The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She lifted her foot and pressed it against my groin.

‘Are you virgo intacta?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head.

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

I did, but I shook my head, only to receive another slap, this time softer, on my face.

‘You’re not a very good liar, Mathilde. You will be, if you serve me and live in my household. You do know what I am talking about?’

She turned, cocking her head slightly as if listening to her invisible companion. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.

‘Shall I tell you something, Mathilde? Marie has changed her mind. She thinks she likes you, and so do I.’ She began to sing softly under her breath, a Goliard hymn, a wandering scholar’s filthy song. I wondered who could have taught her that.

‘Can I trust you, Mathilde?’

‘With your life?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ She pouted. ‘Can I trust you?’

‘Of course, madame, I am your servant.’

‘Of course you are,’ she mimicked, eyes dancing with merriment. ‘I told a lie. They are frightened of me! They want me to leave and I want to go. Mathilde, have you heard the stories? How my father may have poisoned my mother? That’s what the gossips claim. Father heard a servant girl repeat it; she was burned and her lover was hanged in Father’s apple orchard. He claimed they were guilty of treason, but why should he burn a girl and hang a boy because of rumour and malicious gossip? Anyway,’ she continued, ‘they’ll be glad to see me leave here. They’re frightened, you know.’

‘What of?’ I asked.

‘Ah, you’ll see. Virgo intacta,’ she murmured. ‘I am supposed to go to Edward virgo intacta.’

‘Of course you are, your grace,’ I hastily replied, just wishing I could get up from my knees.

‘You may sit beside me now.’ The order came so swiftly, I wondered if she knew exactly what I was thinking and who I really was. I sat down beside her. She edged closer, pressing her body against me. I felt her warmth and realised she must have a jar of heated coals beneath her cloak to fend off the cold.

‘You see, Mathilde, no one really wants to come with me to England. Father has chosen the ladies for my retinue as well as the servants for my household. Most of them will be his spies and dutifully report back. I told him that I wanted servants I could trust, people not from the court. Father, of course, has had his way, so he’s become too bored, or too busy, to deal with it. Uncle Charles said he would do what he could. He mentioned you. Anyway, you are a change!’

Again she turned away to talk to the invisible Marie, chattering away in a language I couldn’t understand. She glanced back at me.

‘You’re wondering what tongue I’m using. Well, I will tell you, it’s a language only Marie and I understand.’

‘How long has Marie been with you?’

‘Oh, as long as I remember. I was telling you why they are frightened, my brothers and my father? Well, for the last two years my brothers have come into my bedchamber. Oh yes they do.’ She nudged me playfully. ‘They slide between the sheets and fondle my body; even Father, when he wishes to embrace me, puts his hands where he should not. I know that, Mathilde, because of Ursula; she was an old lady-in-waiting, one of my mother’s people, dark of skin, with a sour disposition but a keen eye and an even sharper tongue.’

‘And what happened to Ursula?’

‘She protested. She objected to what she had seen and became angry with my brother Louis. Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘a week later Ursula fell down some steps and broke her neck. They buried her in the poor man’s plot in the cemetery, the one the soldiers use, as no one claimed her body. She had no relatives here.’

The two knights remained huddled in the corner, lost in their own conversation, no longer bothered about me or the princess they were supposed to be guarding.

‘Yes, they are frightened,’ Isabella repeated. ‘They don’t want me to tell Edward what has happened. Can you imagine, Mathilde, if the new King of England, that lusty warrior, discovered I had shared my bed with my own brothers, where we’d played tumble games? He’d object. He’d write to the Holy Father in Avignon. I have sworn an oath to my father and my brothers to keep silent on that matter, provided I have my way in certain things; one of them is you, Mathilde. You will sleep at the door of my chamber.’ She rose to her feet and thrust the small heated pot she brought from beneath her cloak into my hands.

‘Warm yourself and come, follow me.’

