Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

‘Why, Mathilde de Clairebon.’ He leaned down. ‘So far from home, so lonely.’

‘And yet so happy!’ I retorted. ‘Well, I was until a few heartbeats ago.’

Plaisans sniggered. Nogaret slurped at his wine. Alexander of Lisbon studied me as if trying to place me. I wondered then if he knew the full truth about Demontaigu and myself. Marigny toasted me with his cup.

‘We’ve discovered a great deal about you, Mathilde de Clairebon, niece of Sir Reginald de Deynecourt, physician general no less in the now disgraced Templar order.’

‘You murdered him!’

Marigny waved a hand like a master correcting a particularly recalcitrant scholar. ‘No, no, Mathilde, you don’t know the truth.’

‘Something we must have in common.’

‘We could have a great deal more. .’

‘Oh, we do, my lord. I hate you! If I can, I will kill you.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘You do not frighten me, you and your fellow crow-souls,’ I hissed, ‘toad-spawn, killers, liars, perjurers, blood-soaked assassins.’

Marigny stepped back, and for a moment I glimpsed his confusion at such a retort.

‘We could ask for your return to France. We could demand it.’

‘You could also ask the sun not to set.’

‘Your mother, Mathilde?’

‘Don’t talk of her!’ My hand felt for the dagger concealed in its hidden sheath in my belt.

‘Oh, I. .’ Marigny paused, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps. .’

‘Mathilde, are you well?’

I whirled round. Guido was striding across.

‘Mathilde, come.’ He gestured. ‘You must meet my lord Abbot.’ He glanced anxiously at me, then at my group of taunters.

‘We are talking,’ Marigny demanded. ‘I do not need your presence Master Guido, better known as Pierre Bernard. The Provost of Paris would certainly like to meet you. As for Mathilde-’ His words were cut short, their dagger-like message never delivered. A trumpet shrilled three times from beyond the gate, followed by a pounding that shook both doors. Lay brothers hastened to open them. Gaveston, dressed completely in chainmail beneath a livery of scarlet and gold, silver-rolled spurs clasped about his mailed ankles, coif pulled over his head, ornate helmet swinging from the cantle of his saddle, rode slowly through the gate like the Bringer of Battles. Behind him walked three squires, two of them carrying banners, the third a trumpet. On Gaveston’s left arm was a triangular shield emblazoned with the eagle arms of his house, in his right hand a mailed leather gauntlet. All conversation died. Marigny hurried away. Gaveston remained motionless; his superb dark destrier, in full battle armour, pawed the ground as if eager for the charge. The favourite stood high in his stirrups.

‘I have been called a coward!’ Gaveston’s voice thrilled with passion. ‘I am no coward.’ He flung the gauntlet down. ‘I challenge any man here to meet me.’

The assembled company simply stood and gaped. The destrier snorted, shaking its head. Pembroke moved to go forward, but Lincoln gripped his arm. Marigny, one hand raised in peace, walked forward.

‘My lord. .’

‘Either pick up the gauntlet,’ Gaveston jibed, ‘or stand aside, sir.’

Alexander of Lisbon pushed his way through and picked up the gauntlet, beating it against his thigh to clear the dust. Then he threw it back at Gaveston, who caught it deftly.

‘I am Alexander of Lisbon, a knight.’ The Portuguese voice was harsh as it echoed round the garden. ‘I accept your challenge.’

The favourite leaned down, gently stroking the neck of his warhorse. ‘I recognise you, Alexander of Lisbon. You are a knight, and if it is to be done, then it is best if we finish this business quickly. The tourney ground behind the Old Palace within the hour?’

The Portuguese nodded. Gaveston turned his horse and, followed by his squires, slowly left, the gates slamming shut behind him. Immediately the festivities were forgotten. Household retainers, squires, pageboys and servants were sent scurrying through the abbey and palace announcing the news. Winchelsea openly protested that the challenge was against the Truce of God, an agreement demanded by the Church that tournaments be banned between Thursday evening and Monday morning so as to avoid the holy days of Friday and Sunday. His words went unheeded. I slipped out, hurrying back across the abbey grounds into the palace and through the gatehouse into Burgundy Hall. Of course, my mistress already knew. Edward and Gaveston had planned this carefully. Isabella was ready, cloaked and hooded.

