The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 12

Later in the morning, as the bells of St Peter ad Vincula tolled for the Angelus, Casales arrived swathed in a heavy cloak. He’d come on the orders of the king to see the situation for himself. He viewed Sandewic’s corpse, stared gloomily at me and went out on to the steps overlooking the inner bailey.

‘Another death,’ he glanced over his shoulder, ‘Baquelle, Sandewic.’ He came and towered over me, nursing his maimed arm. ‘Was I also meant to die?’

‘Rossaleti,’ I demanded, ‘have you seen him?’

‘Was I too meant to die?’ he repeated.

‘Sir John,’ I shook my head, ‘I do not know.’

‘Well, to answer your question, I haven’t seen Rossaleti, and there’s the mystery, Mathilde. Westminster still sleeps but a French cog of war has arrived in the Thames and berthed at Queenshithe. It has come to collect Marigny and his coven. I’ll be glad to see the back of those. But as for Rossaleti,’ he swaggered down the steps, ‘I too am looking for him. I’ve certain questions I want to ask.’

I watched him go, then visited the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. Its door was off the latch as the artist, who introduced himself as the painter of the Great Wonder at St Camillus Hospital on the Canterbury to Maidstone road, was busy finishing the last outlined charcoal sketches on the far wall. He was a veritable squirrel of a man with his popping black eyes and bulging cheeks under a shiny, balding pate. I apologised for not having yet seen the Great Wonder on the Maidstone road but exclaimed with admiration at the wall paintings in St Peter’s.

‘Poor Sir Ralph.’ The author of the Great Wonder shook his head. ‘He wanted to see this finished.’

I gently coaxed to him to explain the fresco, executed in an eye-catching red, brown, green and gold. As he did, I understood Sandewic’s absorption with this chapel, its stark sanctuary and brooding atmosphere. Sandewic was an old man who had lived during the reigns of King Edward’s father and grandfather; a man who must have also heard first hand about the troubles of King John, Edward’s great-grandfather. Time and again he had witnessed civil war rage in England between king and earls. More importantly, he knew about the French royal house dabbling their swords in the blood of his country. The frescos in St Peter ad Vincula depicted in great detail the events of 1225, eighty years previous, when Prince Louis of France invaded England in an attempt to usurp the throne of the young King Henry III. Louis had sailed up the Thames and actually occupied the Tower, setting up court and even proclaiming himself ‘Louis, by the Grace of God, King of England’. The frescos explained all this, as well as the bitter struggle which ensued. The author of the Great Wonder on the Maidstone road described how Sandewic had learnt all this from the Flores Historarum — The Flowers of History — the great chronicle at Westminster.

I studied those paintings carefully. Little wonder St Peter ad Vincula was Sandewic’s ‘Cup of Ghosts’. It held images not only of the past but also of a possible future. I was still deep in conversation with the author of the Great Wonder when Demontaigu entered the chapel, beckoning me over.

‘Rossaleti,’ he whispered. ‘He’s been found dead, his corpse dragged from the Thames. Casales sent a nuncius from Westminster; he believes Rossaleti was trying to reach the French cog of war.’

We left immediately and took a royal barge rowed by master oarsmen; these easily negotiated the rushing terrors between the arches of London Bridge, pulling swiftly through the chilly mist. We berthed at the King’s Steps and hurried up across the palace ground, still held fast in a hard hoar frost. Bells tolled and clanged. Monks flitted like ghosts along paths and corridors. Royal servitors hurried out of doors eager to complete tasks so they could return to the roaring fires within. We learnt that Rossaleti’s corpse, because of the celebrations in the palace, had been removed to the death table in the mortuary chapel. Accompanied by Demontaigu, I hurried across the abbey precincts, through the chilly cloisters and down past the chapter house, its statues, carvings and gargoyles glaring stonily down at me. Flambeaux fixed on holders provided light. As I passed the heavy door of the pyx chamber, I noticed what looked like a dirty cloth pinned against it.

‘What is that?’ I approached and touched the leathery strips.

‘Human skin.’

I whirled round. The monk had his face hidden deep in his cowl, the light only catching his sharp nose and bloodless lips.

