The Cup of Ghosts

Chapter 3

Narrow Face, all pimpled and sweaty, stared at me, his half-open mouth slobbering food. He was trying to look cunning but, like all such men, he was stupid. He looked me up and down as if I was some mare at Smithfield Market, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His companions had turned away; some were already arguing about whose dice they should use in the cracked cup, the others were distracted by one of those travelling players who’d appeared in the tavern doorway dressed in black, with the white outline of a skeleton gaudily painted over. He brought his own stool, stood on it and began to intone one of those tearful dirges about death:

When my eyes mist,

And my hair hisses,

And my nose grows cold,

And my tongue does fold,

And my strength slacken,

And my lips blacken.

And my mouth gaping. .

The students took up the refrain of this travelling English mountebank, probably some scholar from the English quarter trying to earn a crust. I was about to turn back when I glimpsed that face which was to haunt me all my life, serene and smooth under grey-dashed hair. It was the eyes which drew me, with their far-seeing gaze. The man was studying me intently. Someone moved between us and, when he passed, the man with the far-seeing gaze had disappeared. I felt the sharp edge of the table press against me. Narrow Face had lurched to his feet, leaning drunkenly across, grinning in a sickening display of yellow teeth.

‘Would you like to know the secret, ma jolie?’

‘Of course,’ I simpered and, a short while later, I found myself strolling arm in arm with Narrow Face through the nearby cemetery of L’Eglise des Innocents. It was a macabre place, overlooked by the gleaming casements of large merchant houses and entered through a huge porch in a double gateway. Just inside the cemetery was a shrine to St Valery, patron of cures for ailments of the groin. Narrow Face sniggered and pointed out the crude wax penises hanging alongside the shrine. That clerk of the red wax, a member of the King of England’s privy chamber, as I later found out, preened himself showing off his knowledge, pointing out the different stalls and booths selling tawdry trinkets, ribbons and disused clothes. He bowed mockingly at a brace of filles de joie who went tottering past on their stiffened pattens, faces gaudy, hair all dyed, hitching up their skirts to display well-turned ankles.

We stopped beneath a tree where the coffin of an excommunicate hung dripping with dirt from the branches. Narrow Face explained how this was the closest such a wretch could come to consecrated ground. I listened as if attentive to every word, though the noise around us was deafening. Red-faced traders shouted and bawled, trying to be heard over a blacksmith, face all blotched and burnt, who’d set up his forge just within the gate and was banging on his anvil as if beating the devil. A Crutched Friar, face hidden deep in his cowl, was standing on a tomb chest, warning anyone interested how in hell usurers boiled in molten gold, gluttons feasted on toads and scorpions, whilst the proud would be hooked to an ever-turning burning wheel. Beneath the makeshift pulpit a madman, festooned with shells, did a dance, whilst a group of children chased a bell-capped monkey who’d escaped from its owner.

I leaned hard on Narrow Face’s arm and picked my way around the clots of mud and other rubbish strewn across the paved path which wound itself through that place of death. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison — Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy. Sweet Jesus Lord, have mercy on me! I remember that day so well! The first time I killed a man! Initium homicidum — the beginning of the murders! All I meant to do was kiss Narrow Face, whisper sweet words and promise him another assignment. After all, I did as much to those apprentices I flirted with when I worked for Uncle Reginald. All I wanted to learn was what he knew. We reached the charnel house, the arms of the Guild of the Pin and Needle Workers displayed on the wall in shiny blue and red. I glanced across at the tracery grille on the tomb of a young woman with serene marble face and folded marble hands; for a brief moment I wondered where I would lie and what death I would face. Uncle Reginald’s fate was still very much in my thoughts. We went round the building. I was teasing Narrow Face, asking him about the great secret. We stood in a narrow, darkened alleyway which separated the charnel house from a line of elms fringing the high curtain wall of the cemetery.

‘The secret?’ I whispered, leaning back against the harsh brickwork.

‘Oh, very important.’ Narrow Face pressed his body against mine. He had a faint sour smell. He glanced sideways as if about to reveal some great mystery.

