Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (19 page)

‘A large bird: a hawk, maybe an eagle. Anyway, she said that I would be rewarded by him, he’d give me another coin. So I ran up the stairs; the taproom was very busy. I knocked on the door. Master Pax-Bread was lying on his bed, boots all off. I think he’d been drinking. I told him what had happened and gave him the pouch. He read the parchment, took the seals, examined them carefully, then nodded, saying he would be down shortly. I stayed until he tossed me a coin, then I left. I returned to the kitchen, and that was the last I saw or heard of him.’

I thanked both Hawisa and Spit Boy, and they disappeared.

‘So,’ I grasped Mine Host’s arm and walked him over to the sheeted corpse, ‘I have given you money for his burial, sir. You claim he came in from his pleasures and went up the stairs to his room. A short while later that kitchen wench brought Pax-Bread a message asking him to meet a stranger, a woman, outside the rear gate. But after that, nothing?’

‘Nothing,’ Mine Host agreed, wiping his hands on his jerkin. ‘Mistress, it wasn’t until his corpse was brought in and the coroner made his judgement that Hawisa told me . . .’

Demontaigu and I left the tavern. Out in the street it was quieter now. Somewhere a night bird screeched. Doors opened and shut. Shutters banged and clattered. A dog barked up an alleyway. Shadows flittered across the pools of light. Demontaigu grasped me by the arm and led me down the street, then into the comfortable warmth of a small alehouse. The taproom was noisy, with two men shouting at each other about an impending cockfight. The ale master looked us up and down and led us into a small chamber beyond smelling sweetly of apples. He waved us to a table in the far corner. Demontaigu ordered stoups of ale, some bread freshly baked and a pot of butter. We ate and drank in silence. Demontaigu was obviously despondent. For a while he kept his head down, more intent on his food and drink. Now and again his lips moved as if he was having a quiet conversation with himself, then he began to speculate on Pax-Bread’s murder.

‘Undoubtedly the wench Agnes!’ he murmured, biting into the bread, then gestured at the eerie painting hanging against the far wall. It showed a cat dressed as a bishop shepherding a flock of sparrows clothed in the red garb of whores.

‘Agnes d’Albret?’ I mocked. ‘Slipping along the dark alleyways of London to a common tavern, enticing Pax-Bread into the shadows, then garrotting him? I don’t think so. Bertrand, you are tired!’

‘Whoever it was,’ he retorted heatedly, ‘carried Gaveston’s seals.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose the favourite could disguise himself, even though he is a warrior. There is talk of him having a woman’s heart in a man’s body. Gossip and chatter cast him as a king’s catamite, his lover a male bawdy-basket.’

‘The malicious clacking of tongues,’ I retorted, ‘chaff in the wind!’ I paused. Isabella and I often reflected on the true relationship between Edward and Gaveston. They undoubtedly loved each other, but as Isabella had whispered in my ear, had they ever lain together like man and wife? I always viewed it as a matter of no concern to myself.

‘Anyway . . .’ I spoke up, then remembered where I was, and drew closer and whispered in Demontaigu’s ear. ‘Why should Gaveston kill his own man?’

‘To silence him on other matters. Think, Mathilde! Pax-Bread arrives at the Secret of Solomon, he rests and relaxes. He expects a meeting with Gaveston or someone the favourite will send. He visits Alvena at the Domus Iucundarum; he returns only to be lured out by that woman and murdered.’

‘True, according to Alvena, Pax-Bread was very wary. He would only meet someone he could utterly trust, and that’s not the end of the mystery,’ I continued. ‘Whoever murdered Pax-Bread somehow walked into the Secret of Solomon, slipped into his chamber and removed all Pax-Bread’s possessions, though how he, she or they came and left without being noticed is a mystery. The room was locked and bolted from the inside. Why? Of course,’ I whispered, ‘they wanted to seize anything Pax-Bread had brought; they were also determined to create the impression that he had fled. But why all this mystery? Pax-Bread told Hawisa to go and that he’d be down shortly, yet no one saw him leave.’ I shook my head. ‘We do not know what was written in that parchment note, and those seals? Only Gaveston, or someone close to him, would be able to produce them.’

