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

candlelight seemed to have followed us. I became acutely aware of the massy grey stone, the hollow, empty feel of that forbidding place. Chapeleys must have eavesdropped on my conversation with Langton and decided to seize his opportunity. The bishop was the king’s enemy, and therefore, by implication, mine. I glanced at Chapeleys’ peaked face.
    ‘Why are you so frightened?’
    ‘I have information,’ Chapeleys retorted. ‘His grace must know it.’
    I pointed to the stairwell. ‘If you are free to go, monsieur, then go, take your cloak. You have money?’
    Chapeleys replied that he had.
    ‘Go to the Palace of Westminster,’ I declared. ‘Let no one see you. You know St Benedict’s Chapel in the Old Palace?’
    Chapeleys nodded.
    ‘Stay near the Lady Altar,’ I insisted. ‘I shall meet you there immediately on my return.’
    Chapeleys scurried about, and a short while later hastened out cloaked and hooded. I glimpsed the poignard pushed into the sheath on his waist and the small leather chancery pouch that he raised before slipping down the stone staircase. I stood and listened. Langton was still bellowing at Guido. I walked into the Chapel of St John, lit by a host of candles glowing around the statue of the Evangelist. Their flickering light illuminated a grisly wall-painting of St John being boiled alive, though he emerged unscathed from his torments. Demontaigu was kneeling before the statue of the Evangelist, hands clasped, head down. I went over and joined him.
    ‘ Mon coeur .’ My hand brushed his.
    ‘How is Langton?’ He turned.
    I shrugged. ‘Another fat shepherd bemoaning his lot.’
    Demontaigu smiled. I quickly told him about Chapeleys. He put a finger to his lips and drew me deep into the shadows on the other side of the statue. For a while he just crouched staring into the darkness.
    ‘Mathilde,’ he turned, ‘you called me mon coeur ; so I am, as you are mine.’
    ‘Even though you are a priest?’ I teased, blinking back the tears.
    ‘What I am, Mathilde, is not what I feel. To be close to you is to be . . .’ He paused.
    ‘Loved?’ I asked, aware of my question echoing around that cavernous chamber, its juddering light bringing the frescoes to life.
    ‘Loved!’ he agreed. ‘To be with you is to feel a fullness I have never experienced before. Oh yes,’ he winked, ‘I have said enough.’ He grasped a tendril of my hair. ‘Sometimes, Mathilde, I believe in nothing except you. You are my God, my religion.’ He stroked my cheek with a finger then his hand dropped away. ‘Oh Mathilde, I know that I am also a priest, a Templar whose beloved order has been destroyed. I and my companions are being hunted down like rats in a barn. A year ago we were the glory of Europe; now the kings of the earth have turned against us. No, listen, Mathilde.’ He brushed aside any interruption. ‘Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales are back in England. They act on the authority of the pope; Philip of France has seen to that. They hunt not only us, but our treasure, our relics. For now, Mathilde, don’t be anxious, I am safe. I have explained that being a nuntius , a messenger of my order, I rarely stay in one place long enough for Philip’s agents to acquaint themselves with me. Others are not so fortunate; they must keep to the shadows.’ He glanced quickly over my shoulder. ‘You also know that when we can, we strike back. Now one of our serjeants, a Frenchman named Jean Ausel, and others have arrived in this country to wreak vengeance. Ausel is an assassin, a skilled killer, a warrior. He also searches for our treasure, some of which – indeed, a great deal of which,’ Demontaigu added bitterly, gesturing at the door, ‘was held by Langton before he fell. If Ausel were here, Mathilde, he would kill Langton. Now Chapeleys wishes to flee. I wonder if he knows something about the lost treasure.’
    ‘Bertrand,’ I asked, a nameless fear almost choking my breath, ‘what is going to