‘The King of England,’ he whispered, ‘will not marry Princess Isabella; he is resolute on that. He will defy her father.’

‘But that’s no secret. .’

Narrow Face stepped hastily back. I had betrayed myself. I still had not learnt the trick of keeping the mask firmly on.

‘How do you know that?’ Narrow Face’s hand slid to the wicked-looking poignard pushed through a ring on his belt. ‘How can a wench no better than a tavern slut be party to such knowledge?’

I kept still, cursing my own stupidity.

‘Are you one of the Secreti?’ Narrow Face stepped forward; the dagger point came up, pricking under my chin. The clerk watched me closely. ‘I am,’ he hissed, ‘a scholar of the halls and schools of Oxford. Do you know what that means?’ He pressed the dagger point deeper. ‘Do you truly think I am stupid, putaine?’ He drew back his head, hawked and spat in my face. I kept still. He grasped my hand and felt the skin of my palm.

‘Soft,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘like your flesh beneath.’ He pressed his groin against me. I flinched at his fetid breath. ‘You are one of the Secreti!’ he accused. ‘One of the gargoyles, one of King Philip’s legion of spies. Well, I’ll have my pleasure first.’ He pressed the tip of the dagger harder as he pushed up my skirt.

‘Please, please!’ I begged, trying to distract him.

He laughed, lost in his own intended pleasure. I drew the Italian dagger from my own waistband, and as he pressed against me, one hand scrabbling at the points of his hose, I thrust deep, hard, into his left side up towards the heart. The shock and the pain sent him staggering back at a half-crouch, mouth open, coughing up his life blood. He lurched towards me. I moved quickly along the charnel house wall, which he hit, striking his head, before collapsing to the ground.

I fled the Cemetery of the Innocents out on to the busy cobbled streets. Strange sights and sounds confused me, bells clanged, faces under wimples gaped in surprise, beggars scowled shrouded in their hoods, a pig nosed at the bloated corpse of a cat, a blind child clattered with his stick, a mastiff howled, hair raised, teeth snarling. I fled down an alleyway. An apothecary sign creaking in the breeze caught my glance. I remembered Uncle, his kindly eyes and gentle, soothing voice. I crouched in the narrow doorway of the shop, fighting for breath, wiping away the sweat. Narrow Face’s death was one thing, but the chatter he brought also frightened me. If it was no longer a rumour, if Isabella did not travel to England, what hope for me?

I calmed myself. I had to return to Simon de Vitry; he would know what to do. I approached the merchant’s house avoiding the postern gate, I went up to the main door; it was off the latch. I opened it, stepped into the vestibule and was greeted by the horrors. A few paces away the manservant lay in a pool of his own blood, a crossbow quarrel firmly dug into his back; the clerk lay half out of the small chamber the merchant had first taken me to. At the bottom of the stairs the maid sprawled face down. She had taken a bolt in the chest, and the blood billowed out in a pool beneath her. I distinctly remember the balustrade was blood-free but I noticed a blur of blood high on the white plastered wall. I was so shocked by the horror of it all, I simply stared around this place of sudden death. I went back to the front door, pulling across the bolt, and gazed at the three corpses, all taken by surprise. Death had swept them into his net, suddenly, abruptly. I went across, gingerly edging round the pools of blood, and felt the skin of each corpse. They were not yet cold, the blood still congealing. I climbed the staircase, past the maid’s corpse, trying not to look at her staring eyes, shocked in death. I studied the bloodstain on the plaster and shook my head in surprise, then looked back at the servant girl’s corpse. She lay sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, slightly turned over; the crossbow bolt must have thudded into her and she had fallen forward, the blood splattering down her front on to the stairs. So how had the plaster been stained? Unless the assassin had moved the corpse then tried to climb the stairs, but he would have followed the same route as me, holding on to the balustrade, which was blood-free. I continued up.

