Read Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts for Free Online

Monsieur Simon gestured. ‘Quick, quick, come!’
    I dressed swiftly. The merchant gave me a heavy robe with a deep cowled hood.
    ‘Wear that,’ he ordered.
    We went down the stairs and broke our fast in the scullery on a bowl of steaming oatmeal and some watered ale served by the sleepy-eyed maid. We left the house, slipping into the alleyway. I recalled the night I fled here. Now the streets were fairly deserted. I glimpsed certain images as we hurried along. A cowled Capuchin priest, preceded by little boys swinging a lantern and ringing a bell, carried the viaticum in a pyx to someone at death’s door. Beggars cried for alms. Cripples slouched on the icy steps of churches, clacking-dishes out, pale, pinched faces pleading for mercy. A group of roisterers staggered by, bellies full of ale, mouths spitting curses. A prostitute in a tawny gown, an orange wig on her balding head, shouted abuse from a doorway. Monsieur Simon, grasping my arm, hurried me on. Every so often he would pause to ensure the hood and cowl were pulled close over my head. We entered the main thoroughfare. Doors were opening, stalls being laid out. The stench was rich, a mixture of saltpetre strewn to cover the odours from emptied cesspots, and piles of rotting vegetables heaped in corners.
    ‘Monsieur Simon,’ I murmured, ‘where are we going?’
    ‘Shut up,’ he urged. ‘Keep your face hidden.’
    We turned and twisted. Eventually I recognised the thoroughfare leading down to Montfaucon, the execution place, the slaughteryard of Paris. Crowds were already thronging. Monsieur Simon approached the men-at-arms guarding the path. He whispered to a serjeant, coins changed hands, and we were allowed a place close to the road. I could see the entrance to the Maison des Filles de Dieu. The good nuns were already clustered on the steps, goblets of wine in their hands. Somewhere close, a beggar boy chanted a death carol, ‘La mort de vie’, his dirge deepening my sombre mood.
    The crowds grew quickly, more people spilling out on to the thoroughfare, eager to catch a glimpse of what was going to happen. The blast of a trumpet cut through the morning air, followed by the dull beat of the tambours. I strained my neck, peering over the guards. The heralds came first in their blue and silver tabards, trumpets blowing, drums rattling; behind them lines of men-at-arms, steel helmets glistening. A company of royal archers followed, leading the execution carts, the hangman and his assistants dressed in black leather tunics, red masks concealing their faces. The tumbril they sat in was full of their torture implements as well as the ladders, ropes, and chains used to hang their victims. This was followed by another cart. Six grey figures huddled there. I found it difficult to breathe, my heart racing, stomach lurching. I wanted to be sick. I knew who was in that cart! It approached slowly, wheels creaking, the oxen pulling it being guided by a red-masked executioner who kept cutting the air with his whip. The cart drew alongside. I slipped through the guards and, like others, grabbed the side of the tumbril as if I enjoyed studying the faces of men about to die. They all looked the same, dressed in soiled robes, feet bare, their faces masks of injuries, bruises, welts and cuts, beards and hair a tangled mess. They reeked of the prison, the filth and mud they had squatted in for weeks.
    ‘Monsieur,’ I gasped. A man inside the cart lifted his face and I gazed into Uncle Reginald’s eyes. They were dulled; his nose was strangely twisted and swollen; a bruise on his right cheek had blossomed purple and ripe.
    ‘Uncle,’ I whispered.
    He shook his head. ‘Vengeance is mine, said the Lord,’ he hissed. ‘Remember that, Mathilde, vengeance is His.’ I caught the foul stench of his body then, with surprising strength, he pushed me away as if I was a tormentor. I staggered back. Monsieur Simon caught me by the arm and pulled me away. I stood and watched the