We entered the palace, and climbed a wooden staircase. The princess’s chambers stood along a small gallery, three rooms in all: a main chamber, flanked by a waiting room and another for stores. The gallery was of polished wood, panelling along one wall and against the outer one deep window seats overlooking the fountain courtyard. Ladies-in-waiting were sitting there muffled against the cold, warming themselves over chafing dishes, pretending to be busy with embroidery; of course they had been watching us all the time. They rose as the princess approached. One hastened forward and grasped her by the hand, exclaiming loudly how cold her mistress felt. The princess shrugged this off and dismissed them. She swept into her own chamber. I followed.

‘Close the door,’ the princess called out over her shoulder. I put down the warming pot and hastened to obey.

‘Pull the bolts at top and bottom,’ she continued. ‘So no one can disturb us.’

I did so. Isabella turned, unfastened her cloak and let it fall. She was dressed in a blood-red woollen gown edged with ermine, fastened at the neck by a silver cord. Before I could protest, she undid this, easing the gown over her shoulders to fall at her feet. She then removed her kirtle, and her undergarments, until she stood naked before me, a young woman’s body, breasts already sprouting, hips widening. She turned, spreading out her hands.

‘Demoiselle Mathilde, this is what I will take to Edward of England. Now it’s time for something warmer.’

She redressed in woollen undergarments, quickly putting on a blue and silver gown, taking a pelisse from a peg on the wall to wrap about her shoulders. I was so embarrassed at her actions I glanced round the chamber, at the bed drapes, the Turkey rugs, the glorious coloured arras and tapestries resting against the pink-painted plaster. Above me hung a wooden chandelier; it carried six candles and could be lowered by a rope to shed greater light. Across the room stood a small writing desk and high-backed chair. The desk was covered with pieces of parchment and quills. Around the chamber ranged chests, some sealed and locked, others, with their lids thrown back, from which spilled precious cloth, brocaded clothing, belts, books, all the possessions of a rich, spoilt, pampered girl. Well, that was my first impression. I was yet to realise how Isabella could have performed in any mummers’ play, shifting from mood to mood, sometimes a child, at others a young woman. Now and again she’d act the innocent until her face assumed a cunning look as if she was calculating everything, weighing all she saw and heard in the balance. Whatever Marie had told her, Isabella had seemed to greet me as if I was a long-lost servant, as if we had known each other for years. Now she walked across and sat on the high-backed chair before the writing desk. She snapped her fingers, gesturing at a quilted stool in the corner.

‘Bring that over here, Mathilde, sit next to me.’

I did so, and Isabella rubbed her hands. ‘I’m cold.’ She pointed to the wheeled brazier just inside the door, the charcoal spluttering, small tendrils of smoke escaping, mingling with the perfume of sweet powders sprinkled on top. ‘Bring that across, Mathilde’. I hurried to do so. Once I had taken my seat, she gestured at another table where there was a jug of fruit juice and two goblets.

‘Fill both, one for you and one for me.’ So the game continued as she sent me hither and thither around the room, for this or that. Eventually she tired and turned to face me, once again swinging her legs, as if wondering whether to kick me or not.

‘Well, Mathilde, what are we to do?’ She steepled her fingers, pressing her hands hard. ‘We should be in England now.’ She smiled. ‘But Edward refuses to arrest the Templars! Now he is saying he doesn’t want to marry me.’ She threw her head back and laughed. ‘Father’s rage is to be seen to be believed. Spots of anger appear,’ she tapped her own cheek, ‘on either side, red splotches like those on a jester, and here,’ she pulled her lower lip down, ‘a white froth bubbles. They say my father has a heart of ice; I know different. He throbs with fury at the English king’s insults. So, Mathilde, we might spend a long time together before we take the road and cross the Narrow Seas to that mysterious island!’ She pushed her face closer, as if I was a child. ‘The mysterious island.’ She grimaced. ‘Nothing mysterious about it; only wet, dark and green, with elves and goblins living in the forest. They do say London is a magnificent city, like Paris, with a great thoroughfare and stalls which sell everything, and I,’ she tapped her chest, ‘will be queen of it all, but only if Edward stops baiting Father. Now, this is what I want you to do, Mathilde. I want you to listen to me.’ She wagged her finger. ‘No, don’t object.’ She blinked. ‘Looking at you, Mathilde, I suspect you are a keeper of secrets. If I told my father about that, he would have you investigated. Why do I know that? Well, you are the only person who really wants to go to England, so what are you hiding? Why do you want to flee?’