Monsieur Simon de Vitry lay on the small gallery just beneath a diptych showing Lazarus summoned from his tomb. The merchant was still wearing his nightgown, his flesh not yet cold. I reasoned that the assassin must have struck shortly before I came, then fled. I stepped over de Vitry’s corpse and entered his small bedchamber; its chests and coffers had been wrenched opened, papers and parchments tossed about. I examined the ground carefully, looking at the stains. How many assassins had there been? All I could find was one bootprint. I looked back down the stairs; the windows were unshuttered, probably the last act by the servant girl before she was surprised by this devil’s ambush.

I know nothing of the humours of the mind. Narrow Face’s death may have unsettled me, but now I felt cold, detached and determined, my blood beat steady, my breath calm. I felt as if I was watching some village masque or a miracle play on the green. I was to observe what the actors said, listen to their chants, but not be part of their drama. I was in great danger in that house, but I wanted to know why Monsieur de Vitry, who had helped me so much, had been slaughtered. If the hue and cry were raised, ‘Au secours!’ or ‘Aidez moi’ were shouted, I could end my days being buried in the air, swinging off the platform at Montfaucon. However, only one thought remained. Uncle Reginald had helped me and he was dead; this man had helped me, now he was murdered.

I went back into the bedchamber, where coins were spilt out on the floor. Precious items, statues and silver candle-holders had not been stolen, the pretence of robbery had not even been invoked as the reason. One killer, one assassin, callous and arrogant, had struck as sure as a cock on a dung-hill. He must have felt protected. I recalled Narrow Face’s words about the Secreti, the agents of Marigny, Philip’s dark shadow. Philippe, Isabella’s brother, turning to stare at me with that twisted smile on his face. Had Simon de Vitry been murdered because of me?

I returned to the vestibule, increasingly aware of the harsh, brooding silence. I glimpsed a picture of the crucified Christ, his eyes staring out of a haggard face at this scene of reeking, hell-spawned malice and evil. I murmured the ‘Benedicite’ and looked down at the servant, the crossbow bolt embedded so deep into his back. He must have known his murderer. He must have opened the door, inviting him in before turning to lead him up to the merchant’s bedchamber. Was it someone important? Someone dispatched by Philip or Marigny? Certainly a person this household trusted. I walked across to the clerk’s corpse. The quarrel which had killed him was different from that used against the servant. Yet I could only detect one bootprint, not two. How could the assassin have acted so quickly? I closed my eyes, imagining a man carrying a sack containing arbalests, small crossbows neatly primed, taking one out then another, dropping the sack as he walked quickly across the hall. The maid tripping down the stairs, another quarrel loosed, but why that bloodstain so high on the wall?

Sounds from the streets outside echoed eerily. The chanting dirge from a funeral procession, a hired poet interspersing each verse with a poem about death. I recall a line: ‘I lie wounded in the shroud’; it aptly described what was happening to me. The stink of the charnel house and cemetery appeared to have followed me here. I glanced round once more, crossed myself and slipped into the street. I returned hastily to the palace. Strange how life changes! I now carried a royal seal. The guards and serjeants-at-arms scarcely gave me a second glance. I entered the royal quarters and found the princess in the fountain courtyard. She sat head bowed, golden hair tumbling about her. She was dressed simply in a tawny gown and cloak, muttering quietly to herself. I walked across and went to kneel. She glanced over her shoulder.

‘Mathilde, come here.’

I joined her on the bench. She looked up, blue eyes enlarged in her ivory-pale face. She had a linen parcel folded in her lap which she now covered with her hands.

‘They have arrived,’ she whispered, ‘the envoys from England, Sir Hugh Pourte and Sir John Casales. They are here about the marriage. They say it will not proceed.’ She freed one hand and clasped mine.

‘I must escape, Mathilde! What shall we do?’

I clutched her fingers, cold as a sliver of ice. She did not resist as I undid the linen parcel I took from her lap. Inside lay four wax figures smeared with blood and dung. Each wore a tiny paper crown, all four were pierced by a vicious-looking bodkin.

‘My lady.’ I took the parcel from her and, walking across to the large brazier, thrust the parcel deep into its fiery coals.

