Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

‘My uncle.’ I paused. ‘Yes.’ I smiled bleakly. ‘I used to go hunting, as I will tonight.’

Isabella rose from her chair and climbed into bed.

I went round the chamber, extinguishing the candles, then lay down on the cot. I listened to the noise of the palace and heard a creak along the gallery outside. The door opened, and two figures slipped in. They ignored me and raced across the chamber. The light was poor but I could make out the shapes; Louis and Philippe had come to abuse their sister. No guard stood outside; no attempt was made to stop them. Louis threw himself onto the bed. I heard Isabella’s stifled screams as his hand went across her mouth. I slid from the cot bed; Philippe turned. I brought up the arbalest, aimed and loosed, immediately putting another quarrel in the slot and winding back the cord. The first bolt smacked into the wall beside the princess’s bed almost hitting the window.

‘Get out!’ I screamed. I even lapsed into the soldier’s patois my uncle had taught me. The princess leapt out of one side of the bed. She wrapped her cloak about her and moved towards me. Both intruders were drunk, swaying on their feet; I could smell their wine-drenched breath even from where I stood.

‘Who are you?’ Louis lurched forward, lower lip protruding, eyes bleary. Philippe was so drunk he slumped down on the end of the bed.

‘I am Mathilde de Clairebon,’ I replied, ‘ dame de chambre for your sister, appointed solely to look after her. My lords, she does not want you here. You must go!’

‘And what if. .’ Louis made to take another step. I raised the arbalest, ‘what if. .’ he stood back, swaying, ‘we do not wish to leave?’

‘Then, my lord, like any knight, I would do what my duty to your sister, to the king and to God requires. Perhaps the king’s court will decide whether I did wrong or not.’ I’d plotted this as I lay in the dark, waiting for them to come.

Philippe lurched to his feet, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve.

‘I want to get out.’ He hurried past me into the gallery to retch and vomit.

Louis stood, hands on hips.

‘And if we return?’

‘If you return, my lord, I assure you of this: I will write certain letters and lodge them with people I trust in Paris. Should this happen again, copies of those letters will go to His Holiness in Avignon, not to mention the King of England! I leave it to you what your father would think of that.’

Louis shook his head, lust burning like fire in his eyes. For a few heartbeats he considered attacking me. I took a step back, allowing him to leave. He sighed noisily, brushed past me but turned at the door.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon,’ he pointed a finger at me, ‘I shall not forget you.’

‘My lord, I thank you for the compliment. Rest assured, I shall always remember you!’

Louis left, slamming the door behind him. I could hear his hoarse whisperings to Philippe out in the gallery, then their footsteps faded. I immediately took a chair, brought it across and pushed it against the door.

‘Why didn’t you do that immediately?’ Isabella walked over to me, her face white as snow, her eyes no longer blue but dark pools. She was on the verge of tears, lower lip quivering.

‘My lady, every battle has to be fought; you simply choose your field. Tonight we fought and we won! I do not think they will return.’

Isabella came close, grasping me by the shoulder; being slightly shorter than me, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me softly on the lips, then on each cheek.

‘Come with me, Mathilde.’

She led me out of the chamber. I hastily slung a cloak around me, keeping the arbalest and quiver of quarrels beneath. We went along the gallery and down the stairs. I realised we were returning to the chapel which we’d visited on my return from the city. The door was off the latch, and Isabella led me into the sweetened darkness, where the faint candles, now capped, still glowed before the statue. She hastily pulled the bolts across, then walked to where the sacred host hung in its silver pyx box from its chain on a wall bracket; next to it the red sanctuary light glowed. Isabella acted as fervently as any priest. She took the pyx down and laid it on the altar. She then beckoned me forward and made me put my hand over the pyx, placing hers on top.

‘I swear,’ her eyes held mine, ‘I swear by the body and blood of Christ, of our seigneur Lord Jesus, I’m your friend in peace or war until death.’

‘And my lady,’ I placed my hand on top of hers, ‘I am yours!’

Isabella blinked back the tears, picked up the pyx and replaced it on its hook. She led me by the hand to sit on the edge of the dais. The chapel was cold but our cloaks were thick and furred. Isabella tapped me on the knee.

‘Mathilde, tell me now who you really are; your secret will be safe with me.’

So I did. My life as a child, my father, the farm at Bretigny, my journey to Paris, Uncle Reginald, my years as his apprentice, his arrest and execution. I did not pause. I told the truth. I was safe with Isabella, she would not betray me. I also told her about Narrow Face’s death, the massacre at de Vitry’s house. She listened carefully, nodding all the time. When I finished, she again grasped my hand as if trying to draw its warmth for herself.

‘They’ve always come,’ she began. ‘They always have, as long as I can remember. I hate them, Mathilde, they see me as a toy, a whore; their own sister, a princess of France! I too have the Capet blood in me. I too am a direct descendant of the sacred Louis.’ She gestured at a fresco on the far wall celebrating that holy French king of whom Philip was so proud. ‘They come whenever they please. If my mother had lived she could have saved me. She died, you know, a strange sickness. Some whisper my father killed her! So desirous was he of entering the Templar order, of living the life of a so-called celibate. In truth all he wanted was their wealth, their houses, their farms, their granges, their fields, their livestock. He’ll do anything, Mathilde, to get his own way. What he wants has all the force of God’s law.’

‘They will not return,’ I said, ‘your brothers; I don’t think they will!’

Isabella nodded. ‘It is becoming too dangerous,’ she agreed. ‘If their games cost my father, they would feel the full fury of his wrath.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Our father would not be pleased.’

‘Have you ever thought of appealing to him?’

Isabella laughed, a strange strangled sound at the back of her throat.

‘As the root, so the branches, Mathilde. He too is not free of all guilt in such matters. He is not really my father, not here.’ She tapped her chest. ‘In my heart, in my soul he is not my father, and one day I shall have my revenge. Come, Mathilde.’

We rose and had reached the door of the chapel when the alarm was raised; a hunter’s horn wailed, a funereal sound, proclaiming chilling news. Other horns took up the call. Along the gallery outside pinpricks of light appeared, and the crash of doors being flung open shattered the silence. A royal serjeant-at-arms came running in through a postern door leading from one of the courtyards. He’d lost his helmet, the chainmail coif pulled close around his head, dark red cloak trailing. He stopped when he saw us and, staring wide-eyed, raised the horn to give another blast. Isabella told him to be quiet as the entire palace was now aroused. She curtly demanded the cause of the disturbance. The soldier, breathless, simply pointed, then led us back into the courtyard, now ablaze with lantern flame. Retainers and soldiers gathered in a pool of torchlight around a body sprawled in an ugly, crooked fashion on the paving stones. I forced my way through, Isabella shouting orders that others stand aside, and I crouched before the corpse of Sir Hugh Pourte. The merchant prince was clothed only in a nightgown, now pulled high over white bony knees; his eyes were open and glazed in death, and his nose, mouth and ears were blood-splattered. He’d twisted his neck, which hung eerily loose like that of a dead chicken. His flesh was still warm, the muscles supple — death had been most recent.