The Devil's Crossing

by Hana Cole

  ‘Impeccable hand,’ he said, staring at the figures on the credit note that accompanied the cash payment. Set out in even lines, a tight, carefully rounded cursive, product of a thorough and considered mind. It was not in the same hand as the letter from the Venetian trader that came with it. A poorly-controlled stroke whose use of the vernacular showed the man for who he was – an ill-educated, guileful peasant who had harnessed his wits to serve his greed.

  On the desk, a thick, creamy church candle he had lit just after Nones burnt brightly at the sixth hour mark. Six hours he had been locked in his study, re-imagining himself as the recipient of such unexpected wealth and the possibilities it bought him. The total sum was at the higher end of what he had been expecting. The banker’s note was pinned down inches from his hand by a piece of gold-veined marble from the Tuscan mountains. Periodically he would stretch out his fingers and run them over the smooth, glittering stone and the irrestible allure of the parchment beneath, fighting to conceal from himself the unwelcome craving that had fallen upon him to keep it all for himself.

  The note, as agreed with the Venetian, was made out to him. It meant that he would have to account for its disbursement cleverly. It also meant that Amaury de Maintenon would never see the true sum: Eight thousand eight hundred and fifty-three livres tournois. His venal partner was expecting just over half that amount. And why should he be due more? The number of shepherd peasants had been unsurprisingly exaggerated by the dull-witted spies, but with the addition of the heretic bastards from Church orphanges...well, they yielded more than he could have hoped.

  Clearing six hours of library dust from his throat he said brightly to his imaginary interregators, ‘Donations. What else would it be? More and more lands are being prised back from the jaws of heresy into the bosom of the Church and the people are grateful. Donations are up.’

  The rest was his to use in the advancement of Righteousness as he saw fit. It wasn’t that Maintenon was not minded to complete the Abbey - no nobleman worth his salt is without an abbot or two in their pocket. He knew Maintenon well enough to know the prestige of founding a religion house was a powerful motive. But, as he cast his mind back to all the mockery he had been served, he would be a fool not to protect himself now he had the means. If nothing else this windfall was a sign that it was time to take charge of his own destiny. With the outstanding sum, he would purchase himself an audience with the Bishop of Chartres, and win himself a seat at the great tables denied to him only by the accident of birth.

  The bell for Compline rang out. Stretching out his legs, he snatched up his letter to the bishop and scanned it one more time. Bishop Reginald of Chartres was a man of the sword, still down South fighting with the Crusader armies against the Cathar vermin. He was not expected back in the diocese for at least a month. One month in which he could unearth a nest of heretics significant enough to account for such an amount of money. It would need to be large enough to allow the bishop to impress the new pontiff with his zealous endeavours, but not so big as to alarm the Holy See into sending a legatine mission to investigate. By that time the Le Coudray whore would be under his arrest, and then there could be no more stalling.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The cabin is lit by the smoky flame of a lantern that gutters as it knocks back and forth above their heads. Although the only porthole is shut, it leaks as the grey swill crashes against it. Etienne wonders if they wouldn’t better off trying to force the porthole open for a short while to get some clean air, even if they did get wetter. It might stop some of the boys from being sick, and maybe they could find a way of throwing out their waste. They all agreed, as there was no bucket, they would go in one corner, but with the lurching of the boat the sewage is starting to spread.

  The boys draw closer together as the wind screeches through the timbers and the vessel sways and shudders. Now and then there is a big bang and the boat comes juddering to a stop.

  ‘It’s just the waves,’ Daniel says with a soothing certainty. ‘When the boat hits against the water in the strong wind it makes that noise.’

  Etienne nods his head to no one in particular and repeats, ‘It’s alright, it’s just the wind.’ It still feels scary though, and the worst bit is they can’t see what is going on. All they can do is trust that the boat is going to land safely when it topples over the crest of the wave.

  ‘We must keep faith,’ Jean says. ‘The Lord always sends trials. Just like Paul in the Bible. The Lord struck him blind. He was even shipwrecked!’

