Read Online Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Doherty
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help me sing
And be as merry as birds on the wing.’
The feasting began. Napkins of white linen worked in golden damask and decorated with flowers, knots and crowns were shaken loose. Cups glittering with jasper, agate, beryl or chalcedoni were brimmed from the finest casks of Gascony wines. The fluted, silver-edged glasses set before each guest were filled with sweet wines such as vernage and osey. Dish after dish streamed from the kitchens: white broth with almonds, leg of mutton in lemons, capons in deuce, aloes of beef. The king intended to impress his opponents with this display of royal lavishness. The ‘only blemish in the cream’, to quote the old proverb, were certain rank smells and fetid odours plaguing the galleries and passageways of Burgundy Hall. I had also noticed these, whilst just before the feast, Isabella had complained loudly about them. She rightly declared that they had been noticeable for the last three days, and insisted that the easement chambers, latrines, sewers and garderobes be cleaned and purged.
The Grande Chambre had been specially perfumed against this, but other matters soon demanded my attention. I sat at the table facing the dais and watched the drama being played out. Edward, his golden hair now crowned with a jewelled chaplet, was deep in conversation with Gaveston on his right. On his left, Isabella sat like a beautiful statue, staring unseeingly down the hall, playing the role of the vulnerable, neglected wife to perfection. Next to her the two saintly Margarets were passing something between them. They lifted their hands in unison as if carolling the Alleluia. I quickly surmised they had found a new relic. The French envoys had been separated and placed amongst the great English lords. I recognised the portly Abbot of St Germain. He had the balding head and shiny face of an overweight cherub. I was more interested in my enemies, led by Marigny, lean of face and red of hair. Even from where I sat, I could almost catch his cynical glance, those lips ever ready to curl in derision. Then the other two demons: Nogaret the lawyer, the constant smile on that bloated bag of a face belied by the pursed lips and contemptuous eyes; and next to him Plaisans, Nogaret’s alter ego, an angry-faced man who reminded me of a mastiff with his jowly jaws and aggressive mouth. The rest I knew by sight. Winchelsea the Prophet, with his lean face, sunken cheeks and darting eyes, sat next to Lancaster and Despencer, whilst Lincoln, a white-haired and pleasant-faced courtier, listened intently to Nogaret and Plaisans. I glimpsed Marigny lean back and snap his fingers. A shadow deeper than the rest stepped forward and filled the Viper’s goblet. I recognised the dark, handsome face of Alexander of Lisbon, leader of the Noctales. Dressed in black like a priest for a requiem, Alexander apparently also served as the Viper’s cup-bearer. I smiled to myself. Marigny apparently trusted no one! I glanced down my own table to see if Demontaigu had also glimpsed his enemy, but he was deep in conversation with a servitor. I wondered about the meeting planned for the morrow at the Chapel of the Hanged.
‘You are not eating, mistress?’
I turned. Agnes d’Albret was smiling at me. She pointed to my bowl of white almond, the silver trancher with its strips of beef. I grasped the silver-edged knife and cut a slice.
‘I am glad I sit next to you,’ simpered Agnes, determined on making conversation. She touched the red pimples at the side of her mouth. I recommended camphor and vinegar mixed with celandine water. ‘Wash three times a day,’ I smiled, ‘and keep your face free of powders and unguents; they pollute the skin.’ Agnes was clever. She used her petty ailments to draw me into conversation about my knowledge of physic, my days in France, as well as my service with Isabella, who, whenever I glanced up, still sat as if carved out of marble whilst her husband roistered with Gaveston. The lesser
And be as merry as birds on the wing.’
The feasting began. Napkins of white linen worked in golden damask and decorated with flowers, knots and crowns were shaken loose. Cups glittering with jasper, agate, beryl or chalcedoni were brimmed from the finest casks of Gascony wines. The fluted, silver-edged glasses set before each guest were filled with sweet wines such as vernage and osey. Dish after dish streamed from the kitchens: white broth with almonds, leg of mutton in lemons, capons in deuce, aloes of beef. The king intended to impress his opponents with this display of royal lavishness. The ‘only blemish in the cream’, to quote the old proverb, were certain rank smells and fetid odours plaguing the galleries and passageways of Burgundy Hall. I had also noticed these, whilst just before the feast, Isabella had complained loudly about them. She rightly declared that they had been noticeable for the last three days, and insisted that the easement chambers, latrines, sewers and garderobes be cleaned and purged.
The Grande Chambre had been specially perfumed against this, but other matters soon demanded my attention. I sat at the table facing the dais and watched the drama being played out. Edward, his golden hair now crowned with a jewelled chaplet, was deep in conversation with Gaveston on his right. On his left, Isabella sat like a beautiful statue, staring unseeingly down the hall, playing the role of the vulnerable, neglected wife to perfection. Next to her the two saintly Margarets were passing something between them. They lifted their hands in unison as if carolling the Alleluia. I quickly surmised they had found a new relic. The French envoys had been separated and placed amongst the great English lords. I recognised the portly Abbot of St Germain. He had the balding head and shiny face of an overweight cherub. I was more interested in my enemies, led by Marigny, lean of face and red of hair. Even from where I sat, I could almost catch his cynical glance, those lips ever ready to curl in derision. Then the other two demons: Nogaret the lawyer, the constant smile on that bloated bag of a face belied by the pursed lips and contemptuous eyes; and next to him Plaisans, Nogaret’s alter ego, an angry-faced man who reminded me of a mastiff with his jowly jaws and aggressive mouth. The rest I knew by sight. Winchelsea the Prophet, with his lean face, sunken cheeks and darting eyes, sat next to Lancaster and Despencer, whilst Lincoln, a white-haired and pleasant-faced courtier, listened intently to Nogaret and Plaisans. I glimpsed Marigny lean back and snap his fingers. A shadow deeper than the rest stepped forward and filled the Viper’s goblet. I recognised the dark, handsome face of Alexander of Lisbon, leader of the Noctales. Dressed in black like a priest for a requiem, Alexander apparently also served as the Viper’s cup-bearer. I smiled to myself. Marigny apparently trusted no one! I glanced down my own table to see if Demontaigu had also glimpsed his enemy, but he was deep in conversation with a servitor. I wondered about the meeting planned for the morrow at the Chapel of the Hanged.
‘You are not eating, mistress?’
I turned. Agnes d’Albret was smiling at me. She pointed to my bowl of white almond, the silver trancher with its strips of beef. I grasped the silver-edged knife and cut a slice.
‘I am glad I sit next to you,’ simpered Agnes, determined on making conversation. She touched the red pimples at the side of her mouth. I recommended camphor and vinegar mixed with celandine water. ‘Wash three times a day,’ I smiled, ‘and keep your face free of powders and unguents; they pollute the skin.’ Agnes was clever. She used her petty ailments to draw me into conversation about my knowledge of physic, my days in France, as well as my service with Isabella, who, whenever I glanced up, still sat as if carved out of marble whilst her husband roistered with Gaveston. The lesser
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