Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts

by Paul Doherty

  By now, the princess had returned to her own chamber. Servants, roused by the commotion, were cleaning the gallery where Philippe had vomited. The sullen-faced serjeant had returned to his post, the red welt on his cheek and his hostile glare clear testimony of Isabella’s fury at his earlier desertion.

  ‘You’re late!’ the princess snapped as I closed the chamber door.

  ‘My lady, I am tired.’ I snuffed the candles and lay down on my own bed, pulling up the coverlet to hide my face. I felt sick and tired, hot with a clammy sweat; so much had happened, such a nightmare of a day.

  ‘Mathilde,’ Isabella’s voice was soft, ‘Mathilde, I missed you, I was frightened!’

  ‘My lady, let us go to sleep.’

  ‘What happened to the Englishman?’ Isabella mocked. ‘Did he try to fly?’

  ‘No, my lady, they claim he went to the window to take the air, dropped a golden chain, tried to recover it and fell to his death.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that, Mathilde, not you with those sharp eyes of yours. You remind me of a cat I used to have. It always knew where the mice holes were. It never approached, it simply sat far off and watched.’

  ‘My lady,’ I struggled up and leaned against the feather-filled bolsters, ‘I find it difficult to understand why Sir Hugh Pourte, who was in his nightshift, should be carrying a gold chain to a window. The man had drunk deeply, he was tired. The night air was bitterly cold. Why should he open the window so far? Why should he be clutching a gold chain? Moreover, and I will have to reflect on this, but if he stood on a stool and leaned out he still could not have retrieved it. Why didn’t he take a hook or a sword, something to loop back the chain?’

  ‘So he didn’t fly and he didn’t fall. Are you saying he was pushed?’

  ‘Perhaps, my lady.’ I closed my eyes and recalled that corpse lying so crookedly in the courtyard; the bruises on the side of the head, the broken neck, the blood seeping out from the skull like yolk from a cracked egg.

  ‘And yet you say the door was locked and bolted from within.’

  ‘My lady, who is Ralph Rossaleti?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ The princess giggled. ‘He is our watchdog, Mathilde, one of Father’s senior clerks. He is going to carry my secret seal in England; what I write, he will know. He will be our adviser.’

  ‘A spy, my lady? Your father’s spy?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Again Isabella’s voice had a lilting tone. ‘We are to meet him tomorrow, he and Sir John Casales. Perhaps you could ask your questions then. Mathilde?’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘Do you ever pray?’

  ‘I try to.’

  ‘I do! I pray. I prayed to be delivered from my brothers. You’re an angel, Mathilde, an answer to my prayer.’

  I lay back down again, pulled the coverlet up and drifted into a sleep full of nightmares: of dark figures dancing on the end of scaffold ropes, of faces staring at me from a haunted cart rumbling across a cobbled yard. When I woke, just before dawn, I was sweat-soaked and thick-headed. The princess was asleep, deeply so, perhaps relieved about the dangers she had been rescued from. I opened the chamber door; the serjeant had been replaced by two more. I went back inside and splashed water over my face from the lavarium. Drying my hands, I quickly dressed and went out into the palace, up the staircase and back to Hugh Pourte’s chamber.

  The broken door now leaned against the wall. The chamber had been stripped of all its possessions. I crossed to the bed and pulled back the curtains; the bed had not been slept in. I looked around. Pourte had filled a goblet full of wine. I picked this up, sniffed and tasted: nothing but the best from Bordeaux. I walked to the window, stood on the stool, opened the casement and leaned out. I recalled Pourte’s height; even he could never have reached that chain, so why had he tried? Was he inebriated? If he had been killed beforehand, how did his assassin enter and leave his chamber when the door was locked and bolted from the inside? I went down on my knees like a dog examining the floor between the edge of a Turkey rug and the stool near the window. I used my fingers and found a rusty-red stain, scraping at it I picked it up, and sniffed it; it wasn’t wine, but blood. I crawled nearer to the window and found other drops, but nothing on the sill or ledge. This blood could have been the result of anything; was it even Pourte’s? Had he been assassinated and killed in his chamber by a blow to the back of his head, his neck broken, the casement opened and his corpse tossed out? If so, how had the killer escaped? I went back to the window, stood on the stool and looked over the sill. The assassin could have climbed up from outside but the window would have been closed as the night was bitterly cold. He ran the risk of being noticed, whilst it would have been both difficult and dangerous for anyone to climb up by themselves on a dark freezing night.

