Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Death is surely like a shaft loosed out of the darkness. We had hardly gone far when I heard a sound to my right, the mist shifted and the huge sharp prow of a large war-barge was almost upon us, bearing down with hawk-like speed. It crashed into us, dead in the centre. The two Genoese simply went under. I slipped down into the swirling dark water, the cold numbing me until I panicked, gulping mouthfuls as I sank into the gloomy-green bubble-strewn depths. Giacomo and Lorenzo were already drifting corpses weighted down by their cuirasses and war-belts. I didn’t know if they could swim. I could. After all, the rushing streams and weed-strewn ponds and lakes of Bretigny nourish many plants, so I’d learnt to swim as I had to walk. The real danger was my heavy boots and cloak. I kicked and shrugged these off and broke to the surface. All was silent and deserted except for the distant noise of horns and the mist-shrouded glow of lamps. I lunged out, hoping I was swimming back towards the royal quayside, and screamed as a boat pulled alongside. Torches flared, rough hands grasped my shoulders. I kicked and screamed until a hard voice shouted:

‘ Taisez vous, taisez vous, nous vous aidons! ’ Be quiet, be quiet, we are helping you.

I was dragged aboard, glimpsing dusty, seamed faces; one of these bent over me, chattering like a sparrow. I became aware of the stench of raw fish and struggled to sit up, coughing and retching. I was safe amongst these poor fishermen. They gathered around me asking questions. I begged them to search for my escort. They did so but it was fruitless. The raw cold gave me a fit of the shivers. The fishermen said they had to leave, they could do no more, comforting me with goblets of raw wine, declaring that such accidents on the river were common, especially when the sea mist rolled in. Nevertheless, I could see even they were suspicious. The war-barge which had hit us had quickly disappeared. I’d glimpsed no lantern light on its prow, heard no horn to betray its presence. No alarm had been raised. All I could remember was its shooting speed, like that of a lunging snake.

The fishermen wrapped me in coarse blankets, sat me in the stern and brought me back to the Maison du Roi at the centre of the palace. The captain of the guard, realising what had happened, sent a message before us. Isabella, accompanied by Casales, Rossaleti and Sandewic, hastened down to the courtyard to meet me. She thanked the fishermen lavishly, instructing Casales to take their names for future rewards, while Rossaleti was sent back for a small cup of silver which Isabella pushed into their hands. Casales and Rossaleti were full of questions; Sandewic remained tight-lipped, staring at me intently, his falcon-like eyes cold and hard, shaking his head as if talking to himself. Isabella asked where Baquelle was; Sandewic gestured with his head towards the gatehouse.

‘Gone to the city.’

‘I hope he is safe,’ Isabella whispered.

All three of the English envoys decided to search for Baquelle, whilst Isabella took me into the kitchens. I stripped and wrapped myself in a thick robe, soft slippers on my feet, then squatted in front of the great roaring fire and drank mulled wine until I drifted into sleep. When I woke I was in Isabella’s chamber, none the worse for such an ordeal, though frightened and fearful. I wanted to scream at the princess that we should leave. She just sat on the edge of the bed grasping my hand, stroking it carefully, questioning me closely. She agreed it was no accident. I, too, was certain of that, but as for why and who was responsible. . Isabella explained that when I’d left she’d been talking with the English envoys. The appearance of her brothers, smiling maliciously, had provoked her unease; they’d come up pretending they wanted to talk to the English but then sauntered off. I asked if she thought they were responsible. Isabella shook her head. She said she didn’t know, but confided that all three, together with Marigny and Nogaret, would escort us to England after the coronation. She ordered food from the kitchens and fed me herself. Now and again she’d pause, patting me on the arm, muttering in Navarrese, a sign of her own deep agitation.

