Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts Read online

  THE CUP OF GHOSTS

  PAUL DOHERTY

  headline

  Copyright © 2005 Paul Doherty

  The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 5019 3

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London

  NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Letter to the Reader

  About the Author

  Also by Paul Doherty

  Praise for Paul Doherty

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Author’s Note

  History has always fascinated me. I see my stories as a time machine. I want to intrigue you with a murderous mystery and a tangled plot, but I also want you to experience what it was like to slip along the shadow-thronged alleyways of medieval London; to enter a soaringly majestic cathedral but then walk out and glimpse the gruesome execution scaffolds rising high on the other side of the square. In my novels you will sit in the oaken stalls of a gothic abbey and hear the glorious psalms of plain chant even as you glimpse white, sinister gargoyle faces peering out at you from deep cowls and hoods. Or there again, you may ride out in a chariot as it thunders across the Redlands of Ancient Egypt or leave the sunlight and golden warmth of the Nile as you enter the marble coldness of a pyramid’s deadly maze. Smells and sounds, sights and spectacles will be conjured up to catch your imagination and so create times and places now long gone. You will march to Jerusalem with the first Crusaders or enter the Colosseum of Rome, where the sand sparkles like gold and the crowds bay for the blood of some gladiator. Of course, if you wish, you can always return to the lush dark greenness of medieval England and take your seat in some tavern along the ancient moon-washed road to Canterbury and listen to some ghostly tale which chills the heart . . . my books will take you there then safely bring you back!

  The periods that have piqued my interest and about which I have written are many and varied. I hope you enjoy the read and would love to hear your thoughts – I always appreciate any feedback from readers. Visit my publisher’s website here: www.headline.co.uk and find out more. You may also visit my website: www.paulcdoherty.com or email me on: [email protected].

  Paul Doherty

  About the Author

  Paul Doherty is one of the most prolific, and lauded, authors of historical mysteries in the world today. His expertise in all areas of history is illustrated in the many series that he writes about, from the Mathilde of Westminster series, set at the court of Edward II, to the Amerotke series, set in Ancient Egypt. Amongst his most memorable creations are Hugh Corbett, Brother Athelstan and Roger Shallot.

  Paul Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied history at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate at Oxford for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now headmaster of a school in north-east London and lives with his wife and family near Epping Forest.

  Also by Paul Doherty

  Mathilde of Westminster

  THE CUP OF GHOSTS

  THE POISON MAIDEN

  THE DARKENING GLASS

  Sir Roger Shallot

  THE WHITE ROSE MURDERS

  THE POISONED CHALICE

  THE GRAIL MURDERS

  A BROOD OF VIPERS

  THE GALLOWS MURDERS

  THE RELIC MURDERS

  Templar

  THE TEMPLAR

  THE TEMPLAR MAGICIAN

  Mahu (The Akhenaten trilogy)

