Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (24 page)

‘Last January.’

‘And Langton, when was he arrested?’

‘Earlier in the autumn.’

‘So your king died in July last, and Langton was his treasurer.’ I tried to curb my excitement, my thoughts pressing in. ‘Who was in charge of New Temple Church, its preceptor, its master?’

‘You know that, Mathilde! William de la More: he is now under house arrest at Canterbury.’

I bit my lip to hide my excitement at the first crack of light piercing the vaulting black mysteries around us. Demontaigu could see I was absorbed but I dared not speak, a skill my uncle taught me: to reflect, plan and never act hastily. I kissed Demontaigu absent-mindedly on the cheek and left his chamber pretending, as I often did, to be carrying a pannier of documents from one of the queen’s clerks. I went down across the yard. A cool, calm day was promised. The sun was strengthening, the sky freshening. I heard my name called. Robert the groom, dressed in dark fustian, a leather apron flapping about him, hurried out of an outhouse. He explained how he had been inspecting horses’ hooves. Drying his mud-strewn hands on his apron, he asked if he could speak to me. I nodded. He was sweaty-faced beneath his tousled hair. Breathlessly he thanked me for my help, gingerly feeling his neck.

‘I thought I’d hang, mistress.’

‘You were fortunate, Robert. You drew a dagger on a royal official in the king’s own palace; that’s treason.’

Robert cheerfully conceded his own stupidity but begged me to come into the outhouse as he had a present, a gift for me. Still distracted, I agreed. We walked into the warm, musty darkness, past the stalls into a small enclosure with its crude pieces of furniture. On an old barrel that served as a table, a battered lantern horn glowed. Robert drew his dagger and, inserting it between two wooden slats fixed to the wall, prised up the bar behind. He grinned over his shoulder at me.

‘I know how to do this.’ The small recess beyond, built into the stone wall, served as a secure coffer. Robert took something out and slammed back one of the slats then the other on which the wooden bar was fixed. I watched curiously as he used his dagger to pierce the gap to ensure the bar had fallen down on to its clasp. I recalled those window shutters at the Secret of Solomon. Robert, intent on his gift, opened his hand and offered me a carving of a horse, small but exquisitely rendered, lifelike in all its fine detail.

‘I did that myself.’ He waggled his shoulders in embarrassment. ‘I could be a carpenter, mistress.’

‘Its beautiful,’ I smiled, ‘thank you.’

‘A gift, mistress, it’s the best I could do.’

‘And Anstritha?’ I teased. ‘Is she sweeter towards you?’

Robert blushed.

‘There’s something else, mistress.’ He accompanied me out into the yard. ‘On the night Rebecca was murdered,’ he stammered, ‘I was looking for her. I crossed the Old Palace Yard near the door to the stairs where that clerk,’ he nervously cleared his throat, ‘the one you know. He has his lodgings in the corner?’

‘Demontaigu?’

‘Yes, and where that other clerk was found hanging from the window-door.’ Robert licked his lips. ‘On that night everybody was getting ready for the feast. The yard was deserted; I glimpsed a shadowy figure . . .’

‘Man or woman?’

‘Oh, definitely a woman. She wore a cloak but I glimpsed the kirtle beneath. She went in through the door to the staircase leading to your clerk’s chamber.’

‘You have a description?’

‘Mistress, the light was fading. I just noticed how swift she was. I had troubles of my own. I forgot it, I was more concerned about Rebecca, it’s just that . . .’

‘What, Robert?’

‘What’s happening here, mistress? I mean, who was that woman, and what about those workmen going in and out of Burgundy Hall?’

‘What about them, Robert?’

‘Mistress, as you know,’ he smiled ruefully, scraping his mud-caked boots on the cobbles, ‘I’m hot-tempered. Everyone knows that! A year ago, around Martinmas, I was drinking in the Pot’s Yard, a tavern near the Royal Mews next to the Queen’s Cross. I stabbed a man. He was only lightly wounded but I fled to the sanctuary; you know, the enclosure north of the abbey where the sheriff’s men cannot pursue . . .’

I knew all about the sanctuary enclosure, an ancient privilege where malefactors, wolfsheads and outlaws could shelter unscathed, free from the reaches of the sheriffs and their bailiffs. A place of villainy. A melting pot of wickedness, it still is. I was surprised that Robert should be in such company. I half listened to his story, then he paused, fingering the leather apron.

