Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Oh, I remember that evening well. Murder also joined us. I was sitting next to Sandewic and quickly realised that he was not only present as an envoy; in the eyes of the English king, at least, he was to replace Pelet as Custos , keeper or protector of the princess’s household once it left for Boulogne. Sandewic first apologised for not giving me a gift, then handed me his dagger with its beautiful curved blade and ivory handle. I thought he was deep in his cups, but he pressed this gift on me, pushing the gold and red sheath into my hands, his eyes brimming with tears.

‘I had a daughter once,’ he murmured. ‘You have her eyes and ways.’ He then turned away to talk to one of the clerks. I could see he was melancholic. I had already exchanged gifts with my mistress; she had given me a copy of Hildegard of Bremen’s sayings with its most famous edged in gold: Oh man look to man, for man has the heavens and earth and all other created things lie within him. He is one with them and all things are hidden within him. In return I’d given the princess a ring, a gift from my Uncle Reginald which she much admired. At the feast I sipped my wine and watched Philip toast the taciturn Wenlok of Westminster, wondering what I could give Sandewic, who reminded me so much of my uncle with his stern looks and gentle ways. I touched him on the shoulder; he turned back all eager-eyed.

‘Gold and silver have I none,’ I retorted brightly, echoing the words of St Peter in Acts, ‘but what I have, I give thee freely.’

‘Which is, mademoiselle?’

‘Sir, you suffer from the rheums, your limbs ache and your head is heavy and dulled.’

‘A wise woman, Mathilde!’

‘Wise enough, sir, to know that warm oil, salted water and a potion of vervain would help you.’

Sandewic thought I was teasing him, but once assured, he accepted my help, apologising as old men do for his obvious discomfort. Nevertheless, he was cunning and astute. He drank sparsely of the different wines and was describing his beloved Tower with its great four-walled donjon, girdling walls and yawning gateways when we were abruptly distracted by a commotion at the king’s table. Lord Abbot Wenlok seemed in difficulties. He had slumped back in his chair, gripping the table as if experiencing a severe giddiness. Servants and retainers clustered about. Sandewic rose from his chair, the English clerks following. Isabella glanced sharply at me, indicating I follow. At first I thought the Benedictine lord had drunk too much. They had taken him into a small chancery room and made him comfortable on the floor, pushing brocaded cushions under his head. Wenlok, however, seemed unaware of what was happening; he twitched and convulsed, muttering about the cold stoniness in his feet and legs.

A physician was hastily summoned, but Lord Wenlok’s distress increased, his words becoming garbled; he retched but could not even spit into the maplewood bowl thrust under his mouth. He lay back, croaking hoarsely. More cushions were pushed under him. The death rattle echoed in his throat. Sandewic knelt beside him and tried to comfort him, but the Lord Abbot, head going from side to side, eyes stark in distress, mouth gaping for breath, was unable to respond. A priest was called. He muttered the words of absolution above the dying man’s hideous sounds. Wenlok shook violently, gave a loud gasp then lay still, head falling to one side.

I crouched beside Sandewic, pretending to offer solace even as I pressed my fingers against the abbot’s leg, stomach and hand. I felt the hardness of the muscles, as if rigor mortis had already set in. I knew more than those physicians. I had studied the properties of every type of hemlock, be it poisoned parsnip or any other variety. I recognised its singular symptoms, recalling Plato’s descriptions of Socrates’ death amongst the Ancients: the stiffening of the limbs, the creeping loss of feeling, the strangulated breath followed by the final convulsions. Abbot Wenlok had been poisoned, hemlock mixed with wine, but why, how and by whom?

Wenlok’s death cast a shadow over the Christmas celebrations. Philip and his ministers ostensibly grieved deeply but the truth was that the French court regarded Wenlok as an old man who’d been sent on an arduous journey in the depths of winter; he’d simply suffered a seizure and died. His corpse was washed and embalmed, his walnut coffin crammed with tablets of perfume and sacks of herbs then sealed for dispatch as swiftly as possible back to Westminster.

Once again I journeyed down to the death house, where two grimy-faced retainers were preparing the abbot’s body whilst a member of Wenlok’s retinue, a young chaplain called Robert of Reading, recited the office of the dead. He’d reached the words ‘Ah, good Jesu — leave me not reprobation, think my soul caused thy Incarnation’, the sombre phrases rolling out made all the more solemn by the Latin. I stood swathed in a cloak; the death house was bitterly cold. I watched intently whilst slipping Ave beads through my fingers. I had placed at the head of the corpse the winter flowers the princess had sent, together with an evergreen spray. Now I scrutinised the cadaver carefully. Rigor mortis had of course, by St Stephens Day, turned the dead flesh marble hard, but I also noticed the faint purple-red rash on the hairy stomach; the same had appeared on the dead man’s cheeks, whilst his tongue and lips were purpled as if with wine. Philip’s physicians might have entertained suspicions, but who dared to voice them? Or again, they might have been ignorant of hemlock in all its forms, be it garden or water hemlock. Death always occurs quickly, from commencement to finish, perhaps in no more than three hours, whilst the effects would have been hastened depending on whether the poison was distilled from the fruit of the hemlock, its leaves or, more deadly still, a root over a year old. Wenlok’s age and weariness, not to mention the wine, might have enhanced its malignant effects.

The door of the death house opened and Sandewic came in carrying a requiem candle. He placed this on the corpse table, crossed himself and abruptly left. He was waiting for me outside, blowing on his mittened fingers and stamping his feet. The ground was slippery with ice so he offered me his arm. I could see he was in discomfort with a soreness in the ear and throat.

‘Come,’ I invited him, ‘the princess would like to see you and I can practise my skills.’

He grinned mischievously and patted my hand.

‘Truly fortunate I am. I never thought a damsel so fair and young would show such affection.’

We lapsed into teasing, so reminiscent of my days with Uncle Reginald that tears burnt my eyes, which I quickly put down to the cold. Sandewic stopped halfway across the yard and stared out over the wasteland. Servants were pulling Yule logs to the cavernous kitchen doorway, escorted by maids, their arms full of evergreen holly, its blood-red berries full and rich. Others carried tendrils of ivy, all to decorate the kitchen, butteries and servants’ chambers, for St Stephen’s was their day of celebration.

‘He was murdered, wasn’t he, my lord Wenlok?’

I stared coolly back.

‘As was Pourte, as Casales nearly was? As I might be?’ Sandewic hawked and spat.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why do you say that?’

He was about to reply when Casales and Rossaleti came through the doorway carrying funeral candles, capped against the breeze, which they wanted to place on the corpse table. They paused to greet us. Casales looked anxious and drawn.

‘My lord.’ Casales came as close as he could, talking quietly in the English tongue. ‘My lord, the sooner we are gone from here-’