  AN EVIL SPIRIT OUT OF THE WEST

  THE SEASON OF THE HYAENA

  THE YEAR OF THE COBRA

  Canterbury Tales by Night

  AN ANCIENT EVIL

  A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS

  A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS

  GHOSTLY MURDERS

  THE HANGMAN’S HYMN

  A HAUNT OF MURDER

  Egyptian Mysteries

  THE MASK OF RA

  THE HORUS KILLINGS

  THE ANUBIS SLAYINGS

  THE SLAYERS OF SETH

  THE ASSASSINS OF ISIS

  THE POISONER OF PTAH

  THE SPIES OF SOBECK

  Constantine the Great

  DOMINA

  MURDER IMPERIAL

  THE SONG OF THE GLADIATOR

  THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT

  MURDER’S IMMORTAL MASK

  Hugh Corbett

  SATAN IN ST MARY’S

  THE CROWN IN DARKNESS

  SPY IN CHANCERY

  THE ANGEL OF DEATH

  THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS

  MURDER WEARS A COWL

  THE ASSASSIN IN THE GREENWOOD

  THE SONG OF A DARK ANGEL

  SATAN’S FIRE

  THE DEVIL’S HUNT

  THE DEMON ARCHER

  THE TREASON OF THE GHOSTS

  CORPSE CANDLE

  THE MAGICIAN’S DEATH

  THE WAXMAN MURDERS

  NIGHTSHADE

  THE MYSTERIUM

  Standalone Titles

  THE ROSE DEMON

  THE HAUNTING

  THE SOUL SLAYER

  THE PLAGUE LORD

  THE DEATH OF A KING

  PRINCE DRAKULYA

  THE LORD COUNT DRAKULYA

  THE FATE OF PRINCES

  DOVE AMONGST THE HAWKS

  THE MASKED MAN

  As Vanessa Alexander

  THE LOVE KNOT

  OF LOVE AND WAR

  THE LOVING CUP

  Kathryn Swinbrooke (as C L Grace)

  SHRINE OF MURDERS

  EYE OF GOD

  MERCHANT OF DEATH

  BOOK OF SHADOWS

  SAINTLY MURDERS

  MAZE OF MURDERS

  FEAST OF POISONS

  Nicholas Segalla (as Ann Dukthas)

  A TIME FOR THE DEATH OF A KING

  THE PRINCE LOST TO TIME

  THE TIME OF MURDER AT MAYERLING

  IN THE TIME OF THE POISONED QUEEN

  Mysteries of Alexander the Great (as Anna Apostolou)

  A MURDER IN MACEDON

  A MURDER IN THEBES

  Alexander the Great

  THE HOUSE OF DEATH

  THE GODLESS MAN

  THE GATES OF HELL

  Matthew Jankyn (as P C Doherty)

  THE WHYTE HARTE

  THE SERPENT AMONGST THE LILIES

  Non-fiction

  THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF TUTANKHAMUN

  ISABELLA AND THE STRANGE DEATH OF EDWARD II

  ALEXANDER THE GREAT: THE DEATH OF A
GOD

  THE GREAT CROWN JEWELS ROBBERY OF 1303

  THE SECRET LIFE OF ELIZABETH I

  THE DEATH OF THE RED KING

  Praise for Paul Doherty

  ‘Teems with colour, energy and spills’ Time Out

  ‘Paul Doherty has a lively sense of history . . . evocative and lyrical descriptions’ New Statesman

  ‘Extensive and penetrating research coupled with a strong plot and bold characterisation. Loads of adventure and a dazzling evocation of the past’ Herald Sun, Melbourne

  ‘An opulent banquet to satisfy the most murderous appetite’ Northern Echo

  ‘As well as penning an exciting plot with vivid characters, Doherty excels at bringing the medieval period to life, with his detailed descriptions giving the reader a strong sense of place and time’ South Wales Argus

  This book is dedicated to

  an awe-inspiring mother

  Vivien Rose Self

  Lost too early in life

  From her loving family

  Prologue

  Tolle Lege, Tolle Lege.

  (Pick up and read, pick up and read.)

  St Augustine of Hippo, Confessions VIII

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is many years since . . .’ I sat back on my heels and gazed at the white, waxen face of the corpse stretched out on the low bier before me. Father Guardian, at least eighty-five summers old, stitched in his shroud, ready for the good brothers to carry him to the church to lie ringed by purple candles before the sanctuary, a hallowed place where angels hover so that the hordes of demons who prowl, hunting the souls of the dead, cannot trespass. Later, those same brothers, the Poor Men of Grey Friars, which nestles under the shadow of St Paul’s, would chant their requiem mass, and afterwards bury Father Guardian in God’s Acre, to shelter beneath some battered cross until the elements melt and Christ comes again.

