Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts

by Paul Doherty

  Marigny spoke for the king, describing the marriage negotiations, expressing his royal master’s deep frustration at Edward of England. At last King Philip held up his hand for silence, eyes fixed on his daughter. Oh, I remember that arrogant gaze! Now steeped in years, I still wonder why I didn’t spring to my feet and accuse him of the truth, pour out the horrid litany of his hideous sins against Uncle Reginald, his own daughter, me and all the others. The answer, I suppose, was that, is that, I was young, I wanted to live, yet there was more. In the Tower of London and elsewhere I have looked upon fabulous beasts such as Edward of England’s favourite leopard, a ferocious animal which would have torn me to pieces, yet I could only stare and watch. King Philip was the same. On that particular evening, as he talked about the death of Pourte, the attack on Casales and the dangers threatening the princess, he acted the leopard, dangerous, cunning, twisting and turning. I glanced around. Isabella’s brothers were not present. I could have taken pride at driving them away, but in truth I only played a part. Louis and Philippe, now sober, were keeping their distance because they were not arrogant fools. The presence of Casales, the possible imminence of their sister’s nuptials, not to mention the brooding wrath of their father, had cooled their wicked ardour.

  On that freezing December evening, in the season of expectant souls, King Philip was certainly intent on his daughter’s welfare. He dramatically described the danger which had threatened her during the attack. He never once glanced at me, but Marigny’s sallow face, with those unblinking eyes, dark pools of ambition and power, studied me as if seeing me for the first time. I learnt a lesson then that I’ve never forgotten. In mundo hominum – in the world of men – women are like children and the old; they are not ignored, they are not even noticed, they don’t even exist, until it matters. My heart warmed to Monsieur de Vitry. He had recognised that truth, acted upon it and so kept me safe. Casales had not recognised me, nor did the knight sitting on the stool whom Philip now introduced as Sir Bernard Pelet, loyal subject, former member of the accursed Templar order, who, according to the king, had done so much to bring God’s justice, and the crown’s, to the full. Philip proudly announced how Pelet was to be Isabella’s master-at-arms, custos hospicii, keeper of her household both here and in England. Pelet, God curse him, basked in such praise like a cat before a fire.

  Isabella must have sensed my mood; she answered quickly and prettily, whilst I could only stare in silent horror. I had met Pelet before, but again I’d been in the shadows. Uncle Reginald had once talked warmly of him as a good knight at the Temple treasury, when in fact he had been the traitor at the feast. I’d heard enough of the chatter and the gossip to learn that Pelet had been most ferocious in bringing accusations against his former comrades and, possibly, had had a hand in my own uncle’s downfall. I could not even look at him, and I was greatly relieved when the meeting ended.

  Once alone, Isabella cleared her inner chamber except for a page who was instructed to sit by the door and play a gentle tune on the viol.

  ‘Something soft,’ the princess whispered, ‘to soothe the soul.’ She didn’t talk, but sat in her throne-like chair and, picking up a household roll, began to read it as if fascinated by the expenses of her buttery. Never once did she glance up at me. I wanted to be alone. I went across to the writing carrel fixed against the wall beneath a painting celebrating the Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple. Isabella often sat there studying her horn book, inspecting her accounts or writing out some letter for a clerk. I sat down, my back to her, aware of the viol’s melody rising and falling, the distant sounds of the palace, Isabella gently humming under her breath. For a while I could only fight the emotions which boiled in my heart and sent my blood coursing so that the humours in my belly turned sour. Pelet was to join us! An assassin, a Judas! I rose and took down the leech book, to study an infusion to soothe my anger, but found myself turning the pages to study the elements of deadly nightshade, foxglove and other powerful poisons. I was already thinking of revenge.

  Lost in my studies, I was startled when Isabella put her hands on my shoulders, kissing me gently on the back of my head. I turned round. The viol-playing had ceased, the chamber was empty. Isabella was dressed in her nightshift, her hair loosed. She pressed a goblet of hot mulled wine into my hand and stared down at the page I was studying.

