by Paul Doherty
In the end the good doctors were unable to help. They recommended poultices and potions to drain the malignance from the humours, but Pelet continued to weaken. He eventually lost consciousness and died within seven days of the onset of the infection. By then I was fully recovered. I felt no compassion for Pelet, especially when he ranted about shadows clustering around his bed. He lapsed into his native tongue of Langue d’Oc, screaming at the crucifix for mercy. ‘He who sows the tempest reaps the whirlwind’, or so Scripture would have us believe. Pelet was an assassin many times over. God wanted his soul for judgement. I could only stand and watch the effects of arsenic poisoning run their natural course. I thought it most fitting. After all, Uncle Reginald with his manuscripts was as much an authority on poisons and noxious potions as the Scriptures are on theology. A little arsenic may help the stomach, but too much and a powerful fever seizes its victim. That was Pelet’s fate. I recognised the symptoms, the good physicians didn’t. On reflection Isabella must have served us both something to sicken our humours, perhaps a little stone-crop or pepper mixed with heavy vinegar to create an illusion. The royal physicians, as is their custom, could only grasp their manuals and urine jars, shake their heads and moan about the fevers and agues of the day and congratulate Isabella and myself on our miraculous recovery.
Isabella acted the professional mourner. She placed the coins on Pelet’s eyes and lighted a taper before the rood screen in La Sainte Chapelle. Of course, Philip and his coterie may have suspected, but at the time arsenic was rare, whilst mine and Isabella’s sickness pointed to a sudden infection which Pelet couldn’t fight, a twist of fate, mere mischance. Isabella’s subterfuge was deception enough. She never uttered a word to me, and when I tried to speak, pressed her fingers against my lips.
‘Gone to God, Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘to answer the cries of vengeance for spilling innocent blood.’
I couldn’t think of a more fitting epitaph. By then Casales and Rossaleti had left for England, but two days before Christmas, the very evening Pelet’s corpse was dispatched into the city for burial, a mud-spattered messenger thundered into the palace courtyard. The news he brought soon spread through the palace: Casales and Rossaleti were returning! On their way to Boulogne, near Montreuil, they had met three new English envoys, Sir Ralph Sandewic, constable of the Tower of London; Lord Walter Wenlok, Abbot of Westminster; and Sir John Baquelle, knight. These three had braved the freezing Narrow Seas to bring startling news. Edward of England had acceded to all the French demands. The marriage to Isabella would go ahead. The English king even named the place: the Cathedral of Notre Dame at Boulogne, in the county of Ponthieu, a strip of Normandy still under the rule of the English crown. The marriage would take place in the New Year, and certainly no later than the Feast of the Conversion of St Paul, 25 January. The messenger carried a letter sealed by both Casales and Rossaleti summarising their news; this was proclaimed throughout the royal residence and again by Marigny at a splendid banquet hastily convened in the Fleur-de-lis Chamber at the centre of the palace.
The joy of Philip and his ministers was evident. No cost was spared. Musicians with rebec, tambour and viol played merry tunes, whilst jugglers, tumblers, clowns and jesters entertained the royal household. We all feasted on succulent venison and the juiciest flesh of fish fresh from the royal stew ponds, followed by beef and pork served in a wine-based sauce, thickened with capon meat and almonds and seasoned with cloves and sugar. A minstrel disguised as the Angel Gabriel sang a robust song dedicated to Isabella:
She stands in her satin gown,
If anyone touches her,
The gown rustles,
Eia –
She stands in her golden gown,
Her face like a rose and her mouth like a
flower,
Eia.
The object of all this merriment and rejoicing remained ivory-faced, blue eyes staring. She hardly drank at all but sat, lips moving wordlessly. Once the banquet was over and the king’s favourite lurchers had been allowed into the chamber, Isabella withdrew, gesturing at me to follow. She ordered the pages who carried the flambeaux to escort her to the small chapel she was accustomed to visit. Once inside she dismissed them, telling me to lock and bolt the door. The chapel was freezing cold, its brazier nothing more than a pile of ash and cinders. Isabella, ignoring my protests, took off her gown and robes. Dressed in nothing but her shift, she walked barefoot up to the sanctuary and prostrated herself about two yards before the rood screen. Stretched out on the ice-cold flagstones, she crept forward like a penitent crawling to kiss the cross on Good Friday and lay beneath the rood screen, arms extended, face down. I tried to cover her with my cloak, but she shrugged it off. I squatted at the foot of a pillar, the cold creeping up my own legs, the muscles of my back cramping in discomfort. Palace bells marked the passing hour, but still the princess lay as if asleep. Eventually she rose, dressed and smiled at me, pinching my cheek.