‘I am sorry.’ He came forward. ‘I’m Brother Stephen, the infirmarian. That,’ he pointed to the door, ‘is human skin. Richard de Puddlicott’s to be precise. He tried to rob the king’s treasure,’ the infirmarian jabbed a finger at the paving stones, ‘held in the crypt below. He was captured, taken out in a wheelbarrow to the gallows in Tothill Lane, hanged and skinned.’ He smiled. ‘Sic transit gloria mundi — thus passes the way of the world. Can I help you?’

I explained about Rossaleti. The monk nodded and took us into the infirmary. Rossaleti’s corpse was laid out on a table in the mortuary chapel beyond, a bleak, ill-lit room. The infirmarian lit the purple corpse candles in their black iron spigots around the table and pulled back the sheet. Rossaleti had been stripped naked, washed, oiled and anointed, but the cadaver still reeked of the slime of the river, his soaked black hair fanning out, his olive skin a liverish grey, eyes half open, despite the resurrection coins placed there. I said a prayer for his soul, then examined his corpse.

‘There’s no mark or bruise,’ the monk declared, his voice echoing harshly. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘Any sign of a potion or philtre?’

‘No trace of poison,’ the infirmarian replied, ‘nothing but the stench of the river and the faint, sweet smell of wine. It appears he took a barge from Westminster.’ The monk shrugged. ‘He suffered an accident.’

‘I am trying to find the boatman.’

I turned round. Casales stood in the doorway. He strode across.

‘I’ve been down to the King’s Steps.’ He nodded at the corpse. ‘A fisherman found him floating in the river, bobbing like a black feather on its surface. Apparently a wherryman is also missing.’ Casales widened his red-rimmed eyes. ‘An accident,’ he muttered. ‘God knows!’

‘But he feared the river.’

‘I know,’ Casales sighed, ‘but not enough to stop him trying to reach that French cog on a fogbound day.’ He rubbed his face.

‘Rossaleti was not a member of the secret council?’ I asked.

‘True, and I know what you’re thinking, Mathilde,’ Casales glanced narrow-eyed at me, ‘but I believe it was an accident.’

‘The queen,’ I emphasised the word, ‘will want to know why he was going there; after all, he was her seal holder.’

‘Madam,’ Casales made a mock bow, ‘I will inform her grace as soon as I discover that myself.’

He left shortly afterwards. Demontaigu murmured that he did not wish to be seen too much with me and followed. I wandered back across the frost-coated grounds into the palace. I returned to the entrance of the small hall where I had stood when I first arrived at Westminster and recalled so vividly my entering de Vitry’s house. I opened the door, went in and stood for a while, pretending that this was Monsieur de Vitry’s home. I was the assassin, I had a crossbow. A servant walked in front of me, another was coming out from a chamber to my right, a maid was tripping down the stairs. None of them had realised murder had arrived. I pretended to loose one bolt; the servant in front went down. The man to my right was staring; he too was killed, yet that maid coming downstairs? She must have heard, why didn’t she turn and run? I recalled her corpse lying at the foot of the stairs. The assassin could not act that fast. I closed my eyes as I realised the hideous mistake I’d made. I’d ignored a rule, repeated to me time and again: Never remove causes, any cause; let them remove themselves. I was so surprised I slid down the wall and crouched, arms crossed staring into the darkness.

Eventually I left and returned to the abbey. Brother Leo, in charge of the library and scriptorium, was intrigued by my request but, having glimpsed Isabella’s seal, he quickly agreed. He took me to what he called his holy of holies, the great library of the abbey with its painted windows, gleaming shelves, tables, benches and lecterns. He showed me his store room of precious manuscripts and books, all carefully annotated and shelved, the most precious being chained or locked behind closed grilles. The sweet perfume of ink, pumice stone, parchment, leather and vellum hung like incense in a church; the capped candles and sealed lantern horns burning like tapers in this shrine of scholarship.

Brother Leo ushered me to sit at one table, bringing me a leather writing case with inkwells, pen-quills and parchment. So I began again, writing out a clearly defined list of all that had happened. I worked past vespers and compline, the muffled bells announcing the hours, the plainchant of the monks with their awesome phrases ringing through the air. You have made the earth quake and torn it open, will you utterly reject us, Oh God? Give us help against our foes. Such words found a home in my own heart. I prayed to the spirits of the dead who, now summoned, seemed to congregate around me.

