Mirabile dictu! The effect of my words was startling. Margaret drew back, her face lost that sanctimonious look; no more pious, elegant gestures. She looked abruptly younger, her face harder, those eyes questioning. I could see the beauty there as well as a close resemblance to her brother. Beside her the Countess Margaret just gaped like a landed fish. Agnes clapped her hands excitedly. Guido immediately demanded symptoms and signs. How was the morning sickness, high in the queen’s stomach or low? Would it last the morning or was it assuaged by food? Had she taken dried bread? That could help. I just simpered back how I might be mistaken. I regretted my impetuosity, yet as I’ve said, God knows why I spoke as I did. Perhaps the idea had taken root the previous evening, a symptom of my own desperation or watching Isabella turn like a bird trapped in a house. The king’s opponents had to be distracted, even if it was for a short while, from their relentless pursuit of him. The prospect of an heir might cool their malevolent hostility, lessen the rancour of the Great Lords.
The queen dowager soon recovered from her surprise and said she would light a taper before the Confessor’s tomb. I swore all to secrecy, even though everyone knew such a secret would never remain so at court.
‘Ma belle fille,’ Margaret breathed. ‘No better place for her than here at Westminster, the House of Kings.’
‘And the Virgin’s shrine,’ Countess Margaret breathlessly intervened, ‘its precious relic.’
‘Yes, yes, her grace must wear that, the Virgin’s girdle,’ the queen dowager claimed triumphantly.
Once again we were back to relics. My mind, nimble as a clerk’s pen, skipped and jumped at the implications of what I’d said. The queen dowager and the countess heatedly discussed whether Canterbury on St Swithun’s was the appropriate shrine for Isabella to visit. They were still debating this when we gathered to dine in the queen dowager’s wood-panelled parlour on aloese of beef, pike in gelatine sauce, dishes of peas and onions with sippets. After the platters and tranchers were cleared, Agnes d’Albret excused herself. I did likewise, saying I must wait on the queen to see if all was well, though I would return soon enough. In truth, I wanted to hasten away and warn my mistress. To my horror, Guido the Psalter offered to accompany me whilst the queen’s servants prepared the pears in wine syrup. I had no choice but to smilingly agree. We took our leave. However, once we were in the gallery with its wall paintings depicting the glorious exploits of the Confessor, Guido plucked at my sleeve and took me into a window embrasure overlooking Old Palace Yard. I leaned against the cold plaster while that devilish-eyed, nimble-witted teller of tales once again expressed his joy at the news about the queen. He peered down the gallery to ensure no eavesdropper lurked.
‘Chapeleys,’ he leaned closer, ‘the clerk who was found hanging?’
‘What about him?’
‘Langton’s clerk?’
‘Yes.’
‘I returned early this morning to the Tower. I wanted to ensure Langton’s leg was healing. The king instructed me to do so as well as inform our noble bishop that Chapeleys had committed suicide,’ he shrugged, ‘or been murdered.’ Guido wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Langton talked briefly about Chapeleys. Our fat bishop called him thriftless and unreliable, even hinting that he might have been my lord Gaveston’s spy on him.’
‘And?’ I was impatient to meet my mistress.
‘A fabulist, Langton claimed, Chapeleys was a pickle-brain, a man whose ambition outstripped his talents. An outrageous liar whose tongue must be blistered with his many falsehoods. Langton also told me an incredible story about a French spy or agent called the Poison Maiden, maliciously opposed to the English Crown. He claimed he’d heard similar tales but openly mocked them. Apparently rumours about this Poison Maiden were known to the old king’s chancery clerks, one of whom was Chapeleys. Anyway, Chapeleys informed Langton how he believed that the Poison Maiden, ‘La Demoiselle Venimeuse’, was not a person but a canker at the heart of the kingdom.’
‘Pardon?’ I shook my head, genuinely mystified.
‘Edward’s marriage to Isabella,’ Guido murmured, ‘the alliance between England and France. Chapeleys maintains it provided Philip with a road into the affairs of this kingdom. According to Langton, Chapeleys had chattered about how the old king had agreed to such an alliance under duress, as had our present sovereign. Apparently Chapeleys was a scripture scholar who also specialised in canon law, and he argued that such a marriage, arranged by force and pressure, was invalid. According to him, our present king could have his marriage vows annulled, repudiate Queen Isabella and marry another.’
I stared down into the yard. The day was brightening, yet I was aware of the cold, seeping draughts, of how the trees clustered near the far wall were still black and stark. Winter was not just a season but a state of mind. I hid my disquiet. I’d certainly heard similar gossip. How Isabella’s marriage was forced on the English Crown by the Papacy and the French king through solemn treaty and holy vows. If the English had repudiated it, Gascony, England’s last possession in France, would have been occupied by Philip’s troops. Edward himself had been reluctant to honour such a treaty. He had only agreed because Bruce threatened his northern shires. His Great Lords were bitterly opposed to Gaveston, and Edward could not afford to send ships, men and money to defend the wine-rich province of Gascony, its prosperous port of Bordeaux and the fertile fields and vineyards that stretched beyond.
‘Some of the Lords,’ Guido added, ‘would certainly support the king’s repudiation of the French marriage. Langton also referred to this. I suspect our good bishop was shocked by Chapeleys’ sudden desertion and violent death, hence his garrulousness. According to him, the Lords want to see the back of Gaveston but they might also wish to see Isabella and her dowry returned. They argue how the king could start again, marry a different princess from Hainault, Brabant or even Spain.’ Guido shook his head. ‘I have discussed this with the queen dowager; she believes it is only chaff in the wind.’
‘And Chapeleys?’
‘Apparently he tried to urge Langton to take this matter up with the king, win his freedom, forsake his fellow bishops and, on the king’s behalf, petition the Holy Father for an annulment to his marriage with Isabella.’
‘And would Clement have agreed to that?’
‘According to Chapeleys, Clement might agree if the Templars were suppressed and Edward supported the papacy against Philip. Langton told me this as I tended him. In the end, however, Langton, like the queen dowager, dismissed Chapeleys as a tickle-wit, a malt-worm. At the time, mistress, I thought it was one strand of gossip amongst others until I heard your news: the Queen’s pregnancy would certainly end any talk of an annulment.’
‘Could Chapeleys have been murdered?’ I asked. ‘For what he said?’
Guido pulled a face. ‘Chapeleys was apparently a clack-tongue, eager to escape the Tower. He may have been ready to tell any lie.’
‘So he could have been silenced for what he said? Or perhaps he realised what he was doing, what might happen to him, and turned to despair.’
A door opened further down the gallery; Guido put a finger to his lips. ‘We shall speak later.’ Then he was gone.
I continued on my way. The guards allowed me back into Burgundy Hall. I was halfway along the path when I heard my name called. Ap Ythel came out of a side chamber of the gatehouse and, clutching his sword, hurried up the path. He informed me how Robert the groom, apart from a sore neck — the Welshman grinned at that — was most grateful for my intervention. Robert had asked, if I graciously agreed, could he thank me himself sometime? I absent-mindedly agreed and hurried on to my mistress’ chambers. I found these busy. Maids of the household and other servants were bringing up costly cloths from London merchants eager to gain the queen’s favour. Their precious fabrics were being laid out over chests, coffers, stools and tables. Isabella, golden hair hanging loose, and dressed in a simple russet gown, was assessing the cloth with her household steward, Walter de Boudon. She expressed surprise at my sudden return, but caught my glance and we withdrew into her bedchamber, its coverlets and sheets still in disarray. She grasped a bolster and sat on the edge of the bed like a little girl, legs swinging, looking up at me all expectant.