‘Mathilde, I have given thanks for my deliverance from hell. Now come,’ she teased, ‘tonight we pray, tomorrow we act all merry.’
Casales, Rossaleti and the other three English envoys arrived early on Christmas Eve bearing gifts and letters from Philip’s ‘sweet cousin’ the King of England. Isabella was ordered to meet them in the royal council chamber shortly after the Angelus. Casales and Rossaleti, however, still unshaven and ill-kempt after their hasty return, first attended her in her chamber to explain the status, power and purpose of the other three envoys. Both sat close to the hearth, muttering about the freezing weather and how it chilled their very bones, before describing the men Isabella would meet. Sandewic was an old soldier, Keeper of the Tower and Justice of Gaol-delivery at Newgate, the most foul prison in London and the last resting place of many outlaws. ‘He’s hanged more felons than I’ve drunk cups of wine,’ Casales exclaimed. ‘A royal bully-boy, an intimate friend of the old king, he loves that grim fortress the Tower of London; he regards it as his own personal fief. He even pays for the upkeep of its small chapel, St Peter Ad Vincula, from his own pocket. Sandewic is fierce,’ Casales continued, ‘the English crown’s man, body and soul! He once arrested a papal tax collector who’d vexed the old king; he took the tax collector’s money and told the fellow to be out of the kingdom within three days or he’d hang him from the Tower walls.’
‘Oh dear!’ Isabella pretended to be frightened. ‘And is Sir John Baquelle a greater beast?’
‘Ah, Baquelle is a London merchant, a friend of Pourte’s, rich and powerful. A justice of the city. Whereas the citizens of London are terrified of Sandewic, Baquelle they hate because he’s a royal appointment.’
‘And Lord Walter Wenlok?’
‘Abbot of Westminster,’ Rossaleti scoffed, ‘and very much aware of it.’ He coughed, recollecting himself. ‘He’s been abbot for over twenty years, a close friend of the old king and a special confidant of the new. He is much liked by my Lord Gaveston.’
‘And the death of Pourte and the attack on you?’ Isabella asked. ‘What are your thoughts now?’
‘Suspicion is not evidence,’ Casales replied, chewing his lip. ‘Of course mon seigneur the king knows of it and has protested.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘But that is just straw in the wind.’
‘And my betrothed’s abrupt change of mind?’
‘Only God knows!’ Casales murmured. ‘My lady,’ he smiled, ‘soon to be your grace. Perhaps the change is just hard politic, the inevitable.’
My lady glanced sharply at Rossaleti, who nodded.
‘My lady,’ Casales repeated, ‘this is not some speech from a romance, but please remember, mon seigneur the King of England has undiminished love for you.’
‘And the Lord Gaveston?’ Isabella’s ambiguous question startled Casales, who glanced quickly at Rossaleti. The clerk just smiled serenely back as if that answer was not his to give.
‘Mon seigneur the king,’ Casales hastily declared, ‘loves his lady, whilst his love for Lord Gaveston is tha
t for a dear brother. These new envoys will assure you of this.’
‘In which case, monsieur,’ Isabella rose, smoothing down the folds of her gown, ‘it is time we met our visitors.’