I kept my face impassive and held her gaze.

‘The more I look at you, Mathilde,’ she gossiped on, ‘the more I like you.’ She smiled. ‘You’re wondering why I am telling you all these secrets? Quite simple!’ She clapped her hands. ‘If you told other people they wouldn’t believe you, whilst if my father or brothers realised you now know, they’d certainly kill you! Oh, Mathilde,’ she breathed, ‘it is so good to talk to flesh and blood!’

She got up to confront me squarely, staring at my face as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I wonder who you really are,’ she repeated. She screwed her eyes up, no longer a young lady, more a mere chit of a child, yet there was something highly dangerous about her. Isabella was quick-witted, her moods ever changing; she had yet to learn how to school her expressions, she was still young and innocent enough to let her mask slip. She was weighing me carefully in the balance. She touched my face. ‘Olive skin and smooth,’ she murmured. ‘Thick eyebrows over green eyes, black hair, like Marie’s, cut into a bob. They say you’re trained as a leech, an apothecary.’ She laughed. ‘You’re a woman and too young to be an expert, a peritus, but you can stare and watch. I believe you’ll be the sharpest arrow in my quiver. Stretch out your hands.’

I did so. She gently eased back the sleeves of my gown and scrutinised my wrists and hands. ‘Soft but used.’ She held up the callused finger of my right hand. ‘And a quill? Do you play hazard, Mathilde?’

‘At times, my lady.’

‘Good, I like to play. I have my own dice. They are made out of ivory. What my brothers don’t know is that they are cogged; I always win.’ She laughed behind her fingers. ‘Now, Mathilde,’ she rapped me again on the ankles, this time more gently, ‘you will hold office in my household. You will be my dame de la chambre: where I go, you follow. If I ride, you will either accompany me on horse or run beside me. You are my messenger and my taster. Oh yes, I want you to make sure that if wine and food are brought to my chamber, they remain pure and untainted.’ Again the low laugh behind splayed fingers; all the time those keen blue eyes scrutinised me carefully.

‘Above all I need someone to confide in. I am getting bored with Marie. I am not too sure if I should take her to England. Now listen.’ She grasped my hand, and pulled me to my feet as if I was her dearest friend, linking her arm through mine. We walked to the casement window and stared down at the fountain; the water in its bowl was frozen hard, the carved stonework, representing a sea monster, had a gaping mouth and staring eyes. ‘If we do go to England, we have to cross the Narrow Seas,’ she murmured. ‘That’s dangerous. Now, Mathilde, give me your promise.’ She nipped my arm. ‘One day, when we trust each other, you will tell me who you really are. Until then,’ she patted my hand, ‘I’ll keep you safe.’

We left her quarters to walk through the palace. For a while Isabella simply strolled around the galleries and hallways. She showed me the archives, the scriptorium, the library with its precious manuscripts, bound in leather and edged with gold, chained to their stands. All the time she chattered like a squirrel on a branch. I still could not decide whether she was artless or very cunning, a court lady or a girl whose wits had turned. We entered the grand hall. For a while we watched actors, tumblers, conjurors and animal trainers rehearse their tricks whilst being inspected by a chamberlain who was to decide on which revelry to choose for some feast. A bell tolled, so we went to the buttery, where Isabella sat like any serving wench, tapping the table, gossiping with the maids, whilst demanding that we be given freshly baked bread with honey and jugs of light ale. Afterwards we returned to Isabella’s chamber. Once there she ordered more food, this time a tray of spiced meats and a flagon of the richest Bordeaux. I was surprised, bearing in mind her tender age; nevertheless she filled both cups to the brim and swallowed a little of hers, before pushing it into my hands, her face all angry.