  ‘It will make our triumph all the sweeter.’ Daniel addresses them, both arms braced against the ceiling, muscles popping as the boat bucks and rolls. He is trying to hold the whole world up, thinks Etienne. ‘When the Mohammedans hear of our endurance they will all fall to their knees for Christ!’

  ‘For pity stop!’ yells Marc. It is the first time he has spoken since the boat left the harbour and the surprise of it is enough to draw their attention from the crashing and howling. ‘Did you not see?’ he rails on. ‘Are you blind?’

  Heads cast down, no-one responds. Etiennne knows he is referring to the scores of olive-skinned children that boarded with them. Greying tunics, cheeks marked with livid, red slits – there was no mistaking they were slaves in transit. Seperated into different holds, it was easy for the boys to convince themselves they were not bound for the same fate. But as the weather lashes the boat, Etienne can hear the frightened cries and whimpers of the slaves carrying through the timbers - cries that sound exactly the same as their own. He presses his face tight against a gap in the boards. On the other side of the wall, he can see the whites of unfamiliar eyes catching in the lantern light, the rest of their bodies consumed by the blackness.

  ‘The only thing the Mohammedans are going to hear about, is how much we cost!’ Marc continues.

  ‘That’s a lie!’ shouts Daniel.

  ‘We are Christians,’ says Jean, his voice cracked with exasperation.

  ‘They aren’t allowed to sell us,’ Jocelyn adds.

  Marc guffaws, loud and spiteful. ‘Why do you think they locked us away here?’

  It is a good question thinks Etienne, and from the silence it seems no one else has an answer. Marc draws himself up, triumphant in his unhappy prophecy. ‘In case they were inspected by the tax collectors.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmurs Etienne, as his heart sinks, heavy with the weight of the truth. He recalls the amber eyes of one of the girls that snagged his as she passed, a whisper on her lips. In that moment he hadn’t understood the look of pity she gave him. But now he does, and he knows Marc is right.

  ‘I heard them on the hard, talking about how when we get to Corsica they’ll be meeting another boat. That was when those others arrived. So I didn’t hear anymore,’ Marc says much more quietly.

  ‘Corsica, can’t be far now. The moon was full when we left and last night it was nearly gone.’ His mouth feels completely parched.

  Suddenly there is a ripping sound, as though the sky is tearing open, and the boat spins round like an apple in a barrel. Etienne’s heart is galloping but his body is frozen. The cabin fills with screams as the meek flame of the lantern flickers and dies.

  ‘Water!’ The word fills the cabin. Although it echoes around in a dozen different tongues, Etienne knows the language all too well; the language of fear. Eyes swivel over to where water is now spraying in through the hull.

  ‘It may not matter anyhow. If the ship doesn’t…’ Marc’s voice fades as the boat hurtles down into the pit of another wave. The boys cling to each other to stop themselves from skidding down into the bilge water. Etienne can feel Daniel’s breath, hot and rapid in his ear, and he wants to ask the older boy if he is frightened. He is pretty sure he must be, that even a grown up would be. Still, it would be nice to hear him say it, then they could try to help each other not to be afraid.

  Someone pulls out a whistle. The children sing along timidly to the thin, reedy note and Etienne remembers the times when they would sing t
o pass the time in the fields. But this is not at all the same hearty sound, and although he can hear a few voices rising more steadily above the din, he just wishes they would stop.

  Beside him, Jean is turning his rosary beads. They make a soft clacking just like Father Gui’s did when he was thinking something over. Etienne hasn’t given two moments thought to rosaries in his whole life, but now he wishes he had some to concentrate on. Instead he closes his eyes, and tries to pretend he is back in his cottage, listening to his mother fussing and the clack, clack, clack of Father Gui’s beads as he turns them through his fingers. For a half a breath it feels so real that he can see the little coral beads hanging from Gui’s hand. Just as he convinces himself he might actually be able to reach out for that hand to hold, the vision evaporates. Instinctively he fingers the pouch inside his waist band where his mother’s St Christopher is tucked away, but pressing the little disk does nothing to alleviate the nauseating dread in his stomach. Inevitably, he feels the tears squeeze from his eyes, and he buries his head into his knees.