‘I hate them!’ The words rasped the air like a sword being taken from its scabbard. I glanced at the knights sheltering around the other brazier, talking quietly amongst themselves. I walked swiftly back, sat by the princess, clutched her hand and confirmed what she already knew about the intended marriage. She heard me out, nodding wordlessly.

‘Be strong, be cunning!’ I whispered. ‘Whatever happens, retain your mask.’ I half smiled at the way I had panicked and been so stupid with Narrow Face. I would not tell the princess that, not yet.

I took her by the arm and raised her, and we walked slowly back into the palace, the knights hurrying behind. I pinched the princess’s arm and pointed to a fresco on the wall displaying plump children playing joyfully in a wine press. I traced the coloured ivy which snaked through the painting and began to describe the properties of ground ivy, called ale-tooth. How vital it was for the brewing of ale and how Galen recommended it to treat inflammation of the eyes. We strolled down galleries and passageways. I gossiped like a jay; beside me the Princess eased her breathing and forced a smile. We wandered into a small chapel, its walls decorated with gleaming strips of oak. At the far end stood a simple altar on a sanctuary dais, to the right of that a shrine to the Virgin dressed as a queen holding the Divine Child on her knee. I made the princess kneel on the cushioned prie-dieu; candles flickered on their stands before her. I opened a nearby box, took out a fresh candle, lit it and watched the flame dance as I thrust it on to the pointed spigot. I stared up at the severe face of the Virgin. I found it difficult to pray. I recall saying the same words time and again, ‘Ave Maria, Gratia plena, Dominus tecum. .’ but after that I kept thinking of Narrow Face staggering away from me, blood splashing through his lips. Yet I felt no regret, no contrition, no desire to have my sins shrived. I glanced away. There was a painting of a corpse in its shroud on the side wall of the Lady Chapel, a memento mori: ‘Take heed of my fate and see how sometimes I was fresh and merry, now turned to worms, remember that.’ I read the scrolled words and thought of Uncle Reginald and Monsieur de Vitry. I vowed to remember them, and him, the man whom I’d glimpsed in the Oriflamme tavern, those beautiful eyes with their far-seeing gaze. I had to pinch myself. Had I truly seen him? Or was he part of a dream? Fable or truth, I vowed I’d never forget him.

Once we’d returned to the princess’s private quarters, Isabella abruptly grew tired, which I recognised as a symptom of deep anxiety, a fever of the mind. I poured her some apple juice mixed with a heavy infusion of camomile and made her drink. She lay down on her bed, bringing up her knees, curling like a child as I pulled the cloak over her. Later in the afternoon a finely caparisoned herald came knocking on the door. He announced that His Grace the King would, just after vespers, entertain the English envoys in the White Chamber of the palace; the princess must attend.

Isabella woke up refreshed. I informed her about the royal summons and her mood abruptly changed. She chattered about what she would wear and spent the rest of the afternoon preparing herself, servants and valets being summoned up with jugs and tubs of boiling water. Isabella stripped and washed herself. She perfumed and anointed her body, allowing me to dress her in linen undergarments, purple hose and a beautiful silver dress, high at the neck, with an ornamental veil set on her head bound by a gold braid and studded with gems. She opened her jewellery casket, slipping on rings, silver bracelets and an exquisite pectoral set with rubies and sapphires. She preened herself in front of the sheet of polished metal which served as a mirror, looking at me from the corner of her eye and laughing.

‘Now you, Mathilde.’ Isabella was generous. She never referred to her earlier symptoms, before she’d fallen asleep, as she made me wash, helping me to anoint and perfume myself, choosing clothes for me to wear. A page was dispatched to her father saying that Mathilde, Isabella’s dame de chambre, would be accompanying her to the banquet. As the bells of St Chapelle tolled for vespers we made our way down to the White Chamber: a small gleaming hall, with pure white-painted walls covered with hangings, its windows of thick glass decorated with the heraldic devices and armorial insignia of the Capets, the royal house of France. The polished floor reflected the light of sconce-torches and that of a myriad of candles spiked on a wheel which had been lowered to provide even more light. A fire leapt merrily in a cavernous mantled hearth. Part of the hall had been cordoned off with huge screens decorated with sumptuous tapestries in blue, red and gold depicting the romance of the Knights of the Swan and their assault on the Castle of Love. Other cloths bore beautiful roundels in vigorous colours showing the Six Labours of the Year.

