Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden Read Online Free PDF Page A

were now determined to bring Edward of England under the ban. In the king’s palace itself, hiding in the shadows, was Isabella la Belle, not yet fourteen, but still possessed with the mind of a veteran intriguer. A true daughter of her father, nevertheless Isabella hated him as the cause of her own mother Jeanne de Navarre’s sudden and mysterious death, as well as for the abuse perpetrated on Isabella by her three brothers, those scions of Satan: Louis, Philippe and Charles. In public, she played of the role of her husband’s enemy, united with her father in his dreams of a Capetian hegemony, of bringing all Europe and its rulers under his iron sceptre. She was publicly aggrieved at her husband, deeply resentful of Gaveston. Ah well, that was how the tongues wagged. In private, Isabella plotted her own path with me in her shadow, like an archer notches his bow as he hides behind the shield of another.
    I was close to both queen and king. In truth, I had no choice. Both my mistress and I were of the king’s mesnie, his household, members of his own private chamber. There was one other. The beat of my heart, the light of my life, the passion of my soul, Bertrand Demontaigu, his black hair lined with grey, his sallow face redeemed by the most beautiful eyes and courteous ways. A Templar priest, the son of a French knight and an English mother, Demontaigu, after the sudden, brutal destruction of his order, had also hidden away in the shadow of the queen’s retinue, acting as one of her household clerks. His previous role as a messenger of the Temple had saved him from being marked and hunted down by Alexander of Lisbon and his Noctales. These were ferocious bounty-hunters dispatched through Europe by Philip of France and Clement V to pursue, capture and kill any surviving Templars. Demontaigu! Even now the very thought of him sends my blood fluttering. He made me feel whole and good. Above all he made me laugh, saying our relationship was one of autumn and spring, for he had reached his thirtieth summer whilst I was just past my twentieth. He and Isabella brought purpose to my life. I repaid both with undying loyalty, whatever their sins, whatever their faults. Yet that is what love does, surely? Blinds us only to the good.
    The spring of 1308 was a time of acute danger, made even more so when the Poison Maiden emerged to make her sinister presence felt. How did it begin? Let me tell you as I would describe two knights preparing for the joust. They mount, armed and helmeted, their destriers paw the earth and snort, the tourney ground falls silent except for the jingle of mail and the clatter of arms. The trumpets shrill. The red cloth falls. The knights lower their visors, couch their lances and raise their shields. The warhorses move in an ominous rumble. The charge begins, slowly at first, then the heart quickens as the earth shakes and the combatants bear down on each other in a fight to the finish. So it was. I can only recall what is important, what pricks my memory. Think of walking down a dark passageway, stone-walled, hollow-sounding. You pause and look back. You see the darkness but your eye is drawn to the flickering torches, the glow of light they throw – so it was with my life, my time. Danger did not threaten at every heartbeat. I was usually immersed in a tedious list of mundane tasks: supervising the pantry, ensuring the cooks and fleshers bought good meat and fresh fish. I went down to the slaughterhouse to check that the quails, partridges and pheasants were properly prepared and cured. I ensured old rushes were burnt and the freshly cut sprinkled with herbs. The laundry room was also my responsibility: how the linen of both wardrobe and bedchamber was washed to freshness and properly stored in aumbries, coffers and chests. I dealt with petitions, a licence for a man to crenellate the walls of his manor house, protection for a merchant going abroad, pardons to outlaws who had committed crimes and were now