The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 10

We made good progress. The frost had hardened the slime and mud on the cobbles whilst the sewer channels, which cut like ribbons down the street, were thickly frozen. The city bells were ringing for prime but the market horns had yet to herald the start of trading so the shops and stalls remained shuttered. Lanterns and candles glowed at windows. The different-coloured signs creaked in the morning breeze. It was so reminiscent of Paris: the smells, that feeling of expectancy before the day begins. The wards’ scavengers and rakers were out to clear away the refuse, their great carts moving slowly down the street under banners hung out in preparation for the coronation. Dogs barked and yelped. City bailiffs, in the blue and mustard livery of the corporation, were busy stalking a pig caught wandering from its yard, a strict violation of civic ordinances. Other officials, armed with staves and halberds, were collecting the nightwalkers, strumpets, drunkards and other violators of the curfew, marshalling them into line, fettering their hands before herding them up to Cheapside and the great prison cage on top of the conduit. Beggars shivered on corners. Luckless whores called out vainly from darkened doorways or the mouths of runnels. Fritterers, the sellers of second-hand clothing, were already laying out their makeshift stalls, trying to attract the attention of workmen in their shabby cloaks and hures, caps of shaggy fustian, who were making their way noisily across the cobbles in their wooden pattens shod with iron against the slime-strewn ice.

I had told Ap Ythel where we were going. He knew the city well and advised me to stay on the broad thoroughfares and not become lost in the alleys and runnels, the haunt and hunting ground of rifflers, battlers and other violent felons. We hurried up Cornhill then into Cheapside, which was fairly deserted except for the noisy prison cage. In the stocks a hapless baker sat fastened, shivering despite the pan of charcoal pushed beneath his legs by his anxious family. The placard round his neck warned against such tradesmen putting tablets of iron in their loaves to weigh them more heavily. On one occasion I became breathless and unsteady on my feet, my wits playing tricks on me. I felt, for a heartbeat, that I was not in London but Paris, hurrying through the alleys on some errand for Uncle Reginald. Ap Ythel noticed this and insisted we stop at a cookshop which had opened early to attract workmen with the sweet smell of its baked bread and tasty pies.

We broke our fast with pots of musty ale. Sitting on a bench outside the shop, I glanced back the way we had come, searching for any sign of pursuit. I could see none, though Ap Ythel had also grown uneasy. He did not question me on what I was doing; Sandewic’s word was good enough for him, but he too kept staring back. On one occasion he rose, feet bestriding the frozen sewer channel, gazing narrow-eyed back up Cheapside. He muttered something in Welsh, but when I questioned him he shook his head, drained the ale pot and said we should move on.

We hurried along, past gloomy Newgate and into the alleyways round St Paul’s. I stopped to admire its weathercock, a huge eagle, its outstretched wings carved out of copper, or so Ap Ythel told me. The Welshman, however, insisted that I did not tarry long, explaining that the cemetery around St Paul’s was the haunt of outlaws and sanctuary men. We reached Seething Lane, a dark tunnel snaking between shabby, overhanging houses, deserted except for wandering cats, their hideous squalling echoing along the street. As in Paris, the shop, beneath the sign of the Palfrey, was much decayed, a tawdry store house with peeling paint and oiled paper covering the windows. It stood on a corner of an alleyway with outside steps along the side, a place a fugitive could easily flee from. I told Ap Ythel to wait and watch. As I went up the outside steps, they creaked ominously, proclaiming my approach. I reached the top; the door was off the latch and I pushed it open. Inside, a heavy drape billowed out, catching me in its folds. I extricated myself and stepped into the chamber, a twilight place of moving shapes. No candlelight glowed yet the air smelt of wax and incense. I glanced at the bed; its coverlet was neatly pulled up. In the centre of the room stood a table with a white cloth, a silver paten from an altar and two small candlesticks. As I stepped closer, an arm circled my neck, the point of a dagger pricked my cheek.

‘Pax et bonum,’ the voice whispered. ‘Who are you?’

‘Mathilde de Clairebon.’

‘The truth, Mathilde de Ferrers!’

‘Mathilde de Ferrers,’ I confessed.

‘Niece of Sir Reginald de Deyncourt?’

‘True.’

‘What rank did he hold?’

I replied. The questions continued thick and fast like a hail of arrows. I was not frightened, the grip was not tight and I recognised that same voice, loud and clear, echoing up the gloomy steps of the infirmary of St Augustine’s Priory. The man released his arm.

