Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (16 page)

‘Our lookouts!’ Demontaigu hissed.

A second horn echoed through the darkness, followed by the sound of running feet along the hollow nave above and a furious pounding on the crypt door. Demontaigu hastened up the steps. He asked the password and was given it. He drew back the bolts. Two men almost threw themselves down the steps, tumbling and tripping over each other.

‘Noctales!’ one of them declared. ‘Not just a few; perhaps all of them. They are in the cemetery, guarding every entrance.’

Demontaigu immediately re-bolted the door and stood on the top of the steps banging his sword against the wall for silence.

‘They know we are here!’ he declared. ‘We could break out through the church and take whatever opportunity exists in the open fields around, but they are on horseback. God knows how many there are and what other rogues they’ve hired for tonight’s work. They think they have us trapped; we will prove them wrong. Crossbowmen and archers, you stay.’

About a dozen men stepped forward. Demontaigu hurried down the steps and had a word with Destivet and Ausel. They quickly agreed that the aged should leave first carrying the treasures, relics, documents and whatever else the Noctales wished to seize. I was going ask how they were going to get out when Demontaigu led me over into a corner. He and two others grasped the rusting key in a flagstone and lifted it up. A gush of cold foul air swept through the crypt.

‘You don’t think,’ Demontaigu whispered, ‘that we’d shelter here with no way out? This is an old church. The passage beneath runs close to St Bartholomew’s near Smithfield. Mathilde, I ask you to stay with me. We will be the last to leave, but if you are captured . . .’ he grasped my hands, ‘stand on ceremony. Declare who you are. Demand that you be taken immediately back to the palace. But if God is good, that won’t happen.’

The crypt began to empty, the old ones first, with a small escort; some carried sacks, others coffers and chests. The steps leading down into the pit were crumbling and steep. Curses rang through the darkness. Cresset torches were hastily relit and handed down, Demontaigu shouting that some must be fixed into wall niches. By now I was aware that the nave above us was filling with men; it echoed with shouts, mailed foot-steps and the clash of armour. Eventually the Noctales reached the crypt door. It was tried and pushed, followed by silence, then I heard the sound of running feet and a hideous crashing. The Noctales had found a fallen log or an old bench and were using it as a battering ram. The door however was thick and stout, its hinges almost welded into the wood. Meanwhile the crypt emptied further. Archers and crossbowmen prepared, arrows lying on the ground beside each man’s right foot, one notched to the bow. Demontaigu took a small sack of oil, with which he doused the steps; then he piled whatever rubbish he could find against the crypt door.

I watched sweat-soaked, heart pounding, feeling at the same time hot and cold. The battering ram was now having an effect. The wood buckled. The door shivered. There was a great crash and the bottom half gave way. A figure slipped through, sword glinting. An arrow was loosed. The man screamed and slithered down the steps. Demontaigu threw a torch. The steps and rubbish piled against the door were engulfed in a sheet of flame. The Noctales were foolish. Some tried to jump through; those who did, slipped on the oil and were easy targets against the light for our crossbowmen and archers. The air now sang with the twang of bows and the whistle of arrows, followed by heart-jolting screams as each shaft found its target. Demontaigu, sword drawn, directed the bowmen as the Noctales, with cloaks and whatever else they could find, tried to douse the flames. Demontaigu ordered his men to withdraw; crossbowmen first, then the archers. The fire began to die down. Demontaigu urged some of the crossbowmen out down the secret passageway, followed by men-at-arms. The Noctales, however, were desperate, furious at being thwarted, eager to seize their prey. Three of them reached the bottom of the steps unscathed and rushed towards our remaining crossbowmen. One leapt, bringing his sword down with two hands, and cut through the arm of an archer as he fumbled for another shaft. The man collapsed screaming. The Noctales showed no mercy and immediately drove his sword straight into the archer’s throat before one of the Templars loosed a quarrel that took the attacker full in the side of the face. Pandemonium and chaos ensued. Shouts and screams, the clash of swords. Demontaigu’s line held firm. I was now in the centre of a V, which was retreating back to that life-giving tunnel. Demontaigu had first used whatever crossbowmen had remained. The archers were now told to mass and loose at the same time; their shower of arrows drove the Noctales back.

‘Enough!’ Demontaigu shouted. ‘Enough!’

