Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

To the left of the tables a fierce fire roared in a huge, elegantly carved hearth. At the far end of the Grande Chambre, above a moulded wooden screen, a loft housed the royal musicians, who, with lyre, fife, harp, tambour and other instruments, played soft melodious tunes. These were soon drowned by the blast of trumpets announcing the beginning of the banquet. Winchelsea intoned the grace, bestowing his ‘Benedicite’ in a peevish voice. The trumpets blared again and the royal cooks paraded into the hall carrying the main dish, a huge boar’s head, its flared nostrils and curving tusks ringed and garnished with rosemary and bay. While the cooks circled the tables, a boy in the music loft carolled the famous invitation:

‘The boar’s head in splendour I bring,

With garlands and herbs as fresh as the spring,

So I pray you all to help me sing

And be as merry as birds on the wing.’

The feasting began. Napkins of white linen worked in golden damask and decorated with flowers, knots and crowns were shaken loose. Cups glittering with jasper, agate, beryl or chalcedoni were brimmed from the finest casks of Gascony wines. The fluted, silver-edged glasses set before each guest were filled with sweet wines such as vernage and osey. Dish after dish streamed from the kitchens: white broth with almonds, leg of mutton in lemons, capons in deuce, aloes of beef. The king intended to impress his opponents with this display of royal lavishness. The ‘only blemish in the cream’, to quote the old proverb, were certain rank smells and fetid odours plaguing the galleries and passageways of Burgundy Hall. I had also noticed these, whilst just before the feast, Isabella had complained loudly about them. She rightly declared that they had been noticeable for the last three days, and insisted that the easement chambers, latrines, sewers and garderobes be cleaned and purged.

The Grande Chambre had been specially perfumed against this, but other matters soon demanded my attention. I sat at the table facing the dais and watched the drama being played out. Edward, his golden hair now crowned with a jewelled chaplet, was deep in conversation with Gaveston on his right. On his left, Isabella sat like a beautiful statue, staring unseeingly down the hall, playing the role of the vulnerable, neglected wife to perfection. Next to her the two saintly Margarets were passing something between them. They lifted their hands in unison as if carolling the Alleluia. I quickly surmised they had found a new relic. The French envoys had been separated and placed amongst the great English lords. I recognised the portly Abbot of St Germain. He had the balding head and shiny face of an overweight cherub. I was more interested in my enemies, led by Marigny, lean of face and red of hair. Even from where I sat, I could almost catch his cynical glance, those lips ever ready to curl in derision. Then the other two demons: Nogaret the lawyer, the constant smile on that bloated bag of a face belied by the pursed lips and contemptuous eyes; and next to him Plaisans, Nogaret’s alter ego, an angry-faced man who reminded me of a mastiff with his jowly jaws and aggressive mouth. The rest I knew by sight. Winchelsea the Prophet, with his lean face, sunken cheeks and darting eyes, sat next to Lancaster and Despencer, whilst Lincoln, a white-haired and pleasant-faced courtier, listened intently to Nogaret and Plaisans. I glimpsed Marigny lean back and snap his fingers. A shadow deeper than the rest stepped forward and filled the Viper’s goblet. I recognised the dark, handsome face of Alexander of Lisbon, leader of the Noctales. Dressed in black like a priest for a requiem, Alexander apparently also served as the Viper’s cup-bearer. I smiled to myself. Marigny apparently trusted no one! I glanced down my own table to see if Demontaigu had also glimpsed his enemy, but he was deep in conversation with a servitor. I wondered about the meeting planned for the morrow at the Chapel of the Hanged.

‘You are not eating, mistress?’

I turned. Agnes d’Albret was smiling at me. She pointed to my bowl of white almond, the silver trancher with its strips of beef. I grasped the silver-edged knife and cut a slice.

