Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts

by Paul Doherty

  After the mass I broke my fast with Ap Ythel. I showed him the king’s letter and instructed him closely on what was about to happen. He blinked in surprise but agreed. Once my visitors had arrived, the Chapel of St Peter was to be ringed with bowmen, but only at my sign were they to intervene. After I’d eaten, I returned to St Peter’s and stood warming my hands over the brazier. The chapel door opened and Demontaigu walked in.

  ‘Mathilde, good morrow, what is this?’

  I went down to greet him, even as the Tower bell sounded the hour.

  ‘Do what I ask,’ I pleaded. ‘You have to trust me, I have the king’s authority.’ I pointed behind him. ‘Stay near the door on the keeper’s stool; behind the woollen arras you’ll find a crossbow, a pouch of bolts and a war-belt.’

  I heard the clatter of the latch and Sir John Casales strode into the church.

  ‘Mathilde, you asked to see me? The hour’s so early.’

  ‘Sir John, I have waited for you. Please draw the bolts.’

  He did so, took off his cloak, threw it over the keeper’s stool, nodded at Demontaigu and followed me up the nave, past Sandewic’s coffin and into the sanctuary. Ap Ythel had moved two chairs to face each other. He had also placed Sandewic’s cup beside my phials and a jug of claret on the nearby offertory table. Demontaigu locked the door, face tight and poised. He moved Casales’ cloak and sat down, fishing behind the arras for the weapons. I gestured at Casales to sit. He did so, his hard lined face impassive though his eyes kept moving to Sandewic’s coffin.

  ‘You said it was important?’

  ‘It is, Sir John. This is the day you’ll die.’

  Casales’ good hand went to the war-belt he’d thrown on to the floor beside him.

  ‘Don’t!’ I warned. ‘Demontaigu is a soldier. He has an arbalest, sword and dagger, the door is bolted and outside bowmen wait, arrows notched.’

  Casales withdrew his hand.

  ‘Sir John Casales,’ I pointed, ‘I impeach you as a traitor, an assassin, and a Judas man through and through. You are Philip of France’s creature. No, listen please. You killed Simon de Vitry.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘You killed him,’ I insisted, ‘the first day you arrived in Paris. You and your accomplice Rossaleti.’

  ‘This is—’

  ‘Of course, it is the truth. By sheer chance I visited de Vitry’s house on that same day, possibly only a short while after the massacre had finished. I made a mistake. I imagined one assassin, with two or three small arbalests and different quarrels, coming through that door; but of course, I was wrong.’

  ‘De Vitry hardly knew me.’

  ‘He knew Rossaleti, a royal French clerk, a member of the Secreti. As I said, I made a mistake. There were two assassins, Rossaleti and you! The Frenchman demanded entrance. The servant who opened the door agreed. He turned and walked ahead of you. Rossaleti killed him with a concealed crossbow, as well as the servant coming out of a chamber to his right. However, a maid appeared at the top of the stairs. You hastened ahead. You may have lost one hand, Casales, but you’re proficient enough. You loosed a quarrel, the maid was struck; blood spouting, she staggered. You caught her corpse and lowered it to tumble down the stairs. However, your left hand was splashed with her blood. You continued up, but because of your injury you couldn’t grasp the balustrade along such steep steps, so you leaned against the wall and stained the plaster with a dash of blood. I thought that was strange, so high on the wall without any other stains, but, logically, that’s how you always climb stairs. I realised that the other day watching a porter, his right hand holding a coffer, making his way up steps holding on to the wall with his left.

  ‘Anyway, you reached the gallery. De Vitry, still dressed in his nightshift, came out of his chamber. He was half asleep and was killed immediately. Despite your maimed wrist, Casales, you’re a veteran soldier, cold and severe. You primed both arbalests and proceeded swiftly to other killings. Meanwhile downstairs, Rossaleti, no warrior, stood by the door. He had not locked or bolted it lest someone come, be refused entrance and so raise the hue and cry. You agreed that with him. I entered; Rossaleti hid. I was shocked. I wandered through that hallway and climbed the stairs. You heard me coming and also hid. To you and Rossaleti I was a stranger, a simple maid, but I was also alerted. Rossaleti might not find me easy to kill, nor would you. I might escape, run out of the house, raise the alarm, so you let me leave. All you were concerned about was slipping away as swiftly as possible lest I return with the provost.’

  Casales was breathing heavily. He leaned forward, soulless eyes studying me.

  ‘You may have been surprised,’ I continued, ‘that I didn’t raise the alarm. I can only imagine your astonishment when you discovered who I really was, but by then it was too late. I enjoyed Isabella’s patronage and protection. You and Rossaleti tried to frighten me off outside the death house after I viewed Pourte’s corpse. You dared not kill me. Philip wished to keep his precious daughter mollified. You told Marigny; he must have searched de Vitry’s manuscripts and discovered my true identity. By then it was too late. I was protected by the princess, so they appointed Pelet to her household to watch both her and me.’

  ‘You murdered him?’

  ‘Not I, lord.’

  ‘The princess!’ Casales gasped. ‘I . . .’

  ‘Her father’s true daughter, as Marigny discovered when he tried to question me. If her grace had not been so protective I would have never have left France. As it was, you and Rossaleti attacked me on the steps of the infirmary at St Augustine’s Priory.’

