Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts (18 page)

‘I never said he was a great friend. I lit a taper and paid for a requiem mass to be sung.’

‘Very good.’ The reply came in a hiss. ‘And you are from Poitiers, Mathilde de Clairebon?’

‘Of course. My mother was a widow, my father an apothecary, hence my knowledge of potions.’ I knew by rote what Monsieur de Vitry had taught me.

‘You seemed very interested in the deaths of Lord Pourte and Abbot Wenlok.’

‘No, sir, I wasn’t; but my mistress was. After all, they were English envoys dispatched to her. I went where she told me. I lit corpse candles when she told me.’

‘Where is the cathedral at Poitiers?’

‘On the Rue de la Chaine.’

‘Its name?’

‘Notre Dame la Grande, but there is another cathedral,’ I chattered on, ‘that of St Pierre. However, the place I loved to pray at was the Baptistry of St Jean with its very old font, an eight-sided pool dug into the ground. Did you know?’ I leaned forward as if excited. ‘It has a fresco from ancient times, of the Emperor Constantine. I—’

‘What is this? Why the delay? Mathilde, I have been waiting.’

I’d heard the door to the chamber open, and when I turned, Isabella, shrouded in her robe, golden hair hanging all loose, stood in the doorway, a polished mirror in one hand, a jewelled comb in the other. Everyone in the chamber, including the three fiends behind the table, sprang to their feet.

‘What is this?’ Isabella repeated, sweeping into the chamber. ‘I thought you had summoned my servant because of my imminent departure, but this?’ Her voice thrilled with anger. ‘Is this a court? What are the accusations? Who is the plaintiff? My lord,’ her voice assumed a more strident, petulant tone, ‘I am the Princess Royal, soon to be Queen of England. In a brief while I must leave my father’s house. I need Mathilde, there is so much to do, so little time to do it, so why is she here?’

‘My lady.’ Marigny came round the table, hands extended. ‘Mathilde can return to you. We are simply questioning her to make sure that she is a fit companion for you—’

‘I will be the best judge of that!’ Isabella snapped, staring into the darkness behind Marigny. ‘And tell my beloved father so!’

I, too, gazed into the shadows behind the table. Philip undoubtedly lurked there, closely watching these proceedings.

‘Mathilde,’ Isabella snapped her fingers, ‘come, we have things to do. My lords.’ She made the most courteous of bows and, beckoning to me, swept out of the chamber.

Once we’d left, the princess hurried like a woman possessed along the galleries, eager to place as much distance as possible between herself and those she had left. We walked through the royal cloisters, an eerie experience. Frost whitened the grass of the garth. A cloying mist curled, its tendrils sweeping in as if seeking the gargoyles squatting at the tops of pillars or hidden in corners. Demons carved in stone glared balefully down at us. I gazed up at the sky and heaved a sigh of relief: the moon was at half-quarter. I’d always been haunted by a childhood tale of terror which claimed that during the time of the full moon, gargoyles and other strange demons sprang to life and went prowling through the darkness, seeking whom they could devour. On such a black night, hurrying from the Chambre Ardente with its own devils of flesh and blood, I could well believe such a tale.

Once back in her own chamber Isabella dismissed the sleepy pages and maids and took me into the window enclosure, sitting me down beside her. She opened the latched door and stared out, oblivious to the cold breeze pouring in.

‘Strange,’ she murmured, ‘when I was a child I heard a sermon by a Franciscan preacher about the devil. He described Satan as having a face blackened by soot, his hair and beard falling down to his feet. His eyes were of glowing iron, sparks sprang from his mouth and evil-smelling smoke billowed out of his mouth and nostrils. He had feathered wings sharp as thorns, his hands bound by manacles.’ Isabella grasped my arm and drew me closer, resting her lovely head on my shoulder. ‘Then Mother died. I rose one night, came here and opened this latch window. It was a beautiful summer’s night. In the cloisters below my father was strolling with his coven in the cloisters. They wore their capuchons and deep-sleeved robes; bats were squeaking, rooks calling. On that night I changed my mind about the devil. The true demons were out there and the bats and crows, their servants, came flying out of the sleeves of the robes of my father and his minions. On that same night I dreamed an owl flew into my mouth, sat down on my heart and embraced it with its taloned claws. In my nightmare I went hunting with my father in the woods of Fontainebleau; they say it’s haunted by the devil, riding a dog, scouring the woods with a troop of demons dressed in black. Anyway, I felt as if I was condemned to ride those woods for ever.’ She lifted her head. ‘Dreams, physician, how can you explain them, eh? A trick of the digestion or humours out of harmony, fanciful theories?’ Isabella closed the window. ‘Mathilde, I always remember that evening. What I thought, what I saw, what I felt when I dreamed: I thought I was trapped in hell, but now I am to be freed. You must come with me. I need you.’

