Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (9 page)

I stared down at the corpse. ‘She must have disappeared shortly before the banquet began.’ I went over and pressed my hand against her face; the flesh was cold. I lifted an arm; it was still supple. ‘She’s probably been dead for some hours,’ I declared. I beckoned Berenger away from the shouting and crying. ‘What’s happening?’ I whispered. ‘That black-haired woman so full of fury?’

‘Anstritha, Rebecca’s friend. She maintains that Robert Atte-Gate, a groom from the stables, was sweet on Rebecca. Earlier today he and Rebecca quarrelled . . .’ Berenger’s voice faded away as if he was already bored by the proceedings, more concerned that once again he’d been disturbed in his pleasures by sudden, mysterious death. I returned to the mortuary table and scrutinised the poor girl’s fingers. The clamour continued behind me, rising to screams and shouts.

‘It’s not me! I’ve done no crime!’

I whirled round. Robert, his face sweat-soaked, had retreated from the rest, drawing a dagger from his belt.

‘Put down your weapon!’ Berenger thundered, ‘To draw a dagger on a royal officer in the king’s own palace is treason. If you don’t hang for murder, you will for that!’

Anstritha cackled with laughter. Robert lunged towards her but stumbled. The men-at-arms seized him and dragged him outside. Berenger declared he’d done more than his duty for one evening and followed. Anstritha, her face full of malicious glee, almost hopped to the door. The rest filed out, leaving Rebecca’s mother sobbing over the corpse. I went and put an arm around her shoulders.

‘What happened?’ I asked softly. ‘Do you really believe Robert murdered your daughter?’

‘No,’ she whispered through her tears.

I picked up the cut garrotte string, fine twine like that of catgut. ‘Nor do I,’ I murmured. ‘This is more the work of a skilled assassin than a stable boy, but why should your poor Rebecca be his victim?’

The mother could not answer that. Demontaigu and I gave some money to the keeper and left. We walked away from the Death House. I paused and stared up through the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night: the barking of a dog, the creak of a cart, the slamming of doors and the ringing of bells. I stared around. Here and there the blackness was pierced by lights flaring at windows or peeping through shutters.

‘Tomorrow,’ I whispered.

‘Tomorrow?’ Demontaigu asked.

‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,’ I quoted. ‘Bertrand, I am tired. My mind teems; it swerves and shifts without reason.’

Demontaigu escorted me back to Burgundy Hall, where the laughter and music showed the festivities were continuing. He kissed me on the brow, clasped my hands and whispered at me to join him for his Jesus mass. As he hurried away, he murmured something else.

‘Bertrand,’ I called. ‘What did you say?’

He turned and grinned. ‘You, Mathilde, are honey-sweet.’

I went through the gatehouse, past the guards, still enjoying the compliment as a chamberlain ushered me up the stairs, along the gallery to my mistress’ lodgings, a collection of chambers consisting of vestibule, antechamber, parlour and bedchamber. I was primly informed that the queen had retired but had been asking for me. Isabella was in her bedchamber, a dark-panelled room with heavy oaken furniture: tables, stools, aumbries and chests. The large bed was a stark contrast, brilliantly adorned with blue and gold drapes and coverlets fringed with silver. Isabella was sitting at a small table ringed in a glow of candle prickets with a chafing dish full of burning coals providing warmth. She was dressed simply in a white shift, shoulders and feet bare. I noticed the red scratch marks on her right arm; the skin looked irritated. She was more concerned in fashioning small images, using the candle flame to soften the wax, pushing it intently, decorating the figurines with scraps of cloth, parchment and small items of jewellery. I recognised the signs. Isabella was deeply agitated. She glanced up as I went to curtsy.

‘I have been looking for you, Mathilde. I had to tend to myself, though I did talk to Marie.’ She pushed back her hair.

I curtsied to hide my own agitation. Isabella was referring to a maid who had died some years ago but returned to have conversations with the queen whenever she was troubled.

‘Has Marie left?’ I asked. Isabella did not answer. She beckoned me forward. I excused myself, returned to the parlour and brought back a small pot of precious oleander. I sat on the stool beside her and, without bidding, treated the rash on her arm. Isabella watched me clean the skin and spread the paste.

‘I should add a little witch-hazel to the water you wash with,’ I murmured.

‘Never mind that,’ Isabella snapped.

I glanced up. My mistress had lost that girlish look. I glimpsed the mature woman she would be, long-faced, mouth set, eyes unwavering in their stare.

