Paul Doherty: The Cup of Ghosts

‘Monsieur Simon,’ I murmured, ‘where are we going?’

‘Shut up,’ he urged. ‘Keep your face hidden.’

We turned and twisted. Eventually I recognised the thoroughfare leading down to Montfaucon, the execution place, the slaughteryard of Paris. Crowds were already thronging. Monsieur Simon approached the men-at-arms guarding the path. He whispered to a serjeant, coins changed hands, and we were allowed a place close to the road. I could see the entrance to the Maison des Filles de Dieu. The good nuns were already clustered on the steps, goblets of wine in their hands. Somewhere close, a beggar boy chanted a death carol, ‘La mort de vie’, his dirge deepening my sombre mood.

The crowds grew quickly, more people spilling out on to the thoroughfare, eager to catch a glimpse of what was going to happen. The blast of a trumpet cut through the morning air, followed by the dull beat of the tambours. I strained my neck, peering over the guards. The heralds came first in their blue and silver tabards, trumpets blowing, drums rattling; behind them lines of men-at-arms, steel helmets glistening. A company of royal archers followed, leading the execution carts, the hangman and his assistants dressed in black leather tunics, red masks concealing their faces. The tumbril they sat in was full of their torture implements as well as the ladders, ropes, and chains used to hang their victims. This was followed by another cart. Six grey figures huddled there. I found it difficult to breathe, my heart racing, stomach lurching. I wanted to be sick. I knew who was in that cart! It approached slowly, wheels creaking, the oxen pulling it being guided by a red-masked executioner who kept cutting the air with his whip. The cart drew alongside. I slipped through the guards and, like others, grabbed the side of the tumbril as if I enjoyed studying the faces of men about to die. They all looked the same, dressed in soiled robes, feet bare, their faces masks of injuries, bruises, welts and cuts, beards and hair a tangled mess. They reeked of the prison, the filth and mud they had squatted in for weeks.

‘Monsieur,’ I gasped. A man inside the cart lifted his face and I gazed into Uncle Reginald’s eyes. They were dulled; his nose was strangely twisted and swollen; a bruise on his right cheek had blossomed purple and ripe.

‘Uncle,’ I whispered.

He shook his head. ‘Vengeance is mine, said the Lord,’ he hissed. ‘Remember that, Mathilde, vengeance is His.’ I caught the foul stench of his body then, with surprising strength, he pushed me away as if I was a tormentor. I staggered back. Monsieur Simon caught me by the arm and pulled me away. I stood and watched the execution carts reach the gibbet of Montfaucon soaring above the deep pit beneath. The executioners scrambled like monkeys up the ladders. The ropes were fixed, the nooses hung. Once ready, the prisoners were hustled from the cart and up the ladders. These were taken away and the bodies danced in the air, as the victims, strangling in their nooses, fought for breath. I felt ice cold, as if all my blood, all my humours had frozen. I can’t remember how Uncle died. All I saw were six men perform that danse macabre , before falling silent, heads down, feet slightly swinging, as death gave them blessed relief.

Monsieur Simon dragged me away, pushing me ahead of him back down the streets to his house. When we reached it, he took me into his comfortable solar. Tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, its floorboards, polished to gleaming, were covered with thick Turkey rugs, whilst a fire roared in the mantled hearth. He led me to a stool, brought me a cup of posset and sat next to me, shaking his head, whispering under his breath. I allowed my body to thaw even as I tried to curb the rage boiling within me.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘I have told you why. Philip of France lusts after the wealth of the Templars. The knights themselves he does not need. They all face charges of sorcery, wizardry, sodomy, idolatry, as well as crimes I’ve never even heard of!’

He let me stay near the fire most of that morning. I remember studying the triptych on the wall which celebrated the martyrdom and glory of St Agnes. Strange, isn’t it, how God works His secret purposes? I would see that painting again in a place I least expected. For the rest I warmed myself and wept. I wept for what I had seen and for what I had lost. I wept for my uncle and raged at Philip of France. My anger didn’t subside; I just grew weary. Monsieur Simon called his steward and maid. They brought up a chair and the good merchant moved me, like a mother would her child, to huddle there, shrouding me in a woollen robe. Afterwards he crouched beside me, whispering his warnings. How I was to keep my name changed and do exactly what he said.

‘And what is that?’ I asked sleepily, wearily. I recognised the goodness of this man; hard-headed, sharp and acquisitive, nevertheless Monsieur Simon had kept his promise to my uncle.

‘The best place to hide you,’ the mercer’s face creased into a smile, ‘is where no one will look: the royal household! I have friends. I have, how can I put it, people who owe me money. In return for a favour, such debts will be cancelled.’ He paused. ‘You must leave France, Mathilde, and never return. It’s best for both of us.’

‘But how?’ I stirred in my chair, my sleepiness forgotten, the pain of seeing my uncle hang now dulled by the drugged wine this merchant had given me. ‘How can I leave France, where do I go? My life is here. My mother is little more than a peasant woman.’ I laughed. ‘What help can she provide? What assistance can you give, Monsieur Simon?’

‘Listen now.’ He brought the stool closer. ‘As I said, the best place for you to hide is the one place they will never look, the royal household. No, no, listen.’ He lifted a hand. ‘I know members of the retinue of Charles de Valois, the king’s brother. I will discharge their debts in return for a favour. You know Edward of England?’

I shrugged. ‘A warrior king,’ I replied. ‘My uncle talked of his wars against the Welsh somewhere to the west and against the Scots in the north.’

‘A warrior king,’ Monsieur Simon agreed. ‘I have met Edward of England on many an occasion as I have. .’ He paused, as if checking himself. ‘Anyway, many years ago, during the reign of Pope Boniface VIII, Edward of England was trapped by Philip of France. Gascony, the great wine fields around Bordeaux, still belonged to the English. Philip, through trickery, occupied it. Edward, busy in his own wars, had to swear to Pope Boniface that his eldest son, also named Edward, would marry Philip’s infant daughter Isabella. At the same time Edward of England, a widower, agreed to marry Philip’s whey-faced, pale-skinned sister Margaret; that marriage went ahead, a treaty was sealed and Gascony was restored to the English. Edward of England, however, did not wish to marry what he calls his Prince of Wales, his heir apparent, to a French princess. Do you know why?’

I shook my head.

‘Philip of France dreams other dreams,’ Monsieur Simon whispered. ‘That one day he will become the new Charlemagne of Europe. He has three sons, Louis, Philippe and Charles. He has married them, or he intends to marry them, to the heiresses of Burgundy so as to take that rich land back within the fiefdom of the crown of France. The same is true of Gascony. In the marriage treaty Philip has stipulated that one grandson will sit on the throne of the Confessor at Westminster; another will become Duke of Gascony. You see the plan, sooner or later, preferably sooner rather than later: Gascony will be brought under Philip’s rule, while he will control his grandson the English heir, first through the marriage of Isabella and secondly because any fruit of that union will be his kinsman.’ Monsieur Simon spread his hands. ‘Peter Dubois, Philip’s own lawyer, has seen France’s future, a kingdom with natural borders: the sea in the west, mountains to the south, the Rhine to the east.’