Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

‘Ay,’ Sandewic interrupted, ‘but we must await the will of princes.’

We exchanged pleasantries with them, then continued into the palace, where I made Sandewic comfortable in the princess’s quarters. I examined his ears and throat carefully, then I prepared a solution of warm water, heavily salted, and told him to breathe it in through his nose. He did so, choking and spluttering, coughing up the infected phlegm. After he’d finished I poured warmed oil, specially distilled, into his ears to loosen the hard wax. I gave him vervain for his throat and dressed a small ulcer on his leg with a herbal poultice.

Isabella, busy with certain lists from her father, wandered across to watch. She always had a firm stomach, my mistress, despite all her exquisite courtly ways. She was particularly fascinated by the final potion I mixed for Sandewic, taken from the kitchens and apothecary stores: finely ground dry moss, soaked in an astringent and mixed with the powdered cream of very stale milk. I informed both that I did not know how it acted but it was a sure cure for many internal infections when the body’s humours turned hot and the patient felt as if he was on fire. Sandewic was definitely feverish. He slowly relaxed, drinking the cup of posset Isabella prepared at the hearth. He informed me how he distrusted all physicians and then questioned me closely on my skill and where I had studied. I told the tale I had so carefully prepared and rehearsed like a scholar does a syllogism. Sandewic believed me, or I think he did. In turn I questioned him on the deaths of Wenlok and Pourte, but he was on his guard, although he grudgingly conceded that he was suspicious about both their deaths.

‘The night Pourte died,’ he declared, ‘Casales and Rossaleti were closeted with des Plaisans and Nogaret. Apparently Pourte declared he was too tired to attend; he had to sleep. Consequently he was alone. It’s possible that the real murderer or murderers hired assassins, the same who later attacked Casales.’ The old knight continued as if talking to himself. ‘But last night, how could Lord Wenlok be poisoned except by someone at his own table?’

‘Or before,’ I interrupted. ‘Hemlock is a creeping poison.’

‘True,’ Sandewic agreed. ‘I have spoken to Marigny. Liar though he may be, he claims Lord Wenlok was very quiet, tense, as if unwell from the very beginning of the banquet. He drank and ate very little.’ Sandewic stretched out his infected leg on the footstool and sighed in relief. ‘I feel better!’ he murmured. ‘It’s good to sit, to be warm. I pity poor Wenlok. Sir John Baquelle,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘is a good man, but he has dismissed the Abbot’s death as an act of God. Baquelle is more interested in the present business.’

‘Which is?’

‘My lady, your marriage, of course!’

‘And Edward of England?’ Isabella snapped her fingers, eager to return to a question which constantly vexed her. ‘He changed his mind just like that!’

‘An arrow is loosed!’ Sandewic growled. ‘It may fly, it may rise, but eventually it has to fall.’ He tapped the arm of the chair. ‘Your marriage, my lady, is set as if in stone. There is no other way.’ He yawned. ‘As for Templars? Well, the head of that order is France, and if that’s cut off, what use the arm or leg? Mon seigneur the king knows that. He will not imprison or torture the Templars, but he is eager to seize their wealth.’

‘My lord,’ I asked, still fascinated by what he’d said about the murders, ‘do you know of a Monsieur de Vitry?’

‘I’ve heard the name. Marigny mentioned something about a massacre. Wasn’t he a merchant who played an important role in the collection of your mistress’s dowry?’ He looked at me. I never answered, so he stared into the fire.

‘Do Pourte, Casales, Wenlok, Baquelle and you,’ I asked, ‘have anything in common?’

The old knight, growing tired and dreamy-eyed, thinking perhaps of other Yuletides as the ancients do when dozing before a fire, simply shrugged. Now I am old, I recognise that feeling of surrender, of preparing for the final rest, to sleep forever. Sandewic shut us off. Then he abruptly straightened in his chair, still ignoring my question, put on his boots, gathered his cloak, thanked the princess and left. I was sad when he was gone. It was as if the fire had dulled or the candle wicks dimmed. I sat on the footstool warming my hands. Isabella came behind me, pressing her hands on my shoulders.

‘There’s a hidden tension,’ she whispered, ‘ghosts so fierce they gather in the gloom around us and look on. Abbot Wenlok’s death is dismissed as an unfortunate accident, but Casales and Rossaleti, so I hear, as well as Sandewic, are apprehensive and fearful. Oh Mathilde, what shall we do?’ She leaned her face against the back of my head. ‘We are,’ she whispered, ‘in the presence of terrors. I must tell you. Father watches me like a basilisk does its victim. Pelet’s death has gone unmentioned but not forgotten. Marigny’s men have been here. You are summoned to the Chambre Ardente at the hour of vespers. You must go alone.’

I whirled round. Isabella looked frightened. ‘There is nothing I can do, as yet,’ she pleaded.

‘What do they want?’

‘To question you.’

‘About what?

‘Perhaps who you really are. .’ The princess’s voice trailed off.

I spent the remainder of that day feverishly preparing myself. Isabella tried to help, distracting me with chatter about our intended departure. Casales and Rossaleti came, eager to explain how the English king felt secure in Boulogne, a port on the Narrow Seas well within the county of Ponthieu, an enclave of Normandy still under English influence. They openly confessed that Edward entertained great suspicion towards his ‘sweet cousin of France’, especially after the deaths of Pourte and Wenlok, not to mention the attack on Casales. Surprisingly, neither betrayed any suspicions about Wenlok’s death but repeated how, on his journey to the Ile de France, the abbot complained frequently of feeling unwell, which they thought was due to a hard sea crossing in the depth of winter. They also talked about Isabella’s journey, reassuring us both that the royal ship, The Margaret of Westminster , would provide a safe and secure passage. Rossaleti was desperately anxious about that; he pleaded with the princess to join her, as the Margaret was much safer than the other cogs available. Isabella laughingly agreed. The two men left, and as the bells of Sainte Chapelle tolled the call for vespers, two knight bannerets, accompanied by a Dominican friar, presented themselves and asked me to accompany them.

They were brusque and severe. I collected my cloak, squeezed Isabella’s hand and joined them. We went down the stairs, threading our way through the passageways and galleries, all lit by candles, and across ice-cold courtyards to the Chambre Ardente, which was housed in the base of a soaring tower. The Chambre Ardente was, in theory, the royal household court, similar to that held by the marshal in England. In practice, however, the Chambre was an inquisitorial court with all the powers of oyer and terminer, to listen and decide on indictments; it could, if it wished, impose the death penalty. The chamber itself was cavernous. Torches provided light as well as cast shadows over what had to be hidden. Its red-brick walls were covered in thick embroidered tapestries, depicting all forms of judgement. On one, Christ, ghostlike, swathed in swirling drapery, presided. Below the divine throne all kinds of demons prowled, waiting for judgement to be passed. A veritable gallery of hideous figures, bearded and winged, with scaly skin and manes of fire, readied to grab the hapless sinners to rip out their bowels and crunch their hearts. In the corner, specially illuminated by a fiery brazier, St Michael weighed souls in a set of scales as a devil reached to grab one for his supper. The purpose of this tableau, springing to life in the shifting light, was to instil terror and fan the flames of fear. I vowed I would show no weakness.