Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts (11 page)

‘Get out!’ I screamed. I even lapsed into the soldier’s patois my uncle had taught me. The princess leapt out of one side of the bed. She wrapped her cloak about her and moved towards me. Both intruders were drunk, swaying on their feet; I could smell their wine-drenched breath even from where I stood.

‘Who are you?’ Louis lurched forward, lower lip protruding, eyes bleary. Philippe was so drunk he slumped down on the end of the bed.

‘I am Mathilde de Clairebon,’ I replied, ‘
dame de chambre
for your sister, appointed solely to look after her. My lords, she does not want you here. You must go!’

‘And what if . . .’ Louis made to take another step. I raised the arbalest, ‘what if . . .’ he stood back, swaying, ‘we do not wish to leave?’

‘Then, my lord, like any knight, I would do what my duty to your sister, to the king and to God requires. Perhaps the king’s court will decide whether I did wrong or not.’ I’d plotted this as I lay in the dark, waiting for them to come.

Philippe lurched to his feet, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve.

‘I want to get out.’ He hurried past me into the gallery to retch and vomit.

Louis stood, hands on hips.

‘And if we return?’

‘If you return, my lord, I assure you of this: I will write certain letters and lodge them with people I trust in Paris. Should this happen again, copies of those letters will go to His Holiness in Avignon, not to mention the King of England! I leave it to you what your father would think of that.’

Louis shook his head, lust burning like fire in his eyes. For a few heartbeats he considered attacking me. I took a step back, allowing him to leave. He sighed noisily, brushed past me but turned at the door.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon,’ he pointed a finger at me, ‘I shall not forget you.’

‘My lord, I thank you for the compliment. Rest assured, I shall always remember you!’

Louis left, slamming the door behind him. I could hear his hoarse whisperings to Philippe out in the gallery, then their footsteps faded. I immediately took a chair, brought it across and pushed it against the door.

‘Why didn’t you do that immediately?’ Isabella walked over to me, her face white as snow, her eyes no longer blue but dark pools. She was on the verge of tears, lower lip quivering.

‘My lady, every battle has to be fought; you simply choose your field. Tonight we fought and we won! I do not think they will return.’

Isabella came close, grasping me by the shoulder; being slightly shorter than me, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me softly on the lips, then on each cheek.

‘Come with me, Mathilde.’

She led me out of the chamber. I hastily slung a cloak around me, keeping the arbalest and quiver of quarrels beneath. We went along the gallery and down the stairs. I realised we were returning to the chapel which we’d visited on my return from the city. The door was off the latch, and Isabella led me into the sweetened darkness, where the faint candles, now capped, still glowed before the statue. She hastily pulled the bolts across, then walked to where the sacred host hung in its silver pyx box from its chain on a wall bracket; next to it the red sanctuary light glowed. Isabella acted as fervently as any priest. She took the pyx down and laid it on the altar. She then beckoned me forward and made me put my hand over the pyx, placing hers on top.

‘I swear,’ her eyes held mine, ‘I swear by the body and blood of Christ, of our seigneur Lord Jesus, I’m your friend in peace or war until death.’

‘And my lady,’ I placed my hand on top of hers, ‘I am yours!’

Isabella blinked back the tears, picked up the pyx and replaced it on its hook. She led me by the hand to sit on the edge of the dais. The chapel was cold but our cloaks were thick and furred. Isabella tapped me on the knee.

‘Mathilde, tell me now who you really are; your secret will be safe with me.’

So I did. My life as a child, my father, the farm at Bretigny, my journey to Paris, Uncle Reginald, my years as his apprentice, his arrest and execution. I did not pause. I told the truth. I was safe with Isabella, she would not betray me. I also told her about Narrow Face’s death, the massacre at de Vitry’s house. She listened carefully, nodding all the time. When I finished, she again grasped my hand as if trying to draw its warmth for herself.

‘They’ve always come,’ she began. ‘They always have, as long as I can remember. I hate them, Mathilde, they see me as a toy, a whore; their own sister, a princess of France! I too have the Capet blood in me. I too am a direct descendant of the sacred Louis.’ She gestured at a fresco on the far wall celebrating that holy French king of whom Philip was so proud. ‘They come whenever they please. If my mother had lived she could have saved me. She died, you know, a strange sickness. Some whisper my father killed her! So desirous was he of entering the Templar order, of living the life of a so-called celibate. In truth all he wanted was their wealth, their houses, their farms, their granges, their fields, their livestock. He’ll do anything, Mathilde, to get his own way. What he wants has all the force of God’s law.’

