Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

I rose to my feet. ‘Brother, we are here on king’s business. We carry warrants and letters if you wish to see them. Master Highill, where is he?’

‘He is in his chamber.’ The master looked me up and down. I curbed my temper.

Demontaigu half drew his sword and let it fall back. The slither of steel startled the friar. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

‘I apologise. I have been up most of the night.’ He opened his eyes, turned to the crucifix and blessed himself. ‘Yester evening, Master Highill was visited by a Franciscan nun, or so she claimed to be, from the House of Minories. He had been ill and was in his bedchamber. The Franciscan was closeted with him, then left. Later, when one of the brothers was doing his rounds before the candles were doused, he knocked at Master Highill’s door, and receiving no answer he went in. At first he thought Master Highill was fast asleep, but feeling for the blood beat in his neck, realised he had died.’

‘At what hour did this nun come?’

‘Oh. . just before Compline. She said she wished to see Master Highill. She claimed to be his distant relative and had heard he was ailing, which was true. We took her down to his chamber and left her there. I mean. .’ the master spread his hands, ‘what harm could a nun do?’

‘Do you think Master Highill was murdered?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘I don’t know,’ the Master replied. ‘There was no mark of violence. The cup he kept on the table beside the bed was dried and cleaned. Master Highill liked his wine. You’d best see yourself. Oh,’ he turned at the door, ‘there is something else. Master Highill was old and frail, so when he died, little suspicion was provoked. However, when we began to list his possessions, we found virtually everything gone. We know he had a psalter, some ledgers, the bits and pieces an old man collects over the years, all missing. .’

He led us out of the small chamber and down clean, lime-washed passages. The master was an excellent physician. No rushes cluttered the polished floorboards; everything was clean; herb pots and sweet-smelling pomander hung against the walls or from rafters. We turned a corner, and I paused. I caught the same smell as I had from Guido’s breath, that flowery, sweet odour.

‘Master, what is that smell?’

He came back. ‘Lavender. .’

‘Yes, yes, I recognise that, but beneath it, another?’

‘Crushed violet,’ the master replied. ‘We had some left from last summer. We find it very powerful against malignant odours and foul stenches.’

‘Of course!’ I smiled at him. ‘Violet!’ I thanked him and we walked on.

The hospital was built round a cloister garden. Highill’s chamber was just off this, really nothing more than a narrow closet. Like the rest of the place, the floorboards were clean and polished, the walls whitewashed and hung with dried herbs. A narrow cot-bed stood in the corner. There was some paltry furniture and a coffer, its lid back, the clasp broken. On the bed, covered by a sheet, lay Highill’s corpse: an old man, obviously frail, his cheeks sunken, white hair brushed back, the lower part of his face covered in untidy stubble. He wore the dark-green gown of all inmates; his head rested slightly back, his nose sharp and pointed, lips half open. To all intents and purposes an old man who had died in his sleep. However, when the master showed us more coffers, small caskets and chests piled in a corner, he explained how various items that he knew had been there were now missing. He suspected that the previous night’s mysterious visitor had taken them.

‘Why was Master Highill placed in Bethlehem?’

The master pulled the sheet back over the dead man’s face.

‘He was a senior clerk in the secret chancery,’ he remarked, ‘or so he told us. We know he had been in royal service, but his wits had wandered. Sometimes he talked about his days with the old king as if he was very close to him, though few believed him. Mistress, many men and women are brought here because of their delusions. Master Highill could be quiet, but sometimes he’d burst into song, something that always frightened me a little. You know the “Salve Regina” sung at the end of Compline? Well, Master Highill would sing that, but a blasphemous version. I cannot remember the exact words: instead of “Mother of Mercy” it was “Mother of Discord”. I ordered him to stop this. He did, but on occasion I found him writing the same words.’ The master pointed to a painting, a piece of vellum in a wooden frame, which hung on a hook from the wall. ‘Ah yes, that’s it.’ He took down the painting, an Agnus Dei surrounded by the Five Wounds of Christ, and showed me the marks beneath.

