Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

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