  I left the chamber and went down to the palace death house which stood at the end of a long path leading to one of the orchards. I opened the door and walked in. The death house contained a long row of wooden tables, some empty, others covered with dirty sheets. A rusting brazier, glowing with ash and strewn with herbs, did little to hide the reeking odour of death and decay. Along the whitewashed wall was a crude picture which brought alive Ezekiel’s vision of the Valley of Dry Bones: stark depictions of skeletons thrusting up through the iron-grey soil. The brooding silence and those lumps of flesh under their dirty sheets provoked a deep unease. I pulled back one covering; an old man lay sprawled beneath. On the next table was Pourte. He’d been washed and smeared with some herbal oil. I examined his body; it was scarred and bruised, though nothing recent, except the purple-red bruise on the side of his face, the skull cracked like a shell and his neck as loose as a piece of slack rope. I scrutinised the corpse carefully and wondered again what had really happened. Why should Pourte be killed here, and by whom? Did his death concern me or Isabella, my mistress?

  I walked out of the death house. The light was still murky, the wind shifting the mist into swirling wisps as if an army of ghosts was milling about. I was so absorbed with myself, I tripped over the halberd deliberately placed across the threshold. As I tumbled forward, a piece of coarse sacking, reeking of tar, was thrown over my head, and an arm, tight as a noose, went round my throat. The voice was slurred, nothing more than a hoarse whisper:

  ‘Mathilde, Mathilde, tell your mistress not to pry! Keep to your chambers and your embroidery!’

  The grip tightened. I began to choke, then I was released and pushed violently forward. The grip had been so vice-like, the sacking wound so carefully around me, that by the time I had recovered and torn off the blindfold, my assailant had gone, and there was nothing but the mist, the smells of that open wasteland and the muted sounds of the palace coming to life. I picked myself up.

  When I returned, Isabella was at her prie-dieu, dressed and gowned, demure as any convent novice. For a while I just stood leaning against the door, wondering who had attacked me and why. My throat and neck felt sore, my cheeks burned hot, my body was drenched in a clammy sweat. I took a deep breath, came up behind her and peered at the small, beautifully scripted book of hours she was reading from. The capital A of the prayer Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini – Our help is in the name of the Lord – was exquisitely painted, though the miniature itself made me smile: the painting showed a collection of ravens, bedecked like princes, being preached at by a cat garbed in the mitre and cope of a bishop.

  Isabella turned sharply, eyes bright with mischief.

  ‘Master Rossaleti painted that. He’s a trained scribbler as well as a clerk. He was once a Benedictine monk.’ She chattered on. ‘Well, he was married once but his wife was crushed by a cart, so he became a clerk.’

  ‘So you know Rossaleti well, my lady?’

  ‘Of course; he was my tutor. He knows all the stories about Arthur and his knights.’

  ‘But you said he was a spy.’

  ‘It’s logical,’ Isabella laughed, getting to her feet. ‘Everyone in my household, apart from you, is a spy! The Secreti, the Secre
t Ones, Marigny’s coven, hover everywhere. Anyway, we have to meet Rossaleti and Casales just after noon.’ Her smile faded as she noticed the scuff marks on my face and neck, and her hand went out. ‘Oh Mathilde, what is wrong?’ She touched my chin gently, her blue eyes troubled. ‘Mathilde, what happened?’

