Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Isabella retired, crawling between the linen sheets, pulling the blankets over her head, while I drew the curtains of the bed about her. I sat for a while before the brazier, warming myself, half sleeping, as I reflected on what Isabella had said. One fact was emerging: Pourte, Wenlok, Casales, Sandewic and Baquelle were confidants of the king, and had all advised him not to advance Gaveston. I remembered what Isabella had said about her new husband. Could Edward be responsible for those two deaths? For dispatching those assassins? There again, I’d learnt that others in England were opposed to the French marriage; perhaps they had had a hand in the mischief? I realised I could make little sense of it. I recalled my visit to the Rue des Ecrivains, that strange empty chamber and the man who’d been sheltering there. He’d disappeared so quickly and was apparently waiting for me in England. Was he the same man I’d glimpsed in the Oriflamme tavern? Was he involved in these mysteries?

I was about to retire when Sandewic and Casales arrived. I didn’t have the heart to dismiss them so I entertained them downstairs in the small parlour. One of the Welsh bowmen had built up the fire and served us some scraps from the buttery. Both men brought news. Tomorrow the English would leave Boulogne for Wissant. We were to be up before dawn. Outside I could already hear the porters and carters bringing out the wagons, checking the sumpter ponies.

‘It’s finished!’ Sandewic sighed in relief, stretching back his head as if to relieve the tension in his neck. ‘And now back to England.’

‘And Gaveston?’ Casales interjected.

‘ Mais oui! ’ I smiled. ‘And Gaveston.’

‘Mathilde, your mistress may have her part to play,’ Sandewic declared. ‘The problem with Edward of England is that he is bereft of good counsel. Most of the leading earls of his kingdom are as young as he: Guy of Warwick, Thomas of Lancaster. They are also hot-tempered and fiery-natured; they see themselves as the king’s natural councillors, his advisers by birth.’

‘So they naturally resent Gaveston.’

‘They hate him!’

‘But surely,’ I declared, ‘the old king’s councillors still play their part?’

‘Gone,’ Sandewic replied wearily. ‘Robert of Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury, is old and still in exile. Robert Baldock, Bishop of London, the former chancellor, is in disgrace because he too opposed Gaveston and the king, as did Walter Langton, former treasurer, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. Both bishops have been stripped of their offices and possessions and now remain under house arrest. Others are old or frail. The council chamber is empty, Gaveston alone has the king’s ear, and that,’ Sandewic pointed a finger at me, ‘is dangerous!’ He paused, collecting his thoughts, and stared up at the ceiling. ‘What is even more perilous,’ he added almost in a whisper, ‘is what Philip of France intends. What does he plot in that subtle teeming mind?’ He glanced out of the corner of his eye at me. ‘Oh, he can exchange the kiss of peace and call Edward his “fair son”, but Philip of France dreams his dreams. He is ready to summon up the ghosts of the past!’

When I questioned Sandewic on that, be became taciturn and withdrawn. A pity; the old constable’s remark was a key to these mysteries.

We left for Wissant the following morning, Edward processing out of Boulogne with very little ceremony, a studied insult to Philip. Isabella acted likewise, dispatching a mere messenger to make her farewells, saying she was concerned that she take everything with her. The long line of English carts, carriages and sumpter ponies poured out of Boulogne with standards flying. On either side of the column trudged Welsh bowmen in their steel morions and leather jerkins, whilst further out, light horsemen scouted the way before us. Isabella could have ridden in a litter; instead she bestrode a palfrey, often galloping up and down the long column of soldiery offering sweetmeats and smiles of encouragement. She did this unabashed, golden hair falling down, gown hitched up to display the froth of skirt and pretty ankles beneath. The troops loved it and cheered her loudly. Edward, riding at the head of the column, sent back his thanks to his charmante but kept to the fore, setting the speed of our march.

It proved an uneventful but uncomfortable journey. Nothing singular occurred except for Sandewic and Casales detaching themselves from the column, riding out with a small escort of mounted archers to explore the countryside. At first I wondered if they suspected an ambush. On their return at night they came and sat beside the roaring fire, muttering among themselves. I questioned them closely. Sandewic’s reply was off-hand. I snapped at both of them that I could understand any danger, especially in France. Sandewic almost leaned into the fire, so chilled was he after his arduous ride.

‘Did you notice?’ he whispered, and glanced around, but there was no one; Isabella had returned to her pavilion.

‘Did I notice what?’ I retorted.

‘For the love of heaven, the roads!’ Sandewic exclaimed. ‘They are repaired, hedges cut back, streams forded with fresh bridges, peasants hurrying away at our approach. .’

‘And?’ I insisted.

‘Philip himself is preparing to come here,’ Sandewic declared. ‘We found outposts manned; a line of beacons runs along the coast. Villagers talk of troops being dispatched to ports further to the east, of boats and barges being collected.’

‘Preparations for the royal wedding?’ I asked.

‘Possible,’ Sandewic grumbled, gesturing into the dark. ‘I’ve informed the king, but all he’s interested in is Wissant.’

Edward’s desire to reach the port was understandable. The countryside between Boulogne and the coast was desolate, frozen wasteland offering little protection against the biting sea winds. We reached the port the following day and gazed down at The Margaret of Westminster and its escort riding at anchor. The royal ship was magnificent, a great masted cog with high stern and jutting prow. It was my first encounter with the sea and I soon understood the sailor’s prayer, ‘From perilous seas Lord deliver us’. The journey out by barge to the war-cog was the beginning of the terrors. The powerful, swift swell of the heavy grey water, the salting spray, the blasting wind, the dangerous climb up the side on to the ever-moving deck cannot easily be forgotten. Our embarkation was hasty and rough. The king was resolute on an evening departure. He was first aboard, striding the deck, his cloak thrown back, strong booted legs spread against the sway of the ship. I passed him, the closest I’d been, as the princess hurried to her cabin beneath the stern. He winked at me boyishly. An open, very handsome face with a straight nose, full lips, the golden hair matted by sea spray; his blue eyes, however, were cold and angry as if the soul behind seethed in fury.

Once Isabella was settled, I went and stood beneath the canopy near the steps leading up to the stern. Edward was still pacing up and down, roaring at the captain, dragging the latecomers, including a bedraggled, terrified Rossaleti, over the side, almost throwing him on to the deck. Sailors and servants were sent staggering as the king shoved and pushed, bellowing orders at the captain, who retorted with a stream of curses, gesturing at the sky and the shore. Edward shook his fist at him. The captain hurried down from the poop, screaming invective and waving his hands. Edward shoved the man up against the mast, talking to him fiercely, the crew pattering by them, all unconcerned, bare feet slapping the soaking deck. The captain replied just as furiously. Edward turned away, hands on hips, swaying with the motion of the ship. Then he turned back roaring with laughing, grabbed the captain by the jerkin, dragged him forward and thrust a handful of coins at him. The captain had won the argument. We waited until our escort ships were fully ready before the Margaret turned, dipped its sails three times in honour of the Trinity and made its way out into the open sea.