Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts by Paul Doherty Page B

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,