by Paul Doherty
We stopped beneath a tree where the coffin of an excommunicate hung dripping with dirt from the branches. Narrow Face explained how this was the closest such a wretch could come to consecrated ground. I listened as if attentive to every word, though the noise around us was deafening. Red-faced traders shouted and bawled, trying to be heard over a blacksmith, face all blotched and burnt, who’d set up his forge just within the gate and was banging on his anvil as if beating the devil. A Crutched Friar, face hidden deep in his cowl, was standing on a tomb chest, warning anyone interested how in hell usurers boiled in molten gold, gluttons feasted on toads and scorpions, whilst the proud would be hooked to an ever-turning burning wheel. Beneath the makeshift pulpit a madman, festooned with shells, did a dance, whilst a group of children chased a bell-capped monkey who’d escaped from its owner.
I leaned hard on Narrow Face’s arm and picked my way around the clots of mud and other rubbish strewn across the paved path which wound itself through that place of death. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison – Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy. Sweet Jesus Lord, have mercy on me! I remember that day so well! The first time I killed a man! Initium homicidum – the beginning of the murders! All I meant to do was kiss Narrow Face, whisper sweet words and promise him another assignment. After all, I did as much to those apprentices I flirted with when I worked for Uncle Reginald. All I wanted to learn was what he knew. We reached the charnel house, the arms of the Guild of the Pin and Needle Workers displayed on the wall in shiny blue and red. I glanced across at the tracery grille on the tomb of a young woman with serene marble face and folded marble hands; for a brief moment I wondered where I would lie and what death I would face. Uncle Reginald’s fate was still very much in my thoughts. We went round the building. I was teasing Narrow Face, asking him about the great secret. We stood in a narrow, darkened alleyway which separated the charnel house from a line of elms fringing the high curtain wall of the cemetery.
‘The secret?’ I whispered, leaning back against the harsh brickwork.
‘Oh, very important.’ Narrow Face pressed his body against mine. He had a faint sour smell. He glanced sideways as if about to reveal some great mystery.
‘The King of England,’ he whispered, ‘will not marry Princess Isabella; he is resolute on that. He will defy her father.’
‘But that’s no secret . . .’
Narrow Face stepped hastily back. I had betrayed myself. I still had not learnt the trick of keeping the mask firmly on.
‘How do you know that?’ Narrow Face’s hand slid to the wicked-looking poignard pushed through a ring on his belt. ‘How can a wench no better than a tavern slut be party to such knowledge?’
I kept still, cursing my own stupidity.
‘Are you one of the Secreti?’ Narrow Face stepped forward; the dagger point came up, pricking under my chin. The clerk watched me closely. ‘I am,’ he hissed, ‘a scholar of the halls and schools of Oxford. Do you know what that means?’ He pressed the dagger point deeper. ‘Do you truly think I am stupid, putaine?’ He drew back his head, hawked and spat in my face. I kept still. He grasped my hand and felt the skin of my palm.
‘Soft,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘like your flesh beneath.’ He pressed his groin against me. I flinched at his fetid breath. ‘You are one of the Secreti!’ he accused. ‘One of the gargoyles, one of King Philip’s legion of spies. Well, I’ll have my pleasure first.’ He pressed the tip of the dagger harder as he pushed up my skirt.
‘Please, please!’ I begged, trying to distract him.
He laughed, lost in his own intended pleasure. I drew the Italian dagger from my own waistband, and as he pressed against me, one hand scrabbling at the points of his hose, I thrust deep, hard, into his left side up towards the heart. The shock and the pain sent him staggering back at a half-crouch, mouth open, coughing up his life blood. He lurched towards me. I moved quickly along the charnel house wall, which he hit, striking his head, before collapsing to the ground.
I fled the Cemetery of the Innocents out on to the busy cobbled streets. Strange sights and sounds confused me, bells clanged, faces under wimples gaped in surprise, beggars scowled shrouded in their hoods, a pig nosed at the bloated corpse of a cat, a blind child clattered with his stick, a mastiff howled, hair raised, teeth snarling. I fled down an alleyway. An apothecary sign creaking in the breeze caught my glance. I remembered Uncle, his kindly eyes and gentle, soothing voice. I crouched in the narrow doorway of the shop, fighting for breath, wiping away the sweat. Narrow Face’s death was one thing, but the chatter he brought also frightened me. If it was no longer a rumour, if Isabella did not travel to England, what hope for me?
