Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts (7 page)

‘Can I trust you, Mathilde?’

‘With your life?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ She pouted. ‘Can I trust you?’

‘Of course, madame, I am your servant.’

‘Of course you are,’ she mimicked, eyes dancing with merriment. ‘I told a lie. They
are
frightened of me! They want me to leave and I want to go. Mathilde, have you heard the stories? How my father may have poisoned my mother? That’s what the gossips claim. Father heard a servant girl repeat it; she was burned and her lover was hanged in Father’s apple orchard. He claimed they were guilty of treason, but why should he burn a girl and hang a boy because of rumour and malicious gossip? Anyway,’ she continued, ‘they’ll be glad to see me leave here. They’re frightened, you know.’

‘What of?’ I asked.

‘Ah, you’ll see. Virgo intacta,’ she murmured. ‘I am supposed to go to Edward virgo intacta.’

‘Of course you are, your grace,’ I hastily replied, just wishing I could get up from my knees.

‘You may sit beside me now.’ The order came so swiftly, I wondered if she knew exactly what I was thinking and who I really was. I sat down beside her. She edged closer, pressing her body against me. I felt her warmth and realised she must have a jar of heated coals beneath her cloak to fend off the cold.

‘You see, Mathilde, no one really wants to come with me to England. Father has chosen the ladies for my retinue as well as the servants for my household. Most of them will be his spies and dutifully report back. I told him that I wanted servants I could trust, people not from the court. Father, of course, has had his way, so he’s become too bored, or too busy, to deal with it. Uncle Charles said he would do what he could. He mentioned you. Anyway, you are a change!’

Again she turned away to talk to the invisible Marie, chattering away in a language I couldn’t understand. She glanced back at me.

‘You’re wondering what tongue I’m using. Well, I will tell you, it’s a language only Marie and I understand.’

‘How long has Marie been with you?’

‘Oh, as long as I remember. I was telling you why they are frightened, my brothers and my father? Well, for the last two years my brothers have come into my bedchamber. Oh yes they do.’ She nudged me playfully. ‘They slide between the sheets and fondle my body; even Father, when he wishes to embrace me, puts his hands where he should not. I know that, Mathilde, because of Ursula; she was an old lady-in-waiting, one of my mother’s people, dark of skin, with a sour disposition but a keen eye and an even sharper tongue.’

‘And what happened to Ursula?’

‘She protested. She objected to what she had seen and became angry with my brother Louis. Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘a week later Ursula fell down some steps and broke her neck. They buried her in the poor man’s plot in the cemetery, the one the soldiers use, as no one claimed her body. She had no relatives here.’

The two knights remained huddled in the corner, lost in their own conversation, no longer bothered about me or the princess they were supposed to be guarding.

‘Yes, they are frightened,’ Isabella repeated. ‘They don’t want me to tell Edward what has happened. Can you imagine, Mathilde, if the new King of England, that lusty warrior, discovered I had shared my bed with my own brothers, where we’d played tumble games? He’d object. He’d write to the Holy Father in Avignon. I have sworn an oath to my father and my brothers to keep silent on that matter, provided I have my way in certain things; one of them is you, Mathilde. You will sleep at the door of my chamber.’ She rose to her feet and thrust the small heated pot she brought from beneath her cloak into my hands.

‘Warm yourself and come, follow me.’

We entered the palace, and climbed a wooden staircase. The princess’s chambers stood along a small gallery, three rooms in all: a main chamber, flanked by a waiting room and another for stores. The gallery was of polished wood, panelling along one wall and against the outer one deep window seats overlooking the fountain courtyard. Ladies-in-waiting were sitting there muffled against the cold, warming themselves over chafing dishes, pretending to be busy with embroidery; of course they had been watching us all the time. They rose as the princess approached. One hastened forward and grasped her by the hand, exclaiming loudly how cold her mistress felt. The princess shrugged this off and dismissed them. She swept into her own chamber. I followed.

‘Close the door,’ the princess called out over her shoulder. I put down the warming pot and hastened to obey.

‘Pull the bolts at top and bottom,’ she continued. ‘So no one can disturb us.’

