Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

‘My lord,’ I stood over him to show I was not frightened, ‘my lord, I wish to make you an offer.’

Langton’s shrewd eyes crinkled up. ‘An offer? I never thought I’d sit in a cellar and be questioned by a maid, a scullion wench.’

‘My lord, insults are like the patter of the rain: they fall but don’t remain. Do you wish to go back to the Tower, spend your time in confinement? The king has your treasure and a full understanding of your secret doings. If you confess-’

‘If I confess!’ Langton mocked.

‘If you confess. .’ I continued remorselessly, ‘freedom, the return of your temporalities, restoration to your see, no fine, no disgrace. Re-admittance into your king’s love. What can you lose, my lord? The friendship of the Lords and other bishops? They will see your release as just vindication for their pleas. Who else?’ I cocked my head, staring at him; his glance told me he knew exactly who I was talking about. He stared down at the floor, then back up, his face drained of all arrogance, eyes watchful, lips slightly pursed.

‘Mathilde, I apologise for my mockery, for my bullying of you. I am supposed to be a man of God, though I often fail. God gave me sharp wits.’ He held both hands up as if in prayer. ‘I will hear your confession, and if you tell the truth, you have my word, as sacred as if sworn on the Gospels, you shall hear mine.’

In the end, I heard Langton’s confession as he first heard mine. He sat throughout, a half-smile on that podgy face, those cunning eyes shifting from anger to admiration then to self-mockery. A tortured soul, Langton! Once I’d finished, he beat his breast again.

‘I have sinned, I have sinned,’ he mocked. ‘Pilate asked what was truth and didn’t wait for an answer, but you will, won’t you, Mathilde?’

An hour must have passed before I hammered on that heavy door for it to be opened. I nodded at Demontaigu, put a finger to my lips and returned to my own quarters. I stripped, washed, dressed and prepared myself. A page came whispering that her grace was now ready, whilst the Lord Marigny and other French envoys were also assembled. When I reached my mistress’ private chamber, she had prepared it well. All was cleared; a chair for herself, a stool beside it for me. Four other chairs, taken from the chancery room in the palace, high-backed with soft quilted seats, were placed before us. Isabella had dressed most demurely in a dark-green gown, her hair piled up beneath a wimple, almost in mockery of a certain fashion. She was nun-like in manner, her face all coy and simpering. She rose, nodded at me and gestured at the page to bring in Marigny and the others.

Isabella acted the part beautifully. She greeted her father’s emissaries, waving them to the seats, asking if they wished anything to eat or drink. Of course Marigny, full of curiosity, refused, eager for the business in hand. Isabella sat down, gesturing that they do likewise. Four demons in all: Marigny, Nogaret, Plaisans and Alexander of Lisbon. He sat slightly to one side, the other two fiends either side of Marigny, all dressed in the official livery of the French king, elegant blue and silver robes, rings of office glittering on their fingers.

‘Madam?’ Marigny, one hand on his chest, bowed and smiled. ‘We received your invitation yesterday evening. I understand the queen dowager is also here. Your grace wishes to see her?’

‘My good aunt,’ Isabella replied, ‘pursues her own business. Monsieur, I’ve asked you to come to answer one question and one question only.’

The smile faded from Marigny’s face.

‘Oh yes,’ Isabella added, ‘I also want to tell you something.’

‘Your grace?’ Marigny spread his hands.

‘First, where is Agnes d’Albert? The lady-in-waiting from my beloved aunt’s retinue?’

‘Ah.’ Marigny closed his eyes.

Plaisans and Nogaret moved uneasily; Alexander of Lisbon looked perplexed. The great demon’s lieutenants had sensed something was very wrong.

‘Why are you interested in Agnes d’Albret?’ Marigny asked softly.

‘Because I am,’ Isabella replied. ‘She petitioned to join my household. She went to see you in your quarters and has not returned.’

‘Agnes d’Albret,’ Marigny replied, choosing his words carefully, ‘is not well, Madam, an evil humour.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It would be best if she returned to the French court. The queen dowager herself has admitted that, perhaps, her presence is no longer required here. In fact, Madam Agnes has already left for Dover; a French cog waits there.’

‘Ah well.’ Isabella stood up.

The look of surprise on the faces of Marigny’s companions was almost comical.

‘Your grace?’ Marigny rose to his feet. ‘Is that all?’

‘I asked you a question,’ Isabella retorted, ‘where is Agnes d’Albret? You have answered it. What more can I say?’ She gestured at the door.

Marigny and the rest hurriedly recollected themselves and bowed.

‘Oh, messieurs, I almost forgot.’ Isabella took a step forward. ‘When you return to France — and perhaps you may be leaving earlier than you think — tell my good father how my husband, his grace the king, knows who the Poison Maiden is.’

Marigny paused, mouth gaping. Oh, the sight was sweet revenge! He stared like a man hit by a club, hands halfway up, mouth opening and closing, eyes darting.

‘My lady, your grace,’ he stammered, ‘what is this?’

‘Messieurs,’ Isabella replied sweetly, ‘our audience is over. My pages and squires will show you out.’

Marigny would have stayed, but Isabella flailed her hand. ‘Monsieur, I have other business.’

Once they had gone, the door slamming shut behind them, Isabella sat down, fingers to her face, and giggled like a girl. ‘Oh Mathilde,’ she took her hands away, ‘for years I have wished to do that! Now, my sweet,’ she turned to me, ‘my revered aunt and her imp Guido the Psalter; let us talk to them.’

The queen dowager sensed something was wrong as soon as she took her seat. She stared in suspicion at her niece, dressed so mockingly in the same attire and fashion as herself. Beside Margaret, Guido, in red and gold jerkin and blue hose, looked uncomfortable; he kept staring back at the door where Isabella’s squires and pages had plucked his dagger from its sheath.

‘Beloved niece,’ the dowager began, ‘something is wrong? Guards are everywhere, there is gossip of great danger. .’

‘Beloved aunt,’ Isabella retorted, ‘there is, but it will pass.’

‘So why have you invited me here?’

‘To accuse you of treason, vile and heinous, against me, my husband and the power of England.’

Margaret made to rise.

‘Please stay!’ Isabella warned. ‘Leave this chamber now, and you and yours will be arrested.’ She gestured at Guido. ‘He’ll be hanged out of hand. I have the power; just a few heartbeats and you, the Poison Maiden, will be incarcerated, whilst you, sir, assassin, spy, a truly treacherous soul, will be hanging from the gatehouse beams.’ She spread her hands. ‘The choice is yours.’

‘I will protest!’

‘Of course you will! The Lord Satan does eternally.’

‘My lady, your grace. .’ Guido squirmed in his chair.

‘Keep your peace!’ Isabella snapped. ‘You, sir, are before justices of oyer and terminer. You are on trial for your life. Outside men gather who will be your executioners. Will you resist or listen?’

Guido slouched back in the chair, but the shock of his predicament flushed his face, eyes bright and startling, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

‘There are two people missing,’ Isabella declared cheerfully,

‘Margaret, Countess of Cornwall, but she is not needed for these matters, and Agnes d’Albret. Margaret, where is she?’