Paul Doherty: The Poison Maiden

For a while we discussed the problem until the abbey bells marked the passing hours.

‘Bertrand,’ I picked up my cloak and swung it around my shoulders, ‘my mistress is with the king. She will attend mass in the Chapel Royal, break her fast with him, then return to her chambers. I must be there.’

‘Later,’ Demontaigu asked, ‘at Vespers time, you will accompany me to the Chapel of the Hanged?’

‘If I can,’ I smiled, ‘though God knows what this day will bring.’

I left Demontaigu’s chamber and made my way back to Burgundy Hall. Guards were clustered at the gateway, talking heatedly with two women and a man. I recognised Rebecca’s mother from the previous evening. As soon as she saw me, she ran forward and grasped my arm.

‘Come, come, mistress,’ she declared, and introduced the other two, an old white-haired man and woman, wiping the tears from their leathery faces on the backs of dirt-grained hands, their clothes all ragged and threadbare. ‘These are Robert’s parents. We have come to beg a favour, all three of us,’ the woman continued. ‘My daughter is dead, foully murdered, but mistress, I would swear on the Gospels that Robert is innocent. I ask you to intercede for him, please.’

I patted her on the shoulder and went across to Ap Ythel, captain of the royal guard.

‘Has her grace returned?’

The Welshman took off his helmet and wiped the drizzle from his face.

‘No,’ he replied, nodding at the supplicants. ‘They have been here some time, demanding to see you.’

‘Where is their son lodged?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘Probably in the Old Palace gatehouse; that is where they keep prisoners.’

I stared up. The clouds were breaking under a strengthening breeze. Somewhere a bird sang, a sweet sound evoking memories of my mother’s farm.

‘I could send one of my men with you.’ The captain of the guard pushed back his chainmail coif. I felt sorry for the supplicants. Isabella would be some time, so I accepted the captain’s kind offer and, using the queen’s seal, gained entry to the soaring gatehouse and the dungeons below. Robert’s was a dark, fetid cell, its straw black with slime. Huge cobwebs festooned the walls; the only light seeped through a barred lancet window high in the wall. Robert squatted, loaded with chains. He hardly moved, just lifted his head and moaned. The men-at-arms had not been gentle. Bruises had bloomed a deep purple around his mouth and on the side of his head. I crouched down beside him.

‘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.