Eventually I grew so heavy-eyed Brother Leo had to wake me. I gathered up my parchments and returned to the queen. She was entertaining the young pages at dice; as soon as I entered, she dismissed them. I bolted the heavy door and sat down on a footstool beside her. I was tired but I told her about Rossaleti’s death, and as the hour candle burnt another ring, I went back to the beginning. Isabella listened intently, only betraying her own surprise by a sharp hiss of breath or her doubts by questions as precise as from any serjeant of the coif. Afterwards she rose and, leaning on my shoulder, bent down and kissed me on the top of my head. She stood for a while by the window humming softly the tune of the ‘Exulte Regina’, a hymn chanted during her coronation.

‘My husband,’ she declared, not moving, ‘slept this afternoon. He is now closeted with my lord Gaveston. Come, Mathilde, let’s strike at the root of all this.’ She smiled, blinking her eyelids in mockery. ‘We shall show that Morgana Fey is not just a figment of the troubadours’ imagination.’

Isabella and I shared a cup of wine, took our cloaks and arranged for some of the pages to escort us. We left for the king’s chamber. We found Edward and Gaveston, dressed in loose attire, belts and boots on the floor, poring over maps on a large chancery table. Edward slouched in a large chair; Gaveston sat facing him. The queen instructed me to follow her in whatever she did, and as soon as she entered the chamber, its door closing behind us, she pushed back her hood and knelt down, bowing her head to the ground. Edward and Gaveston sprang to their feet. The king moved towards her but Isabella stretched out her hands.

‘My lords, I beg you, listen to me. Let me take any oath you wish on the pyx holding Christ’s blessed body or the sacred book of the Gospels.’

‘My lady, what is this?’

‘We have reflected on the deaths of Baquelle, Sandewic and Rossaleti.’

Her answer provoked a response. Edward and Gaveston looked agitated and worried.

‘Listen, my lords,’ Isabella urged. ‘Listen well to Mathilde.’ She turned and pointed at me. ‘Tell them.’

I repeated word for word everything I’d told the queen. I spoke direct. At first both men pulled faces and shook their heads, but my sentences, like arrows, were loosed in a hail. I did not describe the villainy in detail but, having stated my hypothesis, moved ruthlessly to its logical conclusion. Edward, slightly pale-faced, sat back in his chair, gesturing that Isabella too should take her place. The queen, however, shook her head. I continued. Gaveston interrupted me with a spate of questions which I answered. Once I’d finished, Isabella again stretched out her hands.

‘Mon seigneur, my husband, please listen to me. I have played your game but now it is ended. I beg you, my lord, to tell me the truth. Tell me you had no hand in the deaths of these men, Pourte and the rest.’

‘Of course not!’ Edward shouted, banging the table. ‘They were, despite their opposition to my lord here, loyal and faithful subjects.’ He took a deep breath. ‘At first I thought they were mishaps, but Sandewic, Baquelle. .’ He shook his head. ‘Secretly in my heart I blamed the great earls.’

‘Listen, mon seigneur,’ Isabella moved swiftly on, ‘I beg you. I will take an oath on whatever sacred thing you wish. I speak the truth, I am giving you wise counsel. I may be ignored because of my tender years, my inexperience, but, as le bon seigneur is my witness, on one thing I will not be moved.’ Isabella’s voice grew hard. ‘I know my father. Please, I beg you, whatever he has secretly promised on oath, whatever vow he has sworn, whatever hidden design he nurtures, do not, I beg you on my knees, believe him. Tell me, my Lord, as I love you, what he has said to you in hidden corners, in letters dispatched under the secret seal, by word of mouth through Marigny and the other Secreti.’ Isabella paused. ‘I assure you, my lord, whatever he has promised are lies set to trap you, to bring you and the Lord Gaveston to total destruction.’

‘My lord Gaveston,’ I turned to the favourite, ‘you visited Paris secretly. You met Monsieur de Vitry. You now have his painting of St Agnes.’ I paused. ‘You travelled around the time the Templars were arrested. Monsieur de Vitry made a reference to a visitor, so, on reflection, it must have been someone important. You, mon seigneur, joked about Dover being an ideal place to slip out of our kingdom.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Gaveston was no longer the popinjay, but hard-eyed, even fearful. ‘I visited de Vitry to receive monies disbursed by King Philip; it had to be done that way. I saw the painting. Monsieur de Vitry gave it to me as a gift.’

Edward rose to his feet. He paced up and down, gathering his thoughts.

