Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (22 page)

‘Why, Mathilde de Clairebon.’ He leaned down. ‘So far from home, so lonely.’

‘And yet so happy!’ I retorted. ‘Well, I was until a few heartbeats ago.’

Plaisans sniggered. Nogaret slurped at his wine. Alexander of Lisbon studied me as if trying to place me. I wondered then if he knew the full truth about Demontaigu and myself. Marigny toasted me with his cup.

‘We’ve discovered a great deal about you, Mathilde de Clairebon, niece of Sir Reginald de Deynecourt, physician general no less in the now disgraced Templar order.’

‘You murdered him!’

Marigny waved a hand like a master correcting a particularly recalcitrant scholar. ‘No, no, Mathilde, you don’t know the truth.’

‘Something we must have in common.’

‘We could have a great deal more . . .’

‘Oh, we do, my lord. I hate you! If I can, I will kill you.’ I sprang to my feet. ‘You do not frighten me, you and your fellow crow-souls,’ I hissed, ‘toad-spawn, killers, liars, perjurers, blood-soaked assassins.’

Marigny stepped back, and for a moment I glimpsed his confusion at such a retort.

‘We could ask for your return to France. We could demand it.’

‘You could also ask the sun not to set.’

‘Your mother, Mathilde?’

‘Don’t talk of her!’ My hand felt for the dagger concealed in its hidden sheath in my belt.

‘Oh, I . . .’ Marigny paused, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps . . .’

‘Mathilde, are you well?’

I whirled round. Guido was striding across.

‘Mathilde, come.’ He gestured. ‘You must meet my lord Abbot.’ He glanced anxiously at me, then at my group of taunters.

‘We are talking,’ Marigny demanded. ‘I do not need your presence Master Guido, better known as Pierre Bernard. The Provost of Paris would certainly like to meet you. As for Mathilde—’ His words were cut short, their dagger-like message never delivered. A trumpet shrilled three times from beyond the gate, followed by a pounding that shook both doors. Lay brothers hastened to open them. Gaveston, dressed completely in chainmail beneath a livery of scarlet and gold, silver-rolled spurs clasped about his mailed ankles, coif pulled over his head, ornate helmet swinging from the cantle of his saddle, rode slowly through the gate like the Bringer of Battles. Behind him walked three squires, two of them carrying banners, the third a trumpet. On Gaveston’s left arm was a triangular shield emblazoned with the eagle arms of his house, in his right hand a mailed leather gauntlet. All conversation died. Marigny hurried away. Gaveston remained motionless; his superb dark destrier, in full battle armour, pawed the ground as if eager for the charge. The favourite stood high in his stirrups.

‘I have been called a coward!’ Gaveston’s voice thrilled with passion. ‘I am no coward.’ He flung the gauntlet down. ‘I challenge any man here to meet me.’

The assembled company simply stood and gaped. The destrier snorted, shaking its head. Pembroke moved to go forward, but Lincoln gripped his arm. Marigny, one hand raised in peace, walked forward.

‘My lord . . .’

‘Either pick up the gauntlet,’ Gaveston jibed, ‘or stand aside, sir.’

Alexander of Lisbon pushed his way through and picked up the gauntlet, beating it against his thigh to clear the dust. Then he threw it back at Gaveston, who caught it deftly.

‘I am Alexander of Lisbon, a knight.’ The Portuguese voice was harsh as it echoed round the garden. ‘I accept your challenge.’

The favourite leaned down, gently stroking the neck of his warhorse. ‘I recognise you, Alexander of Lisbon. You are a knight, and if it is to be done, then it is best if we finish this business quickly. The tourney ground behind the Old Palace within the hour?’

The Portuguese nodded. Gaveston turned his horse and, followed by his squires, slowly left, the gates slamming shut behind him. Immediately the festivities were forgotten. Household retainers, squires, pageboys and servants were sent scurrying through the abbey and palace announcing the news. Winchelsea openly protested that the challenge was against the Truce of God, an agreement demanded by the Church that tournaments be banned between Thursday evening and Monday morning so as to avoid the holy days of Friday and Sunday. His words went unheeded. I slipped out, hurrying back across the abbey grounds into the palace and through the gatehouse into Burgundy Hall. Of course, my mistress already knew. Edward and Gaveston had planned this carefully. Isabella was ready, cloaked and hooded.

‘Good, good,’ she whispered, grasping my arm, eyes bright with excitement. ‘Men’s fury, like their seed, must spurt out, then we’ll have a time of peace. Come, Mathilde.’

