Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden (7 page)

The chapel was no more than a square vaulted room, where flickering sconce torches illuminated the wall paintings, most of which were of birds and symbols from Scripture: the phoenix, the pelican, the mermaid. I recall one painting: an owl mobbed by magpies, an allegory on how the idle busybodies and gossips of this world mock wisdom. I wondered if Chapeleys was a wise man. The small chancel was hidden in gloom, but the Lady Chapel to the right glowed in candlelight. Chapeleys was sitting there on a stool, staring up at a statue of the Virgin depicted as the Queen of Heaven embracing the Holy Infant. As soon as he saw us, he leapt to his feet and shuffled out of the half-light like some timorous mouse. He looked askance at Demontaigu until I introduced him as one of the queen’s clerks.

‘I must see the king, I must see the king!’ Chapeleys glanced around at the silhouettes dancing against the walls. A rat scuttled across the chipped tiled floor. Fingers to his lips, he moaned and clutched the chancery pouch more tightly, as if it was a talisman against the menacing gloom. I could not calm him or make sense of the clammy dread that held him fast. I explained that he could not see the king immediately – it was the Eve of the Annunciation and that night Edward intended to feast and celebrate in the great hall, a gesture of friendship towards the Great Lords and the French envoys. In truth, it was a mere sop to prolong matters even further.

‘Yes, yes.’ Chapeleys nodded. ‘What then?’

‘You can stay with me,’ Demontaigu declared. He was studying Chapeleys curiously as if assessing his worth. ‘You are Langton’s clerk?’

‘Of course I am!’

‘His treasure,’ Demontaigu took a step forward, ‘you know where his treasure is?’

Chapeleys would have scuttled away if I hadn’t grasped his arm.

‘Monsieur,’ I gestured with my hand for Demontaigu to stand back, ‘the questions my friend is asking will be repeated when you meet the king. His grace will demand answers. But for the moment, no more questions.’

Chapeleys seemed comforted. He followed us out of the chapel and down into an empty courtyard. We crossed the grounds, up into a wing of the Old Palace where Demontaigu lodged.

‘It’s safe here.’ Demontaigu, breathing heavily as we reached the top of the stairs, pointed down the ill-lit passageway. ‘My chamber is in the corner. It was once part of the royal quarters, so the door is secured by bolts and lock.’

Chapeleys appeared reluctant.

‘There is no other place,’ I explained. ‘You will be safe. I swear that, Master Chapeleys.’

At last he agreed, and Demontaigu unlocked his chamber. The door was heavy, reinforced with iron studs and metal clasps; the hinges were of thick, hard leather. The lock, probably fashioned by a skilled London craftsman, was fitted in the door so the key could be turned from both the outside and the inside. Demontaigu locked it behind us and pulled the bolts across, then stood back, aware of how he must not frighten this cowed clerk any further.

‘Look, sir!’ I pleaded. ‘You will be safe.’

Chapeleys stared around Demontaigu’s chamber. In the poor light, it looked like a monastic cell, the walls lime-washed, a crucifix hanging above the cot-bed, the windows all shuttered. Demontaigu opened two of these whilst I took a tinder and lit the capped candles and lantern horn. Chapeleys went round patting the wall, even checking the shutters; finally he moved into the far recess. Demontaigu’s chamber was unique. It stood on a corner, and in one wall was a small window-door about five feet high and a yard across. In former times it must have been used to draw up supplies from carts waiting in the yard below. Near this a great iron clasp driven into the wall held one end of a coil of rope that could be used to escape from the chamber if a fire broke out. Chapeleys satisfied himself that the window-door was barred and bolted, then came back and sat on a stool, staring around. He still clutched his chancery bag. I was tempted to ask him what it contained, but the man was sorely affrighted.

Demontaigu left, saying he would bring some bread, cheese and a jug of wine. Chapeleys kept to his own musings as I walked around. I sat on the bed, stared at the crucifix, then across at the chancery desk and its high-backed chair beneath one of the windows. Everything was tidy: no parchments, nothing out of place. I went across and lifted the lid of a chest. Inside there were some scrolls and books. I picked one up, a beautifully covered psalter, but hastily put it back, feeling guilty at such intrusion. The chamber was stark and very austere; apart from the crucifix, nothing decorated the walls. The drapes on the bed were neat, the bolsters carefully placed. On a small table beside the bed was a cup, a candlestick and a night light; on a stool near the door more jugs and cups. Demontaigu was both a priest and a soldier, and the chamber reflected this. Yet it wasn’t cold; there was something warm and welcoming about it, safe and secure.

