I whirled round. Isabella looked frightened. ‘There is nothing I can do, as yet,’ she pleaded.
‘What do they want?’
‘To question you.’
‘About what?
‘Perhaps who you really are. .’ The princess’s voice trailed off.
I spent the remainder of that day feverishly preparing myself. Isabella tried to help, distracting me with chatter about our intended departure. Casales and Rossaleti came, eager to explain how the English king felt secure in Boulogne, a port on the Narrow Seas well within the county of Ponthieu, an enclave of Normandy still under English influence. They openly confessed that Edward entertained great suspicion towards his ‘sweet cousin of France’, especially after the deaths of Pourte and Wenlok, not to mention the attack on Casales. Surprisingly, neither betrayed any suspicions about Wenlok’s death but repeated how, on his journey to the Ile de France, the abbot complained frequently of feeling unwell, which they thought was due to a hard sea crossing in the depth of winter. They also talked about Isabella’s journey, reassuring us both that the royal ship, The Margaret of Westminster, would provide a safe and secure passage. Rossaleti was desperately anxious about that; he pleaded with the princess to join her, as the Margaret was much safer than the other cogs available. Isabella laughingly agreed. The two men left, and as the bells of Sainte Chapelle tolled the call for vespers, two knight bannerets, accompanied by a Dominican friar, presented themselves and asked me to accompany them.
They were brusque and severe. I collected my cloak, squeezed Isabella’s hand and joined them. We went down the stairs, threading our way through the passageways and galleries, all lit by candles, and across ice-cold courtyards to the Chambre Ardente, which was housed in the base of a soaring tower. The Chambre Ardente was, in theory, the royal household court, similar to that held by the marshal in England. In practice, however, the Chambre was an inquisitorial court with all the powers of oyer and terminer, to listen and decide on indictments; it could, if it wished, impose the death penalty. The chamber itself was cavernous. Torches provided light as well as cast shadows over what had to be hidden. Its red-brick walls were covered in thick embroidered tapestries, depicting all forms of judgement. On one, Christ, ghostlike, swathed in swirling drapery, presided. Below the divine throne all kinds of demons prowled, waiting for judgement to be passed. A veritable gallery of hideous figures, bearded and winged, with scaly skin and manes of fire, readied to grab the hapless sinners to rip out their bowels and crunch their hearts. In the corner, specially illuminated by a fiery brazier, St Michael weighed souls in a set of scales as a devil reached to grab one for his supper. The purpose of this tableau, springing to life in the shifting light, was to instil terror and fan the flames of fear. I vowed I would show no weakness.
Around the chamber stood royal guards, whilst scribes crouched busily over writing tables. At the far end, on a dais, sat Marigny behind a high oaken table, his red hair gleaming in the torchlight. His two minions, Nogaret and des Plaisans, sat on either side, with hooded clerks perched like ravens at each end, pens poised. Marigny beckoned me forward on to the dais, gesturing at a stool before the table. I approached and sat down.
‘Mathilde, welcome.’
‘Seigneur, why am I here?’
Marigny, surprised, leaned across, hunter’s eyes staring from that pallid face, mouth puckered in disbelief at such insolence.
‘This is the court of the royal household. You are a member of that household. You are to be summoned here as we wish.’
‘Seigneur, why?’
‘Mathilde, are you in God’s grace?’ des Plaisans asked.
‘If I am, sir, I beg God to keep me there, and if I am not, I humbly ask Him to return me there. Why do you ask?’
‘You act the wise woman,’ Nogaret simpered, ‘or something else. You know a great deal about simples and potions.’
‘So do the royal physicians. What are you hinting at, that I’m a witch?’
‘No.’ Des Plaisans sat back in the shadows.
‘Mathilde, Mathilde,’ Nogaret took up the attack, ‘you’re not being tried.’
‘So why am I here?’
‘You have won the princess’s favour so quickly. .’ He paused.
‘I cannot answer for my mistress; you must ask her yourself.’
‘Mathilde,’ Marigny’s face wrinkled in amusement, ‘do not be afraid.’
‘Who claims I am?’
Marigny leaned his elbows on the table, rocking backwards and forwards as if considering my reply. I steeled myself. I hated these men, so why should I be afraid of their questions? I had been in the household of Uncle Reginald, the hardest taskmaster. He had acted like a magister from the schools as he questioned me on what I’d observed and studied even after some errand into the city. He would loose questions like a master bowman would arrows. I was prepared, I was skilled. I thought of him then. I thanked God for his iron discipline. Marigny fluttered his fingers, gesturing at the others to keep quiet. He picked up a scrap of parchment.
‘Mathilde, you were recommended by Monsieur de Vitry.’
‘I was.’
‘He was recently murdered.’
‘God rest him, and may the cross of Christ bring his assassins to speedy justice.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Marigny murmured. ‘Did you attend the funeral of this great friend?’
‘I never said he was a great friend. I lit a taper and paid for a requiem mass to be sung.’
‘Very good.’ The reply came in a hiss. ‘And you are from Poitiers, Mathilde de Clairebon?’
‘Of course. My mother was a widow, my father an apothecary, hence my knowledge of potions.’ I knew by rote what Monsieur de Vitry had taught me.
‘You seemed very interested in the deaths of Lord Pourte and Abbot Wenlok.’
‘No, sir, I wasn’t; but my mistress was. After all, they were English envoys dispatched to her. I went where she told me. I lit corpse candles when she told me.’
‘Where is the cathedral at Poitiers?’
‘On the Rue de la Chaine.’
‘Its name?’
‘Notre Dame la Grande, but there is another cathedral,’ I chattered on, ‘that of St Pierre. However, the place I loved to pray at was the Baptistry of St Jean with its very old font, an eight-sided pool dug into the ground. Did you know?’ I leaned forward as if excited. ‘It has a fresco from ancient times, of the Emperor Constantine. I-’
‘What is this? Why the delay? Mathilde, I have been waiting.’
I’d heard the door to the chamber open, and when I turned, Isabella, shrouded in her robe, golden hair hanging all loose, stood in the doorway, a polished mirror in one hand, a jewelled comb in the other. Everyone in the chamber, including the three fiends behind the table, sprang to their feet.
‘What is this?’ Isabella repeated, sweeping into the chamber. ‘I thought you had summoned my servant because of my imminent departure, but this?’ Her voice thrilled with anger. ‘Is this a court? What are the accusations? Who is the plaintiff? My lord,’ her voice assumed a more strident, petulant tone, ‘I am the Princess Royal, soon to be Queen of England. In a brief while I must leave my father’s house. I need Mathilde, there is so much to do, so little time to do it, so why is she here?’
‘My lady.’ Marigny came round the table, hands extended. ‘Mathilde can return to you. We are simply questioning her to make sure that she is a fit companion for you-’
‘I will be the best judge of that!’ Isabella snapped, staring into the darkness behind Marigny. ‘And tell my beloved father so!’
I, too, gazed into the shadows behind the table. Philip undoubtedly lurked there, closely watching these proceedings.