Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

After the monks had gone, Isabella stood motionless in the pool of candlelight.

‘Mathilde,’ she glanced across at me, ‘anyone could have attacked you. When we arrived at The Chequer of Hope, people were coming and going. Gaveston chose to ignore my uncles, Marigny and the rest. Anyone, including him, could have travelled the short distance between the tavern and the priory and perpetrated that attack. It would be easy to borrow a Benedictine robe and stand in the shadows, whilst they’ve all had hours of time to find their way round this priory. Brother Simon is so fey, he would believe anyone or anything.’ She leaned down and stroked my hair. ‘As you did, Mathilde. You should be more prudent, more careful.’

‘Could it have been Gaveston?’ I asked.

‘Possibly,’ Isabella sat down next to me on the bed. ‘Like the rest he is a killer.’

I then told my mistress about the St Agnes painting, swearing that I was sure it was the same one I’d seen at Monsieur de Vitry’s house.

‘It cannot be,’ she whispered. ‘Gaveston was in England at the time, unless he journeyed to Paris secretly.’

I also told her about the man with the far-sighted gaze whom I had glimpsed in the Paris tavern and again here. Was he the same who appeared when I was attacked at the infirmary? In the end I had to concede we were chasing shadows, so Isabella turned to the doings of the court.

‘My husband will not be joining me.’ She rose and walked towards the window. ‘And I will not be joining him, at least until the French have left. Subtle games, devious ploys, eh, Mathilde, but how, where and when will it all end?’

‘In bloody mayhem and death.’ The words spilled out before I could stop them.

‘Yes, Mathilde, I think you are right.’

We left the priory shortly afterwards, journeying with all speed towards London. Edward, acting as fickle as ever, abruptly announced that the coronation would have to be postponed. This was ill received by the French. Isabella continued to be largely ignored by her husband. Salt was rubbed into the wounded pride of the French by Gaveston openly displaying in his own carts and pavilions the wedding presents given to Isabella by her kinsmen. Sandewic and Baquelle were sent ahead to prepare both the Tower and the city for the royal arrival; Casales and Rossaleti were left to look after us. The dark-faced, liquid-eyed clerk admitted he was in a solemn mood, slightly homesick for France, even though he was kept busy preparing the queen’s chancery and other departments of her household. He provided amusement with his constant moans and groans about the cold until Casales had to remind him that the weather in Paris was no different. Once Sandewic had left, Casales grew more relaxed, confessing he found the old Constable of the Tower a difficult companion, with his constant muttering about the king and Lord Gaveston. Casales attached himself more to me. I would catch him slumped in the saddle, his one good hand holding the reins, his sharp eyes in that severe face under its crop of hair scrutinising me carefully. He noticed the bruising on the side of my head and asked how I came by it. I replied that I had fallen, so he pressed me no further.

Casales repeated the chatter of the court as well as describing the various palaces and the royal manor houses at King’s Langley, Woodstock and elsewhere. He was also eager to see London again, describing it to myself and Isabella. ‘London is like a rectangle, with six main gates all dating from Roman times,’ he explained. ‘In the south-east stands the Tower overlooking the Thames, the Conqueror’s great fortress, Sandewic’s fief. It was built to overawe Londoners with its central donjon. The line of city defence runs north to Aldgate, west to Bishopsgate and Cripplegate then down through Newgate to the Thames. It encloses about a hundred and thirty acres and houses every type of sinner under the sun. What Paris has, London possesses in abundance: ale houses, stews, taverns, inns and brothels, tradesmen, nobles, merchants, clerks and scholars.’ He shook his head. ‘Everything that crawls or walks under the sun can be found in London. If the devil does brisk business, so does God. There’s St Paul’s, its steeple packed with relics against lightning, and one hundred and ten other churches, though for every priest there is a prostitute, for every monk a felon, and for every friar a thief. As Sandewic will tell you, the city gallows at the Elms in Smithfield are always busy.’

A few days later we saw London for ourselves. At Blackheath we were met by the mayor, council and leading citizens of the city, hundreds of them dressed in scarlet gowns with fur-tipped hoods. They were ranged like troops in order of their guilds, each under its own colourful standard emblazoned with its particular devices and insignia. These led us north into London and across the long bridge spanning the Thames. Beneath us the river rushed dizzyingly. Barges and boats, all splendidly arrayed, sailed back and forth in an extraordinary display of billowing decorative cloths, blaring trumpets and noisy cheering. On either side of the bridge ranged houses and shops, with gaps in between for the great rubbish heaps, the lay stalls, now cleaned and empty. The pikes jutting up from the rails of the bridge had been cleared of their rotting severed heads and were festooned with coloured streamers dancing wildly in the breeze.

As we left the bridge, the waiting crowds spread everywhere, packed at least twenty deep. The roar of their approval echoed up to the heavens as they greeted their king and his bride. Isabella was garbed in gorgeous robes of scarlet and silver, her golden hair circled by a jewelled coronet, her shoulders warmed by a satin robe edged with costly fur. She rode a milk-white palfrey, accompanied on her right by Edward, clothed in a scarlet and gold surcoat over a snow-white linen shirt, a cape of glory around his shoulders, a jewelled crown on his head. The king rode his father’s prancing black destrier Bayard; both it and Isabella’s mount were decorated with gleaming red-brown leather harness studded with precious stones. Golden spurs adorned the king’s heels, whilst Isabella’s stirrups of solid silver, a gift from the city of Canterbury, glittered in the winter sun.

Onlookers later described them as Arthur and Guinevere entering Camelot. In a sense they were correct, for like that tale, Edward and Isabella’s story ended in tragedy, but that was for the future, further down the roll of years. On that February morning all of London had turned out to greet their handsome young king and his lovely bride who rode by like a fairy queen, so beautiful, like a mythical lady from high romance. I was all agog for the sights as I’d heard so much about London. On that day I caught the vibrancy of a bustling, teeming city in its springtime vigour, with each of its wards trying to surpass its rivals and so transform London into a great festival ground.

We entered the city proper, the turrets and soaring donjon of the Tower rising to our right, then turned to advance in glory through London’s streets to give thanks at Westminster. We passed splendid mansions, the homes of the merchant princes, their black beams and pink plaster hung with cloths of every colour, brilliant banners and glorious standards. Just off the bridge we paused before a symbolically constructed tower. On the top stood a giant holding an axe in his right hand as champion of the city, and in his left, as porter, the keys of the gates. From halberds jutting out from the top of the tower hung mantles displaying the royal arms of England and France. The giant pointed to these and launched into a hymn of praise to his new king and queen.

A short while later we processed up Cornhill to the music of trumpets, horns and clarions, past mock castles built of wood and covered with stiffened cloth painted to look like white marble and green jasper. At the top of the tallest reared a silver lion, exquisitely carved, a shield displaying the royal arms around its neck, in one paw a sceptre, in the other a sword. Splendid pavilions also lined the route, the flaps of their openings pulled back to display images of St George, St Edmund and St Edward the Confessor. In other ceremonial tents boy choirs, dressed like angels in white and gold, sprigs of genet and laurel in their hair, carolled vibrantly, ‘Isabella, Regina Anglorum, Gloria Laus et Honor’ — to Isabella, Queen of the English, Glory, Praise and Honour.