Paul Doherty - The Poison Maiden

The queen dowager gazed solemnly back. Guido made to speak.

‘Langton has confessed all,’ I interjected. My words stung like the lash of a whip. Margaret started in horror. Guido groaned openly.

‘The indictment?’ Isabella spoke softly. ‘Mathilde?’

‘Madam,’ I tried to catch and hold Margaret’s gaze, ‘you are Philip of France’s sister, very close to him. Your brother occupied English-held Gascony and forced a peace treaty on old Edward of England. He was to marry you; his son, the Prince of Wales, your niece Isabella. Philip was determined that the throne of the Confessor, which stands so close to this place, be occupied by a prince of the Capetian blood. He was ruthlessly set on it. The marriage took place but the old king had taken a viper to his bosom. You were his wife but you were also Philip’s spy at the heart of the English court. Now in ancient times, a female assassin, the Poison Maiden, was sent into the enemy camp, to wreak as much damage as she could. You were, are, Philip of France’s Poison Maiden. You betrayed your husband’s secrets to his arch-enemy-’

‘What proof do you have of this?’ Margaret yelled, no longer the pious widow, the nun-like dowager; more like some furious harridan from the slums of St Denis or Cheapside.

‘Very little,’ I agreed. ‘Except that the old king, your husband, must have warned you, probably in a letter that no longer exists, transcribed by his faithful servitor John Highill. Or perhaps, in a moment of weakness, he confided his anxieties to that clerk of the secret seal. Your husband enjoyed the romances about Arthur and the great Alexander. In one of the poems about the Conqueror of the World, the King of India sent Alexander many precious gifts, including a beautiful maiden whom he had fed and poisoned until she had the nature of a venomous snake. Seduced by her loveliness, Alexander, according to the story, rushed to embrace her but her touch, her bite, even her sweat, the poem declares, would have been fatal to him. He would have been killed except for the intervention of his wise adviser, the philosopher Aristotle.’ I paused. ‘That is why your late husband used the phrase Poison Maiden to describe you, only in his case he had embraced you!’

The queen dowager was staring full at me, her face strangely younger, more beautiful, eyes rounded in anger. I could see her attraction to the old king, who must have been torn between anger and lust. Guido kept his head down, fingering with the buckle on a wallet strapped to his belt.

‘As I said, in the old king’s eyes you were the Poison Maiden, sent to seduce, to betray. He lusted after your body, determined to seek his own revenge through pleasure, but he never really trusted you.’

‘He loved me!’ Margaret hissed, her face pushed towards me.

‘I do not doubt that, madam,’ I replied, ‘but he had been cuckolded, trapped in a marriage with the sister of his enemy.’

‘He was no cuckold.’

‘In a sense he was. You put your brother the King of France’s interests before those of your husband, Edward of England. He knew that, but like any cuckold did not wish to proclaim it abroad. What could the old king do? He was bound by solemn treaty and the bonds of holy marriage. He could do nothing except fulminate. Two other people knew the full truth. The old king’s treasurer and confidant Walter Langton, and the clerk John Highill. The latter grew old and witless and expressed his sorrow at his royal master’s plight by composing a mock version of the “Salve Regina” — the ancient hymn to the Virgin.’

Margaret, violent with rage, would have lunged at me, but surprisingly, Guido grasped her arm while Isabella leaned forward.

‘Kinswoman, I do not wish to summon Ap Ythel to restrain you.’

‘Highill,’ I resumed, ‘became witless but his veiled attack on you meant he was committed to Bethlehem Hospital, where he continued his rantings, even scrawling on a wall.’

Guido’s head came up, eyes all fearful.

‘Oh yes,’ I declared, ‘ Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiae . In Highill’s confused mind this became Salv. Reg. Sin. Cor. Mat. Dis. , or, in full, Salve Regina sine corona, Mater Discordiae . Instead of “Hail Queen of Heaven, Mother of Mercy” his version, translated from his clerkly cipher, was: “Hail Queen without a crown, Mother of Discord”, his perception of you. The old king must have been furious with him, yet what crime had Highill committed except tell the truth? Hence, Bethlehem Hospital. Chapeleys also knew something about this, though perhaps not the whole truth. He had the wit to keep silent, but he made a reference to it on a scrap of parchment found in his chamber: an unfinished word, “basil”. I thought he was referring to a basilisk. Chapeleys, however, like Highill was a scholar of Greek. In that tongue the complete word, Basilea , means queen.’

‘Rantings and ravings!’ scoffed Margaret, glaring hot-eyed at my mistress.

‘Wait, wait,’ Isabella murmured.

‘In a sense, the old king had his revenge,’ I continued. ‘You were never crowned, were you? Almost nine years in England but never taken to Westminster. No crown lowered on to your head. Your skin never anointed with the holy chrism. I thought of that when I was close to Eleanor’s tomb in the Abbey. Did you hate your late husband, madam? He died at Burgh-on-Sands last July. You were there tending to him.’ I let the implied accusation hang in the air before continuing. ‘After his death, your role as the Poison Maiden did not end, but came to full flower in the new king’s reign. You acted as your brother’s spy, informing him about Lord Gaveston’s pre-eminence and the new king’s confrontation with his Great Lords. Philip of France must have been delighted. He made one mistake: the royal pastry cook Edmund Lascelles, commonly known as Pax-Bread, overheard his secret conspiracy and somehow discovered that the Poison Maiden was again bent on mischief. I do wonder if Pax-Bread actually knew the identity of the Poison Maiden. Or just that Philip greatly relied upon her to do great mischief against the power of England. Now Pax-Bread was a spy. He’d served the old king but he’d also served Lord Gaveston, changing horses, as it were, mid-stream. He must also have learnt something about Highill and written a letter warning the king and Gaveston about the dangers facing them.’ I paused. ‘We’ll never fully comprehend how much Chapeleys and Pax-Bread really knew, because you had both murdered.’

‘Pax-Bread,’ Margaret scoffed, ‘who is he?’

‘Oh, you knew! By the February of this year, madam, you were playing the two-faced Janus: the sanctimonious queen dowager trying to mediate between the young king and his opponents-’

‘Nonsense!’

‘And Philip of France’s sister,’ I declared, ‘determined on assisting him in all his subtle schemes.’

‘What is your proof?’

‘Langton has truly confessed,’ Isabella intervened. ‘He hopes for a pardon for all offences and the restoration of his temporalities.’

‘Traitor!’ The word escaped Guido, now torn between fear and anger.

‘You were no mediator,’ I declared. ‘Langton was your secret ally before he was arrested late last autumn. He’d already moved treasure from his hoard at New Temple to assist you. You used that to bribe the likes of Pembroke and Lincoln. You met those Great Lords at banquets in your private chambers, and bribed them with wine, silver, gold and flattery.’

‘And anything else?’ Isabella whispered.

‘How dare you!’ Margaret was now beside herself with rage. She sprang to her feet but a clatter outside the door forced her back. ‘My children?’ Her voice turned weary.

‘They are safe,’ Isabella retorted. ‘Safer than we would have been in Burgundy Hall.’