The Poison Maiden by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Tags: Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9780755350209
Google: lIeQ-kW7g-AC
Amazon: B00GU35UXS
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2012-10-29T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Sire, if the Lords have done you wrong, it must be put right.

Vita Edwardi Secundi

We met the Lords mid-afternoon, deep in the enclosure of the abbey precincts. The garden was ringed on three sides by buildings that soared above us, brooding buttresses, carved cornices, glorious stonework and the occasional stained-glass window that caught the sun and dazzled in brilliant colours. The fourth wall was ornamentally crenellated; it even had a small military gatehouse above its double-door entrance. The abbot’s garden was what a poet might call a subtle conceit. Carefully positioned to catch the sun, it possessed all the elaborate ostentation of a planned garden, with sunken pavements, smoothed lawns, garden plots, herb banks, benches of limestone, turf seats and tunnelled arbours with copper poles tied with willow cord over which rose plants and vine shoots climbed. Small stew ponds glittered. Lead-lined pools splashed and gurgled under water gushing out from fountains carved in the shape of bronze falcons. On either side of the gatehouse four luxurious yew trees blossomed, representing, so the abbot told us, the Blessed Trinity and the Virgin Mary. The central lawn had been prepared for the concilium. An eye-catching pavilion displaying the abbey arms, three doves on a green background, had been erected. Inside stretched a long trestle table covered with waxen cloth; along this, cups, goblets, tranchers and bowls glittered in the light pouring through the vents in the top and sides of the pavilion. The sweet scent of herbs mixed with the fragrance from the bowls of freshly cut flowers and the perfumed smoke from gilt-edged incense boats filled to the brim with burning grains. Chairs and a cluster of stools stood at each end for the Lords and the queen dowager’s party. In the centre, on each side, were throne-like chairs for Robert Winchelsea and Abbot Kedyngton, who would act as mediators and arbitrators.

We were all ushered in. The queen dowager took her seat, as did the leading earls, Lincoln, Pembroke and Warwick. Lincoln was soft-faced, with a mop of white hair. He smiled genially and sat clasping his pot belly. On his left was Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, tall and angular with a sallow, pinched face; his raven-black moustache and beard, neatly clipped, emphasised a thin-lipped, womanish mouth. He sat narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips as if wondering whether he should really be present. On Lincoln’s right sat the Earl of Warwick. He was cold and distant, a hard face made even more so by the small, unblinking eyes and broken nose, his protuberant mouth like that of an angry mastiff. Dishes were served. A light collation if I remember well: venison pastries followed by dishes of marchpayne, and red, white and sweet wines. I singled one of these out, Maumeneye, tasting of pine nuts, cinnamon and other spices. Sitting on a stool behind the queen dowager, I loudly whispered that such a wine should not be served to my mistress in her present condition. A reminder about Isabella’s possible good news.

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