Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Isabella’s arrival caused the entire street to be cleared. We stabled our horses in the courtyard of a spacious tavern, and Isabella busied herself as I slipped further down the street on the pretence of doing some errand. I found the sign of Ananias, hurried down the runnel beside it and up the rickety outside staircase, and knocked at the door at the top. Footsteps sounded, followed by the noise of chains being released and bolts being drawn. The door swung open, and a dwarf, garbed in dark brown, glared up at me, his small villainous face shrouded by a close-fitting hood. He reminded me of some malignant goblin.

‘Your business?’ his voice squeaked. He forced a smile at the coin I held up and waved me in. The chamber was strange, almost ghostly. It had been stripped of everything except a few items: a stool, a table and a bed with a straw mattress beneath a crucifix. It was clean and sweetly smelling. I brushed by the dwarf and walked into the centre of the room. Despite the grey chill outside, the chamber was warm and welcoming. I felt something strange even then, a presence pleasing to me. I walked over to the table and stared down at the circled imprints on the two sides and the one in the middle. Had this served as an altar? Was the man sheltering here a priest? But why celebrate the mass in a garret when there were churches on every corner? I wondered who he could be. I recalled the man I’d glimpsed in the Oriflamme, the one with the far-seeing gaze. He had been studying me but had then disappeared. A coincidence? A figment of my fevered mind? One of the Secreti following me through Paris? But why had be been looking at me so sadly? And why disappear?

‘He’s gone!’

I turned. The dwarf was staring greedily at the coin, one hand on the rough handle of the knife pushed into the shabby leather belt about his waist.

‘I mean no harm,’ I replied, walking back to stand over him. ‘I have men outside.’ The hand fell away, and I crouched down. ‘Who was here?’

‘A stranger, hair all shorn,’ the dwarf gabbled. ‘Solitary, close-faced, he hired this from the master, he came then he went, perhaps a scholar?’ He spread his hands. ‘He paid his rent and, three days ago, packed his panniers.’ He pointed to the wooden spigots driven into the wall. ‘Then he left.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know who he was, why he left or where he’s gone.’

I handed the coin over and rejoined the princess’ party reassembling in the tavern courtyard. Isabella summoned me over to show a quiver of pens and some costly parchments she had purchased. As I examined these, I murmured what had happened. Isabella looked surprised, but shrugged and moved away to converse with Rossaleti. A short while later we left the city streets as the church bells rang for afternoon prayer. The bright, cold sunlight was quickly fading and the freezing air made us move briskly through the noisy streets. We crossed the river bridge, making our way through the mist-strewn parkland which surrounded the palace. Casales and Rossaleti, who had been describing to us the glories of Westminster, now moved to the front gossiping together, letting their horses find their way.

I glimpsed the black shapes flittering between the trees and bushes alongside the track-way just before the crossbow bolts tore through the air. One of the heralds screamed as a quarrel bit into his arm. Another volley clattered before we recovered and the black-garbed figures, swords drawn, swirled out of the trees. Their intended quarry seemed to be Casales, whose horse reared in fright, but that one-handed knight was a killer born and bred. He drew his sword in a flash of silver, turning his horse to meet his opponents, striking skilfully to the left and to the right. Our startled escorts recovered their wits and hastened to help, as did Rossaleti, driving his horse forward to protect Casales’ back. Our attackers faded away as quickly as they’d arrived, black figures fleeing like demons at the appearance of the Holy Rood. The serjeants-at-arms shouted for order, forbidding any pursuit, which would have been fruitless amongst close-packed trees with the mist thickening and the daylight fading. Casales and Rossaleti dismounted and turned over the corpses of four of their attackers. I urged my horse forward as Casales removed the hood and mask of one of the surviving assailants, who had received an ugly sword wound to the side of his neck. He was young, his unshaven face a tapestry of bruises and scars; some footpad from the slums. Rossaleti questioned him, but the man’s lips only bubbled blood, so the clerk, losing patience, drew his dagger and cut his throat.

He and Casales remounted. I remember Casales’ apparent fury at how such an attack, so close to the royal palace, had been aimed at him. No one dared to protest. Instead the Genoese lashed the feet of the dead attackers and dragged them behind us as we continued into the palace. The alarm was raised, and even the king and his coven of ministers hastened down to the courtyard. Casales kept his voice low, but from his face and the way Marigny and Nogaret were nodding their heads, he was developing his tale that Pourte’s death might also have been caused by the coven which had attacked us. King Philip himself examined the corpses before ordering them to be stripped, disfigured and gibbeted on the great gallows outside the palace gates.

Isabella and I had little time to reflect or discuss what had happened. In preparation for her possible departure for England, the princess’s household had expanded to include more servants. Many of these I simply cannot remember. Reflecting on the past is like standing at the mouth of an alleyway eagerly waiting for someone, or something, to appear. You are aware of many others but your soul, your heart, your eyes search only for what you want. So it was with the people about the princess, porters, maids, soldiers, retainers. Moreover, I always avoided them, remembering the power of the Secreti as well as the popular adage that Judas always has a smiling face and kissing lips. I could trust no one.

On that same evening of our return from the city, both Isabella and I were summoned to the tribunal chamber where King Philip sat enthroned behind an oval oaken table. The king was dressed in a blue robe or coat emblazoned with golden lilies, a relic of St Louis hanging on a chain around his neck, fingers brilliantly decorated with precious rings. On either side sat Marigny and Nogaret, garbed in black like crows. Behind the king hung an exquisitely embroidered arras demonstrating how his great ancestor St Louis approached the port of Damietta, a vigorous, striking picture of armoured knights on snorting destriers beneath gorgeous banners. In the background was a pure blue sea, and guiding it all, the Holy Spirit in the form of a snow-white dove with eyes of amethyst and wings edged with gold. The Holy Spirit, however, did not hover close in that council chamber. King Philip was seething with anger (though he could dissemble with the best) after his confrontation with Casales, his icy-blue eyes hard as glass. He kept tapping the table, head slightly cocked as if listening to the crackling from the braziers. Knight bannerets stood around dressed in royal livery, their hands resting on their swords. One, however, his sword-belt between his feet, sat on a stool to Marigny’s right, a handsome-faced man with oiled black hair, neat beard and moustache. In looks he reminded me of Rossaleti. He sat slightly forward, smiling at the princess. The more I stared, the more certain I became that I had met him before.

Marigny spoke for the king, describing the marriage negotiations, expressing his royal master’s deep frustration at Edward of England. At last King Philip held up his hand for silence, eyes fixed on his daughter. Oh, I remember that arrogant gaze! Now steeped in years, I still wonder why I didn’t spring to my feet and accuse him of the truth, pour out the horrid litany of his hideous sins against Uncle Reginald, his own daughter, me and all the others. The answer, I suppose, was that, is that, I was young, I wanted to live, yet there was more. In the Tower of London and elsewhere I have looked upon fabulous beasts such as Edward of England’s favourite leopard, a ferocious animal which would have torn me to pieces, yet I could only stare and watch. King Philip was the same. On that particular evening, as he talked about the death of Pourte, the attack on Casales and the dangers threatening the princess, he acted the leopard, dangerous, cunning, twisting and turning. I glanced around. Isabella’s brothers were not present. I could have taken pride at driving them away, but in truth I only played a part. Louis and Philippe, now sober, were keeping their distance because they were not arrogant fools. The presence of Casales, the possible imminence of their sister’s nuptials, not to mention the brooding wrath of their father, had cooled their wicked ardour.