The king, his ministers and three sons stood before the huge hearth; on each pillar of this an elaborately carved woodwose glared into the screened-off area as if resenting the wealth on display along the three tables. Isabella swept forward to be greeted. I was ignored. The king and his entourage moved around her. They all looked magnificent in their blue and white velvet suits; brooches, rings and chains of office sparkling in the light. I stood at the corner of the screen. Prince Philippe was glowering, lips moving wordlessly as he half listened to the sottish Charles. I did not wish to catch their eye, so I studied the three strangers. The nearest was dressed in the dark robes of a royal clerk; he had a smooth olive-skinned face under night-black hair swept back and tied in a queue. The other two were English, clearly having some difficulty in understanding the swift conversation in courtly Norman French. One was slightly hidden; the other was a lean beanpole of a man with sour face and sour eyes: Sir Hugh Pourte, merchant prince of London. His companion moved into the circle of light and I froze: Sir John Casales, a handsome, vigorous man with the face of a born soldier, harsh and lean, keen-eyed, firm-mouthed, his greying hair cropped close. He was dressed simply but elegantly in a dark green cote-hardie over a black velvet jerkin and hose of the same colour; his Spanish riding boots, their soft leather gleaming in the firelight, gave more than a hint of the military man.

I stood, watched and remembered. Sir John Casales, his right hand cut off by the Scots at the Battle of Falkirk. He had visited my uncle, but that had been years ago. I quietly prayed to the Virgin that he would not recognise me. Casales’ eyes, sharp as a fox, shifted towards me then looked away. It had been years since we met, and even then I’d been standing in my uncle’s shadow. I comforted myself with the thought that to a man like Casales, I was nothing more than another servant.

The conversation around the hearth was muted. Sir Hugh Pourte seemed distinctly sour; Casales acted more agitated: the courtier-knight shuffled his booted feet and stared around the hall; apparently what he was listening to was most unfavourable. King Philip himself had grown slightly red-faced, and eventually he turned away and signalled to his retainers; heralds in their gorgeous tabards lifted trumpets and shrilled a blast, the sign that the feasting was to begin.

We dined magnificently on venison and boar, roasted and basted with juices. The king announced, from where he sat in the centre of the middle table, that the meat was fresh straight from the forest of Fontainebleau, brought down by himself. Philip’s love of hunting, be it of beast or man, was famous. The main course was followed by a cockatrice of chicken and pork, apricots and oranges from Valence, all served on tables covered in glistening white samite cloths and decorated with plates, jugs, cups and goblets of silver and gold embroidered with gems and stamped with the royal arms. Philip sat enthroned like a silver lion, aware of his power; on either side of him ranged the English envoys. I sat at the end on one of the side tables, Isabella to my left. She’d acted the part, moving amongst the men like some well-trained nun, her lovely face framed by a shimmering veil over that beautiful golden hair. She kept her face impassive even as she sat down, then her eyes changed and I caught the glint of mischief. She leaned over as if to move a cup. ‘Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘this will be most amusing.’

For the first part of the meal the royal musicians in the nearby gallery, decorated with banners and pennants displaying the Capetian arms, played soft music. A young chorister sang a blood-tingling song: ‘I fled to the forest and I have loved its secret places.’ The wine jugs were passed round, the hum of conversation grew, Philip, like a skilled lawyer, guiding his guests to what he really wanted to discuss. He made a flourish with his hands at the serjeant-at-arms commanding the heralds beyond the screens; three trumpet blasts shrilled, the sign for the hall to be cleared of all servants and retainers, even the musicians from the gallery and the guards near the door. I watched this royal tableau develop. Philip remained impassive as a statue, silver hair falling to his shoulders, blue eyes crinkled in a false smile, his smooth-shaven face glowing like alabaster. Further down the table sat his minions. Marigny, slender, red-haired and sharp-faced, with hooded eyes and a sharp pointed nose. Nogaret the lawyer, an ever-smiling bag of fat, blond hair shorn close to his head, a cynical face with eyes which regarded the world with contempt. Des Plaisans, Nogaret’s alter ego, a lawyer with the ugly face of a mastiff, jutting jaw, thick-lipped, eyes ever darting. These men had killed my uncle, yet I was not ready, skilled enough, to retaliate.