‘Where have you been, Mathilde? I needed you! I looked for you.’ She pinched my arm. ‘You did not tell me.’

‘I shall now.’ I described what had happened. At the mention of the Poison Maiden, Isabella picked up a waxen figure crowned with a piece of parchment, I recognised it as her father, a pinprick through its middle. She held it over a candle flame and began to pummel it with her fingers. After I’d finished speaking, she sat staring at the effigy.

‘I must tell his grace all this,’ she declared. ‘I am to join him later. Strange,’ she smiled at me, ‘only twice have I heard the Poison Maiden being mentioned: something my father said years ago, a chance comment, nothing else . . .’

‘And the second?’

‘Stranger still, a remark my husband made at the banquet this evening. He asked me: “Isabella, are you the Poison Maiden?” then turned away laughing. Oh, by the way,’ Isabella picked up another wax image, ‘Marigny demanded to know why I retained you. Why I did not send you back to your mother at her farm near Bretigny.’

‘And?’ I kept my voice steady.

‘I told him that what I did was my own concern. My lord Gaveston overheard; he said you were a loyal subject of the English Crown whose favour you enjoyed.’

‘And the Viper?’ I tried to curb my fear. Marigny’s reference to my mother, a widow on a lonely farm, was a brutal threat.

‘Oh, he just smiled in that nasty way of his and walked away.’ Isabella touched my cheek. ‘Don’t worry: they hunt more majestic prey – my husband.’ She picked up a piece of wax, warmed it over a candle flame and began to mould it. ‘They believe they can remove Gaveston but they are wrong, that is not the truth. Why is it, Mathilde, that people claim truth speeds like an arrow? Truth is more like a snake. It uncoils and slithers backwards and forwards. Or like a painting on a wall – it doesn’t come in one flow but drop by drop. Only after a while do you realise what is forming.’

‘Mistress?’

‘I’ll not speak in parables.’ She laughed. ‘The Great Lords and my father demand that Gaveston be put away, but Gaveston is not just my husband’s favourite; he is his home. Do you understand?’

I shook my head.

‘I’ve realised a truth!’ Isabella continued passionately. ‘I have been reflecting on it. Home is not a place, Mathilde; it’s more a hunger, here,’ she tapped her chest, ‘deep, deep in the recesses of the heart. It is a completion, a fullness, a peace. I have no home, Mathilde. Father sees me as a marriage pawn, as he did my mother. He never truly protected me against my brothers but let me float like a feather in the breeze or grass on the surface of a pool.’ She picked up an effigy and pressed the head. ‘I have no home. Edward has, and I envy him that. I understand his love for Gaveston. Gaveston is his father, mother, brother, sister, friend and lover. He is Edward’s reason for living. So the king and his favourite will fight to the death to protect what is theirs. God save me, I understand them! I’d do the same. Winchelsea and others of his coven believe I’m outraged. In truth,’ she let the wax fall from her hands, ‘I couldn’t care. Edward is a good lord. Gaveston respects me. Neither do me any hurt—’

‘But . . .’ I interrupted. Isabella’s face turned fierce.

‘One day, Mathilde, I shall find my home, my resting place, and I shall never give it up, never!’ She touched her arm. ‘I thank you for your news. Now I must prepare myself.’ She rose and patted me on the shoulder. ‘I shall remember what you said.’

I helped Isabella anoint herself and dress. The hour candle had burnt another ring before the chamberlains arrived. Isabella, as beautiful as an angel, kissed me passionately on the cheek and swept out. I secured the door and doused all the candles except that which marked the hours and another on the table near the bed. I sat down and stared at it, reflecting on what Isabella had said. I fully agreed. My hatred for Philip and his coven sprang from their destruction of my home in Paris, their savage persecution of the Temple and the ghastly, humiliating execution of my dear uncle. Now they threatened what I had left: Isabella and Demontaigu were my new home. I doused the candle next to the bed and lay down, wondering when this, my new home, would be free of all danger.

The next morning Demontaigu celebrated his mass, long before the Prime bell tolled. I had slipped across the dark, freezing palace grounds and knocked at his chamber door. He had already prepared the altar. Once I arrived, he celebrated his low mass, reciting special prayers for the souls of Chapeleys and Rebecca Atte-Stowe. Afterwards, whilst he cleared the makeshift altar, I went down across the kitchen yard to beg bread, cheese, salted bacon and a jug of ale from a heavy-eyed cook. We broke our fast and returned to the mysteries confronting us. I sat at Demontaigu’s chancery desk. The cold seeped through the shutters, rain pattered against the horn-covered windows and the abbey bells pealed out announcing the day.