‘Strange, mistress! Some of those workmen in Burgundy Hall, I’ve seen them before in the sanctuary.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Mistress, you never forget some faces: the cast in the eye, the scar, the way a man walks or sits, but there again, I might be mistaken.’ He shrugged. ‘After all, I have been in sanctuary; now I work in the royal stables. Perhaps they too have secured honest employment.’

I thanked him and walked across the palace yard, down alleyways and narrow paths. I took a wrong turn and came out on to the broad field that separates the palace from the abbey. Apparently it was Laver Day, when the chancellor of the abbey had to provide fresh straw for mattresses and bath mats as well as supply wood for the calefactory, the warm room, where the monks would bathe in tubs of oak; this was preceded by the head-shaving, when the monks sat in two rows in the cloisters awaiting for the attentions of the barber. Labourers were now organising all this. Carts full of fresh straw, linen towels, jars and pots were lining up outside the south door of the abbey. I was caught by the beauty of the massive soaring stone, the buttresses, pillars, gleaming new stonework and precious glass glinting in the windows. I walked along a path, just stopping where the carts turned as they trundled down towards the abbey. A bell clanged. I was about to walk away when I smelled a flowery fragrance, almost the same as I’d noticed in that water glass Guido had drunk from. I hurried after the cart from where the smell seemed to originate. The lay brother sat half asleep, clasping the harness straps; he glanced in surprise but, at my insistence, reined in.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes!’ He smiled at the silver coin between my fingers. ‘How can I help you, mistress?’

‘This cart is sweet-smelling.’

‘Why, yes, it carries herbs for the monks’ baths; always get the best they do.’

‘What herb?’

‘Mistress, I am a carter by trade, a lay brother by profession, I am no—’

‘Apothecary?’

‘Yes, mistress, that’s where I’ve been, down to the spicery on the quayside.’

‘Do you have a list of what you are carrying?’

‘Of course.’

Someone shouted at the lay brother to move his cart; he just raised a hand, fingers curled in an obscene gesture. He gave me the parchment. I handed over another coin. I unrolled the spicery scroll, noting the various herbs listed: rosemary, violet, lavender, dry hops and others. I memorised as much as I could, then thanked him, returned it and hurried down a lane that would lead back into the palace grounds. At the entrance to Burgundy Hall, I asked Ap Ythel if all was well. He replied by asking why it shouldn’t be. I enquired about the workmen. He shrugged and said they came and went; the latrines and garde-robes had apparently become heavily clogged. They had been cleaned and the refuse taken down to the river. Some of the workmen, he admitted, were lazy and tended to wander off if not properly supervised.

‘The king indulges them,’ he declared in that sing-song voice. ‘Anyway, mistress, you have a visitor.’ He shook his head. ‘A messenger, but first the queen dowager has left strict instructions that you must go and see her. Master Guido is not yet fully recovered.’

Guido, in fact, was still pallid-faced and weak. He leaned against the bolsters with Agnes on his left, the queen dowager sitting on the bed feeding him broth. She welcomed me with the sanctimonious expression she had developed to such perfection. Agnes looked solemn, lower lip jutting out, lost in her own thoughts. Guido stretched out his hand and grasped mine.

‘Mathilde, the physicians came to bleed me. No.’ He let go of my hand. ‘I refused. Mathilde, what poison was it? Have you discovered?’

‘I don’t know. Some herb or flower with a perfumed smell. I’ve consulted the leech books, but as you know, different powders can smell the same.’

‘Henbane, foxglove, belladonna,’ he held his stomach, ‘it could have been any of those. Thank God for you, Mathilde. I remember now,’ he smiled, ‘sitting down at Gaveston’s chair. I had not taken my wine; his water glass looked full and untouched.’

‘Didn’t the odour alarm you?’

‘No, no, I took a deep draught. True, I smelt the perfume,’ he shrugged, ‘of flowers, or herbs. I thought it was a fragrance from the feast. I’m recovering, Mathilde, still weak but I wish to thank you, as well as beg you,’ he licked his lips, ‘to discover what the poison was.’ He leaned back against the bolsters. ‘Her grace thinks I may not have been the intended victim but the Lord Gaveston—’

‘Never mind that,’ the queen dowager interjected. ‘Once you’ve recovered, we shall all, including Agnes, go on pilgrimage to give thanks to the Lord’s Precious Blood at Hailes Abbey. Do you know, Mathilde, the Abbey itself . . .’