‘Tell your escort you are safe.’

I hastened to obey, my belly tingling with excitement. When I returned to the chamber the candles were relit and the stranger, dressed in dark fustian, a stole around his neck, a maniple over his arm, was continuing with the mass he had been celebrating. He stood at the table, head bowed, reading the canon of the mass from the small breviary open on its stand. He held up the unleavened bread, a circular white wafer, and breathed over it the words of consecration, then took the pewter cup and consecrated the wine. I knelt before the table and studied this strange priest. He was a youngish man, slender, about two yards in height. He had a long, rather severe face, slightly sallow; his nose was straight, his lips full, the mouth marked by laughter lines which also creased the most beautiful grey eyes. He had black hair, flecked with grey, parted down the middle. When I first saw him in the Oriflamme tavern in Paris it had been shorter, but now it fell below his ears. High cheekbones gave him that severe, rather ascetic look, yet when he gazed at me, those eyes would crinkle in amusement. He offered me the Eucharist, long, slender fingers holding part of the host, followed by a sip from the chalice, Christ’s blood in a pewter cup. After the ‘Ite Missa Est’, he quickly cleared the altar, placing the sacred vessels in bulging leather panniers. He plucked his cloak from a peg on the door, and also took down a thick, heavy war-belt with its sword and dagger scabbards. He looped this over his shoulder, glanced quickly round the room and came to stand over me.

Ah, sweet Jesu, the memory is as clear as yesterday. He was dressed in a cote-hardie with dark blue leggings of the same colour; his boots, slightly scuffed, were tight-fitting. He smelt fragrantly of mint and groundnut. He just stared at me. I gazed back. God and all his saints help me, I loved him then. There you have it! After Uncle Reginald, Bertrand Demontaigu was the only man I ever truly loved! You’ll dismiss such a tale as the embroidering of troubadours. Do so! I tell the truth. You might, you can, fall in love in a few heartbeats and only later become aware of it. On such occasions the heart doesn’t beat faster or the blood surge more strongly. I only experienced a deep peace, a desire to be close to him, to look, to talk, to touch. The schoolmen, when they describe the soul, talk as if it is contained within the flesh. Who says? Why cannot the flesh be contained within the soul and why cannot souls kiss and merge, become one when they meet? The minstrels sing a song, I forget the words, about how our souls are like unfinished mosaics; by themselves they are incomplete, but when they meet the other, they attain a rich fullness all of their own. Bertrand Demontaigu was mine. If he is in hell and I am with him, I shall be in heaven, and my heaven without him would be hell enough. If I close my tired old eyes he is there, serene, calm-faced, with that slightly lopsided smile, and those eyes, full of humour and rich in love, gaze on me. If I sleep he comes; even in the morning, just as I awake, he is always there. I can go through the busy cloisters, I catch a flash of colour. Is that him? On that freezing February morning, so many years ago, he touched my face as he did my soul.

‘Mathilde, little one, we must go. Your arrival may bring great danger. The Noctales might have followed you.’

‘The who?’

He touched my cheek again. ‘Never mind, we must leave.’

‘I have an escort, Ap Ythel, he’s-’

‘Leave him,’ Demontaigu replied, stretching out his hand. ‘I am Bertrand Demontaigu, you’ll be safe with me.’

I clasped his hand.

‘Ap Ythel will be safe too, they’re not hunting him. They’ll leave him alone once they have this house surrounded.’

‘But I saw no one.’

‘Of course you didn’t, you never do.’

He took me on to the stairwell. I never questioned, I never wondered. I followed him out through a narrow door and down a makeshift ladder into the street. He moved purposefully. We left the foul alley, turned a corner, and a figure, cowled like a monk, slid out of an alcove about two yards ahead of us. Demontaigu pushed me back, dropped the panniers and drew his sword and dagger. His opponent lunged but Demontaigu parried the blow from the long Welsh stabbing dagger. Our attacker, face hidden, crouched in the stance of a street fighter, stabbing dagger in one hand, poignard in the other. Both men closed and clashed, stamping their feet in a silvery clatter of steel. Demontaigu abruptly broke free but, instead of stepping back, lunged swiftly, driving his sword deep into his opponent’s belly. The assassin collapsed, spitting blood.