‘These problems concern us,’ I began. ‘Chapeleys was a high-ranking clerk in Langton’s household; that good bishop is important to the king. Chapeleys was desperate to share something with our royal master. He surrendered himself to our care but died in our custody, here, in your chamber. Berenger may wash his hands, but the King will not be pleased. So . . .’

I dipped the sharpened quill into the ink and wrote as I spoke.

‘Primo: what did Chapeleys know? Secundo: why was he so frightened? Tertio: how did he truly die? Quarto: who, apart from us, knew he was here? Quinto: how could an assassin enter and leave through a door that remained locked and bolted from the inside whilst the window-door appears to have been opened only by the victim? Sexto: if his death was an assassin’s work, why did Chapeleys, still vigorous and armed, not resist? Septimo: if Chapeleys was under instruction to be careful about opening that door, as well as being so frightened, he would scarcely admit the assassin. So, and we now move back in the circle, how did the assassin gain entry and commit such an act, so swiftly, so quietly? Octavo: did Chapeleys burn the contents of his chancery bag or was that the work of the murderer?’

‘I cannot answer any of those questions,’ Demontaigu replied. He had pushed forward a prie-dieu and was kneeling on it as if before an altar. I raised my hand in mock absolution. ‘And the scrap of parchment?’ he added. ‘That is the only thing we discovered here.’

I took the twisted piece of parchment from my wallet and studied it.

‘Very little here,’ I said, and handed it over. ‘Nothing but two entries: what looks like an unfinished word, “basil”, probably basilisk, the mythical beast, a dragon-like creature with deadly stare and breath; and a circle surmounted by a cross with the letter “P” in the middle and the Latin words, seven letters in all,
sub pede
– underfoot.’

‘Scribblings,’ Demontaigu mused, getting to his feet. ‘Chapeleys must have sat here thinking what he would say to the king and wrote down those entries, but he was distracted. He didn’t burn it, he threw it on the floor. Yet surely, if he was about to commit suicide, he would have destroyed that with any other documents he carried? No!’ he concluded. ‘He must have been murdered. He must have been sitting here scribbling, wondering when we would return. He heard a knock on the door and answered it. He must have been reassured he was safe, but what happened then?’

For a while we discussed the problem until the abbey bells marked the passing hours.

‘Bertrand,’ I picked up my cloak and swung it around my shoulders, ‘my mistress is with the king. She will attend mass in the Chapel Royal, break her fast with him, then return to her chambers. I must be there.’

‘Later,’ Demontaigu asked, ‘at Vespers time, you will accompany me to the Chapel of the Hanged?’

‘If I can,’ I smiled, ‘though God knows what this day will bring.’

I left Demontaigu’s chamber and made my way back to Burgundy Hall. Guards were clustered at the gateway, talking heatedly with two women and a man. I recognised Rebecca’s mother from the previous evening. As soon as she saw me, she ran forward and grasped my arm.

‘Come, come, mistress,’ she declared, and introduced the other two, an old white-haired man and woman, wiping the tears from their leathery faces on the backs of dirt-grained hands, their clothes all ragged and threadbare. ‘These are Robert’s parents. We have come to beg a favour, all three of us,’ the woman continued. ‘My daughter is dead, foully murdered, but mistress, I would swear on the Gospels that Robert is innocent. I ask you to intercede for him, please.’

I patted her on the shoulder and went across to Ap Ythel, captain of the royal guard.

‘Has her grace returned?’

The Welshman took off his helmet and wiped the drizzle from his face.

‘No,’ he replied, nodding at the supplicants. ‘They have been here some time, demanding to see you.’

‘Where is their son lodged?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘Probably in the Old Palace gatehouse; that is where they keep prisoners.’

I stared up. The clouds were breaking under a strengthening breeze. Somewhere a bird sang, a sweet sound evoking memories of my mother’s farm.

‘I could send one of my men with you.’ The captain of the guard pushed back his chainmail coif. I felt sorry for the supplicants. Isabella would be some time, so I accepted the captain’s kind offer and, using the queen’s seal, gained entry to the soaring gatehouse and the dungeons below. Robert’s was a dark, fetid cell, its straw black with slime. Huge cobwebs festooned the walls; the only light seeped through a barred lancet window high in the wall. Robert squatted, loaded with chains. He hardly moved, just lifted his head and moaned. The men-at-arms had not been gentle. Bruises had bloomed a deep purple around his mouth and on the side of his head. I crouched down beside him.