Once again I journeyed down to the death house, where two grimy-faced retainers were preparing the abbot’s body whilst a member of Wenlok’s retinue, a young chaplain called Robert of Reading, recited the office of the dead. He’d reached the words ‘Ah, good Jesu — leave me not reprobation, think my soul caused thy Incarnation’, the sombre phrases rolling out made all the more solemn by the Latin. I stood swathed in a cloak; the death house was bitterly cold. I watched intently whilst slipping Ave beads through my fingers. I had placed at the head of the corpse the winter flowers the princess had sent, together with an evergreen spray. Now I scrutinised the cadaver carefully. Rigor mortis had of course, by St Stephens Day, turned the dead flesh marble hard, but I also noticed the faint purple-red rash on the hairy stomach; the same had appeared on the dead man’s cheeks, whilst his tongue and lips were purpled as if with wine. Philip’s physicians might have entertained suspicions, but who dared to voice them? Or again, they might have been ignorant of hemlock in all its forms, be it garden or water hemlock. Death always occurs quickly, from commencement to finish, perhaps in no more than three hours, whilst the effects would have been hastened depending on whether the poison was distilled from the fruit of the hemlock, its leaves or, more deadly still, a root over a year old. Wenlok’s age and weariness, not to mention the wine, might have enhanced its malignant effects.
The door of the death house opened and Sandewic came in carrying a requiem candle. He placed this on the corpse table, crossed himself and abruptly left. He was waiting for me outside, blowing on his mittened fingers and stamping his feet. The ground was slippery with ice so he offered me his arm. I could see he was in discomfort with a soreness in the ear and throat.
‘Come,’ I invited him, ‘the princess would like to see you and I can practise my skills.’
He grinned mischievously and patted my hand.
‘Truly fortunate I am. I never thought a damsel so fair and young would show such affection.’
We lapsed into teasing, so reminiscent of my days with Uncle Reginald that tears burnt my eyes, which I quickly put down to the cold. Sandewic stopped halfway across the yard and stared out over the wasteland. Servants were pulling Yule logs to the cavernous kitchen doorway, escorted by maids, their arms full of evergreen holly, its blood-red berries full and rich. Others carried tendrils of ivy, all to decorate the kitchen, butteries and servants’ chambers, for St Stephen’s was their day of celebration.
‘He was murdered, wasn’t he, my lord Wenlok?’
I stared coolly back.
‘As was Pourte, as Casales nearly was? As I might be?’ Sandewic hawked and spat.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why do you say that?’
He was about to reply when Casales and Rossaleti came through the doorway carrying funeral candles, capped against the breeze, which they wanted to place on the corpse table. They paused to greet us. Casales looked anxious and drawn.
‘My lord.’ Casales came as close as he could, talking quietly in the English tongue. ‘My lord, the sooner we are gone from here-’
‘Ay,’ Sandewic interrupted, ‘but we must await the will of princes.’
We exchanged pleasantries with them, then continued into the palace, where I made Sandewic comfortable in the princess’s quarters. I examined his ears and throat carefully, then I prepared a solution of warm water, heavily salted, and told him to breathe it in through his nose. He did so, choking and spluttering, coughing up the infected phlegm. After he’d finished I poured warmed oil, specially distilled, into his ears to loosen the hard wax. I gave him vervain for his throat and dressed a small ulcer on his leg with a herbal poultice.
Isabella, busy with certain lists from her father, wandered across to watch. She always had a firm stomach, my mistress, despite all her exquisite courtly ways. She was particularly fascinated by the final potion I mixed for Sandewic, taken from the kitchens and apothecary stores: finely ground dry moss, soaked in an astringent and mixed with the powdered cream of very stale milk. I informed both that I did not know how it acted but it was a sure cure for many internal infections when the body’s humours turned hot and the patient felt as if he was on fire. Sandewic was definitely feverish. He slowly relaxed, drinking the cup of posset Isabella prepared at the hearth. He informed me how he distrusted all physicians and then questioned me closely on my skill and where I had studied. I told the tale I had so carefully prepared and rehearsed like a scholar does a syllogism. Sandewic believed me, or I think he did. In turn I questioned him on the deaths of Wenlok and Pourte, but he was on his guard, although he grudgingly conceded that he was suspicious about both their deaths.
‘The night Pourte died,’ he declared, ‘Casales and Rossaleti were closeted with des Plaisans and Nogaret. Apparently Pourte declared he was too tired to attend; he had to sleep. Consequently he was alone. It’s possible that the real murderer or murderers hired assassins, the same who later attacked Casales.’ The old knight continued as if talking to himself. ‘But last night, how could Lord Wenlok be poisoned except by someone at his own table?’
‘Or before,’ I interrupted. ‘Hemlock is a creeping poison.’
‘True,’ Sandewic agreed. ‘I have spoken to Marigny. Liar though he may be, he claims Lord Wenlok was very quiet, tense, as if unwell from the very beginning of the banquet. He drank and ate very little.’ Sandewic stretched out his infected leg on the footstool and sighed in relief. ‘I feel better!’ he murmured. ‘It’s good to sit, to be warm. I pity poor Wenlok. Sir John Baquelle,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘is a good man, but he has dismissed the Abbot’s death as an act of God. Baquelle is more interested in the present business.’
‘Which is?’
‘My lady, your marriage, of course!’
‘And Edward of England?’ Isabella snapped her fingers, eager to return to a question which constantly vexed her. ‘He changed his mind just like that!’
‘An arrow is loosed!’ Sandewic growled. ‘It may fly, it may rise, but eventually it has to fall.’ He tapped the arm of the chair. ‘Your marriage, my lady, is set as if in stone. There is no other way.’ He yawned. ‘As for Templars? Well, the head of that order is France, and if that’s cut off, what use the arm or leg? Mon seigneur the king knows that. He will not imprison or torture the Templars, but he is eager to seize their wealth.’
‘My lord,’ I asked, still fascinated by what he’d said about the murders, ‘do you know of a Monsieur de Vitry?’
‘I’ve heard the name. Marigny mentioned something about a massacre. Wasn’t he a merchant who played an important role in the collection of your mistress’s dowry?’ He looked at me. I never answered, so he stared into the fire.
‘Do Pourte, Casales, Wenlok, Baquelle and you,’ I asked, ‘have anything in common?’
The old knight, growing tired and dreamy-eyed, thinking perhaps of other Yuletides as the ancients do when dozing before a fire, simply shrugged. Now I am old, I recognise that feeling of surrender, of preparing for the final rest, to sleep forever. Sandewic shut us off. Then he abruptly straightened in his chair, still ignoring my question, put on his boots, gathered his cloak, thanked the princess and left. I was sad when he was gone. It was as if the fire had dulled or the candle wicks dimmed. I sat on the footstool warming my hands. Isabella came behind me, pressing her hands on my shoulders.
‘There’s a hidden tension,’ she whispered, ‘ghosts so fierce they gather in the gloom around us and look on. Abbot Wenlok’s death is dismissed as an unfortunate accident, but Casales and Rossaleti, so I hear, as well as Sandewic, are apprehensive and fearful. Oh Mathilde, what shall we do?’ She leaned her face against the back of my head. ‘We are,’ she whispered, ‘in the presence of terrors. I must tell you. Father watches me like a basilisk does its victim. Pelet’s death has gone unmentioned but not forgotten. Marigny’s men have been here. You are summoned to the Chambre Ardente at the hour of vespers. You must go alone.’