‘Shadows,’ Demontaigu breathed. ‘
Parvae substantiae
– of little substance.’ His voice turned bitter. ‘What is it to me? What do I care about pompous princes who fight other pampered lords so they can do what they want for themselves without any thought for others? For the likes of my brethren, the Templars, rotting in dungeons, facing scandalous allegations, denied even a fair trial—’

‘And why should I care,’ I interrupted angrily, ‘for men who once lorded it over others?’

‘Does that include your uncle?’

‘He was my uncle,’ I retorted. ‘Whatever else he was is, as you say,
parvae substantiae
. I mourn my uncle, Bertrand, because he was my uncle, because he loved me. I loved him, yet he was murdered in a barbaric, ignominious fashion.’

Demontaigu sighed and put his face into his hands. He took a deep breath and let his hands fall away.

‘Pax-Bread was murdered,’ he declared. ‘This business of the Poison Maiden, all I’m saying . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I want to break free of it, look after my own.’

‘Bertrand,’ I seized his hands between mine, ‘there is a right and wrong here. Philip of France is truly wicked. He made his daughter what she is and, to a certain extent, what you and I now are. We are here because of what he did. I agree Edward and Gaveston are no saints. I do not wear their colours and neither do you. Both are fickle-hearts and would betray us if it so suited them.’ I paused. ‘Bertrand, I study the world of herbs. Some, like belladonna, are pure poison; others, such as broom, contain some good if used correctly. So it is with us. I agree with the psalmist: all men are liars. I also accept his advice: put not your trust in princes. However, in this vale of wickedness, Edward and Gaveston are our best protection against the malice of Philip. My world has come down to this: to care for and protect my mistress, you and myself; to me that’s all. The rest?’ I shrugged. ‘God knows I did not want it this way, yet God only knows why that’s the way it is. Philip is a noxious plant. He has poisoned my life and those I care deeply for. If I can, I will do all in my power to uproot him and his. True, what I say is nothing to do with the love of Christ or the virtue of religion. Yet I do take comfort in the fact that God may wish to use me to achieve his own mysterious purposes.’ I punched Demontaigu playfully in the arm. ‘I believe the Poison Maiden, whoever he, she or they may be, is of Philip’s making. They threaten us so I will threaten back. We have to be prudent and cunning. Put on our masks to face their masks.’

‘Fierce, little spear-maiden.’ Bertrand kissed me full and sweet on the lips. So swiftly, my spate of words dried up. I went to kiss him back but he brushed my lips with his fingers.

‘Mathilde, Mathilde, listen to my confession. I am a priest; I consecrate the bread and wine, turning them into Christ’s body and blood. Yet here I am in the fleshy sinews of life,’ he smiled thinly, ‘fighting all kinds of demons.’

‘My uncle,’ I retorted, ‘once discussed the same with me. He said a Templar is dedicated to the love of God and his neighbour. He not only struggles against flesh and blood, but also wages a spiritual war against the Lords of the Air. Uncle Reginald talked of a clash of realities; of how life should be and how it really is. How we would like to do good but often simply do what we have to.’

‘And the Eucharist, Christ’s body and blood? Did your uncle Reginald talk about that? Would he explain why I celebrate mass in the morning and fight for my life in the evening?’

‘Yes, I think he would. Whether you found his answer acceptable or not would be a matter for you. He claimed that Christ became man to become involved in the petty but vicious politics of Nazareth, of Galilee, so why should we now reject those of the Louvre, Westminster or Cheapside?’

Demontaigu sat staring at the hanging on the wall. Abruptly, from the taproom, as if some invisible being had been listening to what we’d said, a beautiful voice carolled. I do not know if it was a boy or a girl, but the song was haunting and heart-tingling. It was about ruined dreams, yet the second verse described how those same dreams, although never realised, made it all worthwhile. Tears stung my eyes. I watched the moths, small and golden, hover dangerously round the candle flame. Demontaigu’s hand covered mine.

‘Mathilde, let’s move to the point of the arrow.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I met Ausel today. We Templars house a traitor close to our heart. No, no, listen. The only people who knew about when and where we were to meet last night were Ausel, myself and Padraig. Ausel and I are responsible for organising such conventicles, and as far as the time and place are concerned, only as few as possible are informed, including our leaders. The rest were only told to meet at a certain point at a certain time. They were then brought to the Chapel of the Hanged. None was given the time to inform Alexander of Lisbon so he could bring so many men to that place. The Noctales were prepared, Mathilde; they let us go in and thought they had us trapped.’ He paused. ‘At first I blamed those taken up and imprisoned in Newgate, but they wouldn’t have known.’

