Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (6 page)

Langton’s chamber, a cavernous cell with a small antechamber, lay next to the Chapel of St John the Evangelist. It was well-furnished room with lancet windows, some shuttered, others screened with horn paper. Turkey rugs warmed the floor and large paintings hung on hooks to offset the grimness of the walls. One in particular caught my attention,
The Parade of the Seven Vices led by Pride
: a mighty bishop stood admiring himself in a mirror held up for him by a grotesque-faced horned demon. I wondered if Gaveston had insisted that the painting be placed prominently beside the good bishop’s bed. Langton himself looked unabashed by his imprisonment or his surroundings.

The room was stifling hot. A fire blazed in the hearth; braziers and chafing dishes crackled and spluttered. Langton, stretched out on the great bed, was dressed in a simple gown, a thick fur cloak over his shoulders, legs and feet already bared. He was impatient for treatment. Guido and I immediately scrutinised the angry-looking red ulcer. The open sore looked clean, with little infection. I recommended it be washed in salt and wine, then treated with crushed ale-hoof or ground ivory as well as powdered moss mixed with grains of dried milk. Guido, surprisingly, as physicians rarely concur, offered to prepare the recipe and asked the waiting Cromwell to bring the necessary ingredients from the Tower stores. I stood back and studied Langton. A burly, red-faced man with popping eyes and a codfish mouth, he had a swollen belly, fat, heavy thighs and short, muscular arms. I found it difficult to imagine him in episcopal robes. Yet for all his weight, he was quick and lithe in his movements. He turned and stared closely up at me, I caught the cunning in his soul, the scrutiny of a sharp, twisting mind.

‘You must be,’ he scratched his thinning grey hair, ‘Isabella the queen’s little shadow.’

The statement proved how much he knew about the doings of the court.

‘Give my most loyal greetings and rich blessings to your mistress, girl.’

‘I will, Father,’ I retorted. ‘As I give you hers and mine.’ Langton stared at me, threw his head back and laughed raucously. Then he flapped his heavy hands, beating the coverlet either side of him.

‘Very, very good,’ he chuckled. ‘Well, girl, let Master Guido do his business, although your soft touch,’ he leered at me, ‘would also be welcome.’

‘Master Guido’s hands are just as soft.’ I bowed and left Guido to his ministrations. Servants arrived with mortar and pestle, a bowl of hot water and phials of powder from the Tower stores. Guido tactfully walked me away.

‘My lord bishop believes in the natural order of things, Mathilde. You are young and female.’

‘If he wants,’ I whispered back, ‘I can go into London and secure the services of a sixty-year-old physician who might prescribe
oleum cataellorum
.’

Guido glanced quizzically at me.

‘Live cats boiled in olive oil,’ I murmured. ‘It won’t cure him, possibly kill him, but will keep his honour intact.’

Guido spluttered with laughter. I patted him gently on the shoulder and walked out of the antechamber. When we had first entered, I had noticed the clerk cowled and hunched at the chancery desk. He was still busy poring over some manuscripts in the light of capped candles. Demontaigu had placed his war belt on a stool nearby and apparently gone into the Chapel of St John. From the chamber behind me Langton’s voice bellowed at Guido. I was about to join Demontaigu when the hooded figure turned abruptly. A peaked white face peeped out of the hood, deep-set eyes and bony features dominated by a nose as hooked as a scythe.

‘Mistress,’ his lips hardly moved, ‘I understand you are from the king. I must go back with you.’ The words came more as a hiss than a whisper.

‘Must, sir?’ I drew closer, aware of my voice echoing. ‘Why must?’

‘My name is Chapeleys,’ the man gabbled. ‘I am a clerk.’ He glanced quickly at the chamber door, tilting his head towards Langton’s bellowing. ‘I am his clerk but I am no prisoner here. I must see the king. I have information.’

I gestured towards the other door. He followed me out into the gloomy recess.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why now?’

‘It is urgent,’ Chapeleys insisted. He drew so close I could smell his fear. ‘I am no prisoner,’ he repeated. ‘I can come and go as I wish. I must see the king.’

I glanced back at the half-open door; the glow of candlelight seemed to have followed us. I became acutely aware of the massy grey stone, the hollow, empty feel of that forbidding place. Chapeleys must have eavesdropped on my conversation with Langton and decided to seize his opportunity. The bishop was the king’s enemy, and therefore, by implication, mine. I glanced at Chapeleys’ peaked face.