When we reached the tourney park, the stands were already filling. The old tournament ground or lists have now gone, replaced by a more splendid affair. In my day it comprised a long barrier covered with coloured canvas. The fighting ground itself was ringed by a palisade two yards high; this in turn was encircled by a fence about fourteen feet tall. In between the two were the stands, and in the centre, with a clear view of the lists, the royal box draped in blue and gold, all being busily prepared by liveried servants. We waited for the king. Edward arrived jubilant as a boy. He swung a richly brocaded cloak about his shoulders, shouting that he was prepared to wager on Gaveston’s victory. Everything was frenetic. Heralds, trumpeters and grooms were running around. The list was scrutinised, straw scattered around to break any fall. Sunday or not, the stands filled: monks, clerks, servants, not to mention the retinues of the Great Lords, all eager to gain entry. Edward and Isabella, escorted by those members of the household nimble enough on their feet, pressed into the royal box and sat on their throne-like chairs. Ap Ythel, sweat-faced and cursing, tried to impose order, pushing back the throng to allow a breathless queen dowager to sit alongside Isabella. Around the tourney ground, the stands filled. Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, emerged as master of ceremonies, riding into the list emblazoned in the glorious colours of his house. Pennants and banners were flown. The lists cleared. Gaveston, fully armoured, face and head hidden beneath an ornate helmet with a leaping fox on top, entered the far side of the tilting yard. Alexander of Lisbon, garbed in black, an old-fashioned helmet over his head, cantered in escorted by two of his coven. Both combatants were called to the centre of the list, and de Clare had quiet words with them. The herald announced that the course would be run with blunted lances. After three turns, swords would be used.

I cannot remember all the details. A beautiful spring day slowly dying; the tourney ground bathed in sunlight and shadow; the royal box packed to overflowing; the excited crowds, puffs of dust rising; traders trying to earn a quick profit with jugs and buckets of wine as well as ‘the clearest spring water’. Then silence, an ominous quiet. Once the two combatants rode back to either end of the lists, trumpets blared. Banners and pennants were raised and lowered. Gaveston, astride his destrier, sat motionless as if carved out of stone. Alexander of Lisbon raised his shield and couched his lance, bringing it up and down as if testing the weight and poise. De Clare rode out to face the king across the lists. Edward lifted a hand. De Clare followed suit. Edward’s hand fell. Trumpets shrilled. De Clare’s hand opened. The red silk pennant floated like a leaf falling to the ground. Both fighters, as if possessed by some invisible fury, urged their horses forward. Both were skilled riders. Their destriers broke from a trot into a gallop, faster and faster, hooves churning the earth. They met in a shatter of lances. Gaveston swayed in the saddle. The crowd leapt to its feet but the favourite regained his poise. Again they faced each other. Fresh lances were brought. Squires gathered round checking girth and harness. De Clare rode forward. Edward raised his hand again. I sat beside my mistress on a faldstool, peering over the rim of the decorated rail. The red silk fell. The charge began. The hammering hooves, the creak of leather and the resounding clash as both combatants splintered their lances on each other’s shields. I studied the crowd and wondered if Demontaigu was there. I glanced over the rail. Gaveston had taken off his helmet, splashing water across his face. Alexander of Lisbon was doing likewise. Squires and pages went under the horses’ withers, testing saddle straps and stirrups. Alexander of Lisbon asked for a new shield. Once again de Clare rode towards the king. Alexander of Lisbon came forward, shield slightly up, lance couched. Gaveston put on his helmet and grasped the lance from a squire, but then surprised his retainers by refusing the shield.

‘Foolish boy! Foolish boy!’ the king breathed.

Gaveston had decided to show his courage by riding the third course without a shield. Alexander of Lisbon appeared perplexed. His horse turned from side to side, and the Portuguese expertly brought it back under control. I recalled what Demontaigu had said about Alexander: how he had served in campaigns against the Moors both in Spain and along the River Tagus in his native Portugal. Gaveston seemed rather shocked, shoulders hunched, head forward as if something terrible had happened. De Clare, however, was watching the king, whose hand rose and fell. The red silk pennant floated down. Alexander broke into a charge. Gaveston waited for a few heartbeats, then he too came on. I watched intently. The saints be my witness! I have never seen anything so daring or courageous. Alexander of Lisbon’s lance was now pointed directly at Gaveston’s unprotected chest. Even though the favourite was wearing mail, one thrust could be fatal, yet just before they met, Gaveston displayed his incredible skill. He actually swayed in the saddle but at the same time kept his lance directly on Alexander of Lisbon’s shield. The Portuguese missed. Gaveston’s lance hit him full on. The Portuguese rocked in the saddle. He dropped his shield in an attempt to gather his reins but he was lost. His horse was at full charge. Alexander tipped from the saddle and, with a resounding crash, sprawled flat on the ground. For a few heartbeats there was silence, and then the entire crowd, led by the king, jumped to its feet clapping and shouting, praising the Gascon’s courage. Trumpets blared. Heralds and squires thronged into the lists. Alexander of Lisbon’s Noctales ran across; two carried a stretcher, though their leader seemed stunned rather than hurt. He staggered to his feet, took off his helmet and threw it to the ground. At least he had the courtesy to turn and raise his hand in salute to Gaveston, who was now riding round the tourney list, lance raised, to receive the acclaim and plaudits of the crowd. He stopped before the king, lowering the tip of his lance to a few inches before Edward’s face. The king was smiling. Gaveston took off his helmet and handed it to a squire who came running up. Edward undid a rich bejewelled bracelet from his wrist, clasped it shut and placed it on the tip of the lance.

