Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

‘And the northern principalities?’ I asked. ‘Flanders, Brabant, Hainault?’

‘Weak,’ Monsieur Simon retorted. ‘To be taken by conquest. Only Philip found to his cost that it is not as easy as he thinks.’

I nodded in agreement. Five years earlier, France’s finest armies, its massed chivalry, had been humiliatingly defeated by Flemish pikemen at Courtrai.

‘But Philip still dreams on.’ Monsieur Simon was talking as if to himself. ‘Edward of England died last July near the Scottish border, still determined to bring that kingdom under his rule. His heir apparent, the Prince of Wales, Edward of Caernarvon, is not of the same mould as his father; he’s a courtier, a poet. He broke off the war with Scotland and hastened south to the fleshpots of London and the loving embraces of his close friend Peter Gaveston, a Gascon, the son of a witch or so they say. Whatever the truth, young Edward loves Gaveston more than anyone in the world.’

‘Yet he is to be married to Isabella?’

‘Two problems have flourished like weeds.’ Monsieur Simon winked at me. ‘Edward of Caernarvon refuses to believe the allegations against the Templars.’

My heart warmed to this prince I’d never met.

‘That came as a surprise to Philip,’ Monsieur Simon whispered. ‘But the second was an even greater insult. Edward of Caernarvon seems, how can I put it, most unwilling to fulfil the obligations of the treaty and marry Philip’s daughter Isabella.’

‘And what has that to do with me?’

‘Oh, everything.’ Monsieur Simon stared down at the floor, lost in his own thoughts. ‘I know that,’ he whispered. ‘Truly I do, the machinations of princes. In the end,’ he lifted his head, ‘Edward of Caernarvon is a weakling. He is playing games. Sooner or later he will succumb to Philip’s demands. The Templars of England will be arrested, the order destroyed. More importantly, Edward of Caernarvon will do what Philip of France says. He will marry Isabella, either in France or in England, but that marriage will take place. Now I’ve been to that mist-strewn island with its rough-tongued people. Philip of France wishes to organise a household for his young daughter, to accompany her to England. In many ways it will mean exile for life. As you can imagine, Mathilde, very few are eager to join her.’

‘And I am to go with her?’

The merchant tapped me gently on the cheek.

‘It’s the safest place for you. The persecution of the Templars will continue. Philip will ask for lists to be drawn up. It’s only a matter of time before some sharp-eyed lawyer, scrutinising such lists, wonders where your uncle’s niece Mathilde de Ferrers disappeared to. They will want you. You’ve just reached your twentieth year; more importantly, you’re associated with the Temple, however lowly your status might be. Marigny and other royal ministers will interrogate you. Do you hold any of its wealth? Do you know where any is hidden? Do you know the whereabouts of other Templars? Did you carry any messages? Do you have any information? Mathilde, your uncle was a high-ranking officer; you are valuable. You could be used, tortured to provide false evidence. Oh, don’t worry, searches will be made, but by then, God willing, you’ll be gone.’

‘To England?’ I gasped. ‘With the Princess Isabella?’ I pulled myself up in my chair and, try as I might, I couldn’t stop the shivering, as if suffering from a sudden attack of the ague. The logs crackled, flames burst out, sparks rose, black dust floated up. The voices in the house sounded hollow. I was standing at a crossroads. I could, if I wanted, get up from that chair, step out from that house and return to my mother’s farm. Yet I would only bring the terror with me. When the royal serjeants came, they wouldn’t care about a solitary woman or her daughter too stupid enough not to flee.

Monsieur Simon seized my wrist; surprisingly strong, he squeezed tightly.

‘That is all I can do for you, Mathilde. To stay here is dangerous. To return to your mother even more of a hazard. You’ve seen enough of Paris, Mathilde! Do you want to become a beggar, join the Coquillards roaming the Latin Quarter? Waiting for the day when you’ll be arrested for a brawl, some crime or felony? You too will take the cart to Montfaucon. Or will some pimp seize you as his whore? I must have your decision, yes or no?’

I’d rolled the dice. I’d made my choice. ‘I have to go,’ I whispered. ‘And the only way is what you describe.’

‘Good.’ Monsieur Simon heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Tomorrow morning you leave.’ Then he added in a mysterious whisper, ‘Before my next guest arrives.’

I was roused before dawn. Servants clattered up the stairs with pails of hot water, followed by others carrying Monsieur Simon’s heavy tub. I was told to strip, to wash carefully and dress in the sombre clothes Monsieur Simon had brought: blue hose, soft leather boots from Spain, linen undergarments, a dark blue gown with a waistband which had a concealed fold for a dagger and a ring for my hand.

‘A gift,’ Monsieur Simon explained.

Finally a heavy dark-brown cloak fastened round the neck with a silver clasp. Monsieur Simon also provided a money belt with little pouches sewn along the edge, each crammed with silver coins.

‘I would like to say this is also a gift from me.’ He shook his head. ‘The wealth was your uncle’s. You have it now. I can give you nothing else. Remember, you are Mathilde de Clairebon, distant kinsman of Monsieur Simon de Vitry. Look,’ he urged, coming up close and peering up at me, ‘I’ve studied you, Mathilde. You have a ready ear and a quick tongue!’ He smiled. ‘Your knowledge of physic, herbs and potions is truly remarkable. Your uncle also told me you know Italian, you can speak the Norman French of the court; it’s only a matter of time before you study English, learn their customs, adopt their ways.’

‘What will I be?’

‘What the Princess Isabella decides. You will be introduced as a demoiselle de chambre .’

I breakfasted, the last time I ate in that house, and left. Monsieur de Vitry carried the panniers containing all I possessed. Advent was approaching; sprigs of green festooned doorposts close to where the lantern horns glowed on their hooks. Horses dragging huge logs plodded along the streets. A water-seller, a gaunt figure, shouted briskly at the top of his voice, about how he sold the purest water from the clearest spring. A man on the corner cooked hot pies on the stove he’d set up well away from the watchful eye of beadles and market bailiffs. Glimpses of life I’d never forget. We hurried down cobbled streets, shop signs creaking in the bitterly cold breeze. We passed a church; on its steps a choir of young scholars were singing lustily about the Virgin giving birth to a royal child. I still felt sleepy, as if walking through a dream.

We crossed bridges and on to the causeway leading to the royal palace close by the church of La Sainte Chapelle. Men-at-arms milled about; a group of mailed knights clattered by. Under the yawning, gaped-mouth gatehouse, Brabantine mercenaries, the nose guards of their helmets almost hiding their faces, stopped us. Passes were produced and we continued on, up cobbled track-ways, through another gateway and into the maze of tunnels and passages which connected one palace building to another; a dizzyingly changing place, soaring turrets, crenellated walls, steps which seemed to lead nowhere. Mist swirled like smoke from a cauldron, cloaking the servants hurrying by. The smell of the stables, dung and wet straw, mingled with the sweet odours from the kitchens and butteries. We crossed rutted yards and baileys where the palace folk thronged around steaming pots. Butchers hacked at carcasses, their tables flowing with blood which drove the roaming dogs frenetic with excitement. Smiths, armourers, carpenters and masons filled the air with the clamour of their work-places. Women washed laundry, ostlers exercised horses. A madman, locked by his feet in the stocks, pretended to be a priest celebrating mass. So witless; the fellow ignored the three corpses dangling from a nearby gibbet pole. I glanced away as hideous memories blossomed. A great hangman, King Philip! I later learnt how his favourite punishment was to hang court malefactors from the branches of the apples trees in his orchard.