‘You’re a bitch!’ She pouted. ‘You’re lazy! You should have tasted it first.’

I sipped from both cups and held them out for her to choose, and she snatched one from my hand. That was how the dance began. Where Princess Isabella went, I followed. Sometimes she would sit in the window seat, jabbing a needle at a piece of embroidery like any soldier would his sword at a straw man in the exercise yard. When she grew bored with this, she asked for musicians and skilfully accompanied them on the rebec, flute or harp. One thing was constant: Isabella’s love of books. I thank God for my own studies. Sometimes she would read the tales; other times I did whilst she acted certain parts. I was correct: Isabella was a mummer’s girl. She could slip from one role to another and mimic people as easily as a mirror reflects light. She was deeply intrigued by my knowledge of physic and herbs. Her courses had already begun and she suffered from the cramps. At first she refused my ministrations, but then agreed. She wanted me to examine her urine, but I quoted from the tract of Isaac Judaeus: ‘All urine is a filter of the blood and properly indicates two things, either an infection of the liver and veins, or an infection of the intestines and viscera. Of other things, it gives only indirect indications.’

Isabella stared gape-mouthed, then burst out laughing. I thought she would strike me; instead she caressed my cheek.

‘You recite better than my father’s physicians.’

I remained silent.

‘So, physician?’ She clutched her stomach in mock pain.

‘Southerwood,’ I replied, quoting from Abbot Strabo. ‘Its tops, flowers or seeds boiled is the correct remedy for cramp. Pliny recommends sage with wormwood.’

‘And you?’

‘Mugwort and camomile will help.’

Apparently it did. Isabella’s interest in herbs and medicine quickened. She declared as much when she borrowed books from her father’s library. In truth, they were for me. I was grateful and, for the first time, read a fresh treatise of Bernard de Gordon, the physician from Montpellier, his De ingeniis curandorum Morborum. At the same time Isabella kept me well away from the other servants; if anyone came close, she would imperiously intervene and dismiss them. I was given my own chamber beside hers. A comfortable room with a soft bed, a brazier, sticks of furniture and a lavarium; there was even a coloured cloth tied to the wall and a black crucifix with an ivory figure of Christ writhing against it. The window was shuttered against the cold and beneath it was a quilted bench. I thought I would sleep apart from her, but on my first night, Isabella made it very clear that I was to lie on a palliasse, especially ordered from the stores, just inside her room.

Two days after I joined her service I met her three brothers. They sloped up the stairs like hunting dogs, padding along the gallery in their quilted jerkins and tight-fitting hose, feet pushed into pointed slippers, small jewelled cloaks clasped about their shoulders. I understood why the princess was so wary of them. All three were silver-haired demons. Louis was small, with the sharp, pointed features of a greyhound, ever-darting eyes and nervous gestures, particularly with the jewelled girdle around his waist. He looked at me only to dismiss me as you would a mongrel. Philippe was much taller, broader, with a nervous tic in his face and hooded eyes above a sharp nose and prim mouth. A man of violent temper and hot humours, a man I judged not to be crossed. Charles was stout, with a fat red face, his paunch already proclaiming his love of wine; every time I met him he was never far from a cup. They lounged in their sister’s room, legs stretched out like a pack of lurchers playing with some quarry before they killed it. They had high-pitched voices, arrogant and abrasive; gabbling like nasty geese. They seemed fascinated by their sister. They had their own ladies, their own separate households, yet they were constant visitors to Isabella’s quarters. They brought gifts, sweetmeats, a triptych depicting the martyrdom of St Denis, baubles and toys; even a ferret, though that was later killed by Charles’s pet greyhound.