I’d seen enough death that day: Narrow Face slumped against the wall, de Vitry and his household soaking in their own blood. I wondered then if I was petrified, turned to stone like a child who survives a massacre and cannot comprehend what has happened. Looking back, I know different. I have fought in battles, in bloody melees. I have also talked to soldiers. I understand what they mean by the phrase ‘ice in the blood’: a mysterious determination to remain calm, a belief that the death of one enemy does not mean you are safe from the others. In that White Chamber so many, many years ago, God assoil me, I was like that. My time had not yet come. I was still on the edge of the crowd, watching events move slowly to their climax.

Whilst the hall was cleared, the king sat, hands to his face, now and again glancing to his right and left at the English envoys. Pourte sat slouched; the wine had not improved his sour disposition. Casales was leaning forward, holding his goblet above the table.

‘My lords,’ Marigny must have caught his master’s glance, ‘we must return to the vexed matter of the Templars, heretics, sodomites-’

‘Not proved,’ Pourte barked back, ‘not proved, sir. That is a matter for our sovereign lord and the justices of the king’s Bench at Westminster.’

‘But they are criminals!’ Marigny retorted in a high-pitched voice.

I sat and listened as that demon incarnate spewed out his filth. How 134 out of the 138 Templars arrested in Paris, including the Grand Master Jacques de Molay, Geoffrey de Charney, the Preceptor of Normandy, and Jean de la Tour, Treasurer of the Paris Temple, not to mention the ploughmen, shepherds, blacksmiths, carpenters and stewards to the number of 1,500 had been dispatched to stinking dungeons and torture halls. In the main, they’d all confessed. I also heard the names of the traitors, former Templars expelled from the order, men Uncle Reginald had mentioned over a goblet of wine: Esquin de Floriens, prior of Montfaucon, and Bernard Pelet, names that will always live with the infamy of their accusations, the spilled-out vomit of evil souls. How the Templars were devoted to the devil. How they proclaimed that Christ was a false prophet, justly punished for his sins. How initiates of the Temple were commanded to spit, trample, even urinate on the crucified Christ. They also had to kiss the Templar who received them into the order on the mouth, navel, buttocks. . even the penis. Marigny described how the Templars were devoted to Baphomet, the demon who appeared in the form of a cat, or skull or head with three faces.

Casales and Pourte shook their heads in disbelief. Casales glanced quickly at me but showed no recognition. I did not care; I seethed with rage. I knew the Temple. I recognised these allegations for what they truly were: the horrid spilling of nasty, narrow souls. Satan and all his lords of the air had swept up to dine in that ghostly chamber with its tapestries and statues, silver pots and golden goblets, and his banners and pennants had been unfurled as the Templars, God’s good men, were hunted to their deaths. Pourte objected and referred to stories about Templars being tortured with the strappado or their feet being basted with animal fat and placed in front of a roaring fire until their bones fell out.

‘Such men,’ he commented, ‘would confess to anything.’

I drank noisily from my goblet and glanced away. Isabella was watching me curiously, a faint smile on her lips. She knew! I placed the goblet down. Marigny was moving the conversation towards the intended nuptials of the princess. All eyes turned to her. Again Pourte began to voice objections. How he and Casales believed the marriage was in the best interests of the English crown but his seigneur, the king, did not. Marigny silkily pointed out that French troops were massing on the borders of English-held Gascony, whilst wasn’t Edward of England facing war in Scotland against the redoubtable Robert de Bruce? At this moment Bruce was the French king’s enemy, but there again, matters might change. Casales intervened; the negotiations flowed back and forth like water in a millpond; the rest of us were ignored.

