Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

‘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 Cinquieme 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.’