by Paul Doherty
Once back in her own chamber Isabella dismissed the sleepy pages and maids and took me into the window enclosure, sitting me down beside her. She opened the latched door and stared out, oblivious to the cold breeze pouring in.
‘Strange,’ she murmured, ‘when I was a child I heard a sermon by a Franciscan preacher about the devil. He described Satan as having a face blackened by soot, his hair and beard falling down to his feet. His eyes were of glowing iron, sparks sprang from his mouth and evil-smelling smoke billowed out of his mouth and nostrils. He had feathered wings sharp as thorns, his hands bound by manacles.’ Isabella grasped my arm and drew me closer, resting her lovely head on my shoulder. ‘Then Mother died. I rose one night, came here and opened this latch window. It was a beautiful summer’s night. In the cloisters below my father was strolling with his coven in the cloisters. They wore their capuchons and deep-sleeved robes; bats were squeaking, rooks calling. On that night I changed my mind about the devil. The true demons were out there and the bats and crows, their servants, came flying out of the sleeves of the robes of my father and his minions. On that same night I dreamed an owl flew into my mouth, sat down on my heart and embraced it with its taloned claws. In my nightmare I went hunting with my father in the woods of Fontainebleau; they say it’s haunted by the devil, riding a dog, scouring the woods with a troop of demons dressed in black. Anyway, I felt as if I was condemned to ride those woods for ever.’ She lifted her head. ‘Dreams, physician, how can you explain them, eh? A trick of the digestion or humours out of harmony, fanciful theories?’ Isabella closed the window. ‘Mathilde, I always remember that evening. What I thought, what I saw, what I felt when I dreamed: I thought I was trapped in hell, but now I am to be freed. You must come with me. I need you.’
‘My lady, I am grateful.’
‘Don’t.’ Isabella drew a deep breath and rose to her feet. ‘Don’t be grateful.’ She picked up a set of Ave beads, lacing them through her fingers. ‘Just be careful, Mathilde! The demons may know who you are and they may try, just once more.’
Warnings are like birds; they come and go, quickly forgotten, especially in that busy Christmas season. The feasting and revelry over the twelve days of the holy feast culminated in the ceremonies of the boy bishop and other jester antics of the Epiphany. During this season the English envoys were constant visitors to Isabella, dancing attendance on her, Baquelle in particular eager to describe London and its importance. On reflection Baquelle was a busybody, full of his own importance. Lord Wenlok’s death hardly concerned him, even though it was he who was charged with arranging the dispatch of the abbot’s embalmed corpse back to his brethren at Westminster, a task he accomplished as if sending a basket of wheat or a tun of wine. Sandewic grew more taciturn, studying me closely as if trying to reach a decision. Casales and Rossaleti worked closely together; through them I learnt the news of the two courts. How the confrontation between the English king and his leading earls had intensified, whilst in Scotland the war leader Bruce was threatening England’s northern marches. In Paris the passion of the Templars continued with denouncings, torture, mock trials and false convictions, followed by bloody execution. I prayed on my knees for those unfortunates. I lit tapers for their souls. I gazed into the night and vowed vengeance, but my time had not yet come.
After Marigny’s questioning I also reflected on de Vitry and his household, slaughtered by that mysterious assassin. Had he been lurking there when I entered? Who could it have been? Even Sandewic, a seasoned warrior, could not annihilate an entire household so quickly. And Sir Hugh Pourte falling like a stone from that window? Was the outside wall scaled by black-garbed assassins? And Lord Wenlok ending his pompous life writhing on the floor like a wounded dog? Why had they all been killed? Murder or a series of accidents? All a mystery, but those were my green days of youth before I’d passed through the Valley of Deadly Nightshade and walked the Meadows of Bloody Murder. Moreover, I was distracted. The French court were now preparing to leave, one busy day following another. The list of Isabella’s possessions grew as her father insisted that she be a resplendent bride, a royal Capetian princess, soon to be Queen of England and the mother of a long line of kings.