The king’s sons had drunk deeply and were glancing hot-eyed at their sister. Isabella sensed this, signalled to me and rose, bowing to her father, who flicked his fingers as a sign she might retire. Everyone else either rose or staggered to their feet. Isabella curtsied to them all and, followed by me, swept out of the hall up to our own chambers. She remained silent and severe even when we were alone with a serjeant-at-arms on guard outside. I lit more candles and tapers and helped her to undress. She kept on her shift, covering that with a fleur-de-lis cloak, and sat on a high-backed chair, turning to look through the window casement.

‘Mathilde,’ she whispered, ‘lock the door.’ I hastened to obey, but when I tried to turn the heavy key it would not move, whilst the bolts at top and bottom seemed rusted hard.

‘My lady,’ I gasped.

‘Look out of the door,’ she ordered. I did so. The gallery outside was deserted. No serjeant-at-arms; only shadows dancing in the lantern light, silent except for the creak of wood and the scurrying of mice. I stood listening to the faint sounds of the palace.

‘They will come.’ Isabella’s voice grew vibrant. ‘They will come tonight, Mathilde!’

I stared down the gallery, wondering what to do.

‘We can’t flee.’ Isabella spoke my thoughts. ‘There is nowhere to go.’

I stood indecisive until I recalled Simon de Vitry’s house; pushing open the door, the sprawled corpses, those crossbow bolts embedded deep in their flesh. I flew down the gallery.

‘Mathilde!’ I heard Isabella cry out; she must have thought I was fleeing. At the end of the gallery stood an unlocked aumbry containing arms: bows and arrows, poles and spears, and what I was looking for, a small arbalest. Even as I grasped it and the quiver of quarrels, I wondered if the assassin who’d slipped into de Vitry’s house had had something similar: small crossbows, perhaps two or three already primed in a sack. I ran back down the gallery, throwing myself through the half-opened door, then slammed it shut and leaned against it. Sweat soaked me. Isabella, still seated on the chair, watched me intently. I pointed at the narrow cot bed I slept in, then primed the arbalest, sliding a quarrel in, winching back the cord.

‘You’ve done that before, Mathilde?’ Isabella murmured.

‘My uncle.’ I paused. ‘Yes.’ I smiled bleakly. ‘I used to go hunting, as I will tonight.’

Isabella rose from her chair and climbed into bed.

I went round the chamber, extinguishing the candles, then lay down on the cot. I listened to the noise of the palace and heard a creak along the gallery outside. The door opened, and two figures slipped in. They ignored me and raced across the chamber. The light was poor but I could make out the shapes; Louis and Philippe had come to abuse their sister. No guard stood outside; no attempt was made to stop them. Louis threw himself onto the bed. I heard Isabella’s stifled screams as his hand went across her mouth. I slid from the cot bed; Philippe turned. I brought up the arbalest, aimed and loosed, immediately putting another quarrel in the slot and winding back the cord. The first bolt smacked into the wall beside the princess’s bed almost hitting the window.

‘Get out!’ I screamed. I even lapsed into the soldier’s patois my uncle had taught me. The princess leapt out of one side of the bed. She wrapped her cloak about her and moved towards me. Both intruders were drunk, swaying on their feet; I could smell their wine-drenched breath even from where I stood.

‘Who are you?’ Louis lurched forward, lower lip protruding, eyes bleary. Philippe was so drunk he slumped down on the end of the bed.

‘I am Mathilde de Clairebon,’ I replied, ‘dame de chambre for your sister, appointed solely to look after her. My lords, she does not want you here. You must go!’

‘And what if. .’ Louis made to take another step. I raised the arbalest, ‘what if. .’ he stood back, swaying, ‘we do not wish to leave?’

‘Then, my lord, like any knight, I would do what my duty to your sister, to the king and to God requires. Perhaps the king’s court will decide whether I did wrong or not.’ I’d plotted this as I lay in the dark, waiting for them to come.

Philippe lurched to his feet, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve.

‘I want to get out.’ He hurried past me into the gallery to retch and vomit.

Louis stood, hands on hips.

‘And if we return?’