A sinister trio, dangerous men who tapped their dagger scabbards as they talked; they despised the servants and were cruel to their own retinues. All three swaggered into Isabella’s chamber like suitors for her hand, eager to see her yet rivals to each other. Isabella always received them elegantly but coldly. She would sit like a little snow queen from a romance, hands on her knees, face fixed in the same twisted smile. On one occasion Louis tried to grab her by the waist and pull her close. Isabella lunged like a spitting cat; even I was surprised at how swiftly the needle-thin stiletto appeared in her hand. She pressed this against her brother’s cheek. They continued their argument in whispers. Louis, nursing the slight prick on his face, stepped away. He muttered something to his brothers, and they all left laughing; only then did Philippe glance towards me, a sly smile on his angry face. They slammed the door behind them and began to tease and flirt with the ladies outside. Isabella sat down abruptly. Her mood changed, she was no longer imperious, but pallid-faced, tears trickling down her cheeks. I hastened over to kneel before her, but she patted the settle beside her. I never touched her. I never spoke. I simply sat while she put her head down, shoulders shaking, not raising her face until the tears had stopped.

‘Is it always like this, Mathilde?’ she murmured. ‘In every family? Do the brothers put their hands up their sisters’ gowns, clasp their necks and pinch their breasts? Do they, at the dead of night, steal between their sisters’ sheets?’ She blinked and bit her lip.

‘I just pray I’ll be gone, be away from here and never return!’ She patted my hand. ‘You’ll come with me.’ She smiled tearfully. ‘Mathilde the silent, though.’ Her smile disappeared. ‘As your heart grows older, it will come to sights much colder.’ She slipped a costly ring from her finger and pressed it into my hand. ‘Remember me! Remember my words!’

In time I met Philip, the king, himself, booted and spurred from the hunt, striding up the stairs amongst his henchmen, Enguerrand de Marigny (ah, my red-haired enemy!), de Plaisans and Nogaret, those sly lawyers who had scandalised Christendom by ordering their servants to attack the previous pope, Boniface VIII, in the town of Anagni. They, too, scarcely gave me a second glance. They would later wish they had! I was summoned across and made to kneel at the king’s feet. He pushed his jewelled fingers hard against my mouth, then put his hand beneath my chin, forcing me to look up. I have heard many tales about Philip Le Bel. They’re all true! Philip’s face was like ivory, his hair silver; at a swift glance you’d think he was an albino. His eyes were clear blue, his touch icy, his manner cold. He stared at me without any change of expression, patted me on the head as if I were a dog and pushed me away.

At first I remained very nervous; worries about my mother (I dared not write to her), nightmares about Uncle Reginald and fears about my own safety plagued my sleep, but as the days passed, I began to relax. My chamber was comfortable. The princess never mentioned Marie. Instead she talked to me about everything. She knew all the chatter and gossip of the court. Which lady was unfaithful to her husband, who was in favour and who was out, all the time watching me, studying me carefully. One afternoon, shortly after I arrived, the princess sent me on an errand to the other side of the palace; I was to enquire about a stool she’d sent to the royal carpenters. I was on my way back when a young lady stepped out of the shadows just within a doorway.

‘Demoiselle Mathilde?’ My sleeve was plucked. I glanced at her. She had beautiful red hair framing an impudent face; her gown cut low, she moved closer in a fragrant gust of perfume.

‘Madame?’

‘I am from Monsieur Louis, the princess’s brother.’

‘I know who he is,’ I replied. She grasped my hand. I felt the small sack of coins.

‘Monsieur Louis would consider it a great favour if you could keep him informed about his sister’s moods.’

I snatched my hand away; the purse fell to the floor.

‘If the princess’s brother wishes to know about his sister’s temperament, he should ask her directly. I bid you good day.’

I was so immersed in what had happened, I became lost in the maze of galleries and passageways, so it took some time before I returned to the princess’s quarters. When I entered the chamber, I was surprised to see her seated in the high-backed chair before the fire, with the young lady I’d met on a stool beside her. As soon as I appeared, Isabella flicked her fingers. The lady rose, curtsied, grinned at me and swept out of the room.

‘Come, Mathilde.’ Isabella’s fingers fluttered. ‘Come here.’

I sat on the footstool; she gently patted my hair.

