Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (27 page)

At last we reached the great four-square Norman tower. The serjeant explained how Lord Cromwell, the constable, was out provisioning stores in Petty Wales. He offered Cromwell’s apologies and led us up the steep steps, unlocking doors on to the landing and Langton’s comfortable chamber. Some of the shutters had been removed from the lancet windows to allow in air whilst the good bishop was warming himself over a brazier. He exclaimed in surprise at my arrival but seemed welcoming enough. Demontaigu murmured how he was only my escort and left for the nearby chapel of St John. I hurriedly excused myself and followed whilst Langton shouted at the serjeant to bring fresh wine for his visitor as well as some sweetmeats from the Tower kitchen. I followed Demontaigu across the narrow passageway and asked what troubled him. He undid his sword belt, let it slip to the ground and explained how Ausel might come to the Tower quayside. He wondered what news he might bring. Demontaigu’s voice echoed hollow even as Langton’s instructions to the serjeant rang out through the opened doors. I stood still, listening carefully, recalling our first visit to the bishop.

‘Mathilde, what it is?’

‘Nothing,
mon coeur
.’ I smiled. ‘Just memories.’

I returned to Langton’s chamber. He was now wrapped in a heavy fur-lined cloak; he sat enthroned, gold pectoral winking in the light, fingers fiddling with his episcopal ring. To be sure, there was little priestly about Langton: thick, solid and squat, an untidy mat of iron-grey hair now hiding his tonsure. He looked, in truth, what he was in fact: a clever bully boy. He would have made an excellent captain of the rifflers, those violent gangs in London’s underworld hired by powerful merchants who wished to trade in dagger-thrust and violent swordplay. A clever man, despite his slobbery lips and wine-flushed face. My uncle often quoted the old proverb: ‘You can tell a man’s health by his eyes.’ As I took my seat on the quilted stool, I recalled one just as accurate and ancient: ‘You can also tell a man’s soul by his eyes’; Langton’s, hidden in folded creases of fat, were young and clear, full of arrogant mischief. Gaveston called him a bag of poison or something similar, but Langton was wily and astute. He would have made Edward a cunning ally; instead the king had made him a venomous enemy.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries. I handed over Isabella’s courtesy letter and decided to follow the path I’d chosen. I chattered like a sparrow in spring. How Guido was ill. How both the king and my mistress were concerned about the bishop’s health, particularly the ulcers on his legs. I talked as if highly nervous, spilling out court gossip, and all the time those young, clever eyes in that old, weathered face studied me carefully. I needed to touch Langton, examine those ulcers. He claimed his legs were now healing beautifully. I immediately replied how the danger was not the ulcers but the fresh skin: it must heal completely and not be broken. Langton continued to study me. I undid the clasp of my cloak and the laces to the neck of my gown gathered tightly around my throat. I did so daintily and prettily, leaning forward and smiling at that fox, who truly thought he was hosting a capon for dinner. He asked me to pour some wine and invited me to join him. I did so. I slurped at the goblet and bit into a sweetmeat, dates coated in honey. The sweetness filled my mouth. I cleared my throat and gossiped on, giggling when Langton leaned forward. He gently squeezed one of my breasts, then caressed it admiringly. Eventually he agreed that the ulcers, perhaps, should be inspected. He stood up, threw his robe on to the chair, lifted the linen shift beneath and pulled down his hose as if he was a boy stripping for a swim in the river. He waddled over to the bed and threw himself down, leaning back against the bolsters and patting the coverlet beside him. I went across and pushed back the quilt. The ulcers had healed beautifully to faint red-purplish marks. I examined these, letting my fingers knead the vein-streaked flesh beneath his knee. Langton’s hand came out again and grasped my breast, stroking the nipple. I laughed coyly. Still chattering about the court, I moved from one item to another.

‘The king still pursues the Templars,’ I murmured, hiding my revulsion at that old man’s touch. ‘He believes that New Temple Church conceals their wealth; he is determined to search there.’ Immediately, Langton tensed. I could feel the muscles in the leg go hard and rigid, and his hand fell away. ‘And there is a great to-do amongst the chancery clerks,’ I continued. ‘They are searching for a man, someone who served the old king: John Hot . . . or High . . .’

‘John Highill.’

‘Yes, that’s right!’

The name had slipped out before Langton could stop himself. Again there was that tension. I stood back and stared down at those fleshy legs.

‘My lord,’ I smiled, ‘you are correct: the scars have healed. You are very fortunate. Can I recommend that you wash your legs daily in hot water and some precious soap from Castile, then rinse well. Keep as much irritation as you can off the skin.’

