Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Oh, I loved that graceful, serene garden, a haven from the hate and intrigue which boiled through the priory like an evil mist and, of course, eventually trapped me. I was leaving the herbarium one afternoon when I glimpsed a monk standing in the shadows of the small cloister, half hidden by a pillar. I had been searching the herb plots and couldn’t believe I’d found wormwood growing in one of the beds; I was hastening to speak about it to Brother Ambrose. I left quickly, unexpectedly, and caught my watcher slightly off his guard. He moved swiftly away but stumbled on an uneven pavement, caught the wall and turned in alarm. I was walking swiftly. I glimpsed his face and stopped in shocked surprise. I was certain he was the same man I’d seen in the Oriflamme tavern what now seemed an eternity ago. I would always remember that face, those far-seeing eyes, but surely, I wondered, it couldn’t be? In Paris he had dressed as an English clerk, not a Benedictine monk. Was he truly here in England? I was so startled, so fearful, I sat down on a stone sill. Was he a clerk? Had he glimpsed me leave the tavern with Narrow Face? Had he followed us and seen me stab Crokendon behind the charnel house? By the time I recovered, it was too late to pursue him. I was so confused I eventually dismissed it all as a trick of the eyes.

On that same evening, Isabella and her ladies journeyed into Canterbury as the guests of the mayor and the leading citizens of the city, who had arranged a splendid private banquet at the nearby lordly and spacious tavern, The Chequer of Hope. The priory fell silent except for the melodious chanting of the monks at vespers, the Latin phrases drifting across the priory grounds. I dined alone in the small refectory of the guest house. Casales, Sandewic and the rest had joined the king’s retinue in Canterbury. I stayed in the refectory for a while, reading in the light of a candle a manuscript Brother Ambrose had loaned me. I was about to adjourn when a lay brother whom the rest of the community called Simon Simplex came bustling in, an old man with tufts of hair sticking out, eyes all milky white, spittle drooling from the corner of his mouth.

‘Oh, mistress,’ he waved his hands, ‘Brother Ambrose needs you in the infirmary.’

I returned to my chamber, collected my cloak and made my way along the lonely cloisters and stone-walled passageways. The bells of the city were clanging out, the monks had begun compline, and a phrase caught my imagination, a quotation, put to verse, from the Letter of St Peter, about Satan being a prowling lion, seeking whom he could devour. I should have heeded the warning.

The infirmary was a two-storey building on the far side of the priory, overlooking the physic garden. The infirmary itself stood at the top of very steep steps. Brother Ambrose had confided to me that the founder of the priory had deliberately made them so in order to force people to reflect on whether they were truly ill before attempting to go up. The steps were so steep, Ambrose himself needed help to climb them, while the injured and sick had to be carried up by burly servants.

By the time I reached the infirmary, darkness had fallen. At the top of the steps cresset torches, fixed either side of the yawning doorway, flared beckoningly in the breeze. From the bushes and trees alongside the building came the final cawing of the crows. The hunting call of a fox yipped through the darkness to be immediately answered by the deep, bell-like baying of the priory dogs. I climbed the steps wondering what Brother Ambrose wanted. Simon had disappeared, so I reasoned it must be pressing business, otherwise Ambrose would have joined his brothers in the choir for compline. I had reached the entrance and was about to go along the narrow gallery, lit only by a single torch and a brazier glowing at the far end just outside the infirmary door, when the sacking, coarse and reeking of the soil, was thrown over my head. I struggled and screamed; a blow to the side of my head sent me staggering. I was tugged and pushed, forced back outside to be thrown down those steep, sharp-edged steps. Images of Pourte falling through the darkness made me fight back, but I was confused. I was losing the struggle, my legs felt weak and my assailant must have pushed me close to the top of the steps when my deliverance came.

‘ Au secours! Au secours! ’ The voice was strong and ringing; footsteps sounded as if someone was hurrying up towards us. I fought desperately, determined to move away from the direction of that voice and the cruel topple down the steps. Gasping for air, I crashed into the great door, which had been pulled back, and slid to the ground. I freed myself from the sacking, then glanced quickly to the right. Nothing, only the brazier glowing. I crept like a dog on all fours to the top of the steps and peered down. Again nothing. I staggered to my feet and carefully made my way back to the lonely guest house. Reaching it safely, I dragged myself up the stairs, locking and bolting the chamber door behind me.

For a while I just lay on the floor. I needed to vomit and hurried to the garderobe, a narrow recess sealed off by a door. Once my belly settled, I returned and, using the princess’s hand mirror, scrutinised the blow to the side of my head. I felt a lump, and tender bruising, but no blood. I changed my gown, treated the bruises on my arms and legs, drank a little watered wine and lay down. A fearsome darkness seem to shroud me, scowling at my soul and hanging like a midnight mist around my heart, chilling my courage, weakening my will. Who would attack me? Why? And my saviour, that clear, strong voice ringing out? I drew some heart comfort from that. The wine seeped in, warming my blood, rousing the humours. I must not, would not, weaken. I recalled Uncle Reginald and the short prayer he had composed:

Christe Jesu who made me out of mud,

And did save me through your blood.

Kyrie eleison, Lord have mercy.

I fell asleep and was roused by the return of Isabella, the princess slamming the door behind her against the gaggle of chattering women. She muttered quiet curses but broke off when she saw me and, grasping my hands, made me repeat what had happened. She examined my head, using my own potions to treat the bruise, and also sent for Brother Ambrose and Simon. Both came up owl-eyed, and knelt just within the doorway as my mistress, despite my protests, hotly questioned them. Brother Ambrose shook his head sorrowfully, claiming he had not sent for me. Did not her grace, he continued, realise that, according to the customary of the priory, women were strictly forbidden to enter the infirmary? Moreover, at the time of the attack he, with Brother Simon, who was wandering in his wits, poor soul, had been in the choir’s stalls amongst their brethren. Simon could not help himself but kept muttering ‘beautiful, beautiful’ as he gazed wonderingly at Isabella. He really could not understand her questions but, with the help of Brother Ambrose, he eventually admitted that one of the brothers had given him the message for me. No, he assured us, he could not remember the face; it was dark and the brother had his cowl up against the cold, but he had blessed him in Latin, quoting St Benedict’s greeting. The mysterious monk had claimed he was speaking for Father Prior and Simon had to carry the message to me. I immediately thought of Rossaleti, a former novice in the Benedictine order, and, unlike Casales, Sandewic or Baquelle, fully skilled in Latin. I whispered this to Isabella, then Brother Simon described how this Benedictine had grasped his hands.

‘Rough they were,’ he muttered, ‘like those of a peasant, a breaker of the soil.’

I glanced at Isabella and shrugged. Rossaleti’s hands were softer than mine.

Brother Ambrose clambered to his feet saying he must tell all to the prior. Isabella, at my behest, swore both men to silence, placing a silver piece into each of their hands.