Four or five master bowmen stayed, loosing shaft after shaft as the rest hurried down the steps. Demontaigu pushed me into the arms of one of his companions; looking up, I stared into the smiling face of Ausel.

‘What a fortunate night,’ he said. ‘A fight with the Noctales and the embrace of a beautiful woman.’ He laughed at his own mock chivalry and pushed me further down towards the steps. I was half carried into the darkness below. The tunnel was narrow, no more than two yards across, and about the same high. Ausel told me to watch my head and follow him. Behind me, the last men hurried through. In the glow of a torch I glimpsed Demontaigu pull the paving stone back into place. He poured oil on the steps and dropped the torch, fleeing after us as the flames leapt up. We stumbled and ran, gasping for breath, bodies sweat-soaked. I tried not to think as rats scurried by, squeaking stridently at being disturbed. At one point the tunnel branched to the left and right. Ausel paused, waiting for Demontaigu to catch up. He stared at certain markings on the wall and indicated we should take the left fork. No sounds echoed behind us. Demontaigu gaspingly informed us that the paving stone was intricately placed and not easily raised, whilst the fire would be deterrent enough, not to mention the prospect of arrows being loosed through the darkness.

At last the tunnel sloped upwards. I felt a flurry of cold night air and we were out into an old derelict cemetery lying to the north of Smithfield, bordering its great open meadows. In the distance I could see the gibbets and scaffolds of the execution ground lit by torches as carpenters worked late into the night for some execution the following morning. A grim, macabre scene. By then most of the Templars had escaped, scattering in every direction. Demontaigu explained that there would be little time for farewells but that they all knew how and when they would meet again. Dragging me by the arm, he skirted the common on to a track-way down to the lanes leading into the city. Only then did I became aware of how deep the darkness was. The rasping night air bit at me even as lantern horns at windows or slung on hooks outside doors glowed comfortingly. The final curfew had not yet tolled. The watch were not out. The streets were busy, especially near the fleshing yards where the taverns and alehouses still provided welcoming light and warmth. Demontaigu took me into one of these, hiring a table deep in the shadows. He ordered water and napkins, and we roughly cleaned ourselves whilst sharing a goblet of wine and a platter of bread. Demontaigu then leaned back, head against the wall, peering at me through half-opened eyes.

‘We never expected that,’ he murmured. ‘Those poor unfortunates at Newgate? Perhaps one of them was interrogated? They could only have discovered the Chapel of the Hanged from a Templar . . . But come, mistress,’ he smiled, ‘let’s go hand in hand back to the palace and pretend that whatever happened today did not.’

Such advice was easily given yet hard to act upon. By the time we reached the main gate of Burgundy Hall and the welcoming faces of Ap Ythel and his archers, I felt exhausted. My legs were weak, my stomach queasy, eager to retch. Demontaigu gently kissed me good night and slipped away. Ap Ythel took me into the royal quarters, up the stairs, past chamberlains and servants hurrying here and there on various tasks. The smell was still fetid and rank. I commented on this. Ap Ythel shrugged apologetically.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘the drains and sewers, the latrines and garderobes will be cleaned.’ He gestured at servants laying out pots of crushed herbs. Sweet smoke curled from incense boats whilst the brazier coals had been heavily coated with aromatic powder. I knew Isabella was going to be busy that day meeting representatives of the French envoys, so I was surprised when a chamberlain insisted on taking me to the king’s chamber. Edward, Gaveston and Isabella were sitting before the fire, heating chestnuts on the coals and ladling out hot posset from a deep silver-engraved wassail bowl. All three turned as I came in, the chamberlain announcing in a carrying voice that I had just arrived. Edward and Gaveston were dressed as they had been early that day, the boots they’d kicked off thickly caked with mud. The king rose and came towards me. I would like to think that was courtesy, but I suspect he could tell from my face and the smuts of dirt on my cloak and kirtle that something had happened. He grasped my hands and gently kissed the fingertips, his eyes studying mine closely.

‘You are late.’ Isabella’s voice was soft and languorous. She and Gaveston were sitting so close I felt a pang of jealousy. These Great Ones also had their own secrets, part of their lives hidden from me.

‘All went well?’ Edward asked.

