Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

Septimo: Chapeleys. He had been Langton’s clerk and wished to escape from the Tower, allegedly with information useful to the king. Langton had been most dismissive about him. Nevertheless, Chapeleys had fled to Westminster and lodged in a secure chamber, where he should have been safe. Yet though that room was locked from the inside, he had been found hanging from a window-door. The suicide of a man frightened witless? But he had seemed very determined to approach the king, and had shown no sign of that numbing fear that prompts a soul to take his own life. Yet if it was murder, how was it done? Chapeleys might have been a clerk, but he was alert and would have fought for his life. There was no sign of any violence or anyone seen approaching that chamber, except for that mysterious cloaked woman glimpsed by Robert the groom. What had happened to the contents of Chapeleys’ chancery bag? Stolen, burnt or both? And that scrap of parchment with the word ‘basil’, a circle with a P in the centre, surmounted by a cross and the phrase sub pede , underfoot. What did that all mean?

Octavo: Rebecca Atte-Stowe. Who did kill her? Why? Was her murder part of this mystery or just an unfortunate occurrence, the result of some vicious in-fighting amongst servants?

Nono: Agnes d’Albret. Why was she so withdrawn, so anxious to enter Isabella’s household? Was it simply fear at being returned to France? What did she mean by her question: are you not suspicious? Did she have a secret relationship with Gaveston? If so, why, and to what purpose?

Decimo: Guido the Psalter. Was he the intended victim of that poisoning? If so, why? Or was it Gaveston? How was that water glass tainted? What poison was used? I reflected on the trick Isabella had played on Marigny and Alexander of Lisbon, and smiled. Nevertheless, the potion Guido had drunk seemed more noxious. I had searched my leech books, but as yet could find no trace of a poison with that distinctive perfume.

Undecimo: the Templars. Would Edward persecute them in return for Philip’s patronage and support? Was there a traitor amongst the brethren? How did Alexander of Lisbon know so much about that secret meeting at the Chapel of the Hanged? And New Temple Church? Why was Winchelsea so eager to gain possession of it? What was so special about it? Why had he referred to Pembroke’s ancestors being buried there? Was Winchelsea acting for himself, the Great Lords or his fellow bishops?

I smiled and put the pen down. Prince amongst the bishops was Langton! I recalled what Uncle Reginald had taught me. ‘Mathilde,’ he told me on one occasion, ‘always go back to the prime cause, the very first instance. I remember, ma petite , a powerful merchant from Dijon. He was lodging in Paris and came to the Temple because of violent pains in his stomach, a loosening of the bowels. I asked him to list precisely what he had eaten and drunk. He assured me it had been the best meat, the freshest bread and the most fragrant wines. I was puzzled. I asked him what had happened since he came to Paris. He told me he had received some very bad news and I wondered whether the humours of the mind had interfered with those of the stomach and bowel. The cause of his sickness might be worry rather than rancid meat.’

I recalled those words as I sat huddled in that chair studying my cipher. Go back to the prime cause. Langton was the prime cause! The murder of Chapeleys occurred only after we had visited the good bishop. He might well be one of the principal causes of the mysteries and murders surrounding us. I sat, reflected and plotted. Midnight came and went. I reached my decision. Could Langton be trapped?

We arrived at the Tower mid-morning. A royal barge, oared by eight stout boatmen displaying the royal livery, shot like an arrow through the turbulent waters of the Thames. A veil of mist hung heavy, thick and threatening. A page boy in the prow blew harshly on a hunting horn to warn all other craft to pull aside. Above me in the canopied stern flapped a broad pennant boasting the royal arms, golden leopards on a scarlet background. On my left, through the shifting mist, I glimpsed the might of the city: the gabled, red-tiled mansions of the merchant princes; the spires and towers of churches and monasteries, nunneries and chapels; the various quaysides piled high with goods and thronged with crowds. Alongside the wharves was a glorious display of ships: merchantmen, Venetian galleys and Hanseatic cogs. These moved majestically among herring ships, fishing boats, oyster smacks and coracles. Now and again, glimpses of the horrid cruelty of life caught my gaze. Gallows, black and stark. River pirates hanging by their necks from quayside rings. The corpse collectors, dispatching skiffs and punts to bring in the cadavers floating amongst the bankside reeds or bobbing mid-current, turning and twisting, rising and falling as if in preparation for the final resurrection. The air was rich with a variety of smells and odours, the corruption, refuse and rottenness mingling with spices, wood smoke, salted fish, spilt wine and dried seaweed, as well as the fragrances from the precious cargoes nestling in the foulsome holds of the various ships.