  ‘We were—’

  ‘No, it was a winter’s night in a gloomy priory. You were two figures dressed in black robes, flitting like bats through the shadows. You used that lay brother, the simpleton. Rossaleti acted the Benedictine and, to confuse matters, grasped the poor man’s hands. Why should he do that? Well, such simpletons remember touch; he talked of two hands, of their skin being coarse, which meant it could be neither you nor Rossaleti.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Why, Sir John, if you could throw a piece of sacking over me, Rossaleti could use something similar to roughen his hands. You carried out that attack. You were there, Sir John. The feasting at the Chequer of Hope was busy, people coming and going, whilst the distance between the tavern and priory is only a short walk. If you had had your way I would have died then; as it was, I was rescued by Demontaigu.’ I smiled at his surprise. ‘Oh yes, more than one assassin was in the priory that night. During the attack I was pulled and tugged as if two people were forcing me towards the top of those steps. Indeed there were two, you and Rossaleti.’

  ‘It was Rossaleti . . .’

  ‘He cannot answer. He’s dead, Sir John, because you murdered him. He didn’t take a barge or a boat; he was terrified of the water. You asked to meet him somewhere along that night-shrouded, fogbound Westminster quayside. He’d come down near the water to meet a man he trusted. You acted as swiftly as a plunging hawk or a striking snake, pushing him into the river. The shock alone would have killed him, a short struggle in the freezing water. He lost his life as he had lost his soul.’

  ‘If he was my accomplice, why should I kill him?’

  ‘Because you’re an assassin. God knows, Rossaleti may not have had your midnight soul; perhaps he regretted what he’d done. Maybe the dead came back to haunt him. Rossaleti rather liked me. I caught a sadness in his gaze. He may have begun to have scruples. In your eyes, however, he was weak and could not be trusted. He was the only member of the English court who knew the full truth; you judged him and you carried out sentence. Your sinister masters back in Paris would accept that. A few scruples could not be allowed to endanger you or, more importantly, their enterprise.’

  Casales rose to his feet, stretched and glanced down the nave. Demontaigu stood, the arbalest primed. From outside came the clash of weapons and a low murmur from the bowmen Ap Ythel was deploying.

  ‘Why should I kill de Vitry?’
<
br />   ‘Oh, he knew too much about everything and Philip had good reason not to trust him. De Vitry was a good man, a loyal subject, accustomed to royal intrigue but unable to stomach Philip’s wicked attack on the Temple. I suspect he failed to hide that and so he paid the price.’

  ‘And you lay the other deaths at my door.’

  Casales showed no contrition, no regret. Nothing nervous except darting eyes, an occasional wetting of the lips. He was a true soldier, coldly calculating the enemy and what might happen.

  ‘Of course I do. Baquelle was easy. The tops of those pavilions were vulnerable, even more so stored in a darkened transept. You, Sir John, cloaked and cowled, could slip into the abbey with sword and dagger. You hacked away at those pegs, what, no more than an inch thick? You would flatter Sir John, giving him the position of honour to the right of the sanctuary. You would ensure that the damaged pavilion would be placed there. If Baquelle survived there’d be other occasions, though the coronation was a unique opportunity. The accidental death of the king’s own councillor during such a ceremony! What auguries and omens people could read into that.’

  ‘My pavilion too . . .’

  ‘Nothing but a subtle ploy to include yourself amongst the list of intended victims, as you did in Paris with the help of Marigny. Do you remember? We journeyed back to the city. You’d informed my mistress and myself that you wished to converse with her about England. You always rode beside us, but on that afternoon you moved to the front of the column. This was to help Marigny’s hirelings when they launched their mock assault. You killed some of them, acting the role of the brave, chivalrous knight. The rest of the coven escaped. They wouldn’t care about the deaths of their comrades; there’d just be more gold to share out when it was handed over by Marigny’s agents.’

  Casales bowed his head, shuffling his booted feet.

  ‘Are you a Templar, Demontaigu?’ Casales’ head came up.

  ‘What I am, sir,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘is my concern. What you are is being ably proven.’

  ‘I thought as much.’ Casales’ grim face broke into a smile. ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘I thought as much, but,’ he leaned forward, ‘what about Wenlok’s death? I was not at his table.’

  ‘Poisoned!’ I replied. ‘You gave him the potion shortly after he arrived at the palace and then distanced yourself. It was simply a matter of time. You know a great deal about herbs and potions, don’t you, Sir John?’

  ‘And Pourte?’

  ‘Ah well,’ I smiled, ‘an apparent accident like my death was supposed to be. All we had was the word of Marigny and his creatures that you and Rossaleti were deep in council with them. Well,’ I shrugged, ‘that’s logical. You and Rossaleti were in Marigny’s pay so of course he would lie for you, two of his own Secreti, whom he was moving deeper and deeper into the counsels of the English crown. In truth, on the night Pourte died, you and Rossaleti visited him. You struck him from behind and threw him out of that window. I suspect you left by the door, which Rossaleti locked; he then used the ladder brought by Marigny’s agents. He climbed down, threw that chain over the wall-bracket, made sure Pourte was dead and rejoined his fellow conspirators.’

  ‘You’re sharp, Mathilde!’

  ‘I wish I’d been sharper sooner. You watched me, Sir John, here and in Paris. The other day you knew I’d left the Tower and travelled into the city. How did you know that? I could have gone anywhere. You knew where I went because you were watching and waiting for a fresh opportunity to kill me, just as you nearly did in Paris. You tried to drown me with that barge slipping like a thunderbolt out of the mist. Oh, you may have been with the princess, but you learnt where and when I was going and passed the information on to Marigny’s killers. Two good men died that day, Sir John, two more souls who’ve been crying to God for vengeance.’

  Casales glanced sideways as if fearful of Sandewic’s coffin.

  ‘Ah yes, my good friend.’ I took the knife from my waistband even as Demontaigu came further up the nave. He too had seen Casales move, gather himself as if to attack. My opponent, however, glanced down the nave, sighed deeply and relaxed.

  ‘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 the
re 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!’