‘Why are you so frightened?’

‘I have information,’ Chapeleys retorted. ‘His grace must know it.’

I pointed to the stairwell. ‘If you are free to go, monsieur, then go, take your cloak. You have money?’

Chapeleys replied that he had.

‘Go to the Palace of Westminster,’ I declared. ‘Let no one see you. You know St Benedict’s Chapel in the Old Palace?’

Chapeleys nodded.

‘Stay near the Lady Altar,’ I insisted. ‘I shall meet you there immediately on my return.’

Chapeleys scurried about, and a short while later hastened out cloaked and hooded. I glimpsed the poignard pushed into the sheath on his waist and the small leather chancery pouch that he raised before slipping down the stone staircase. I stood and listened. Langton was still bellowing at Guido. I walked into the Chapel of St John, lit by a host of candles glowing around the statue of the Evangelist. Their flickering light illuminated a grisly wall-painting of St John being boiled alive, though he emerged unscathed from his torments. Demontaigu was kneeling before the statue of the Evangelist, hands clasped, head down. I went over and joined him.

‘
Mon coeur
.’ My hand brushed his.

‘How is Langton?’ He turned.

I shrugged. ‘Another fat shepherd bemoaning his lot.’

Demontaigu smiled. I quickly told him about Chapeleys. He put a finger to his lips and drew me deep into the shadows on the other side of the statue. For a while he just crouched staring into the darkness.

‘Mathilde,’ he turned, ‘you called me
mon coeur
; so I am, as you are mine.’

‘Even though you are a priest?’ I teased, blinking back the tears.

‘What I am, Mathilde, is not what I feel. To be close to you is to be . . .’ He paused.

‘Loved?’ I asked, aware of my question echoing around that cavernous chamber, its juddering light bringing the frescoes to life.

‘Loved!’ he agreed. ‘To be with you is to feel a fullness I have never experienced before. Oh yes,’ he winked, ‘I have said enough.’ He grasped a tendril of my hair. ‘Sometimes, Mathilde, I believe in nothing except you. You are my God, my religion.’ He stroked my cheek with a finger then his hand dropped away. ‘Oh Mathilde, I know that I am also a priest, a Templar whose beloved order has been destroyed. I and my companions are being hunted down like rats in a barn. A year ago we were the glory of Europe; now the kings of the earth have turned against us. No, listen, Mathilde.’ He brushed aside any interruption. ‘Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales are back in England. They act on the authority of the pope; Philip of France has seen to that. They hunt not only us, but our treasure, our relics. For now, Mathilde, don’t be anxious, I am safe. I have explained that being a
nuntius
, a messenger of my order, I rarely stay in one place long enough for Philip’s agents to acquaint themselves with me. Others are not so fortunate; they must keep to the shadows.’ He glanced quickly over my shoulder. ‘You also know that when we can, we strike back. Now one of our serjeants, a Frenchman named Jean Ausel, and others have arrived in this country to wreak vengeance. Ausel is an assassin, a skilled killer, a warrior. He also searches for our treasure, some of which – indeed, a great deal of which,’ Demontaigu added bitterly, gesturing at the door, ‘was held by Langton before he fell. If Ausel were here, Mathilde, he would kill Langton. Now Chapeleys wishes to flee. I wonder if he knows something about the lost treasure.’

‘Bertrand,’ I asked, a nameless fear almost choking my breath, ‘what is going to happen?’

‘I cannot say, Mathilde,’ he replied hoarsely, ‘but Chapeleys is a symptom of the times. Men are choosing sides. Langton has chosen his. If he was free he would go along with Winchelsea and the rest. This business at Westminster, the king and his lords, they spin like two hawks locked in flight and neither can break free. The king will have to go to war, yet he has no strength. Gaveston could be arrested and killed, Edward would never let such a matter rest. Meanwhile Philip of France is meddling furiously. We still have friends close to Philip’s secret chancery. They claim Philip intends to bring about a revolution in England.’

He shook his head at my exclamation.

‘The French king is casting his net far and wide. Rumours shed no light, but gossip from Philip’s secret chancery claims that he is using someone called the Ancilla Venenata.’

‘The Poison Maiden?’ I exclaimed.