‘Well run, my lord, you are the victor!’

Gaveston bowed, his lance came up, and the glittering bracelet slipped down the pole. He saluted the queen and, turning his horse, rode in triumph from the tourney ground.

I sprang to my feet and went behind the king and queen. To the right of the royal box clustered the Lords with Marigny and his companions. The look of fury on their faces told me everything.

Despite Gaveston’s victory, the murderous darkness, unbeknown to me, was gathering thick and fast. The king and his favourite were jubilant at the victory and immediately withdrew into the fastness of Burgundy Hall to celebrate. I recall passageways lit with torches. Servants hurried around. Edward had already arranged for the beautiful Grande Chambre at the heart of his palace to be prepared. The hearth was ablaze, the flames curling up and cracking the scented dried logs. On pillars either side of this, a grinning wodwose gaped out with other mantle-faces. Ceremonial shields, vividly proclaiming the royal arms of England, France, Castile, Gascony and Scotland in a variety of brilliant colours, ranged along each wall. Beneath these were arrayed eye-catching murals and hangings. In one darkened corner stood a camel embalmed and stuffed after death, in the other a fully grown lion, apparently pets of the king when he was a boy. These grotesque beasts, dead yet looking so alive, peered out on to a splendid scene. A great trestle table, covered in cere-white cloth, was laid out. The most exquisite goblets, cups, jugs, platters and bowls of gold and silver, along with cups of pure Venetian glass, glittered like lights in the glow from the fire and candles. The king, clapping his hands, strode about proclaiming loudly that he had no doubt about the outcome of the tourney. I recalled stories I’d heard: how Gaveston was a superb jouster, a warrior despite his foppish ways. Both he and his royal master now wished to celebrate their victory and the humiliation of their enemies. The king sat on a throne at one end of the table, Gaveston on a similar chair at the other. The queen dowager and Isabella sat on the king’s left and right. Margaret was intent on telling Edward about the details of the
concilium
in the abbot’s gardens. The Countess of Cornwall sat on Gaveston’s right with myself on her left. Guido and Agnes were also included.

I shall describe the scene as memories, pricked by danger, return like whirling snowflakes in a flurried storm. A triumphant, gorgeous occasion! Gaveston looked resplendent in green and white silk, full of his own prowess. Edward sat laughing, slapping the table in glee. Ap Ythel, dark-faced, deployed his archers around the chamber and in the galleries and rooms beyond. The Welsh captain assured Gaveston that the cause of the foul odours had now been removed. Gaveston shouted back that he wished other, more fetid smells could be as easily expunged. The food was served by a myriad of servants. A stream of dishes came from the royal kitchens along a passageway under the choir loft at the far end of the hall. Musicians grouped in the loft above tried to play but eventually gave up due to the shouts and laughter from the king and his favourite.

I remember certain dishes: juschelle stuffed with egg and herbs; Carmeline beef; boiled and spiced veal; oat-stuffed pike. Isabella was watchful and tense, as she always was when her husband was in his cups. The king could be generous but he was also fickle-tempered. He could move swiftly from bonhomie to heart-breaking cruelty. When he announced loudly how he hoped she was enceinte, Isabella grimaced with annoyance. Nevertheless, there was no stopping the queen dowager; she eventually persuaded Edward to listen to her. She asked Gaveston and Guido to exchange seats so that the favourite could also learn what had been discussed and agreed. Gaveston playfully teased that he was Lord of Misrule and now was not the time for advice. Eventually, persuaded by Margaret and Isabella, and slurping noisily from his wine cup, the favourite staggered to his feet and waved Guido to his vacant throne-chair. I was distracted between Agnes and trying to listen to the queen dowager. What I remember at the time is what I recall now. Guido had taken his wine cup, though he had drunk sparsely during the meal. I definitely remember him sipping at the Venetian glass of water Gaveston had left behind. The banquet continued. Edward and Gaveston were laughing at Winchelsea’s petulance, only to sober at the queen dowager’s mention of New Temple Church.