I continued my chatter about the joust between Gaveston and the Portuguese knight; the king’s feastings; what the Court would do at Easter, but I could see I’d hit my mark. Langton was no longer interested in me. He sat on the bed, eyes staring, lips murmuring, lost in his own thoughts. I hastily made my farewells. Demontaigu joined me outside. I put a finger to my lips. We hastened down the steps and out on to the green, where the waiting serjeant escorted us back to the great cobbled yard beyond the Lion Gate. I was excited, pleased at my own cunning, forgetful of danger. Ah well, arrogance is a slippery plank and I paid the price. We’d hardly gone through the gate when I glimpsed Ausel, dressed like a friar, his head shaven, standing on a small barrel lecturing the crowd, drawing them in with the power and oratory of his sermon: ‘May the day perish when I was born. Why did I not die newborn? Perish when I left the womb? If that had happened, I should now be lying in peace, wrapped in restful slumber with the kings and high lords of earth who build themselves vast vaults crammed with precious jewels. Down there in death, bad men bustle no more! There the weary rest for ever . . .’

Demontaigu tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Stay here, Mathilde.’ I stood and watched the people mill across the great cobbled expanse. A group of city bailiffs led prostitutes found touting for custom down to the thews. The poor women’s heads had been completely shorn, and they were forced to wear striped gowns, their humiliation emphasised by two bagpipe players who screeched noisily, attracting a crowd to shout abuse and hurl offal, bones, anything they could lay their hands on. I watched them go even as the Gabriel bell tolled from nearby churches summoning the faithful to say one Pater, Ave and Gloria, as well as stop work for the noonday drink. Scavengers arrived, the great iron-rimmed wheels on the slung carts crashing across the ground. The scavengers, burly men dressed in motley rags, always had an eye for profit: they quickly seized a goose, wrung the bird’s neck and immediately dropped it into a sack hanging on the inside of the cart. The owner ran up protesting, but the chief scavenger referred to the city ordinances: how a goose found wandering where it shouldn’t forfeited all rights; its neck could be wrung and its flesh belonged to the man who found it. The great market area began to empty as people made their way to taverns and alehouses for the noonday refreshments. I stood on tiptoe, wondering where Demontaigu had gone, wishing I had accompanied him. I abruptly felt a presence behind me. I looked over my shoulder and glimpsed a sharp nose and glittering eyes, even as I felt the dagger prick my skin just beneath the shoulder blade.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon?’

‘Yes?’ I tried to control my panic. ‘I am Mathilde de Clairebon. I carry the queen’s warrant.’

‘For all I care, you can carry God Almighty’s!’

I caught the accent and tried to turn; the dagger dug deeper.

‘Very well, Mathilde de Clairebon, do exactly what I say. Walk on. Attempt to scream, run, fight or struggle and this dagger will be through you in less than a heartbeat.’

We went down a ribbon-thin alleyway leading to the Customs House, which fronted the Wool Wharf. I was ordered to keep my hands hanging by my sides and attempt no mischief. My attacker had chosen well. The runnel was narrow and dark, with recesses between the crumbling houses on either side: the path to the underworld, inhabited by spitting cats and thin-ribbed mongrels. Small, shabby alehouses fronted it; gloomy entrances led into deeper darkness; there was the occasional makeshift stall manned by rogues who watched us pass. Counterfeit beggars squatted in nooks and crannies counting their ill-gotten gains.

‘A plump, pleasant capon for the plucking,’ a voice rang out. ‘Remember us when you’re finished!’

My assailant pushed me on; halfway down, he shoved me violently into a small enclosure to my left, a gap between two houses sealed off by a soaring wall. I was pushed against this so hard the stones scored my back. My assailant, one hand holding the dagger beneath my heart, tipped back his deep cowl to reveal a young face, smooth-skinned, eyes glinting with malice. He pressed on the dagger, his ale-soaked breath hot on my face.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon, I am La Maru, formerly a member of Alexander of Lisbon’s entourage. That Portuguese turd, that by-blow of a sow, has now dismissed me. He claimed he had to on the orders of your royal bitch of a mistress. Yet Mathilde,’ he sighed noisily, ‘I was only carrying out orders. I came to this water-drenched cesspit, and after a few days I am turned out of my lodgings, away from my companions.’

