Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden by Paul Doherty Page B

created chaos and division between my lord and his late father; the same between the king and his barons, not to mention his grace and his bride as well as between Edward and Philip of France.’
    I stared across at Isabella. She looked startled by the logic of the revelation. According to all the evidence, Langton was correct. Gaveston had caused deep, rancorous division at the English court.
    ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Gaveston whispered. ‘In more senses than one it’s true.’
    ‘Yet it’s not!’ Edward countered. ‘Relations between my late father and myself were never cordial, God rest his bones. As for the barons, my good father fought them as I do now. I should have ripped Chapeleys’ tongue out, but what was the use? He was simply repeating what Langton had said. His trial for treason would only have proclaimed the matter to the world. In the end I decided to let him rot in the Tower . . .’
    ‘Is that why you sent Mathilde to treat Langton’s ulcer?’ Isabella asked. ‘To find out more?’
    ‘Ah, ma coeur .’ Edward smiled at Isabella. ‘You are right. I wondered if Chapeleys had anything more to say. I doubted it; just a repetition of his foul lies. However, I do wonder, and always will, what that circle surmounted by a cross with the letter P inside signifies? As for the words “basil” and sub pede . . .’ Edward shrugged. ‘Chapeleys may have been murdered. More probable is that overcome with fear, he decided to take his own life. Now, as for Robert Atte-Gate . . .’ He pushed back his chair, rose, strolled to the door and opened it.
    ‘Ap Ythel,’ he shouted. The captain of the King’s Welsh archers, small, dark-faced and wiry, swaggered into the room and went to sink to one knee.
    ‘No need for that.’ Edward clapped the Welshman on the shoulder. ‘Take some of your lovely boys and go to the dungeons in the Old Palace gatehouse. Drag Robert Atte-Stowe out to the gallows, put a noose around his neck—’
    ‘Your grace,’ I begged.
    ‘Put a noose,’ Edward insisted, ‘round his neck and turn him off the ladder,’ he held up a hand, ‘for no more than a few heartbeats, then cut him down. Proclaim that the king will not allow weapons to be drawn in his palace against his servants.’ Edward dug into his purse and tossed a silver coin, which Ap Ythel caught. ‘Give Robert that. Take him back to the stables, and tell the avener , the keeper,’ he translated for Ap Ythel, ‘to give him preferment. Finally, instruct that hapless groom to present himself at the office of the Chancery of the Red Wax. A full pardon for his crimes will be issued to him. Should he ever do it again, however, I will hang him myself!’
    Ap Ythel bowed and left. Edward closed the door and leaned against it. I remember that day so clearly, even the insignia on Gaveston’s rings as he clenched his hands open and shut. He had scarcely heeded the king’s judgement on Robert Atte-Gate, still absorbed with Chapeleys’ allegation against him. Edward, too, seethed with rage, hence his treatment of the groom, a mixture of savagery and mercy that made the king so unpredictable: on one breath cruel ruthlessness, on the next unexpected generosity.
    ‘Kill him!’
    Gaveston threw himself back in the chair so violently I heard its padded frame creak. Both Isabella and I started. The favourite had swiftly changed from the charming courtier; his face was now tight with anger. Isabella warned me with her eyes to be careful.
    ‘Kill? Kill who, my lord?’ she asked gently.
    ‘Langton!’ Gaveston jabbed a finger at me. ‘Mathilde, do that for us. Go back to the Tower and dress that fat old prelate’s weeping leg, rub in a poison, give him some deadly potion, watch him gargle and choke on it.’
    ‘And then what, my lord?’ Isabella gently insisted. ‘Give Winchelsea and Lincoln their martyr? Allow Philip of France to crow like a cock to the world about what you have done? Permit Clement to issue bulls of