I did so. Isabella turned, unfastened her cloak and let it fall. She was dressed in a blood-red woollen gown edged with ermine, fastened at the neck by a silver cord. Before I could protest, she undid this, easing the gown over her shoulders to fall at her feet. She then removed her kirtle, and her undergarments, until she stood naked before me, a young woman’s body, breasts already sprouting, hips widening. She turned, spreading out her hands.

‘Demoiselle Mathilde, this is what I will take to Edward of England. Now it’s time for something warmer.’

She redressed in woollen undergarments, quickly putting on a blue and silver gown, taking a pelisse from a peg on the wall to wrap about her shoulders. I was so embarrassed at her actions I glanced round the chamber, at the bed drapes, the Turkey rugs, the glorious coloured arras and tapestries resting against the pink-painted plaster. Above me hung a wooden chandelier; it carried six candles and could be lowered by a rope to shed greater light. Across the room stood a small writing desk and high-backed chair. The desk was covered with pieces of parchment and quills. Around the chamber ranged chests, some sealed and locked, others, with their lids thrown back, from which spilled precious cloth, brocaded clothing, belts, books, all the possessions of a rich, spoilt, pampered girl. Well, that was my first impression. I was yet to realise how Isabella could have performed in any mummers’ play, shifting from mood to mood, sometimes a child, at others a young woman. Now and again she’d act the innocent until her face assumed a cunning look as if she was calculating everything, weighing all she saw and heard in the balance. Whatever Marie had told her, Isabella had seemed to greet me as if I was a long-lost servant, as if we had known each other for years. Now she walked across and sat on the high-backed chair before the writing desk. She snapped her fingers, gesturing at a quilted stool in the corner.

‘Bring that over here, Mathilde, sit next to me.’

I did so, and Isabella rubbed her hands. ‘I’m cold.’ She pointed to the wheeled brazier just inside the door, the charcoal spluttering, small tendrils of smoke escaping, mingling with the perfume of sweet powders sprinkled on top. ‘Bring that across, Mathilde’. I hurried to do so. Once I had taken my seat, she gestured at another table where there was a jug of fruit juice and two goblets.

‘Fill both, one for you and one for me.’ So the game continued as she sent me hither and thither around the room, for this or that. Eventually she tired and turned to face me, once again swinging her legs, as if wondering whether to kick me or not.

‘Well, Mathilde, what are we to do?’ She steepled her fingers, pressing her hands hard. ‘We should be in England now.’ She smiled. ‘But Edward refuses to arrest the Templars! Now he is saying he doesn’t want to marry me.’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Father’s rage is to be seen to be believed. Spots of anger appear,’ she tapped her own cheek, ‘on either side, red splotches like those on a jester, and here,’ she pulled her lower lip down, ‘a white froth bubbles. They say my father has a heart of ice; I know different. He throbs with fury at the English king’s insults. So, Mathilde, we might spend a long time together before we take the road and cross the Narrow Seas to that mysterious island!’ She pushed her face closer, as if I was a child. ‘The mysterious island.’ She grimaced. ‘Nothing mysterious about it; only wet, dark and green, with elves and goblins living in the forest. They do say London is a magnificent city, like Paris, with a great thoroughfare and stalls which sell everything, and I,’ she tapped her chest, ‘will be queen of it all, but only if Edward stops baiting Father. Now, this is what I want you to do, Mathilde. I want you to listen to me.’ She wagged her finger. ‘No, don’t object.’ She blinked. ‘Looking at you, Mathilde, I suspect you are a keeper of secrets. If I told my father about that, he would have you investigated. Why do I know that? Well, you are the only person who really wants to go to England, so what are you hiding? Why do you want to flee?’

I kept my face impassive and held her gaze.

‘The more I look at you, Mathilde,’ she gossiped on, ‘the more I like you.’ She smiled. ‘You’re wondering why I am telling you all these secrets? Quite simple!’ She clapped her hands. ‘If you told other people they wouldn’t believe you, whilst if my father or brothers realised you now know, they’d certainly kill you! Oh, Mathilde,’ she breathed, ‘it is so good to talk to flesh and blood!’

