Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

Demontaigu was deeply intrigued by Winchelsea’s interest in a Temple church. On the Wednesday following the concilium , he invited me to the private celebration of mass in his locked chamber. Despite the surroundings, the makeshift altar and pewter vessels, it was, as always, a solemn, sacred occasion. I found it deeply intriguing. Demontaigu often quoted the bishop’s oath from the ritual when a priest was ordained: ‘The Lord has sworn a great oath. He will not repent of that oath. You are a priest for ever according to the order of Melchisedech.’

‘I will always celebrate my daily mass,’ Demontaigu confided in me. ‘Whatever the cost!’

I watched him that morning breathing the sacred words over the host and the chalice, transforming them into the Body and Blood of the risen Christ. I could not ignore the fact that I loved this man, who was also a priest sworn to celibacy. I had asked him about this earlier in the year, before the clouds gathered and the dangers threatened. He had been teasing me about my bold eyes and purposeful poise.

‘How,’ I’d retorted, eyes fluttering like any dainty maid, ‘can you be so attracted by the flesh when you are sworn to chastity?’

Demontaigu glanced sadly at me, blinked and looked away before turning back to kiss me fiercely on the forehead.

‘I am sworn to chastity but not forbidden to fall in love.’ He smiled. ‘There is no vow or oath against that.’

On that particular morning I remembered those words as Demontaigu finished his mass. Afterwards I helped clear away the sacred vessels, which he kept concealed in a locked iron-bound coffer. I would have loved to discuss the matter of his priesthood again, but Marigny’s words about my mother were beginning to nag and tug at my soul. Demontaigu was also more concerned about his brethren and Ausel’s determination to discover the Judas amongst them.

‘Four of our comrades died after the attack on us in the Chapel of the Hanged.’ Demontaigu acknowledged my surprise. ‘Eternal rest be given them. One died suddenly; he had a weak heart. Others received wounds which turned rotten. Either that,’ he sighed, ‘or like other brothers they just lost the will to live. I have prayed for them. Other priests have sung the requiem. Now,’ he placed the keys of the coffer in his wallet, ‘Winchelsea hungers for New Temple Church.’ He opened a leather satchel, and fishing amonst its contents, drew out and unrolled a finely drawn map of London. Head close to mine, he pointed out the location of New Temple, with its frontage on the Thames. He described how a curtain wall circled the church, hall, barracks, stables and other outbuildings. I stared fascinated as he explained how the church was circular, a replica of the Temple in Jerusalem; the long chancel beside it had been added later. Staring at that map, I immediately recalled Chapeleys’ drawing of a circle with a letter P in the centre.

‘Pembroke,’ I whispered. ‘Winchelsea claimed that the Earl of Pembroke’s ancestors are buried in the Templar church.’

‘True,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘but not his direct family; rather that of William Marshal and his descendants, who first held the title of Pembroke.’

‘And when was New Temple Church seized?’

‘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.