Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts (17 page)

Wenlok’s death cast a shadow over the Christmas celebrations. Philip and his ministers ostensibly grieved deeply but the truth was that the French court regarded Wenlok as an old man who’d been sent on an arduous journey in the depths of winter; he’d simply suffered a seizure and died. His corpse was washed and embalmed, his walnut coffin crammed with tablets of perfume and sacks of herbs then sealed for dispatch as swiftly as possible back to Westminster.

Once again I journeyed down to the death house, where two grimy-faced retainers were preparing the abbot’s body whilst a member of Wenlok’s retinue, a young chaplain called Robert of Reading, recited the office of the dead. He’d reached the words ‘Ah, good Jesu – leave me not reprobation, think my soul caused thy Incarnation’, the sombre phrases rolling out made all the more solemn by the Latin. I stood swathed in a cloak; the death house was bitterly cold. I watched intently whilst slipping Ave beads through my fingers. I had placed at the head of the corpse the winter flowers the princess had sent, together with an evergreen spray. Now I scrutinised the cadaver carefully. Rigor mortis had of course, by St Stephens Day, turned the dead flesh marble hard, but I also noticed the faint purple-red rash on the hairy stomach; the same had appeared on the dead man’s cheeks, whilst his tongue and lips were purpled as if with wine. Philip’s physicians might have entertained suspicions, but who dared to voice them? Or again, they might have been ignorant of hemlock in all its forms, be it garden or water hemlock. Death always occurs quickly, from commencement to finish, perhaps in no more than three hours, whilst the effects would have been hastened depending on whether the poison was distilled from the fruit of the hemlock, its leaves or, more deadly still, a root over a year old. Wenlok’s age and weariness, not to mention the wine, might have enhanced its malignant effects.

The door of the death house opened and Sandewic came in carrying a requiem candle. He placed this on the corpse table, crossed himself and abruptly left. He was waiting for me outside, blowing on his mittened fingers and stamping his feet. The ground was slippery with ice so he offered me his arm. I could see he was in discomfort with a soreness in the ear and throat.

‘Come,’ I invited him, ‘the princess would like to see you and I can practise my skills.’

He grinned mischievously and patted my hand.

‘Truly fortunate I am. I never thought a damsel so fair and young would show such affection.’

We lapsed into teasing, so reminiscent of my days with Uncle Reginald that tears burnt my eyes, which I quickly put down to the cold. Sandewic stopped halfway across the yard and stared out over the wasteland. Servants were pulling Yule logs to the cavernous kitchen doorway, escorted by maids, their arms full of evergreen holly, its blood-red berries full and rich. Others carried tendrils of ivy, all to decorate the kitchen, butteries and servants’ chambers, for St Stephen’s was their day of celebration.

‘He was murdered, wasn’t he, my lord Wenlok?’

I stared coolly back.

‘As was Pourte, as Casales nearly was? As I might be?’ Sandewic hawked and spat.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why do you say that?’

He was about to reply when Casales and Rossaleti came through the doorway carrying funeral candles, capped against the breeze, which they wanted to place on the corpse table. They paused to greet us. Casales looked anxious and drawn.

‘My lord.’ Casales came as close as he could, talking quietly in the English tongue. ‘My lord, the sooner we are gone from here—’

‘Ay,’ Sandewic interrupted, ‘but we must await the will of princes.’

We exchanged pleasantries with them, then continued into the palace, where I made Sandewic comfortable in the princess’s quarters. I examined his ears and throat carefully, then I prepared a solution of warm water, heavily salted, and told him to breathe it in through his nose. He did so, choking and spluttering, coughing up the infected phlegm. After he’d finished I poured warmed oil, specially distilled, into his ears to loosen the hard wax. I gave him vervain for his throat and dressed a small ulcer on his leg with a herbal poultice.

Isabella, busy with certain lists from her father, wandered across to watch. She always had a firm stomach, my mistress, despite all her exquisite courtly ways. She was particularly fascinated by the final potion I mixed for Sandewic, taken from the kitchens and apothecary stores: finely ground dry moss, soaked in an astringent and mixed with the powdered cream of very stale milk. I informed both that I did not know how it acted but it was a sure cure for many internal infections when the body’s humours turned hot and the patient felt as if he was on fire. Sandewic was definitely feverish. He slowly relaxed, drinking the cup of posset Isabella prepared at the hearth. He informed me how he distrusted all physicians and then questioned me closely on my skill and where I had studied. I told the tale I had so carefully prepared and rehearsed like a scholar does a syllogism. Sandewic believed me, or I think he did. In turn I questioned him on the deaths of Wenlok and Pourte, but he was on his guard, although he grudgingly conceded that he was suspicious about both their deaths.

