‘The king still pursues the Templars,’ I murmured, hiding my revulsion at that old man’s touch. ‘He believes that New Temple Church conceals their wealth; he is determined to search there.’ Immediately, Langton tensed. I could feel the muscles in the leg go hard and rigid, and his hand fell away. ‘And there is a great to-do amongst the chancery clerks,’ I continued. ‘They are searching for a man, someone who served the old king: John Hot. . or High. .’
‘John Highill.’
‘Yes, that’s right!’
The name had slipped out before Langton could stop himself. Again there was that tension. I stood back and stared down at those fleshy legs.
‘My lord,’ I smiled, ‘you are correct: the scars have healed. You are very fortunate. Can I recommend that you wash your legs daily in hot water and some precious soap from Castile, then rinse well. Keep as much irritation as you can off the skin.’
I continued my chatter about the joust between Gaveston and the Portuguese knight; the king’s feastings; what the Court would do at Easter, but I could see I’d hit my mark. Langton was no longer interested in me. He sat on the bed, eyes staring, lips murmuring, lost in his own thoughts. I hastily made my farewells. Demontaigu joined me outside. I put a finger to my lips. We hastened down the steps and out on to the green, where the waiting serjeant escorted us back to the great cobbled yard beyond the Lion Gate. I was excited, pleased at my own cunning, forgetful of danger. Ah well, arrogance is a slippery plank and I paid the price. We’d hardly gone through the gate when I glimpsed Ausel, dressed like a friar, his head shaven, standing on a small barrel lecturing the crowd, drawing them in with the power and oratory of his sermon: ‘May the day perish when I was born. Why did I not die newborn? Perish when I left the womb? If that had happened, I should now be lying in peace, wrapped in restful slumber with the kings and high lords of earth who build themselves vast vaults crammed with precious jewels. Down there in death, bad men bustle no more! There the weary rest for ever. .’
Demontaigu tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Stay here, Mathilde.’ I stood and watched the people mill across the great cobbled expanse. A group of city bailiffs led prostitutes found touting for custom down to the thews. The poor women’s heads had been completely shorn, and they were forced to wear striped gowns, their humiliation emphasised by two bagpipe players who screeched noisily, attracting a crowd to shout abuse and hurl offal, bones, anything they could lay their hands on. I watched them go even as the Gabriel bell tolled from nearby churches summoning the faithful to say one Pater, Ave and Gloria, as well as stop work for the noonday drink. Scavengers arrived, the great iron-rimmed wheels on the slung carts crashing across the ground. The scavengers, burly men dressed in motley rags, always had an eye for profit: they quickly seized a goose, wrung the bird’s neck and immediately dropped it into a sack hanging on the inside of the cart. The owner ran up protesting, but the chief scavenger referred to the city ordinances: how a goose found wandering where it shouldn’t forfeited all rights; its neck could be wrung and its flesh belonged to the man who found it. The great market area began to empty as people made their way to taverns and alehouses for the noonday refreshments. I stood on tiptoe, wondering where Demontaigu had gone, wishing I had accompanied him. I abruptly felt a presence behind me. I looked over my shoulder and glimpsed a sharp nose and glittering eyes, even as I felt the dagger prick my skin just beneath the shoulder blade.
‘Mathilde de Clairebon?’
‘Yes?’ I tried to control my panic. ‘I am Mathilde de Clairebon. I carry the queen’s warrant.’
‘For all I care, you can carry God Almighty’s!’
I caught the accent and tried to turn; the dagger dug deeper.
‘Very well, Mathilde de Clairebon, do exactly what I say. Walk on. Attempt to scream, run, fight or struggle and this dagger will be through you in less than a heartbeat.’
We went down a ribbon-thin alleyway leading to the Customs House, which fronted the Wool Wharf. I was ordered to keep my hands hanging by my sides and attempt no mischief. My attacker had chosen well. The runnel was narrow and dark, with recesses between the crumbling houses on either side: the path to the underworld, inhabited by spitting cats and thin-ribbed mongrels. Small, shabby alehouses fronted it; gloomy entrances led into deeper darkness; there was the occasional makeshift stall manned by rogues who watched us pass. Counterfeit beggars squatted in nooks and crannies counting their ill-gotten gains.
‘A plump, pleasant capon for the plucking,’ a voice rang out. ‘Remember us when you’re finished!’
My assailant pushed me on; halfway down, he shoved me violently into a small enclosure to my left, a gap between two houses sealed off by a soaring wall. I was pushed against this so hard the stones scored my back. My assailant, one hand holding the dagger beneath my heart, tipped back his deep cowl to reveal a young face, smooth-skinned, eyes glinting with malice. He pressed on the dagger, his ale-soaked breath hot on my face.
‘Mathilde de Clairebon, I am La Maru, formerly a member of Alexander of Lisbon’s entourage. That Portuguese turd, that by-blow of a sow, has now dismissed me. He claimed he had to on the orders of your royal bitch of a mistress. Yet Mathilde,’ he sighed noisily, ‘I was only carrying out orders. I came to this water-drenched cesspit, and after a few days I am turned out of my lodgings, away from my companions.’
He spoke Norman French fluently with that particular Burgundian tone, slightly nasal. My fears passed. I felt cold and watchful. This man had terrorised my mother; now he hoped to do the same to me. He searched me roughly, snatching off my wallet and small purse, a ring from my left hand, a brooch from my gown, a bangle from my wrist. I recalled Langton and acted all simpering, the pretty distressed damoiselle. I know the words and actions to perfection. I pleaded. He thrust his mouth to my ear and whispered some obscenity about my mother. I recognised a killer. He would show me no mercy. La Maru’s soul was full of gloomy halls and sombre rooms; he was whittled away like a rotting tree, the poison deep-soaked. He grew excited, clawing at my breast. I struggled weakly. He lifted the hem of my skirt, his hand searching beneath. My hard cloth belt hindered him. One hand holding the dagger, the other searching my skin, he was trapped.
‘I shall undo my belt,’ I stammered. He agreed. My hands fell to the buckle, then to the narrow sheath, cleverly hidden, holding an Italian blade, long and thin like a bodkin, with a razor tip and sharp serrated edges. I grasped it. La Maru was intent on his pleasures. I thrust deep into the right side of his belly, just beneath the ribcage, a hard upward cut. The shock alone made him drop his dagger. He staggered back, eyes startled, mouth gaping, a hideous gargling at the back of his throat. I followed up and struck again swiftly, deadly.