  I describe Father Guardian as past his eighty-fifth summer; I’m not much younger. For months I had prepared myself to be shrived by him. To the rest of the community I am a simple anchorite from her lonely cell, more concerned about cleaning the garden paths or scrubbing the kitchen flagstones. Father Guardian, however, suspected my secret. Often, when the other brothers were busy, he’d search me out in the apple orchard or the sunken garden where I’d be weeding the fringes of the carp pond. He’d touch me gently on the shoulder or pluck at the sleeve of my gown, and invite me to some shady arbour or lonely garden nook where we could sit and talk about the old days. I never told him much, though he knew who I was. How I’d served the Queen Mother, Isabella of France. How I had been with her from the time she descended into hell until she rose in glory, only to fall again. How I’d sheltered long in the shadow of the She-Wolf, been a disciple of ‘that New Jezebel’ (a clever play on her name). Oh yes, like a visored knight, I’d been in the heart of that bloody, tangled mêlée when the great ones toppled from gibbet ladders or knelt, as Edmund of Kent did, like a chained dog by a gate until a drunken felon severed their heads. I trusted Father Guardian. I dropped hints and told tales, sometimes referring to the great lords, all gone before God’s judgement seat. I described my dreams, about corpses rotting on scaffolds or men, cowled and daggered, stealing through courtyards at the dead of night. Of shadowy meetings in ill-lit chambers, the tramp of armies, the neigh of war-horses; of great feasts and banquets where the wines of Bordeaux and Spain flowed like water from a broken cask, of sweetmeats, gorgeous tapestries and exquisitely decorated chambers; of silent, soft-footed murder in all its hideous forms, of my pursuits of the sons and daughters of that old assassin Cain.

  I have seen the days and Father Guardian recognised that. Sometimes, rarely, I would talk of Isabella, she of the lustrous skin and fiery blue eyes, her hair like spun gold and a body even a friar would lust after. Isabella ‘La Belle’, the Beautiful, of France, who tore her husband from his throne. She locked him in Berkeley Castle, sealing him up like some rabid animal until, so the chronicles report, killers slipped in and, turning him over on his face, thrust a red-hot poker up to burn his bowels and so leave no mark upon the corpse. Of Mortimer, proud as an antlered stag, a king in his own right, a Welsh prince with his secret dreams of power. Of Hugh Despenser, his hair and beard the colour of a weasel, with darting green eyes, fingers itching and heart bubbling with lust to possess Isabella. Edward himself, the golden-haired, blue-eyed king, great of body and small of brain, followed by all the others in their silks and satins and high-heeled pointed boots; lords of the soil who had their day before being murderously dispatched into eternal night.

  I closed my eyes then opened them, gazing round Father Guardian’s austere chamber, its limewashed walls, the floor bone-hard and dusty. Only the candles and a small chafing dish sprinkled with incense fended off the cold and the foul stench of death. I studied the corpse’s white, pointed face, the eyes half closed, the lips slightly parted. Father Guardian had prayed for me, he’d told me that. Even as he leaned over the chalice to murmur the words of consecration or took the bread to turn it into Christ’s blessed body, he always prayed the same petition: that one day I would kneel before him, make my confession and my peace with God, and so prepare my soul for its long journey to join the rest.

  ‘Mathilde.’ Father Prior would clasp my hands between his cold, thin fingers and nip the skin gently, those watery brown eyes staring at me compassionately. ‘I feel it, Mathilde, your soul is heavy with sin. Your mind, memories and dreams are haunted, they reek of sour evil.’

  Shrewd and cunning was Father Guardian. One of the few men I’ve met who could read a person’s soul. Of course, I demurred. I told him that I would keep my secrets and argue my case before God’s tribunal like any malefactor would before the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. Father Guardian would only sigh and let my hand go.

  Last summer, around the Feast of the Birth of John the Baptist, I began to reflect. I felt as if I had a belly brimming with soured wine. I wanted to vomit, to purge, to clean the evil from my soul, so I went and talked to her, Isabella, Queen of England, where she lies beneath her chest tomb just to the right of the high altar in Grey Friars. Ah, yes, that was where she asked to be buried, not in a shroud but in her wedding dress, even though she was well past her sixtieth year. As she died, coughing up her life blood, Isabella asked for my hand, begging me with her eyes.