I calmed myself. I had to return to Simon de Vitry; he would know what to do. I approached the merchant’s house avoiding the postern gate, I went up to the main door; it was off the latch. I opened it, stepped into the vestibule and was greeted by the horrors. A few paces away the manservant lay in a pool of his own blood, a crossbow quarrel firmly dug into his back; the clerk lay half out of the small chamber the merchant had first taken me to. At the bottom of the stairs the maid sprawled face down. She had taken a bolt in the chest, and the blood billowed out in a pool beneath her. I distinctly remember the balustrade was blood-free but I noticed a blur of blood high on the white plastered wall. I was so shocked by the horror of it all, I simply stared around this place of sudden death. I went back to the front door, pulling across the bolt, and gazed at the three corpses, all taken by surprise. Death had swept them into his net, suddenly, abruptly. I went across, gingerly edging round the pools of blood, and felt the skin of each corpse. They were not yet cold, the blood still congealing. I climbed the staircase, past the maid’s corpse, trying not to look at her staring eyes, shocked in death. I studied the bloodstain on the plaster and shook my head in surprise, then looked back at the servant girl’s corpse. She lay sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, slightly turned over; the crossbow bolt must have thudded into her and she had fallen forward, the blood splattering down her front on to the stairs. So how had the plaster been stained? Unless the assassin had moved the corpse then tried to climb the stairs, but he would have followed the same route as me, holding on to the balustrade, which was blood-free. I continued up.
Monsieur Simon de Vitry lay on the small gallery just beneath a diptych showing Lazarus summoned from his tomb. The merchant was still wearing his nightgown, his flesh not yet cold. I reasoned that the assassin must have struck shortly before I came, then fled. I stepped over de Vitry’s corpse and entered his small bedchamber; its chests and coffers had been wrenched opened, papers and parchments tossed about. I examined the ground carefully, looking at the stains. How many assassins had there been? All I could find was one bootprint. I looked back down the stairs; the windows were unshuttered, probably the last act by the servant girl before she was surprised by this devil’s ambush.
I know nothing of the humours of the mind. Narrow Face’s death may have unsettled me, but now I felt cold, detached and determined, my blood beat steady, my breath calm. I felt as if I was watching some village masque or a miracle play on the green. I was to observe what the actors said, listen to their chants, but not be part of their drama. I was in great danger in that house, but I wanted to know why Monsieur de Vitry, who had helped me so much, had been slaughtered. If the hue and cry were raised, ‘Au secours!’ or ‘Aidez moi’ were shouted, I could end my days being buried in the air, swinging off the platform at Montfaucon. However, only one thought remained. Uncle Reginald had helped me and he was dead; this man had helped me, now he was murdered.
I went back into the bedchamber, where coins were spilt out on the floor. Precious items, statues and silver candle-holders had not been stolen, the pretence of robbery had not even been invoked as the reason. One killer, one assassin, callous and arrogant, had struck as sure as a cock on a dung-hill. He must have felt protected. I recalled Narrow Face’s words about the Secreti, the agents of Marigny, Philip’s dark shadow. Philippe, Isabella�
�s brother, turning to stare at me with that twisted smile on his face. Had Simon de Vitry been murdered because of me?
I returned to the vestibule, increasingly aware of the harsh, brooding silence. I glimpsed a picture of the crucified Christ, his eyes staring out of a haggard face at this scene of reeking, hell-spawned malice and evil. I murmured the ‘Benedicite’ and looked down at the servant, the crossbow bolt embedded so deep into his back. He must have known his murderer. He must have opened the door, inviting him in before turning to lead him up to the merchant’s bedchamber. Was it someone important? Someone dispatched by Philip or Marigny? Certainly a person this household trusted. I walked across to the clerk’s corpse. The quarrel which had killed him was different from that used against the servant. Yet I could only detect one bootprint, not two. How could the assassin have acted so quickly? I closed my eyes, imagining a man carrying a sack containing arbalests, small crossbows neatly primed, taking one out then another, dropping the sack as he walked quickly across the hall. The maid tripping down the stairs, another quarrel loosed, but why that bloodstain so high on the wall?