After that I never left the palace. I remained haunted by those chilling images, the sharp curved prow, the boat bearing down on us, the Genoese bowmen, arms and legs splayed, floating down into the green darkness, the icy waters wrapping around me. Who had planned it, why? Were they waiting for us? I’d made a mistake. Our preparations that morning had been loudly proclaimed, Giacomo and Lorenzo going down to the royal wharf searching for a boat. Such anxieties vexed my mind and gnawed at my heart. Of course the attack was meant to look like an accident, but what was its sinister root? The malice of the princes, Isabella’s brothers? Marigny’s suspicions? King Philip’s resentment at my closeness to his daughter? Or was it something else?

Uncle Reginald had instructed me always to study cause and effect, to gather evidence, yet in my heart, I was convinced the attack had something to do with the massacre at the de Vitry mansion. Marigny had specifically questioned me on that, but why? Had the lonely assassin been hiding there all the time, watching me closely? Had I seen something the importance of which I did not recognise at the time?

Sandewic came to visit me. He brought me a present, a copy of Trotula’s writings which he’d bought in the Latin Quarter. The rough old soldier pushed this at me, saying that he was grateful I had survived, adding that he was even more grateful that his rheums and fever had disappeared whilst the ulcer on his leg had healed beautifully. He was clumsy and off-hand. He wished to talk with me but he was still suspicious and wary, so after a short while he again mumbled his thanks and left. As for the rest, my mishap was viewed as an unfortunate incident; courtesies were offered, polite messages sent, but it was a mere speck on the court preparations. By the Feast of St Hilary these were completed and the heralds proclaimed the day and hour of departure.

A long line of carts, carriages and pack animals crossed the Seine bridges, skirting the city, heading north-east into the barren, frozen countryside towards Boulogne. An uncomfortable, jolting journey. The great power of France, banners and pennants fluttering, moved slowly through the bleak countryside, levying purveyance as it went, resting at royal manor houses, palaces, priories and monasteries. Isabella and I journeyed in a carriage stiffened with cushions but still jarringly uncomfortable; we would often change and risk the bracing air by riding soft-eyed palfreys. At night we ate, drank and warmed ourselves, then slept the sleep of exhaustion. It was a hard, coarse winter. The countryside never seemed to change, just rutted track-ways winding past ice-bound fields, meadows and pasturelands, all shrouded by those soaring hedgerows and deep ditches so common in Normandy. The peasants, learning of our approach, gathered their goods and stock and fled, but the seigneurs, priors and abbots had no choice but to smile falsely and welcome our arrival as a great privilege.

Isabella and I kept to ourselves. Now and again we tried to distinguish and name the different plants we noticed or speculate about what would happen in Boulogne. The English envoys were often in attendance but they too became numbed with the sheer grind of the passing days. At last we approached the coast, the countryside giving way to sand-strewn hills and wastelands. A salty, bitter sea wind cut at our faces yet we all rejoiced as the spires and turrets of Boulogne came into sight.

How can I describe it? All of Europe had converged on that port. Philip’s allies from Lorraine, across the Rhine, Spain and elsewhere had gathered to witness a marriage which was to proclaim a lasting peace between England and France. Only one thing marred the enjoyment. Edward of England had not arrived. Despite his promises, there was no news of the English king. Casales, Rossaleti and the rest became highly anxious. We moved into Boulogne; the rest of the court were left to look after themselves, but the royal party lodged in a manor house close to the cathedral of Notre Dame, high in the city within its inner ring of walls. I hated the place, cold and austere, despite the best attempts of the citizens to festoon their streets and alleyways with banners, painted cloths and gaily coloured ribbons. All I truly wanted was for Edward of England to arrive, for the marriage to take place and for us to leave France for ever. A time of remembrance. I’d come so far, yet I was so young. My dreams in the chamber I shared with Isabella were often marred by nightmares, and phantasms, especially about Uncle Reginald seated in that cart, pushed up the ladder at Montfaucon, the noose being put around his neck. I became so agitated I fell ill, and used my own skill at physic to calm my humours.