‘Good, good,’ she whispered, grasping my arm, eyes bright with excitement. ‘Men’s fury, like their seed, must spurt out, then we’ll have a time of peace. Come, Mathilde.’

When we reached the tourney park, the stands were already filling. The old tournament ground or lists have now gone, replaced by a more splendid affair. In my day it comprised a long barrier covered with coloured canvas. The fighting ground itself was ringed by a palisade two yards high; this in turn was encircled by a fence about fourteen feet tall. In between the two were the stands, and in the centre, with a clear view of the lists, the royal box draped in blue and gold, all being busily prepared by liveried servants. We waited for the king. Edward arrived jubilant as a boy. He swung a richly brocaded cloak about his shoulders, shouting that he was prepared to wager on Gaveston’s victory. Everything was frenetic. Heralds, trumpeters and grooms were running around. The list was scrutinised, straw scattered around to break any fall. Sunday or not, the stands filled: monks, clerks, servants, not to mention the retinues of the Great Lords, all eager to gain entry. Edward and Isabella, escorted by those members of the household nimble enough on their feet, pressed into the royal box and sat on their throne-like chairs. Ap Ythel, sweat-faced and cursing, tried to impose order, pushing back the throng to allow a breathless queen dowager to sit alongside Isabella. Around the tourney ground, the stands filled. Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, emerged as master of ceremonies, riding into the list emblazoned in the glorious colours of his house. Pennants and banners were flown. The lists cleared. Gaveston, fully armoured, face and head hidden beneath an ornate helmet with a leaping fox on top, entered the far side of the tilting yard. Alexander of Lisbon, garbed in black, an old-fashioned helmet over his head, cantered in escorted by two of his coven. Both combatants were called to the centre of the list, and de Clare had quiet words with them. The herald announced that the course would be run with blunted lances. After three turns, swords would be used.

I cannot remember all the details. A beautiful spring day slowly dying; the tourney ground bathed in sunlight and shadow; the royal box packed to overflowing; the excited crowds, puffs of dust rising; traders trying to earn a quick profit with jugs and buckets of wine as well as ‘the clearest spring water’. Then silence, an ominous quiet. Once the two combatants rode back to either end of the lists, trumpets blared. Banners and pennants were raised and lowered. Gaveston, astride his destrier, sat motionless as if carved out of stone. Alexander of Lisbon raised his shield and couched his lance, bringing it up and down as if testing the weight and poise. De Clare rode out to face the king across the lists. Edward lifted a hand. De Clare followed suit. Edward’s hand fell. Trumpets shrilled. De Clare’s hand opened. The red silk pennant floated like a leaf falling to the ground. Both fighters, as if possessed by some invisible fury, urged their horses forward. Both were skilled riders. Their destriers broke from a trot into a gallop, faster and faster, hooves churning the earth. They met in a shatter of lances. Gaveston swayed in the saddle. The crowd leapt to its feet but the favourite regained his poise. Again they faced each other. Fresh lances were brought. Squires gathered round checking girth and harness. De Clare rode forward. Edward raised his hand again. I sat beside my mistress on a faldstool, peering over the rim of the decorated rail. The red silk fell. The charge began. The hammering hooves, the creak of leather and the resounding clash as both combatants splintered their lances on each other’s shields. I studied the crowd and wondered if Demontaigu was there. I glanced over the rail. Gaveston had taken off his helmet, splashing water across his face. Alexander of Lisbon was doing likewise. Squires and pages went under the horses’ withers, testing saddle straps and stirrups. Alexander of Lisbon asked for a new shield. Once again de Clare rode towards the king. Alexander of Lisbon came forward, shield slightly up, lance couched. Gaveston put on his helmet and grasped the lance from a squire, but then surprised his retainers by refusing the shield.