Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

‘Mathilde de Clairebon?’

‘Yes?’ I tried to control my panic. ‘I am Mathilde de Clairebon. I carry the queen’s warrant.’

‘For all I care, you can carry God Almighty’s!’

I caught the accent and tried to turn; the dagger dug deeper.

‘Very well, Mathilde de Clairebon, do exactly what I say. Walk on. Attempt to scream, run, fight or struggle and this dagger will be through you in less than a heartbeat.’

We went down a ribbon-thin alleyway leading to the Customs House, which fronted the Wool Wharf. I was ordered to keep my hands hanging by my sides and attempt no mischief. My attacker had chosen well. The runnel was narrow and dark, with recesses between the crumbling houses on either side: the path to the underworld, inhabited by spitting cats and thin-ribbed mongrels. Small, shabby alehouses fronted it; gloomy entrances led into deeper darkness; there was the occasional makeshift stall manned by rogues who watched us pass. Counterfeit beggars squatted in nooks and crannies counting their ill-gotten gains.

‘A plump, pleasant capon for the plucking,’ a voice rang out. ‘Remember us when you’re finished!’

My assailant pushed me on; halfway down, he shoved me violently into a small enclosure to my left, a gap between two houses sealed off by a soaring wall. I was pushed against this so hard the stones scored my back. My assailant, one hand holding the dagger beneath my heart, tipped back his deep cowl to reveal a young face, smooth-skinned, eyes glinting with malice. He pressed on the dagger, his ale-soaked breath hot on my face.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon, I am La Maru, formerly a member of Alexander of Lisbon’s entourage. That Portuguese turd, that by-blow of a sow, has now dismissed me. He claimed he had to on the orders of your royal bitch of a mistress. Yet Mathilde,’ he sighed noisily, ‘I was only carrying out orders. I came to this water-drenched cesspit, and after a few days I am turned out of my lodgings, away from my companions.’

He spoke Norman French fluently with that particular Burgundian tone, slightly nasal. My fears passed. I felt cold and watchful. This man had terrorised my mother; now he hoped to do the same to me. He searched me roughly, snatching off my wallet and small purse, a ring from my left hand, a brooch from my gown, a bangle from my wrist. I recalled Langton and acted all simpering, the pretty distressed damoiselle. I know the words and actions to perfection. I pleaded. He thrust his mouth to my ear and whispered some obscenity about my mother. I recognised a killer. He would show me no mercy. La Maru’s soul was full of gloomy halls and sombre rooms; he was whittled away like a rotting tree, the poison deep-soaked. He grew excited, clawing at my breast. I struggled weakly. He lifted the hem of my skirt, his hand searching beneath. My hard cloth belt hindered him. One hand holding the dagger, the other searching my skin, he was trapped.

‘I shall undo my belt,’ I stammered. He agreed. My hands fell to the buckle, then to the narrow sheath, cleverly hidden, holding an Italian blade, long and thin like a bodkin, with a razor tip and sharp serrated edges. I grasped it. La Maru was intent on his pleasures. I thrust deep into the right side of his belly, just beneath the ribcage, a hard upward cut. The shock alone made him drop his dagger. He staggered back, eyes startled, mouth gaping, a hideous gargling at the back of his throat. I followed up and struck again swiftly, deadly.

‘God knows,’ I breathed, ‘I never sought your death.’

La Maru stood shocked, blood spilling out of his nose and mouth like water from a cracked pot. He stared at me, eyes glazing over in death, slumped to his knees and lurched on his side on to the filth-strewn ground. I knelt down, hastily gathering my possessions and his dagger. A shadow moved to my right. I whirled round. A hooded, venomous face peered down at the two daggers I held.

‘The choice is yours!’ I hissed. ‘The same for you,’ I gestured with my hand, ‘or you can take what you want and escort me out of here.’

I have never seen a corpse plundered so swiftly, so expertly just like a pillager on a battlefield. My unexpected visitor, stinking of the alleyway, stripped La Maru’s body, bundling everything into the man’s cloak. I gestured with the daggers.

‘Monsieur, after you.’

He smiled thinly. I brought up the daggers. ‘Others wait for me on the quayside.’ He led me out back down the alleyway. He kept his word. Dark shapes moved out of doorways and recesses but he had drawn his knife, so they slunk back. I gathered he must have made enough profit for a month, let alone a day! When I reached the end of the alleyway, he mockingly waved me forward then disappeared back into the gloom. I went across the cobbles. I was unaware of anyone around me. My body was clammy with sweat, my heart thudding. My dress and gown were dirty, unbuttoned and loosed.

‘Mathilde!’ Demontaigu appeared before me.

I just leaned against him, letting everything slip from my hands to the cobbles. He embraced me, shouting at a beggar man to stay well away. He crouched down and picked up what I had dropped. He helped me lace my dress, put back the bodkin knife and gently escorted me to a nearby alehouse, where he ordered wine and food. He didn’t eat — I recalled that on certain days Demontaigu fasted — he just fed me like a mother would a child. After a while the coldness went. The shivering terrors and fears receded. On reflection, I had no choice. My words to La Maru were the truth. He had brought his own death upon himself. I told Demontaigu what had happened. He listened, and then, as if eager to divert me, said he had been with Ausel, who had told him the rumours amongst the brethren how the Temple still held great treasures. A similar story had originated from Canterbury, where William de la More, master of the Templar order in England, was incarcerated. I nodded in agreement.

‘I know what treasure it is,’ I forced a smile, ‘and where it is hidden.’

Two hours later, washed and changed, I knelt on a cushion decorated with silver asphodels in the king’s own chamber. Edward lounged. Isabella sat to his right, Gaveston on his left, leaning against a table staring intently at me. I had told the queen about my suspicions and she had immediately sought this audience with her husband. Edward’s opulent chamber was littered with boots, spurs, baldrics, belts, cloaks, a knife, even pieces of horse harness. He seemed more interested in the sleek peregrine falcon perched on his wrist, its sharp, neat head hidden by a hood. As I talked, he played with the little bells attached to the bird’s claws. However, when I began to describe my suspicions, he handed the falcon to Gaveston, who put it on a perch near the oriel window at the far side of the room. The king leaned forward, head slightly turned as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying. Gaveston simply nodded in excitement. Isabella, as usual, kept her face impassive, though when I caught her gaze, she winked slowly and smiled in encouragement. Once I had finished, Edward turned in his chair, staring at Gaveston as if disbelieving every word I had uttered.

‘Mathilde speaks the truth,’ Isabella declared sharply.

I held her gaze and glimpsed the change. Just that remark, the tone of her voice, a mere shift in her eyes, a fleeting expression. She was now growing openly tired of Gaveston’s pre-eminence, of her husband’s slavish dependence on his favourite.

‘Mathilde is a good student of physic,’ she continued. ‘She notes the symptoms and searches for the cause. My lord, order Ap Ythel and my Lord Gaveston’s Kernia immediately to the New Temple Church Find the effigy of Pembroke. Have the flag-stones, sub pede , near or beneath the feet of each monument lifted. See what can be found. Search must also be made for this John Highill.’ She laughed quietly. ‘Pax-Bread was too clever: Jean, Haute and Mont — John High Mountain. Langton gave us the correct translation: John High Hill literally, John Highill in fact. He must have been a clerk, an advocate or peritus .’