Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

I studied those paintings carefully. Little wonder St Peter ad Vincula was Sandewic’s ‘Cup of Ghosts’. It held images not only of the past but also of a possible future. I was still deep in conversation with the author of the Great Wonder when Demontaigu entered the chapel, beckoning me over.

‘Rossaleti,’ he whispered. ‘He’s been found dead, his corpse dragged from the Thames. Casales sent a nuncius from Westminster; he believes Rossaleti was trying to reach the French cog of war.’

We left immediately and took a royal barge rowed by master oarsmen; these easily negotiated the rushing terrors between the arches of London Bridge, pulling swiftly through the chilly mist. We berthed at the King’s Steps and hurried up across the palace ground, still held fast in a hard hoar frost. Bells tolled and clanged. Monks flitted like ghosts along paths and corridors. Royal servitors hurried out of doors eager to complete tasks so they could return to the roaring fires within. We learnt that Rossaleti’s corpse, because of the celebrations in the palace, had been removed to the death table in the mortuary chapel. Accompanied by Demontaigu, I hurried across the abbey precincts, through the chilly cloisters and down past the chapter house, its statues, carvings and gargoyles glaring stonily down at me. Flambeaux fixed on holders provided light. As I passed the heavy door of the pyx chamber, I noticed what looked like a dirty cloth pinned against it.

‘What is that?’ I approached and touched the leathery strips.

‘Human skin.’

I whirled round. The monk had his face hidden deep in his cowl, the light only catching his sharp nose and bloodless lips.

‘I am sorry.’ He came forward. ‘I’m Brother Stephen, the infirmarian. That,’ he pointed to the door, ‘is human skin. Richard de Puddlicott’s to be precise. He tried to rob the king’s treasure,’ the infirmarian jabbed a finger at the paving stones, ‘held in the crypt below. He was captured, taken out in a wheelbarrow to the gallows in Tothill Lane, hanged and skinned.’ He smiled. ‘ Sic transit gloria mundi — thus passes the way of the world. Can I help you?’

I explained about Rossaleti. The monk nodded and took us into the infirmary. Rossaleti’s corpse was laid out on a table in the mortuary chapel beyond, a bleak, ill-lit room. The infirmarian lit the purple corpse candles in their black iron spigots around the table and pulled back the sheet. Rossaleti had been stripped naked, washed, oiled and anointed, but the cadaver still reeked of the slime of the river, his soaked black hair fanning out, his olive skin a liverish grey, eyes half open, despite the resurrection coins placed there. I said a prayer for his soul, then examined his corpse.

‘There’s no mark or bruise,’ the monk declared, his voice echoing harshly. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘Any sign of a potion or philtre?’

‘No trace of poison,’ the infirmarian replied, ‘nothing but the stench of the river and the faint, sweet smell of wine. It appears he took a barge from Westminster.’ The monk shrugged. ‘He suffered an accident.’

‘I am trying to find the boatman.’

I turned round. Casales stood in the doorway. He strode across.

‘I’ve been down to the King’s Steps.’ He nodded at the corpse. ‘A fisherman found him floating in the river, bobbing like a black feather on its surface. Apparently a wherryman is also missing.’ Casales widened his red-rimmed eyes. ‘An accident,’ he muttered. ‘God knows!’

‘But he feared the river.’

‘I know,’ Casales sighed, ‘but not enough to stop him trying to reach that French cog on a fogbound day.’ He rubbed his face.

‘Rossaleti was not a member of the secret council?’ I asked.

‘True, and I know what you’re thinking, Mathilde,’ Casales glanced narrow-eyed at me, ‘but I believe it was an accident.’

‘The queen,’ I emphasised the word, ‘will want to know why he was going there; after all, he was her seal holder.’

‘Madam,’ Casales made a mock bow, ‘I will inform her grace as soon as I discover that myself.’

He left shortly afterwards. Demontaigu murmured that he did not wish to be seen too much with me and followed. I wandered back across the frost-coated grounds into the palace. I returned to the entrance of the small hall where I had stood when I first arrived at Westminster and recalled so vividly my entering de Vitry’s house. I opened the door, went in and stood for a while, pretending that this was Monsieur de Vitry’s home. I was the assassin, I had a crossbow. A servant walked in front of me, another was coming out from a chamber to my right, a maid was tripping down the stairs. None of them had realised murder had arrived. I pretended to loose one bolt; the servant in front went down. The man to my right was staring; he too was killed, yet that maid coming downstairs? She must have heard, why didn’t she turn and run? I recalled her corpse lying at the foot of the stairs. The assassin could not act that fast. I closed my eyes as I realised the hideous mistake I’d made. I’d ignored a rule, repeated to me time and again: Never remove causes, any cause; let them remove themselves. I was so surprised I slid down the wall and crouched, arms crossed staring into the darkness.

Eventually I left and returned to the abbey. Brother Leo, in charge of the library and scriptorium, was intrigued by my request but, having glimpsed Isabella’s seal, he quickly agreed. He took me to what he called his holy of holies, the great library of the abbey with its painted windows, gleaming shelves, tables, benches and lecterns. He showed me his store room of precious manuscripts and books, all carefully annotated and shelved, the most precious being chained or locked behind closed grilles. The sweet perfume of ink, pumice stone, parchment, leather and vellum hung like incense in a church; the capped candles and sealed lantern horns burning like tapers in this shrine of scholarship.

Brother Leo ushered me to sit at one table, bringing me a leather writing case with inkwells, pen-quills and parchment. So I began again, writing out a clearly defined list of all that had happened. I worked past vespers and compline, the muffled bells announcing the hours, the plainchant of the monks with their awesome phrases ringing through the air. You have made the earth quake and torn it open, will you utterly reject us, Oh God? Give us help against our foes. Such words found a home in my own heart. I prayed to the spirits of the dead who, now summoned, seemed to congregate around me.

Eventually I grew so heavy-eyed Brother Leo had to wake me. I gathered up my parchments and returned to the queen. She was entertaining the young pages at dice; as soon as I entered, she dismissed them. I bolted the heavy door and sat down on a footstool beside her. I was tired but I told her about Rossaleti’s death, and as the hour candle burnt another ring, I went back to the beginning. Isabella listened intently, only betraying her own surprise by a sharp hiss of breath or her doubts by questions as precise as from any serjeant of the coif. Afterwards she rose and, leaning on my shoulder, bent down and kissed me on the top of my head. She stood for a while by the window humming softly the tune of the ‘Exulte Regina’, a hymn chanted during her coronation.

‘My husband,’ she declared, not moving, ‘slept this afternoon. He is now closeted with my lord Gaveston. Come, Mathilde, let’s strike at the root of all this.’ She smiled, blinking her eyelids in mockery. ‘We shall show that Morgana Fey is not just a figment of the troubadours’ imagination.’

Isabella and I shared a cup of wine, took our cloaks and arranged for some of the pages to escort us. We left for the king’s chamber. We found Edward and Gaveston, dressed in loose attire, belts and boots on the floor, poring over maps on a large chancery table. Edward slouched in a large chair; Gaveston sat facing him. The queen instructed me to follow her in whatever she did, and as soon as she entered the chamber, its door closing behind us, she pushed back her hood and knelt down, bowing her head to the ground. Edward and Gaveston sprang to their feet. The king moved towards her but Isabella stretched out her hands.