Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts

by Paul Doherty

  I loved the city! I was well protected. My future ran like a broad, clear thoroughfare before me. When I wasn’t at my studies or in the hospital, I’d wander from quarter to quarter, observing the beggars in the church doors or by the bridges; the peasants coming in from the country with their carts and wheel-barrows; the artisans and craftsmen shouting and gesticulating from behind their stalls; the wandering jongleurs, monks and friars in their dark gowns and pointed hoods; the canons of the cathedral with all their pomp and ceremony; the ermine-clad professors of the Sorbonne and their motley retinues of students and scholars. Royal couriers beat their way through the crowd with their white wands of office. Heralds in resplendent tabards, trumpets lifted, shrilled out harsh music to draw the attention of the crowds before a proclamation was read out. Harness jingled like bells as nobles from their great houses rode down past the bridges and gates of the city to hunt in the fields beyond. Ladies lounged in their litters, taking the air. Judges in their bright scarlet, surrounded by royal men-at-arms, processed down to the law courts. Pilgrims off to Saint Geneviéve or Notre Dame chanted their prayers or sang sweet hymns. Prisoners, manacles held fast, were driven under the whip to the Grand Châtelet. Clerks and scribes scurried along to the great palace and castle of the Ile where Philip ruled France as a hawk does its field, ever-watchful, ever-menacing.

  I was impatient to visit these city sights again. I couldn’t understand my uncle’s harshness. He towered over me in the tap room of that tavern, grasping me by the shoulder, pushing me towards the stairs.

  ‘Go up to your chamber, girl!’

  He very rarely called me that. It was always ‘Mathilde’, or ‘ma fille’. Uncle Reginald’s face looked strained, a haunted look in his eyes, he kept glancing over his shoulder towards the door.

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ I demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ he whispered, then he quoted a line from the Gospels: ‘Tenebrae facta. Darkness fell.’ I recognise that phrase now, the description given to the night Judas left to betray Christ. Again, I tried to reason. I was hoping to go into the city, perhaps visit one of the taverns near the hospital, mix with the scholars, dance a jig or indulge in some other revelry. My uncle lifted his hand and glared at me.

  ‘I have never struck you. I will if you do not obey my order. Go to your chamber, small as it is, rat-eaten and mouse-gnawed, it’s the safest place for you. Stay there until I come.’

  I hurried up the stairs, my feet drumming on the wooden steps. I pulled aside the battered door and flung myself into the chamber, blinking furiously, trying to quell the tears of fury stinging my eyes. The chamber was narrow and dirty though the bed was comfortable, its sheets clean – my uncle would insist on that – whilst the servant who brought my food up had covered it with a wooden bowl against the mice which scurried in the corners. Cobwebs hung like sheets from the rafters. I moved to the window, a small wooden casement door filled with horn, and pushed it open. At least I could look out over the city. The sky was a dullish grey, a cold wind had risen. It was that dying time as autumn fades and winter with icy touch makes its presence felt. The room was cold. I closed the window and noticed the wine just within the door, a battered pewter pot next to a small bowl. I filled the bowl to the brim and drank quickly, then went across and lay on the bed.

  When my uncle shook me awake, it was dark. He was leaning over me, face close to mine.

  ‘Get up,’ he urged. ‘Get up now.’

  I was almost dragged to my feet. My uncle had brought my cloak and belt with a dagger in its wooden scabbard. He made me wrap the belt about me. I protested. I said I needed to visit the latrine. He laughed strangely and pushed me out of the chamber down the stairs. By the time I reached the bottom, I’d clasped the cloak securely. The cold night air woke me roughly. My uncle thrust a piece of parchment and a bag of coins into my hands, then gestured frantically towards the narrow gate leading to the alleyway beyond. A cresset torch lashed to a pole, thrust into the soft mud between the cobbles, provided some light for the ostlers and grooms flitting like ghosts across the yard. I turned. Uncle stood concealed half in the shadows. At last, in the flickering flame of that torch, I glimpsed his terror. He’d aged, his face was drawn and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. He kept muttering to himself, wary of a door closing, a dog barking or strangers slipping through the darkness. He took my hand and pressed it against the bag of jingling coins.