Footsteps echoed, a horn blew. We fled on down alleyways and runnels. Demontaigu, hindered by the heavy saddlebags, dragged me by the hand. I stopped, rucked up my skirt and grabbed one of the panniers. Demontaigu, drenched in sweat, clasped my hand and we ran on, a deadly, fiercesome flight through the needle-thin runnels of London, shabby, filthy places, the ground choked with stinking offal and every type of rubbish. Dark shapes clustered like wraiths in doorways and alley mouths. Whores, faces painted chalk-white under dyed red hair, glared at us; beggars, filthy and crippled, waved their clack dishes; thin-ribbed yellow dogs snarled at us; naked children scattered at our approach. Refuse was hurled at us from windows and doorways. We twisted and turned like hares, going deeper into the slums around Whitefriars, London’s hell on earth, with its decaying houses and hordes of evil ones. They did not hinder us; they believed we were felons fleeing from the law, whilst Demontaigu’s sword-belt warned them off.

Eventually I could run no further. My body was clammy with sweat, pain shot through my side, my legs and feet ached heavy as lead, my eyes were cloudy with tears. We turned down a track-way. Demontaigu pulled me through a rotting lych-gate into an overgrown cemetery of crumbling crosses and tangled undergrowth. We raced up towards the chapel door. Demontaigu kicked it open and we threw ourselves into the mildewed porch, taking shelter in a recess near the devil’s door. We crouched between the baptismal font and the wall, fighting for breath, wiping the sweat from our faces. Demontaigu remained tense, straining like a lurcher for any sign of pursuit. At first he just sat sprawled, legs out, head down. I recovered first, my life-breath slowing. I stared at the crude drawings on the walls, a popular fresco to instruct the faithful about the ladder of salvation to the other world. I remember that so clearly; it suited my own mood after such a furious flight. In the righthand corner of the picture stood Eden’s tree of knowledge with the serpent wound about. Above this a bridge of spikes across which cheating tradesmen were being shepherded by a cohort of demons. Below that a usurer being tortured by fire. In the centre of the picture Jacob’s ladder, with souls climbing towards Christ. Some reached the top but the rest were snatched by demons for a grisly array of tortures in hell: a dog gnawed a woman’s hand because of her concern for it rather than the poor; a drunken pilgrim was imprisoned in a bottle; demons boiled murderers in a frothy cauldron; a griffin-like creature chewed the feet of lewd dancers. I got up to study it more closely, trying to distract myself. My chest still hurt, my belly pitched. Eventually I ran out into the wasteland to ease myself, the cloying cold chilling my sweat. I washed my hands in a pool of ice and returned to the church.

‘What is this place?’ I asked.

‘The Chapel of Dead Bones,’ Demontaigu replied, standing with his back to me staring at the wall painting. ‘A great cemetery once covered the entire area. This was built as a chantry chapel where visiting priests could sing the requiem for the dead who throng here.’ He turned, beckoning me forward.

I slammed the door behind me. Demontaigu opened one of the saddlebags, took out some bread wrapped in linen, broke it and offered me some.

‘Eat,’ he urged. ‘The bread is dry, it will settle your belly. Eat, wise woman, or I shall quote the old saying, medice sane teipsum — physician heal thyself.’

We squatted down, sharing the bread. Demontaigu was now more composed, studying me carefully.

‘You’re a priest,’ I asked, ‘yet you killed a man?’

‘The right of self-defence,’ he replied, ‘is enshrined in canon law as well as the rule St Bernard gave our order. The assassin was an enemy of our order. I did not ask him to give up his life.’

‘You are a Templar priest?’

‘Yes, wanted dead or alive. I come from the preceptory of Amiens.’ He continued evenly, ‘I am the son of a French knight and an English lady. When I was a boy,’ he bit a mouthful of bread, ‘I fell seriously ill. My mother, God rest her soul, made pilgrimage, crawled on her knees up the nave to the statue of Our Lady of Chartres. She vowed that if my life was spared I’d become a priest. My father was a warrior; he was opposed to that, as was I,’ Demontaigu laughed softly, ‘until I met Jacques de Molay and your uncle Reginald de Deyncourt; good men, noble Templars, they are, they will be, welcomed by le bon seigneur as martyrs of the faith.’

‘I saw you in the tavern Oriflamme.’

‘As I saw you,’ Demontaigu pointed back, ‘with that English clerk whom you killed. There again, if you hadn’t,’ he took another mouthful, ‘I would have done the same. He too beckoned up his own fate. Death always responds.’