‘The night Pourte died,’ he declared, ‘Casales and Rossaleti were closeted with des Plaisans and Nogaret. Apparently Pourte declared he was too tired to attend; he had to sleep. Consequently he was alone. It’s possible that the real murderer or murderers hired assassins, the same who later attacked Casales.’ The old knight continued as if talking to himself. ‘But last night, how could Lord Wenlok be poisoned except by someone at his own table?’

‘Or before,’ I interrupted. ‘Hemlock is a creeping poison.’

‘True,’ Sandewic agreed. ‘I have spoken to Marigny. Liar though he may be, he claims Lord Wenlok was very quiet, tense, as if unwell from the very beginning of the banquet. He drank and ate very little.’ Sandewic stretched out his infected leg on the footstool and sighed in relief. ‘I feel better!’ he murmured. ‘It’s good to sit, to be warm. I pity poor Wenlok. Sir John Baquelle,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘is a good man, but he has dismissed the Abbot’s death as an act of God. Baquelle is more interested in the present business.’

‘Which is?’

‘My lady, your marriage, of course!’

‘And Edward of England?’ Isabella snapped her fingers, eager to return to a question which constantly vexed her. ‘He changed his mind just like that!’

‘An arrow is loosed!’ Sandewic growled. ‘It may fly, it may rise, but eventually it has to fall.’ He tapped the arm of the chair. ‘Your marriage, my lady, is set as if in stone. There is no other way.’ He yawned. ‘As for Templars? Well, the head of that order is France, and if that’s cut off, what use the arm or leg?
Mon seigneur
the king knows that. He will not imprison or torture the Templars, but he is eager to seize their wealth.’

‘My lord,’ I asked, still fascinated by what he’d said about the murders, ‘do you know of a Monsieur de Vitry?’

‘I’ve heard the name. Marigny mentioned something about a massacre. Wasn’t he a merchant who played an important role in the collection of your mistress’s dowry?’ He looked at me. I never answered, so he stared into the fire.

‘Do Pourte, Casales, Wenlok, Baquelle and you,’ I asked, ‘have anything in common?’

The old knight, growing tired and dreamy-eyed, thinking perhaps of other Yuletides as the ancients do when dozing before a fire, simply shrugged. Now I am old, I recognise that feeling of surrender, of preparing for the final rest, to sleep forever. Sandewic shut us off. Then he abruptly straightened in his chair, still ignoring my question, put on his boots, gathered his cloak, thanked the princess and left. I was sad when he was gone. It was as if the fire had dulled or the candle wicks dimmed. I sat on the footstool warming my hands. Isabella came behind me, pressing her hands on my shoulders.

‘There’s a hidden tension,’ she whispered, ‘ghosts so fierce they gather in the gloom around us and look on. Abbot Wenlok’s death is dismissed as an unfortunate accident, but Casales and Rossaleti, so I hear, as well as Sandewic, are apprehensive and fearful. Oh Mathilde, what shall we do?’ She leaned her face against the back of my head. ‘We are,’ she whispered, ‘in the presence of terrors. I must tell you. Father watches me like a basilisk does its victim. Pelet’s death has gone unmentioned but not forgotten. Marigny’s men have been here. You are summoned to the Chambre Ardente at the hour of vespers. You must go alone.’

I whirled round. Isabella looked frightened. ‘There is nothing I can do, as yet,’ she pleaded.

‘What do they want?’

‘To question you.’

‘About what?

‘Perhaps who you really are . . .’ The princess’s voice trailed off.