  ‘Listen, Mathilde no, no, no!’ She shook her head. ‘Not that way! Come, come.’ She made me prepare for sleep. After we had drunk the wine, she insisted I share her bed. I doused the candles and lay beside her in the dark. In the faint light I could glimpse the golden sheen of her hair. She leaned over and touched my cheek. ‘I used to creep in and lie beside my mother.’ She edged closer, staring at me through the darkness. ‘She would tell me stories about Spain, about Rodrigo Diaz, known as El Cid, or she’d describe Santiago, the great mountain shrine to St James. I used to feel so close.’ She paused. ‘Do you know any stories, Mathilde?’ She was trying to distract me, so I told her one from Bretigny about a hobgoblin who ate proud princesses. Isabella laughed and seized my hand. ‘Soon,’ she stifled a giggle, ‘I will lie with Edward of England. Have you ever lain with a man, Mathilde?’

  ‘Only in my dreams, my lady.’

  Isabella laughed again. ‘Mathilde, swear, swear that you will do nothing to hurt Pelet.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘Swear,’ she breathed, ‘and you shall have my sacred oath that I will take care of that devil! Mathilde, I promise you.’

  I swallowed my pride and hot words and promised.

  ‘Good.’ Isabella rolled over on her back.

  ‘So much mystery,’ she breathed. ‘The attack on the Templars: the massacre at Monsieur de Vitry’s: Pourte’s death; the assault on Casales.’ She rolled over on to her side again. ‘Casales even maintains the clerk murdered near the charnel house of the Innocents shows how dangerous it is for him to be here. They say the clerk, Matthew of Crokendon, was with a young woman. He was seen walking with her in the cemetery.’ Again she touched me lightly on the cheek. ‘Be careful, Mathilde, that you are not recognised.’

  I closed my eyes and I listened to Isabella’s soft breathing. I pushed my hot hand between the smooth cold sheet and the feather-filled bolster.

  ‘And your father?’ I asked. ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He believes . . .’ Isabella paused. ‘He believes there are those in England bitterly opposed to my marriage. They would like nothing more than to create mayhem in these negotiations. De Vitry was used by my father in the collection of my dowry, Pourte was a confidant of the English king and Lord Gaveston, as is Casales; they both supported the marriage. There are those in the English council chamber who’ll be quick to point out that not even English envoys are safe in France.’

  ‘Who leads these?’ I asked.

  ‘The English king’s uncle, Henry Lacey, Earl of Lincoln, and Edward’s powerful cousin, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster.’ She paused as if listening into the dark. ‘Marigny has even hinted, God forbid, that danger threatens me, hence Pelet.’

  ‘And you?’ I asked.

  ‘Soon I will reach my fourteenth summer, Mathilde, yet sometimes I feel like an old crone steeped in the frenetic turbulence of intrigue. My marriage is a matter of papal arbitration; Clement V of Avignon is my father’s creature. The English are also bound by solemn treaty, yet, Mathilde, to answer your question, we are figures in some dark, devious and wicked game waiting to be played out. So, be careful, especially over Pelet. You promised?’

  ‘And I promise again.’

  ‘Deo Gratias, Mathilde.’ She laughed abruptly. ‘Let’s go back to hobgoblins. Shall we call Louis one?’

  Such were the days as we waited, one following another. Casales dispatched letters and messengers back to his masters in England. Advent prepared to give way to Christmas. Boughs of evergreen appeared in the chapel. The priests wore vestments of purple and gold and empty cribs were set up in the royal cloister as the palace prepared itself for the fe
ast of Christmas. The huntsmen thundered out, verderers and hawkers driven by their passion for the chase and the kill. The royal larders become stocked to overflowing with venison, boar, rabbit, plover, quail and duck. The palace galleries and chambers echoed with music as the choirs rehearsed the ‘O’ antiphons of Advent as well as the hymns for Christmas, haunting melodious tunes, bittersweet, about a Virgin maid bringing forth the God child in the bleak heart of winter.

  The days were short and dark, bitterly cold, so we kept to our chambers. Every day was purgatory, with Pelet trying to act the perfect, gentle knight towards both of us. Never once did such a fair face hide such a foul heart; a traitor, a coward, a Judas incarnate. Isabella, however, openly favoured him, and as the days passed, I wondered if she’d remembered her vow. Casales and Rossaleti now became constant visitors to the princess’s chambers, yet as the negotiations flagged, their courtesies sounded more hollow. Isabella, who discussed the matter secretly with me, seized her opportunity when the two men shared wine in her chamber just before vespers on Laetare Sunday in Advent.