New household officials gathered. Isabella’s retinue became swollen with the appointees in every department: the kitchen, the buttery, the chancery, hanaper and chapel. Of course, many of these were Secreti, placemen appointed by Marigny. Others were chosen by Isabella herself, men and women such as her nurse Joanna, who’d served her as a child. A few were complete strangers; one in particular had significance for the future, a Gascon, Jean de Clauvelin, from a small village, or so he claimed, outside Bordeaux, now working in Soissons. He was a notary who had acted as attorney for the Abbey of St Jean des Vignes; a dry-eyed, scrawny-headed, dusty-faced man with a nervous tic in his right cheek, ink-stained fingers and constantly dripping nose. Despite his appearance Jean was most skilled in chancery work; even so Isabella was surprised at his appointment and petitioned her father for the reason. King Philip’s reply was curt: de Clauvelin was an accomplished man who would be acceptable to the English court. Isabella pulled a face when she heard this but did not demur. On one thing, however, she was determined, reminding me of our mutual oath. In public she would act her part, but never, in the company of her household, must she and I discuss what she termed res secretae or les affaires secrètes - secret matters, a promise both of us kept. True, God knows, our secret circle increased, but that was the way of it, I swear on the Gospels, on my soul. Isabella was queen, later ruler of England for over twenty years, but she never broke that oath until Mortimer. Ah yes, Mortimer, but he was a new world of fresh beginnings. I strike my breast – mea culpa, mea culpa – but I digress.
Isabella’s wardrobe became filled to overflowing, crammed with precious goods. Two crowns ornamented with gems, gold and silver drinking vessels, precious spoons, fifty silver porringers, twelve great silver dishes and twelve small ones, dresses of gold, silver, velvet, satin and shot taffeta, gowns of green cloth from Douai, six beautifully marbled and six of rose scarlet. Costly furs, hundreds of yards of linen, night cloths, shifts and cloaks were provided together with splendid tapestries emblazoned with lozenges of gold depicting the arms of France, England and Navarre. Throughout these preparations, however, she remained highly anxious, more about me than herself. She asked me time and again what had happened in the Chambre Ardente. Every time I answered she would nod and concede that her father’s minions dare not do anything against me because of her, at least nothing direct. Nevertheless I was to be careful. She made a practice of publicly sharing whatever I ate, whilst I accompanied her everywhere. Murder, however, creeps soft and sly.
On occasions I had to perform errands to the city for my mistress. I loved such outings, especially expeditions to the left bank of the Seine. Nothing was more refreshing than crossing the bridge, past the Petite Châtelet and into the narrow winding lanes with their tall gabled houses rising up from the cobbles, leaning towards each other, one storey stacked above the other. The lower ones were decorated with incredible carvings of fantastical beasts and creatures. I loved to dally and stare at these as I did the forest of scrolled, painted signs of the shops and stalls offering a wide range of goods. It was good to stand at stone fountains or pause under the arched shrines at every corner with torches burning in constant prayer beneath. The shifting sea of colour and smells, the ordinary chatter of the day soothed the soul; the constant braying of horses and pack animals answered by the yip of dogs or drowned by the strident shouting of journeymen above the clanging of bells. Despite Isabella’s strictures I needed such visits, an escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the court. Usually I would cross the bridge accompanied by two Genoese bowmen, cheerful rogues specially chosen by the princess, brothers Giacomo and Lorenzo, small and squat, with tough, scarred faces. They were twins, two friendly gargoyles; the only way I could tell the difference between them was that Giacomo had a slight cast in one eye.
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nbsp; Now, once the festivities of Christmas were finished, sometime after the Feast of the Relatio Pueri Jesu de Aegypto on 7 January, the crowds on the bridge were too pressing. Giacomo declared we would take a boat from the royal wharf to the Quai des Augustins on the far bank. The Princess was sending back to a parchmenter a bulky parcel of certain goods found wanting. I remember that morning so well. Casales, Rossaleti, Sandewic and Baquelle were in Isabella’s chambers. The English envoys, increasingly concerned about the amount of goods being stockpiled, were engaged in teasing banter with Isabella’s officials. I wanted to escape and instructed Giacomo that we would go before noon. We left the palace, and the crowds milling along the bridge confirmed our decision to take a royal boat across the fog-bound river. We hurried down to the wharf, where our craft had been prepared. I sat in the stern, grasping a hunter’s horn; Giacomo asked me to blow it every so often so as to alert other boats on the river, whilst he lit the lantern hanging from a hook on the prow. The two brothers grasped the oars, grinning wickedly at me. I always filled the mouth of the horn with spittle, which made them guffaw with laughter. They bent over the oars, giggling and chattering to each other. To humour them I blew a long braying blast; through the mist other horns answered whilst flaring lanterns winked warningly. Our boat surged forward to be caught by the river to twist and shudder on its current.
