Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts (34 page)

‘What is that?’ I approached and touched the leathery strips.

‘Human skin.’

I whirled round. The monk had his face hidden deep in his cowl, the light only catching his sharp nose and bloodless lips.

‘I am sorry.’ He came forward. ‘I’m Brother Stephen, the infirmarian. That,’ he pointed to the door, ‘is human skin. Richard de Puddlicott’s to be precise. He tried to rob the king’s treasure,’ the infirmarian jabbed a finger at the paving stones, ‘held in the crypt below. He was captured, taken out in a wheelbarrow to the gallows in Tothill Lane, hanged and skinned.’ He smiled. ‘
Sic transit gloria mundi
– thus passes the way of the world. Can I help you?’

I explained about Rossaleti. The monk nodded and took us into the infirmary. Rossaleti’s corpse was laid out on a table in the mortuary chapel beyond, a bleak, ill-lit room. The infirmarian lit the purple corpse candles in their black iron spigots around the table and pulled back the sheet. Rossaleti had been stripped naked, washed, oiled and anointed, but the cadaver still reeked of the slime of the river, his soaked black hair fanning out, his olive skin a liverish grey, eyes half open, despite the resurrection coins placed there. I said a prayer for his soul, then examined his corpse.

‘There’s no mark or bruise,’ the monk declared, his voice echoing harshly. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘Any sign of a potion or philtre?’

‘No trace of poison,’ the infirmarian replied, ‘nothing but the stench of the river and the faint, sweet smell of wine. It appears he took a barge from Westminster.’ The monk shrugged. ‘He suffered an accident.’

‘I am trying to find the boatman.’

I turned round. Casales stood in the doorway. He strode across.

‘I’ve been down to the King’s Steps.’ He nodded at the corpse. ‘A fisherman found him floating in the river, bobbing like a black feather on its surface. Apparently a wherryman is also missing.’ Casales widened his red-rimmed eyes. ‘An accident,’ he muttered. ‘God knows!’

‘But he feared the river.’

‘I know,’ Casales sighed, ‘but not enough to stop him trying to reach that French cog on a fogbound day.’ He rubbed his face.

‘Rossaleti was not a member of the secret council?’ I asked.

‘True, and I know what you’re thinking, Mathilde,’ Casales glanced narrow-eyed at me, ‘but I believe it was an accident.’

‘The queen,’ I emphasised the word, ‘will want to know why he was going there; after all, he was her seal holder.’

‘Madam,’ Casales made a mock bow, ‘I will inform her grace as soon as I discover that myself.’

He left shortly afterwards. Demontaigu murmured that he did not wish to be seen too much with me and followed. I wandered back across the frost-coated grounds into the palace. I returned to the entrance of the small hall where I had stood when I first arrived at Westminster and recalled so vividly my entering de Vitry’s house. I opened the door, went in and stood for a while, pretending that this was Monsieur de Vitry’s home. I was the assassin, I had a crossbow. A servant walked in front of me, another was coming out from a chamber to my right, a maid was tripping down the stairs. None of them had realised murder had arrived. I pretended to loose one bolt; the servant in front went down. The man to my right was staring; he too was killed, yet that maid coming downstairs? She must have heard, why didn’t she turn and run? I recalled her corpse lying at the foot of the stairs. The assassin could not act that fast. I closed my eyes as I realised the hideous mistake I’d made. I’d ignored a rule, repeated to me time and again: Never remove causes, any cause; let them remove themselves. I was so surprised I slid down the wall and crouched, arms crossed staring into the darkness.

Eventually I left and returned to the abbey. Brother Leo, in charge of the library and scriptorium, was intrigued by my request but, having glimpsed Isabella’s seal, he quickly agreed. He took me to what he called his holy of holies, the great library of the abbey with its painted windows, gleaming shelves, tables, benches and lecterns. He showed me his store room of precious manuscripts and books, all carefully annotated and shelved, the most precious being chained or locked behind closed grilles. The sweet perfume of ink, pumice stone, parchment, leather and vellum hung like incense in a church; the capped candles and sealed lantern horns burning like tapers in this shrine of scholarship.

Brother Leo ushered me to sit at one table, bringing me a leather writing case with inkwells, pen-quills and parchment. So I began again, writing out a clearly defined list of all that had happened. I worked past vespers and compline, the muffled bells announcing the hours, the plainchant of the monks with their awesome phrases ringing through the air.
You have made the earth quake and torn it open, will you utterly reject us, Oh God? Give us help against our foes.
Such words found a home in my own heart. I prayed to the spirits of the dead who, now summoned, seemed to congregate around me.