We went down to the council chamber. Everything was prepared as if for a mass, candles glowing along the polished table, the fire fiercely crackling the scented pine logs, the braziers sparkling, the tapestry-covered walls hidden in the shadows, pierced no doubt by peep-holes and confessional gaps where Marigny and his Secreti could lurk. The three envoys were grouped at the far end of the table. Sandewic was what he looked, a veteran soldier, an old knight, who’d kept his fealty to God and his king. I took to him immediately; my heart warmed to his blunt goodness. He reminded me so much of Uncle Reginald. Looking back, I realise, in truth, that some men possess an innate decency, a richness of the soul. Sandewic was one of these. He had a falcon-like face, a beaked nose, a hard mouth and glaring eyes beneath bushy brows. He was dressed in the old fashion, no fripperies, simply a long, sleeveless dark-green gown over a jerkin of rich murrey, a sword-belt wrapped round his waist, a silver chain of office hanging about his neck. Sandewic’s steel-grey hair straggled down to his shoulders though his white moustache and beard were neatly clipped. He knelt when Isabella approached, kissed her hands then, most movingly, turned to me and did the same, clasping my fingers. My soul kissed his, my life touched his. Jesu miserere mei; his brutal death struck deep and hard with me.
Baquelle was different, small, fat and pompous, a radiant, jolly face under a mop of black hair. He was dressed in the finest jagged coat, particoloured hose and blood-red Cordovan riding boots. Baquelle didn’t know whether to bluster or fawn, whilst his so-called courtly speech was clumsy enough to make Rossaleti hide his smile. A true merchant prince full of his own importance, he was very much the royal envoy and gave my mistress the sketchiest of bows.
Lord Walter Wenlok, Abbot of Westminster, was garbed in the black robes of a Benedictine but they were of the purest wool and edged with ermine, whilst his stiffened hood, pulled elegantly back, was lined with costly purple samite. Wenlok was proud in both manner and appearance. The tonsure on his head neatly cut, his smooth-shaven patrician face composed in a mask of sanctimonious serenity. A thin-lipped, arrogant-eyed man who, in the circumstances, should have looked into his soul and the coming call for its reckoning rather than emphasising his power. He stretched out a claw-like hand so we could kiss his thick abbatial ring. Isabella did so quickly, I followed suit, then we settled down to exchange pleasantries. Courteous questions provoked courteous answers. Old Sandewic, however, broke from this.
‘My lady,’ he leaned against the table, ‘you shall certainly be called Isabella La Belle. You will win the hearts of all loyal subjects with your beauty and grace.’
My mistress blushed slightly and bowed her head in thanks.
‘Mon seigneur,’ Sandewic continued, ignoring a vexed glance from Wenlok, ‘is greatly desirous of meeting you. All is prepared. You have apartments at the Tower; clean, swept and hung with the most beautiful tapestries. Every luxury will be yours. At Westminster, after the recent fire, your chambers have been completely refurbished. Outside the gardens are newly turfed and trellised, their stew ponds drained and cleaned. You even have your own quayside at Queen’s Bridge, repaired as of new.’ The old knight beamed around at his companions, but his hand kept going to his ear; I could tell that his nose and throat were inflamed with the rheums. Such ailments did not diminish his enthusiasm and deep admiration for Isabella’s beauty. I recalled the legendary love between Edward I and his Queen Eleanor of Castile; perhaps Sandewic hoped that this might happen again.
‘At Dover,’ Sandewic continued brusquely, ‘mon seigneur has prepared the royal ship The Margaret of Westminster, named after your noble aunt. Both it and its escort of boats and barges have been completely refurbished. The royal ship contains new wardrobes and butteries fitted for your comfort.’
Isabella caught Sandewic’s enthusiasm. The atmosphere became most relaxed, wine was served, sweetmeats offered. Baquelle and Wenlok now followed Sandewic’s lead. The merchant described the eagerness of Londoners to see their new queen, whilst Wenlok extolled the beauties of Westminster Abbey where she would be crowned. Isabella thanked them prettily, excused herself and withdrew to revel in what had so unexpectedly happened.
King Philip now emerged in all his glory. He had Edward at his feet; his daughter would be Queen of England and his grandson would sit at Westminster and wear the Confessor’s crown. The joyfulness and merriment of the French Christmas court became a heavy perfume. The Angels’ Mass was celebrated at midnight followed by the Dawn Mass then the Shepherds’ Mass, glorious liturgical ceremonies, the priests vested in the gold and white robes of the great feast. The royal chapel rang with hymns: ‘Hodie ego Genui te’ - ‘This day I have begotten you’; and ‘Puer natus nobis’ - ‘A child is born’. The air became rich with incense, as if some perfumed mist had come down from heaven and God’s glory joined with ours in all the receptions, carols, dances, mummers’ plays and festivals. It was hard to decide whether King Philip was celebrating the birth of the Christ child or the future birth of his grandson.
