with his coven in the gardens of the Louvre, talk of La Demoiselle Venimeuse, the Ancilla Venenata.’
‘Just words,’ Isabella warned. ‘I also listened to the chatter of the clerks of my father’s secret chancery; even they wondered who this Demoiselle Venimeuse really could be.’
‘As did my father,’ Edward added bitterly. ‘About seven or eight years ago he was here at Westminster. One night I came to his chambers. My father’s rages were famous. On that occasion, he was furious. He tore at the servants’ hair, beat them and threw them against the walls. He was ranting and screaming. I dared not enter the chamber. Later, a retainer told me how the cause of this rage was someone called the Poison Maiden. My father said that great damage had been done by her, but what he meant, no one understood. On my accession, I asked the clerks if they knew, even men like Drokensford of the secret chancery. They replied how they’d heard passing reference to the Poison Maiden, but nothing more.’
‘Your grace?’
‘Mathilde, ma cherie ?’
‘Would Langton know?’
‘Perhaps.’ Edward’s smile faded. ‘But we will come to our perfidious bishop and your visit to him in my own good time.’ He left the threat hanging in the air. I recalled my words to Demontaigu, how Chapeleys had died in our care.
‘We believe,’ Gaveston said brusquely, ‘that the Demoiselle Venimeuse meddles in our present troubles, but that is suspicion only; we have no firm evidence.’
‘Perhaps you are just casting about.’
‘My lady,’ Edward wagged a finger at Isabella, ‘I wish to God that was true. Pax-Bread,’ he smiled thinly, ‘has assured me I am not.’ The king chewed the corner of his lip, staring at me as if challenging me to ask who Pax-Bread was. I kept silent. Edward was fickle. He could sit and argue with a groom about a brass buckle as if the man was his born brother, only to change abruptly, demanding all the rights and appurtenances of kingship. I stared past him at the weak sunlight pouring through the lattice window, and prayed quietly that I would be able to meet Demontaigu later that day.
‘Pax-Bread?’ Isabelle asked softly.
‘If Philip has his spies, so do we,’ Gaveston explained. He eased the folds of his cotehardie, undoing the clasp of the cambric shirt beneath. ‘Pax-Bread’s true name is Edmund Lascelles, a Gascon, a close friend of my family. One of the finest pastry cooks under God’s heaven. He is also the most subtle of spies. He hates Philip and did good work for the old king exploiting one of Philip’s few weaknesses.’ Gaveston paused at Isabella’s sharp gasp.
‘Your father, my lady, is well known for his sweet tooth: he relishes tarts, blancmanges, pastries, jellies, creams and sugars. Pax-Bread soon rose to prominence in Philip’s kitchens as a man who would serve delectable dishes when the claret and osier had been drunk. Tongues eventually turn loose, even in the French king’s private chambers, especially when Philip dines with Marigny and others of his ilk. Of course, no bird flies free for ever. Pax-Bread . . .’ Gaveston smiled. ‘An appropriate name, is it not? The bread passed between friends at the osculum pacis , the kiss of peace during the mass. Anyway, Pax-Bread fell under suspicion and was forced to flee to our garrison at Boulogne; that was at the end of February. He spent a great deal of time trying to cast off his pursuers. In case he never reached London, he sent us a letter.’ Gaveston dipped into his cotehardie and drew out a parchment. He gave this to Isabella, who undid it, read it, pulled a face and, when Gaveston nodded, passed it to me.
The letter was well written. It began: Monsieur Pierre s’avisera – ‘Monsieur Pierre, be well advised.’ It then delivered a list of pastry, herbal and other items. These were written in sentences of eight words, every third word now underlined in green ink. The words thus scored were: s’avisera ,
‘Just words,’ Isabella warned. ‘I also listened to the chatter of the clerks of my father’s secret chancery; even they wondered who this Demoiselle Venimeuse really could be.’
‘As did my father,’ Edward added bitterly. ‘About seven or eight years ago he was here at Westminster. One night I came to his chambers. My father’s rages were famous. On that occasion, he was furious. He tore at the servants’ hair, beat them and threw them against the walls. He was ranting and screaming. I dared not enter the chamber. Later, a retainer told me how the cause of this rage was someone called the Poison Maiden. My father said that great damage had been done by her, but what he meant, no one understood. On my accession, I asked the clerks if they knew, even men like Drokensford of the secret chancery. They replied how they’d heard passing reference to the Poison Maiden, but nothing more.’
‘Your grace?’
‘Mathilde, ma cherie ?’
‘Would Langton know?’
‘Perhaps.’ Edward’s smile faded. ‘But we will come to our perfidious bishop and your visit to him in my own good time.’ He left the threat hanging in the air. I recalled my words to Demontaigu, how Chapeleys had died in our care.
‘We believe,’ Gaveston said brusquely, ‘that the Demoiselle Venimeuse meddles in our present troubles, but that is suspicion only; we have no firm evidence.’
‘Perhaps you are just casting about.’
‘My lady,’ Edward wagged a finger at Isabella, ‘I wish to God that was true. Pax-Bread,’ he smiled thinly, ‘has assured me I am not.’ The king chewed the corner of his lip, staring at me as if challenging me to ask who Pax-Bread was. I kept silent. Edward was fickle. He could sit and argue with a groom about a brass buckle as if the man was his born brother, only to change abruptly, demanding all the rights and appurtenances of kingship. I stared past him at the weak sunlight pouring through the lattice window, and prayed quietly that I would be able to meet Demontaigu later that day.
‘Pax-Bread?’ Isabelle asked softly.
‘If Philip has his spies, so do we,’ Gaveston explained. He eased the folds of his cotehardie, undoing the clasp of the cambric shirt beneath. ‘Pax-Bread’s true name is Edmund Lascelles, a Gascon, a close friend of my family. One of the finest pastry cooks under God’s heaven. He is also the most subtle of spies. He hates Philip and did good work for the old king exploiting one of Philip’s few weaknesses.’ Gaveston paused at Isabella’s sharp gasp.
‘Your father, my lady, is well known for his sweet tooth: he relishes tarts, blancmanges, pastries, jellies, creams and sugars. Pax-Bread soon rose to prominence in Philip’s kitchens as a man who would serve delectable dishes when the claret and osier had been drunk. Tongues eventually turn loose, even in the French king’s private chambers, especially when Philip dines with Marigny and others of his ilk. Of course, no bird flies free for ever. Pax-Bread . . .’ Gaveston smiled. ‘An appropriate name, is it not? The bread passed between friends at the osculum pacis , the kiss of peace during the mass. Anyway, Pax-Bread fell under suspicion and was forced to flee to our garrison at Boulogne; that was at the end of February. He spent a great deal of time trying to cast off his pursuers. In case he never reached London, he sent us a letter.’ Gaveston dipped into his cotehardie and drew out a parchment. He gave this to Isabella, who undid it, read it, pulled a face and, when Gaveston nodded, passed it to me.
The letter was well written. It began: Monsieur Pierre s’avisera – ‘Monsieur Pierre, be well advised.’ It then delivered a list of pastry, herbal and other items. These were written in sentences of eight words, every third word now underlined in green ink. The words thus scored were: s’avisera ,
Similar Books
