Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

‘My lady.’ I took the parcel from her and, walking across to the large brazier, thrust the parcel deep into its fiery coals.

‘I hate them!’ The words rasped the air like a sword being taken from its scabbard. I glanced at the knights sheltering around the other brazier, talking quietly amongst themselves. I walked swiftly back, sat by the princess, clutched her hand and confirmed what she already knew about the intended marriage. She heard me out, nodding wordlessly.

‘Be strong, be cunning!’ I whispered. ‘Whatever happens, retain your mask.’ I half smiled at the way I had panicked and been so stupid with Narrow Face. I would not tell the princess that, not yet.

I took her by the arm and raised her, and we walked slowly back into the palace, the knights hurrying behind. I pinched the princess’s arm and pointed to a fresco on the wall displaying plump children playing joyfully in a wine press. I traced the coloured ivy which snaked through the painting and began to describe the properties of ground ivy, called ale-tooth. How vital it was for the brewing of ale and how Galen recommended it to treat inflammation of the eyes. We strolled down galleries and passageways. I gossiped like a jay; beside me the Princess eased her breathing and forced a smile. We wandered into a small chapel, its walls decorated with gleaming strips of oak. At the far end stood a simple altar on a sanctuary dais, to the right of that a shrine to the Virgin dressed as a queen holding the Divine Child on her knee. I made the princess kneel on the cushioned prie-dieu; candles flickered on their stands before her. I opened a nearby box, took out a fresh candle, lit it and watched the flame dance as I thrust it on to the pointed spigot. I stared up at the severe face of the Virgin. I found it difficult to pray. I recall saying the same words time and again, ‘ Ave Maria, Gratia plena, Dominus tecum . .’ but after that I kept thinking of Narrow Face staggering away from me, blood splashing through his lips. Yet I felt no regret, no contrition, no desire to have my sins shrived. I glanced away. There was a painting of a corpse in its shroud on the side wall of the Lady Chapel, a memento mori: ‘Take heed of my fate and see how sometimes I was fresh and merry, now turned to worms, remember that.’ I read the scrolled words and thought of Uncle Reginald and Monsieur de Vitry. I vowed to remember them, and him, the man whom I’d glimpsed in the Oriflamme tavern, those beautiful eyes with their far-seeing gaze. I had to pinch myself. Had I truly seen him? Or was he part of a dream? Fable or truth, I vowed I’d never forget him.

Once we’d returned to the princess’s private quarters, Isabella abruptly grew tired, which I recognised as a symptom of deep anxiety, a fever of the mind. I poured her some apple juice mixed with a heavy infusion of camomile and made her drink. She lay down on her bed, bringing up her knees, curling like a child as I pulled the cloak over her. Later in the afternoon a finely caparisoned herald came knocking on the door. He announced that His Grace the King would, just after vespers, entertain the English envoys in the White Chamber of the palace; the princess must attend.

Isabella woke up refreshed. I informed her about the royal summons and her mood abruptly changed. She chattered about what she would wear and spent the rest of the afternoon preparing herself, servants and valets being summoned up with jugs and tubs of boiling water. Isabella stripped and washed herself. She perfumed and anointed her body, allowing me to dress her in linen undergarments, purple hose and a beautiful silver dress, high at the neck, with an ornamental veil set on her head bound by a gold braid and studded with gems. She opened her jewellery casket, slipping on rings, silver bracelets and an exquisite pectoral set with rubies and sapphires. She preened herself in front of the sheet of polished metal which served as a mirror, looking at me from the corner of her eye and laughing.

‘Now you, Mathilde.’ Isabella was generous. She never referred to her earlier symptoms, before she’d fallen asleep, as she made me wash, helping me to anoint and perfume myself, choosing clothes for me to wear. A page was dispatched to her father saying that Mathilde, Isabella’s dame de chambre , would be accompanying her to the banquet. As the bells of St Chapelle tolled for vespers we made our way down to the White Chamber: a small gleaming hall, with pure white-painted walls covered with hangings, its windows of thick glass decorated with the heraldic devices and armorial insignia of the Capets, the royal house of France. The polished floor reflected the light of sconce-torches and that of a myriad of candles spiked on a wheel which had been lowered to provide even more light. A fire leapt merrily in a cavernous mantled hearth. Part of the hall had been cordoned off with huge screens decorated with sumptuous tapestries in blue, red and gold depicting the romance of the Knights of the Swan and their assault on the Castle of Love. Other cloths bore beautiful roundels in vigorous colours showing the Six Labours of the Year.

The king, his ministers and three sons stood before the huge hearth; on each pillar of this an elaborately carved woodwose glared into the screened-off area as if resenting the wealth on display along the three tables. Isabella swept forward to be greeted. I was ignored. The king and his entourage moved around her. They all looked magnificent in their blue and white velvet suits; brooches, rings and chains of office sparkling in the light. I stood at the corner of the screen. Prince Philippe was glowering, lips moving wordlessly as he half listened to the sottish Charles. I did not wish to catch their eye, so I studied the three strangers. The nearest was dressed in the dark robes of a royal clerk; he had a smooth olive-skinned face under night-black hair swept back and tied in a queue. The other two were English, clearly having some difficulty in understanding the swift conversation in courtly Norman French. One was slightly hidden; the other was a lean beanpole of a man with sour face and sour eyes: Sir Hugh Pourte, merchant prince of London. His companion moved into the circle of light and I froze: Sir John Casales, a handsome, vigorous man with the face of a born soldier, harsh and lean, keen-eyed, firm-mouthed, his greying hair cropped close. He was dressed simply but elegantly in a dark green cote-hardie over a black velvet jerkin and hose of the same colour; his Spanish riding boots, their soft leather gleaming in the firelight, gave more than a hint of the military man.

I stood, watched and remembered. Sir John Casales, his right hand cut off by the Scots at the Battle of Falkirk. He had visited my uncle, but that had been years ago. I quietly prayed to the Virgin that he would not recognise me. Casales’ eyes, sharp as a fox, shifted towards me then looked away. It had been years since we met, and even then I’d been standing in my uncle’s shadow. I comforted myself with the thought that to a man like Casales, I was nothing more than another servant.

The conversation around the hearth was muted. Sir Hugh Pourte seemed distinctly sour; Casales acted more agitated: the courtier-knight shuffled his booted feet and stared around the hall; apparently what he was listening to was most unfavourable. King Philip himself had grown slightly red-faced, and eventually he turned away and signalled to his retainers; heralds in their gorgeous tabards lifted trumpets and shrilled a blast, the sign that the feasting was to begin.

We dined magnificently on venison and boar, roasted and basted with juices. The king announced, from where he sat in the centre of the middle table, that the meat was fresh straight from the forest of Fontainebleau, brought down by himself. Philip’s love of hunting, be it of beast or man, was famous. The main course was followed by a cockatrice of chicken and pork, apricots and oranges from Valence, all served on tables covered in glistening white samite cloths and decorated with plates, jugs, cups and goblets of silver and gold embroidered with gems and stamped with the royal arms. Philip sat enthroned like a silver lion, aware of his power; on either side of him ranged the English envoys. I sat at the end on one of the side tables, Isabella to my left. She’d acted the part, moving amongst the men like some well-trained nun, her lovely face framed by a shimmering veil over that beautiful golden hair. She kept her face impassive even as she sat down, then her eyes changed and I caught the glint of mischief. She leaned over as if to move a cup. ‘Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘this will be most amusing.’