Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts (35 page)

‘
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.’