  ‘You are to go now, Mathilde.’

  ‘Why, Uncle?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ He moved his face closer. ‘For the love of God, Mathilde, don’t ask, just go. Take what I have given you. The gate of Saint Denis is still open. You are to enter the city. Make your way to the house of Simon de Vitry near the Grand Pont. You know him; I’ve sent you on errands to his house. He’s a cloth merchant, a banker and a man I trust. Do exactly what he tells you.’ He pushed me towards the gate, thrusting me into the alleyway.

  ‘Go, go,’ he hissed through the darkness. ‘Go now, Mathilde, before they come.’

  Something about his tone, those words . . . I caught his terror. He flapped his hands, a gesture I had never seen him make, indicating that I must run. I wanted to stay, discover who ‘they’ were. Something about him, just standing there in the poor light, the torch spluttering behind him, the way his shoulders hunched, his hands flapping like the wings of a pinioned bird . . . I turned and slipped into the shadows.

  Eternity has passed since that hideous night but I remember it well. I ran blindly through the streets, tears stinging my eyes. On the one hand, like any young woman, I had a grievance against my uncle; my resentment festered. Yet I’d caught the smell of terror, the rank odour of fear, and I wondered what was to happen. I recall stopping on the corner of a square. Above me a statue of the patron saint of that quarter gazed blindly down in the light of the candle burning beneath it. I stared back and tried to recall what had happened that day. We’d arrived at the tavern early that morning. Uncle had left me, gone into the city and returned a stranger; that’s right, his manner had changed, distracted, agitated, bribing the landlord for this or that. One thing I did notice: he’d removed his Templar ring and any other sign that he belonged to that order.

  I heard a sound and glanced around. Archers dressed in the blue and gold royal livery, gleaming sallets on their heads, were gathering across the square, spilling out of the side streets. Knights in half-armour made their way out on snorting destriers, preceded by footmen carrying flambeaux. The air filled with the clatter of rasping hooves, the creak of leather, the jingle of harness. Beneath all this the ominous clatter of weapons, swords being unsheathed, shields being slung, orders rapped out. Dull, threatening sounds seeping through the smoky air like a foul mist. Across the square beggars had torched a bonfire of rubbish in front of a church. The leaping flames revealed the tympanum above the doorway; a vivid depiction of Christ coming on the Last Day, escorted by angels with fiery swords to repel the demon lords of the air. Christ the Judge seemed to be coming for me!

  I ran like a whippet through the undergrowth, down lanes and runnels, the half-timbered houses leaning over as if conspiring to conceal the starlit sky. I slipped on a mound of dirt, drove away yapping mongrels, whining beggars and screeching cats. Jesus Miserere! I was innocent! I was a maid hurrying through the hideous runnels of Paris! A thousand nightmares lurked in the shadows, but knowledge inspires fear. I had no real experience, not then, of how vulnerable a woman truly is when protection is withdrawn. The sons of men are also the sons of Cain: ‘In hominum mundo, lupus homini lupus – in the world of men, man is wolf to man;’ but to women he is a ravening beast! True, some hearts sing a noble hymn, but it is often hidden beneath the raucous howling of the pack. On that night I was an innocent, fleeing miraculously through the pens of countless savage predators. Perhaps an unseen angel flew before me with a face of fire and a flaming sword. I was also young and I was armed. The dark shadows slipping out of doorways slunk back. An unnamed terror drove me on, lacing my face
with sweat, soaking my body in its icy coldness.

  Thank God I knew Paris! Twisting, turning like a hare, I reached La Rue des Moines leading down to the Grand Pont and the great stone-built house of Simon de Vitry, the mercer. It stood in its own grounds. The postern gate was open. I flung myself through, knocking aside the sleepy-eyed, ancient night porter. Across the grass I flew like a speeding arrow; the kitchen door was bolted. I ran around the side of the house, gasping and cursing, up the main steps, grasped the iron chain and pulled until the bell tolled like a tocsin through the house. The patter of running feet echoed faintly. In a window to my right a light flared as a candle-lantern was lit. Chains were dropped, bolts drawn, and the door swung open. I recognised Monsieur Simon. He gazed at me in surprise, then beckoned me in. I slipped through the door and gave way to my exhaustion, slumping down to the ground, fighting for breath. The merchant, a kindly man with the face of a genial monk, crouched next to me, pulling his winter robe close about. His breath smelt of wine, his fingers were cold, his eyes anxious.