‘They will not return,’ I said, ‘your brothers; I don’t think they will!’

Isabella nodded. ‘It is becoming too dangerous,’ she agreed. ‘If their games cost my father, they would feel the full fury of his wrath.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Our father would not be pleased.’

‘Have you ever thought of appealing to him?’

Isabella laughed, a strange strangled sound at the back of her throat.

‘As the root, so the branches, Mathilde. He too is not free of all guilt in such matters. He is not really my father, not here.’ She tapped her chest. ‘In my heart, in my soul he is not my father, and one day I shall have my revenge. Come, Mathilde.’

Chapter 4

We rose and had reached the door of the chapel when the alarm was raised; a hunter’s horn wailed, a funereal sound, proclaiming chilling news. Other horns took up the call. Along the gallery outside pinpricks of light appeared, and the crash of doors being flung open shattered the silence. A royal serjeant-at-arms came running in through a postern door leading from one of the courtyards. He’d lost his helmet, the chainmail coif pulled close around his head, dark red cloak trailing. He stopped when he saw us and, staring wide-eyed, raised the horn to give another blast. Isabella told him to be quiet as the entire palace was now aroused. She curtly demanded the cause of the disturbance. The soldier, breathless, simply pointed, then led us back into the courtyard, now ablaze with lantern flame. Retainers and soldiers gathered in a pool of torchlight around a body sprawled in an ugly, crooked fashion on the paving stones. I forced my way through, Isabella shouting orders that others stand aside, and I crouched before the corpse of Sir Hugh Pourte. The merchant prince was clothed only in a nightgown, now pulled high over white bony knees; his eyes were open and glazed in death, and his nose, mouth and ears were blood-splattered. He’d twisted his neck, which hung eerily loose like that of a dead chicken. His flesh was still warm, the muscles supple – death had been most recent.

‘
Regardez
.’ The harsh Navarrene accent of one of the soldiers caught my attention. I looked up at the palace wall: on the third tier, about nine yards above us, the great window casement had been opened.

‘
Et là, et là!
’

I followed his direction. Under the window was ranged a series of rusty iron brackets driven into the grey ragstone wall to secure ladders placed there so masons, carpenters and glaziers could carry out repairs. From one of these, glinting in the torchlight, hung a thick gold chain last seen around Pourte’s neck at the banquet the night before. Had Pourte dropped this, tried to retrieve it and fallen?

‘Mathilde! Mathilde!’ Isabella’s voice stilled the clamour. I too heard the dull thuds and faint shouts from within the palace. Isabella had retreated into a circle of men-at-arms; she was gesturing with her hand that I investigate the noise.

I hastened back into the palace. By then I knew my way. Pages were now lighting more torches. The galleries were full of spluttering lights and moving shadows; shouts echoed to the clatter of arms and the sound of running feet. I went up the stairs to the third gallery. It was long and narrow, with doors on either side; soldiers and servants thronged, some still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Soldiers clustered round one of the doors. I recognised Casales and the olive-skinned clerk Rossaleti amongst the black shapes in the torchlight; they were forcing a door which, as I hastened down, snapped back on its hinges. Now I was Isabella’s
dame de la chambre
, but to those men clustering in that room I was simply a serving wench, of no more importance than the rodents which ran screeching and squealing from their presence.

Pourte’s chamber was large. I could make out a four-poster bed with its curtains pulled closed; the rest was dark, as the cold night air pouring through the open casement window had snuffed out the candles. Casales and the others, chattering in English, lit some candles and immediately checked certain sealed caskets, ignoring those chests with their lids thrown back. Casales sifted through parchments on the table; from the tone of his voice he believed Pourte’s death was an accident. None of the caskets or baskets from the secret chancery of England had been tampered with. Nothing was missing. They then clustered round the window; from their cries and shouts I gathered they’d glimpsed the golden chain. Marigny and others now stood in the doorway, reluctant to trespass into the chamber of an English envoy. Rossaleti invited them in and, in Norman French, quickly explained how it must have been an accident. Had they been roused by Pourte’s fall? Marigny asked. Rossaleti explained how he, Casales and Nogaret had been deep in conversation in des Plaisans’ chancery office when the alarm had been raised. They’d hurried up and forced the door. It had been locked and bolted, the key still inside; when they broke it down, this was what they had found. Rossaleti pointed to the window and the small stool beneath it. He explained how Pourte must have gone to the window to take the night air, dropped his chain, leaned over to recover it and fallen to his death. Nods of approval and grunts of assent greeted this. Rossaleti then turned abruptly, as if aware of my presence, and glared fiercely at me. I bowed quickly and left.

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?’