‘For a hundred years,’ he began, ‘the great earls have fought against my family, our line of honoured kings. My great-grandfather was pursued the length and breadth of the kingdom, losing his treasure in the Wash. My grandfather Henry faced civil war, capture, imprisonment; even my father, the great warrior,’ Edward could not keep the sarcasm from his voice, ‘was brought to heel with this or that, forced to sign this charter, that charter, making promises, conceding his rights. Parliament and councils, rebellious church-men and great earls forced him to go cap in hand to beg for money as his treasure chests held nothing but cobwebs.’ Edward sat back in his chair. ‘Your marriage alliance, my lady, offered another way. Last summer, as you know, my father forced Lord Gaveston into exile. He went to France and was welcomed by King Philip, who pointed out that my illustrious father would not live for ever. Philip promised that if I married you, he would help me crush once and for all any opposition in England. My father died in July last year. Months later, Lord Gaveston returned secretly to France to continue our negotiations. That is when Monsieur de Vitry gave him the painting. Philip offered military assistance; he would finance this with the wealth seized from the Templars.’

I sat back on my heels, nodding in agreement. I recalled de Vitry wishing me to be gone because he expected another guest. Little wonder he was so agitated, torn between me and the machinations of princes.

‘The Enterprise of England?’ I asked. ‘Mon seigneur,’ I held up my hand, ‘I do apologise.’

‘Don’t apologise, Mathilde. Would that change anything? Yes, the Enterprise of England, the true reason why Philip attacked the Templars: he needed their wealth. After Lord Gaveston returned to Paris last December, our secret treaty was confirmed. I would marry Isabella. Our oldest son would be called Louis; our second son would be given Gascony but under complete French suzerainty. Philip would help me crush opposition here and in Scotland. We would make a permanent peace alliance. His enemies would be mine. Above all,’ Edward picked up his goblet of wine and drank, ‘there would be no opposition here.’

‘Of course,’ Gaveston intervened, ‘mon seigneur would act differently in public, opposing Philip in everything as long as he could.’

‘And me?’ Isabella asked.

‘Your grace,’ Gaveston bowed, ‘and I wish you would sit, you are part of the pretence even if you didn’t know the true cause. Once spring comes Philip will move.’

‘So that’s the real reason,’ I asked, ‘for the great game? You were misleading your earls with a show of insults to your wife, her relatives and the power of France. A cat’s-paw,’ I continued, ‘as you secretly prepared their destruction?’

Gaveston nodded.

‘Your enmity to France,’ I continued, ‘was false. You misled your earls who might make the mistake of conspiring with Philip. You’d learn of their plans as well as collect evidence of their treason.’

Edward and Gaveston smiled like gamblers conceding a game of hazard.

‘You asked us to cooperate, thinking we were hurting Philip, but all the time Philip knew the truth, be it about your treatment of his daughter or the giving of her wedding presents to Gaveston.’

‘Are you so intent on provoking your great lords?’ Isabella asked.

‘Of course.’ Edward gestured to a chair. ‘My lady, please!’

Isabella remained resolute. ‘And the deaths of Pourte and the others?’ she asked.

‘At first,’ Edward replied slowly, ‘we considered they were mishaps, or even the work of our enemies here in England, but-’

‘We thought,’ Gaveston interrupted, ‘Pourte and Baquelle could deliver London for us, Sandewic the Tower, Wenlok Westminster. So we suspected they were removed by the great earls.’

‘My lord, you are correct, but there are other reasons.’ Isabella rose and moved to the chair close to her husband, gesturing that I sit next to her. ‘My lord, you are now bereft of wise councillors, men of the peace party who might control this and that but might also advise you to pursue a middle way, peace with both Philip and your earls.’ She paused. ‘That is why my father removed those men. Please, I beg you.’ Isabella joined her hands. ‘Philip is behind their deaths, as is Marigny. They will invade this country, they are already far gone in their preparations. My father may well destroy your earls, but he will also destroy you once I have given birth to a son. You will die and Philip, in my name, will establish a regency whilst his troops overrun Gascony and any other territory the English crown holds in France. My father’s spies are already swarming here. Alexander of Lisbon, leader of the Noctales, hunter of the Templars? He’s been busy in the West Country spying out castles, ports, harbours. Once the invasion begins, you will not control it. My father will dictate the terms.’

