Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

‘I suspected that,’ replied Edward, cradling the loving cup, ‘but how do you know it?’

‘My lord, they have spies in Burgundy Hall. I certainly have mine amongst them. My lord Mortimer has listened to the chatter; a few more days and the cracks will appear, but,’ she clenched her hands in her lap, ‘we must be cunning. We must plot, use this treasure to our advantage. However, rewards to those who have earned them. Mathilde has asked for pardons.’

‘For whom?’ Gaveston leaned forward.

I took a deep breath.

‘The truth as always.’ Isabella glanced warningly at me.

I confessed my help and assistance for Templars, the true identity of Demontaigu and others. Gaveston nodded in approval. Edward, in truth, didn’t really care. My mistress confirmed Demontaigu’s loyalty, his hostility to Philip and all the power of France. Edward, however, was bored, eager to return to his revelry. Since Demontaigu was loyal, the enemy of his enemy, and patronised by his queen, there was no need to discuss it. I stared at a glorious tapestry hanging on the wall behind the king. It showed scenes from the Romance of Alexander, the great conqueror on the battlefield or in his pavilion receiving the spoils of his enemy. The silence deepened until Edward softly clapped his hands, a common gesture to show he had reached a decision, and shrugged lazily.

‘Demontaigu is no threat to me or mine. I cannot issue a pardon to him or others for being Templars; that would go against the pope’s instructions.’ He bared his teeth like a dog. ‘However, I will issue general pardons, letters of protection at the behest of the queen, so Demontaigu and two of his comrades can be brought into the king’s peace.’ He gestured at me. ‘The clerks of the chancery will draw these up, to be issued under the Privy Seal.’ He clapped his hands again and whispered to Gaveston. The favourite rose and crossed to the huge chancery table. He brought back a thin scroll, which he thrust into my hands, then stood over me and stroked my hair. I held his gaze; those lazy, good-humoured eyes were marble hard, as if he was assessing my loyalty. He stroked my hair once again, tipped me lightly under the chin and rejoined the king.

‘John Highill,’ Gaveston sighed, taking his seat, ‘that scroll tells you all. Highill was a master from the schools of Cambridge, a principal clerk in the office of the secret seal in the old king’s reign. He and Chapeleys were a pair, both apparently trained for the priesthood, knowledgeable in Latin, Greek and other tongues. Anyway, in 1299, after he had passed his sixtieth summer, Highill became witless. He was given a pension and dispatched to Bethlehem Hospital outside Bishopsgate.’ Gaveston leaned forward. ‘You know the place, Mathilde? Good.’ He flicked his hands. ‘Take your silver and gold. Collect your pardons and go. But first, tomorrow morning, discover what Highill knows, or might have known.’

Isabella, as if to emphasise her own authority, asked me to wait outside. The gallery, despite the late hour, was packed with Ap Ythel’s men waiting for orders about the treasure. Its find had caused great excitement amongst them, as the archers realised they were not only to be rewarded but would also receive their long-awaited wages. Ap Ythel plucked me by the sleeve and took me away from the rest.

‘Ap Rhys told me,’ he whispered, ‘what you found and what you asked. Mistress,’ he looked over his shoulder, ‘our discussion could be construed as treason. An attack upon the king and my lord Gaveston would be impossible during the day. They are closely guarded, even if they go into the gardens or baileys.’ Ap Ythel pointed to a window. ‘They are protected. If they hunt, a comitatus of royal knights, mounted men-at-arms and archers accompanies them.’

‘And at night?’

‘Mistress, you have seen the gatehouse to Burgundy Hall? The curtain walls are patrolled, windows are bolted and barred. The only weaknesses are three postern doors: you use one for the garden; the other two are further along, both leading on to galleries that run beneath the royal quarters, but again, those doors are bolted, barred and regularly checked.’ Ap Ythel patted me on the shoulder. ‘Ap Rhys is probably correct. The arbalests were stolen from the armoury to be sold in some city market. S’avisera , be advised.’ He grinned. ‘The demons that stalk by midnight and the terror that lurks by noonday will not strike you.’