  I told her about my visit to the death house and the assault that ensued. Isabella sat down and listened, tapping her foot against a stool. When I’d finished, she picked at a thread on her cuff.

  ‘I do not know,’ she murmured, ‘why someone should attack you. Was it because of last night? Your visit to Pourte’s chamber or the death house?’ She shrugged. ‘Anyone could be responsible: Louis, one of the Secreti?’

  She turned to the table and closed the book of hours. ‘Listen to the palace, Mathilde! We sit and hear the sounds. We see people go here and there but we don’t know the truth behind what is really happening. The same is true about you, about me . . .’

  I stared at this young woman, in many ways a mere cipher in her father’s plans, a child amongst adults, a dove amongst the hawks. Or was she? At times she betrayed a cunning and astuteness of which her father should have been proud.

  ‘The Templars, the massacre at de Vitry’s house, the death of the Englishman Pourte have one thing in common.’ She smiled. ‘Me!’ She pulled a face as I stared in puzzlement. ‘My father has to pay a huge dowry to the English, but his treasury is empty. The plunder of the Temple will fill it. De Vitry was one of his bankers. He negotiated on behalf of the Temple and other merchants, such as the Black and White Frescobaldi of Italy. De Vitry’s death,’ she nodded, ‘might be a blow to him!’

  ‘And Pourte?’

  ‘Ah, the Englishman. Edward chose well. Both he and Casales are of the English royal council. I understand they speak for my marriage.’

  I remembered the banquet the night before. Pourte and Casales did not really believe the message they had brought; that was why they had been chosen, to give as little offence to the French as possible. Both men had clearly been discomfited, having to argue a policy they did not believe in.

  ‘Webs within webs,’ I replied. ‘So why were de Vitry and Pourte murdered? Was it because of you, because of me?’ I did not wait for an answer. ‘Of course,’ I whispered, ‘there may be other reasons, whilst I was warned simply because I was caught prying.’

  ‘And there’s something else.’

  Isabella rose and took a key from a chain around her neck. Kneeling down, she removed the Turkey rug and, using a thin knife, prised loose a block in the wooden floor. Stretching down she took out a small coffer, which she opened. She grinned mischievously at me.

  ‘Only Maria knew where this was hidden.’

  ‘And where is Maria now?’

  ‘Gone away.’ Isabella laughed. ‘She’ll never come back. Here, this is for you.’ She handed across a small scroll, its seal broken. I immediately recognised the script of de Vitry, the distinctive sweep of the quill. I’d seen enough in his chancery office to recognise it. I unrolled the scroll. The date at the top was inscribed a day before he was murdered. It was written in the cipher de Vitry and I had learnt from Uncle Reginald, in which the Greek alphabet is transposed by a series of even numbers and the last letter, omega, is translated into French as A.

  ‘You were gone.’ Isabella answered my stare. ‘I too, Mathilde, protect myself. All letters to my household are delivered directly to me, remember that.’

  She leaned forward excitedly. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘My assailant,’ I replied hotly, ‘told you to stay in your chambers with your embroidery.’

  She stamped her foot and made a rude sound with her lips.

  ‘What does it say, Mathilde?’

  I hid my annoyance at her intervention and walked across to the small chancery desk; with Isabella standing over me, I translated the message.

  ‘La Rue des Ecrivains – above the sign of Ananias. Trust him if you have to! If he is gone, if God’s will for you is manifest, you will find him above the Palfrey in Seething Lane off Paternoster Row in the city of London.’

  ‘What does this mean?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘It means, my lady,’ I turned and looked at her, ‘that de Vitry reflected and wondered if I was safe here. I suspect he felt guilty. He was a good man. He sent me this as further help, whilst all the time it was he who needed assistance.’

