‘My lady?’
‘This is not justice.’ Isabella waved at the terrified servants. ‘You have no proof or evidence they were involved. Why should they wish to harm anyone in this hall?’ Her words were greeted by a murmur of assent from the servants. ‘My lord,’ she gestured at me, ‘this mystery is to be prised open with a dagger rather than a mallet.’
Edward glanced at Gaveston. The favourite sat hunched in his chair, red spots of anger high in his cheeks. He clicked his tongue and stared at the huddle of servants as if he wished to behead them all with his sword. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He muttered something to himself, glanced at the king and nodded. The hall was cleared; only members of the royal party remained. Edward imperiously beckoned me forward to the far side of the table. I went to kneel.
‘My lord!’ Isabella hissed.
Gaveston placed a hand on Edward’s arm. The king, fickle as the moon, smiled and waved me to a chair next to his wife. The atmosphere changed. Edward flicked his hand at the table crowded with cups, platters and mazers.
‘Mathilde, ma petite, we are listening.’
I swiftly told him about Guido’s ailments and symptoms. Edward heard me out, then ordered me to move round the table and scrutinise the various cups and bowls. In the end I could find nothing amiss except for the beautifully fluted Venetian water glass set for Gaveston but drunk by Guido — empty except for a few dregs. I caught the same strange flowery smell I had detected from Guido and the garderobe, which I had inspected on my return to the banqueting chamber. A sharp, brief discussion took place as to how the water could have been poisoned. Matters were complicated by the possibility that Guido may have been the intended victim rather than Gaveston. The queen dowager described the French envoys’ open hostility to her squire, a malice I had also witnessed earlier in the day. Yet again, what are words and looks? Perhaps they should have been more closely scrutinised at the time. The queen dowager added that such an attempt was likely following Guido’s open delight at the Lord Gaveston’s victory. Edward sat nodding, speaking quietly to himself in Castilian, the tongue of his beloved mother, a strange habit that manifested itself whenever he was deeply agitated. Questions were asked about how the poison was introduced. Everyone realised the futility of pursuing any logical answer. Servants had clustered around the table, household retainers had come and gone, even members of the royal party had left their seats to approach Gaveston to offer their congratulations at his victory. This was the only allusion, veiled though it was, that the assassin might have been one of our company.
Chapter 10
Every kingdom divided against itself shall be brought to desolation.
Strange, I sit and reflect on this page of my chronicle. How the events of that long-lost Sunday opened a path to so much. The loose thread in a tapestry of lies and deceits. Truly our words and actions are seeds for the sowing. They quicken and thrust up, all ripe for the harvesting. Nevertheless, at the time, the sinister threading of that sombre tapestry continued to be woven. Guido was now in the royal infirmary, visited by court physicians. Queen Margaret, all tearful and piteous, like a damsel from some Chapel Perilous, entreated me to take special care of him. I did so.
At first Guido vomited and retched, and his bowels became loose. Red rashes appeared on his skin. He continued to have some difficulty breathing. I purged him with fresh water and fed him on broths thickened and rich. The danger passed. The queen dowager with her children, the countess, Agnes and a few other chosen retainers moved into Burgundy Hall to personally supervise Guido’s recovery. Where possible, I slipped out of the palace, away from my care of Guido and other duties, to meet Demontaigu. He was still absorbed with his own troubles and the possibility of a traitor, a Judas man, amongst his brethren. He told me how many of his comrades had now scattered into hiding. I told him about Guido. Demontaigu believed the intended victim must have been Gaveston. According to him, the Great Lords were seething at the favourite’s victory over Alexander of Lisbon, who, Demontaigu ruefully reflected, had suffered little more than a few knocks and bruises, the blow to his pride being the worst. Demontaigu also confirmed what Isabella had secretly confided in me. The Great Lords gathered at Westminster were becoming restless. They had brought their retinues into the city and the daily cost of maintaining their men under arms was biting deep. Edward and Gaveston’s strategy began to emerge. They might be under siege at Burgundy Hall, protected only by the power and sacredness of the Crown, but the Great Lords were spending their revenues on this costly exercise. Some of them were already negotiating with the Bardi, the Italian bankers in Lombard Street, for fresh loans. Winchelsea was drawing heavily on the revenues of Canterbury as well as daily reminding the king about the transfer of New Temple Church.
Demontaigu was deeply intrigued by Winchelsea’s interest in a Temple church. On the Wednesday following the concilium, he invited me to the private celebration of mass in his locked chamber. Despite the surroundings, the makeshift altar and pewter vessels, it was, as always, a solemn, sacred occasion. I found it deeply intriguing. Demontaigu often quoted the bishop’s oath from the ritual when a priest was ordained: ‘The Lord has sworn a great oath. He will not repent of that oath. You are a priest for ever according to the order of Melchisedech.’
‘I will always celebrate my daily mass,’ Demontaigu confided in me. ‘Whatever the cost!’
I watched him that morning breathing the sacred words over the host and the chalice, transforming them into the Body and Blood of the risen Christ. I could not ignore the fact that I loved this man, who was also a priest sworn to celibacy. I had asked him about this earlier in the year, before the clouds gathered and the dangers threatened. He had been teasing me about my bold eyes and purposeful poise.
‘How,’ I’d retorted, eyes fluttering like any dainty maid, ‘can you be so attracted by the flesh when you are sworn to chastity?’
Demontaigu glanced sadly at me, blinked and looked away before turning back to kiss me fiercely on the forehead.
‘I am sworn to chastity but not forbidden to fall in love.’ He smiled. ‘There is no vow or oath against that.’
On that particular morning I remembered those words as Demontaigu finished his mass. Afterwards I helped clear away the sacred vessels, which he kept concealed in a locked iron-bound coffer. I would have loved to discuss the matter of his priesthood again, but Marigny’s words about my mother were beginning to nag and tug at my soul. Demontaigu was also more concerned about his brethren and Ausel’s determination to discover the Judas amongst them.
‘Four of our comrades died after the attack on us in the Chapel of the Hanged.’ Demontaigu acknowledged my surprise. ‘Eternal rest be given them. One died suddenly; he had a weak heart. Others received wounds which turned rotten. Either that,’ he sighed, ‘or like other brothers they just lost the will to live. I have prayed for them. Other priests have sung the requiem. Now,’ he placed the keys of the coffer in his wallet, ‘Winchelsea hungers for New Temple Church.’ He opened a leather satchel, and fishing amonst its contents, drew out and unrolled a finely drawn map of London. Head close to mine, he pointed out the location of New Temple, with its frontage on the Thames. He described how a curtain wall circled the church, hall, barracks, stables and other outbuildings. I stared fascinated as he explained how the church was circular, a replica of the Temple in Jerusalem; the long chancel beside it had been added later. Staring at that map, I immediately recalled Chapeleys’ drawing of a circle with a letter P in the centre.