Demontaigu returned. I had bolted the door behind him, and as I now drew these back, Chapeleys jumped to his feet as if expecting a horde of armed men to invade the room. Demontaigu made him sit at the table and poured him a goblet of wine; he even cut his bread and cheese, treating him as tenderly as a mother would a frightened child. I watched carefully. At first Chapeleys was reluctant to eat, but at last he took a generous swig of wine and seemed to relax. Demontaigu pushed a brazier closer to him.

‘Listen, man.’ Demontaigu crouched beside Chapeleys, hand resting on his arm. ‘You may sleep here. If you must,’ he gestured at the dagger still pushed in Chapeleys’ belt, ‘carry that close. Once we leave, do not open that door to anyone except myself or someone we send. Do you understand?’

Chapeleys, his mouth full of bread and cheese, nodded.

‘I will see the king?’ he spluttered.

‘Tomorrow morning after the Jesus mass,’ I reassured him.

Chapeleys, a little more comforted, undid his cloak and let it fall over the back of the chair. Demontaigu followed me to the door.

‘I must go,’ I said, staring up at him. ‘My mistress waits. We must prepare for the banquet tonight. You will come?’

‘I am one of the household,’ he replied smilingly. ‘I must be there. I will settle this anxious soul, then return to my chancery office.’ He lifted my hand, kissed it and opened the door, and I slipped out into the cold darkness. I made a mistake that night. I thought Chapeleys was safe. In fact he was no more than a condemned man, waiting for execution to be carried out.

The banquet later that evening was a splendid affair. Edward had agreed to it at the request of the queen dowager.

‘On that evening,’ he proclaimed, ‘all animosity and hostility will be set aside. We will entertain both the French envoys and the leading lords to a splendid feast in the great dining hall at Burgundy.’

I spent the time before the banquet helping my mistress to prepare for it. Isabella was determined to look magnificent. She did, in a gown of white satin decorated with roses, a crimson girdle around her waist, a golden chaplet of silver lilies with a net of gold sewn with pearls over her magnificent blond hair. She and her husband, also gorgeously attired in a gown of blanched damask embroidered with golden lions, led the principal guests into the hall. Behind them strolled Gaveston, dressed in purple and white silk, holding the hand of his wife Margaret. He bowed to the left and the right as if he was the most favoured person on earth. The rest followed: Queen Dowager Margaret in a high-necked dress of dark green, a white veil framing her prim features; behind her, the principal lords, Lancaster, Lincoln, Pembroke and Hereford, clustered around Robert de Winchelsea, who was garbed in plain brown robes as if he wished to proclaim his austerity and asceticism to all. The Grande Chambre of Burgundy Hall was ablaze with light from hundreds of beeswax candles fixed in their spigots and holders. A range of great Catherine wheels, lowered on pulleys from the raftered ceiling, their rims holding a host of more candles, provided further light. The walls were covered with tapestries and hangings depicting lions and eagles, clear homage to the king and Gaveston, in gold, green, violet and red, whilst silver crowns and golden leopards intermingled with painted scenes from the great romance of Tristan and Isolde. At the top of the Chambre, the royal table on the long high dais was covered by a gorgeous canopy of cloth of gold fringed with silver tassels. The table itself was sheeted with ivory-coloured damask. On this the silver and jewel-encrusted goblets, cups, mazers, bowls and jugs shimmered brilliantly around a magnificent salt cellar carved in the shape of a castle and studded with precious stones. On either side of the dais were ranged two other tables similarly adorned, with a fourth completing the square.

To the left of the tables a fierce fire roared in a huge, elegantly carved hearth. At the far end of the Grande Chambre, above a moulded wooden screen, a loft housed the royal musicians, who, with lyre, fife, harp, tambour and other instruments, played soft melodious tunes. These were soon drowned by the blast of trumpets announcing the beginning of the banquet. Winchelsea intoned the grace, bestowing his ‘Benedicite’ in a peevish voice. The trumpets blared again and the royal cooks paraded into the hall carrying the main dish, a huge boar’s head, its flared nostrils and curving tusks ringed and garnished with rosemary and bay. While the cooks circled the tables, a boy in the music loft carolled the famous invitation:

The feasting began. Napkins of white linen worked in golden damask and decorated with flowers, knots and crowns were shaken loose. Cups glittering with jasper, agate, beryl or chalcedoni were brimmed from the finest casks of Gascony wines. The fluted, silver-edged glasses set before each guest were filled with sweet wines such as vernage and osey. Dish after dish streamed from the kitchens: white broth with almonds, leg of mutton in lemons, capons in deuce, aloes of beef. The king intended to impress his opponents with this display of royal lavishness. The ‘only blemish in the cream’, to quote the old proverb, were certain rank smells and fetid odours plaguing the galleries and passageways of Burgundy Hall. I had also noticed these, whilst just before the feast, Isabella had complained loudly about them. She rightly declared that they had been noticeable for the last three days, and insisted that the easement chambers, latrines, sewers and garderobes be cleaned and purged.

