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

happen?’
    ‘I cannot say, Mathilde,’ he replied hoarsely, ‘but Chapeleys is a symptom of the times. Men are choosing sides. Langton has chosen his. If he was free he would go along with Winchelsea and the rest. This business at Westminster, the king and his lords, they spin like two hawks locked in flight and neither can break free. The king will have to go to war, yet he has no strength. Gaveston could be arrested and killed, Edward would never let such a matter rest. Meanwhile Philip of France is meddling furiously. We still have friends close to Philip’s secret chancery. They claim Philip intends to bring about a revolution in England.’
    He shook his head at my exclamation.
    ‘The French king is casting his net far and wide. Rumours shed no light, but gossip from Philip’s secret chancery claims that he is using someone called the Ancilla Venenata.’
    ‘The Poison Maiden?’ I exclaimed.
    Bertrand lifted his hand. I listened. The faint hum of conversation had died. We clambered quickly to our feet. I left Demontaigu in the chapel and returned to Langton’s chamber. Guido had finished and was washing his hands at the lavarium just inside the doorway. Langton was making himself comfortable on the bed. I quietly prayed that he would not call for Chapeleys, but he was more concerned with his goblet of wine. Guido dried his hands, turned and bowed. Langton fluttered his fingers and we were gone.
    Cromwell and a group of archers escorted us back down through the Lion Gate. The constable made his swift farewells and we walked on to the quayside. The afternoon was drawing on. Stinking, vulgar gusts of smoke billowed across from the nearby tanning sheds. Assayers of the Fish were arguing with oystermen; these had brought in their catches and were waiting to unload baskets on to the quayside. The assayers, however, insisted that they check the baskets to ensure that the oysters were fresh and not the remains of the previous day’s haul. The oystermen were furious in their own defence.
    A line of fleshing carts was also off-loading supplies, messy hunks of freshly slaughtered meat. Blood swilled across the cobblestones, and the butchers had to fight off a pack of hungry dogs as well as a crowd of beggars who scrambled on all fours hunting for scraps. River pirates, four in number, were kneeling on the edge of the quayside, nooses around their necks. An undersheriff bellowed out their crimes to a crowd of curious bystanders as a Crutched Friar, hand raised in blessing, moved from man to man to give absolution. I caught the words ad aeternam vitam – ‘to eternal life’. The undersheriff heartily agreed with this. The friar had scarcely finished when the red-faced law officer simply kicked each of the condemned men over the edge of the quayside. The drop to the water below was long; the nooses around the prisoners’ necks tightened brutally. I could hear the strangled gasps and groans as the undersheriff bellowed how the corpses would hang for three turns of the tide and would not be released for burial until then. As we continued to push our way through the throng, a carrying voice caught our attention. Demontaigu paused and whirled round.
    ‘Hurry if you wish,’ the voice bellowed. ‘Listen, sons of Esau, vilior est humana caro quam pellis ovina – man’s flesh is more worthless than sheepskin.’
    A preacher dressed in garish rags advanced through the throng towards us. He was of medium height, hair cut close about a lean, sun-darkened face. Beside him scampered a hideous beggar on all fours, wooden slats fastened to his knees, one more in each hand, his filthy face half hidden by matted hair.
    ‘Know ye,’ the preacher paused before us and pointed at the beggar, ‘how low he is, yet when a man dies, he is lower than this: his nose grows cold, his face turns white, his nerves and brain break, his heart splits in two. Oh so repent! If not today, then tomorrow at the darkening hour. Go to church with all