Read Online Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Doherty
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mind her tender age; nevertheless she filled both cups to the brim and swallowed a little of hers, before pushing it into my hands, her face all angry.
‘You’re a bitch!’ She pouted. ‘You’re lazy! You should have tasted it first.’
I sipped from both cups and held them out for her to choose, and she snatched one from my hand. That was how the dance began. Where Princess Isabella went, I followed. Sometimes she would sit in the window seat, jabbing a needle at a piece of embroidery like any soldier would his sword at a straw man in the exercise yard. When she grew bored with this, she asked for musicians and skilfully accompanied them on the rebec, flute or harp. One thing was constant: Isabella’s love of books. I thank God for my own studies. Sometimes she would read the tales; other times I did whilst she acted certain parts. I was correct: Isabella was a mummer’s girl. She could slip from one role to another and mimic people as easily as a mirror reflects light. She was deeply intrigued by my knowledge of physic and herbs. Her courses had already begun and she suffered from the cramps. At first she refused my ministrations, but then agreed. She wanted me to examine her urine, but I quoted from the tract of Isaac Judaeus: ‘All urine is a filter of the blood and properly indicates two things, either an infection of the liver and veins, or an infection of the intestines and viscera. Of other things, it gives only indirect indications.’
Isabella stared gape-mouthed, then burst out laughing. I thought she would strike me; instead she caressed my cheek.
‘You recite better than my father’s physicians.’
I remained silent.
‘So, physician?’ She clutched her stomach in mock pain.
‘Southerwood,’ I replied, quoting from Abbot Strabo. ‘Its tops, flowers or seeds boiled is the correct remedy for cramp. Pliny recommends sage with wormwood.’
‘And you?’
‘Mugwort and camomile will help.’
Apparently it did. Isabella’s interest in herbs and medicine quickened. She declared as much when she borrowed books from her father’s library. In truth, they were for me. I was grateful and, for the first time, read a fresh treatise of Bernard de Gordon, the physician from Montpellier, his De ingeniis curandorum Morborum . At the same time Isabella kept me well away from the other servants; if anyone came close, she would imperiously intervene and dismiss them. I was given my own chamber beside hers. A comfortable room with a soft bed, a brazier, sticks of furniture and a lavarium; there was even a coloured cloth tied to the wall and a black crucifix with an ivory figure of Christ writhing against it. The window was shuttered against the cold and beneath it was a quilted bench. I thought I would sleep apart from her, but on my first night, Isabella made it very clear that I was to lie on a palliasse, especially ordered from the stores, just inside her room.
Two days after I joined her service I met her three brothers. They sloped up the stairs like hunting dogs, padding along the gallery in their quilted jerkins and tight-fitting hose, feet pushed into pointed slippers, small jewelled cloaks clasped about their shoulders. I understood why the princess was so wary of them. All three were silver-haired demons. Louis was small, with the sharp, pointed features of a greyhound, ever-darting eyes and nervous gestures, particularly with the jewelled girdle around his waist. He looked at me only to dismiss me as you would a mongrel. Philippe was much taller, broader, with a nervous tic in his face and hooded eyes above a sharp nose and prim mouth. A man of violent temper and hot humours, a man I judged not to be crossed. Charles was stout, with a fat red face, his paunch already proclaiming his love of wine; every time I met him he was never far from a cup. They lounged in their sister’s room, legs stretched out like a pack of lurchers playing with some quarry before they killed it. They had high-pitched
‘You’re a bitch!’ She pouted. ‘You’re lazy! You should have tasted it first.’
I sipped from both cups and held them out for her to choose, and she snatched one from my hand. That was how the dance began. Where Princess Isabella went, I followed. Sometimes she would sit in the window seat, jabbing a needle at a piece of embroidery like any soldier would his sword at a straw man in the exercise yard. When she grew bored with this, she asked for musicians and skilfully accompanied them on the rebec, flute or harp. One thing was constant: Isabella’s love of books. I thank God for my own studies. Sometimes she would read the tales; other times I did whilst she acted certain parts. I was correct: Isabella was a mummer’s girl. She could slip from one role to another and mimic people as easily as a mirror reflects light. She was deeply intrigued by my knowledge of physic and herbs. Her courses had already begun and she suffered from the cramps. At first she refused my ministrations, but then agreed. She wanted me to examine her urine, but I quoted from the tract of Isaac Judaeus: ‘All urine is a filter of the blood and properly indicates two things, either an infection of the liver and veins, or an infection of the intestines and viscera. Of other things, it gives only indirect indications.’
Isabella stared gape-mouthed, then burst out laughing. I thought she would strike me; instead she caressed my cheek.
‘You recite better than my father’s physicians.’
I remained silent.
‘So, physician?’ She clutched her stomach in mock pain.
‘Southerwood,’ I replied, quoting from Abbot Strabo. ‘Its tops, flowers or seeds boiled is the correct remedy for cramp. Pliny recommends sage with wormwood.’
‘And you?’
‘Mugwort and camomile will help.’
Apparently it did. Isabella’s interest in herbs and medicine quickened. She declared as much when she borrowed books from her father’s library. In truth, they were for me. I was grateful and, for the first time, read a fresh treatise of Bernard de Gordon, the physician from Montpellier, his De ingeniis curandorum Morborum . At the same time Isabella kept me well away from the other servants; if anyone came close, she would imperiously intervene and dismiss them. I was given my own chamber beside hers. A comfortable room with a soft bed, a brazier, sticks of furniture and a lavarium; there was even a coloured cloth tied to the wall and a black crucifix with an ivory figure of Christ writhing against it. The window was shuttered against the cold and beneath it was a quilted bench. I thought I would sleep apart from her, but on my first night, Isabella made it very clear that I was to lie on a palliasse, especially ordered from the stores, just inside her room.
Two days after I joined her service I met her three brothers. They sloped up the stairs like hunting dogs, padding along the gallery in their quilted jerkins and tight-fitting hose, feet pushed into pointed slippers, small jewelled cloaks clasped about their shoulders. I understood why the princess was so wary of them. All three were silver-haired demons. Louis was small, with the sharp, pointed features of a greyhound, ever-darting eyes and nervous gestures, particularly with the jewelled girdle around his waist. He looked at me only to dismiss me as you would a mongrel. Philippe was much taller, broader, with a nervous tic in his face and hooded eyes above a sharp nose and prim mouth. A man of violent temper and hot humours, a man I judged not to be crossed. Charles was stout, with a fat red face, his paunch already proclaiming his love of wine; every time I met him he was never far from a cup. They lounged in their sister’s room, legs stretched out like a pack of lurchers playing with some quarry before they killed it. They had high-pitched
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