‘Mon seigneur,’ I spoke up now, certain that we were right, ‘you say Philip played the great game, yet we witnessed his fury at being frustrated, even if it was only a matter of pretence. The true cause of such fury was his impatience to destroy your power once and for all.’

‘He would not. .’ Edward paused at the look on Isabella’s face.

‘My lord,’ she insisted, ‘he will! I can bring you proof that Mathilde speaks the truth.’

Edward bowed his head; his favourite leaned across, whispering hoarsely to him. The king nodded, rose and crossed to a side table. He grasped a piece of parchment and a quill pen and wrote a few lines, sealing it with his own signet. He came, stood beside me and laid the document on the table.

‘A littera plenae potestatis.’ The king pressed his mouth against my ear. ‘A letter of full power. Mathilde, what you do for the good of the prince has full force of law. Bring me the final proof. You started this hunt; be in at the kill!’

I arrived at the Tower early next morning; the sky was cloud free, the stars glinting like icicles. I didn’t travel by barge because of the stiff winter breeze. I was collected secretly from Westminster by Owain Ap Ythel and a troop of mounted archers. The Welshman wanted to talk about Sandewic. I let him chatter as we made our journey through deserted streets, the nightwalkers and rifflers fleeing at our approach, the watch drawing aside to let us pass. An eerie journey, winding our way along runnels; it was like travelling across a city of the dead, the blackness all around us broken by a solitary flaring torch, a winking lantern or the glow of candlelight through mullioned glass or the chink of a shutter. Now and again a dog howled, to be answered by others, or a voice shouted, clear and carrying, followed by the strident cry of a child. I slouched in the saddle of the gentle cob Ap Ythel had brought, reflecting on what had happened the previous evening, what I’d planned for that day. I glanced up to the sky and vowed that before darkness fell again, the assassin would be dead and the power of Philip frustrated.

We arrived at the Tower. I attended morning mass in St Peter ad Vincula. Sandewic’s corpse, shrouded and coffined, lay on trestles under a black and gold pall surrounded by six purple funeral candles. The coffin stood just before the entrance to the sanctuary. It would remain there until moved down to Grey Friars for burial opposite Newgate Prison, where Sandewic, as justice, had so often held court. I said goodbye to Sandewic on that cold day so many, many years ago. Now, as I’ve come to Grey Friars I often visit his tomb in the good brothers’ church, but his spirit has long gone. On that February day, however, it was fitting that Sandewic’s corpse lie there; the soul does linger on and he could witness judgement pronounced, vengeance for his murder carried out. The priest chanted the refrains of the funeral mass. I listened particularly to the reading from the Book of Job: ‘I know that my avenger lives and he, the Last, will take his stand on earth.’ I suppose the Angel of Vengeance can appear in many forms, even as a young woman skilled in herbs.

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?’

‘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 there 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!’

I walked out into the weak sunlight. Ap Ythel’s men were formed in an arc facing the church. I sat down on a wooden bench and looked at Sandewic’s Cup of Ghosts. I waited for a while in the cold until the door opened, and Demontaigu came out and handed me the empty goblet.

‘He drank.’ Demontaigu stared at me strangely. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Then God speed him,’ I replied.

Five days later I gathered with my mistress in the central courtyard of Westminster Palace. The French were leaving, but because of the weather, they would not trust themselves to the river but were to ride down to Queenshithe where their war cog was moored. There were farewells and presents, assurances of friendship, kisses of peace; my mistress even made a speech. Marigny, who’d been watching me all the time, pushed his horse closer and leaned down, green eyes bright, red hair peeping out from under his beaver hat.

‘Mathilde,’ he whispered, taking advantage of the noise in the courtyard.

‘Why yes, my lord?’

He pushed his horse a little closer, crossing his arms over the horn of his saddle.

‘Very sharp,’ he whispered. ‘We certainly underestimated you.’

‘My lord, you and Sir John Casales are paying me the same compliment!’

‘Casales is dead.’

‘God’s judgement on his crimes.’ I gestured at the palace buildings around us. ‘My lord the king has decided to call a parliament to treat with his earls.’

‘This thing between us, Mathilde.’ Marigny fluttered gloved fingers. ‘A l’outrance!’

‘My lord.’ I blinked prettily and did a mock curtsy. ‘I would have it no other way. As you say, a l’outrance, usque ad mortem.’ I straightened up. ‘To the death!’