‘Why were you there?’

Demontaigu swallowed the bread. ‘Listen,’ he began quietly, ‘and then you will know at least some of the truth. Yes, I was in that tavern. I was also in the priory.’

‘Who attacked me?’

‘I don’t know. Look at you, Mathilde, with your mop of black hair and your clear eyes. Your uncle said you had a comely face. He was wrong. I think you are beautiful, but there again, I’m a knight. I know the courtly ways of troubadours.’ His smile faded. ‘But no more song. Now, Mathilde, I have vowed on the sacred face to exact God’s justice, His vengeance on the destroyers of my order.’ He paused. ‘Your uncle, Reginald de Deyncourt, was a good friend, a comrade. I fought with him at Acre when the sky turned to fire and the ground swirled in blood, but that was in my youth. I am now in my thirty-sixth year. I returned from Outremer to France to become henchman to Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of our order; when he rose, I rose with him. I know about his dealings with that silver-haired, blue-eyed demon Philip of France.’ He chewed on the bread.

‘Do you know why he attacked your order?’

‘No, not the true reason. I truly don’t understand it, except for one thing.’ Demontaigu waved a finger. ‘On one occasion de Molay referred to what he called “The Enterprise of England”, but then the sword fell. Templars were arrested all over France. I was fortunate; de Molay often sent me as a messenger to our houses in Aragon and elsewhere. There was no real description of me. I could hide under my mother’s name, be it as a friar or an English clerk. I always keep to the shadows.’

‘And Monsieur de Vitry?’

‘He was frightened, Mathilde, a good man, honourable and wise; your uncle chose well. Monsieur de Vitry’s assistance to you was invaluable. He was correct, the safest place for you was the French court. However,’ Demontaigu wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, ‘Monsieur de Vitry felt guilty. He also felt very frightened. God knows what he was doing. He once came to me and asked to be shriven. I agreed and heard his confession. I can’t tell you what he said, that is kept under the secret seal, but he was very fearful for the future.’

‘Why did he feel guilty?’

‘He felt guilty about you. He described you as a dove being left amongst the hawks; he wanted to do something more. I offered my protection, hence his letter.’

‘So why was he murdered?’

‘Again, I don’t know. He asked me to look after you, which I did. I followed you to that tavern, I saw what happened to the English clerk, then you fled.’

‘I went to de Vitry’s house.’

‘And you found him murdered?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But I know nothing else.’

‘Neither do I.’ Demontaigu breathed out. ‘I did hear of the massacre. I offered a mass for all their souls.’

‘And who was responsible?’

‘A sinister mystery!’ Demontaigu snapped. ‘I became frightened for my own safety. Philip has hired bounty-hunters, the Noctales, the men who walk by night. They hunt other men down for the price on their heads. The Noctales are a guild to be found near the Church of St Sulpice in Paris. They are led by a Portuguese, Alexander of Lisbon.’ Demontaigu shrugged. ‘I’ve come across the type before. I’ve even been one of them, a messenger sent by the Templars to claim unresolved debts.’

‘And the Noctales are hunting you here?’

‘Of course, as they might be hunting you. Philip is determined to seize all Templars and their associates. Mathilde, Marigny and his demons may know your true identity. If so, they hope you will lead them to other Templars in hiding. The Noctales will follow, as they always do, as night follows day. They swarm like ants yet they know the law. They’ll not touch a subject of the English king, but you, me, those who’ve fled from Aragon, Castile, France or anywhere else are legitimate quarry. They’ll try to take me alive, but if not,’ he stretched his neck, ‘they’ll take my head, pickle it in a tun, find some proof for me being a Templar and trot back to Philip and Marigny for their reward. They are also searching for Templar wealth, hidden caskets of jewels, gold and silver.’

‘Do they know you?’

Demontaigu turned, as if fascinated by the demons painted on the wall.

‘They know me by my father’s name, as they do my rank, but as I said, they have no clear description of me.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘The traitors in our order did not have close sight of me; that’s one of the reasons de Molay chose me when Philip struck. I was to go into hiding to exact vengeance, to protect, where I could, our brethren.’

‘So I have endangered you?’

