Free Mathilde 02 - The Poison Maiden by Paul Doherty Page B

pressed my hand against her face; the flesh was cold. I lifted an arm; it was still supple. ‘She’s probably been dead for some hours,’ I declared. I beckoned Berenger away from the shouting and crying. ‘What’s happening?’ I whispered. ‘That black-haired woman so full of fury?’
    ‘Anstritha, Rebecca’s friend. She maintains that Robert Atte-Gate, a groom from the stables, was sweet on Rebecca. Earlier today he and Rebecca quarrelled . . .’ Berenger’s voice faded away as if he was already bored by the proceedings, more concerned that once again he’d been disturbed in his pleasures by sudden, mysterious death. I returned to the mortuary table and scrutinised the poor girl’s fingers. The clamour continued behind me, rising to screams and shouts.
    ‘It’s not me! I’ve done no crime!’
    I whirled round. Robert, his face sweat-soaked, had retreated from the rest, drawing a dagger from his belt.
    ‘Put down your weapon!’ Berenger thundered, ‘To draw a dagger on a royal officer in the king’s own palace is treason. If you don’t hang for murder, you will for that!’
    Anstritha cackled with laughter. Robert lunged towards her but stumbled. The men-at-arms seized him and dragged him outside. Berenger declared he’d done more than his duty for one evening and followed. Anstritha, her face full of malicious glee, almost hopped to the door. The rest filed out, leaving Rebecca’s mother sobbing over the corpse. I went and put an arm around her shoulders.
    ‘What happened?’ I asked softly. ‘Do you really believe Robert murdered your daughter?’
    ‘No,’ she whispered through her tears.
    I picked up the cut garrotte string, fine twine like that of catgut. ‘Nor do I,’ I murmured. ‘This is more the work of a skilled assassin than a stable boy, but why should your poor Rebecca be his victim?’
    The mother could not answer that. Demontaigu and I gave some money to the keeper and left. We walked away from the Death House. I paused and stared up through the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night: the barking of a dog, the creak of a cart, the slamming of doors and the ringing of bells. I stared around. Here and there the blackness was pierced by lights flaring at windows or peeping through shutters.
    ‘Tomorrow,’ I whispered.
    ‘Tomorrow?’ Demontaigu asked.
    ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,’ I quoted. ‘Bertrand, I am tired. My mind teems; it swerves and shifts without reason.’
    Demontaigu escorted me back to Burgundy Hall, where the laughter and music showed the festivities were continuing. He kissed me on the brow, clasped my hands and whispered at me to join him for his Jesus mass. As he hurried away, he murmured something else.
    ‘Bertrand,’ I called. ‘What did you say?’
    He turned and grinned. ‘You, Mathilde, are honey-sweet.’
    I went through the gatehouse, past the guards, still enjoying the compliment as a chamberlain ushered me up the stairs, along the gallery to my mistress’ lodgings, a collection of chambers consisting of vestibule, antechamber, parlour and bedchamber. I was primly informed that the queen had retired but had been asking for me. Isabella was in her bedchamber, a dark-panelled room with heavy oaken furniture: tables, stools, aumbries and chests. The large bed was a stark contrast, brilliantly adorned with blue and gold drapes and coverlets fringed with silver. Isabella was sitting at a small table ringed in a glow of candle prickets with a chafing dish full of burning coals providing warmth. She was dressed simply in a white shift, shoulders and feet bare. I noticed the red scratch marks on her right arm; the skin looked irritated. She was more concerned in fashioning small images, using the candle flame to soften the wax, pushing it intently, decorating the figurines with scraps of cloth, parchment and small items of jewellery. I recognised the signs. Isabella was deeply agitated. She glanced up as I went to curtsy.
    ‘I