Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

‘You want to see the prisoner?’ Sandewic glanced at me in disbelief.

‘My mistress has demanded it. Her grace wishes to assure herself that this madman is what he acts to be.’

‘Could he be any other?’

‘Sir Ralph,’ I replied, ‘that is why I wish to see him.’

The constable bit his thumb, head moving from side to side. ‘Oh, follow me,’ he grumbled.

We crossed the inner ward, through a doorway of the Wakefield Tower and down the dirt-strewn steps lit by cresset torches. The assassin was confined to a small cell with a grille high in the door. Sandewic opened this and placed a torch in its holder. The prisoner lay crouched in a corner, his brown robe all ragged, his face bruised and filthy, eyes gleaming through the dirt. As soon as Sandewic closed the door behind us, the man leapt to his feet, manacles jangling. He stretched out as far as the chains would allow, then began to dance a fool’s jig, leaping up and down, slapping the green-slimed walls before staggering back. He sang some moonstruck song about the fields during the time of bat-flight before sinking to his knees, joining his hands and muttering a garbled version of the Paternoster.

‘Insane,’ Sandewic growled. ‘Moonstruck, out of his wits, but mon seigneur the king has judged him. He is to hang tomorrow just before noon on the common gallows at St Katharine’s Wharf.’

The madman’s head came up; just for a heartbeat I saw the shift in his eyes.

‘Mad,’ I agreed, ‘crazed. I knew a man caught in a similar mood, Gaston de Preux,’ I said loudly, ‘that was his name. He believed he was a priest. I did all I could for him. .’

‘Pretty lady.’ The prisoner stared up at me. I moved so I was between him and Sandewic. The mad look was replaced by a stare of sheer desperation. ‘Pretty lady,’ the voice mimicked the madness, ‘I need the Consolamentum — I need the cross.’

I leaned down, ignoring Sandewic’s protest. ‘I shall see what I can do.’

Sandewic took down the cresset, unlocked the door and ushered me out.

‘Sir Ralph,’ I forced a smile, ‘let me give the poor wretch some consolation.’ I took the Ave beads from my purse and, before Sandewic could object, slipped back into the cell and crouched before the prisoner.

‘Gaston?’ I whispered. He nodded.

‘Tell Bertrand,’ he murmured, ‘Consolamentum — I look for the cross.’

I dropped the Ave beads into his hands and fled the dungeon. Outside Sandewic stared at me curiously, murmured that I was strange and locked the door. As we left the Tower, Sandewic tugged at my cloak.

‘Mathilde,’ he drew me close, ‘I do not know what you are doing. I keep a still tongue and watch.’ He peered up at the grey sky. ‘That prisoner, I’ve met enough madmen, I am beginning to wonder if he is as witless as he pretends.’

I leaned closer and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Sir Ralph, what is now in the dark will one day be revealed in the full light of day. I need Owain Ap Ythel again.’

A short while later, with the Welshman full of questions about what had happened earlier in the day, we left the Tower and made our way down to the Prospect of Whitby.

The tavern stood on a corner of an alleyway looking out on to the quayside and the grim three-branched scaffold from which hung the corpses of river pirates. According to placards fastened to their lifeless hands, the three thieves had robbed the Church of St Botolph’s in Billingsgate of a pyx and two candlesticks. They’d been hanged at dawn and swung eerily in the stiff breeze, creaking and twisting on their oiled ropes. I stared at them, thinking about Gaston, and walked into the spacious tap room. It was a pleasant, welcoming place with a low ceiling, its timber beams blackened with smoke from which hung hams, cheeses and freshly baked bread in wire cages. A communal trestle-board dominated the room, stretching from the barrels on either side of the counters to the far wall; other small tables stood within the window enclosures. The floor was cleanly swept and strewn with supple green rushes, the air rich and savoury from a leg of pork, basted with juices, roasting above the fire. A tap boy, I have good reason to remember him, tousle-haired and gap-toothed, waved me to a table. Ap Ythel stood at the doorway, staring curiously in. I ignored the boy and went across to the counter where the tavern-master, a beanpole of a man almost covered by a heavy leather apron, was filling tankards for fishermen who’d just sold their day’s catch. I asked about Master Arnaud the bowyer and said I’d return at the hour of vespers. The taverner looked at me and glanced heavenwards.

‘Bordeaux!’ he exclaimed. ‘The best Bordeaux? Of course we have it, mistress, do come and see a tun.’ He held a hand up. ‘Unbroached, fresh from Gascony, come, come, your lady will be pleased!’

I had no choice but to follow him into the back of the tavern and down the cellar steps. All the time he kept chattering about ‘the best of Bordeaux’. He reached the bottom, threw open the cellar door and ushered me in. I waited whilst he lit tallow candles in their lantern horns.

‘Smugglers used this,’ he explained, moving a mock barrel to reveal the door behind. He knocked, the door opened and Demontaigu stepped out. The tavern-master bowed and left the cellar. The Templar moved into the dim pool of light.

‘I knew you’d come,’ he murmured. ‘I told Master Thomas to bring you down here immediately. Ah well, Gaston is taken, he’d shaven his head so I did not recognise him.’ Demontaigu’s eyes searched my face. ‘We came so close.’

I told him how Gaston was acting frenetic, witless, that he wanted the Consolamentum and would look for the cross when he was hanged at noon the following day.

‘He wants to be shriven,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘God help him. He’s acting the fool so as not to be questioned. Look, when you go back,’ he urged, ‘send him a message, that you’ll find him a crucifix. Gaston will understand.’

‘And here?’ I asked. ‘You are safe?’

‘The tavern-master’s son was a Templar squire in Bordeaux; he is no Judas man.’ Demontaigu walked up the cellar and brought back a small cask; the seal on the bung proclaimed it to be Bordeaux, from a vineyard close to St Sardos. ‘Give this to your mistress.’

‘She knows what you meant,’ I replied, taking the cask, ‘when you asked me to reflect like a nun: you want to do the same as me, shelter in her household.’

I looked at him so earnestly, Demontaigu laughed and kissed me on the brow.

‘I am a priest, Mathilde, yet you look at me. .’ He shook his head. ‘Tell your mistress I will be her loyal clerk; I’ll be true to her as long as she is true to me.’ He kissed my brow again. ‘Go, Mathilde, and do not come back here tomorrow.’

Of course I ignored him. I returned to the Tower nervous and agitated. If Demontaigu wanted to be present at the hanging, that might make him vulnerable. Isabella agreed. Demontaigu could enter her household as a clerk, but he would have to survive the dangers of the hanging day. If Marigny and the others suspected the truth, if they, like Sandewic, began to believe the assassin was not the idiot he pretended, the Secreti and the Noctales would swarm like ants.

The next day I left the Tower, again accompanied by the Welsh captain, now accustomed to such duties. He gave me all the gossip. Apparently Isabella had sent the prisoner a crucifix the previous evening. Early that morning a summary court comprising of Sandewic, Casales and Baquelle had been appointed by the king as justices exercising the full powers of Oyer and Terminer. The court had sat in St Peter’s ad Vincula but the prisoner had refused to plead; he’d gibbered and moaned before starting his wild dance. He did not deny the attempt on Marigny so he was condemned and handed over to Casales for punishment.