‘My dearest aunt wishes to send me Goliath’s tooth, which, I suppose, is ten pounds in weight, or has she discovered Veronica’s finger or the Magdalene’s toe?’
‘Your beloved aunt,’ I retorted, ‘now believes you are pregnant.’
Isabella dropped the bolster as I told her what had happened. I half apologised but explained my reasons, especially how such news might gain more time, perhaps startle the king’s opponents into silence. Isabella sat fascinated, head slightly to one side, assessing what I’d said. Her lovely face changed, eyes half closed, skin tight, lips slightly parted as she clicked her tongue. She picked up the fallen bolster and cradled it as if holding a child.
‘Oh Mathilde, you’ve not only released a fox into the hen-coop but locked it in. No, no,’ she laughed, ‘sometimes it’s necessary to lead others by the nose as you would a donkey. I’ll reflect on what you said. In a sense it is mere prattle, but it will be interesting to sow the seed and watch it grow. After all,’ she smiled, ‘that is why I’m here, is it not, to conceive a son?’
‘Or not,’ I replied and told her about my meeting with Guido and what he’d said.
‘Now there’s a flaunting jack,’ Isabella murmured, ‘but what he said could be true. Does Edward wish to get rid of me so as to be alone with Gaveston, or vice-versa?’ She shrugged. ‘Do some of the Lords, those petulant hunchbacked toads, wish me gone because I’m French?’ She smiled thinly. ‘Or there’s himself, a man unfit for any place but hell, and speaking of toads, never hung poison on a fouler one!’
‘My lady?’
‘My father!’ Isabella quipped. ‘Has he sent that unholy trinity Marigny and the rest, treacherous as Judas’ kisses, simply to undo it all?’ She picked up the bolster and threw it down. ‘Think, Mathilde! Philip bitterly opposes Gaveston, so Philip meddles. Edward, besieged in his own kingdom, locked up in his own palace, retaliates. He spurns me, baggage and all. I’m dispatched along the Dover road to a cog ready to take me back to Calais or Boulogne.’ Isabella spread her hands. ‘Philip’s heart is stuffed with deceits; lies lie thick on his tongue. If that happened, Mathilde, my father would have reason for war. He’d appeal to the pope, to the princes of Europe, yes, even to Edward’s disaffected lords. Philip’s troops would overrun Gascony whilst another army landed at Dover. If that happened, my blessed father would be one step closer to being the new Charlemagne of Europe.’
‘Is that possible?’ I asked.
‘A year ago,’ Isabella rose to her feet, ‘did you think the Templars could be so quickly destroyed? Oh yes, I fully understand how the old king, Chapeleys, perhaps even Langton, regarded me as the Poison Maiden, a threat hanging over the English Crown for the last twelve years. Ah well, sorrows never walk alone, but bring a host of others.’ Isabella studied me closely, almost standing on tiptoe as if searching my eyes. ‘I, we, cannot leave here, Mathilde, not to France, certainly not to Philip.’ She patted me on the arm. ‘God save me if I was pregnant; perhaps my sorrows would be halved.’ She walked to the door and turned swiftly. ‘Langton,’ she exclaimed, ‘you must visit Langton again, Mathilde. He is playing the devil’s own game here. God knows if he told Guido the truth. My father always thought the English bishops were idle baits, but not Langton. A true serpent, Mathilde! I’m sure there is more than one clasp of the chain linking our beloved bishop to those disaffected lords. Anyhow, you must return to my blessed aunt. I’m sure she has much more to say. Please reassure her that the workmen are clearing the foul smells of Burgundy Hall, so perhaps she could visit me?’
I made my farewells. As I approached the gatehouse, the sounds of carpenters and masons echoed raucously. Now the Angelus rest was finished, the labourers were returning to their work. Ap Ythel, busy tying the points of his hose, came striding up the path.
‘Mathilde, the queen dowager’s man Guido, that lord of the latrines, has been looking for you. I told him you were still closeted with the queen.’ Ap Ythel smiled. ‘He asked if the new perfume in Burgundy Hall was a Welsh fragrance. I told him it was probably Gascon, but,’ he nodded to the main door of the hall, ‘the workmen have solved the problem. The latrines and gulleys need to be cleansed. It will take a few more days until the stench has gone. Tell our pert Gascon that.’
I promised to do so, my mind on other matters. I reached the upper gallery of the Old Palace and hastened along to the queen dowager’s chamber. I passed a window and glimpsed movement in the yard below. Agnes d’Albret, her cowl half hiding her head and face, slipped out of the line of trees and paused. Another figure followed, a man. He glanced up at the sky, and just for a few heartbeats I recognised Gaveston’s handsome face. Agnes turned and stroked his arm. The favourite grasped her hand, and drawing her closer, kissed her full on the brow and lips before slipping back into the trees. I stood dumbfounded. Agnes might be informing the favourite of what was happening, but was there something else? The way they’d parted seemed more like lovers after a secret assignation. I hurried on. By the time I reached the queen dowager’s apartments, Guido was entertaining her and the countess with stories in the patois of the scholars of the left bank of the Seine, explaining how mariage was slang for hanging; arques petits were little dice, and empz corpses. At the same time he was showing how a dice could be cogged and loaded so it fell the way the thrower wanted, translating it as frouer des gours arques and explaining how such counterfeits must always have an accomplice, a lookout against the Angelz, the archers of the Provost of Paris. Agnes interrupted this, bursting in all hot and flustered. Countess Margaret, however, for reasons best known to herself, suddenly began listing her favourite months of the year. She declared how January was one of these because the last of the Yuletide feasts, the ‘Day of the Boy Bishop’, was celebrated then, and how, in her father’s manor at Oswestry, sausage, meat and game bird were, after the Feast of the Epiphany, hung from the kitchen’s rafters to be smoked and dried.
‘And that smell,’ she declared smilingly. (God knows she could act as witless as a butterfly!) ‘It always makes me feel homely and comfortable.’
The queen dowager took up the point, declaring that June was her favourite month because she could remember the royal gardeners culling the red roses of Provence to be crushed so as to obtain their perfumed, soothing oil whilst their petals were woven into sweet-scented garlands. The conversation moved on to gardens in generaclass="underline" the classic arrangement of sixteen beds, one for each variety of herb, whilst the larger kitchen garden, or hortus, had eighteen, divided by a path into neat rows sheltered from the sun. The queen dowager asked me about the peony. I explained how the plant was named after Paeon, physician to the ancient gods, and was to be regarded as the plant of the moon. Guido mockingly quoted Pliny on the subject; how the peony could be both male and female and should only be garnered at night, whilst a string of dried peony beads were a sure protection against evil.
During the conversation, I watched Agnes closely. She was undoubtedly agitated, refusing to meet my eye, casting about, acting very disconcerted. If she talked, she chattered aimlessly then lapsed into silence. Under my direction, the conversation moved from flowers to the meeting arranged for the morrow after solemn high mass in the abbot’s garden. The queen dowager, after making pleasantries, conceded there was little more she could do. Winchelsea and Lincoln, leaders of the disaffected lords, were demanding the immediate convocation of a parliament to publish their gravimina — their grievances against Gaveston. I intimated how my mistress’ possible pregnancy must not be overlooked. The queen dowager accepted this, but replied that the king would have to concede something to the Lords. Nevertheless, Margaret promised to reflect on what I had told her; she declared that she hoped for the best but planned for the worst.