At first I couldn’t make them out. I took a candle and, holding it against them, studied the scrawl. I stared in disbelief: they struck a chord, a memory. I asked Demontaigu to copy down what was written there: Salv. Reg. Sin. Cor. Ma. Disc .

Once he had finished, I asked the master for a description of the nun who had visited the night before, but he shrugged and shook his head.

‘She was wimpled with a deep hood. No one took much notice. She came in the dark, asked to see Master Highill, then left.’ He pulled a face. ‘Who cares about an old man, or a nun visiting him to give him solace?’

Distracted, I thanked him and left. We collected our horses from the stables and made our way back to Westminster, riding along the busy tracks following the city wall down towards the Thames. My mind was a blizzard of thoughts and memories. Even as I read those scratch marks out to Demontaigu, I realised I had discovered something important, though I couldn’t fully comprehend it. Demontaigu tried to draw me into conversation, but I shook my head. I gathered my cloak about me, grasped the reins and let my horse plod on. I was totally unaware of the day or the people around me. At last Demontaigu, exasperated, reined in outside the entrance to the Gate of Antioch, a prosperous-looking tavern just past Bishopsgate.

‘Mathilde, for the love of God at least talk to me.’

We stabled our horses and took some food and jugs of cantle in the warm taproom. Although absorbed, I was also excited, on the verge of resolving sinister mysteries. Those arbalests still bothered me, as well as Demontaigu’s words about a trap. Over bowls of hot potage I questioned him further. At last he put his horn spoon down, tapping the table with it.

‘Mathilde, why are you questioning me about this?’

‘I’m stating the obvious.’ I replied. ‘If you were to plot a secret attack on the king and Gaveston in Burgundy Hall, would you use such heavy arbalests?’

‘No,’ he replied quickly, ‘they are ponderous, heavy to carry, slow to load. What are you saying, Mathilde?’

‘I was meant to find them.’ I told him about the shadow I’d glimpsed at the window. ‘The king shelters behind the walls of Burgundy Hall. He believes he is safe. We know there are those who wish to do great hurt to either him or Lord Gaveston. So what do we do? We look beyond Burgundy Hall for the attack. We expect weapons to be hidden away so secret assassins can come crawling over the walls, seize them and carry out their assault. But that’s not going to happen. We are looking for the enemy beyond the walls when the enemy-’

‘Is already within?’ he asked.

‘Precisely!’ I replied. ‘The enemy is already inside, but who are they and where are they hiding? I don’t know. It is time we returned to Westminster.’

I remember that ride back. The sky had clouded. Peals of bells rang out as protection against the impending thunder and lightning. The day’s business was well underway, shops open, stalls laid out, water-bearers, ale-sellers, butter wives and herb wives all selling their wares. Tinkers and pedlars accosted us, eager to do business. A red-faced market bailiff strode about proclaiming the recent injunction against the use of stubble, straw or reeds in any house or tavern, as they were inclined to flare and burn easily. We continued our journey back to Westminster, taking the road that wound down to the royal mews, past the exquisitely carved cross to Queen Eleanor, along King’s Street and on to the Royal Way. The crowds were busy, people moving up and down to the palace and abbey, and the sheer throng, clamour and chaos forced us to pause now and again. A line of lay brothers from the abbey were bringing in the corpses of three beggars found frozen to death in the nearby meadows. The hue and cry had also been raised. People shouting, ‘Harrow, harrow!’ and armed with any weapon they could lay their hands on, were chasing two fugitives who’d robbed a shop near Clowson Stream. As we turned into Seething Lane, a group of bailiffs from Newgate had cornered an escaped felon hiding in some ruins; he was being dragged out to suffer the immediate sentence of death, forced to kneel, his head pressed against a log whilst a bailiff armed with a two-edged axe hacked at his neck. I turned away. Demontaigu whispered the ‘Miserere’. Such a scene agitated my mind, teeming as it was with images, pictures and memories. I had concentrated on one path, totally ignoring other evidence until I had read those etchings on the wall of John Highill’s chamber.