Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

On that freezing December evening, in the season of expectant souls, King Philip was certainly intent on his daughter’s welfare. He dramatically described the danger which had threatened her during the attack. He never once glanced at me, but Marigny’s sallow face, with those unblinking eyes, dark pools of ambition and power, studied me as if seeing me for the first time. I learnt a lesson then that I’ve never forgotten. In mundo hominum — in the world of men — women are like children and the old; they are not ignored, they are not even noticed, they don’t even exist, until it matters. My heart warmed to Monsieur de Vitry. He had recognised that truth, acted upon it and so kept me safe. Casales had not recognised me, nor did the knight sitting on the stool whom Philip now introduced as Sir Bernard Pelet, loyal subject, former member of the accursed Templar order, who, according to the king, had done so much to bring God’s justice, and the crown’s, to the full. Philip proudly announced how Pelet was to be Isabella’s master-at-arms, custos hospicii , keeper of her household both here and in England. Pelet, God curse him, basked in such praise like a cat before a fire.

Isabella must have sensed my mood; she answered quickly and prettily, whilst I could only stare in silent horror. I had met Pelet before, but again I’d been in the shadows. Uncle Reginald had once talked warmly of him as a good knight at the Temple treasury, when in fact he had been the traitor at the feast. I’d heard enough of the chatter and the gossip to learn that Pelet had been most ferocious in bringing accusations against his former comrades and, possibly, had had a hand in my own uncle’s downfall. I could not even look at him, and I was greatly relieved when the meeting ended.

Once alone, Isabella cleared her inner chamber except for a page who was instructed to sit by the door and play a gentle tune on the viol.

‘Something soft,’ the princess whispered, ‘to soothe the soul.’ She didn’t talk, but sat in her throne-like chair and, picking up a household roll, began to read it as if fascinated by the expenses of her buttery. Never once did she glance up at me. I wanted to be alone. I went across to the writing carrel fixed against the wall beneath a painting celebrating the Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple. Isabella often sat there studying her horn book, inspecting her accounts or writing out some letter for a clerk. I sat down, my back to her, aware of the viol’s melody rising and falling, the distant sounds of the palace, Isabella gently humming under her breath. For a while I could only fight the emotions which boiled in my heart and sent my blood coursing so that the humours in my belly turned sour. Pelet was to join us! An assassin, a Judas! I rose and took down the leech book, to study an infusion to soothe my anger, but found myself turning the pages to study the elements of deadly nightshade, foxglove and other powerful poisons. I was already thinking of revenge.

Lost in my studies, I was startled when Isabella put her hands on my shoulders, kissing me gently on the back of my head. I turned round. The viol-playing had ceased, the chamber was empty. Isabella was dressed in her nightshift, her hair loosed. She pressed a goblet of hot mulled wine into my hand and stared down at the page I was studying.

‘Listen, Mathilde no, no, no!’ She shook her head. ‘Not that way! Come, come.’ She made me prepare for sleep. After we had drunk the wine, she insisted I share her bed. I doused the candles and lay beside her in the dark. In the faint light I could glimpse the golden sheen of her hair. She leaned over and touched my cheek. ‘I used to creep in and lie beside my mother.’ She edged closer, staring at me through the darkness. ‘She would tell me stories about Spain, about Rodrigo Diaz, known as El Cid, or she’d describe Santiago, the great mountain shrine to St James. I used to feel so close.’ She paused. ‘Do you know any stories, Mathilde?’ She was trying to distract me, so I told her one from Bretigny about a hobgoblin who ate proud princesses. Isabella laughed and seized my hand. ‘Soon,’ she stifled a giggle, ‘I will lie with Edward of England. Have you ever lain with a man, Mathilde?’

‘Only in my dreams, my lady.’

Isabella laughed again. ‘Mathilde, swear, swear that you will do nothing to hurt Pelet.’

I remained silent.

‘Swear,’ she breathed, ‘and you shall have my sacred oath that I will take care of that devil! Mathilde, I promise you.’

I swallowed my pride and hot words and promised.

‘Good.’ Isabella rolled over on her back.

‘So much mystery,’ she breathed. ‘The attack on the Templars: the massacre at Monsieur de Vitry’s: Pourte’s death; the assault on Casales.’ She rolled over on to her side again. ‘Casales even maintains the clerk murdered near the charnel house of the Innocents shows how dangerous it is for him to be here. They say the clerk, Matthew of Crokendon, was with a young woman. He was seen walking with her in the cemetery.’ Again she touched me lightly on the cheek. ‘Be careful, Mathilde, that you are not recognised.’

I closed my eyes and I listened to Isabella’s soft breathing. I pushed my hot hand between the smooth cold sheet and the feather-filled bolster.

‘And your father?’ I asked. ‘What does he say?’

‘He believes. .’ Isabella paused. ‘He believes there are those in England bitterly opposed to my marriage. They would like nothing more than to create mayhem in these negotiations. De Vitry was used by my father in the collection of my dowry, Pourte was a confidant of the English king and Lord Gaveston, as is Casales; they both supported the marriage. There are those in the English council chamber who’ll be quick to point out that not even English envoys are safe in France.’

‘Who leads these?’ I asked.

‘The English king’s uncle, Henry Lacey, Earl of Lincoln, and Edward’s powerful cousin, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster.’ She paused as if listening into the dark. ‘Marigny has even hinted, God forbid, that danger threatens me, hence Pelet.’

‘And you?’ I asked.

‘Soon I will reach my fourteenth summer, Mathilde, yet sometimes I feel like an old crone steeped in the frenetic turbulence of intrigue. My marriage is a matter of papal arbitration; Clement V of Avignon is my father’s creature. The English are also bound by solemn treaty, yet, Mathilde, to answer your question, we are figures in some dark, devious and wicked game waiting to be played out. So, be careful, especially over Pelet. You promised?’

‘And I promise again.’

‘Deo Gratias, Mathilde.’ She laughed abruptly. ‘Let’s go back to hobgoblins. Shall we call Louis one?’

Such were the days as we waited, one following another. Casales dispatched letters and messengers back to his masters in England. Advent prepared to give way to Christmas. Boughs of evergreen appeared in the chapel. The priests wore vestments of purple and gold and empty cribs were set up in the royal cloister as the palace prepared itself for the feast of Christmas. The huntsmen thundered out, verderers and hawkers driven by their passion for the chase and the kill. The royal larders become stocked to overflowing with venison, boar, rabbit, plover, quail and duck. The palace galleries and chambers echoed with music as the choirs rehearsed the ‘O’ antiphons of Advent as well as the hymns for Christmas, haunting melodious tunes, bittersweet, about a Virgin maid bringing forth the God child in the bleak heart of winter.

The days were short and dark, bitterly cold, so we kept to our chambers. Every day was purgatory, with Pelet trying to act the perfect, gentle knight towards both of us. Never once did such a fair face hide such a foul heart; a traitor, a coward, a Judas incarnate. Isabella, however, openly favoured him, and as the days passed, I wondered if she’d remembered her vow. Casales and Rossaleti now became constant visitors to the princess’s chambers, yet as the negotiations flagged, their courtesies sounded more hollow. Isabella, who discussed the matter secretly with me, seized her opportunity when the two men shared wine in her chamber just before vespers on Laetare Sunday in Advent.