She got up to confront me squarely, staring at my face as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I wonder who you really are,’ she repeated. She screwed her eyes up, no longer a young lady, more a mere chit of a child, yet there was something highly dangerous about her. Isabella was quick-witted, her moods ever changing; she had yet to learn how to school her expressions, she was still young and innocent enough to let her mask slip. She was weighing me carefully in the balance. She touched my face. ‘Olive skin and smooth,’ she murmured. ‘Thick eyebrows over green eyes, black hair, like Marie’s, cut into a bob. They say you’re trained as a leech, an apothecary.’ She laughed. ‘You’re a woman and too young to be an expert, a peritus, but you can stare and watch. I believe you’ll be the sharpest arrow in my quiver. Stretch out your hands.’

I did so. She gently eased back the sleeves of my gown and scrutinised my wrists and hands. ‘Soft but used.’ She held up the callused finger of my right hand. ‘And a quill? Do you play hazard, Mathilde?’

‘At times, my lady.’

‘Good, I like to play. I have my own dice. They are made out of ivory. What my brothers don’t know is that they are cogged; I always win.’ She laughed behind her fingers. ‘Now, Mathilde,’ she rapped me again on the ankles, this time more gently, ‘you will hold office in my household. You will be my
dame de la chambre
: where I go, you follow. If I ride, you will either accompany me on horse or run beside me. You are my messenger and my taster. Oh yes, I want you to make sure that if wine and food are brought to my chamber, they remain pure and untainted.’ Again the low laugh behind splayed fingers; all the time those keen blue eyes scrutinised me carefully.

‘Above all I need someone to confide in. I am getting bored with Marie. I am not too sure if I should take her to England. Now listen.’ She grasped my hand, and pulled me to my feet as if I was her dearest friend, linking her arm through mine. We walked to the casement window and stared down at the fountain; the water in its bowl was frozen hard, the carved stonework, representing a sea monster, had a gaping mouth and staring eyes. ‘If we do go to England, we have to cross the Narrow Seas,’ she murmured. ‘That’s dangerous. Now, Mathilde, give me your promise.’ She nipped my arm. ‘One day, when we trust each other, you will tell me who you really are. Until then,’ she patted my hand, ‘I’ll keep you safe.’

We left her quarters to walk through the palace. For a while Isabella simply strolled around the galleries and hallways. She showed me the archives, the scriptorium, the library with its precious manuscripts, bound in leather and edged with gold, chained to their stands. All the time she chattered like a squirrel on a branch. I still could not decide whether she was artless or very cunning, a court lady or a girl whose wits had turned. We entered the grand hall. For a while we watched actors, tumblers, conjurors and animal trainers rehearse their tricks whilst being inspected by a chamberlain who was to decide on which revelry to choose for some feast. A bell tolled, so we went to the buttery, where Isabella sat like any serving wench, tapping the table, gossiping with the maids, whilst demanding that we be given freshly baked bread with honey and jugs of light ale. Afterwards we returned to Isabella’s chamber. Once there she ordered more food, this time a tray of spiced meats and a flagon of the richest Bordeaux. I was surprised, bearing in mind her tender age; nevertheless she filled both cups to the brim and swallowed a little of hers, before pushing it into my hands, her face all angry.

‘You’re a bitch!’ She pouted. ‘You’re lazy! You should have tasted it first.’

I sipped from both cups and held them out for her to choose, and she snatched one from my hand. That was how the dance began. Where Princess Isabella went, I followed. Sometimes she would sit in the window seat, jabbing a needle at a piece of embroidery like any soldier would his sword at a straw man in the exercise yard. When she grew bored with this, she asked for musicians and skilfully accompanied them on the rebec, flute or harp. One thing was constant: Isabella’s love of books. I thank God for my own studies. Sometimes she would read the tales; other times I did whilst she acted certain parts. I was correct: Isabella was a mummer’s girl. She could slip from one role to another and mimic people as easily as a mirror reflects light. She was deeply intrigued by my knowledge of physic and herbs. Her courses had already begun and she suffered from the cramps. At first she refused my ministrations, but then agreed. She wanted me to examine her urine, but I quoted from the tract of Isaac Judaeus: ‘All urine is a filter of the blood and properly indicates two things, either an infection of the liver and veins, or an infection of the intestines and viscera. Of other things, it gives only indirect indications.’

Isabella stared gape-mouthed, then burst out laughing. I thought she would strike me; instead she caressed my cheek.

‘You recite better than my father’s physicians.’

I remained silent.