‘My lady, I am grateful.’

‘Don’t.’ Isabella drew a deep breath and rose to her feet. ‘Don’t be grateful.’ She picked up a set of Ave beads, lacing them through her fingers. ‘Just be careful, Mathilde! The demons may know who you are and they may try, just once more.’

Warnings are like birds; they come and go, quickly forgotten, especially in that busy Christmas season. The feasting and revelry over the twelve days of the holy feast culminated in the ceremonies of the boy bishop and other jester antics of the Epiphany. During this season the English envoys were constant visitors to Isabella, dancing attendance on her, Baquelle in particular eager to describe London and its importance. On reflection Baquelle was a busybody, full of his own importance. Lord Wenlok’s death hardly concerned him, even though it was he who was charged with arranging the dispatch of the abbot’s embalmed corpse back to his brethren at Westminster, a task he accomplished as if sending a basket of wheat or a tun of wine. Sandewic grew more taciturn, studying me closely as if trying to reach a decision. Casales and Rossaleti worked closely together; through them I learnt the news of the two courts. How the confrontation between the English king and his leading earls had intensified, whilst in Scotland the war leader Bruce was threatening England’s northern marches. In Paris the passion of the Templars continued with denouncings, torture, mock trials and false convictions, followed by bloody execution. I prayed on my knees for those unfortunates. I lit tapers for their souls. I gazed into the night and vowed vengeance, but my time had not yet come.

After Marigny’s questioning I also reflected on de Vitry and his household, slaughtered by that mysterious assassin. Had he been lurking there when I entered? Who could it have been? Even Sandewic, a seasoned warrior, could not annihilate an entire household so quickly. And Sir Hugh Pourte falling like a stone from that window? Was the outside wall scaled by black-garbed assassins? And Lord Wenlok ending his pompous life writhing on the floor like a wounded dog? Why had they all been killed? Murder or a series of accidents? All a mystery, but those were my green days of youth before I’d passed through the Valley of Deadly Nightshade and walked the Meadows of Bloody Murder. Moreover, I was distracted. The French court were now preparing to leave, one busy day following another. The list of Isabella’s possessions grew as her father insisted that she be a resplendent bride, a royal Capetian princess, soon to be Queen of England and the mother of a long line of kings.

New household officials gathered. Isabella’s retinue became swollen with the appointees in every department: the kitchen, the buttery, the chancery, hanaper and chapel. Of course, many of these were Secreti, placemen appointed by Marigny. Others were chosen by Isabella herself, men and women such as her nurse Joanna, who’d served her as a child. A few were complete strangers; one in particular had significance for the future, a Gascon, Jean de Clauvelin, from a small village, or so he claimed, outside Bordeaux, now working in Soissons. He was a notary who had acted as attorney for the Abbey of St Jean des Vignes; a dry-eyed, scrawny-headed, dusty-faced man with a nervous tic in his right cheek, ink-stained fingers and constantly dripping nose. Despite his appearance Jean was most skilled in chancery work; even so Isabella was surprised at his appointment and petitioned her father for the reason. King Philip’s reply was curt: de Clauvelin was an accomplished man who would be acceptable to the English court. Isabella pulled a face when she heard this but did not demur. On one thing, however, she was determined, reminding me of our mutual oath. In public she would act her part, but never, in the company of her household, must she and I discuss what she termed
res secretae
or
les affaires secrètes -
secret matters, a promise both of us kept. True, God knows, our secret circle increased, but that was the way of it, I swear on the Gospels, on my soul. Isabella was queen, later ruler of England for over twenty years, but she never broke that oath until Mortimer. Ah yes, Mortimer, but he was a new world of fresh beginnings. I strike my breast –
mea culpa, mea culpa
– but I digress.