  ‘My lord,’ Isabella, cloaked in furs before the fire, stretched out a delicate hand towards the flames, ‘tell me plainly about your king. He protests great love for me, yet—’

  ‘My lady,’ Casales intervened, ‘Edward of England—’

  ‘I know,’ Isabella merrily interrupted, ‘is a stark, fair bachelor standing over six feet, well proportioned, of goodly features. His hair is golden, his eyes are blue, his face comely to the eye. A skilled horseman, a warrior bloodied in the wars of Scotland, a true knight. He loves his friends and is much given to hunting.’ Isabella parodied the nasal twang of a nun breathlessly reciting a well-known litany. ‘But if he loves me, why does he delay? Is not our marriage a matter of papal decree, of solemn treaty between our countries, so why this tarrying? What is the real reason? What manner of man is my future husband?’

  Rossaleti nervously cleaned his mouth with his tongue and glanced away, the consummate courtier, the skilled scribe. Casales was much different: a solitary, brooding man, very conscious of his injury, quick-tempered, nevertheless astute enough to understand Isabella’s impatience. He smiled, coughed and opened his mouth to reply. Isabella, sitting to his right, leaned over and touched him gently on the arm.

  ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘no more fanciful phrases or courtly courtesies.’

  Casales sighed and stretched in his chair. He was dressed in a loose shirt and hose under a thick military cloak; on the floor beside him lay his war-belt. Being an accredited envoy, he was one of the few allowed to carry arms in the royal presence.

  ‘My seigneur the king,’ he began carefully, ‘well, I have known him as long as I have the Lord Gaveston.’ He glanced at Rossaleti and brought a finger to his lips, a sign that he was speaking in secreto, sub sigillo silentii – in secret, under the seal of silence.

  ‘As the father, so the son,’ Casales continued wearily, ‘or sometimes the opposite. Mon seigneur was only a child when his beloved mother Eleanor of Castile died. The present king’s father loved her passionately. After her death, when her corpse was brought south to London for burial at Westminster, the old king built a splendid cross at every place the cortège rested.’ He glanced quickly at Isabella. ‘I tell this to show Edward’s abiding passion for his first wife. When Eleanor was alive, the English court was filled with music. After she died,’ he grimaced, ‘the music stopped. The only time I remember the old king asking for minstrels was to distract his mood when his physicians had to let blood.’

  ‘He loved her so much?’ Isabella whispered.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Casales agreed. ‘Edward the First was a man of iron, of fiery temper; he almost killed a servant who hurt a favourite falcon. The royal birds were the only things he loved after his wife died. When they fell ill, he even sent wax replicas of them to the shrine of the Blessed Thomas of Canterbury to seek a cure. It’s a pity, my lady, he didn’t love his heir half as much. Prince Edward was raised by himself in a palace at King’s Langley in Hertfordshire. A lonely boy, he was left to his own pursuits, his pet camel and leopard, or sailing along the river with his bargemaster Abscalom. Friendships with the sons of servants flourished; the prince often became involved in their rustic pursuits, ignoring the code of arms or the discipline of the horn book. He grew like some neglected plant. By the time the king, his father, realised this, it was too late; the child begets the man. Prince Edward was lonely. He entertained strange fancies and created a mythical brother.’ Casales ignored Isabella’s sharp gasp.

  ‘My lord,’ I asked, ‘he has brothers?’

  ‘Half-brothers.’ Casales smiled at me. ‘The issue of the old king’s second wife, Margaret of France, my lady’s aunt; they are still mere babes. No, the prince wanted a brother, a companion. Forsaken by all, he grew to resent his father, and all this took flesh in Lord Peter Gaveston, who joined the royal household in Gascony. My lady, Gaveston was the brother the prince hungered for, his blood companion, playing Jonathan to Prince Edward’s David.’ He spread his hands. ‘As the scriptures say, “David’s love for Jonathan surpassed all others.”’ Casales drew a deep breath. ‘Prince Edward’s attachment to Gaveston deepened, they became one soul. The old king objected, but the prince was adamant. His father tried to punish and humiliate him but it made no difference. Prince Edward even asked his father to create Gaveston Earl of Cornwall. The old king, notorious for his furious rages, made even worse by an ulcerated leg, physically attacked his son, hitting and kicking him, screaming that he was a knave and that he heartily wished he could leave his crown to another. Gaveston was immediately exiled.’ Casales rubbed his face. ‘Once the old king died last July, Gaveston was recalled and ennobled, made Earl of Cornwall and married to the king’s niece, Margaret de Clare. The earls of Lincoln and Lancaster opposed such advancement of a commoner, a Gascon whose mother, allegedly, was a witch. But mon seigneur was obdurate. It is not just a matter of Gaveston, but of opposing the will of his dead father, be it Scotland, the oppression of his ministers—’