‘Mathilde,’ Demontaigu cupped my cheek, ‘they still do not know me.’ His hand fell away. ‘Don’t worry, it would have happened one day, a suspicious innkeeper, an informer.’ He leaned back against the wall and sighed. ‘I stayed as long as I could in Paris; as I’ve said, de Vitry felt guilty and asked me for help, so I watched the palace. It was easy enough. I saw you leave. I thought you might be fleeing so I joined you at the tavern. I dressed and acted like an English scholar; I know the tongue. I saw what happened.’ He picked at the crumbs on his tunic. ‘Then de Vitry was killed. I decided to flee. My brothers had prepared a place in England.’ He shrugged. ‘I came here to find most of the brethren were in hiding or prison. The power of England has not fully moved against us. William de la Mare, our Grand Master here, lies under house arrest at Canterbury.’

‘And you travelled to Dover to watch for me?’

Demontaigu laughed. ‘Well, yes and no.’

I felt a deep chill of fear. ‘You didn’t come for me,’ I accused. ‘You came for Marigny, didn’t you? Des Plaisans and Nogaret?’

‘Yes, Mathilde. I came for them. If I can, if God gives me the will, grace and strength, I’ll kill them as would other brothers of my order. The Noctales have been released against us for many reasons. If Philip and his henchmen are dangerous to us, we are just as threatening to them. We still have influence, be it with that false priest, Clement of Avignon, or here in England. Above all, we are soldiers, veterans, master bowmen and swordsmen. Life can be so perilous in a street or crossing a square.’ He smiled. ‘Or even in a palace. I heard about Pelet’s death and wondered if you. .?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘That was the princess acting on my behalf.’

‘In which case,’ Demontaigu replied, ‘we are deeply in her debt.’

‘And the attack in Canterbury?’

‘I was travelling in disguise with false papers. According to them I was Brother Odo from Cluny. The good monks of St Augustine’s accepted me; Benedictines are always travelling. I was left to my own devices, given a cell and joined the brothers in their communal celebrations. I watched you. I saw you leave the guest house that night and followed. Mathilde, you acted foolishly in such a deserted place, a hall of shadows. Anyway, I came to the foot of those steps and glimpsed the struggle at the top.’ He pulled a face. ‘The rest you know.’ He patted me on the arm. ‘I dared not reveal myself; I returned to London. I would have waited a little longer.’ He walked over to the door, opened it, peered outside and slammed it shut. ‘And so, Mathilde,’ he came over and squatted down before me, ‘why were you, a dame de chambre, attacked so viciously?’

I told him everything, as if I was a penitent in the mercy seat being shriven by my confessor: all about the deaths of Pourte, Wenlok, the assaults on me and the enmity of Marigny. Demontaigu heard me out, nodded or asked the occasional question. He shook his head after I’d finished.

‘Marigny may know who you truly are, but he’d prefer more to use you than kill you.’ He paused, listening to the growing sounds from outside, the shouts and cries of traders, the rattle of a cart, the clatter of horses’ hooves. ‘I certainly agree with you on one matter: de Vitry. Something you saw that day has perhaps placed you in great danger.’ He pulled his leather saddlebags closer. ‘De Vitry’s murder is truly a mystery. He also said something to me, not covered by his confession, about the enterprise of England; that it was really Philip’s enterprise but he did not know the details.’

‘Could it be an invasion of England, conquest?’ I asked.

‘Too costly, too dangerous,’ Demontaigu replied as if to himself, ‘but look, I’m cold and hungry,’ he tapped me on the tip of my nose, ‘as you must be. The pursuit is cold, the Noctales will withdraw and I’m famished!’ He got to his feet. ‘I have business at the Tower today, so I will escort you back.’

‘What business?’ I asked, heart in mouth. ‘What business, sir?’

‘We have our spies in the French court and in their households.’ He walked to the door and paused. ‘Today, the Feast of St Callistus, Marigny, des Plaisans and Nogaret are going to the Tower to be received by the king. Last night I met one of my brothers, Gaston de Preux, from the preceptory of Dijon. He is hot-tempered, passionate and tired of being hunted. I tried to restrain him, but on this, he is adamant-’

‘Oh no!’ I exclaimed.

‘He will try to kill Marigny.’

I put my hand against the door and thought furiously about what I could remember. It was true! Isabella had mentioned Marigny’s visit, that we would certainly be busying ourselves elsewhere.

‘I could send a message to Casales.’

‘Ah yes, the one-handed warrior.’ Demontaigu smiled. ‘The old king much trusted him. He fought hard in Gascony, but no!’ Demontaigu tightened his war-belt. ‘If Casales or that old lion Sandewic are alerted, Marigny will know. Marigny can die — I want that too. It’s Gaston I worry about. I cautioned prudence, but Gaston’s heart is like his hair, fiery. If I can, I’ll stop him; we should wait for a better day.’

