Read Mathilde 01 - The Cup of Ghosts for Free Online Page A

execution carts reach the gibbet of Montfaucon soaring above the deep pit beneath. The executioners scrambled like monkeys up the ladders. The ropes were fixed, the nooses hung. Once ready, the prisoners were hustled from the cart and up the ladders. These were taken away and the bodies danced in the air, as the victims, strangling in their nooses, fought for breath. I felt ice cold, as if all my blood, all my humours had frozen. I can’t remember how Uncle died. All I saw were six men perform that danse macabre , before falling silent, heads down, feet slightly swinging, as death gave them blessed relief.
    Monsieur Simon dragged me away, pushing me ahead of him back down the streets to his house. When we reached it, he took me into his comfortable solar. Tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, its floorboards, polished to gleaming, were covered with thick Turkey rugs, whilst a fire roared in the mantled hearth. He led me to a stool, brought me a cup of posset and sat next to me, shaking his head, whispering under his breath. I allowed my body to thaw even as I tried to curb the rage boiling within me.
    ‘Why?’ I asked.
    ‘I have told you why. Philip of France lusts after the wealth of the Templars. The knights themselves he does not need. They all face charges of sorcery, wizardry, sodomy, idolatry, as well as crimes I’ve never even heard of!’
    He let me stay near the fire most of that morning. I remember studying the triptych on the wall which celebrated the martyrdom and glory of St Agnes. Strange, isn’t it, how God works His secret purposes? I would see that painting again in a place I least expected. For the rest I warmed myself and wept. I wept for what I had seen and for what I had lost. I wept for my uncle and raged at Philip of France. My anger didn’t subside; I just grew weary. Monsieur Simon called his steward and maid. They brought up a chair and the good merchant moved me, like a mother would her child, to huddle there, shrouding me in a woollen robe. Afterwards he crouched beside me, whispering his warnings. How I was to keep my name changed and do exactly what he said.
    ‘And what is that?’ I asked sleepily, wearily. I recognised the goodness of this man; hard-headed, sharp and acquisitive, nevertheless Monsieur Simon had kept his promise to my uncle.
    ‘The best place to hide you,’ the mercer’s face creased into a smile, ‘is where no one will look: the royal household! I have friends. I have, how can I put it, people who owe me money. In return for a favour, such debts will be cancelled.’ He paused. ‘You must leave France, Mathilde, and never return. It’s best for both of us.’
    ‘But how?’ I stirred in my chair, my sleepiness forgotten, the pain of seeing my uncle hang now dulled by the drugged wine this merchant had given me. ‘How can I leave France, where do I go? My life is here. My mother is little more than a peasant woman.’ I laughed. ‘What help can she provide? What assistance can you give, Monsieur Simon?’
    ‘Listen now.’ He brought the stool closer. ‘As I said, the best place for you to hide is the one place they will never look, the royal household. No, no, listen.’ He lifted a hand. ‘I know members of the retinue of Charles de Valois, the king’s brother. I will discharge their debts in return for a favour. You know Edward of England?’
    I shrugged. ‘A warrior king,’ I replied. ‘My uncle talked of his wars against the Welsh somewhere to the west and against the Scots in the north.’
    ‘A warrior king,’ Monsieur Simon agreed. ‘I have met Edward of England on many an occasion as I have . . .’ He paused, as if checking himself. ‘Anyway, many years ago, during the reign of Pope Boniface VIII, Edward of England was trapped by Philip of France. Gascony, the great wine fields around Bordeaux, still belonged to the English. Philip, through trickery, occupied it. Edward, busy in his own wars, had to swear to Pope Boniface that his eldest