‘I am glad I sit next to you,’ simpered Agnes, determined on making conversation. She touched the red pimples at the side of her mouth. I recommended camphor and vinegar mixed with celandine water. ‘Wash three times a day,’ I smiled, ‘and keep your face free of powders and unguents; they pollute the skin.’ Agnes was clever. She used her petty ailments to draw me into conversation about my knowledge of physic, my days in France, as well as my service with Isabella, who, whenever I glanced up, still sat as if carved out of marble whilst her husband roistered with Gaveston. The lesser courses were served. I was prudent about what I drank, as was Agnes, who, in mocking tones, speculated on the king’s problems and his love for Gaveston. I kept my own counsel. I recognised Agnes to be a shrewd and subtle soul hiding behind a constant smile while she watched and judged. A scholarly mind as well: she could comment knowledgeably on Tristan and Isolde whilst referring to the wonders of Friar Bacon’s Opera Maioria and his reputation as a possible sorcerer.

I was relieved when, just before the frumenty was served, jesters and tumblers appeared: those joculatores , small dwarves, male and female, whom Edward and Gaveston loved. These cavorted around the hall, jumping and tumbling, whistling, singing and farting raucously. They introduced themselves as Henry the Horny, Matilda Make-love, Griscot the Groper and Mago the Mewler. These minstrelli — little servants — could do what they wanted. They aped Winchelsea’s pious walk, one standing on the shoulders of the other, and, just as the archbishop looked as if he was about to take offence, they turned their attention to Edward and his favourite, imitating the way the pair of them sat, drank and ate as if joined at the hip. The entire assembly burst into laughter, led by the king and Gaveston, who pelted the dwarves with precious items and sent them scattering around searching for these prizes. The frumenty was then served, followed by tarts and quinces. The king left his seat to circulate amongst the guests. Agnes and I had risen to join our mistresses when a serjeant-at-arms, his royal livery rain-soaked, slipped into the hall. He immediately went across to Demontaigu, who been accosted by master Guido. From Demontaigu’s expression, I could tell some major hurt had occurred. He spoke briefly to Guido and beckoned me across. Agnes followed, intrigued by the interruption. I had no choice but to let her. Demontaigu didn’t wait. He and Guido hurried from the hall out into the kitchen yard. Men-at-arms stood about, their torches spluttering in the wet.

‘It’s Chapeleys,’ Demontaigu murmured when I joined him. ‘He is dead. Hanged himself!’

‘Who is Chapeleys?’ Guido asked.

‘Sir,’ Demontaigu gestured back at the door, ‘I must ask you to return. You too, Mistress Agnes. This concerns me. A man sheltering in my chamber has died. Mathilde, Ingleram Berenger has asked for you to attend.’ Demontaigu didn’t wait for an answer, but spun on his heel.

I made my apologies to Guido and Agnes and hurried after him.

‘Bertrand?’ I asked. ‘Ingleram Berenger, he is a physician, the royal coroner.’

‘Precisely!’ Demontaigu snapped. ‘He did not ask for you, but I need you, Mathilde. Come, you’ll see.’

It was a freezing cold evening, a stark contrast to the warm splendour of the Grande Chambre. Once we’d left Burgundy Hall, Demontaigu guided me by the elbow down needle-thin alleyways, across derelict gardens and deserted yards, dark as a devil’s mouth except for the flickering torches of the men-at-arms hurrying before us. In the far distance, on the corner of a building, I glimpsed torchlight and the glitter of armoured men. I soon realised it was the outside of Demontaigu’s chamber. I drew closer and glimpsed Chapeleys hanging by his neck from the window-door, open above him. An eerie, sinister scene. The corpse hung slack about a yard from the ground, arms and legs swaying slightly as if the man was still alive. I reckoned the drop from the window-door was at least another two. At first glance, to all intents and purposes, Chapeleys had opened that small window-door and, with one end of the escape rope clasped to that ring in the wall, fashioned a noose with the other, slipped this over his head and stepped into eternal night. The men-at-arms staring up at the corpse let us through. I peered at the grisly scene. Chapeleys was still wearing his oxhide boots. In the murky gloom I could not make out his face. Ingelram Berenger, a plump, white-whiskered, fussy little man, came bustling forward, mopping his face with a napkin taken from the banquet.