We left that gloomy Chapel of Dead Bones and made our way through the slums of Whitefriars. I felt tired, cold and ill at ease. Demontaigu seemed a warm presence around me, merry and composed. He told me there was nothing to fear. He reminded me that the Noctales did not have his description, adding that we could hide amongst the crowds, whilst I had my head and face carefully hooded. As we pushed our way through the throng, Demontaigu talked softly in French, asking me once again about Pourte and Wenlok’s deaths, the assault on Casales, the attacks on me in Paris and Canterbury. I answered and asked him what he would do for the future. His reply was enigmatic: that the safest place for him was near to me. I glanced at him questioningly. He laughed, clapped me on the shoulder and told me to meditate on that as a pious nun would on her psalter.

By then it was mid-morning, the mist had lifted, the sun was strong. The crowds in all their many colours busied about to shop, wander and gape. We left the Shambles, going down past St Mildred’s and St Michael’s church into Candlewick, then Eastcheap and Pudding Lane. Demontaigu murmured that he was pleased the crowds were even more packed here, people stopping to buy, to argue, to shout, to barter. Two fishwives from Billingsgate were delighting passers-by with a stream of obscenities as they argued over some difference. Portly burgesses tutted and shook their heads, eager to push their plump wives out of earshot of such abuse. A fiddler struck up a tune so that his tamed dog could dance, but the animal caught sight of a cat and set off in hot pursuit to guffaws of laughter. Beggars crawled, whining and importuning, showing their scars in the hope of charity. A Dominican friar, clad in black and white, tried to preach from the steps of a church about the horrors of purgatory. A fop in tight jerkin and hose shouted back that the Dominican should marry and know true pain! This provoked an argument with a group of whores which ended abruptly as the entire crowd scattered to allow through an execution cart with its portable gallows, a dreadful T-shape scaffold with corpses dangling on either end. Demontaigu studied it and turned away as if the sight reminded him of his own danger. He grasped me by the elbow, and we left the thoroughfare and entered the Green Solace tavern opposite St Boltoph’s church. The tap room was fairly deserted except for a few traders and chapmen sitting on the barrels around rough-hewn tables. The food was good, I remember that. Demontaigu insisted that we must eat and ordered strips of peppered beef, soft, freshly baked bread and jugs of ale. I broke my fast hungrily, glancing sly-eyed at this Templar priest lost in his own thoughts.

For a while we talked about physic and herbs. Demontaigu said he’d read a treatise on black harrow, or the Christmas rose, and quoted a leech book claiming that ‘a purgation of black harrow boar is good for mad and furious persons as well as for melancholy chills and heavy hearts’. I argued back though I secretly realised Demontaigu was only trying to divert me. When we’d finished eating, he leaned close, brushing the hair from my brow.

‘Listen, Mathilde, and listen well.’

‘Yes, master,’ I mocked.

‘I will leave you now. I shall go to the Tower by myself. If you are with me you might be recognised, they’ll know who I am, they’ll note my face, my description. If you wish to contact me, go to a tavern on St Katharine’s Wharf, close by the Tower, called the Prospect of Whitby. Tell the taverner that you seek Master Arnaud the bowyer, give the hour then leave. Do you understand?’

‘I can hear and I can speak,’ I retorted hotly, sad at heart that he was leaving.

‘Go now, Mathilde,’ Demontaigu murmured. ‘The way is clear. You are close to the Tower so no one will harm you. Keep that cowl over your head,’ he urged. ‘I shall follow.’

Biting back my retort, I went out into the street, following the directions Demontaigu had given me. I walked behind a group of serjeants of the coif returning from the court of common pleas at Westminster and followed these until I reached the alleyways leading down to the river. To all intents and purposes I was a maid dispatched on an errand. I had reached the approaches to the Tower when, close behind me, I heard the rising noise of the crowd. I glanced back; horsemen were making their way through the streets. Marigny! The blue and gold banners of France flapped in the breeze. The French cortege was moving down towards the Tower with all the majesty it could muster. I hurried on and joined the crowds clustering along the approaches to the Lion Gate. I glanced around, looking for Demontaigu, but there was no sign. I searched for the fiery-headed Gaston, but again, I couldn’t glimpse anything untoward. I could have walked on and showed myself to Sandewic and Casales waiting outside the main gate, but I wanted to stay. I was anxious for Demontaigu; even a little for Gaston de Preux, whom I’d never met. I also wanted to see what would happen, eager to witness Marigny and the others die. Vengeance, the blood feud, such fires do not start immediately; they are kindled, they rise and fall, they slumber but still they burn. I could watch Marigny be killed. I prayed that he, the arrogant hunter, would become the hunted.