  ‘We will prevail. Take heart,’ Jean says. ‘To convert the infidel is the highest cause there is. God is just testing that we are worthy of such a task.’

  ‘I know,’ says Etienne, even though he doesn’t. He doesn’t know at all.

  Jean folds something into his hand - a piece of felt that has something hard wrapped up inside.

  ‘Don’t open it, you might lose it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A fragment of bone from St. Martin. Don’t tell anyone. It’s real and people might not believe you. And if they don’t believe then…’

  ‘Then it won’t work.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Jean draws his face right into Etienne’s. The space around them seems to clear. Suddenly Etienne feels safer, like he is sealed off from all the fear circulating in the cabin, as cloying as the stench.

  Fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut, they recite the Lord’s prayer, over and over, as bodies and belongings capsize about them. Daniel shouts for calm, and tells the boys to steady their weight. Slowly their babble quietens, and soon the only sound left is Etienne’s prayer. One by one the boys join in. Their voices rise together, a steadying ballast against the squall. Etienne can feel the prayer humming in his stomach, calming him. God must be able to hear us, he thinks, and he scrunches his eyes even tighter, until he can see right down inside himself.

  If this is how it is to end, thinks Etienne, then why has God allowed us to come so far? God can’t be angry with us, it just can’t be so. So why? His heart thumps in his belly. But it is not a fearful fluttering, it is a driving, war drum of a beat that pushes up a lava of fury with it. He feels like he could punch a hole clean through the side of the boat.

  ‘No.’ He takes a furious kick at the water. ‘No, no, no,’ he yells.

  The hold full of boys falls silent, and their eyes are upon him.

  *

  The light above deck is blinding. One hand raised against the glare, Etienne stands squinting with the others.

  ‘Come pilgrims. We show you the way,’ the sailor says, grinning like a man who has learned to smile by copying someone else. He gives them a horrible wink and mutters something that makes the other sailors laugh. The boys have agreed that on Daniel’s signal they will make a run for it in the hope that their numbers will overwhelm the slavers.

  They are penned in by the six hulking men who goaded them up from below, thick coils of rope in their hands. Etienne can feel alarm sparking as the children jostle and murmur like cows before a storm. He has tied the knife given to him by Etienne the Hospitaller inside his waistband, and he struggles to resist the infectious panic that would have him grab it. Two of the men are readying the gangplank and Etienne watches them haul it out as keenly as he has ever watched anything in his whole life.

  ‘Let us out of here!’ The cry comes from the middle of the group. Etienne snaps his head round to shush them and as he does he sees little Renauld shoot out from their huddle.

  ‘Grab him!’ says borrowed-smile man, and next thing there are three pairs of bulky arms pincering as Renauld weaves and ducks between them. Daniel, jaw and neck straining like he is shouldering a yoke, flashes a glance to the older boys. Etienne’s legs tremble as though they want to start running by themselves. One of the men grabs Renauld who thrashes his legs out at the man’s shins.

  ‘You little bastard.’ He flings the child to the deck.

  ‘Run!’ yells Daniel and they all rush for the gangplank as the slavers grab at whoever they can get hold of. Etienne doesn’t look back. Eye trained on his exit, he swoops down to collect the bawling Renauld and, dragging the boy by his collar, charges forward. Two of the slavers are standing by the plank, tossing aside the approaching boys like they are sacks of grain.

  A distant voice in Etienne’s head is telling him there is no way he will make it past those muscley sailors, but it doesn’t stop his legs from running like the whole world is on fire, a strange, metallic taste on his tongue as he drives forward, eyes fixed on the wooden beam that will take him to freedom.

  He reaches into his tunic and pulls Etienne the knight’s knife from its sheath. One arm stretched before him, he swipes the blade back and forth. Then, with a screech like he is wailing the dead, he dives headfirst onto the gangplank.

  ‘Look out!’ Jocelyn calls, as, hard on Etienne’s heels, he vaults over the side. Landing on Etienne, he knocks the wind out of them both and they crawl away from the ruined vessel. Etienne hears a yelp and turns to see Jean writhing in the grip of a slaver. He races back as Jean sinks his teeth into the man’s forearm. The sailor thrusts his arm up and Jean lurches forward, spilling over the gunwale and into the water.

