Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

Eventually I could run no further. My body was clammy with sweat, pain shot through my side, my legs and feet ached heavy as lead, my eyes were cloudy with tears. We turned down a track-way. Demontaigu pulled me through a rotting lych-gate into an overgrown cemetery of crumbling crosses and tangled undergrowth. We raced up towards the chapel door. Demontaigu kicked it open and we threw ourselves into the mildewed porch, taking shelter in a recess near the devil’s door. We crouched between the baptismal font and the wall, fighting for breath, wiping the sweat from our faces. Demontaigu remained tense, straining like a lurcher for any sign of pursuit. At first he just sat sprawled, legs out, head down. I recovered first, my life-breath slowing. I stared at the crude drawings on the walls, a popular fresco to instruct the faithful about the ladder of salvation to the other world. I remember that so clearly; it suited my own mood after such a furious flight. In the righthand corner of the picture stood Eden’s tree of knowledge with the serpent wound about. Above this a bridge of spikes across which cheating tradesmen were being shepherded by a cohort of demons. Below that a usurer being tortured by fire. In the centre of the picture Jacob’s ladder, with souls climbing towards Christ. Some reached the top but the rest were snatched by demons for a grisly array of tortures in hell: a dog gnawed a woman’s hand because of her concern for it rather than the poor; a drunken pilgrim was imprisoned in a bottle; demons boiled murderers in a frothy cauldron; a griffin-like creature chewed the feet of lewd dancers. I got up to study it more closely, trying to distract myself. My chest still hurt, my belly pitched. Eventually I ran out into the wasteland to ease myself, the cloying cold chilling my sweat. I washed my hands in a pool of ice and returned to the church.

‘What is this place?’ I asked.

‘The Chapel of Dead Bones,’ Demontaigu replied, standing with his back to me staring at the wall painting. ‘A great cemetery once covered the entire area. This was built as a chantry chapel where visiting priests could sing the requiem for the dead who throng here.’ He turned, beckoning me forward.

I slammed the door behind me. Demontaigu opened one of the saddlebags, took out some bread wrapped in linen, broke it and offered me some.

‘Eat,’ he urged. ‘The bread is dry, it will settle your belly. Eat, wise woman, or I shall quote the old saying, medice sane teipsum — physician heal thyself.’

We squatted down, sharing the bread. Demontaigu was now more composed, studying me carefully.

‘You’re a priest,’ I asked, ‘yet you killed a man?’

‘The right of self-defence,’ he replied, ‘is enshrined in canon law as well as the rule St Bernard gave our order. The assassin was an enemy of our order. I did not ask him to give up his life.’

‘You are a Templar priest?’

‘Yes, wanted dead or alive. I come from the preceptory of Amiens.’ He continued evenly, ‘I am the son of a French knight and an English lady. When I was a boy,’ he bit a mouthful of bread, ‘I fell seriously ill. My mother, God rest her soul, made pilgrimage, crawled on her knees up the nave to the statue of Our Lady of Chartres. She vowed that if my life was spared I’d become a priest. My father was a warrior; he was opposed to that, as was I,’ Demontaigu laughed softly, ‘until I met Jacques de Molay and your uncle Reginald de Deyncourt; good men, noble Templars, they are, they will be, welcomed by le bon seigneur as martyrs of the faith.’

‘I saw you in the tavern Oriflamme.’

‘As I saw you,’ Demontaigu pointed back, ‘with that English clerk whom you killed. There again, if you hadn’t,’ he took another mouthful, ‘I would have done the same. He too beckoned up his own fate. Death always responds.’

‘Why were you there?’

Demontaigu swallowed the bread. ‘Listen,’ he began quietly, ‘and then you will know at least some of the truth. Yes, I was in that tavern. I was also in the priory.’

‘Who attacked me?’

‘I don’t know. Look at you, Mathilde, with your mop of black hair and your clear eyes. Your uncle said you had a comely face. He was wrong. I think you are beautiful, but there again, I’m a knight. I know the courtly ways of troubadours.’ His smile faded. ‘But no more song. Now, Mathilde, I have vowed on the sacred face to exact God’s justice, His vengeance on the destroyers of my order.’ He paused. ‘Your uncle, Reginald de Deyncourt, was a good friend, a comrade. I fought with him at Acre when the sky turned to fire and the ground swirled in blood, but that was in my youth. I am now in my thirty-sixth year. I returned from Outremer to France to become henchman to Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of our order; when he rose, I rose with him. I know about his dealings with that silver-haired, blue-eyed demon Philip of France.’ He chewed on the bread.

‘Do you know why he attacked your order?’

‘No, not the true reason. I truly don’t understand it, except for one thing.’ Demontaigu waved a finger. ‘On one occasion de Molay referred to what he called “The Enterprise of England”, but then the sword fell. Templars were arrested all over France. I was fortunate; de Molay often sent me as a messenger to our houses in Aragon and elsewhere. There was no real description of me. I could hide under my mother’s name, be it as a friar or an English clerk. I always keep to the shadows.’

‘And Monsieur de Vitry?’

‘He was frightened, Mathilde, a good man, honourable and wise; your uncle chose well. Monsieur de Vitry’s assistance to you was invaluable. He was correct, the safest place for you was the French court. However,’ Demontaigu wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, ‘Monsieur de Vitry felt guilty. He also felt very frightened. God knows what he was doing. He once came to me and asked to be shriven. I agreed and heard his confession. I can’t tell you what he said, that is kept under the secret seal, but he was very fearful for the future.’

‘Why did he feel guilty?’

‘He felt guilty about you. He described you as a dove being left amongst the hawks; he wanted to do something more. I offered my protection, hence his letter.’

‘So why was he murdered?’

‘Again, I don’t know. He asked me to look after you, which I did. I followed you to that tavern, I saw what happened to the English clerk, then you fled.’

‘I went to de Vitry’s house.’

‘And you found him murdered?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But I know nothing else.’

‘Neither do I.’ Demontaigu breathed out. ‘I did hear of the massacre. I offered a mass for all their souls.’

‘And who was responsible?’

‘A sinister mystery!’ Demontaigu snapped. ‘I became frightened for my own safety. Philip has hired bounty-hunters, the Noctales, the men who walk by night. They hunt other men down for the price on their heads. The Noctales are a guild to be found near the Church of St Sulpice in Paris. They are led by a Portuguese, Alexander of Lisbon.’ Demontaigu shrugged. ‘I’ve come across the type before. I’ve even been one of them, a messenger sent by the Templars to claim unresolved debts.’

‘And the Noctales are hunting you here?’

‘Of course, as they might be hunting you. Philip is determined to seize all Templars and their associates. Mathilde, Marigny and his demons may know your true identity. If so, they hope you will lead them to other Templars in hiding. The Noctales will follow, as they always do, as night follows day. They swarm like ants yet they know the law. They’ll not touch a subject of the English king, but you, me, those who’ve fled from Aragon, Castile, France or anywhere else are legitimate quarry. They’ll try to take me alive, but if not,’ he stretched his neck, ‘they’ll take my head, pickle it in a tun, find some proof for me being a Templar and trot back to Philip and Marigny for their reward. They are also searching for Templar wealth, hidden caskets of jewels, gold and silver.’