Sounds from the streets outside echoed eerily. The chanting dirge from a funeral procession, a hired poet interspersing each verse with a poem about death. I recall a line: ‘I lie wounded in the shroud’; it aptly described what was happening to me. The stink of the charnel house and cemetery appeared to have followed me here. I glanced round once more, crossed myself and slipped into the street. I returned hastily to the palace. Strange how life changes! I now carried a royal seal. The guards and serjeants-at-arms scarcely gave me a second glance. I entered the royal quarters and found the princess in the fountain courtyard. She sat head bowed, golden hair tumbling about her. She was dressed simply in a tawny gown and cloak, muttering quietly to herself. I walked across and went to kneel. She glanced over her shoulder.
‘Mathilde, come here.’
I joined her on the bench. She looked up, blue eyes enlarged in her ivory-pale face. She had a linen parcel folded in her lap which she now covered with her hands.
‘They have arrived,’ she whispered, ‘the envoys from England, Sir Hugh Pourte and Sir John Casales. They are here about the marriage. They say it will not proceed.’ She freed one hand and clasped mine.
‘I must escape, Mathilde! What shall we do?’
I clutched her fingers, cold as a sliver of ice. She did not resist as I undid the linen parcel I took from her lap. Inside lay four wax figures smeared with blood and dung. Each wore a tiny paper crown, all four were pierced by a vicious-looking bodkin.
‘My lady.’ I took the parcel from her and, walking across to the large brazier, thrust the parcel deep into its fiery coals.
‘I hate them!’ The words rasped the air like a sword being taken from its scabbard. I glanced at the knights sheltering around the other brazier, talking quietly amongst themselves. I walked swiftly back, sat by the princess, clutched her hand and confirmed what she already knew about the intended marriage. She heard me out, nodding wordlessly.
‘Be strong, be cunning!’ I whispered. ‘Whatever happens, retain your mask.’ I half smiled at the way I had panicked and been so stupid with Narrow Face. I would not tell the princess that, not yet.
I took her by the arm and raised her, and we walked slowly back into the palace, the knights hurrying behind. I pinched the princess’s arm and pointed to a fresco on the wall displaying plump children playing joyfully in a wine press. I traced the coloured ivy which snaked through the painting and began to describe the properties of ground ivy, called ale-tooth. How vital it was for the brewing of ale and how Galen recommended it to treat inflammation of the eyes. We strolled down galleries and passageways. I gossiped like a jay; beside me the Princess eased her breathing and forced a smile. We wandered into a small chapel, its walls decorated with gleaming strips of oak. At the far end stood a simple altar on a sanctuary dais, to the right of that a shrine to the Virgin dressed as a queen holding the Divine Child on her knee. I made the princess kneel on the cushioned prie-dieu; candles flickered on their stands before her. I opened a nearby box, took out a fresh candle, lit it and watched the flame dance as I thrust it on to the pointed spigot. I stared up at the severe face of the Virgin. I found it difficult to pray. I recall saying the same words time and again, ‘Ave Maria, Gratia plena, Dominus tecum . . .’ but after that I kept thinking of Narrow Face staggering away from me, blood splashing through his lips. Yet I felt no regret, no contrition, no desire to have my sins shrived. I glanced away. There was a painting of a corpse in its shroud on the side wall of the Lady Chapel, a memento mori: ‘Take heed of my fate and see how sometimes I was fresh and merry, now turned to worms, remember that.’ I read the scrolled words and thought of Uncle Reginald and Monsieur de Vitry. I vowed to remember them, and him, the man whom I’d glimpsed in the Oriflamme tavern, those beautiful eyes with their far-seeing gaze. I had to pinch myself. Had I truly seen him? Or was he part of a dream? Fable or truth, I vowed I’d never forget him.
Once we’d returned to the princess’s private quarters, Isabella abruptly grew tired, which I recognised as a symptom of deep anxiety, a fever of the mind. I poured her some apple juice mixed with a heavy infusion of camomile and made her drink. She lay down on her bed, bringing up her knees, curling like a child as I pulled the cloak over her. Later in the afternoon a finely caparisoned herald came knocking on the door. He announced that His Grace the King would, just after vespers, entertain the English envoys in the White Chamber of the palace; the princess must attend.
