Paul Doherty: The Cup of Ghosts

‘What is the matter, monsieur?’ I asked.

‘What is your name?’ he replied.

‘Why, monsieur, you know my name. I am Mathilde, my uncle is-’

De Vitry sprang up and poked me in the shoulder.

‘You are no longer Mathilde de Ferrers,’ he said, ‘but Mathilde de Clairebon. You are my distant cousin. You come from Poitiers. You have some knowledge of books and physic. Your mother died recently so you came to work in my house, isn’t that correct?’

‘Monsieur Simon,’ I gasped, ‘what is this about? Why is my name being changed?’

He gestured vaguely towards the window.

‘Sit down, sit down, Mathilde.’ He went across, pulled the door firmly close and secured the bolts. He then brought his stool nearer, first placing a candle between us. He studied me with a mixture of anger and sadness, as if he wanted to help, yet resented my presence.

‘Mathilde, I will be like a bowman,’ he whispered. ‘I will fire the arrow as close as I can to the mark. There have been rumours for days, how King Philip of France wishes to move against the Order of the Temple-’

‘Impossible!’ I interrupted.

‘Listen, Mathilde.’ He tapped me gently on the cheek. ‘What your uncle discovered today is that tomorrow morning, every Templar in the Kingdom of France will be arrested on charges of practising sorcery, black magic, sodomy and God knows what else.’

‘Lies!’ I blustered back.

‘What the king wishes is what the king wants,’ Monsieur Simon replied. ‘There has been chatter amongst the bankers and the merchants for many a year about Philip’s treasuries being empty. He lusts after the gold and silver, the wealth, the lands, the granges, the barns, the pastures and the meadows of the Templars. He believes the order is a coven of witches and sorcerers, warlocks and wizards. He has petitioned Pope Clement V to suppress it, arrest its leaders, every knight, your uncle amongst them-’

I would have jumped to my feet but Monsieur Simon pushed me back.

‘No. Listen, Mathilde, to what I say. If this is true, if Philip of France has decided to destroy the Temple, your uncle and his companions, anyone who has anything to do with the Temple and wears its insignia, be they knight, serjeant, page, squire or maid, is under suspicion. You cannot help your uncle. By tomorrow nightfall he will be arrested. He may try to flee but he’ll be captured. The charges the Templars face are hideous.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Greed,’ Monsieur Simon replied. ‘Pure greed, the desire of a powerful king to plunder a rich order. Mathilde, about seven years ago, Philip of France wished to join the Temple order himself; he wished to become its Grand Master on the death of his wife.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They say Philip actually murdered his wife, Jeanne de Navarre, in order to secure this, to become a bachelor, a celibate, but the Templars refused him. Philip never forgives an injury or an insult. He also needs money. He doesn’t care how he obtains that money, or what lies he fashions.’

‘But the Pope?’ I gasped.

‘The Pope,’ Monsieur Simon grimaced, ‘the Pope, Bertrand De Got, Clement V, is Philip’s friend, sheltering in exile at Avignon! What do you think Clement V will say, especially when Philip offers him some of the plunder?’

‘But the other princes?’ I stammered. I knew a little of Templar affairs and recalled my uncle’s description of how the order owned houses from the wilds of Ireland to the borders of the icy lands in the East.

Monsieur Simon hunched his shoulders.

‘There is nothing like treasure, Mathilde, to turn a man’s heart!’

‘And me?’ I asked.

‘If you go out into that street, if you are recognised for what you are,’ he wagged a bony finger in my face, ‘you will be arrested. You are no longer Mathilde de Ferrers but Mathilde de Clairebon from the town of Poitiers, my distant poor kinswoman come to act as a maid in my house. Don’t betray me, Mathilde. Don’t put me and mine in danger, otherwise I will turn you over to the royal serjeants. They’ll manacle you, load you with chains and drag you to the Grand Chatelet or some other dungeon where you risk either being buried alive, or facing a mockery of a trial before being taken out to be hanged or burned.’ He chewed on his tongue. ‘I could still do that. There will be a reward, money offered to those who betray Templars or their kin, not many will escape Philip’s net.’