The Grande Chambre had been specially perfumed against this, but other matters soon demanded my attention. I sat at the table facing the dais and watched the drama being played out. Edward, his golden hair now crowned with a jewelled chaplet, was deep in conversation with Gaveston on his right. On his left, Isabella sat like a beautiful statue, staring unseeingly down the hall, playing the role of the vulnerable, neglected wife to perfection. Next to her the two saintly Margarets were passing something between them. They lifted their hands in unison as if carolling the Alleluia. I quickly surmised they had found a new relic. The French envoys had been separated and placed amongst the great English lords. I recognised the portly Abbot of St Germain. He had the balding head and shiny face of an overweight cherub. I was more interested in my enemies, led by Marigny, lean of face and red of hair. Even from where I sat, I could almost catch his cynical glance, those lips ever ready to curl in derision. Then the other two demons: Nogaret the lawyer, the constant smile on that bloated bag of a face belied by the pursed lips and contemptuous eyes; and next to him Plaisans, Nogaret’s alter ego, an angry-faced man who reminded me of a mastiff with his jowly jaws and aggressive mouth. The rest I knew by sight. Winchelsea the Prophet, with his lean face, sunken cheeks and darting eyes, sat next to Lancaster and Despencer, whilst Lincoln, a white-haired and pleasant-faced courtier, listened intently to Nogaret and Plaisans. I glimpsed Marigny lean back and snap his fingers. A shadow deeper than the rest stepped forward and filled the Viper’s goblet. I recognised the dark, handsome face of Alexander of Lisbon, leader of the Noctales. Dressed in black like a priest for a requiem, Alexander apparently also served as the Viper’s cup-bearer. I smiled to myself. Marigny apparently trusted no one! I glanced down my own table to see if Demontaigu had also glimpsed his enemy, but he was deep in conversation with a servitor. I wondered about the meeting planned for the morrow at the Chapel of the Hanged.

‘You are not eating, mistress?’

I turned. Agnes d’Albret was smiling at me. She pointed to my bowl of white almond, the silver trancher with its strips of beef. I grasped the silver-edged knife and cut a slice.

‘I am glad I sit next to you,’ simpered Agnes, determined on making conversation. She touched the red pimples at the side of her mouth. I recommended camphor and vinegar mixed with celandine water. ‘Wash three times a day,’ I smiled, ‘and keep your face free of powders and unguents; they pollute the skin.’ Agnes was clever. She used her petty ailments to draw me into conversation about my knowledge of physic, my days in France, as well as my service with Isabella, who, whenever I glanced up, still sat as if carved out of marble whilst her husband roistered with Gaveston. The lesser courses were served. I was prudent about what I drank, as was Agnes, who, in mocking tones, speculated on the king’s problems and his love for Gaveston. I kept my own counsel. I recognised Agnes to be a shrewd and subtle soul hiding behind a constant smile while she watched and judged. A scholarly mind as well: she could comment knowledgeably on
Tristan and Isolde
whilst referring to the wonders of Friar Bacon’s
Opera Maioria
and his reputation as a possible sorcerer.

I was relieved when, just before the frumenty was served, jesters and tumblers appeared: those
joculatores
, small dwarves, male and female, whom Edward and Gaveston loved. These cavorted around the hall, jumping and tumbling, whistling, singing and farting raucously. They introduced themselves as Henry the Horny, Matilda Make-love, Griscot the Groper and Mago the Mewler. These
minstrelli
– little servants – could do what they wanted. They aped Winchelsea’s pious walk, one standing on the shoulders of the other, and, just as the archbishop looked as if he was about to take offence, they turned their attention to Edward and his favourite, imitating the way the pair of them sat, drank and ate as if joined at the hip. The entire assembly burst into laughter, led by the king and Gaveston, who pelted the dwarves with precious items and sent them scattering around searching for these prizes. The frumenty was then served, followed by tarts and quinces. The king left his seat to circulate amongst the guests. Agnes and I had risen to join our mistresses when a serjeant-at-arms, his royal livery rain-soaked, slipped into the hall. He immediately went across to Demontaigu, who been accosted by master Guido. From Demontaigu’s expression, I could tell some major hurt had occurred. He spoke briefly to Guido and beckoned me across. Agnes followed, intrigued by the interruption. I had no choice but to let her. Demontaigu didn’t wait. He and Guido hurried from the hall out into the kitchen yard. Men-at-arms stood about, their torches spluttering in the wet.