On Christmas evening, in the Fleur-de-Lis Chamber, Philip staged a great banquet: four tables in a square cordoned off by screens draped with gorgeous tapestries depicting the Glories of the Lilies and the exploits of the Capets. On the high table Philip, Marigny and Nogaret sat with Wenlok and Baquelle. On the second his three sons entertained Casales and Rossaleti; I noticed Louis glaring at me spitefully. On the third table sat important clerics, diplomats and officials. On the fourth, opposite her father, Isabella attended by me, entertained Sandewic and the leading clerks of the English embassy. A truly splendid feast, with soup of ground capon thickened with almond milk and served with pomegranates and red comfits. Roast dishes, kid cooked in cream, ducks and chicken, crayfish set in jelly, followed by frumenty. Musicians played lustily and choirs of silver-voiced boys carolled sweetly.
Oh, I remember that evening well. Murder also joined us. I was sitting next to Sandewic and quickly realised that he was not only present as an envoy; in the eyes of the English king, at least, he was to replace Pelet as Custos, keeper or protector of the princess’s household once it left for Boulogne. Sandewic first apologised for not giving me a gift, then handed me his dagger with its beautiful curved blade and ivory handle. I thought he was deep in his cups, but he pressed this gift on me, pushing the gold and red sheath into my hands, his eyes brimming with tears.
‘I had a daughter once,’ he murmured. ‘You have her eyes and ways.’ He then turned away to talk to one of the clerks. I could see he was melancholic. I had already exchanged gifts with my mistress; she had given me a copy of Hildegard of Bremen’s sayings with its most famous edged in gold: Oh man look to man, for man has the heavens and earth and all other created things lie within him. He is one with them and all things are hidden within him. In return I’d given the princess a ring, a gift from my Uncle Reginald which she much admired. At the feast I sipped my wine and watched Philip toast the taciturn Wenlok of Westminster, wondering what I could give Sandewic, who reminded me so much of my uncle with his stern looks and gentle ways. I touched him on the shoulder; he turned back all eager-eyed.
‘Gold and silver have I none,’ I retorted brightly, echoing the words of St Peter in Acts, ‘but what I have, I give thee freely.’
‘Which is, mademoiselle?’
‘Sir, you suffer from the rheums, your limbs ache and your head is heavy and dulled.’
‘A wise woman, Mathilde!’
‘Wise enough, sir, to know that warm oil, salted water and a potion of vervain would help you.’
Sandewic thought I was teasing him, but once assured, he accepted my help, apologising as old men do for his obvious discomfort. Nevertheless, he was cunning and astute. He drank sparsely of the different wines and was describing his beloved Tower with its great four-walled donjon, girdling walls an
d yawning gateways when we were abruptly distracted by a commotion at the king’s table. Lord Abbot Wenlok seemed in difficulties. He had slumped back in his chair, gripping the table as if experiencing a severe giddiness. Servants and retainers clustered about. Sandewic rose from his chair, the English clerks following. Isabella glanced sharply at me, indicating I follow. At first I thought the Benedictine lord had drunk too much. They had taken him into a small chancery room and made him comfortable on the floor, pushing brocaded cushions under his head. Wenlok, however, seemed unaware of what was happening; he twitched and convulsed, muttering about the cold stoniness in his feet and legs.
A physician was hastily summoned, but Lord Wenlok’s distress increased, his words becoming garbled; he retched but could not even spit into the maplewood bowl thrust under his mouth. He lay back, croaking hoarsely. More cushions were pushed under him. The death rattle echoed in his throat. Sandewic knelt beside him and tried to comfort him, but the Lord Abbot, head going from side to side, eyes stark in distress, mouth gaping for breath, was unable to respond. A priest was called. He muttered the words of absolution above the dying man’s hideous sounds. Wenlok shook violently, gave a loud gasp then lay still, head falling to one side.