  ‘What is the matter, Mathilde?’ he asked. ‘Are you in trouble? Were you attacked?’

  I handed over the parchment my uncle had given me, but even as Monsieur Simon took it, I cursed my own stupidity. I wished I’d stopped and read it. The merchant walked across the hallway to where a solitary candle flared on a table beneath a picture of St Anthony exorcising demons. In the shifting light these fiends of hell sprang to life. Monsieur Simon picked the candle up and, turning his back on me, walked into his chancery. I glanced at the doorway, the light beneath it strengthened as more candles were lit. A short while later the merchant came back as agitated as I was, fingers fluttering, wetting his lips. He knelt down beside me.

  ‘Mathilde, ma petite, you must come, you must come.’ He half dragged me to my feet and pushed me across into the chancery. The piece of parchment was gone. Logs crackled in the sullen red heat of the fire. Whatever Uncle had written this merchant had destroyed. He sat me down in a chair and brought a jug of ale tasting musty and tangy, then roused his household, two servants and a maid, whilst the chancery clerk, his trusted steward, was brought into the room. I was asked to stay outside on a bench. The chancery door was locked and bolted. I heard whispers, raised voices, cupboards, coffers and chests being opened as if the merchant had abruptly decided to make a full tally of what he was owed. The clerk was dispatched into the night. Only then did Monsieur Simon, at least an hour after I had arrived, join me on the bench. He gazed at me strangely, as if weighing my worth.

  ‘You’d best come with me.’

  The house was opulent, with a fine built-in staircase. He took me up past two furnished galleries to a fetid garret, very similar to the one at the tavern. He ushered me in and sat for a while on a stool staring sorrowfully at me.

  ‘What is the matter, monsieur?’ I asked.

  ‘What is your name?’ he replied.

  ‘Why, monsieur, you know my name. I am Mathilde, my uncle is—’

  De Vitry sprang up and poked me in the shoulder.

  ‘You are no longer Mathilde de Ferrers,’ he said, ‘but Mathilde de Clairebon. You are my distant cousin. You come from Poitiers. You have some knowledge of books and physic. Your mother died recently so you came to work in my house, isn’t that correct?’

  ‘Monsieur Simon,’ I gasped, ‘what is this about? Why is my name being changed?’

  He gestured vaguely towards the window.

  ‘Sit down, sit down, Mathilde.’ He went across, pulled the door firmly close and secured the bolts. He then brought his stool nearer, first placing a candle between us. He studied me with a mixture of anger and sadness, as if he wanted to help, yet resented my presence.

  ‘Mathilde, I will be like a bowman,’ he whispered. ‘I will fire the arrow as close as I can to the mark. There have been rumours for days, how King Philip of France wishes to move against the Order of the Temple—’

  ‘Impossible!’ I interrupted.

  ‘Listen, Mathilde.’ He tapped me gently on the cheek. ‘What your uncle discovered today is that tomorrow morning, every Templar in the Kingdom of France will be arrested on charges of practising sorcery, black magic, sodomy and God knows what else.’

  ‘Lies!’ I blustered back.

  ‘What the king wishes is what the king wants,’ Monsieur Simon replied. ‘There has been chatter amongst the bankers and the merchants for many a year about Philip’s treasuries being empty. He lusts after the gold and silver, the wealth, the lands, the granges, the barns, the pastures and the meadows of the Templars. He believes the order is a coven of witches and sorcerers, warlocks and wizards. He has petitioned Pope Clement V to suppress it, arrest its leaders, every knight, your uncle amongst them—’

  I would have jumped to my feet but Monsieur Simon pushed me back.

