Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

‘Oh dear!’ Isabella pretended to be frightened. ‘And is Sir John Baquelle a greater beast?’

‘Ah, Baquelle is a London merchant, a friend of Pourte’s, rich and powerful. A justice of the city. Whereas the citizens of London are terrified of Sandewic, Baquelle they hate because he’s a royal appointment.’

‘And Lord Walter Wenlok?’

‘Abbot of Westminster,’ Rossaleti scoffed, ‘and very much aware of it.’ He coughed, recollecting himself. ‘He’s been abbot for over twenty years, a close friend of the old king and a special confidant of the new. He is much liked by my Lord Gaveston.’

‘And the death of Pourte and the attack on you?’ Isabella asked. ‘What are your thoughts now?’

‘Suspicion is not evidence,’ Casales replied, chewing his lip. ‘Of course mon seigneur the king knows of it and has protested.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘But that is just straw in the wind.’

‘And my betrothed’s abrupt change of mind?’

‘Only God knows!’ Casales murmured. ‘My lady,’ he smiled, ‘soon to be your grace. Perhaps the change is just hard politic, the inevitable.’

My lady glanced sharply at Rossaleti, who nodded.

‘My lady,’ Casales repeated, ‘this is not some speech from a romance, but please remember, mon seigneur the King of England has undiminished love for you.’

‘And the Lord Gaveston?’ Isabella’s ambiguous question startled Casales, who glanced quickly at Rossaleti. The clerk just smiled serenely back as if that answer was not his to give.

‘ Mon seigneur the king,’ Casales hastily declared, ‘loves his lady, whilst his love for Lord Gaveston is that for a dear brother. These new envoys will assure you of this.’

‘In which case, monsieur,’ Isabella rose, smoothing down the folds of her gown, ‘it is time we met our visitors.’

We went down to the council chamber. Everything was prepared as if for a mass, candles glowing along the polished table, the fire fiercely crackling the scented pine logs, the braziers sparkling, the tapestry-covered walls hidden in the shadows, pierced no doubt by peep-holes and confessional gaps where Marigny and his Secreti could lurk. The three envoys were grouped at the far end of the table. Sandewic was what he looked, a veteran soldier, an old knight, who’d kept his fealty to God and his king. I took to him immediately; my heart warmed to his blunt goodness. He reminded me so much of Uncle Reginald. Looking back, I realise, in truth, that some men possess an innate decency, a richness of the soul. Sandewic was one of these. He had a falcon-like face, a beaked nose, a hard mouth and glaring eyes beneath bushy brows. He was dressed in the old fashion, no fripperies, simply a long, sleeveless dark-green gown over a jerkin of rich murrey, a sword-belt wrapped round his waist, a silver chain of office hanging about his neck. Sandewic’s steel-grey hair straggled down to his shoulders though his white moustache and beard were neatly clipped. He knelt when Isabella approached, kissed her hands then, most movingly, turned to me and did the same, clasping my fingers. My soul kissed his, my life touched his. Jesu miserere mei ; his brutal death struck deep and hard with me.

Baquelle was different, small, fat and pompous, a radiant, jolly face under a mop of black hair. He was dressed in the finest jagged coat, particoloured hose and blood-red Cordovan riding boots. Baquelle didn’t know whether to bluster or fawn, whilst his so-called courtly speech was clumsy enough to make Rossaleti hide his smile. A true merchant prince full of his own importance, he was very much the royal envoy and gave my mistress the sketchiest of bows.

Lord Walter Wenlok, Abbot of Westminster, was garbed in the black robes of a Benedictine but they were of the purest wool and edged with ermine, whilst his stiffened hood, pulled elegantly back, was lined with costly purple samite. Wenlok was proud in both manner and appearance. The tonsure on his head neatly cut, his smooth-shaven patrician face composed in a mask of sanctimonious serenity. A thin-lipped, arrogant-eyed man who, in the circumstances, should have looked into his soul and the coming call for its reckoning rather than emphasising his power. He stretched out a claw-like hand so we could kiss his thick abbatial ring. Isabella did so quickly, I followed suit, then we settled down to exchange pleasantries. Courteous questions provoked courteous answers. Old Sandewic, however, broke from this.

‘My lady,’ he leaned against the table, ‘you shall certainly be called Isabella La Belle. You will win the hearts of all loyal subjects with your beauty and grace.’

My mistress blushed slightly and bowed her head in thanks.

‘ Mon seigneur ,’ Sandewic continued, ignoring a vexed glance from Wenlok, ‘is greatly desirous of meeting you. All is prepared. You have apartments at the Tower; clean, swept and hung with the most beautiful tapestries. Every luxury will be yours. At Westminster, after the recent fire, your chambers have been completely refurbished. Outside the gardens are newly turfed and trellised, their stew ponds drained and cleaned. You even have your own quayside at Queen’s Bridge, repaired as of new.’ The old knight beamed around at his companions, but his hand kept going to his ear; I could tell that his nose and throat were inflamed with the rheums. Such ailments did not diminish his enthusiasm and deep admiration for Isabella’s beauty. I recalled the legendary love between Edward I and his Queen Eleanor of Castile; perhaps Sandewic hoped that this might happen again.

‘At Dover,’ Sandewic continued brusquely, ‘ mon seigneur has prepared the royal ship The Margaret of Westminster , named after your noble aunt. Both it and its escort of boats and barges have been completely refurbished. The royal ship contains new wardrobes and butteries fitted for your comfort.’

Isabella caught Sandewic’s enthusiasm. The atmosphere became most relaxed, wine was served, sweetmeats offered. Baquelle and Wenlok now followed Sandewic’s lead. The merchant described the eagerness of Londoners to see their new queen, whilst Wenlok extolled the beauties of Westminster Abbey where she would be crowned. Isabella thanked them prettily, excused herself and withdrew to revel in what had so unexpectedly happened.

King Philip now emerged in all his glory. He had Edward at his feet; his daughter would be Queen of England and his grandson would sit at Westminster and wear the Confessor’s crown. The joyfulness and merriment of the French Christmas court became a heavy perfume. The Angels’ Mass was celebrated at midnight followed by the Dawn Mass then the Shepherds’ Mass, glorious liturgical ceremonies, the priests vested in the gold and white robes of the great feast. The royal chapel rang with hymns: ‘Hodie ego Genui te’ — ‘This day I have begotten you’; and ‘Puer natus nobis’ — ‘A child is born’. The air became rich with incense, as if some perfumed mist had come down from heaven and God’s glory joined with ours in all the receptions, carols, dances, mummers’ plays and festivals. It was hard to decide whether King Philip was celebrating the birth of the Christ child or the future birth of his grandson.

On Christmas evening, in the Fleur-de-Lis Chamber, Philip staged a great banquet: four tables in a square cordoned off by screens draped with gorgeous tapestries depicting the Glories of the Lilies and the exploits of the Capets. On the high table Philip, Marigny and Nogaret sat with Wenlok and Baquelle. On the second his three sons entertained Casales and Rossaleti; I noticed Louis glaring at me spitefully. On the third table sat important clerics, diplomats and officials. On the fourth, opposite her father, Isabella attended by me, entertained Sandewic and the leading clerks of the English embassy. A truly splendid feast, with soup of ground capon thickened with almond milk and served with pomegranates and red comfits. Roast dishes, kid cooked in cream, ducks and chicken, crayfish set in jelly, followed by frumenty. Musicians played lustily and choirs of silver-voiced boys carolled sweetly.