He spoke Norman French fluently with that particular Burgundian tone, slightly nasal. My fears passed. I felt cold and watchful. This man had terrorised my mother; now he hoped to do the same to me. He searched me roughly, snatching off my wallet and small purse, a ring from my left hand, a brooch from my gown, a bangle from my wrist. I recalled Langton and acted all simpering, the pretty distressed damoiselle. I know the words and actions to perfection. I pleaded. He thrust his mouth to my ear and whispered some obscenity about my mother. I recognised a killer. He would show me no mercy. La Maru’s soul was full of gloomy halls and sombre rooms; he was whittled away like a rotting tree, the poison deep-soaked. He grew excited, clawing at my breast. I struggled weakly. He lifted the hem of my skirt, his hand searching beneath. My hard cloth belt hindered him. One hand holding the dagger, the other searching my skin, he was trapped.

‘I shall undo my belt,’ I stammered. He agreed. My hands fell to the buckle, then to the narrow sheath, cleverly hidden, holding an Italian blade, long and thin like a bodkin, with a razor tip and sharp serrated edges. I grasped it. La Maru was intent on his pleasures. I thrust deep into the right side of his belly, just beneath the ribcage, a hard upward cut. The shock alone made him drop his dagger. He staggered back, eyes startled, mouth gaping, a hideous gargling at the back of his throat. I followed up and struck again swiftly, deadly.

‘God knows,’ I breathed, ‘I never sought your death.’

La Maru stood shocked, blood spilling out of his nose and mouth like water from a cracked pot. He stared at me, eyes glazing over in death, slumped to his knees and lurched on his side on to the filth-strewn ground. I knelt down, hastily gathering my possessions and his dagger. A shadow moved to my right. I whirled round. A hooded, venomous face peered down at the two daggers I held.

‘The choice is yours!’ I hissed. ‘The same for you,’ I gestured with my hand, ‘or you can take what you want and escort me out of here.’

I have never seen a corpse plundered so swiftly, so expertly just like a pillager on a battlefield. My unexpected visitor, stinking of the alleyway, stripped La Maru’s body, bundling everything into the man’s cloak. I gestured with the daggers.

‘Monsieur, after you.’

He smiled thinly. I brought up the daggers. ‘Others wait for me on the quayside.’ He led me out back down the alleyway. He kept his word. Dark shapes moved out of doorways and recesses but he had drawn his knife, so they slunk back. I gathered he must have made enough profit for a month, let alone a day! When I reached the end of the alleyway, he mockingly waved me forward then disappeared back into the gloom. I went across the cobbles. I was unaware of anyone around me. My body was clammy with sweat, my heart thudding. My dress and gown were dirty, unbuttoned and loosed.

‘Mathilde!’ Demontaigu appeared before me.

I just leaned against him, letting everything slip from my hands to the cobbles. He embraced me, shouting at a beggar man to stay well away. He crouched down and picked up what I had dropped. He helped me lace my dress, put back the bodkin knife and gently escorted me to a nearby alehouse, where he ordered wine and food. He didn’t eat – I recalled that on certain days Demontaigu fasted – he just fed me like a mother would a child. After a while the coldness went. The shivering terrors and fears receded. On reflection, I had no choice. My words to La Maru were the truth. He had brought his own death upon himself. I told Demontaigu what had happened. He listened, and then, as if eager to divert me, said he had been with Ausel, who had told him the rumours amongst the brethren how the Temple still held great treasures. A similar story had originated from Canterbury, where William de la More, master of the Templar order in England, was incarcerated. I nodded in agreement.

‘I know what treasure it is,’ I forced a smile, ‘and where it is hidden.’

Two hours later, washed and changed, I knelt on a cushion decorated with silver asphodels in the king’s own chamber. Edward lounged. Isabella sat to his right, Gaveston on his left, leaning against a table staring intently at me. I had told the queen about my suspicions and she had immediately sought this audience with her husband. Edward’s opulent chamber was littered with boots, spurs, baldrics, belts, cloaks, a knife, even pieces of horse harness. He seemed more interested in the sleek peregrine falcon perched on his wrist, its sharp, neat head hidden by a hood. As I talked, he played with the little bells attached to the bird’s claws. However, when I began to describe my suspicions, he handed the falcon to Gaveston, who put it on a perch near the oriel window at the far side of the room. The king leaned forward, head slightly turned as if he couldn’t believe what I was saying. Gaveston simply nodded in excitement. Isabella, as usual, kept her face impassive, though when I caught her gaze, she winked slowly and smiled in encouragement. Once I had finished, Edward turned in his chair, staring at Gaveston as if disbelieving every word I had uttered.