I pushed away my platter and tankard. In the corner a spider clambered down into the heart of its web to feed on an imprisoned fly. A cat moved out into the shadows. A mouse screeched in the corner, whilst cold air seeped through the ale chamber, ruffling the smelly rushes and dousing a candle. I wanted to leave. We had discussed the harsh realities of life; Demontaigu had just told me one of these. His news was chilling.

‘You have suspicions?’

‘No one, Mathilde, but any Templar caught last night would have expected little mercy. That is the problem we always face: betrayal. This is the first time, in England, that we have suspected a traitor amongst us.’ Demontaigu turned to face me. ‘What we need is protection, pardons so that we can move freely. At this moment in time we live in the murky twilight between the law and being declared
utlegatum
– beyond it. Alexander of Lisbon, or any reward hunter, can trap, imprison, even kill us. We have lost the favour of both God and man. The king has ordered our arrest, the pope has declared us excommunicate. In truth, I should not even be celebrating mass. Mathilde, this cannot go on. I am a realist. The Templar order has been destroyed, and will never reconvene. We need protection. If we cannot get it here, then we will move into Scotland.’ He gazed expectantly at me.

I knew what he was asking. Isabella often petitioned the chancery to issue pardons under the privy seal, but for that, she would need royal approval.

‘You’d have to name yourself,’ I murmured, ‘confess who you really are. Bertrand, King Edward is fickle. He could hang you from a beam, embrace you as a brother, or dismiss it as a matter of petty importance.’

‘Either way,’ Demontaigu conceded, ‘this must be brought to an end.’ He patted my hand. ‘Think about it, but the hour is growing late; we must return.’

We did so without incident. Demontaigu left me at the gatehouse of Burgundy Hall. Ap Ythel was dicing with a group of archers in the guardhouse. He grinned and gestured with his head towards the main door of the hall.

‘It smells a little sweeter now, mistress. The masons and carpenters have been very busy.’ His voice took a wry tone. ‘Even his grace helped to clean one of the refuse ditches.’

This provoked muted laughter from his companions. The king’s fascination for physical labour, be it thatching a roof or digging a ditch, was common knowledge at the court. Some mocked it. Others claimed it was a legacy of the prince being left to his own devices by his warlike father. The old king had relegated his son to the care of servants and labourers at the palace of King’s Langley, where the young prince had spent his youth consulting and consorting with companions such as Absalom the boatman. I thanked Ap Ythel and passed into the hall. My mind was a jumble of mosaic pieces. Yes, that was what is was like: those miniature paintings you find in a Book of Hours, so small, yet so complex, full of detail and observation. Pax-Bread’s naked corpse, that horrible blue-red mark around his throat; Agnes and Gaveston touching each other; Hawisa staring at me wide-eyed – had she been lying? Demontaigu’s tight face in that alehouse. Ap Ythel staring slyly up at me as I passed.

The galleries and staircases were a blaze of light. The workmen were still busy, surly faces peeping out of heads and capuchons. Carpenters planed wood for new shafts for the garderobes. Masons studied charts and plans. Even then, albeit distracted, I noticed how many were milling about at such a late hour. Yet that was Edward: he showed greater tolerance for labourers and artisans than his fellow princes or lords. The queen’s chamber was equally busy. Isabella was choosing gowns for the solemn high mass the next morning. We had little time to talk. I told her about my visit to The Secret of Solomon. She heard me out, nodded, and promised to tell Edward and Gaveston, adding that tomorrow’s meeting between the queen dowager and the earls was of more importance. She teased me about how the news of her so-called pregnancy had now swept the palace. I asked her if she had told the truth to the king. She winked at me.

‘Perhaps.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps not, we will see.’

The rest I cannot recall, a swirl of events. The mass the next morning celebrated the solemn liturgy of Lent. The abbot, prior and sub-prior, clothed in glorious purple and gold, almost hidden by the rich gusts of incense, offered the holy sacrifice. A magnificent occasion. The choir intoned the introit, kyrie and other verses in the majestic tones of plainchant. The candles clustered on the high altar and elsewhere blazed. Sunlight poured through the glazed coloured glass to shimmer on the gilded cornices and precious chalices, patens and pyxes along the ivory, white and red-embroidered altar cloths.