‘As I said, in the old king’s eyes you were the Poison Maiden, sent to seduce, to betray. He lusted after your body, determined to seek his own revenge through pleasure, but he never really trusted you.’
‘He loved me!’ Margaret hissed, her face pushed towards me.
‘I do not doubt that, madam,’ I replied, ‘but he had been cuckolded, trapped in a marriage with the sister of his enemy.’
‘He was no cuckold.’
‘In a sense he was. You put your brother the King of France’s interests before those of your husband, Edward of England. He knew that, but like any cuckold did not wish to proclaim it abroad. What could the old king do? He was bound by solemn treaty and the bonds of holy marriage. He could do nothing except fulminate. Two other people knew the full truth. The old king’s treasurer and confidant Walter Langton, and the clerk John Highill. The latter grew old and witless and expressed his sorrow at his royal master’s plight by composing a mock version of the “Salve Regina” — the ancient hymn to the Virgin.’
Margaret, violent with rage, would have lunged at me, but surprisingly, Guido grasped her arm while Isabella leaned forward.
‘Kinswoman, I do not wish to summon Ap Ythel to restrain you.’
‘Highill,’ I resumed, ‘became witless but his veiled attack on you meant he was committed to Bethlehem Hospital, where he continued his rantings, even scrawling on a wall.’
Guido’s head came up, eyes all fearful.
‘Oh yes,’ I declared, ‘Salve Regina, Mater Misericordiae. In Highill’s confused mind this became Salv. Reg. Sin. Cor. Mat. Dis., or, in full, Salve Regina sine corona, Mater Discordiae. Instead of “Hail Queen of Heaven, Mother of Mercy” his version, translated from his clerkly cipher, was: “Hail Queen without a crown, Mother of Discord”, his perception of you. The old king must have been furious with him, yet what crime had Highill committed except tell the truth? Hence, Bethlehem Hospital. Chapeleys also knew something about this, though perhaps not the whole truth. He had the wit to keep silent, but he made a reference to it on a scrap of parchment found in his chamber: an unfinished word, “basil”. I thought he was referring to a basilisk. Chapeleys, however, like Highill was a scholar of Greek. In that tongue the complete word, Basilea, means queen.’
‘Rantings and ravings!’ scoffed Margaret, glaring hot-eyed at my mistress.
‘Wait, wait,’ Isabella murmured.
‘In a sense, the old king had his revenge,’ I continued. ‘You were never crowned, were you? Almost nine years in England but never taken to Westminster. No crown lowered on to your head. Your skin never anointed with the holy chrism. I thought of that when I was close to Eleanor’s tomb in the Abbey. Did you hate your late husband, madam? He died at Burgh-on-Sands last July. You were there tending to him.’ I let the implied accusation hang in the air before continuing. ‘After his death, your role as the Poison Maiden did not end, but came to full flower in the new king’s reign. You acted as your brother’s spy, informing him about Lord Gaveston’s pre-eminence and the new king’s confrontation with his Great Lords. Philip of France must have been delighted. He made one mistake: the royal pastry cook Edmund Lascelles, commonly known as Pax-Bread, overheard his secret conspiracy and somehow discovered that the Poison Maiden was again bent on mischief. I do wonder if Pax-Bread actually knew the identity of the Poison Maiden. Or just that Philip greatly relied upon her to do great mischief against the power of England. Now Pax-Bread was a spy. He’d served the old king but he’d also served Lord Gaveston, changing horses, as it were, mid-stream. He must also have learnt something about Highill and written a letter warning the king and Gaveston about the dangers facing them.’ I paused. ‘We’ll never fully comprehend how much Chapeleys and Pax-Bread really knew, because you had both murdered.’
‘Pax-Bread,’ Margaret scoffed, ‘who is he?’
‘Oh, you knew! By the February of this year, madam, you were playing the two-faced Janus: the sanctimonious queen dowager trying to mediate between the young king and his opponents-’
‘Nonsense!’
‘And Philip of France’s sister,’ I declared, ‘determined on assisting him in all his subtle schemes.’
