Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

At last we reached the great four-square Norman tower. The serjeant explained how Lord Cromwell, the constable, was out provisioning stores in Petty Wales. He offered Cromwell’s apologies and led us up the steep steps, unlocking doors on to the landing and Langton’s comfortable chamber. Some of the shutters had been removed from the lancet windows to allow in air whilst the good bishop was warming himself over a brazier. He exclaimed in surprise at my arrival but seemed welcoming enough. Demontaigu murmured how he was only my escort and left for the nearby chapel of St John. I hurriedly excused myself and followed whilst Langton shouted at the serjeant to bring fresh wine for his visitor as well as some sweetmeats from the Tower kitchen. I followed Demontaigu across the narrow passageway and asked what troubled him. He undid his sword belt, let it slip to the ground and explained how Ausel might come to the Tower quayside. He wondered what news he might bring. Demontaigu’s voice echoed hollow even as Langton’s instructions to the serjeant rang out through the opened doors. I stood still, listening carefully, recalling our first visit to the bishop.

‘Mathilde, what it is?’

‘Nothing, mon coeur .’ I smiled. ‘Just memories.’

I returned to Langton’s chamber. He was now wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak; he sat enthroned, gold pectoral winking in the light, fingers fiddling with his episcopal ring. To be sure, there was little priestly about Langton: thick, solid and squat, an untidy mat of iron-grey hair now hiding his tonsure. He looked, in truth, what he was in fact: a clever bully boy. He would have made an excellent captain of the rifflers, those violent gangs in London’s underworld hired by powerful merchants who wished to trade in dagger-thrust and violent swordplay. A clever man, despite his slobbery lips and wine-flushed face. My uncle often quoted the old proverb: ‘You can tell a man’s health by his eyes.’ As I took my seat on the quilted stool, I recalled one just as accurate and ancient: ‘You can also tell a man’s soul by his eyes’; Langton’s, hidden in folded creases of fat, were young and clear, full of arrogant mischief. Gaveston called him a bag of poison or something similar, but Langton was wily and astute. He would have made Edward a cunning ally; instead the king had made him a venomous enemy.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries. I handed over Isabella’s courtesy letter and decided to follow the path I’d chosen. I chattered like a sparrow in spring. How Guido was ill. How both the king and my mistress were concerned about the bishop’s health, particularly the ulcers on his legs. I talked as if highly nervous, spilling out court gossip, and all the time those young, clever eyes in that old, weathered face studied me carefully. I needed to touch Langton, examine those ulcers. He claimed his legs were now healing beautifully. I immediately replied how the danger was not the ulcers but the fresh skin: it must heal completely and not be broken. Langton continued to study me. I undid the clasp of my cloak and the laces to the neck of my gown gathered tightly around my throat. I did so daintily and prettily, leaning forward and smiling at that fox, who truly thought he was hosting a capon for dinner. He asked me to pour some wine and invited me to join him. I did so. I slurped at the goblet and bit into a sweetmeat, dates coated in honey. The sweetness filled my mouth. I cleared my throat and gossiped on, giggling when Langton leaned forward. He gently squeezed one of my breasts, then caressed it admiringly. Eventually he agreed that the ulcers, perhaps, should be inspected. He stood up, threw his robe on to the chair, lifted the linen shift beneath and pulled down his hose as if he was a boy stripping for a swim in the river. He waddled over to the bed and threw himself down, leaning back against the bolsters and patting the coverlet beside him. I went across and pushed back the quilt. The ulcers had healed beautifully to faint red-purplish marks. I examined these, letting my fingers knead the vein-streaked flesh beneath his knee. Langton’s hand came out again and grasped my breast, stroking the nipple. I laughed coyly. Still chattering about the court, I moved from one item to another.

‘The king still pursues the Templars,’ I murmured, hiding my revulsion at that old man’s touch. ‘He believes that New Temple Church conceals their wealth; he is determined to search there.’ Immediately, Langton tensed. I could feel the muscles in the leg go hard and rigid, and his hand fell away. ‘And there is a great to-do amongst the chancery clerks,’ I continued. ‘They are searching for a man, someone who served the old king: John Hot. . or High. .’

‘John Highill.’

‘Yes, that’s right!’

The name had slipped out before Langton could stop himself. Again there was that tension. I stood back and stared down at those fleshy legs.

‘My lord,’ I smiled, ‘you are correct: the scars have healed. You are very fortunate. Can I recommend that you wash your legs daily in hot water and some precious soap from Castile, then rinse well. Keep as much irritation as you can off the skin.’

I continued my chatter about the joust between Gaveston and the Portuguese knight; the king’s feastings; what the Court would do at Easter, but I could see I’d hit my mark. Langton was no longer interested in me. He sat on the bed, eyes staring, lips murmuring, lost in his own thoughts. I hastily made my farewells. Demontaigu joined me outside. I put a finger to my lips. We hastened down the steps and out on to the green, where the waiting serjeant escorted us back to the great cobbled yard beyond the Lion Gate. I was excited, pleased at my own cunning, forgetful of danger. Ah well, arrogance is a slippery plank and I paid the price. We’d hardly gone through the gate when I glimpsed Ausel, dressed like a friar, his head shaven, standing on a small barrel lecturing the crowd, drawing them in with the power and oratory of his sermon: ‘May the day perish when I was born. Why did I not die newborn? Perish when I left the womb? If that had happened, I should now be lying in peace, wrapped in restful slumber with the kings and high lords of earth who build themselves vast vaults crammed with precious jewels. Down there in death, bad men bustle no more! There the weary rest for ever. .’

Demontaigu tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Stay here, Mathilde.’ I stood and watched the people mill across the great cobbled expanse. A group of city bailiffs led prostitutes found touting for custom down to the thews. The poor women’s heads had been completely shorn, and they were forced to wear striped gowns, their humiliation emphasised by two bagpipe players who screeched noisily, attracting a crowd to shout abuse and hurl offal, bones, anything they could lay their hands on. I watched them go even as the Gabriel bell tolled from nearby churches summoning the faithful to say one Pater, Ave and Gloria, as well as stop work for the noonday drink. Scavengers arrived, the great iron-rimmed wheels on the slung carts crashing across the ground. The scavengers, burly men dressed in motley rags, always had an eye for profit: they quickly seized a goose, wrung the bird’s neck and immediately dropped it into a sack hanging on the inside of the cart. The owner ran up protesting, but the chief scavenger referred to the city ordinances: how a goose found wandering where it shouldn’t forfeited all rights; its neck could be wrung and its flesh belonged to the man who found it. The great market area began to empty as people made their way to taverns and alehouses for the noonday refreshments. I stood on tiptoe, wondering where Demontaigu had gone, wishing I had accompanied him. I abruptly felt a presence behind me. I looked over my shoulder and glimpsed a sharp nose and glittering eyes, even as I felt the dagger prick my skin just beneath the shoulder blade.