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

voices, arrogant and abrasive; gabbling like nasty geese. They seemed fascinated by their sister. They had their own ladies, their own separate households, yet they were constant visitors to Isabella’s quarters. They brought gifts, sweetmeats, a triptych depicting the martyrdom of St Denis, baubles and toys; even a ferret, though that was later killed by Charles’s pet greyhound.
    A sinister trio, dangerous men who tapped their dagger scabbards as they talked; they despised the servants and were cruel to their own retinues. All three swaggered into Isabella’s chamber like suitors for her hand, eager to see her yet rivals to each other. Isabella always received them elegantly but coldly. She would sit like a little snow queen from a romance, hands on her knees, face fixed in the same twisted smile. On one occasion Louis tried to grab her by the waist and pull her close. Isabella lunged like a spitting cat; even I was surprised at how swiftly the needle-thin stiletto appeared in her hand. She pressed this against her brother’s cheek. They continued their argument in whispers. Louis, nursing the slight prick on his face, stepped away. He muttered something to his brothers, and they all left laughing; only then did Philippe glance towards me, a sly smile on his angry face. They slammed the door behind them and began to tease and flirt with the ladies outside. Isabella sat down abruptly. Her mood changed, she was no longer imperious, but pallid-faced, tears trickling down her cheeks. I hastened over to kneel before her, but she patted the settle beside her. I never touched her. I never spoke. I simply sat while she put her head down, shoulders shaking, not raising her face until the tears had stopped.
    ‘Is it always like this, Mathilde?’ she murmured. ‘In every family? Do the brothers put their hands up their sisters’ gowns, clasp their necks and pinch their breasts? Do they, at the dead of night, steal between their sisters’ sheets?’ She blinked and bit her lip.
    ‘I just pray I’ll be gone, be away from here and never return!’ She patted my hand. ‘You’ll come with me.’ She smiled tearfully. ‘Mathilde the silent, though.’ Her smile disappeared. ‘As your heart grows older, it will come to sights much colder.’ She slipped a costly ring from her finger and pressed it into my hand. ‘Remember me! Remember my words!’
    In time I met Philip, the king, himself, booted and spurred from the hunt, striding up the stairs amongst his henchmen, Enguerrand de Marigny (ah, my red-haired enemy!), de Plaisans and Nogaret, those sly lawyers who had scandalised Christendom by ordering their servants to attack the previous pope, Boniface VIII, in the town of Anagni. They, too, scarcely gave me a second glance. They would later wish they had! I was summoned across and made to kneel at the king’s feet. He pushed his jewelled fingers hard against my mouth, then put his hand beneath my chin, forcing me to look up. I have heard many tales about Philip Le Bel. They’re all true! Philip’s face was like ivory, his hair silver; at a swift glance you’d think he was an albino. His eyes were clear blue, his touch icy, his manner cold. He stared at me without any change of expression, patted me on the head as if I were a dog and pushed me away.
    At first I remained very nervous; worries about my mother (I dared not write to her), nightmares about Uncle Reginald and fears about my own safety plagued my sleep, but as the days passed, I began to relax. My chamber was comfortable. The princess never mentioned Marie. Instead she talked to me about everything. She knew all the chatter and gossip of the court. Which lady was unfaithful to her husband, who was in favour and who was out, all the time watching me, studying me carefully. One afternoon, shortly after I arrived, the princess sent me on an errand to the other side of the palace; I was to enquire about a stool she’d sent to the royal carpenters. I was on my way