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

bowl against the mice which scurried in the corners. Cobwebs hung like sheets from the rafters. I moved to the window, a small wooden casement door filled with horn, and pushed it open. At least I could look out over the city. The sky was a dullish grey, a cold wind had risen. It was that dying time as autumn fades and winter with icy touch makes its presence felt. The room was cold. I closed the window and noticed the wine just within the door, a battered pewter pot next to a small bowl. I filled the bowl to the brim and drank quickly, then went across and lay on the bed.
    When my uncle shook me awake, it was dark. He was leaning over me, face close to mine.
    ‘Get up,’ he urged. ‘Get up now.’
    I was almost dragged to my feet. My uncle had brought my cloak and belt with a dagger in its wooden scabbard. He made me wrap the belt about me. I protested. I said I needed to visit the latrine. He laughed strangely and pushed me out of the chamber down the stairs. By the time I reached the bottom, I’d clasped the cloak securely. The cold night air woke me roughly. My uncle thrust a piece of parchment and a bag of coins into my hands, then gestured frantically towards the narrow gate leading to the alleyway beyond. A cresset torch lashed to a pole, thrust into the soft mud between the cobbles, provided some light for the ostlers and grooms flitting like ghosts across the yard. I turned. Uncle stood concealed half in the shadows. At last, in the flickering flame of that torch, I glimpsed his terror. He’d aged, his face was drawn and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. He kept muttering to himself, wary of a door closing, a dog barking or strangers slipping through the darkness. He took my hand and pressed it against the bag of jingling coins.
    ‘You are to go now, Mathilde.’
    ‘Why, Uncle?’
    ‘Don’t ask.’ He moved his face closer. ‘For the love of God, Mathilde, don’t ask, just go. Take what I have given you. The gate of Saint Denis is still open. You are to enter the city. Make your way to the house of Simon de Vitry near the Grand Pont. You know him; I’ve sent you on errands to his house. He’s a cloth merchant, a banker and a man I trust. Do exactly what he tells you.’ He pushed me towards the gate, thrusting me into the alleyway.
    ‘Go, go,’ he hissed through the darkness. ‘Go now, Mathilde, before they come.’
    Something about his tone, those words . . . I caught his terror. He flapped his hands, a gesture I had never seen him make, indicating that I must run. I wanted to stay, discover who ‘they’ were. Something about him, just standing there in the poor light, the torch spluttering behind him, the way his shoulders hunched, his hands flapping like the wings of a pinioned bird . . . I turned and slipped into the shadows.
    Eternity has passed since that hideous night but I remember it well. I ran blindly through the streets, tears stinging my eyes. On the one hand, like any young woman, I had a grievance against my uncle; my resentment festered. Yet I’d caught the smell of terror, the rank odour of fear, and I wondered what was to happen. I recall stopping on the corner of a square. Above me a statue of the patron saint of that quarter gazed blindly down in the light of the candle burning beneath it. I stared back and tried to recall what had happened that day. We’d arrived at the tavern early that morning. Uncle had left me, gone into the city and returned a stranger; that’s right, his manner had changed, distracted, agitated, bribing the landlord for this or that. One thing I did notice: he’d removed his Templar ring and any other sign that he belonged to that order.
    I heard a sound and glanced around. Archers dressed in the blue and gold royal livery, gleaming sallets on their heads, were gathering across the square, spilling out of the side streets. Knights in half-armour made their way out on snorting destriers, preceded by footmen carrying flambeaux. The air filled with the clatter