Death is surely like a shaft loosed out of the darkness. We had hardly gone far when I heard a sound to my right, the mist shifted and the huge sharp prow of a large war-barge was almost upon us, bearing down with hawk-like speed. It crashed into us, dead in the centre. The two Genoese simply went under. I slipped down into the swirling dark water, the cold numbing me until I panicked, gulping mouthfuls as I sank into the gloomy-green bubble-strewn depths. Giacomo and Lorenzo were already drifting corpses weighted down by their cuirasses and war-belts. I didn’t know if they could swim. I could. After all, the rushing streams and weed-strewn ponds and lakes of Bretigny nourish many plants, so I’d learnt to swim as I had to walk. The real danger was my heavy boots and cloak. I kicked and shrugged these off and broke to the surface. All was silent and deserted except for the distant noise of horns and the mist-shrouded glow of lamps. I lunged out, hoping I was swimming back towards the royal quayside, and screamed as a boat pulled alongside. Torches flared, rough hands grasped my shoulders. I kicked and screamed until a hard voice shouted:
‘Taisez vous, taisez vous, nous vous aidons!’ Be quiet, be quiet, we are helping you.
I was dragged aboard, glimpsing dusty, seamed faces; one of these bent over me, chattering like a sparrow. I became aware of the stench of raw fish and struggled to sit up, coughing and retching. I was safe amongst these poor fishermen. They gathered around me asking questions. I begged them to search for my escort. They did so but it was fruitless. The raw cold gave me a fit of the shivers. The fishermen said they had to leave, they could do no more, comforting me with goblets of raw wine, declaring that such accidents on the river were common, especially when the sea mist rolled in. Nevertheless, I could see even they were suspicious. The war-barge which had hit us had quickly disappeared. I’d glimpsed no lantern light on its prow, heard no horn to betray its presence. No alarm had been raised. All I could remember was its shooting speed, like that of a lunging snake.
The fishermen wrapped me in coarse blankets, sat me in the stern and brought me back to the Maison du Roi at the centre of the palace. The captain of the guard, realising what had happened, sent a message before us. Isabella, accompanied by Casales, Rossaleti and Sandewic, hastened down to the courtyard to meet me. She thanked the fishermen lavishly, instructing Casales to take their names for future rewards, while Rossaleti was sent back for a small cup of silver which Isabella pushed into their hands. Casales and Rossaleti were full of questions; Sandewic remained tight-lipped, staring at me intently, his falcon-like eyes cold and hard, shaking his head as if talking to himself. Isabella asked where Baquelle was; Sandewic gestured with his head towards the gatehouse.
‘Gone to the city.’
‘I hope he is safe,’ Isabella whispered.
All three of the English envoys decided to search for Baquelle, whilst Isabella took me into the kitchens. I stripped and wrapped myself in a thick robe, soft slippers on my feet, then squatted in front of the great roaring fire and drank mulled wine until I drifted into sleep. When I woke I was in Isabella’s chamber, none the worse for such an ordeal, though frightened and fearful. I wanted to scream at the princess that we should leave. She just sat on the edge of the bed grasping my hand, stroking it carefully, questioning me closely. She agreed it was no accident. I, too, was certain of that, but as for why and who was responsible . . . Isabella explained that when I’d left she’d been talking with the English envoys. The appearance of her brothers, smiling maliciously, had provoked her unease; they’d come up pretending they wanted to talk to the English but then sauntered off. I asked if she thought they were responsible. Isabella shook her head. She said she didn’t know, but confided that all three, together with Marigny and Nogaret, would escort us to England after the coronation. She ordered food from the kitchens and fed me herself. Now and again she’d pause, patting me on the arm, muttering in Navarrese, a sign of her own deep agitation.
