Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

‘I thought of that,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘Your grace, every man and woman would have had to look after themselves. Can you imagine his grace the king, Lord Gaveston, yourself, Mathilde? Even if you did escape, stumbling out, shocked, burnt, coughing and spitting, any assassin lurking in the dark would find it easy to strike.’

‘And these hellish cellars?’ Isabella asked sharply.

‘They are now being secretly cleared,’ Ap Ythel declared, ‘the oil and powder loaded into carts. Tonight these will be taken into the meadows south of the abbey where they will be closely guarded. My men are under oath, no one is to know!’

‘Good.’ Isabella rose to her feet; immediately we all did the same. ‘I have learnt enough.’ She turned to me. ‘If a hypothesis be true in one part, then it is probably true in all its aspects. Mathilde, gentlemen, I shall return.’ She swept out, shouting for pages and squires to escort her to the king.

Demontaigu and Ap Ythel went out into the gallery. I followed, closing the door behind me and summoning a page to stand on guard. Ap Ythel shook his head.

‘The enemy within,’ he murmured, ‘that’s how my people were conquered by the great Edward, the enemy within!’ He and Demontaigu left, determined to conduct one more final search and ensure that what Isabella had called those ‘hellish cellars’ were clear of all danger. I returned to my own chamber, locked the door and crouched over a small brazier, gathering warmth from the glowing coals. I picked up a coverlet and wrapped it around my shoulders. I found myself cold, shivering as the horror of what could have happened dawned. My uncle had told me about fire powder. Even a farmer’s lad would know the danger of blending oil, wine, dry wood and saltpetre; the flames would have raced through those cellars and up, turning Burgundy Hall and all within it into a living torch. Eventually I calmed my soul. I heated some wine, drank the hot posset and returned to my own studies. There was a gap, one piece of evidence I needed, but for that, I would have to wait. I dozed for a while; the abbey bells tolling for Vespers woke me. Shortly afterwards Ap Ythel, now dressed smartly in the royal livery, knocked on my door. The king had summoned me to his own chambers, where the queen was waiting.

As I walked along the galleries, I could sense the change. Virtually every man in Ap Ythel’s comitatus , together with the Kernia, stood on guard. Ap Ythel whispered how all the gates and postern doors to the hall had been locked and secured. No one was allowed in or out without the king’s express approval. Inside the royal chamber, Edward was pacing up and down like the leopard I’d seen in its cage at the Tower. He was full of rage. Dressed only in a cambric shirt, hose pushed into a pair of black boots with the spurs still clinking, a jacket of tawny fustian around his shoulders, he kept pacing up and down. Gaveston, dressed more elegantly, lounged in a window seat, left hand covering the bottom half of his face. Isabella sat in the king’s great chair, like some effigy or statue of the Virgin. She never moved, not even when I entered. The king snapped his fingers and ordered me to kneel on a cushion beside her. For a while he just raged, a torrent of filthy abuse. At last he calmed himself, came over, stroked my hair, patted me carefully under the chin then strangely enough — but that was Edward — knelt down before his queen, leaning back to sit on his heels.

‘Ap Ythel will search this palace,’ he commented. ‘I’ve had the treasure taken to the Tower. Cromwell can look after it. Mathilde, you have given my lady good advice and counselling; your reward will come.’ He held up a hand, fingers splayed. ‘The prisoner will be brought here in the early hours, confined, chained and securely guarded. You will question him, but first, my lady,’ he turned to the queen, ‘you will issue a summons to Marigny and the others for an audience with you shortly after the Jesus mass tomorrow morning. You know what to say?’

‘And afterwards?’

Edward shrugged. ‘Do what you have to, but do it swiftly. We can only risk one more night. The decision is yours. As I have said, no blood. Let time be the executioner.’

Afterwards Isabella, still hard of face and sharp of voice, came to my chamber. She described Edward’s rage at what she had told him, particularly about the plot to fire Burgundy Hall. She also reported, with some satisfaction, Gaveston’s fear.

‘Our noble lord is wary, much more so than I thought. You know his friendship with Agnes is because he uses her as a spy on his wife, the Countess Margaret, though,’ Isabella sighed, ‘she is so benighted, she’d scarce notice anything untoward. My lord will leave Burgundy Hall soon,’ she continued, ‘move well away from London. He and Gaveston will probably take shelter behind the walls of Windsor Castle, where Edward will find it easier to summon the shire levies. He is still determined on war. Gaveston has already sent secret messages and bribes to Lincoln and Pembroke. Langton’s wealth is being well used. Both earls are to be admitted to Burgundy Hall tonight for secret talks with the favourite.’ Isabella chewed on her lower lip. ‘I shall take advantage of that to return to my lord. I need to lecture him about his duties to me and the governance of this kingdom. Mathilde,’ she leaned forward and stroked my face, ‘you have done well, but as in any hunt, I must be in at the kill. Remember that! Pray and prepare that tomorrow our forced guest confesses the truth. Any further delay will only alert the enemy. The hours pass; soon the gossip will begin.’

I slept little that night, Burgundy Hall lay wrapped in silent darkness, broken occasionally by faint chanting from the abbey, the tolling of bells or the calls from the guardsmen and watchmen. I wondered if the king’s vigilance and the deployment of troops would warn our enemy, but there again, such alarums were common. Nevertheless, time was of the essence. We had to strike hard, and as swiftly as possible. I returned to my writing until I grew restless and wandered the galleries and passageways like some ghost. The threatened thunderstorm swept up the Thames, blocking out the moon and stars. Stark flashes of lightning illuminated the shadow-filled galleries, bringing to life the grotesque faces of the babewyns and gargoyles carved on corbels and lintels. I stopped and closed my eyes, suppressing a shiver. On a night like this, in those hellish cellars, torches would have been thrown; a conflagration caused which could have ended it all. I walked quickly back to my chamber, closing the door, pulling across the bolts. I continued my reflections, fell asleep and was roused by a pounding on the door. Demontaigu and Ap Ythel had returned. They were both dressed in half-armour, war belts strapped around their waists, hoods and cloaks saturated with rain. Demontaigu made a mock bow.

‘Mathilde, my lady, your guest has arrived.’

They took me along the galleries. I peered through a window. The grey light of dawn revealed that the thunderstorm had swept on, the clouds were breaking. They took me down to the cellars, and a small adjoining room used by the clerks of the stores; it was secured by a heavy oaken door with bolts and lock. Inside was a red-brick wall with a grille high up to allow in light and air. On a ledge beneath this sat Langton, seething with rage. He was swathed in a heavy cloak, hands and feet manacled. He was about to curse at Ap Ythel, but as the Welshman placed down the lantern horn, Langton saw me and smiled, drawing in his breath so his nostrils flared. He slouched back against the wall.

‘The cause of my destruction,’ he murmured as Ap Ythel and Demontaigu slammed the door shut behind them. He lifted his manacled hands and shook a finger at me. ‘You, Mathilde, represent my great weakness. I have little regard for women, and it has been my undoing. I realised that as soon as you left. I understood why you wanted to examine my leg, and those references about New Temple and Master Highill. Very clever! And I was warned about you, Mathilde! They did warn me. Ah well, pride has its own fall. Arrogance is a sin.’ He beat his breast mockingly. ‘I confess, I confess, peccavi, peccavi — I have sinned, I have sinned.’