I spent the remainder of that day feverishly preparing myself. Isabella tried to help, distracting me with chatter about our intended departure. Casales and Rossaleti came, eager to explain how the English king felt secure in Boulogne, a port on the Narrow Seas well within the county of Ponthieu, an enclave of Normandy still under English influence. They openly confessed that Edward entertained great suspicion towards his ‘sweet cousin of France’, especially after the deaths of Pourte and Wenlok, not to mention the attack on Casales. Surprisingly, neither betrayed any suspicions about Wenlok’s death but repeated how, on his journey to the Ile de France, the abbot complained frequently of feeling unwell, which they thought was due to a hard sea crossing in the depth of winter. They also talked about Isabella’s journey, reassuring us both that the royal ship,
The Margaret of Westminster
, would provide a safe and secure passage. Rossaleti was desperately anxious about that; he pleaded with the princess to join her, as the
Margaret
was much safer than the other cogs available. Isabella laughingly agreed. The two men left, and as the bells of Sainte Chapelle tolled the call for vespers, two knight bannerets, accompanied by a Dominican friar, presented themselves and asked me to accompany them.

They were brusque and severe. I collected my cloak, squeezed Isabella’s hand and joined them. We went down the stairs, threading our way through the passageways and galleries, all lit by candles, and across ice-cold courtyards to the Chambre Ardente, which was housed in the base of a soaring tower. The Chambre Ardente was, in theory, the royal household court, similar to that held by the marshal in England. In practice, however, the Chambre was an inquisitorial court with all the powers of oyer and terminer, to listen and decide on indictments; it could, if it wished, impose the death penalty. The chamber itself was cavernous. Torches provided light as well as cast shadows over what had to be hidden. Its red-brick walls were covered in thick embroidered tapestries, depicting all forms of judgement. On one, Christ, ghostlike, swathed in swirling drapery, presided. Below the divine throne all kinds of demons prowled, waiting for judgement to be passed. A veritable gallery of hideous figures, bearded and winged, with scaly skin and manes of fire, readied to grab the hapless sinners to rip out their bowels and crunch their hearts. In the corner, specially illuminated by a fiery brazier, St Michael weighed souls in a set of scales as a devil reached to grab one for his supper. The purpose of this tableau, springing to life in the shifting light, was to instil terror and fan the flames of fear. I vowed I would show no weakness.

Around the chamber stood royal guards, whilst scribes crouched busily over writing tables. At the far end, on a dais, sat Marigny behind a high oaken table, his red hair gleaming in the torchlight. His two minions, Nogaret and des Plaisans, sat on either side, with hooded clerks perched like ravens at each end, pens poised. Marigny beckoned me forward on to the dais, gesturing at a stool before the table. I approached and sat down.

‘Mathilde, welcome.’

‘Seigneur, why am I here?’

Marigny, surprised, leaned across, hunter’s eyes staring from that pallid face, mouth puckered in disbelief at such insolence.

‘This is the court of the royal household. You are a member of that household. You are to be summoned here as we wish.’

‘Seigneur, why?’

‘Mathilde, are you in God’s grace?’ des Plaisans asked.

‘If I am, sir, I beg God to keep me there, and if I am not, I humbly ask Him to return me there. Why do you ask?’

‘You act the wise woman,’ Nogaret simpered, ‘or something else. You know a great deal about simples and potions.’

‘So do the royal physicians. What are you hinting at, that I’m a witch?’

‘No.’ Des Plaisans sat back in the shadows.

‘Mathilde, Mathilde,’ Nogaret took up the attack, ‘you’re not being tried.’

‘So why am I here?’

‘You have won the princess’s favour so quickly . . .’ He paused.

‘I cannot answer for my mistress; you must ask her yourself.’

‘Mathilde,’ Marigny’s face wrinkled in amusement, ‘do not be afraid.’

‘Who claims I am?’

Marigny leaned his elbows on the table, rocking backwards and forwards as if considering my reply. I steeled myself. I hated these men, so why should I be afraid of their questions? I had been in the household of Uncle Reginald, the hardest taskmaster. He had acted like a magister from the schools as he questioned me on what I’d observed and studied even after some errand into the city. He would loose questions like a master bowman would arrows. I was prepared, I was skilled. I thought of him then. I thanked God for his iron discipline. Marigny fluttered his fingers, gesturing at the others to keep quiet. He picked up a scrap of parchment.

‘Mathilde, you were recommended by Monsieur de Vitry.’

‘I was.’

‘He was recently murdered.’

‘God rest him, and may the cross of Christ bring his assassins to speedy justice.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Marigny murmured. ‘Did you attend the funeral of this great friend?’