My hand dropped to the dagger in my belt.

‘Don’t threaten me!’ Monsieur Simon scoffed. ‘Your threats mean nothing to me. I have retainers. I have only,’ he fished under his robe and brought out a silver whistle on a gold chain, ‘to blow on this and your life will be over, as simple as snuffing out a candle. But I owe your uncle a favour. Many years ago he saved my life; since then he has always treated me honourably. I’m doing this for him, not for you. You are my prisoner. This chamber will become your world until I tell you the time of change has arrived.’

‘And my uncle?’

‘Believe me,’ Monsieur Simon replied, squinting his eyes, ‘if I could help your uncle I would. There is nothing I can do. Shall I tell you what I will do, Mathilde? What all the merchants and bankers of Paris will be doing tomorrow? They’ll be opening their ledgers and household books. They’ll be poring over their calculus. How much does the Temple order owe them? How much do they owe the Temple? They’ll find, like me, that they owed more than they were owed. So we’ll all keep silent. The king has removed a problem; if that’s what the king wants, then the king shall have it. The Templars have no friends! You have one friend, me. Now, Mathilde de Clairebon from Poitiers, do you understand? Do you understand?’ he repeated. ‘If you fail me, I shall betray you, as simply,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘as that!’

I was too terrified, too anxious, too surprised to object. I nodded dumbly and moved across to the bed, I lay down, turning my back to him, and I crossed my arms and drew my legs up as I did when I was a child, when the shadows on the far side of my bedchamber were really phantasms of the night waiting to pollute me. I heard him leave.

The next morning when I woke up, my door was locked and bolted. I couldn’t leave so I became Monsieur Simon’s prisoner. The chamber must have been used as a cell before. It boasted a small cubicle built into the outside wall with its own latrine, a jakes pot over a narrow gully. After two days the stench grew so offensive the steward brought up pails of rainwater to clean it.

Monsieur Simon also brought me food, some clothes and a psalter, as well as a copy of Joinville’s Chronicle of the Crusades . He refused to tell me what was happening in Paris.

Weeks passed. Looking out of the window, an arrow slit aperture, I watched the frost harden, the trees shed their leaves. One night Monsieur Simon came to see me. He asked how I was, said my imprisonment would soon be over and that tomorrow morning he would take me out. I was roused before dawn. The room was freezing cold, the small charcoal brazier had long smoked itself to ash and the candles had guttered to blackened wicks.

‘Quick, quick.’ Monsieur Simon gestured. ‘Quick, quick, come!’

I dressed swiftly. The merchant gave me a heavy robe with a deep cowled hood.

‘Wear that,’ he ordered.

We went down the stairs and broke our fast in the scullery on a bowl of steaming oatmeal and some watered ale served by the sleepy-eyed maid. We left the house, slipping into the alleyway. I recalled the night I fled here. Now the streets were fairly deserted. I glimpsed certain images as we hurried along. A cowled Capuchin priest, preceded by little boys swinging a lantern and ringing a bell, carried the viaticum in a pyx to someone at death’s door. Beggars cried for alms. Cripples slouched on the icy steps of churches, clacking-dishes out, pale, pinched faces pleading for mercy. A group of roisterers staggered by, bellies full of ale, mouths spitting curses. A prostitute in a tawny gown, an orange wig on her balding head, shouted abuse from a doorway. Monsieur Simon, grasping my arm, hurried me on. Every so often he would pause to ensure the hood and cowl were pulled close over my head. We entered the main thoroughfare. Doors were opening, stalls being laid out. The stench was rich, a mixture of saltpetre strewn to cover the odours from emptied cesspots, and piles of rotting vegetables heaped in corners.