  ‘Mathilde, ma doucette!’

  Her cheeks were sunken, her hair was grey, yet I could still glimpse the lustrous beauty of former days.

  ‘Bury me,’ she whispered, ‘in my wedding dress, my husband’s heart clasped between my hands but next to Mortimer, like a bride beside her lover! Promise me.’

  I kept my promise. I begged to see her eagle-eyed son, Edward the Great Conqueror, Lord of England, Ireland, Scotland and France and any other lands he can seize. I crouched on my knees before him in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster Abbey. I whispered out his mother’s last wish. The king, of course, cursed me, beat me about the shoulders, though at last he agreed. He ordered his sheriffs, marshals, bailiffs and beadles to clear the highway along Mile End, round past the Tower, so his mother’s corpse could be processed in great honour and pomp, with trumpet, fife and drum, amidst gusts of fragrant incense, to be buried, after solemn requiem mass, beneath the flagstones of Grey Friars.

  Later, months after his mother’s death, the king sent his stonemasons and carpenters to erect a beautiful chest tomb for his ‘beloved mother’. You can view it, with its crouching golden leopards and silver fleur-de-lis, its crowns and coronets, its pious inscriptions, all the macabre beauty of the grave. Edward did this as an act of reparation. Isabella had never forgiven him, not for what he’d done to her ‘Gentle Mortimer’, and that was what brought me to Grey Friars. I came to look after her tomb. The king ordered me here screaming, his foam-flecked lips curling like those of a snarling dog.

  ‘You were with her in life,’ he shouted. ‘Stay with her in death.’

  I joined the Poor Men of St Francis, the Grey Fr
iars, accepting the Bishop of London’s licence to be an anchorite in a cell in their grounds. Only Father Guardian knew from the start why I was really there. I was given menial tasks, the lowest of the low. On one matter, however, Father Guardian would brook no opposition.

  ‘If Sister Mathilde wishes to pray by the old queen’s tomb,’ he declared at a chapter meeting, ‘then she must be allowed to pray.’

  I did so every day, round about three o’clock in the afternoon, when the church was empty and the good brothers never assembled to sing God’s praises. I’d crouch like a dog and press my cheek against the cold stone, running my hand over the carved sculpting. In my mind I went back to some lush garden or splendid chamber with lozenge-shaped floor tiles, decorated cloths on the wall, a fire roaring under the mantled hearth, and everywhere the cloying perfume of my mistress. I spoke to her dead as I did to her alive. She used to call me her Lady of Hell. I was the keeper of her dark secrets.

  Anyway, I digress. Last summer I went to her tomb on the eve of the Feast of the Birth of John the Baptist. I recall gazing at a painting on the wall of the Good Thief at Golgotha, his bloody, tattered corpse hanging from the cross, his face twisted in agony, turning to speak to the Saviour, to beg for salvation. Beneath the cross stood the tormentors of Christ with the faces of apes and monkeys, an appropriate scene. I often felt like that Good Thief, but there again, sometimes I allow self-pity to consume me as fire does dry kindling.

  On that summer afternoon I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the painting, those ape-like faces, the grimacing monkey mouths, the hanging body laced with blood.

  ‘I’ve seen so many corpses,’ I whispered. I cannot seal the door to the past. The distraction sprang out of the dark heart of a nightmare, a memory of Hereford, and Despenser hanging from the seventy-foot-high gallows; Isabella and Mortimer watching his final torments, eating and drinking, toasting each other with their looted goblets. Despenser’s corpse dangling like a doll, feet kicking the air; the executioner scaling the ladder to drag the half-dead man down to slit his stomach and rip off his testicles. Blood lapping out like water from a split cask as Despenser’s screams rang across the market square.