I was still curious about the poison fed to Guido, so on my return to my warm, welcoming chamber, I opened my book coffer, that treasure chest of various treatments: Palladius’ De Agricultura; the Monk of Cerne’s Nomina Herbarum; that famous Latin poem by Macer, ‘De Virtutibus Herbarum’; the Herbarium of Apuleius; Isidore of Seville’s Etymologiae; and that erudite woman Hildegard of Bingen’s Liber Subtilitatum Diversarum. My uncle had owned all of these and used them to educate me as keenly as my theologian would depend on the canon of scripture or the teachings of the fathers. When he had been arrested, these manuscripts had been seized, but Isabella had brought copies from the Louvre library, and when various monasteries and abbeys asked what present they could give her, she always asked for a certain book, manuscript or thesis, be it the legends of Arthur, a collection of Goliard songs or a medical treatise. She admired the latter, having a deep interest in herbs, particularly, as she ruefully remarked, those ‘nine dark shades of night’ that calmed all humours and healed all ailments, per omnia saecula saeculorum — for ever and ever; in other words, poisons!
I leafed through the manuscripts, taking careful note of certain entries. I then decided to go to my own small herbarium in one of the palace gardens. Now Burgundy Hall has gone, and Westminster has changed as if it is some living thing. However, in those spring days of 1308, the king’s private palace, guarded by its own curtain wall, consisted of a long hall with buildings added on so small courtyards and gardens were formed. Edward had entertained ambitious plans for these, hoping to develop orchards, vineyards, lawns for peacocks and sprightly herons, and a rabbit park, build small watermills and dovecotes, as well as sink fish and stew ponds to house fine pike and whiting. All, of course, remained unfinished. Parts of the garden were fox-ridden, with weeds and gorse growing almost waist high. Now according to Albertus Magnus, a sophisticated herber should include a trellised loggia, a walled area of square herb beds, a flowery mead with arbours and a hedged garden containing a fountain. There were none of these. My physic garden did not have the required sixteen beds; it was makeshift and rough. I had dug the soil myself and planted what I could.
I left my chamber and went out through a small postern door into the garden. Ghostly smells of both summer and autumn greeted me, the sweet odour of rotting apples mingling with the fragrance of wild flowers thrusting up beneath the blackthorn hedges, which heralded the change in season with their own whitening flowers. I had brought a list of the herbs I needed: the rich, mildew-like blue gromwell, which flowered on limestone walls and was so useful in curing irritations of the skin; ground ivy, found winding its way about the orchard trees, so healing of congestion and the rheums; harebell, which flourished in the long wild grass, very valuable for staunching bleeding and compressing wounds. I stared round that wild overgrown place, the birds skimming over bush and grass, the flowers flashing in colour, the full richness of spring making itself felt. I walked over to my herber and stared down in desperation at the weeds clogging the soil, clawing around it like the fingers of a miser would precious stones. All about me the palace lay silent. The garden, however, was alive with the chirping of birds hunting among the fertile foliage. Small insects hovered noisily over a weed-encrusted carp pond. I glanced up abruptly and glimpsed a shadow at one of the arrow-slit windows. I smiled to myself, looked again, but there was nothing. The garden lay beneath the royal quarters. I wondered if the shadow had been that of Isabella, or even the king, but why the mystery?
I decided to calm my agitation by weeding the soil before I went searching for herbs. A derelict outhouse built against the palace wall was used to store picks, hoes and shovels. I went in and grasped a hoe that was standing in a cobweb-filled corner. As I pulled it out, I glimpsed the leather sack pushed hard against it. I cut the cord around its neck and peered in. The sack contained three arbalests, heavy Brabantine crossbows. I pulled one out. The wood was thick and polished, its powerful twine cord supple, the lever oiled and easy to move, the groove smooth, ready for the barbed bolts, pouches of which lay at the bottom of the sack. Alarmed and curious, I hid the sack away and hurried back into the palace.
Ap Ythel had gone into the city, but I found his lieutenant, a sandy-headed Welshman named Ap Rhys, dicing with some of his comrades in the small guardroom near the gatehouse. I begged him to come with me. His companions whistled and joked in their lilting voices. Ap Rhys was about to refuse, but he caught my fearful expression so he shrugged, put his dice back into his wallet and followed me across the garden to that small outhouse. I pulled the sack out, Ap Rhys helping me. He emptied the contents on to the soil and crouched down.
‘Arbalests,’ he exclaimed, ‘and pouches! Do you know how they got here, mistress?’
I shook my head. ‘Do you?’ I asked.
Ap Rhys made a face.
‘Tell me.’ I crouched down beside him. ‘If I was to attack the king or this palace, how would I do it?’
He scratched his head. ‘Mistress, I’m an archer, a bowman, not an assassin. You think these were left here for such mischief?’
‘Perhaps.’ I recalled Robert the groom’s words and that sinister reference to the Tenebrae.
‘Don’t be alarmed.’ Ap Rhys put the pouches back into the sack and tied the twine around the neck. ‘I will take these.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll not tell anybody.’ He caught my curious look. ‘Mistress,’ he grinned, ‘this may not be the work of some enemy hostile to our king; more likely a thief. We have stores here. It is not unknown for soldiers to try to make a quick profit. They steal bows, daggers, crossbows, hide them away, then take them into the city markets.’ He kicked the sack, then picked it up. ‘You’d get a pouch of silver for these.’
‘Ap Rhys?’
‘Yes, mistress?’ He walked back.
‘When Ap Ythel returns, tell him what we found and where.’ I held my hand up. ‘And ask him this. If the three of us were planning to attack his grace the King, or my lord Gaveston, or both, how would we do it? Please.’ I grasped his hand. ‘In this, favour me?’ Ap Rhys nodded, adding that he’d do anything for a pretty face, then sauntered off.
I decided to leave the herbs. I was tired, still agitated. I returned to my own chamber, drank half a goblet of wine and tended to the braziers. I took off my shoes and upper gown and lay down on the bed, wrapping myself tightly in its coverlet. I only intended to sleep for a while but it was dark when Isabella shook me awake.
‘Quick, quick, Mathilde,’ she urged. ‘His grace the king and my lord Gaveston need to see you.’ She was garbed in a fur-lined cloak with a deep hood. She shook me roughly, the capped candle in her left hand dazzling my eyes. I climbed out of bed and made myself ready as swiftly as possible. Ap Ythel and some of the archers were waiting in the passageway outside. Ap Ythel’s expression told me everything. They had found something in the church at New Temple. Isabella confirmed this in hushed, excited whispers as we went along the shadow-filled gallery.
The king and Gaveston were waiting, swatched in costly night robes. Both were rejoicing, sharing a two-handled loving cup between them. The chamber was bathed in candlelight and the cause of their joy was plain to see: coffers, caskets, chests, boxes and bags all open to reveal a king’s ransom in gold and silver coin, jewels and an array of precious goblets, belts, necklaces, rings, pectoral crosses and costly gems, all sparkling in the bright light. Edward and Gaveston had drunk deeply. Once Ap Ythel had withdrawn, Edward roaring at him to keep close guard outside, both men embraced me, hugging me close and smothering me in their exquisite perfume. Edward scooped up a pile of gold and silver coins and pressed them into my hands.