‘No, my lord,’ I replied wearily. I took off my cloak, curtsied towards my mistress and the king and almost stumbled towards the stool Gaveston pushed between himself and the queen. ‘No, my lord, all did not go well. Nor do I feel well.’ I slumped down before the fire and told them everything that had happened at the Secret of Solomon, our visit to the Domus Iucundarum, and the possibility that Pax-Bread was dead. All merriment faded. The king gnawed angrily on his thumb. Gaveston put his face in his hands. Isabella stared down at her lap, playing with the ring she had taken off, moving it round as if it was something living. I informed them about the attack on us, how I had been so shaken Demontaigu had taken me into a tavern to allow my tremors to pass, hence my agitation. Isabella looked sharply at me as if she did not believe that. The king, however, cursed quietly under his breath.

For a while they discussed the possibilities between themselves. I stared around, becoming aware of the rich blue, red and gold tapestries hanging on the wall; the gleaming polished furniture: the comfortable turkey rugs; the pewter, silver and gold jewel-encrusted pots, cups and jugs on an open shelved aumbry. The wealth and power of these two men were such a sharp contrast to the desperation and fear of that ghostly crypt and my fearful, frenetic departure from it. Memories remained. The door burning. The Noctales breaking in. Dark figures against the light. The whirr of arrows. The cries and shrieks of wounded men. Such a contrast! Edward and Gaveston now wished to be alone. Isabella and I returned to the queen’s quarters where, half-asleep, I almost limped to a settle in front of the fire.

‘Mathilde? Mathilde?’ Isabella shook me from my reverie. ‘Are you tired? You look very pale.’ She touched the sleeve of my kirtle, picking at a charred fragment then moving her finger to a stain of oil on the white cuff of one of my sleeves. She touched me lightly on the face. ‘Mathilde, your friends are mine, your enemies mine. I have left France. My father is my enemy; so are his envoys, his mercenaries. Yes,’ she plucked at the sleeveless gown over her tawny kirtle and spread her hands, ‘even my father’s sons, my own brothers. What Demontaigu was, what he is, poses no threat to me or mine.’ She sat down on a chair next to me. ‘Mathilde,’ she whispered hoarsely, and I glimpsed the fear in her light blue eyes. ‘Mathilde,’ she insisted, ‘we are pressed close here: either Edward concedes or we face great troubles. Have you heard the whispers? Some assert that not only Gaveston should go but the king also.’ She paused, breathing noisily. ‘If that comes about, Mathilde, what happens to us, to me, to you? My lord requires time. We have to play the great game, and play it well. Publicly I oppose my husband. Everyone, including my beloved aunt, continues to believe that. So tomorrow you must dine with her, provide some excuse, say I am not well, but,’ her hand fell to caress mine, ‘win time for my lord. Say whatever you have to to encourage the queen dowager to continue her negotiations with Winchelsea and the rest.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, whatever you have to! Now, come.’ She kicked off her slippers. ‘It is time we slept. My lord will not visit me tonight or invite me to share his bed. So stay with me, Mathilde, like the young women we could have been. We shall lie next to each other and whisper against the world . . .’

The following morning, dressed in a snow-white wimple, a kirtle and a sleeveless gown of heaven blue, one of Isabella’s ermine-fringed cloaks wrapped about my shoulders, I presented myself to the queen dowager’s chamberlains in the King’s House, that ancient part of Westminster Palace overlooking the Old Yard. I arrived early, so confusion ensued as pages and servants gathered up the two young princes named after the places of their birth, Edmund of Woodstock and Thomas of Brotherton. Guido the Psalter and Agnes d’Albert supervised the infants’ departure with their nurses to the children’s chambers further down the gallery. Once the infants and their entourage had disappeared, Guido and Agnes returned and escorted me into the inner sanctum, where the queen dowager and Countess Margaret presided. They were dressed like peas from the same pod in red and gold cotehardies, dark fur mantles with costly linings about their shoulders loosely tied with silvertasselled cords and clasped with precious brooches. Both wore ridiculous-looking gold-coloured barbettes and fillets to hide their hair as if they were nuns in some convent rather than princesses of the blood. They were sitting close together, poring over a manuscript stretched out across a wooden frame. According to the queen dowager’s excited murmur, this was a monkish account of the discovery of Arthur and Guinevere at Glastonbury.