Isabella woke up refreshed. I informed her about the royal summons and her mood abruptly changed. She chattered about what she would wear and spent the rest of the afternoon preparing herself, servants and valets being summoned up with jugs and tubs of boiling water. Isabella stripped and washed herself. She perfumed and anointed her body, allowing me to dress her in linen undergarments, purple hose and a beautiful silver dress, high at the neck, with an ornamental veil set on her head bound by a gold braid and studded with gems. She opened her jewellery casket, slipping on rings, silver bracelets and an exquisite pectoral set with rubies and sapphires. She preened herself in front of the sheet of polished metal which served as a mirror, looking at me from the corner of her eye and laughing.
‘Now you, Mathilde.’ Isabella was generous. She never referred to her earlier symptoms, before she’d fallen asleep, as she made me wash, helping me to anoint and perfume myself, choosing clothes for me to wear. A page was dispatched to her father saying that Mathilde, Isabella’s dame de chambre, would be accompanying her to the banquet. As the bells of St Chapelle tolled for vespers we made our way down to the White Chamber: a small gleaming hall, with pure white-painted walls covered with hangings, its windows of thick glass decorated with the heraldic devices and armorial insignia of the Capets, the royal house of France. The polished floor reflected the light of sconce-torches and that of a myriad of candles spiked on a wheel which had been lowered to provide even more light. A fire leapt merrily in a cavernous mantled hearth. Part of the hall had been cordoned off with huge screens decorated with sumptuous tapestries in blue, red and gold depicting the romance of the Knights of the Swan and their assault on the Castle of Love. Other cloths bore beautiful roundels in vigorous colours showing the Six Labours of the Year.
The king, his ministers and three sons stood before the huge hearth; on each pillar of this an elaborately carved woodwose glared into the screened-off area as if resenting the wealth on display along the three tables. Isabella swept forward to be greeted. I was ignored. The king and his entourage moved around her. They all looked magnificent in their blue and white velvet suits; brooches, rings and chains of office sparkling in the light. I stood at the corner of the screen. Prince Philippe was glowering, lips moving wordlessly as he half listened to the sottish Charles. I did not wish to catch their eye, so I studied the three strangers. The nearest was dressed in the dark robes of a royal clerk; he had a smooth olive-skinned face under night-black h
air swept back and tied in a queue. The other two were English, clearly having some difficulty in understanding the swift conversation in courtly Norman French. One was slightly hidden; the other was a lean beanpole of a man with sour face and sour eyes: Sir Hugh Pourte, merchant prince of London. His companion moved into the circle of light and I froze: Sir John Casales, a handsome, vigorous man with the face of a born soldier, harsh and lean, keen-eyed, firm-mouthed, his greying hair cropped close. He was dressed simply but elegantly in a dark green cote-hardie over a black velvet jerkin and hose of the same colour; his Spanish riding boots, their soft leather gleaming in the firelight, gave more than a hint of the military man.
I stood, watched and remembered. Sir John Casales, his right hand cut off by the Scots at the Battle of Falkirk. He had visited my uncle, but that had been years ago. I quietly prayed to the Virgin that he would not recognise me. Casales’ eyes, sharp as a fox, shifted towards me then looked away. It had been years since we met, and even then I’d been standing in my uncle’s shadow. I comforted myself with the thought that to a man like Casales, I was nothing more than another servant.
The conversation around the hearth was muted. Sir Hugh Pourte seemed distinctly sour; Casales acted more agitated: the courtier-knight shuffled his booted feet and stared around the hall; apparently what he was listening to was most unfavourable. King Philip himself had grown slightly red-faced, and eventually he turned away and signalled to his retainers; heralds in their gorgeous tabards lifted trumpets and shrilled a blast, the sign that the feasting was to begin.
We dined magnificently on venison and boar, roasted and basted with juices. The king announced, from where he sat in the centre of the middle table, that the meat was fresh straight from the forest of Fontainebleau, brought down by himself. Philip’s love of hunting, be it of beast or man, was famous. The main course was followed by a cockatrice of chicken and pork, apricots and oranges from Valence, all served on tables covered in glistening white samite cloths and decorated with plates, jugs, cups and goblets of silver and gold embroidered with gems and stamped with the royal arms. Philip sat enthroned like a silver lion, aware of his power; on either side of him ranged the English envoys. I sat at the end on one of the side tables, Isabella to my left. She’d acted the part, moving amongst the men like some well-trained nun, her lovely face framed by a shimmering veil over that beautiful golden hair. She kept her face impassive even as she sat down, then her eyes changed and I caught the glint of mischief. She leaned over as if to move a cup. ‘Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘this will be most amusing.’