‘What is your proof?’
‘Langton has truly confessed,’ Isabella intervened. ‘He hopes for a pardon for all offences and the restoration of his temporalities.’
‘Traitor!’ The word escaped Guido, now torn between fear and anger.
‘You were no mediator,’ I declared. ‘Langton was your secret ally before he was arrested late last autumn. He’d already moved treasure from his hoard at New Temple to assist you. You used that to bribe the likes of Pembroke and Lincoln. You met those Great Lords at banquets in your private chambers, and bribed them with wine, silver, gold and flattery.’
‘And anything else?’ Isabella whispered.
‘How dare you!’ Margaret was now beside herself with rage. She sprang to her feet but a clatter outside the door forced her back. ‘My children?’ Her voice turned weary.
‘They are safe,’ Isabella retorted. ‘Safer than we would have been in Burgundy Hall.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In a while. Continue, Mathilde.’
‘The Great Lords and Langton were delighted by your secret sustenance and comfort. You reached an unwritten agreement with them.’ I paused, watching those hate-filled eyes. Margaret’s hands fell to the cord around her waist, and I wondered if she had a knife concealed.
‘You would act as mediator but advise them on as much as you could about the king’s secret councils.’
‘But surely in time the Great Lords,’ Margaret jibed, ‘would inform Edward about my so-called deviousness? I was vulnerable to any of them betraying me.’
‘Nonsense,’ I replied. ‘What proof did they have? I suspect you dealt with only Langton, Pembroke and Lincoln and no one else.’ I paused. ‘You would negotiate with them individually. Why should Langton expose you as the Poison Maiden? No one would believe him, whilst he would lose a valuable ally. As for Lincoln and Pembroke — oh, you’d play the wise woman who wanted to help your stepson, whom you so admire, whilst fully understanding the Great Lords’ aversion to the favourite. Moreover, why should Lincoln and Pembroke confess to plotting against the king? They would hardly wish to incriminate themselves, so they scarce would mention you. They would understand your role. You portrayed yourself as the pious queen dowager, deeply concerned by her stepson’s actions, alarmed at the rise of the Gascon favourite. Of course, Langton’s fall from grace, his sudden arrest, the attack on the Templars, the seizure of their estates, particularly New Temple Church, was an obstacle. However, you clearly tried to resolve that by pleading with your stepson to cede New Temple to Winchelsea so the Lords could gain control over Langton’s secret hoard. They could then have continued their opposition indefinitely whilst working hard for Langton’s release.’ I paused, planning my next words carefully. ‘Now the royal prosecutors,’ Margaret started at the implied threat, ‘will argue that your ultimate plan was to weaken the king and his kingdom, make it more malleable for your brother to eventually subdue. The Lords might sense this but, of course, blinded by their hatred for Gaveston, tolerate such meddling. In truth they were unaware of your real plot.’ Guido muttered something in the patois of the Paris slums. A prayer? A curse? I could not say, but those few words assured me I had struck to the heart.
‘Plot? Real plot?’ The queen dowager was flustered, her face snow white, eyes desperate.
‘Oh yes! The Great Lords and Langton did not fully understand Philip’s subtle moves on the chessboard. He dreams, doesn’t he, of being the new Charlemagne, dominating kings, princes and popes? He hopes to control everything through marriages. My mistress married her husband and Philip used Lord Gaveston’s rise to meddle more deeply in the affairs of this kingdom. In the beginning he hoped Edward would become his client king, but now to the real plot.’ I leaned forward. ‘What if both King Edward and his favourite disappeared, were killed in a fire or assassinated soon afterwards? To whom could the Lords turn? Which prince has Plantagenet blood? Edward has no sons; that only leaves, madam, your infant offspring, Edmund of Woodstock and Thomas of Brotherton. My mistress, if she survived the plot, would be dispatched back to France, the poor widow. You, however, madam, would enter your glory. The queen mother of future kings, possibly regent of the kingdom guided, of course, by brother Philip and his minions! Little wonder you became so agitated at the possibility that your niece might be pregnant; that would have posed problems!’