Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Two days after I joined her service I met her three brothers. They sloped up the stairs like hunting dogs, padding along the gallery in their quilted jerkins and tight-fitting hose, feet pushed into pointed slippers, small jewelled cloaks clasped about their shoulders. I understood why the princess was so wary of them. All three were silver-haired demons. Louis was small, with the sharp, pointed features of a greyhound, ever-darting eyes and nervous gestures, particularly with the jewelled girdle around his waist. He looked at me only to dismiss me as you would a mongrel. Philippe was much taller, broader, with a nervous tic in his face and hooded eyes above a sharp nose and prim mouth. A man of violent temper and hot humours, a man I judged not to be crossed. Charles was stout, with a fat red face, his paunch already proclaiming his love of wine; every time I met him he was never far from a cup. They lounged in their sister’s room, legs stretched out like a pack of lurchers playing with some quarry before they killed it. They had high-pitched voices, arrogant and abrasive; gabbling like nasty geese. They seemed fascinated by their sister. They had their own ladies, their own separate households, yet they were constant visitors to Isabella’s quarters. They brought gifts, sweetmeats, a triptych depicting the martyrdom of St Denis, baubles and toys; even a ferret, though that was later killed by Charles’s pet greyhound.

A sinister trio, dangerous men who tapped their dagger scabbards as they talked; they despised the servants and were cruel to their own retinues. All three swaggered into Isabella’s chamber like suitors for her hand, eager to see her yet rivals to each other. Isabella always received them elegantly but coldly. She would sit like a little snow queen from a romance, hands on her knees, face fixed in the same twisted smile. On one occasion Louis tried to grab her by the waist and pull her close. Isabella lunged like a spitting cat; even I was surprised at how swiftly the needle-thin stiletto appeared in her hand. She pressed this against her brother’s cheek. They continued their argument in whispers. Louis, nursing the slight prick on his face, stepped away. He muttered something to his brothers, and they all left laughing; only then did Philippe glance towards me, a sly smile on his angry face. They slammed the door behind them and began to tease and flirt with the ladies outside. Isabella sat down abruptly. Her mood changed, she was no longer imperious, but pallid-faced, tears trickling down her cheeks. I hastened over to kneel before her, but she patted the settle beside her. I never touched her. I never spoke. I simply sat while she put her head down, shoulders shaking, not raising her face until the tears had stopped.

‘Is it always like this, Mathilde?’ she murmured. ‘In every family? Do the brothers put their hands up their sisters’ gowns, clasp their necks and pinch their breasts? Do they, at the dead of night, steal between their sisters’ sheets?’ She blinked and bit her lip.

‘I just pray I’ll be gone, be away from here and never return!’ She patted my hand. ‘You’ll come with me.’ She smiled tearfully. ‘Mathilde the silent, though.’ Her smile disappeared. ‘As your heart grows older, it will come to sights much colder.’ She slipped a costly ring from her finger and pressed it into my hand. ‘Remember me! Remember my words!’

In time I met Philip, the king, himself, booted and spurred from the hunt, striding up the stairs amongst his henchmen, Enguerrand de Marigny (ah, my red-haired enemy!), de Plaisans and Nogaret, those sly lawyers who had scandalised Christendom by ordering their servants to attack the previous pope, Boniface VIII, in the town of Anagni. They, too, scarcely gave me a second glance. They would later wish they had! I was summoned across and made to kneel at the king’s feet. He pushed his jewelled fingers hard against my mouth, then put his hand beneath my chin, forcing me to look up. I have heard many tales about Philip Le Bel. They’re all true! Philip’s face was like ivory, his hair silver; at a swift glance you’d think he was an albino. His eyes were clear blue, his touch icy, his manner cold. He stared at me without any change of expression, patted me on the head as if I were a dog and pushed me away.

At first I remained very nervous; worries about my mother (I dared not write to her), nightmares about Uncle Reginald and fears about my own safety plagued my sleep, but as the days passed, I began to relax. My chamber was comfortable. The princess never mentioned Marie. Instead she talked to me about everything. She knew all the chatter and gossip of the court. Which lady was unfaithful to her husband, who was in favour and who was out, all the time watching me, studying me carefully. One afternoon, shortly after I arrived, the princess sent me on an errand to the other side of the palace; I was to enquire about a stool she’d sent to the royal carpenters. I was on my way back when a young lady stepped out of the shadows just within a doorway.

‘Demoiselle Mathilde?’ My sleeve was plucked. I glanced at her. She had beautiful red hair framing an impudent face; her gown cut low, she moved closer in a fragrant gust of perfume.

‘Madame?’

‘I am from Monsieur Louis, the princess’s brother.’

‘I know who he is,’ I replied. She grasped my hand. I felt the small sack of coins.

‘Monsieur Louis would consider it a great favour if you could keep him informed about his sister’s moods.’

I snatched my hand away; the purse fell to the floor.

‘If the princess’s brother wishes to know about his sister’s temperament, he should ask her directly. I bid you good day.’

I was so immersed in what had happened, I became lost in the maze of galleries and passageways, so it took some time before I returned to the princess’s quarters. When I entered the chamber, I was surprised to see her seated in the high-backed chair before the fire, with the young lady I’d met on a stool beside her. As soon as I appeared, Isabella flicked her fingers. The lady rose, curtsied, grinned at me and swept out of the room.

‘Come, Mathilde.’ Isabella’s fingers fluttered. ‘Come here.’

I sat on the footstool; she gently patted my hair.

‘You passed scrutiny, you can’t be bought! No, no, now listen, this is what I want you to do. You know the university quarter, how the different students from each kingdom are divided into nations? I want you to go to the English quarter. I want you to move amongst the students and the scholars, especially the clerks from the retinues of the English envoys. You are to discover all you can about my future husband, Edward of England!’ She paused. ‘All I know about him is what I’ve been told!’ She imitated the portentous tone of an envoy. ‘How courtly! How handsome.’ She winked. ‘I’ve yet to meet a man I can trust. Anyway, will you do that for me?’

‘Of course, my lady.’

‘Good, Mathilde. I am aware, from what you’ve told me, that you know the city well, though how and why I’ve yet to learn. So. .’ Isabella thrust a purse into my hand. ‘You refused that once,’ she smiled, ‘this time it’s yours! Buy them wine, Mathilde, let their tongues chatter. When you’ve finished, come back and tell me all you’ve learnt.’

Strange, isn’t it? How we judge children? We betray our arrogance — small bodies must house small minds. It’s not true. Isabella was thirteen years of age but she had all the wisdom and cunning of a woman of threescore years and ten.

I packed a set of panniers and left the palace the following day. It was good to be back in the city. Especially the Latin Quarter with its taverns, cook-shops, narrow streets, some cobbled, others not, the air rich with different fragrances and odours, the crowds colourful and jostling. I entered the quarter where the English nation lodged. Students in ragged gowns who lodged in narrow chambers were only too willing to escape to the great tap rooms and eating halls of the taverns. A noisy, colourful throng, young men full of the lust for life, quoting poetry, carrying a pet weasel or squirrel, arguing, fighting, dicing, chasing each other, constantly looking for a penny to profit or a woman to seduce. They rubbed shoulders with the tight-waisted, square-bodiced ladies of the town and ignored the moral warnings of the rope-girdled Franciscan in his earth-coloured robe who stood on a corner preaching against the lechery of the world. They played the rebec and the flute, sang songs of nonsense, crowned a dog as King of Revels and made a beggar with his clack dish lead him up and down the half-cobbled street. I had met a few English before; now I immersed myself in the company of these tail-wearers with their sardonic humour and harsh tongue. I became accepted and so closed with my quarry.