Eventually I grew so heavy-eyed Brother Leo had to wake me. I gathered up my parchments and returned to the queen. She was entertaining the young pages at dice; as soon as I entered, she dismissed them. I bolted the heavy door and sat down on a footstool beside her. I was tired but I told her about Rossaleti’s death, and as the hour candle burnt another ring, I went back to the beginning. Isabella listened intently, only betraying her own surprise by a sharp hiss of breath or her doubts by questions as precise as from any serjeant of the coif. Afterwards she rose and, leaning on my shoulder, bent down and kissed me on the top of my head. She stood for a while by the window humming softly the tune of the ‘Exulte Regina’, a hymn chanted during her coronation.

‘My husband,’ she declared, not moving, ‘slept this afternoon. He is now closeted with my lord Gaveston. Come, Mathilde, let’s strike at the root of all this.’ She smiled, blinking her eyelids in mockery. ‘We shall show that Morgana Fey is not just a figment of the troubadours’ imagination.’

Isabella and I shared a cup of wine, took our cloaks and arranged for some of the pages to escort us. We left for the king’s chamber. We found Edward and Gaveston, dressed in loose attire, belts and boots on the floor, poring over maps on a large chancery table. Edward slouched in a large chair; Gaveston sat facing him. The queen instructed me to follow her in whatever she did, and as soon as she entered the chamber, its door closing behind us, she pushed back her hood and knelt down, bowing her head to the ground. Edward and Gaveston sprang to their feet. The king moved towards her but Isabella stretched out her hands.

‘My lords, I beg you, listen to me. Let me take any oath you wish on the pyx holding Christ’s blessed body or the sacred book of the Gospels.’

‘My lady, what is this?’

‘We have reflected on the deaths of Baquelle, Sandewic and Rossaleti.’

Her answer provoked a response. Edward and Gaveston looked agitated and worried.

‘Listen, my lords,’ Isabella urged. ‘Listen well to Mathilde.’ She turned and pointed at me. ‘Tell them.’

I repeated word for word everything I’d told the queen. I spoke direct. At first both men pulled faces and shook their heads, but my sentences, like arrows, were loosed in a hail. I did not describe the villainy in detail but, having stated my hypothesis, moved ruthlessly to its logical conclusion. Edward, slightly pale-faced, sat back in his chair, gesturing that Isabella too should take her place. The queen, however, shook her head. I continued. Gaveston interrupted me with a spate of questions which I answered. Once I’d finished, Isabella again stretched out her hands.

‘
Mon seigneur
, my husband, please listen to me. I have played your game but now it is ended. I beg you, my lord, to tell me the truth. Tell me you had no hand in the deaths of these men, Pourte and the rest.’

‘Of course not!’ Edward shouted, banging the table. ‘They were, despite their opposition to my lord here, loyal and faithful subjects.’ He took a deep breath. ‘At first I thought they were mishaps, but Sandewic, Baquelle . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Secretly in my heart I blamed the great earls.’

‘Listen,
mon seigneur
,’ Isabella moved swiftly on, ‘I beg you. I will take an oath on whatever sacred thing you wish. I speak the truth, I am giving you wise counsel. I may be ignored because of my tender years, my inexperience, but, as
le bon seigneur
is my witness, on one thing I will not be moved.’ Isabella’s voice grew hard. ‘I know my father. Please, I beg you, whatever he has secretly promised on oath, whatever vow he has sworn, whatever hidden design he nurtures, do not, I beg you on my knees, believe him. Tell me, my Lord, as I love you, what he has said to you in hidden corners, in letters dispatched under the secret seal, by word of mouth through Marigny and the other Secreti.’ Isabella paused. ‘I assure you, my lord, whatever he has promised are lies set to trap you, to bring you and the Lord Gaveston to total destruction.’

‘My lord Gaveston,’ I turned to the favourite, ‘you visited Paris secretly. You met Monsieur de Vitry. You now have his painting of St Agnes.’ I paused. ‘You travelled around the time the Templars were arrested. Monsieur de Vitry made a reference to a visitor, so, on reflection, it must have been someone important. You,
mon seigneur
, joked about Dover being an ideal place to slip out of our kingdom.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Gaveston was no longer the popinjay, but hard-eyed, even fearful. ‘I visited de Vitry to receive monies disbursed by King Philip; it had to be done that way. I saw the painting. Monsieur de Vitry gave it to me as a gift.’

