Isabella acted the part beautifully. She greeted her father’s emissaries, waving them to the seats, asking if they wished anything to eat or drink. Of course Marigny, full of curiosity, refused, eager for the business in hand. Isabella sat down, gesturing that they do likewise. Four demons in alclass="underline" Marigny, Nogaret, Plaisans and Alexander of Lisbon. He sat slightly to one side, the other two fiends either side of Marigny, all dressed in the official livery of the French king, elegant blue and silver robes, rings of office glittering on their fingers.
‘Madam?’ Marigny, one hand on his chest, bowed and smiled. ‘We received your invitation yesterday evening. I understand the queen dowager is also here. Your grace wishes to see her?’
‘My good aunt,’ Isabella replied, ‘pursues her own business. Monsieur, I’ve asked you to come to answer one question and one question only.’
The smile faded from Marigny’s face.
‘Oh yes,’ Isabella added, ‘I also want to tell you something.’
‘Your grace?’ Marigny spread his hands.
‘First, where is Agnes d’Albert? The lady-in-waiting from my beloved aunt’s retinue?’
‘Ah.’ Marigny closed his eyes.
Plaisans and Nogaret moved uneasily; Alexander of Lisbon looked perplexed. The great demon’s lieutenants had sensed something was very wrong.
‘Why are you interested in Agnes d’Albret?’ Marigny asked softly.
‘Because I am,’ Isabella replied. ‘She petitioned to join my household. She went to see you in your quarters and has not returned.’
‘Agnes d’Albret,’ Marigny replied, choosing his words carefully, ‘is not well, Madam, an evil humour.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It would be best if she returned to the French court. The queen dowager herself has admitted that, perhaps, her presence is no longer required here. In fact, Madam Agnes has already left for Dover; a French cog waits there.’
‘Ah well.’ Isabella stood up.
The look of surprise on the faces of Marigny’s companions was almost comical.
‘Your grace?’ Marigny rose to his feet. ‘Is that all?’
‘I asked you a question,’ Isabella retorted, ‘where is Agnes d’Albret? You have answered it. What more can I say?’ She gestured at the door.
Marigny and the rest hurriedly recollected themselves and bowed.
‘Oh, messieurs, I almost forgot.’ Isabella took a step forward. ‘When you return to France — and perhaps you may be leaving earlier than you think — tell my good father how my husband, his grace the king, knows who the Poison Maiden is.’
Marigny paused, mouth gaping. Oh, the sight was sweet revenge! He stared like a man hit by a club, hands halfway up, mouth opening and closing, eyes darting.
‘My lady, your grace,’ he stammered, ‘what is this?’
‘Messieurs,’ Isabella replied sweetly, ‘our audience is over. My pages and squires will show you out.’
Marigny would have stayed, but Isabella flailed her hand. ‘Monsieur, I have other business.’
Once they had gone, the door slamming shut behind them, Isabella sat down, fingers to her face, and giggled like a girl. ‘Oh Mathilde,’ she took her hands away, ‘for years I have wished to do that! Now, my sweet,’ she turned to me, ‘my revered aunt and her imp Guido the Psalter; let us talk to them.’
The queen dowager sensed something was wrong as soon as she took her seat. She stared in suspicion at her niece, dressed so mockingly in the same attire and fashion as herself. Beside Margaret, Guido, in red and gold jerkin and blue hose, looked uncomfortable; he kept staring back at the door where Isabella’s squires and pages had plucked his dagger from its sheath.
‘Beloved niece,’ the dowager began, ‘something is wrong? Guards are everywhere, there is gossip of great danger. .’
‘Beloved aunt,’ Isabella retorted, ‘there is, but it will pass.’
‘So why have you invited me here?’
‘To accuse you of treason, vile and heinous, against me, my husband and the power of England.’
Margaret made to rise.
‘Please stay!’ Isabella warned. ‘Leave this chamber now, and you and yours will be arrested.’ She gestured at Guido. ‘He’ll be hanged out of hand. I have the power; just a few heartbeats and you, the Poison Maiden, will be incarcerated, whilst you, sir, assassin, spy, a truly treacherous soul, will be hanging from the gatehouse beams.’ She spread her hands. ‘The choice is yours.’
‘I will protest!’
‘Of course you will! The Lord Satan does eternally.’
‘My lady, your grace. .’ Guido squirmed in his chair.
‘Keep your peace!’ Isabella snapped. ‘You, sir, are before justices of oyer and terminer. You are on trial for your life. Outside men gather who will be your executioners. Will you resist or listen?’
Guido slouched back in the chair, but the shock of his predicament flushed his face, eyes bright and startling, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.
‘There are two people missing,’ Isabella declared cheerfully,
‘Margaret, Countess of Cornwall, but she is not needed for these matters, and Agnes d’Albret. Margaret, where is she?’
The queen dowager gazed solemnly back. Guido made to speak.
‘Langton has confessed all,’ I interjected. My words stung like the lash of a whip. Margaret started in horror. Guido groaned openly.
‘The indictment?’ Isabella spoke softly. ‘Mathilde?’
‘Madam,’ I tried to catch and hold Margaret’s gaze, ‘you are Philip of France’s sister, very close to him. Your brother occupied English-held Gascony and forced a peace treaty on old Edward of England. He was to marry you; his son, the Prince of Wales, your niece Isabella. Philip was determined that the throne of the Confessor, which stands so close to this place, be occupied by a prince of the Capetian blood. He was ruthlessly set on it. The marriage took place but the old king had taken a viper to his bosom. You were his wife but you were also Philip’s spy at the heart of the English court. Now in ancient times, a female assassin, the Poison Maiden, was sent into the enemy camp, to wreak as much damage as she could. You were, are, Philip of France’s Poison Maiden. You betrayed your husband’s secrets to his arch-enemy-’
‘What proof do you have of this?’ Margaret yelled, no longer the pious widow, the nun-like dowager; more like some furious harridan from the slums of St Denis or Cheapside.
‘Very little,’ I agreed. ‘Except that the old king, your husband, must have warned you, probably in a letter that no longer exists, transcribed by his faithful servitor John Highill. Or perhaps, in a moment of weakness, he confided his anxieties to that clerk of the secret seal. Your husband enjoyed the romances about Arthur and the great Alexander. In one of the poems about the Conqueror of the World, the King of India sent Alexander many precious gifts, including a beautiful maiden whom he had fed and poisoned until she had the nature of a venomous snake. Seduced by her loveliness, Alexander, according to the story, rushed to embrace her but her touch, her bite, even her sweat, the poem declares, would have been fatal to him. He would have been killed except for the intervention of his wise adviser, the philosopher Aristotle.’ I paused. ‘That is why your late husband used the phrase Poison Maiden to describe you, only in his case he had embraced you!’
The queen dowager was staring full at me, her face strangely younger, more beautiful, eyes rounded in anger. I could see her attraction to the old king, who must have been torn between anger and lust. Guido kept his head down, fingering with the buckle on a wallet strapped to his belt.