Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

‘My gift,’ Demontaigu insisted. ‘It is the last produced by the scriptorium of my order.’

I had planned to go down to tend my herbs, which I’d begun to cultivate in the palace gardens. I was about to ask Demontaigu to join me when a page boy came hurrying up to breathlessly inform me that the queen dowager wished to see me. Demontaigu raised his eyes heavenwards. I kissed him on the cheek and, hiding the psalter under my cloak, followed the page. The queen dowager was in her usual poise of a devout nun. She was sitting by Guido’s bed feeding him watered wine. Nearby, Agnes, who looked drawn and tired, avoided my gaze and tended to the queen dowager’s baby sons, Edmund of Woodstock and Thomas of Brotherton. The boys, apparently exhausted after their play, were lying on cushions half asleep. I greeted Guido, who looked stronger, a full colour returned to his face. He was apparently impatient to return to duties, though the queen dowager dismissed this, saying a few more days’ rest would help. Queen Margaret patted her wimple and asked what all the excitement was about. Had any progress been made? I decided on the truth, or at least part of it. I told her how the king had decided to investigate certain rumours, that a great treasure lay hidden in New Temple Church, close to one of the Pembroke effigies. She and Guido expressed their joy, gabbling how such treasure would assist the king. Did I know, Guido asked, how the king had come by this information? I shrugged and said he was searching for many things, including an old clerk named John Highill. Did her grace recall that name? She pulled a face, and replied that she’d heard the name but couldn’t recall the face or person.

‘I suppose he was one of my husband’s old servitors,’ she murmured. ‘But Mathilde,’ she smiled; this time those cold, beautiful eyes crinkled in amusement, ‘Guido, Deo gratias , is better. I thank you.’ She sighed and gestured lovingly at her red-faced, heavy-eyed baby sons. ‘I’ve little time for anything, going backwards and forward between the palace and here. Little time for politic, even less time for prayer, but,’ she patted the coverlet, ‘Guido, you must stay here until you are better. The countess will visit you and so will Agnes and, if she is not too busy, dear Mathilde.’

I left the chamber bemused by the queen dowager and Guido, but I was too agitated to reflect. I had assured Demontaigu that La Maru’s attack was simply a strand of the tapestry I wove. By the gospel, it was not! Now alone, I felt sick and tired. My belly bubbled. My mind flitted like some sparrow caught in a room. I needed to soothe my humours. I have confessed how I pick out events in the same way candlelight draws your eye to a certain scene, colour or thread in some tapestry or painting. Or better still, I felt like a watchman on the parapet walk of a castle. One minute follows another. Hours drift by. Days, weeks and months merge into one. A whole series of menial tasks is begun and finished, then abruptly the watchman sees the far beacon flare, signalling danger. The hurly-burly time has arrived. Armed men are ready, bowstrings tightened, quivers filled, daggers sharpened, war belts strapped on. Yes, that was me. Daily routine tasks until the perilous days gathered like an ice-cold mist seeping under doors, finding its way into my life through cracks and crevices. One comfort I treasured, which soothed the soul: my love of physic and knowledge of herbs.

I was still curious about the poison fed to Guido, so on my return to my warm, welcoming chamber, I opened my book coffer, that treasure chest of various treatments: Palladius’ De Agricultura ; the Monk of Cerne’s Nomina Herbarum ; that famous Latin poem by Macer, ‘De Virtutibus Herbarum’; the Herbarium of Apuleius; Isidore of Seville’s Etymologiae ; and that erudite woman Hildegard of Bingen’s Liber Subtilitatum Diversarum . My uncle had owned all of these and used them to educate me as keenly as my theologian would depend on the canon of scripture or the teachings of the fathers. When he had been arrested, these manuscripts had been seized, but Isabella had brought copies from the Louvre library, and when various monasteries and abbeys asked what present they could give her, she always asked for a certain book, manuscript or thesis, be it the legends of Arthur, a collection of Goliard songs or a medical treatise. She admired the latter, having a deep interest in herbs, particularly, as she ruefully remarked, those ‘nine dark shades of night’ that calmed all humours and healed all ailments, per omnia saecula saeculorum — for ever and ever; in other words, poisons!

I leafed through the manuscripts, taking careful note of certain entries. I then decided to go to my own small herbarium in one of the palace gardens. Now Burgundy Hall has gone, and Westminster has changed as if it is some living thing. However, in those spring days of 1308, the king’s private palace, guarded by its own curtain wall, consisted of a long hall with buildings added on so small courtyards and gardens were formed. Edward had entertained ambitious plans for these, hoping to develop orchards, vineyards, lawns for peacocks and sprightly herons, and a rabbit park, build small watermills and dovecotes, as well as sink fish and stew ponds to house fine pike and whiting. All, of course, remained unfinished. Parts of the garden were fox-ridden, with weeds and gorse growing almost waist high. Now according to Albertus Magnus, a sophisticated herber should include a trellised loggia, a walled area of square herb beds, a flowery mead with arbours and a hedged garden containing a fountain. There were none of these. My physic garden did not have the required sixteen beds; it was makeshift and rough. I had dug the soil myself and planted what I could.

I left my chamber and went out through a small postern door into the garden. Ghostly smells of both summer and autumn greeted me, the sweet odour of rotting apples mingling with the fragrance of wild flowers thrusting up beneath the blackthorn hedges, which heralded the change in season with their own whitening flowers. I had brought a list of the herbs I needed: the rich, mildew-like blue gromwell, which flowered on limestone walls and was so useful in curing irritations of the skin; ground ivy, found winding its way about the orchard trees, so healing of congestion and the rheums; harebell, which flourished in the long wild grass, very valuable for staunching bleeding and compressing wounds. I stared round that wild overgrown place, the birds skimming over bush and grass, the flowers flashing in colour, the full richness of spring making itself felt. I walked over to my herber and stared down in desperation at the weeds clogging the soil, clawing around it like the fingers of a miser would precious stones. All about me the palace lay silent. The garden, however, was alive with the chirping of birds hunting among the fertile foliage. Small insects hovered noisily over a weed-encrusted carp pond. I glanced up abruptly and glimpsed a shadow at one of the arrow-slit windows. I smiled to myself, looked again, but there was nothing. The garden lay beneath the royal quarters. I wondered if the shadow had been that of Isabella, or even the king, but why the mystery?

I decided to calm my agitation by weeding the soil before I went searching for herbs. A derelict outhouse built against the palace wall was used to store picks, hoes and shovels. I went in and grasped a hoe that was standing in a cobweb-filled corner. As I pulled it out, I glimpsed the leather sack pushed hard against it. I cut the cord around its neck and peered in. The sack contained three arbalests, heavy Brabantine crossbows. I pulled one out. The wood was thick and polished, its powerful twine cord supple, the lever oiled and easy to move, the groove smooth, ready for the barbed bolts, pouches of which lay at the bottom of the sack. Alarmed and curious, I hid the sack away and hurried back into the palace.