Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online

had insisted that the painting be placed prominently beside the good bishop’s bed. Langton himself looked unabashed by his imprisonment or his surroundings.
    The room was stifling hot. A fire blazed in the hearth; braziers and chafing dishes crackled and spluttered. Langton, stretched out on the great bed, was dressed in a simple gown, a thick fur cloak over his shoulders, legs and feet already bared. He was impatient for treatment. Guido and I immediately scrutinised the angry-looking red ulcer. The open sore looked clean, with little infection. I recommended it be washed in salt and wine, then treated with crushed ale-hoof or ground ivory as well as powdered moss mixed with grains of dried milk. Guido, surprisingly, as physicians rarely concur, offered to prepare the recipe and asked the waiting Cromwell to bring the necessary ingredients from the Tower stores. I stood back and studied Langton. A burly, red-faced man with popping eyes and a codfish mouth, he had a swollen belly, fat, heavy thighs and short, muscular arms. I found it difficult to imagine him in episcopal robes. Yet for all his weight, he was quick and lithe in his movements. He turned and stared closely up at me, I caught the cunning in his soul, the scrutiny of a sharp, twisting mind.
    ‘You must be,’ he scratched his thinning grey hair, ‘Isabella the queen’s little shadow.’
    The statement proved how much he knew about the doings of the court.
    ‘Give my most loyal greetings and rich blessings to your mistress, girl.’
    ‘I will, Father,’ I retorted. ‘As I give you hers and mine.’ Langton stared at me, threw his head back and laughed raucously. Then he flapped his heavy hands, beating the coverlet either side of him.
    ‘Very, very good,’ he chuckled. ‘Well, girl, let Master Guido do his business, although your soft touch,’ he leered at me, ‘would also be welcome.’
    ‘Master Guido’s hands are just as soft.’ I bowed and left Guido to his ministrations. Servants arrived with mortar and pestle, a bowl of hot water and phials of powder from the Tower stores. Guido tactfully walked me away.
    ‘My lord bishop believes in the natural order of things, Mathilde. You are young and female.’
    ‘If he wants,’ I whispered back, ‘I can go into London and secure the services of a sixty-year-old physician who might prescribe oleum cataellorum .’
    Guido glanced quizzically at me.
    ‘Live cats boiled in olive oil,’ I murmured. ‘It won’t cure him, possibly kill him, but will keep his honour intact.’
    Guido spluttered with laughter. I patted him gently on the shoulder and walked out of the antechamber. When we had first entered, I had noticed the clerk cowled and hunched at the chancery desk. He was still busy poring over some manuscripts in the light of capped candles. Demontaigu had placed his war belt on a stool nearby and apparently gone into the Chapel of St John. From the chamber behind me Langton’s voice bellowed at Guido. I was about to join Demontaigu when the hooded figure turned abruptly. A peaked white face peeped out of the hood, deep-set eyes and bony features dominated by a nose as hooked as a scythe.
    ‘Mistress,’ his lips hardly moved, ‘I understand you are from the king. I must go back with you.’ The words came more as a hiss than a whisper.
    ‘Must, sir?’ I drew closer, aware of my voice echoing. ‘Why must?’
    ‘My name is Chapeleys,’ the man gabbled. ‘I am a clerk.’ He glanced quickly at the chamber door, tilting his head towards Langton’s bellowing. ‘I am his clerk but I am no prisoner here. I must see the king. I have information.’
    I gestured towards the other door. He followed me out into the gloomy recess.
    ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why now?’
    ‘It is urgent,’ Chapeleys insisted. He drew so close I could smell his fear. ‘I am no prisoner,’ he repeated. ‘I can come and go as I wish. I must see the king.’
    I glanced back at the half-open door; the glow of