After that I never left the palace. I remained haunted by those chilling images, the sharp curved prow, the boat bearing down on us, the Genoese bowmen, arms and legs splayed, floating down into the green darkness, the icy waters wrapping around me. Who had planned it, why? Were they waiting for us? I’d made a mistake. Our preparations that morning had been loudly proclaimed, Giacomo and Lorenzo going down to the royal wharf searching for a boat. Such anxieties vexed my mind and gnawed at my heart. Of course the attack was meant to look like an accident, but what was its sinister root? The malice of the princes, Isabella’s brothers? Marigny’s suspicions? King Philip’s resentment at my closeness to his daughter? Or was it something else?
Uncle Reginald had instructed me always to study cause and effect, to gather evidence, yet in my heart, I was convinced the attack had something to do with the massacre at the de Vitry mansion. Marigny had specifically questioned me on that, but why? Had the lonely assassin been hiding there all the time, watching me closely? Had I seen something the importance of which I did not recognise at the time?
Sandewic came to visit me. He brought me a present, a copy of Trotula’s writings which he’d bought in the Latin Quarter. The rough old soldier pushed this at me, saying that he was grateful I had survived, adding that he was even more grateful that his rheums and fever had disappeared whilst the ulcer on his leg had healed beautifully. He was clumsy and off-hand. He wished to talk with me but he was still suspicious and wary, so after a short while he again mumbled his thanks and left. As for the rest, my mishap was viewed as an unfortunate incident; courtesies were offered, polite messages sent, but it was a mere speck on the court preparations. By the Feast of St Hilary these were completed and the heralds proclaimed the day and hour of departure.
A long line of carts, carriages and pack animals crossed the Seine bridges, skirting the city, heading north-east into the barren, frozen countryside towards Boulogne. An uncomfortable, jolting journey. The great power of France, banners and pennants fluttering, moved slowly through the bleak countryside, levying purveyance as it went, resting at royal manor houses, palaces, priories and monasteries. Isabella and I journeyed in a carriage stiffened with cushions but still jarringly uncomfortable; we would often change and risk the bracing air by riding soft-eyed palfreys. At night we ate, drank and warmed ourselves, then slept the sleep of exhaustion. It was a hard, coarse winter. The countryside never seemed to change, just rutted track-ways winding past ice-bound fields, meadows and pasturelands, all shrouded by those soaring hedgerows and deep ditches so common in Normandy. The peasants, learning of our approach, gathered their goods and stock and fled, but the seigneurs, priors and abbots had no choice but to smile falsely and welcome our arrival as a great privilege.
Isabella and I kept to ourselves. Now and again we tried to distinguish and name the different plants we noticed or speculate about what would happen in Boulogne. The English envoys were often in attendance but they too became numbed with the sheer grind of the passing days. At last we approached the coast, the countryside giving way to sand-strewn hills and wastelands. A salty, bitter sea wind cut at our faces yet we all rejoiced as the spires and turrets of Boulogne came into sight.
Chapter 7
The peace of the Church perishes
and the arrogant reign.
‘A Song of the Times’, 1272-1307
How can I describe it? All of Europe had converged on that port. Philip’s allies from Lorraine, across the Rhine, Spain and elsewhere had gathered to witness a marriage which was to proclaim a lasting peace between England and France. Only one thing marred the enjoyment. Edward of England had not arrived. Despite his promises, there was no news of the English king. Casales, Rossaleti and the rest became highly anxious. We moved into Boulogne; the rest of the court were left to look after themselves, but the royal party lodged in a manor house close to the cathedral of Notre Dame, high in the city within its inner ring of walls. I hated the place, cold and austere, despite the best attempts of the citizens to festoon their streets and alleyways with banners, painted cloths and gaily coloured ribbons. All I truly wanted was for Edward of England to arrive, for the marriage to take place and for us to leave France for ever. A time of remembrance. I’d come so far, yet I was so young. My dreams in the chamber I shared with Isabella were often marred by nightmares, and phantasms, especially about Uncle Reginald seated in that cart, pushed up the ladder at Montfaucon, the noose being put around his neck. I became so agitated I fell ill, and used my own skill at physic to calm my humours.