Edward rose to his feet. He paced up and down, gathering his thoughts.

‘For a hundred years,’ he began, ‘the great earls have fought against my family, our line of honoured kings. My great-grandfather was pursued the length and breadth of the kingdom, losing his treasure in the Wash. My grandfather Henry faced civil war, capture, imprisonment; even my father, the great warrior,’ Edward could not keep the sarcasm from his voice, ‘was brought to heel with this or that, forced to sign this charter, that charter, making promises, conceding his rights. Parliament and councils, rebellious church-men and great earls forced him to go cap in hand to beg for money as his treasure chests held nothing but cobwebs.’ Edward sat back in his chair. ‘Your marriage alliance, my lady, offered another way. Last summer, as you know, my father forced Lord Gaveston into exile. He went to France and was welcomed by King Philip, who pointed out that my illustrious father would not live for ever. Philip promised that if I married you, he would help me crush once and for all any opposition in England. My father died in July last year. Months later, Lord Gaveston returned secretly to France to continue our negotiations. That is when Monsieur de Vitry gave him the painting. Philip offered military assistance; he would finance this with the wealth seized from the Templars.’

I sat back on my heels, nodding in agreement. I recalled de Vitry wishing me to be gone because he expected another guest. Little wonder he was so agitated, torn between me and the machinations of princes.

‘The Enterprise of England?’ I asked. ‘
Mon seigneur
,’ I held up my hand, ‘I do apologise.’

‘Don’t apologise, Mathilde. Would that change anything? Yes, the Enterprise of England, the true reason why Philip attacked the Templars: he needed their wealth. After Lord Gaveston returned to Paris last December, our secret treaty was confirmed. I would marry Isabella. Our oldest son would be called Louis; our second son would be given Gascony but under complete French suzerainty. Philip would help me crush opposition here and in Scotland. We would make a permanent peace alliance. His enemies would be mine. Above all,’ Edward picked up his goblet of wine and drank, ‘there would be no opposition here.’

‘Of course,’ Gaveston intervened, ‘
mon seigneur
would act differently in public, opposing Philip in everything as long as he could.’

‘And me?’ Isabella asked.

‘Your grace,’ Gaveston bowed, ‘and I wish you would sit, you are part of the pretence even if you didn’t know the true cause. Once spring comes Philip will move.’

‘So that’s the real reason,’ I asked, ‘for the great game? You were misleading your earls with a show of insults to your wife, her relatives and the power of France. A cat’s-paw,’ I continued, ‘as you secretly prepared their destruction?’

Gaveston nodded.

‘Your enmity to France,’ I continued, ‘was false. You misled your earls who might make the mistake of conspiring with Philip. You’d learn of their plans as well as collect evidence of their treason.’

Edward and Gaveston smiled like gamblers conceding a game of hazard.

‘You asked us to cooperate, thinking we were hurting Philip, but all the time Philip knew the truth, be it about your treatment of his daughter or the giving of her wedding presents to Gaveston.’

‘Are you so intent on provoking your great lords?’ Isabella asked.

‘Of course.’ Edward gestured to a chair. ‘My lady, please!’

Isabella remained resolute. ‘And the deaths of Pourte and the others?’ she asked.

‘At first,’ Edward replied slowly, ‘we considered they were mishaps, or even the work of our enemies here in England, but—’

‘We thought,’ Gaveston interrupted, ‘Pourte and Baquelle could deliver London for us, Sandewic the Tower, Wenlok Westminster. So we suspected they were removed by the great earls.’

‘My lord, you are correct, but there are other reasons.’ Isabella rose and moved to the chair close to her husband, gesturing that I sit next to her. ‘My lord, you are now bereft of wise councillors, men of the peace party who might control this and that but might also advise you to pursue a middle way, peace with both Philip and your earls.’ She paused. ‘That is why my father removed those men. Please, I beg you.’ Isabella joined her hands. ‘Philip is behind their deaths, as is Marigny. They will invade this country, they are already far gone in their preparations. My father may well destroy your earls, but he will also destroy you once I have given birth to a son. You will die and Philip, in my name, will establish a regency whilst his troops overrun Gascony and any other territory the English crown holds in France. My father’s spies are already swarming here. Alexander of Lisbon, leader of the Noctales, hunter of the Templars? He’s been busy in the West Country spying out castles, ports, harbours. Once the invasion begins, you will not control it. My father will dictate the terms.’