‘If you return, my lord, I assure you of this: I will write certain letters and lodge them with people I trust in Paris. Should this happen again, copies of those letters will go to His Holiness in Avignon, not to mention the King of England! I leave it to you what your father would think of that.’

Louis shook his head, lust burning like fire in his eyes. For a few heartbeats he considered attacking me. I took a step back, allowing him to leave. He sighed noisily, brushed past me but turned at the door.

‘Mathilde de Clairebon,’ he pointed a finger at me, ‘I shall not forget you.’

‘My lord, I thank you for the compliment. Rest assured, I shall always remember you!’

Louis left, slamming the door behind him. I could hear his hoarse whisperings to Philippe out in the gallery, then their footsteps faded. I immediately took a chair, brought it across and pushed it against the door.

‘Why didn’t you do that immediately?’ Isabella walked over to me, her face white as snow, her eyes no longer blue but dark pools. She was on the verge of tears, lower lip quivering.

‘My lady, every battle has to be fought; you simply choose your field. Tonight we fought and we won! I do not think they will return.’

Isabella came close, grasping me by the shoulder; being slightly shorter than me, she stood on tiptoe and kissed me softly on the lips, then on each cheek.

‘Come with me, Mathilde.’

She led me out of the chamber. I hastily slung a cloak around me, keeping the arbalest and quiver of quarrels beneath. We went along the gallery and down the stairs. I realised we were returning to the chapel which we’d visited on my return from the city. The door was off the latch, and Isabella led me into the sweetened darkness, where the faint candles, now capped, still glowed before the statue. She hastily pulled the bolts across, then walked to where the sacred host hung in its silver pyx box from its chain on a wall bracket; next to it the red sanctuary light glowed. Isabella acted as fervently as any priest. She took the pyx down and laid it on the altar. She then beckoned me forward and made me put my hand over the pyx, placing hers on top.

‘I swear,’ her eyes held mine, ‘I swear by the body and blood of Christ, of our seigneur Lord Jesus, I’m your friend in peace or war until death.’

‘And my lady,’ I placed my hand on top of hers, ‘I am yours!’

Isabella blinked back the tears, picked up the pyx and replaced it on its hook. She led me by the hand to sit on the edge of the dais. The chapel was cold but our cloaks were thick and furred. Isabella tapped me on the knee.

‘Mathilde, tell me now who you really are; your secret will be safe with me.’

So I did. My life as a child, my father, the farm at Bretigny, my journey to Paris, Uncle Reginald, my years as his apprentice, his arrest and execution. I did not pause. I told the truth. I was safe with Isabella, she would not betray me. I also told her about Narrow Face’s death, the massacre at de Vitry’s house. She listened carefully, nodding all the time. When I finished, she again grasped my hand as if trying to draw its warmth for herself.

‘They’ve always come,’ she began. ‘They always have, as long as I can remember. I hate them, Mathilde, they see me as a toy, a whore; their own sister, a princess of France! I too have the Capet blood in me. I too am a direct descendant of the sacred Louis.’ She gestured at a fresco on the far wall celebrating that holy French king of whom Philip was so proud. ‘They come whenever they please. If my mother had lived she could have saved me. She died, you know, a strange sickness. Some whisper my father killed her! So desirous was he of entering the Templar order, of living the life of a so-called celibate. In truth all he wanted was their wealth, their houses, their farms, their granges, their fields, their livestock. He’ll do anything, Mathilde, to get his own way. What he wants has all the force of God’s law.’

‘They will not return,’ I said, ‘your brothers; I don’t think they will!’

Isabella nodded. ‘It is becoming too dangerous,’ she agreed. ‘If their games cost my father, they would feel the full fury of his wrath.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Our father would not be pleased.’

‘Have you ever thought of appealing to him?’

Isabella laughed, a strange strangled sound at the back of her throat.

‘As the root, so the branches, Mathilde. He too is not free of all guilt in such matters. He is not really my father, not here.’ She tapped her chest. ‘In my heart, in my soul he is not my father, and one day I shall have my revenge. Come, Mathilde.’