Paul Doherty - The Cup of Ghosts

We went inside, along dark passages. Meagre candles glowed, lanterns hanging on chains glimmered like beacon lights. Guards stood everywhere, lances poised. The deeper we went into the palace, the more luxurious the surroundings became: tiled floors, whitewashed walls decorated with paintings, elaborate crucifixes, cloths of gold and resplendent tapestries. The sweet smell of perfumed sandalwood and costly incense became more noticeable. The guards here weren’t mercenaries but knight bannerets wearing the blue and gold livery of the royal household. They stood at the entrance to doorways or at the foot of polished staircases, swords drawn. Time and again they stopped us. Time and again Monsieur Simon produced his letters and warrants. Eventually we reached the royal quarters, where a chamberlain greeted us in the hallway. The floor was of black and white tiles, the walls covered in tapestries depicting glorious white swans on silver lakes where the rushes sprouted a vivid green. I studied these as Monsieur Simon explained our presence. The chamberlain looked askance at me, tapping his white wand of office against his shoulder as if he was inspecting a bundle of cloth. He pulled a face.

‘Lady Isabella,’ he sighed, ‘will not be in her chamber but where she always is, the fountain courtyard.’

We left the hall, down a wooden-panelled passageway, and went back into the cold air. This was no cobbled bailey but a spacious courtyard with buildings of eye-catching honey-coloured stone surrounding it. The paving stones were of the same hue; in the centre a fountain splashed, the leaping water creating the impression of summer though the ice in the basin proved it was still winter. Pots of crackling charcoal sprinkled with a herbal perfume provided some warmth. In a corner two knight bannerets, cloaks pulled close, stood out of the biting wind talking quietly between themselves. The chamberlain gestured. A figure, almost shrouded in a gold-edged blue robe, sat with her back to us, staring at the ice in the fountain bowl.

‘I can’t announce you.’ The chamberlain seemed strangely frightened. ‘The Lady Isabella has a temper. She does not wish to be disturbed when she is talking to Marie.’

‘Marie?’ Monsieur Simon whispered. ‘Who is Marie, is it a pet fish or bird?’

I kept staring at that still figure, motionless, as if carved out of stone. The chamberlain whispered to my companion. Monsieur Simon clasped my hand, then left hurriedly. I never saw him alive again. A short while later he and his entire household were murdered, but, God assoil them, I shall come to that.

At the time I stood until I became aware of the cold, how my thighs and legs ached. I walked across, round the bench, and gazed down at the small figure. She’d hidden her hands beneath the cloak; now these came out, fingers so delicate, and her head came up, the hood pushed back, and I looked on Isabella for the first time. She had lustrous golden hair, parted along the middle, and falling down to her shoulders. A lively, rather thin face with an elfin look, the nose pert, the lips flame-red, but those strange blue eyes with their Moorish slant were truly beautiful, a legacy I later learnt from her mother, Jeanne of Navarre. She peered up at me, swinging her feet in their hard-soled sandals.

‘Who are you?’ She cocked her head to one side and looked me up and down. ‘Just who are you? Why are you here?’

‘Madame,’ I stammered, ‘madame, I am Mathilde de Clairebon. I am to join your household as a demoiselle de chambre .’

‘Come here, Mathilde.’ She smiled. I stepped closer. She abruptly swung her leg back and kicked me viciously in the shin. I yelped in pain, lifting my foot to nurse my ankle. She noticed my anger, my clenched fist. The knights in the corner became alerted by the altercation. I heard their raised voices, the sound of a drawn sword. Isabella’s face grew serious.

‘Don’t do anything,’ she whispered. ‘Fall to your knees.’

She gestured with her hands, indicating at the knights to stand back, then leaned closer, her faint herbal fragrance, rosewater and something else, tickling my nostrils. Her skin was pure and clean, her teeth white, not a mark; the nose didn’t look quite so pert but rather sharp, whilst those eyes were a brilliant blue, so clear yet so striking, and her skin glowed as if dusted with gold. She raised a hand, pushing a few hairs from her forehead, and felt her throat.

‘They say I have a swan neck,’ she murmured. ‘One day I will be truly beautiful. What do you think, Mathilde?’

‘Madame,’ I retorted, ‘you are as beautiful as any jewel. Any painting I have seen of an angel would compare with you.’

She lifted her foot and pressed it against my groin.

‘Are you virgo intacta?’

I was so shocked by the question from one so young, I just gaped back.

‘Who are you, Mathilde, really? You’re frightened, aren’t you? Why are you frightened of me? No one is frightened of me. Yet,’ she turned quickly as if someone was sitting beside her before glancing back at me, ‘Marie doesn’t like you.’

‘Madame,’ I demanded, ‘who is Marie? I can’t see anyone.’

‘Of course, you can’t.’ She laughed; not a girlish giggle, but a deep, throaty laugh as if she was truly amused by my reaction.

‘You can’t see Marie. No one can see her except me. I’ve seen her for years. She always comes with me. She’s my lady-in-waiting. She died, you know, some years ago, or so she told me, of the sweating sickness. Now she comes back and talks to me. She sits on my bed while I sew a piece of tapestry or try to read the book of hours Father gave me. You’ve met my father?’

I shook my head, the ice was soaking through my knees. I was aware of how cold the air had become. The knights ignored us as if they were used to such scenes. I turned my head slightly to see what they were doing and received a stinging slap on my face.

‘I am the Princess of France.’ Isabella smiled at me. She touched me gently where she’d struck me. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt. I have talked to Marie about you. I’m afraid she truly doesn’t like you. Now, what answer do you make to that, Mathilde?’

‘I don’t like her either, madame,’ I replied.

‘Now isn’t that strange?’ Again the laugh. Isabella watched me curiously. ‘Here I am, Isabella of France, the only daughter of the great Philip, soon to be the wife of the King of England, mother of his heir. Every time I mention Marie they humour me, Mathilde. Some people even claim they can see her. So I ask them to describe her and they always describe me. If you really could see her, you’d know that she has black hair, black as a raven’s wing and very dark eyes. She looks like one of the moon people, the road wanderers. Anyway,’ she continued, hands resting in her lap, swinging her feet like any little girl, ‘anyway, I’ve asked Marie why she doesn’t like you. She won’t reply. You say you don’t like her, which will be interesting.’ She leaned nearer. ‘We’re leaving soon, you know that? I am to go to England, to become queen of that fairy isle, to sit on the throne at Westminster to be crowned, and to share the bed of Edward. Do you know Edward, the young king?’

I shook my head.

‘They say he is very handsome,’ she continued. ‘He looks a little like me, a distant kinsman; Father explained how we are related. They say he too has golden hair, blue eyes and a lovely beard and moustache. They also say other things: how he prefers to dig a ditch, thatch a cottage or be taken along the river in a barge and joke with varlets, labourers and other servants of the meaner sort. He has a pet lion and a camel in his great fortress, the Tower of London. Do you want to know something else?’ She looked around. ‘I’ve discussed this with Marie: they say he likes other men. I’ve heard of that; brother Louis told me what they do to each other: they put their thing,’ she pressed her sandalled foot against my groin, again, ‘not into a woman’s place, because a man doesn’t have that, but elsewhere.’ She turned slightly and patted her own rump. ‘Do you know what they mean, Mathilde?’