Paul Doherty: The Cup of Ghosts

When my uncle shook me awake, it was dark. He was leaning over me, face close to mine.

‘Get up,’ he urged. ‘Get up now.’

I was almost dragged to my feet. My uncle had brought my cloak and belt with a dagger in its wooden scabbard. He made me wrap the belt about me. I protested. I said I needed to visit the latrine. He laughed strangely and pushed me out of the chamber down the stairs. By the time I reached the bottom, I’d clasped the cloak securely. The cold night air woke me roughly. My uncle thrust a piece of parchment and a bag of coins into my hands, then gestured frantically towards the narrow gate leading to the alleyway beyond. A cresset torch lashed to a pole, thrust into the soft mud between the cobbles, provided some light for the ostlers and grooms flitting like ghosts across the yard. I turned. Uncle stood concealed half in the shadows. At last, in the flickering flame of that torch, I glimpsed his terror. He’d aged, his face was drawn and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. He kept muttering to himself, wary of a door closing, a dog barking or strangers slipping through the darkness. He took my hand and pressed it against the bag of jingling coins.

‘You are to go now, Mathilde.’

‘Why, Uncle?’

‘Don’t ask.’ He moved his face closer. ‘For the love of God, Mathilde, don’t ask, just go. Take what I have given you. The gate of Saint Denis is still open. You are to enter the city. Make your way to the house of Simon de Vitry near the Grand Pont. You know him; I’ve sent you on errands to his house. He’s a cloth merchant, a banker and a man I trust. Do exactly what he tells you.’ He pushed me towards the gate, thrusting me into the alleyway.

‘Go, go,’ he hissed through the darkness. ‘Go now, Mathilde, before they come.’

Something about his tone, those words. . I caught his terror. He flapped his hands, a gesture I had never seen him make, indicating that I must run. I wanted to stay, discover who ‘they’ were. Something about him, just standing there in the poor light, the torch spluttering behind him, the way his shoulders hunched, his hands flapping like the wings of a pinioned bird. . I turned and slipped into the shadows.

Eternity has passed since that hideous night but I remember it well. I ran blindly through the streets, tears stinging my eyes. On the one hand, like any young woman, I had a grievance against my uncle; my resentment festered. Yet I’d caught the smell of terror, the rank odour of fear, and I wondered what was to happen. I recall stopping on the corner of a square. Above me a statue of the patron saint of that quarter gazed blindly down in the light of the candle burning beneath it. I stared back and tried to recall what had happened that day. We’d arrived at the tavern early that morning. Uncle had left me, gone into the city and returned a stranger; that’s right, his manner had changed, distracted, agitated, bribing the landlord for this or that. One thing I did notice: he’d removed his Templar ring and any other sign that he belonged to that order.

I heard a sound and glanced around. Archers dressed in the blue and gold royal livery, gleaming sallets on their heads, were gathering across the square, spilling out of the side streets. Knights in half-armour made their way out on snorting destriers, preceded by footmen carrying flambeaux. The air filled with the clatter of rasping hooves, the creak of leather, the jingle of harness. Beneath all this the ominous clatter of weapons, swords being unsheathed, shields being slung, orders rapped out. Dull, threatening sounds seeping through the smoky air like a foul mist. Across the square beggars had torched a bonfire of rubbish in front of a church. The leaping flames revealed the tympanum above the doorway; a vivid depiction of Christ coming on the Last Day, escorted by angels with fiery swords to repel the demon lords of the air. Christ the Judge seemed to be coming for me!

I ran like a whippet through the undergrowth, down lanes and runnels, the half-timbered houses leaning over as if conspiring to conceal the starlit sky. I slipped on a mound of dirt, drove away yapping mongrels, whining beggars and screeching cats. Jesus Miserere! I was innocent! I was a maid hurrying through the hideous runnels of Paris! A thousand nightmares lurked in the shadows, but knowledge inspires fear. I had no real experience, not then, of how vulnerable a woman truly is when protection is withdrawn. The sons of men are also the sons of Cain: ‘ In hominum mundo, lupus homini lupus — in the world of men, man is wolf to man;’ but to women he is a ravening beast! True, some hearts sing a noble hymn, but it is often hidden beneath the raucous howling of the pack. On that night I was an innocent, fleeing miraculously through the pens of countless savage predators. Perhaps an unseen angel flew before me with a face of fire and a flaming sword. I was also young and I was armed. The dark shadows slipping out of doorways slunk back. An unnamed terror drove me on, lacing my face with sweat, soaking my body in its icy coldness.

Thank God I knew Paris! Twisting, turning like a hare, I reached La Rue des Moines leading down to the Grand Pont and the great stone-built house of Simon de Vitry, the mercer. It stood in its own grounds. The postern gate was open. I flung myself through, knocking aside the sleepy-eyed, ancient night porter. Across the grass I flew like a speeding arrow; the kitchen door was bolted. I ran around the side of the house, gasping and cursing, up the main steps, grasped the iron chain and pulled until the bell tolled like a tocsin through the house. The patter of running feet echoed faintly. In a window to my right a light flared as a candle-lantern was lit. Chains were dropped, bolts drawn, and the door swung open. I recognised Monsieur Simon. He gazed at me in surprise, then beckoned me in. I slipped through the door and gave way to my exhaustion, slumping down to the ground, fighting for breath. The merchant, a kindly man with the face of a genial monk, crouched next to me, pulling his winter robe close about. His breath smelt of wine, his fingers were cold, his eyes anxious.

‘What is the matter, Mathilde?’ he asked. ‘Are you in trouble? Were you attacked?’

I handed over the parchment my uncle had given me, but even as Monsieur Simon took it, I cursed my own stupidity. I wished I’d stopped and read it. The merchant walked across the hallway to where a solitary candle flared on a table beneath a picture of St Anthony exorcising demons. In the shifting light these fiends of hell sprang to life. Monsieur Simon picked the candle up and, turning his back on me, walked into his chancery. I glanced at the doorway, the light beneath it strengthened as more candles were lit. A short while later the merchant came back as agitated as I was, fingers fluttering, wetting his lips. He knelt down beside me.

‘Mathilde, ma petite , you must come, you must come.’ He half dragged me to my feet and pushed me across into the chancery. The piece of parchment was gone. Logs crackled in the sullen red heat of the fire. Whatever Uncle had written this merchant had destroyed. He sat me down in a chair and brought a jug of ale tasting musty and tangy, then roused his household, two servants and a maid, whilst the chancery clerk, his trusted steward, was brought into the room. I was asked to stay outside on a bench. The chancery door was locked and bolted. I heard whispers, raised voices, cupboards, coffers and chests being opened as if the merchant had abruptly decided to make a full tally of what he was owed. The clerk was dispatched into the night. Only then did Monsieur Simon, at least an hour after I had arrived, join me on the bench. He gazed at me strangely, as if weighing my worth.

‘You’d best come with me.’

The house was opulent, with a fine built-in staircase. He took me up past two furnished galleries to a fetid garret, very similar to the one at the tavern. He ushered me in and sat for a while on a stool staring sorrowfully at me.