I watched him go. Ap Ythel might have been a skilled archer, a loyal retainer, an excellent singer, but he was certainly no prophet!

A short while later Isabella and I were escorted back to her quarters, down the long galleries, torches and lanternlight sending the darkness dancing. Once inside her private chamber, Isabella dropped her cloak and immediately knelt on the cushioned prie-dieu before a triptych of the Virgin Mary and Child.

‘You’d best leave, Mathilde, I will call the maids.’ Isabella spoke without moving. ‘Send a message to Demontaigu. He must accompany you tomorrow morning. Oh, Mathilde! Outside, the season changes. The blackthorn flowers and the seeds burst into life; so it is here, Mathilde, the season of change is thrust upon us.’ Her voice rose. ‘I am queen, the descendant of kings and saints. My son will carry the sacred blood of both Plantagenet and Capet.’ The rest came as a hiss. ‘Soon there will be no room for Gascon upstarts, remember that!’

I did so, as Demontaigu and I shivered on our journey to Bethlehem Hospital the following morning. We left the palace while the stars hung heavy in the rain-washed skies. Demontaigu advised we take horses and journey round the old city wall rather than risk a river passage through the darkness. He had not celebrated his dawn mass but murmured how the Matins we were about to attend were, for the moment, more important. A cold, hard ride. During it I told him all that had happened. When I’d finished he pulled down the muffler protecting his face.

‘As regards to Langton’s treasure, our master might have well agreed to that. New Temple and its halls have many secret places. I am sure,’ he sighed, ‘Edward will send Drokensford and his exchequer clerks to ransack every nook and cranny of the grounds. As to that theft. .’ He blew out his breath and stroked his horse’s neck. ‘Langton may have been given a key or even taken the treasure himself. And the arbalests?’ Demontaigu reined in, turning his horse slightly to face me. He leaned forward and grasped the reins of my palfrey. ‘What you discovered, Mathilde, is very serious. I don’t think those arbalests were stolen from the armoury. The garden is ringed on all four sides by walls?’

‘Yes, but there is a gate connecting two wings of the palace.’

‘Someone could climb over it?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘The garden is overgrown, a desolate, tangled place.’

Demontaigu cleared his throat. Pushing back his hood, he stared up at the sky. On the cold breeze floated the sound of barking dogs and the cockcrow from some nearby farm. The first light of dawn was beginning to dim the stars. He let go of my reins and turned his horse’s head, and we rode on in silence. To our right was the old city wall, to our left the open heathland stretching up to the dark mass of St Bartholomew’s hospital. We passed St Botolph’s Church in Aldersgate and turned north towards Cripplegate. An eerie grey morning now coming to life as farmers, their carts piled high with produce, cracked whips, urging their horses along the rutted tracks towards the city markets. On the open moor, a swirling mist made our journey more difficult, shrouding trees and hiding the path in front of us. Demontaigu hung his sword and dagger belt from his saddle horn; his gauntleted fingers kept moving to this as dark shapes emerged abruptly from the murk: wandering tinkers, a Dominican friar holding a cross before him, city bailiffs with an escaped prisoner shackled between them. Outside Cripplegate, the huge stocks were full of drunken miscreants and whores caught soliciting in forbidden areas. They screamed and yelled a torrent of abuse at their tormentors; the city beadles stood around grinning as clasps were fastened imprisoning heads, legs, wrists and ankles. The six-branched scaffolds close by had apparently been used the day before, the corpses now ripening to full-blown. The stinking carts of scavengers clustered by the city ditch emptying their filthy mixture of rubbish, offal and human waste, all coated in a foulsome slime, along with the bloated corpses of dead animals: dogs, cats and farmyard birds. A funeral procession, ghostly in all its aspects, capped candles glowing and bells ringing, emerged out of the murk; the sombre voice of the priest chanted the ‘Dirige’ whilst the mourners, cloaked and cowled, seemed like lost souls crossing the bleak landscape of hell.