Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Around the chamber stood royal guards, whilst scribes crouched busily over writing tables. At the far end, on a dais, sat Marigny behind a high oaken table, his red hair gleaming in the torchlight. His two minions, Nogaret and des Plaisans, sat on either side, with hooded clerks perched like ravens at each end, pens poised. Marigny beckoned me forward on to the dais, gesturing at a stool before the table. I approached and sat down.

‘Mathilde, welcome.’

‘Seigneur, why am I here?’

Marigny, surprised, leaned across, hunter’s eyes staring from that pallid face, mouth puckered in disbelief at such insolence.

‘This is the court of the royal household. You are a member of that household. You are to be summoned here as we wish.’

‘Seigneur, why?’

‘Mathilde, are you in God’s grace?’ des Plaisans asked.

‘If I am, sir, I beg God to keep me there, and if I am not, I humbly ask Him to return me there. Why do you ask?’

‘You act the wise woman,’ Nogaret simpered, ‘or something else. You know a great deal about simples and potions.’

‘So do the royal physicians. What are you hinting at, that I’m a witch?’

‘No.’ Des Plaisans sat back in the shadows.

‘Mathilde, Mathilde,’ Nogaret took up the attack, ‘you’re not being tried.’

‘So why am I here?’

‘You have won the princess’s favour so quickly. .’ He paused.

‘I cannot answer for my mistress; you must ask her yourself.’

‘Mathilde,’ Marigny’s face wrinkled in amusement, ‘do not be afraid.’

‘Who claims I am?’

Marigny leaned his elbows on the table, rocking backwards and forwards as if considering my reply. I steeled myself. I hated these men, so why should I be afraid of their questions? I had been in the household of Uncle Reginald, the hardest taskmaster. He had acted like a magister from the schools as he questioned me on what I’d observed and studied even after some errand into the city. He would loose questions like a master bowman would arrows. I was prepared, I was skilled. I thought of him then. I thanked God for his iron discipline. Marigny fluttered his fingers, gesturing at the others to keep quiet. He picked up a scrap of parchment.

‘Mathilde, you were recommended by Monsieur de Vitry.’

‘I was.’

‘He was recently murdered.’

‘God rest him, and may the cross of Christ bring his assassins to speedy justice.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Marigny murmured. ‘Did you attend the funeral of this great friend?’

‘I never said he was a great friend. I lit a taper and paid for a requiem mass to be sung.’

‘Very good.’ The reply came in a hiss. ‘And you are from Poitiers, Mathilde de Clairebon?’

‘Of course. My mother was a widow, my father an apothecary, hence my knowledge of potions.’ I knew by rote what Monsieur de Vitry had taught me.

‘You seemed very interested in the deaths of Lord Pourte and Abbot Wenlok.’

‘No, sir, I wasn’t; but my mistress was. After all, they were English envoys dispatched to her. I went where she told me. I lit corpse candles when she told me.’

‘Where is the cathedral at Poitiers?’

‘On the Rue de la Chaine.’

‘Its name?’

‘Notre Dame la Grande, but there is another cathedral,’ I chattered on, ‘that of St Pierre. However, the place I loved to pray at was the Baptistry of St Jean with its very old font, an eight-sided pool dug into the ground. Did you know?’ I leaned forward as if excited. ‘It has a fresco from ancient times, of the Emperor Constantine. I-’

‘What is this? Why the delay? Mathilde, I have been waiting.’

I’d heard the door to the chamber open, and when I turned, Isabella, shrouded in her robe, golden hair hanging all loose, stood in the doorway, a polished mirror in one hand, a jewelled comb in the other. Everyone in the chamber, including the three fiends behind the table, sprang to their feet.

‘What is this?’ Isabella repeated, sweeping into the chamber. ‘I thought you had summoned my servant because of my imminent departure, but this?’ Her voice thrilled with anger. ‘Is this a court? What are the accusations? Who is the plaintiff? My lord,’ her voice assumed a more strident, petulant tone, ‘I am the Princess Royal, soon to be Queen of England. In a brief while I must leave my father’s house. I need Mathilde, there is so much to do, so little time to do it, so why is she here?’

‘My lady.’ Marigny came round the table, hands extended. ‘Mathilde can return to you. We are simply questioning her to make sure that she is a fit companion for you-’

‘I will be the best judge of that!’ Isabella snapped, staring into the darkness behind Marigny. ‘And tell my beloved father so!’

I, too, gazed into the shadows behind the table. Philip undoubtedly lurked there, closely watching these proceedings.

‘Mathilde,’ Isabella snapped her fingers, ‘come, we have things to do. My lords.’ She made the most courteous of bows and, beckoning to me, swept out of the chamber.

Once we’d left, the princess hurried like a woman possessed along the galleries, eager to place as much distance as possible between herself and those she had left. We walked through the royal cloisters, an eerie experience. Frost whitened the grass of the garth. A cloying mist curled, its tendrils sweeping in as if seeking the gargoyles squatting at the tops of pillars or hidden in corners. Demons carved in stone glared balefully down at us. I gazed up at the sky and heaved a sigh of relief: the moon was at half-quarter. I’d always been haunted by a childhood tale of terror which claimed that during the time of the full moon, gargoyles and other strange demons sprang to life and went prowling through the darkness, seeking whom they could devour. On such a black night, hurrying from the Chambre Ardente with its own devils of flesh and blood, I could well believe such a tale.

Once back in her own chamber Isabella dismissed the sleepy pages and maids and took me into the window enclosure, sitting me down beside her. She opened the latched door and stared out, oblivious to the cold breeze pouring in.

‘Strange,’ she murmured, ‘when I was a child I heard a sermon by a Franciscan preacher about the devil. He described Satan as having a face blackened by soot, his hair and beard falling down to his feet. His eyes were of glowing iron, sparks sprang from his mouth and evil-smelling smoke billowed out of his mouth and nostrils. He had feathered wings sharp as thorns, his hands bound by manacles.’ Isabella grasped my arm and drew me closer, resting her lovely head on my shoulder. ‘Then Mother died. I rose one night, came here and opened this latch window. It was a beautiful summer’s night. In the cloisters below my father was strolling with his coven in the cloisters. They wore their capuchons and deep-sleeved robes; bats were squeaking, rooks calling. On that night I changed my mind about the devil. The true demons were out there and the bats and crows, their servants, came flying out of the sleeves of the robes of my father and his minions. On that same night I dreamed an owl flew into my mouth, sat down on my heart and embraced it with its taloned claws. In my nightmare I went hunting with my father in the woods of Fontainebleau; they say it’s haunted by the devil, riding a dog, scouring the woods with a troop of demons dressed in black. Anyway, I felt as if I was condemned to ride those woods for ever.’ She lifted her head. ‘Dreams, physician, how can you explain them, eh? A trick of the digestion or humours out of harmony, fanciful theories?’ Isabella closed the window. ‘Mathilde, I always remember that evening. What I thought, what I saw, what I felt when I dreamed: I thought I was trapped in hell, but now I am to be freed. You must come with me. I need you.’