Paul Doherty: The Cup of Ghosts

‘Old Sandewic,’ I continued, ‘aching and wound-filled. You sent him potions, nothing serious but enough to disturb his humours. Once the coronation was finished and Baquelle was dead, you decided to clear the board. Rossaleti brought the killing drink, wolfsbane, in a jar similar to those I use. Sandewic wouldn’t even suspect.’

‘Why should I kill these men?’ Casales muttered, his eyes and voice betraying his desperation.

‘Why? Well, because of the Enterprise of England.’

Surprise flared in Casales’ eyes.

‘Oh yes, I know all about that, as does the king. How he would provoke his earls then secretly call on Philip of France for assistance. What mon seigneur didn’t know, but does now, was that he’d been betrayed. He had invited the foxes into the hen-coop. Philip never intended to assist Edward but aimed to destroy him, weaken England, take Gascony and remove the Plantagenet threat to France once and for all.’ I gestured round the chapel. ‘Sandewic began to suspect that history was about to repeat itself, that a French fleet would sail up the Thames, occupy the Tower and set up government. No wonder he called this place his Cup of Ghosts. If Philip had his way those ghosts would come back to haunt us all.’

Casales’ lips moved as if talking to himself.

‘The king now accepts the truth.’ I moved the dagger to the other hand and plucked the parchment from the pocket of my robe. ‘A littera plenae potestatis , Sir John.’ I paused to gather my thoughts. ‘You killed those men for three reasons: first they were members of the peace party; they counselled Edward, as you well know, to be friends to all and allies to none. They may have seen through Philip’s offer and glimpsed the truth. They were restraining voices which had to be silenced for ever. You pretended to be one of them. Second, they were important men. Baquelle and Pourte controlled London, Sandewic the Tower, Wenlok Westminster. Who knows what others might think about such men, and royal councillors, dying in such mysterious circumstances? You hoped Edward would be blamed; that would weaken his cause even further. Baquelle’s death particularly was an omen, an augury of what might happen to the king’s friends, especially those,’ I added, ‘who opposed Lord Gaveston.’

Casales bent down, picked up the letter and studied the seal.

‘And the third reason?’

‘Only you know that. Why an English knight banneret who’d served the English crown so loyally for years should became the canker in the rose. I may suspect the reason. That story you told me about the Battle of Falkirk, where you lost your hand? The old king met you and said, “Better men have lost more.”’ I paused. ‘You could deny all this, but the serjeants of the coif will draw up your indictment, they’ll collect the evidence. They are already searching your chambers; that’s before the interrogators begin their work. You know the punishment for treason, Casales? To be dragged on a hurdle to Smithfield, to be half hanged, your stomach ripped open, your entrails pulled out, your manhood castrated. To then be cut down and beheaded, your body quartered and pickled and sent to decorate the gates and bridge of London.’

Casales lifted his head, tears brimming. ‘The old king,’ he replied hoarsely, ‘he never really trusted me! Oh, I could see that in his eyes. No, it was worse! He never really liked me. That remark after Falkirk began the rot in my soul. No preferment, not really.’

Casales talked quickly, delivering a litany of grievances nourished over the years, brought to a head by the new king and his attachment to Gaveston.

‘I’ve laboured long and hard.’ He glared at me. ‘Now I am alone. I was like a priest and the English crown was my God, but for what?’ He tossed the letter down. ‘Then I was sent to France. Rossaleti drew me in. Marigny and the rest favoured me, promising me fresh years of exalted service once the Enterprise of England was completed, but there was a price to pay.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Mathilde, you often take a path and realise there is no going back.’ He glanced down the nave. ‘I’m glad I killed Rossaleti. He drew me in, then, like the coward he was, had his regrets, his scruples.’ He blinked. ‘Rossaleti could leave whenever he wanted; he was the one person who knew the truth, he had to die. I thought there might be a path back, but. .’ He pulled a face and pointed at me. ‘I should have killed you, Mathilde, you are so dangerous. Oh yes,’ he grimaced, ‘I found out who you really were — de Deyncourt’s niece. I remembered you.’ He wagged a finger at me. ‘A slip of a girl! I told Philip. De Deyncourt was no fool, and the more I discovered about you, the more certain I became that you were a threat. Ah well.’ He breathed in noisily. ‘I am trapped. I recognise that. I don’t want to delight the crowds at the Elms in Smithfield, but I’ll not confess, not fully, not in writing.’

I gestured at Sandewic’s coffin.

‘You’ll die here, Sir John.’

I got to my feet, filled Sandewic’s cup with claret and added the potion of wolfsbane the royal apothecary had delivered to my chamber the night before. Demontaigu had drawn closer, standing by the coffin, the arbalest cord winched tight. I walked back, waved him away and placed the goblet by Casales’ chair.

‘Take,’ I urged, holding his gaze, ‘drink. Death at least will be swift.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Demontaigu will wound you so you’ll live to die at the Elms. By the way, Casales, he is a Templar priest. He can shrive you. Farewell!’

I walked down the church. Demontaigu stood aside.

‘And if he doesn’t drink, Mathilde?’ he whispered.

‘Kill him!’

I walked out into the weak sunlight. Ap Ythel’s men were formed in an arc facing the church. I sat down on a wooden bench and looked at Sandewic’s Cup of Ghosts. I waited for a while in the cold until the door opened, and Demontaigu came out and handed me the empty goblet.

‘He drank.’ Demontaigu stared at me strangely. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Then God speed him,’ I replied.

Five days later I gathered with my mistress in the central courtyard of Westminster Palace. The French were leaving, but because of the weather, they would not trust themselves to the river but were to ride down to Queenshithe where their war cog was moored. There were farewells and presents, assurances of friendship, kisses of peace; my mistress even made a speech. Marigny, who’d been watching me all the time, pushed his horse closer and leaned down, green eyes bright, red hair peeping out from under his beaver hat.

‘Mathilde,’ he whispered, taking advantage of the noise in the courtyard.

‘Why yes, my lord?’

He pushed his horse a little closer, crossing his arms over the horn of his saddle.

‘Very sharp,’ he whispered. ‘We certainly underestimated you.’

‘My lord, you and Sir John Casales are paying me the same compliment!’

‘Casales is dead.’

‘God’s judgement on his crimes.’ I gestured at the palace buildings around us. ‘My lord the king has decided to call a parliament to treat with his earls.’

‘This thing between us, Mathilde.’ Marigny fluttered gloved fingers. ‘ A l’outrance! ’

‘My lord.’ I blinked prettily and did a mock curtsy. ‘I would have it no other way. As you say, a l’outrance, usque ad mortem .’ I straightened up. ‘To the death!’