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

fish-mongers who used pig’s blood to redden the gills of stale and discoloured fish. Clothiers who had one yardstick for selling and another for buying. He also advised me to be wary about those who sold goods in dark streets to deceive the unsuspecting, and made me memorise all I learnt and observed about the city I loved. Each trade had its quarter. Apothecaries in the Cité. Parchment-sellers, scribes, laminators and book-sellers in the Latin Quarter. Money-changers and goldsmiths on the Grand Pont. Bankers near the Rue Saint Martin and mercers in the Rue Saint Denis. The colour and hurly-burly of city life never seemed to die. Richly brocaded burgesses sweeping down to picnic by the Seine. Knights in half-armour riding by on fine palfreys or noble chargers. Lavishly dressed gallants posing with falcons and sparrowhawks on their wrists. It was like visiting a church and going from one wall painting to the next. So much to see! I took to it with all the vigour and curiosity of youth.
    I loved the city! I was well protected. My future ran like a broad, clear thoroughfare before me. When I wasn’t at my studies or in the hospital, I’d wander from quarter to quarter, observing the beggars in the church doors or by the bridges; the peasants coming in from the country with their carts and wheel-barrows; the artisans and craftsmen shouting and gesticulating from behind their stalls; the wandering jongleurs, monks and friars in their dark gowns and pointed hoods; the canons of the cathedral with all their pomp and ceremony; the ermine-clad professors of the Sorbonne and their motley retinues of students and scholars. Royal couriers beat their way through the crowd with their white wands of office. Heralds in resplendent tabards, trumpets lifted, shrilled out harsh music to draw the attention of the crowds before a proclamation was read out. Harness jingled like bells as nobles from their great houses rode down past the bridges and gates of the city to hunt in the fields beyond. Ladies lounged in their litters, taking the air. Judges in their bright scarlet, surrounded by royal men-at-arms, processed down to the law courts. Pilgrims off to Saint Geneviéve or Notre Dame chanted their prayers or sang sweet hymns. Prisoners, manacles held fast, were driven under the whip to the Grand Châtelet. Clerks and scribes scurried along to the great palace and castle of the Ile where Philip ruled France as a hawk does its field, ever-watchful, ever-menacing.
    I was impatient to visit these city sights again. I couldn’t understand my uncle’s harshness. He towered over me in the tap room of that tavern, grasping me by the shoulder, pushing me towards the stairs.
    ‘Go up to your chamber, girl!’
    He very rarely called me that. It was always ‘Mathilde’, or ‘ ma fille ’. Uncle Reginald’s face looked strained, a haunted look in his eyes, he kept glancing over his shoulder towards the door.
    ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ I demanded.
    ‘Nothing,’ he whispered, then he quoted a line from the Gospels: ‘ Tenebrae facta . Darkness fell.’ I recognise that phrase now, the description given to the night Judas left to betray Christ. Again, I tried to reason. I was hoping to go into the city, perhaps visit one of the taverns near the hospital, mix with the scholars, dance a jig or indulge in some other revelry. My uncle lifted his hand and glared at me.
    ‘I have never struck you. I will if you do not obey my order. Go to your chamber, small as it is, rat-eaten and mouse-gnawed, it’s the safest place for you. Stay there until I come.’
    I hurried up the stairs, my feet drumming on the wooden steps. I pulled aside the battered door and flung myself into the chamber, blinking furiously, trying to quell the tears of fury stinging my eyes. The chamber was narrow and dirty though the bed was comfortable, its sheets clean – my uncle would insist on that – whilst the servant who brought my food up had covered it with a wooden