At last they arrived, fleur-de-lis banners slapping the air, sunlight gleaming on armour and precious stones, surrounded by officials and men-at-arms, in all their gorgeous finery. The crowd surged closer. I glanced swiftly about at the chapped faces, the watering eyes, the blousy wantons from the quayside, dust-covered carpenters, ragged children dancing from foot to foot. I searched for the extraordinary: a relic-seller with a string of bones around his neck, his fleshy nose prodding the air like a hunting dog. A jackanapes from some house of fools in his tattered clothes; he had red hair, but he was vacuous-faced and empty-eyed. I glimpsed a young red-haired man pushing his way through the crowds, but he paused to whisper in a young maiden’s ear.

The French cavalcade, horses moving slowly, approached the Lion Gate. Casales and Sandewic, in their royal tabards of scarlet and gold with the snarling leopards of England, moved towards them. A friar of the sack, his shaven head gleaming in the sun, broke free of the crowd.

‘Mon seigneur de Marigny, je vous apporte une lettre du roi’ — my lord Marigny, I bring a letter from the king.

Marigny reined in in a clatter of hooves and dust. The friar approached, the piece of parchment held high, then lunged swiftly with his right hand, the dagger snaking up towards Marigny’s belly. Sandewic, who’d come forward to grasp the reins, moved even quicker, pushing Marigny’s mount towards the assassin. The horse, already startled, clattered sideways, knocking the assassin to the ground. Immediately Marigny’s party were surrounded by English men-at-arms. Casales was screaming at others to move forward to form a ring. A horn sounded. Welsh archers poured through the Lion Gate, bows strung. The crowd, startled by this sudden assault, abruptly scattered. I walked forward. A rough serjeant-at-arms seized my shoulder. I shrugged him off and showed him Isabella’s personal seal, then hurried on through the gateway. Marigny’s party had galloped ahead into the inner ward, which was now in chaos as horses reared, men shouted, gates were hastily shut, portcullis winched stridently down. I kept away from the throng. Marigny wasn’t hurt, but was clearly furious. Still mounted, he was shouting in French at Casales. Sandewic was ordering more men forward up on to the battlements. I glimpsed the assassin being led down to a dungeon beneath one of the towers. I slipped through the chaos and went up past the guards to Isabella’s chamber. She was standing peering out of a window, its small door-casement opened. She whirled around as I entered and immediately dismissed the pages who were laying lawns of linen on the bed for her to inspect. The princess bolted the door behind them, face flushed, eyes gleaming.

‘Mathilde, Mathilde, where have you been? What happened?’

I sat and told her, heads close, whispering against eavesdroppers. She listened intently, though distracted by what was going on outside. When I had finished, she expressed her deep regret at Marigny’s narrow escape but said she would act the hypocrite and send him her good wishes. She seemed more concerned with Demontaigu and what he might know, and asked me to repeat what he’d told me to meditate on, ‘as a pious nun would on her psalter’.

‘He can hide here,’ she declared. ‘He’ll be safe. I’m establishing my household. Whatever he really is can be hidden here. He is knowledgeable in Latin and speaks French and English fluently; he can be my clerk.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Oh, that would gladden my heart, but Mathilde, the assassin? Find out if he was Gaston, see what can be done. Go to that tavern, the Prospect of Whitby, and find. .’ She paused as Casales knocked and entered. He bowed at Isabella and winked at me.

‘My lady, Mathilde must have told you the news. Mon seigneur Marigny was attacked; he is unscathed but angry.’

‘And the assassin, sir?’

‘A madman, your grace. He calls himself Architophel the Archangel, sent by he-who-dwells-in silence to slay the kings of the earth. He believes Marigny is the King of England.’

‘Not yet,’ Isabella retorted.

