‘Very, very good. You see, Marguerite,’ the queen dowager turned to the countess, using the French version of her name as she often did, ‘you too must consult with Mathilde when you become pregnant.’
The countess blushed with embarrassment. The queen dowager was about to return to her questioning when Edward and Gaveston came strolling over arm in arm. The king’s face was wreathed in smiles; Gaveston was still tight-lipped, his handsome face, so ivory pale and smooth, reflecting the fury seething within him: eyes glittering, high cheekbones more pronounced, the usually generous lips now a thin, bloodless line.
‘Come, come.’ Edward freed his arm and clapped his hands. ‘Let us celebrate.’ He gestured round. ‘This beautiful morning pales in significance beside the beautiful women who now grace it. Guido, tell us that amusing tale about the old knight, his young wife and the chastity belt with two keys.’
This provoked laughter, and the guests drew closer. Guidio, a born mimic, played out the tale to the assembled company. Edward bawled in merriment at its conclusion, beating a gloved hand against his thigh. The bells of the abbey abruptly tolled, marking the passing hours. Midday would soon be here and gone. Edward whispered to Gaveston, who drifted over towards me. He placed a hand gently on my shoulder and steered me away from the rest, back towards the vaulted entrance to the garden. He paused as if staring at the corbels on either side of the gateway; babewyns and gargoyles glared stonily back, horrid faces with bugling eyes and gaping mouths. From the abbey floated the faint sounds of singing, a hymn to the Virgin Mary — ‘Alma Mater Dulcis’.
‘Poor Pax-Bread is dead,’ Gaveston tapped my shoulder, ‘and all he brought gone, yes, Mathilde?’
I told him exactly what we had learnt. Gaveston gently stroked my shoulder, then squeezed it hard. I stared into that lovely face, those half-open eyes with their lazy, slightly mocking gaze. He leaned down and kissed me full on the lips, then turned back, arm around my shoulder as if we were to enter the gateway.
‘Pax-Bread is dead; he cannot help me any more.’ He glanced down at me. ‘The Poison Maiden has seen to that. I will light a taper to guide him on his way and have a chantry mass sung to help him meet his God. As for his murderer. .’ Gaveston chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Agnes — that was the assassin’s name?’ He shook his head. ‘Not our Agnes! She isn’t the killing sort; too gentle, more used to damask than a dagger. I doubt if she could crush a flea, let alone garrotte a man. Yet. .’ He moved his head from side to side, like a merchant assessing the value of some goods. I recalled Demontaigu’s words from the night before. Gaveston was cold; no mourning for poor Pax-Bread who’d been cruelly murdered for his loyalty to this royal minion.
‘Yet what, my lord?’
‘The seals. Someone close to me must have given them to the murderer.’
‘Or you, my lord?’
Gaveston turned, hands on his hips, and smiled chillingly down at me, so beautiful, so graceful! I could smell the rich perfume, almost feel the warmth of his splendid body through the brocade and taffeta; such an elegant man, with no mark or blemish. Yet there was a darkness there. The favourite bowed mockingly, waggled his fingers at me and swaggered off.
The royal party now made to leave. Edward and Gaveston moved amongst their household retainers distributing small gifts. Isabella, deep in conversation with Mortimer of Wigmore, laughed heartily at some story he was telling. Nearby hovered some of the ladies of her chamber, eager for Isabella to leave so she could change her robes of state. The queen dowager and her novice were paying their respects to burly-faced Abbot Kedyngton, who had joined us late. Guido waved at me and mouthed the word ‘relic’. I grinned back and turned at the touch on my elbow. Agnes, her hood pulled up against the sun, gestured with her hand. I followed her into the shade of a trellis walk. She appeared anxious; she had certainly lost her air of impudent mischievousness.
‘Mistress Mathilde, I ask a favour. Would it be possible to be given a place in the queen’s household? Not her private chamber, but any of her departments, the spicery or the chapel?’
‘You are not happy serving the queen dowager?’
She paused, gently brushing my arm, eyes brimming with tears, lower lip quivering. ‘They are not happy with me. The queen dowager hints that I am too friendly with the French envoys, particularly Seigneur Marigny.’
‘Are you?’
‘Mistress, I have to please so many people, which makes it tiresome. Guido has even questioned whether I spy for them. He has no love for the French envoys and none for their master.’
‘And do you?’
‘Mistress, when the queen dowager meets the envoys, I have to chat and gossip. They single me out, they question me.’ Agnes flailed a hand. ‘I cannot offend them. Mathilde, I do not wish to return to France to some loveless marriage. I like it here, there a freedom. .’
The queen dowager called her name. I hastily assured her that I would do what I could. I asked if she knew of Pax-Bread or a tavern known as the Secret of Solomon. She shook her head, looked at me quizzically and hastened away.
Chapter 9
Sire, if the Lords have done you wrong, it must be put right.
We met the Lords mid-afternoon, deep in the enclosure of the abbey precincts. The garden was ringed on three sides by buildings that soared above us, brooding buttresses, carved cornices, glorious stonework and the occasional stained-glass window that caught the sun and dazzled in brilliant colours. The fourth wall was ornamentally crenellated; it even had a small military gatehouse above its double-door entrance. The abbot’s garden was what a poet might call a subtle conceit. Carefully positioned to catch the sun, it possessed all the elaborate ostentation of a planned garden, with sunken pavements, smoothed lawns, garden plots, herb banks, benches of limestone, turf seats and tunnelled arbours with copper poles tied with willow cord over which rose plants and vine shoots climbed. Small stew ponds glittered. Lead-lined pools splashed and gurgled under water gushing out from fountains carved in the shape of bronze falcons. On either side of the gatehouse four luxurious yew trees blossomed, representing, so the abbot told us, the Blessed Trinity and the Virgin Mary. The central lawn had been prepared for the concilium. An eye-catching pavilion displaying the abbey arms, three doves on a green background, had been erected. Inside stretched a long trestle table covered with waxen cloth; along this, cups, goblets, tranchers and bowls glittered in the light pouring through the vents in the top and sides of the pavilion. The sweet scent of herbs mixed with the fragrance from the bowls of freshly cut flowers and the perfumed smoke from gilt-edged incense boats filled to the brim with burning grains. Chairs and a cluster of stools stood at each end for the Lords and the queen dowager’s party. In the centre, on each side, were throne-like chairs for Robert Winchelsea and Abbot Kedyngton, who would act as mediators and arbitrators.