  ‘Take Renauld and follow the others,’ Etienne shouts to Jocelyn. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  ‘Jean. Over here!’ Laying on his front, Etienne stretches his arms towards Jean’s thrashing hands. But the water makes his grip slippery and Jean, eyes wide with terror, cannot get a firm hold.

  ‘Come on!’ Etienne screams. ‘Take it!’

  Jean flings his hand up. Their fingers touch. Etienne edges his torso out further until he is balanced by a hair’s breath over the quayside. Delving his hand under the water he finds flesh and hauls his friend upwards. Jean’s head breaks the surface and he takes a roaring breath that sounds as though his lungs are tearing apart. He is kicking furiously to keep his head up but the wash between the boat and the quay is so choppy he is taking in water with every breath. Twice Etienne drags him up above the foam. His body is burning with the effort, but he can feel his strength ebbing. His arms feel so heavy.

  ‘Kick!’

  ‘I can’t,’ the terrified Jean yells back, choked with his tears and the swell of the water.

  Etienne takes a huge gulp of air and prepares for the biggest heave he can muster. The eels that are writhing in his stomach tell him he does not have many more goes left in him.

  ‘On three this time,’ he cries, but as he does so a boathook comes stabbing down, hard and sharp into his back. He cries out with the pain, looks up to see the leer of a slaver. The hook jabs down again, scraping his neck and tearing his tunic. He tries to grab the hook one-handed, but the searing pain in his shoulder will not let him. His chest is bursting with panic. He can’t fend off his attacker and keep hold of Jean’s hand. The hook swipes again, ripping his cheek. He screams, throws his hands to his face, then pulls them away, full of blood. He looks back down. Jean is gone.

  ‘Jean! Please!’ His hands flap uselessly back and forth, but nothing comes up from the bubbling water. Tears blind his sight.

  Squatting on top of the gunwale, a crewman readies to jump. Etienne rolls to his feet and runs. It is only when he reaches the harbour wall and he sees the others that he realises it doesn’t matter that he is being chased. Slumped at the foot of the wall, they all cower together. Around them, their sunburnt captors tether one to the other. Etienne’s eyes dart in every direction. But even as he sca
ns for an escape, he gaze is drawn back to his friends. Marc is among the captives - Jocelyn, Daniel, Renauld. Then, hands are upon him too, and there is no escape.

  On the quay two men march up and down their lines, poking, squeezing, inspecting. They are wearing coloured tunics and pantaloons and go about their tasks silently under the watch of another man whom they seem frightened of. When he shouts his lip curls back, bearing his teeth like a dog. He has two fingers missing. Every now and again he taps his stick and the boy they are inspecting is shoved to one side.

  Etienne stands firm in his legs as one of the baggy-trousers draws his bald, pocked head close to peer inside Etienne’s mouth, behind his ears. Then, with his stick, the chief taps for Etienne to stand apart with the others he has picked. When there are about two score of them standing apart, the men go back and start again. A little shiver runs up Etienne’s neck as he realises they are being sorted into groups - the biggest, fittest ones, a medium group and a dozen or so of the very youngest along with some of the older boys who have sickened along the way.

  Etienne is the youngest who has found his way into the strong group, along with Marc, Jocelyn and most of Daniel’s friends. He can hardly bear to look at the weakest, their heads cowed like, round eyes pleading in their gaunt little faces. Etienne knows these men don’t care about them at all, the ones who will be dead before they could give a week’s work - the ones that probably aren’t even worth selling.

  It is the middle of the day and the sun is beating down on their heads hotter than Etienne has ever felt it. The back of his neck burns with sweat. His head feels as though it’s cooking. The edges of the world are starting to look fuzzy. He knows that if he doesn’t get a sip of water soon the heat will get the better of him. He will collapse and end up in the group of sickly boys.

  The nasty stick man gives a command and his men approach with a large barrel. Scooping into it with a wooden ladle, they fling a powder at them that stings their eyes and instantly drains their skin of all moisture. Etienne recognises it at once as lime, the very same thing he uses in the lambing pens.