‘Bertrand,’ I called. ‘What did you say?’
He turned and grinned. ‘You, Mathilde, are honey-sweet.’
I went through the gatehouse, past the guards, still enjoying the compliment as a chamberlain ushered me up the stairs, along the gallery to my mistress’ lodgings, a collection of chambers consisting of vestibule, antechamber, parlour and bedchamber. I was primly informed that the queen had retired but had been asking for me. Isabella was in her bedchamber, a dark-panelled room with heavy oaken furniture: tables, stools, aumbries and chests. The large bed was a stark contrast, brilliantly adorned with blue and gold drapes and coverlets fringed with silver. Isabella was sitting at a small table ringed in a glow of candle prickets with a chafing dish full of burning coals providing warmth. She was dressed simply in a white shift, shoulders and feet bare. I noticed the red scratch marks on her right arm; the skin looked irritated. She was more concerned in fashioning small images, using the candle flame to soften the wax, pushing it intently, decorating the figurines with scraps of cloth, parchment and small items of jewellery. I recognised the signs. Isabella was deeply agitated. She glanced up as I went to curtsy.
‘I have been looking for you, Mathilde. I had to tend to myself, though I did talk to Marie.’ She pushed back her hair.
I curtsied to hide my own agitation. Isabella was referring to a maid who had died some years ago but returned to have conversations with the queen whenever she was troubled.
‘Has Marie left?’ I asked. Isabella did not answer. She beckoned me forward. I excused myself, returned to the parlour and brought back a small pot of precious oleander. I sat on the stool beside her and, without bidding, treated the rash on her arm. Isabella watched me clean the skin and spread the paste.
‘I should add a little witch-hazel to the water you wash with,’ I murmured.
‘Never mind that,’ Isabella snapped.
I glanced up. My mistress had lost that girlish look. I glimpsed the mature woman she would be, long-faced, mouth set, eyes unwavering in their stare.
‘Where have you been, Mathilde? I needed you! I looked for you.’ She pinched my arm. ‘You did not tell me.’
‘I shall now.’ I described what had happened. At the mention of the Poison Maiden, Isabella picked up a waxen figure crowned with a piece of parchment, I recognised it as her father, a pinprick through its middle. She held it over a candle flame and began to pummel it with her fingers. After I’d finished speaking, she sat staring at the effigy.
‘I must tell his grace all this,’ she declared. ‘I am to join him later. Strange,’ she smiled at me, ‘only twice have I heard the Poison Maiden being mentioned: something my father said years ago, a chance comment, nothing else. .’
‘And the second?’
‘Stranger still, a remark my husband made at the banquet this evening. He asked me: “Isabella, are you the Poison Maiden?” then turned away laughing. Oh, by the way,’ Isabella picked up another wax image, ‘Marigny demanded to know why I retained you. Why I did not send you back to your mother at her farm near Bretigny.’
‘And?’ I kept my voice steady.
‘I told him that what I did was my own concern. My lord Gaveston overheard; he said you were a loyal subject of the English Crown whose favour you enjoyed.’
‘And the Viper?’ I tried to curb my fear. Marigny’s reference to my mother, a widow on a lonely farm, was a brutal threat.
‘Oh, he just smiled in that nasty way of his and walked away.’ Isabella touched my cheek. ‘Don’t worry: they hunt more majestic prey — my husband.’ She picked up a piece of wax, warmed it over a candle flame and began to mould it. ‘They believe they can remove Gaveston but they are wrong, that is not the truth. Why is it, Mathilde, that people claim truth speeds like an arrow? Truth is more like a snake. It uncoils and slithers backwards and forwards. Or like a painting on a wall — it doesn’t come in one flow but drop by drop. Only after a while do you realise what is forming.’
‘Mistress?’
‘I’ll not speak in parables.’ She laughed. ‘The Great Lords and my father demand that Gaveston be put away, but Gaveston is not just my husband’s favourite; he is his home. Do you understand?’
I shook my head.
‘I’ve realised a truth!’ Isabella continued passionately. ‘I have been reflecting on it. Home is not a place, Mathilde; it’s more a hunger, here,’ she tapped her chest, ‘deep, deep in the recesses of the heart. It is a completion, a fullness, a peace. I have no home, Mathilde. Father sees me as a marriage pawn, as he did my mother. He never truly protected me against my brothers but let me float like a feather in the breeze or grass on the surface of a pool.’ She picked up an effigy and pressed the head. ‘I have no home. Edward has, and I envy him that. I understand his love for Gaveston. Gaveston is his father, mother, brother, sister, friend and lover. He is Edward’s reason for living. So the king and his favourite will fight to the death to protect what is theirs. God save me, I understand them! I’d do the same. Winchelsea and others of his coven believe I’m outraged. In truth,’ she let the wax fall from her hands, ‘I couldn’t care. Edward is a good lord. Gaveston respects me. Neither do me any hurt-’
‘But. .’ I interrupted. Isabella’s face turned fierce.
‘One day, Mathilde, I shall find my home, my resting place, and I shall never give it up, never!’ She touched her arm. ‘I thank you for your news. Now I must prepare myself.’ She rose and patted me on the shoulder. ‘I shall remember what you said.’
I helped Isabella anoint herself and dress. The hour candle had burnt another ring before the chamberlains arrived. Isabella, as beautiful as an angel, kissed me passionately on the cheek and swept out. I secured the door and doused all the candles except that which marked the hours and another on the table near the bed. I sat down and stared at it, reflecting on what Isabella had said. I fully agreed. My hatred for Philip and his coven sprang from their destruction of my home in Paris, their savage persecution of the Temple and the ghastly, humiliating execution of my dear uncle. Now they threatened what I had left: Isabella and Demontaigu were my new home. I doused the candle next to the bed and lay down, wondering when this, my new home, would be free of all danger.
The next morning Demontaigu celebrated his mass, long before the Prime bell tolled. I had slipped across the dark, freezing palace grounds and knocked at his chamber door. He had already prepared the altar. Once I arrived, he celebrated his low mass, reciting special prayers for the souls of Chapeleys and Rebecca Atte-Stowe. Afterwards, whilst he cleared the makeshift altar, I went down across the kitchen yard to beg bread, cheese, salted bacon and a jug of ale from a heavy-eyed cook. We broke our fast and returned to the mysteries confronting us. I sat at Demontaigu’s chancery desk. The cold seeped through the shutters, rain pattered against the horn-covered windows and the abbey bells pealed out announcing the day.
‘These problems concern us,’ I began. ‘Chapeleys was a high-ranking clerk in Langton’s household; that good bishop is important to the king. Chapeleys was desperate to share something with our royal master. He surrendered himself to our care but died in our custody, here, in your chamber. Berenger may wash his hands, but the King will not be pleased. So. .’
I dipped the sharpened quill into the ink and wrote as I spoke.
‘Primo: what did Chapeleys know? Secundo: why was he so frightened? Tertio: how did he truly die? Quarto: who, apart from us, knew he was here? Quinto: how could an assassin enter and leave through a door that remained locked and bolted from the inside whilst the window-door appears to have been opened only by the victim? Sexto: if his death was an assassin’s work, why did Chapeleys, still vigorous and armed, not resist? Septimo: if Chapeleys was under instruction to be careful about opening that door, as well as being so frightened, he would scarcely admit the assassin. So, and we now move back in the circle, how did the assassin gain entry and commit such an act, so swiftly, so quietly? Octavo: did Chapeleys burn the contents of his chancery bag or was that the work of the murderer?’