‘So,’ I replied, ‘Winchelsea attempts to secure New Temple, a reasonable demand, as surety of the king’s good faith, a property in that misty twilight that separates the ecclesiastic from the secular. Edward would be tempted to agree. What use to him an empty church, barracks and hall already looted and pillaged of any treasures?’
‘And of course,’ Demontaigu added quickly, ‘the surrender of New Temple would be seen as a public move against the order whilst Winchelsea, Langton and their allies seized the treasure hoard.’
‘I believe. .’ I stopped, half listening to the armoured clatter below, ‘Chapeleys knew about this treasure and wished to barter such information, amongst other things, with the king. Langton must have been furious at Chapeleys’ escape. He may have had a hand in his murder.’
‘But how?’
‘I don’t know. Somehow Langton discovered Chapeleys had not left on some errand but had deserted him. He sent a message, God knows how or when, but it must have been shortly after we left the Tower.’
‘To whom?’
‘To the Poison Maiden or others hostile to the king. Chapeleys was murdered. The assassin made it look as if it was suicide, but that was because he, or she, didn’t want to provoke suspicion that Chapeleys may have had something very valuable to sell. I am sure whatever was in that chancery bag was seized, read, then destroyed.’ I stared across the hall at a shield fixed between two of the lancet windows emblazoned with the brilliant blue and white colours of Norfolk.
‘How,’ I murmured, ‘could Langton act so swiftly? Ah well.’ I turned and edged closer to Demontaigu. ‘You wished to see me?’
‘To apologise.’ Demontaigu blinked. ‘This morning at the Tower wharf? I should not have left you.’
‘You said you were sorry,’ I fluttered my eyelids, ‘at leaving a damsel in distress.’ I joked and flirted, trying to blot out La Maru’s ugly face, the dagger, his crawling touch, the blood bubbling out of his mouth.
‘Brave face hides anxious heart,’ Demontaigu teased back.
‘Brave face hides hard heart,’ I retorted. ‘You are a warrior, I’m a physician of sorts. .’
‘Of sorts?’
‘No,’ I held my hand up, ‘I know what I am. God knows, Bertrand, sometimes a bridge is reached and you just have to cross it. This morning La Maru came determined to kill me. Whenever that happened, wherever, it would have been him and me. It would have ended in a death, his, mine or both.’
‘I bought you a present, a consolamentum.’
Demontaigu drew from his jerkin a psalter bound in calfskin, its cover studded with precious stones to form a Celtic cross and Ave beads. The pages were gold-lined and of the finest parchment, the writing in an elegant script, the letters black and clear. A collection of prayers, poems, songs and psalms; the first letter of each verse was decorated in a miniature bejewelled picture displaying exotic creatures from Celtic legends. I scanned the opening lines of the first poem, ‘St Patrick’s Breastplate’: ‘I rise up today, God’s power with me.’ I read on to hide how deeply touched I was by the gift.
‘Reparation,’ Demontaigu murmured.
‘I wish it was adoration!’ I teased back. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I kissed him on the cheek, cradling that book, now tattered and worn, as I do every night as I lie on my bed. I clasp it and close my eyes. I’m back in Burgundy Hall. Demontaigu is beside me, his face, his warmth. I vividly recall him as a comforting light in the murderous murk gathering around us. Embarrassed at the time, I went to return the book.
‘My gift,’ Demontaigu insisted. ‘It is the last produced by the scriptorium of my order.’
I had planned to go down to tend my herbs, which I’d begun to cultivate in the palace gardens. I was about to ask Demontaigu to join me when a page boy came hurrying up to breathlessly inform me that the queen dowager wished to see me. Demontaigu raised his eyes heavenwards. I kissed him on the cheek and, hiding the psalter under my cloak, followed the page. The queen dowager was in her usual poise of a devout nun. She was sitting by Guido’s bed feeding him watered wine. Nearby, Agnes, who looked drawn and tired, avoided my gaze and tended to the queen dowager’s baby sons, Edmund of Woodstock and Thomas of Brotherton. The boys, apparently exhausted after their play, were lying on cushions half asleep. I greeted Guido, who looked stronger, a full colour returned to his face. He was apparently impatient to return to duties, though the queen dowager dismissed this, saying a few more days’ rest would help. Queen Margaret patted her wimple and asked what all the excitement was about. Had any progress been made? I decided on the truth, or at least part of it. I told her how the king had decided to investigate certain rumours, that a great treasure lay hidden in New Temple Church, close to one of the Pembroke effigies. She and Guido expressed their joy, gabbling how such treasure would assist the king. Did I know, Guido asked, how the king had come by this information? I shrugged and said he was searching for many things, including an old clerk named John Highill. Did her grace recall that name? She pulled a face, and replied that she’d heard the name but couldn’t recall the face or person.
‘I suppose he was one of my husband’s old servitors,’ she murmured. ‘But Mathilde,’ she smiled; this time those cold, beautiful eyes crinkled in amusement, ‘Guido, Deo gratias, is better. I thank you.’ She sighed and gestured lovingly at her red-faced, heavy-eyed baby sons. ‘I’ve little time for anything, going backwards and forward between the palace and here. Little time for politic, even less time for prayer, but,’ she patted the coverlet, ‘Guido, you must stay here until you are better. The countess will visit you and so will Agnes and, if she is not too busy, dear Mathilde.’
Chapter 12
Give peace in our days, Oh Lord, and let the king be in accord with his barons.
I left the chamber bemused by the queen dowager and Guido, but I was too agitated to reflect. I had assured Demontaigu that La Maru’s attack was simply a strand of the tapestry I wove. By the gospel, it was not! Now alone, I felt sick and tired. My belly bubbled. My mind flitted like some sparrow caught in a room. I needed to soothe my humours. I have confessed how I pick out events in the same way candlelight draws your eye to a certain scene, colour or thread in some tapestry or painting. Or better still, I felt like a watchman on the parapet walk of a castle. One minute follows another. Hours drift by. Days, weeks and months merge into one. A whole series of menial tasks is begun and finished, then abruptly the watchman sees the far beacon flare, signalling danger. The hurly-burly time has arrived. Armed men are ready, bowstrings tightened, quivers filled, daggers sharpened, war belts strapped on. Yes, that was me. Daily routine tasks until the perilous days gathered like an ice-cold mist seeping under doors, finding its way into my life through cracks and crevices. One comfort I treasured, which soothed the souclass="underline" my love of physic and knowledge of herbs.