  ‘Or my marriage?’ Isabella interjected.

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ Casales confessed. ‘And now you have the truth of it. Whatever his father wanted Edward our king wishes to overturn, desperate to kick against the goad, so only God knows where it will lead.’ Casales turned to me, glancing narrow-eyed. ‘Have you ever been lonely, Mathilde? Do you know what it is to be by yourself?’

  Of course I could have told the truth, but to these two men I was what I pretended to be, a lady-in-waiting, dame de chambre, a commoner much favoured by the princess. I realised what Casales was implying. He’d made his decision about me: I was a favourite of the princess and, therefore, must understand the importance of Gaveston. I hastily agreed, though I should have reflected more carefully on what he’d asked. Casales moved on, committed to telling the truth. He explained how Edward of England was lashing out against any who had opposed him during his youth. He specifically mentioned Walter Langton, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, former treasurer of the old king, who had tried to curb the prince’s expenditure. He had now been stripped of office and arrested.

  ‘And what do you think will happen?’ Isabella asked.

  Casales raised his good hand.

  ‘Mon seigneur the king is a greyhound lithe and fast, he twists and turns. In refusing your marriage he taunts his father and yours, God forgive him. In this he is supported by Lord Gaveston, but in the end,’ Casales nodded at the casement window, ‘day dawns and dies, night falls, the passing of the hours cannot be stopped.’

  ‘Is that how you view my wedding?’ Isabella teased.

  Casales sipped from his wine cup. He ignored my mistress’s question and made an admission, a startling one; I remember it well.

  ‘The old king,’ he said as if speaking to himself, ‘was a cold, freezing frost upon all our souls, hard of heart and iron of will.’ Casales raised his maimed wrist. ‘I was a member of his battle group at Falkirk when we defeated Wallace. My la
dy, forget the tales of gentle knights. In battle the soul becomes ferocious. At Falkirk I was surrounded by a party of Scots and dragged off my horse. I fought for my life and I lost my hand. A barber surgeon cleaned the stump, pouring boiling tar on the torn flesh. The old king passed me by; he paused, stared down and said I was fortunate. “Better men have lost more”: that was the old Edward of England; he could chill to the very marrow.’

  Casales’ honesty, though refreshing, did not lighten our mood. Isabella wondered if Edward of England would face war rather than submit to the wishes of his father and hers. She said we would send a personal letter and a brooch from her jewellery box. Casales and Rossaleti were planning to spend Christmas at Westminster and were already preparing to leave for Wissant. Rossaleti, I remember, was greatly disquieted. He confided to both the princess and myself that he had a deep fear of rivers and seas, so for him a winter crossing of the Narrow Seas was one of the horrors of hell. Perhaps he had a premonition of his own death, which was more than Pelet did.

  Two days after the meeting with Casales and Rossaleti, I began to suffer nausea and cramps in the belly, as did the princess. Her stomach, like mine, was strong, so I first thought this might be due to the malevolence of the princes, Louis and Philippe. That precious pair delighted in perpetrating malicious tricks such as putting a dead rat on a chair, leaving the dung of one of the palace lurchers outside our chambers or knocking aside a servant as he brought us food and drink. They were men with the narrow souls of spiteful boys. On the second day our symptoms increased, with heavy sweats and vomiting. By the morning of the third day, however, the infection began to diminish. Pelet was not so fortunate. He too was seized with violent cramps, shuddering under a ferocious chill. Isabella herself administered to him, as did a gaggle of royal physicians. I tried to intervene, but the princess brusquely ordered me away.