Guido rose to his feet, not threatening but rather awkwardly. The queen dowager tried to grasp his wrist but he knocked her hand away.
‘Madam,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘this is finished. We must follow our own paths. I have,’ he bowed respectfully to Isabella, ‘a commission from your august father. I, Pierre Bernard, commonly known as Guido the Psalter, am a member of King Philip’s secret council, a special envoy carrying your father’s personal seal. I lie within the jurisdiction of the power of France. If charges are to be brought, I demand-’
Isabella raised a hand. ‘No more, no more,’ she murmured. ‘We expected as much. Go, sir, but as you pass through the hall of attendance, do tell the earls Pembroke and Lincoln that,’ she smiled falsely, ‘you are hastening to join my Lord Marigny at his lodgings elsewhere in this palace. As God lives, my father will know soon enough about you. I bid you adieu.’
Surprised, Guido gauchely bowed to both Isabella and Margaret, smirked at me and left.
‘And you, dearest kinswoman.’ Isabella’s voice thrilled, and once again I realised how consummate a mask-wearer she truly was. She disliked her aunt intensely and now made this obvious.
‘I am the queen dowager.’
‘So you are, and so you will remain, madam.’ Isabella rose. ‘You and your children will be taken back to one of your residences. Preferably,’ she mocked, ‘as far away as possible from me, but close enough to some mouldering relic. You can babble about them, visit the shrines, but this time it will be genuine, not a cover for your intriguing. As for my father,’ Isabella clicked her tongue, ‘you can tell him whatever you like. However, this charade of my husband, Gaveston, me and the power of France is all ended. I am Edward of England’s queen, crowned and anointed, the mother of future kings. Oh, go!’ She sat down, her voice weary. ‘In God’s name, madam, go! My husband sees no advantage in publicising your disgrace or humiliating you.’
Margaret rose, sketched a bow, glared hatefully at me and swept from the chamber. Isabella patted the stool beside her as I returned from closing the door. For a while we sat in silence. I went to speak. Isabella took a ring from her finger and pressed it into my hands.
‘A gift,’ she whispered, eyes smiling, ‘one my mother gave me. I now give it to you, Mathilde, with my love.’ She put her finger to her lips and walked over to a window. She stood there for a while, then put her face into her hands and stood, shoulders shaking. I made to rise.
‘No,’ she whispered without turning, ‘no, let me weep for what is, for what has been, but above all for what could have been.’ She continued to stand staring through the window.
There was a loud knock on the door. Isabella made a sign. I hastened to open it. Demontaigu stepped through. He was dressed in black leather jerkin and breeches. I noticed the blood-stains on his high-heeled boots. He placed his war belt on the floor and knelt.
‘Your grace.’
‘Is it done?’ Isabella asked without turning.
‘As you said,’ Demontaigu replied. ‘Pierre Bernard, known as Guido the Psalter, was intent on rejoining Lord Marigny. Lincoln and Pembroke will bear witness to that. No servant of this kingdom would seize him, but we were waiting.’
Isabella glanced bleakly over her shoulder at him.
‘My brethren and I were just beyond the gateway, Ausel and the rest. Guido the Psalter came swaggering out like a cock in a yard. We surrounded him. We gagged his mouth and bound his hands. No one noticed. I don’t think anyone really cared.’
‘And?’
‘We took him into the northern meadow just beyond the Great Ditch on Tothill Lane. We released his bonds and accused him of being what he was, a spy, a traitor and an assassin. At first he pleaded, but then accepted his fate. We allowed him to confess and took him over to a tree stump. Ausel cut his head off. He and the brothers have taken his corpse to the House of the Crutched Friars for burial. I sent money for the requiem mass. Madam,’ Demontaigu declared, ‘Bernard deserved his death. He brought it on himself.’
‘Thank you.’ Isabella turned away. ‘Please,’ she glanced swiftly over her shoulder, ‘please wait outside.’
Demontaigu rose, bowed, nodded at me and left. Only when the door closed did Isabella walk back; even then the lengthening shadows concealed her tear-streaked face.
‘This charade is over. I am queen; let Gaveston have his day. My husband will concede to the Lords through bribes, concessions and intimations of what Philip of France really intended, which will turn their hearts back to their king. We will move to Windsor. I will persuade Edward to let Gaveston go into honourable exile, perhaps with my Lord Mortimer, the king’s lieutenant in Ireland.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, Gaveston will return, but believe me, Mathilde de Clairebon — or should I say Mathilde of Westminster? This charade will end. Oh yes, I remember the maxim: never go to war unless you have to, never fight a battle unless you are going to win. However, on a day of my choosing, at a time of my choosing, at a place of my choosing, I, Isabella, will end this charade for good!’