forge. Grooms trotted out destriers. Saddlers were busy with tangled harness. Knight bannerets, Edward’s own personal retainers, were everywhere supervising matters. I asked one of the men-at-arms, a Welshman, what the matter was. He just pulled a face and muttered how there were rumours that the Lords might launch a sortie to seize Gaveston.

‘If that happens,’ he murmured, ‘there’ll be swordplay and bloodshed enough, mistress.’

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.’