  ‘No. Listen, Mathilde, to what I say. If this is true, if Philip of France has decided to destroy the Temple, your uncle and his companions, anyone who has anything to do with the Temple and wears its insignia, be they knight, serjeant, page, squire or maid, is under suspicion. You cannot help your uncle. By tomorrow nightfall he will be arrested. He may try to flee but he’ll be captured. The charges the Templars face are hideous.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Greed,’ Monsieur Simon replied. ‘Pure greed, the desire of a powerful king to plunder a rich order. Mathilde, about seven years ago, Philip of France wished to join the Temple order himself; he wished to become its Grand Master on the death of his wife.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They say Philip actually murdered his wife, Jeanne de Navarre, in order to secure this, to become a bachelor, a celibate, but the Templars refused him. Philip never forgives an injury or an insult. He also needs money. He doesn’t care how he obtains that money, or what lies he fashions.’

  ‘But the Pope?’ I gasped.

  ‘The Pope,’ Monsieur Simon grimaced, ‘the Pope, Bertrand De Got, Clement V, is Philip’s friend, sheltering in exile at Avignon! What do you think Clement V will say, especially when Philip offers him some of the plunder?’

  ‘But the other princes?’ I stammered. I knew a little of Templar affairs and recalled my uncle’s description of how the order owned houses from the wilds of Ireland to the borders of the icy lands in the East.

  Monsieur Simon hunched his shoulders.

  ‘There is nothing like treasure, Mathilde, to turn a man’s heart!’

  ‘And me?’ I asked.

  ‘If you go out into that street, if you are recognised for what you are,’ he wagged a bony finger in my face, ‘you will be arrested. You are no longer Mathilde de Ferrers but Mathilde de Clairebon from the town of Poitiers, my distant poor kinswoman come to act as a maid in my house. Don’t betray me, Mathilde. Don’t put me and mine in danger, otherwise I will turn you over to the royal serjeants. They’ll manacle you, load you with chains and drag you to the Grand Châtelet or some other dungeon where you risk either being buried alive, or facing a mockery of a trial before being taken out to be hanged or burned.’ He chewed on his tongue. ‘I could still do that. There will be a reward, money offered to those who betray Templars or their kin, not many will escape Philip’s net.’

  My hand dropped to the dagger in my belt.

  ‘Don’t threaten me!’ Monsieur Simon scoffed. ‘Your threats mean nothing to me. I have retainers. I have only,’ he fished under his robe and brought out a silver whistle on a gold chain, ‘to blow on this and your life will be over, as simple as snuffing out a candle. But I owe your uncle a favour. Many years ago he saved my life; since then he has always treated me honourably. I’m doing this for him, not for you. You are my prisoner. This chamber will become your world until I tell you the time of change has arrived.’

  ‘And my uncle?’

  ‘Believe me,’ Monsieur Simon replied, squinting his eyes, ‘if I could help your uncle I would. There is nothing I can do. Shall I tell you what I will do, Mathilde? What all the merchants and bankers of Paris will be doing tomorrow? They’ll be openin
g their ledgers and household books. They’ll be poring over their calculus. How much does the Temple order owe them? How much do they owe the Temple? They’ll find, like me, that they owed more than they were owed. So we’ll all keep silent. The king has removed a problem; if that’s what the king wants, then the king shall have it. The Templars have no friends! You have one friend, me. Now, Mathilde de Clairebon from Poitiers, do you understand? Do you understand?’ he repeated. ‘If you fail me, I shall betray you, as simply,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘as that!’

  I was too terrified, too anxious, too surprised to object. I nodded dumbly and moved across to the bed, I lay down, turning my back to him, and I crossed my arms and drew my legs up as I did when I was a child, when the shadows on the far side of my bedchamber were really phantasms of the night waiting to pollute me. I heard him leave.

  The next morning when I woke up, my door was locked and bolted. I couldn’t leave so I became Monsieur Simon’s prisoner. The chamber must have been used as a cell before. It boasted a small cubicle built into the outside wall with its own latrine, a jakes pot over a narrow gully. After two days the stench grew so offensive the steward brought up pails of rainwater to clean it.