‘He is in the dungeons, dancing and singing,’ Casales continued. ‘He is witless but he’ll still hang. Mathilde, you have been in the city? You should walk carefully with such fools around. Ah well, we shall all have to. . Your grace,’ he hurried on, ‘the coronation is to be proclaimed for the twenty-fifth of February. That’s my reason for coming here. Mon seigneur the king has ordered me and Rossaleti to ensure everything you need; until then, your grace, as is the custom. .’

Casales explained how both Isabella and Edward would have stay within the Tower apartments. I half listened as I wondered about the assassin and who he really might be. Once Casales had left, Isabella told me what I should do, and I returned to the inner ward. Lord Marigny and the great ones had been taken up to see the king, but the courtyard was full of their retainers eating from the victuals the constable had laid out on trestle tables. Eventually Sandewic came stumbling out of a doorway. He caught sight of me and hurried across.

‘Mathilde, Ap Ythel returned, he waited, but when he went up the stairs of that house you were gone, so he returned here. I was anxious.’ He pulled his beaver hat further down on his head. ‘I told no one you’d left but,’ he chattered on, ‘you’ve heard the news? Good, good,’ he murmured, brushing aside any answer. ‘A man touched by the moon, Mathilde, mad and leaping like a March hare. Oh, by the way, I thank you for your potions; they gladden this old frame.’ The constable gossiped on, but that’s the rub, isn’t it? The hidden importance of words. The slip between what the tongue says, the ear hears and the heart understands. Words come back like ghosts to haunt you, but at the time there is little you can do about it. I was all eager to make my request; I was anxious, distracted. Sandewic was of a similar mood, pleased at my safe return yet his mind was elsewhere, so much so I had to repeat my request.

‘You want to see the prisoner?’ Sandewic glanced at me in disbelief.

‘My mistress has demanded it. Her grace wishes to assure herself that this madman is what he acts to be.’

‘Could he be any other?’

‘Sir Ralph,’ I replied, ‘that is why I wish to see him.’

The constable bit his thumb, head moving from side to side. ‘Oh, follow me,’ he grumbled.

We crossed the inner ward, through a doorway of the Wakefield Tower and down the dirt-strewn steps lit by cresset torches. The assassin was confined to a small cell with a grille high in the door. Sandewic opened this and placed a torch in its holder. The prisoner lay crouched in a corner, his brown robe all ragged, his face bruised and filthy, eyes gleaming through the dirt. As soon as Sandewic closed the door behind us, the man leapt to his feet, manacles jangling. He stretched out as far as the chains would allow, then began to dance a fool’s jig, leaping up and down, slapping the green-slimed walls before staggering back. He sang some moonstruck song about the fields during the time of bat-flight before sinking to his knees, joining his hands and muttering a garbled version of the Paternoster.

‘Insane,’ Sandewic growled. ‘Moonstruck, out of his wits, but mon seigneur the king has judged him. He is to hang tomorrow just before noon on the common gallows at St Katharine’s Wharf.’

The madman’s head came up; just for a heartbeat I saw the shift in his eyes.

‘Mad,’ I agreed, ‘crazed. I knew a man caught in a similar mood, Gaston de Preux,’ I said loudly, ‘that was his name. He believed he was a priest. I did all I could for him. .’

‘Pretty lady.’ The prisoner stared up at me. I moved so I was between him and Sandewic. The mad look was replaced by a stare of sheer desperation. ‘Pretty lady,’ the voice mimicked the madness, ‘I need the Consolamentum — I need the cross.’

I leaned down, ignoring Sandewic’s protest. ‘I shall see what I can do.’

Sandewic took down the cresset, unlocked the door and ushered me out.

‘Sir Ralph,’ I forced a smile, ‘let me give the poor wretch some consolation.’ I took the Ave beads from my purse and, before Sandewic could object, slipped back into the cell and crouched before the prisoner.

‘Gaston?’ I whispered. He nodded.

‘Tell Bertrand,’ he murmured, ‘Consolamentum — I look for the cross.’

I dropped the Ave beads into his hands and fled the dungeon. Outside Sandewic stared at me curiously, murmured that I was strange and locked the door. As we left the Tower, Sandewic tugged at my cloak.

‘Mathilde,’ he drew me close, ‘I do not know what you are doing. I keep a still tongue and watch.’ He peered up at the grey sky. ‘That prisoner, I’ve met enough madmen, I am beginning to wonder if he is as witless as he pretends.’

I leaned closer and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Sir Ralph, what is now in the dark will one day be revealed in the full light of day. I need Owain Ap Ythel again.’