I reflected on the day’s beginnings. I had met my mistress early. She’d not even murmured her Matins, still heavy-eyed after her rich supper with the king and Gaveston. She heard me out patiently, smiled understandingly and agreed. Demontaigu was summoned, I could tell by his wine-rich breath how he had just celebrated the Eucharist. Isabella sleepily dictated a short letter and instructed him to accompany me to the Tower to tend to Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. Demontaigu acted the faithful clerk. Once the letter was finished, he strapped on his war belt, threw his cloak around his shoulders and accompanied me across the mist-filled palace grounds to King’s Steps and the waiting barge. On reflection, it was a sombre start to a sombre day. Murder would greet me. Blood would be spilt. God be my witness, I tremble at my sins, scarlet red, but what else could I do?

I suppose the terrors of the day stretched back to the start. Even as our barge pulled away from the quayside, I glimpsed that cowled figure hurrying down the green-slimed steps to the waiting wherry. The mist closed in, but later, just before we reached the starlings and arches of London Bridge, I glimpsed that wherry again. I was certain it was the same one, but kept my peace. Demontaigu sat huddled beside me, praying his beads. We landed safely at the Tower wharf, teeming and bustling like a hive in summer. Memory still holds fast from that day. Glimpses, scenes, pictures like those miniatures in a psalter that catch your eye as you thumb its pages. Four old soldiers begged for alms, dressed in black with red crosses daubed on their foreheads. They shouted how their eyes had been removed and the skin stitched tight by infidels in Outremer. Beside them a madwoman sang the Salve Regina, those prophetic words ringing out: ‘Hail Holy Queen, Mother of mercy. Hail our life, our sweetness and our hope.’ Prisoners, roped by neck, hand and foot, shuffled in filthy rags towards the dungeons beneath the Tower gate. Men-at-arms and archers were busy imposing order with their staves. A king’s knight, astride his caparisoned warhorse, watched them closely. A lady perched daintily on a palfrey trotted by across the cobbles, the hooded hawks on her wrists eager to be free, their jesse-bells tingling above the raucous cries of fishermen, oyster wives, fruit traders and tinkers. An old man pushed his infirm wife in a wheelbarrow, bawling at everyone to stand aside. A market bailiff followed a peasant, live fluttering poultry tied to his back. The official was waiting for the man to place his bird on the ground so he could charge him stallage. Beadles were grasping a squealing fat-bellied sow so as to cut its tail as a punishment for wandering into this marketplace. Smoke and fumes from tanneries and lime-burners drifted across. The stinking badness of the air caught at nose and throat. A dog nudged at two corpses dragged from the river. Three madcaps, bells sewn to their clothes, hastened up to offer a dance. Demontaigu pushed them aside and, one hand on his sword, the other on my elbow, guided me through the soaring, gloomy gateway. Officers and serjeants mailed and helmeted, thronged about us, faces almost concealed by coifs and cowls. The stink of leather, sweat, tar and salt was all-pervasive. Torches guttered in the breeze; above us, the sharp-toothed portcullis hung like a threat. We went along narrow lanes and alleys watched by hooded archers, arrows notched to bows. We crossed baileys, cobbled yards and muddy enclosures where engines of war reared up, ghastly, threatening shapes against the sky. A place of contrasts. Yards full of children playing amongst mastiffs, chickens pecking at the ground, geese strident in their screeching, cattle bellowing. All the noises and smells of the farmyard and stable mingled with those of the kitchen, washtub and bathhouse. In the distance, however, dull roars from the royal beastry sounded, whilst above us, as if watching our every footstep, black-winged ravens floated like demons.