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

of rasping hooves, the creak of leather, the jingle of harness. Beneath all this the ominous clatter of weapons, swords being unsheathed, shields being slung, orders rapped out. Dull, threatening sounds seeping through the smoky air like a foul mist. Across the square beggars had torched a bonfire of rubbish in front of a church. The leaping flames revealed the tympanum above the doorway; a vivid depiction of Christ coming on the Last Day, escorted by angels with fiery swords to repel the demon lords of the air. Christ the Judge seemed to be coming for me!
    I ran like a whippet through the undergrowth, down lanes and runnels, the half-timbered houses leaning over as if conspiring to conceal the starlit sky. I slipped on a mound of dirt, drove away yapping mongrels, whining beggars and screeching cats. Jesus Miserere! I was innocent! I was a maid hurrying through the hideous runnels of Paris! A thousand nightmares lurked in the shadows, but knowledge inspires fear. I had no real experience, not then, of how vulnerable a woman truly is when protection is withdrawn. The sons of men are also the sons of Cain: ‘ In hominum mundo, lupus homini lupus – in the world of men, man is wolf to man;’ but to women he is a ravening beast! True, some hearts sing a noble hymn, but it is often hidden beneath the raucous howling of the pack. On that night I was an innocent, fleeing miraculously through the pens of countless savage predators. Perhaps an unseen angel flew before me with a face of fire and a flaming sword. I was also young and I was armed. The dark shadows slipping out of doorways slunk back. An unnamed terror drove me on, lacing my face with sweat, soaking my body in its icy coldness.
    Thank God I knew Paris! Twisting, turning like a hare, I reached La Rue des Moines leading down to the Grand Pont and the great stone-built house of Simon de Vitry, the mercer. It stood in its own grounds. The postern gate was open. I flung myself through, knocking aside the sleepy-eyed, ancient night porter. Across the grass I flew like a speeding arrow; the kitchen door was bolted. I ran around the side of the house, gasping and cursing, up the main steps, grasped the iron chain and pulled until the bell tolled like a tocsin through the house. The patter of running feet echoed faintly. In a window to my right a light flared as a candle-lantern was lit. Chains were dropped, bolts drawn, and the door swung open. I recognised Monsieur Simon. He gazed at me in surprise, then beckoned me in. I slipped through the door and gave way to my exhaustion, slumping down to the ground, fighting for breath. The merchant, a kindly man with the face of a genial monk, crouched next to me, pulling his winter robe close about. His breath smelt of wine, his fingers were cold, his eyes anxious.
    ‘What is the matter, Mathilde?’ he asked. ‘Are you in trouble? Were you attacked?’
    I handed over the parchment my uncle had given me, but even as Monsieur Simon took it, I cursed my own stupidity. I wished I’d stopped and read it. The merchant walked across the hallway to where a solitary candle flared on a table beneath a picture of St Anthony exorcising demons. In the shifting light these fiends of hell sprang to life. Monsieur Simon picked the candle up and, turning his back on me, walked into his chancery. I glanced at the doorway, the light beneath it strengthened as more candles were lit. A short while later the merchant came back as agitated as I was, fingers fluttering, wetting his lips. He knelt down beside me.
    ‘Mathilde, ma petite , you must come, you must come.’ He half dragged me to my feet and pushed me across into the chancery. The piece of parchment was gone. Logs crackled in the sullen red heat of the fire. Whatever Uncle had written this merchant had destroyed. He sat me down in a chair and brought a jug of ale tasting musty and tangy, then roused his household, two servants and a maid, whilst the chancery clerk, his trusted steward, was