Isabella’s wardrobe became filled to overflowing, crammed with precious goods. Two crowns ornamented with gems, gold and silver drinking vessels, precious spoons, fifty silver porringers, twelve great silver dishes and twelve small ones, dresses of gold, silver, velvet, satin and shot taffeta, gowns of green cloth from Douai, six beautifully marbled and six of rose scarlet. Costly furs, hundreds of yards of linen, night cloths, shifts and cloaks were provided together with splendid tapestries emblazoned with lozenges of gold depicting the arms of France, England and Navarre. Throughout these preparations, however, she remained highly anxious, more about me than herself. She asked me time and again what had happened in the Chambre Ardente. Every time I answered she would nod and concede that her father’s minions dare not do anything against me because of her, at least nothing direct. Nevertheless I was to be careful. She made a practice of publicly sharing whatever I ate, whilst I accompanied her everywhere. Murder, however, creeps soft and sly.

On occasions I had to perform errands to the city for my mistress. I loved such outings, especially expeditions to the left bank of the Seine. Nothing was more refreshing than crossing the bridge, past the Petite Châtelet and into the narrow winding lanes with their tall gabled houses rising up from the cobbles, leaning towards each other, one storey stacked above the other. The lower ones were decorated with incredible carvings of fantastical beasts and creatures. I loved to dally and stare at these as I did the forest of scrolled, painted signs of the shops and stalls offering a wide range of goods. It was good to stand at stone fountains or pause under the arched shrines at every corner with torches burning in constant prayer beneath. The shifting sea of colour and smells, the ordinary chatter of the day soothed the soul; the constant braying of horses and pack animals answered by the yip of dogs or drowned by the strident shouting of journeymen above the clanging of bells. Despite Isabella’s strictures I needed such visits, an escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the court. Usually I would cross the bridge accompanied by two Genoese bowmen, cheerful rogues specially chosen by the princess, brothers Giacomo and Lorenzo, small and squat, with tough, scarred faces. They were twins, two friendly gargoyles; the only way I could tell the difference between them was that Giacomo had a slight cast in one eye.

Now, once the festivities of Christmas were finished, sometime after the Feast of the Relatio Pueri Jesu de Aegypto on 7 January, the crowds on the bridge were too pressing. Giacomo declared we would take a boat from the royal wharf to the Quai des Augustins on the far bank. The Princess was sending back to a parchmenter a bulky parcel of certain goods found wanting. I remember that morning so well. Casales, Rossaleti, Sandewic and Baquelle were in Isabella’s chambers. The English envoys, increasingly concerned about the amount of goods being stockpiled, were engaged in teasing banter with Isabella’s officials. I wanted to escape and instructed Giacomo that we would go before noon. We left the palace, and the crowds milling along the bridge confirmed our decision to take a royal boat across the fog-bound river. We hurried down to the wharf, where our craft had been prepared. I sat in the stern, grasping a hunter’s horn; Giacomo asked me to blow it every so often so as to alert other boats on the river, whilst he lit the lantern hanging from a hook on the prow. The two brothers grasped the oars, grinning wickedly at me. I always filled the mouth of the horn with spittle, which made them guffaw with laughter. They bent over the oars, giggling and chattering to each other. To humour them I blew a long braying blast; through the mist other horns answered whilst flaring lanterns winked warningly. Our boat surged forward to be caught by the river to twist and shudder on its current.

Death is surely like a shaft loosed out of the darkness. We had hardly gone far when I heard a sound to my right, the mist shifted and the huge sharp prow of a large war-barge was almost upon us, bearing down with hawk-like speed. It crashed into us, dead in the centre. The two Genoese simply went under. I slipped down into the swirling dark water, the cold numbing me until I panicked, gulping mouthfuls as I sank into the gloomy-green bubble-strewn depths. Giacomo and Lorenzo were already drifting corpses weighted down by their cuirasses and war-belts. I didn’t know if they could swim. I could. After all, the rushing streams and weed-strewn ponds and lakes of Bretigny nourish many plants, so I’d learnt to swim as I had to walk. The real danger was my heavy boots and cloak. I kicked and shrugged these off and broke to the surface. All was silent and deserted except for the distant noise of horns and the mist-shrouded glow of lamps. I lunged out, hoping I was swimming back towards the royal quayside, and screamed as a boat pulled alongside. Torches flared, rough hands grasped my shoulders. I kicked and screamed until a hard voice shouted: