Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

‘ Mon seigneur ,’ I spoke up now, certain that we were right, ‘you say Philip played the great game, yet we witnessed his fury at being frustrated, even if it was only a matter of pretence. The true cause of such fury was his impatience to destroy your power once and for all.’

‘He would not. .’ Edward paused at the look on Isabella’s face.

‘My lord,’ she insisted, ‘he will! I can bring you proof that Mathilde speaks the truth.’

Edward bowed his head; his favourite leaned across, whispering hoarsely to him. The king nodded, rose and crossed to a side table. He grasped a piece of parchment and a quill pen and wrote a few lines, sealing it with his own signet. He came, stood beside me and laid the document on the table.

‘A littera plenae potestatis .’ The king pressed his mouth against my ear. ‘A letter of full power. Mathilde, what you do for the good of the prince has full force of law. Bring me the final proof. You started this hunt; be in at the kill!’

I arrived at the Tower early next morning; the sky was cloud free, the stars glinting like icicles. I didn’t travel by barge because of the stiff winter breeze. I was collected secretly from Westminster by Owain Ap Ythel and a troop of mounted archers. The Welshman wanted to talk about Sandewic. I let him chatter as we made our journey through deserted streets, the nightwalkers and rifflers fleeing at our approach, the watch drawing aside to let us pass. An eerie journey, winding our way along runnels; it was like travelling across a city of the dead, the blackness all around us broken by a solitary flaring torch, a winking lantern or the glow of candlelight through mullioned glass or the chink of a shutter. Now and again a dog howled, to be answered by others, or a voice shouted, clear and carrying, followed by the strident cry of a child. I slouched in the saddle of the gentle cob Ap Ythel had brought, reflecting on what had happened the previous evening, what I’d planned for that day. I glanced up to the sky and vowed that before darkness fell again, the assassin would be dead and the power of Philip frustrated.

We arrived at the Tower. I attended morning mass in St Peter ad Vincula. Sandewic’s corpse, shrouded and coffined, lay on trestles under a black and gold pall surrounded by six purple funeral candles. The coffin stood just before the entrance to the sanctuary. It would remain there until moved down to Grey Friars for burial opposite Newgate Prison, where Sandewic, as justice, had so often held court. I said goodbye to Sandewic on that cold day so many, many years ago. Now, as I’ve come to Grey Friars I often visit his tomb in the good brothers’ church, but his spirit has long gone. On that February day, however, it was fitting that Sandewic’s corpse lie there; the soul does linger on and he could witness judgement pronounced, vengeance for his murder carried out. The priest chanted the refrains of the funeral mass. I listened particularly to the reading from the Book of Job: ‘I know that my avenger lives and he, the Last, will take his stand on earth.’ I suppose the Angel of Vengeance can appear in many forms, even as a young woman skilled in herbs.

After the mass I broke my fast with Ap Ythel. I showed him the king’s letter and instructed him closely on what was about to happen. He blinked in surprise but agreed. Once my visitors had arrived, the Chapel of St Peter was to be ringed with bowmen, but only at my sign were they to intervene. After I’d eaten, I returned to St Peter’s and stood warming my hands over the brazier. The chapel door opened and Demontaigu walked in.

‘Mathilde, good morrow, what is this?’

I went down to greet him, even as the Tower bell sounded the hour.

‘Do what I ask,’ I pleaded. ‘You have to trust me, I have the king’s authority.’ I pointed behind him. ‘Stay near the door on the keeper’s stool; behind the woollen arras you’ll find a crossbow, a pouch of bolts and a war-belt.’

I heard the clatter of the latch and Sir John Casales strode into the church.

‘Mathilde, you asked to see me? The hour’s so early.’

‘Sir John, I have waited for you. Please draw the bolts.’

He did so, took off his cloak, threw it over the keeper’s stool, nodded at Demontaigu and followed me up the nave, past Sandewic’s coffin and into the sanctuary. Ap Ythel had moved two chairs to face each other. He had also placed Sandewic’s cup beside my phials and a jug of claret on the nearby offertory table. Demontaigu locked the door, face tight and poised. He moved Casales’ cloak and sat down, fishing behind the arras for the weapons. I gestured at Casales to sit. He did so, his hard lined face impassive though his eyes kept moving to Sandewic’s coffin.

‘You said it was important?’

‘It is, Sir John. This is the day you’ll die.’

Casales’ good hand went to the war-belt he’d thrown on to the floor beside him.

‘Don’t!’ I warned. ‘Demontaigu is a soldier. He has an arbalest, sword and dagger, the door is bolted and outside bowmen wait, arrows notched.’

Casales withdrew his hand.

‘Sir John Casales,’ I pointed, ‘I impeach you as a traitor, an assassin, and a Judas man through and through. You are Philip of France’s creature. No, listen please. You killed Simon de Vitry.’

‘I. .’

‘You killed him,’ I insisted, ‘the first day you arrived in Paris. You and your accomplice Rossaleti.’

‘This is-’

‘Of course, it is the truth. By sheer chance I visited de Vitry’s house on that same day, possibly only a short while after the massacre had finished. I made a mistake. I imagined one assassin, with two or three small arbalests and different quarrels, coming through that door; but of course, I was wrong.’

‘De Vitry hardly knew me.’

‘He knew Rossaleti, a royal French clerk, a member of the Secreti. As I said, I made a mistake. There were two assassins, Rossaleti and you! The Frenchman demanded entrance. The servant who opened the door agreed. He turned and walked ahead of you. Rossaleti killed him with a concealed crossbow, as well as the servant coming out of a chamber to his right. However, a maid appeared at the top of the stairs. You hastened ahead. You may have lost one hand, Casales, but you’re proficient enough. You loosed a quarrel, the maid was struck; blood spouting, she staggered. You caught her corpse and lowered it to tumble down the stairs. However, your left hand was splashed with her blood. You continued up, but because of your injury you couldn’t grasp the balustrade along such steep steps, so you leaned against the wall and stained the plaster with a dash of blood. I thought that was strange, so high on the wall without any other stains, but, logically, that’s how you always climb stairs. I realised that the other day watching a porter, his right hand holding a coffer, making his way up steps holding on to the wall with his left.

‘Anyway, you reached the gallery. De Vitry, still dressed in his nightshift, came out of his chamber. He was half asleep and was killed immediately. Despite your maimed wrist, Casales, you’re a veteran soldier, cold and severe. You primed both arbalests and proceeded swiftly to other killings. Meanwhile downstairs, Rossaleti, no warrior, stood by the door. He had not locked or bolted it lest someone come, be refused entrance and so raise the hue and cry. You agreed that with him. I entered; Rossaleti hid. I was shocked. I wandered through that hallway and climbed the stairs. You heard me coming and also hid. To you and Rossaleti I was a stranger, a simple maid, but I was also alerted. Rossaleti might not find me easy to kill, nor would you. I might escape, run out of the house, raise the alarm, so you let me leave. All you were concerned about was slipping away as swiftly as possible lest I return with the provost.’