  Isabella leaned over, her lips brushing my ear as if we were lovers. ‘We don’t need him, Mathilde, always remember that. We are, as your assailant said, here in our chambers with what he calls our embroidery. God willing, Mathilde, you and I will weave something which people, including my father, will always remember. Never forget that!’ She spoke with such passion; spots of anger appeared high in her cheeks, and her blue eyes glared furiously. I’d never seen her like that before; I had still failed to realise the deep well of resentment in that young woman. Ignored and abused, she was weaving her own web of revenge, eager to carry it out. That is what I want to tell you. I must describe it as I would emerging symptoms or the converging of the planets to move logically in sequence; I must depict truthfully what we felt, what we saw, what we did at a particular time. I am determined not to appear arrogant, as if I could predict what was to happen. Hindsight makes wise men of us all and only a fool, or a liar, subscribes to such wisdom.

  We spent the rest of the morning preparing for Casales and Rossaleti. The princess was now being treated as a person in her own right, and when we moved down to her father’s council chamber, only a royal scribe, a pallid-faced old man, joined us. Isabella sat at the top of the table in a high-backed chair, I on her left, Casales and Rossaleti to her right. The scribe perched at the end of the table, pen poised above the ink pot, ready to take memoranda, to report back to his masters everything that was said. I stared round the council chamber. A plain, stark room, its plaster a dull white with paintings on the wall showing scenes from the life of Christ. At the far end hung a huge crucifix; at the other was a dais and a row of writing carrels where royal scribes could sit and be summoned by their masters if they needed them. The ceiling was beamed like a barn. The more I sat there, the more I wondered if it was pretence. Was this some sort of tableau, a court masque for Philip, Marigny or one of the Secreti to observe? Isabella, dressed ever so demurely, certainly behaved herself.

  ‘You’ve asked to see me, sirs?’ The princess, following court protocol, began the discussions. The scribe waited, pen poised. Rossaleti replied with the usual pleasantries. I studied both men. Casales was a tough professional soldier, a knight who’d journeyed far and fought in many battles. His hair was cropped short, his lean shaven face showing the scars of his years on campaign. He kept his severed wrist in its sheath of leather hidden beneath the table. He had the look of an ascetic: deep-set eyes under thick brows, a pointed nose, thin lips. The only relief in such a hard face was the dimple on his chin. In many ways Casales reminded me of some of the Templars. He was dressed simply in a green cote-hardie over a black jerkin and hose. He wore no jewellery except for a silver chain round his neck, a gift, so he told me later, from his long-dead mother. He was a professional fighter, so he found it difficult to stay still, his left hand constantly tapping the table. Only once did he glance at me, but again he betrayed no sign of recognition and I breathed an Ave in relief. Casales spoke courtly French and I gathered he was a close confidant and a leading henchman of the English favourite Lord Peter Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall. Casales explained he was half Gascon himself and had served Lord Peter both in Gascony and in England. He and Rossaleti had spent months in Westminster, meeting over the intended marriage, and a firm friendship had developed between the two envoys.

  Rossaleti nodded understandingly while Casales spoke. Sitting opposite, I could see that Rossaleti, garbed in black like a Benedictine monk, was not as young as I had thought. He looked to be from Italy or the sun-rich provinces of the south, a handsome, almost girlish face with dark eyes and olive skin, but this was offset b
y the deep furrows in his cheeks. He was a man always on the verge of smiling with ever-shifting eyes which stared curiously at you as if weighing your secret worth. Rossaleti was King Philip’s man body and soul, and yet, at the time, I took to him. I tried to ignore the heavy gold ring emblazoned with the Capetian arms on the middle finger of his right hand which constantly moved, touching the Ave beads around his neck. Rossaleti, soft spoken, would intervene every so often to guide the conversation to its true purpose. How the marriage between Isabella and Edward of England might be a matter of dispute, yet the English king’s love and personal regard for his betrothed was unsullied. In other words, both men were proclaiming that Isabella was not to be offended; the hostile stance adopted by the English king was only a matter of politic.