Bertrand lifted his hand. I listened. The faint hum of conversation had died. We clambered quickly to our feet. I left Demontaigu in the chapel and returned to Langton’s chamber. Guido had finished and was washing his hands at the lavarium just inside the doorway. Langton was making himself comfortable on the bed. I quietly prayed that he would not call for Chapeleys, but he was more concerned with his goblet of wine. Guido dried his hands, turned and bowed. Langton fluttered his fingers and we were gone.

Cromwell and a group of archers escorted us back down through the Lion Gate. The constable made his swift farewells and we walked on to the quayside. The afternoon was drawing on. Stinking, vulgar gusts of smoke billowed across from the nearby tanning sheds. Assayers of the Fish were arguing with oystermen; these had brought in their catches and were waiting to unload baskets on to the quayside. The assayers, however, insisted that they check the baskets to ensure that the oysters were fresh and not the remains of the previous day’s haul. The oystermen were furious in their own defence.

A line of fleshing carts was also off-loading supplies, messy hunks of freshly slaughtered meat. Blood swilled across the cobblestones, and the butchers had to fight off a pack of hungry dogs as well as a crowd of beggars who scrambled on all fours hunting for scraps. River pirates, four in number, were kneeling on the edge of the quayside, nooses around their necks. An undersheriff bellowed out their crimes to a crowd of curious bystanders as a Crutched Friar, hand raised in blessing, moved from man to man to give absolution. I caught the words
ad aeternam vitam
– ‘to eternal life’. The undersheriff heartily agreed with this. The friar had scarcely finished when the red-faced law officer simply kicked each of the condemned men over the edge of the quayside. The drop to the water below was long; the nooses around the prisoners’ necks tightened brutally. I could hear the strangled gasps and groans as the undersheriff bellowed how the corpses would hang for three turns of the tide and would not be released for burial until then. As we continued to push our way through the throng, a carrying voice caught our attention. Demontaigu paused and whirled round.

‘Hurry if you wish,’ the voice bellowed. ‘Listen, sons of Esau,
vilior est humana caro quam pellis ovina
– man’s flesh is more worthless than sheepskin.’

A preacher dressed in garish rags advanced through the throng towards us. He was of medium height, hair cut close about a lean, sun-darkened face. Beside him scampered a hideous beggar on all fours, wooden slats fastened to his knees, one more in each hand, his filthy face half hidden by matted hair.

‘Know ye,’ the preacher paused before us and pointed at the beggar, ‘how low he is, yet when a man dies, he is lower than this: his nose grows cold, his face turns white, his nerves and brain break, his heart splits in two. Oh so repent! If not today, then tomorrow at the darkening hour. Go to church with all your brethren. Be not hanged like Judas! Confess your sins!’ The preacher swept away, the beggar clattering beside him.

Guido muttered some witticism and hastened down the river-stained steps to the waiting barge.

‘Ausel has delivered his message,’ Demontaigu whispered.

I glanced at him in puzzlement.

‘Tomorrow,’ Demontaigu murmured, ‘around Vespers, the brothers will meet at the Chapel of the Hanged.’ He would say no more. We hurried down and climbed into the barge. The ropes were cast off and we made our way back to Westminster.

The journey was uneventful. Master Guido made us laugh with his mimicry of Langton – so sharp and accurate I almost forgot about Chapeleys. Langton’s man was a chancery clerk, so the guards would admit him into the palace precincts. To be sure, Westminster Palace has changed; it is always changing, and that is the problem. New buildings, old buildings, wings added to this or that. Little wonder the king had built Burgundy Hall, his self-contained manor house. Some of the palace buildings dated back to the Conqueror’s time and even before that. A warren of dark winding passageways, outside staircases, makeshift bridges and countless outhouses ranged around yards and gardens. A host of names described this cluster of buildings, which extended further than a large village: the Pastry Yard, the Paved Passage, the Royal Buttery, the Privy Kitchen, the Inner Court, the Outer Court, the Fish Court, the Fleshers’ Court, the Boulevard, the Vintners’ Ward: a maze of buildings, baileys, outhouses, chancery and exchequer offices. I found it bewildering. Demontaigu, however, had carefully studied the tangled spread. He knew its secret ways and forgotten postern doors because, as he explained, a fugitive like himself must always be prepared to flee. Such words chilled me. I asked him about Ausel, but he shook his head and led me across a garden, still frozen hard, in through a sombre-looking doorway, down a dark passageway, up a staircase and into the gloomy Chapel of St Benedict.