‘You passed scrutiny, you can’t be bought! No, no, now listen, this is what I want you to do. You know the university quarter, how the different students from each kingdom are divided into nations? I want you to go to the English quarter. I want you to move amongst the students and the scholars, especially the clerks from the retinues of the English envoys. You are to discover all you can about my future husband, Edward of England!’ She paused. ‘All I know about him is what I’ve been told!’ She imitated the portentous tone of an envoy. ‘How courtly! How handsome.’ She winked. ‘I’ve yet to meet a man I can trust. Anyway, will you do that for me?’

‘Of course, my lady.’

‘Good, Mathilde. I am aware, from what you’ve told me, that you know the city well, though how and why I’ve yet to learn. So. .’ Isabella thrust a purse into my hand. ‘You refused that once,’ she smiled, ‘this time it’s yours! Buy them wine, Mathilde, let their tongues chatter. When you’ve finished, come back and tell me all you’ve learnt.’

Strange, isn’t it? How we judge children? We betray our arrogance — small bodies must house small minds. It’s not true. Isabella was thirteen years of age but she had all the wisdom and cunning of a woman of threescore years and ten.

I packed a set of panniers and left the palace the following day. It was good to be back in the city. Especially the Latin Quarter with its taverns, cook-shops, narrow streets, some cobbled, others not, the air rich with different fragrances and odours, the crowds colourful and jostling. I entered the quarter where the English nation lodged. Students in ragged gowns who lodged in narrow chambers were only too willing to escape to the great tap rooms and eating halls of the taverns. A noisy, colourful throng, young men full of the lust for life, quoting poetry, carrying a pet weasel or squirrel, arguing, fighting, dicing, chasing each other, constantly looking for a penny to profit or a woman to seduce. They rubbed shoulders with the tight-waisted, square-bodiced ladies of the town and ignored the moral warnings of the rope-girdled Franciscan in his earth-coloured robe who stood on a corner preaching against the lechery of the world. They played the rebec and the flute, sang songs of nonsense, crowned a dog as King of Revels and made a beggar with his clack dish lead him up and down the half-cobbled street. I had met a few English before; now I immersed myself in the company of these tail-wearers with their sardonic humour and harsh tongue. I became accepted and so closed with my quarry.

English envoys had arrived in Paris to negotiate with Philip. Of course their clerks and scribes, after the long day’s business was done, were eager for mischief amongst the English nation. I began to frequent a tavern, the Oriflamme, with a spacious tap room, not too clean; the rushes on the floor often squelched under my boots whilst some of the odours were definitely unsavoury. Nevertheless, this was where the English clerks congregated. At first they were sly-eyed and tight-lipped, but it’s wonderful what a flask of wine, a game of dice, joyful banter and a shared song can change. True, they were full of their own importance. They gave away no secrets; after all, these were clerks of the chancery, trained at their universities of Oxford or Cambridge in all fields of law and duplicity. What I wanted was not their secrets, only the chatter of the court, and they were most willing to share it. I rented a narrow garret with no window except a hole dug through the wall covered by a piece of hardened cloth. With Isabella’s silver it was easy to pose as the daughter of a French lawyer waiting for her father to join her from Dijon. If you pretend to act the mummer’s part, and retain the mask, the world, in the main, will believe you. Once they’d downed their cups and filled their bellies, the clerks regaled me (acting very much the innocent lady) with stories about the English court, especially the rise of Monsieur Gaveston, the king’s favourite, to the earldom of Cornwall.

‘Oh yes.’ One of them winked at me, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Earl of Cornwall Gaveston now is, bosom friend of the king, who calls him his dear brother.’

‘And the other great lords accept this?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’

They chattered on, explaining how Edward of England had no desire to arrest the Templars in his kingdom, whilst he had little inclination for travelling to France, marrying the French king’s daughter or fulfilling the treaty’s obligations.

‘If he doesn’t,’ one narrow-faced clerk muttered, ‘there’ll be war and no more journeys to Paris. At least,’ he smiled in a fine display of cracked teeth, ‘until a new peace treaty is signed.’ He put his cup down.

‘And there’s the secret. .’