I fled that sick-chamber as soon as I could and hastened along to Isabella’s quarters. In the waiting hall clustered servants and men-at-arms; Ap Ythel’s archers sober-dressed in their dull brown and green livery compared to the flame-haired members of Gaveston’s Irish mercenaries, with thier flamboyant garb and long hair. All these gathered in window alcoves, enclosures and entrances or just squatted on the ground with their backs to the wall, eating, drinking and dicing, waiting either to be called for some task or to be relieved of their duty. The passageway leading down to the queen’s chamber was guarded by a cluster of household knight in half-armour, swords drawn, resplendent in their blue and gold livery. I stared round, looking for the messenger, and glimpsed a grey-haired man, his high-heeled boots mud splattered, the hood of his green cloak pushed back to reveal weatherbeaten skin, deep-set eyes and a neatly clipped beard and moustache. The kindly face was familiar. I went towards him. He glimpsed me, smiled and rose. I remembered Raoul Foucher, a neighbour of my parents’ farm near Bretigny, a landowner and trader in skins and leather goods, a righteous man who often visited my mother. We clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace. Raoul, beneath all the pleasantries, was anxious to speak alone. I took him beyond the bar, and one of the royal knights escorted us down the passageway to sit on the quilted seats in a deep window enclosure. I asked Raoul if he needed something to eat or drink. He just grasped my hand.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon.’ He spoke slowly, as if I’d forgotten my own patois. ‘Mathilde, it is good to see you. The guards told me how close you are to the queen.’ He winked. ‘You always were clever, Mathilde. Now listen. I am in London only one day. I must return to Dover by the end of the week when the cog
La Cinquième
returns from Wissant. I have brought no letter from your mother; she thought that might be dangerous. No, no,’ he shook his head, ‘your mother is well. She sends her love. Like all of us she is getting older, but my sons help on the farm. All was quiet.’ He shrugged. ‘Season followed season. No one knew where you’d gone after the arrest of your uncle and the chaos in Paris. It was the same out in the country-side. Templar houses and properties were seized and ransacked, their communities arrested and carted off to prison. Tales became common about the torture, degradation and cruel execution of Templars. Royal proclamations described them as sons of Satan, sodomites, idolaters, heretics and warlocks. Few people believed such lies. This was a matter for the king, his lust for gold, his greed for power.’ He paused. ‘You sent a message to your mother that you were safe, yes?’

I nodded.

‘No one believed the stories about men like your uncle, but we considered that a matter for the Great Ones of the land. I never thought your mother was in any danger until last month. Groups of horsemen, black-garbed mercenaries called Noctales, appeared in Bretigny. They proclaimed they were there to hunt down fugitive Templars, though according to common knowledge, very few had escaped. To put it bluntly, Mathilde, for at least ten days, using royal warrants, the Noctacles requisitioned your mother’s farm.’ He let go of my hands and rubbed his face. ‘The experience was not pleasant. You know the law: royal troops, armed with writs of purveyance, can quarter on any chateau, village or farm.’

‘My mother wasn’t hurt?’

‘No. I went down there. The Noctales were bully boys, the dregs of the slums. They helped themselves to food and wine, roistering and sleeping in the stables and barns. I did my best. I objected, asking why Catherine de Clairebon should be their sole host.’

‘Was their leader Alexander of Lisbon?’

Raoul pulled a face. ‘No, the leader of these crows was a Burgundian called La Maru. He was, is, I think, a defrocked cleric. He was different from the rest, cold-eyed with a weasel soul. He rejected my plea, saying I should complain to the king at the Louvre or, if I wanted to, Mathilde de Clairebon sheltering amongst the Goddams at Westminster. I understood from your mother that La Maru made this reference time and again before he left, promising they might well return before midsummer.’

I tried to control my fears. Raoul knew, I knew, my mother knew, and so did Marigny, the root cause of such abuse, hence that unfinished threat in the abbey gardens. I was being punished, warned through my mother because of my hostility towards Philip and his minions from hell. I questioned Raoul most closely but he could say no more. Perhaps he was being kind and wished to save me from the litany of petty cruelties and indignities inflicted upon my mother. He was nervous, anxious to be gone from such strange surroundings. I told him to wait, hurried to my own chamber and brought from my precious store two small purses of silver coins. I explained that one was for him, the other for my mother. He refused. I still thrust both into his hands, and begged him to reassure her of my love and tell her that I was well but, for the moment, could not return to France as it would be too dangerous. He listened carefully, promised me he would do all he could and left.