The Devil's Crossing

by Hana Cole

  ‘That man who came to see you…’ Christophe approaches him shyly, a bucket in one hand and a fistful of rags in the other.

  ‘What of him?’ Etienne sighs.

  ‘He looks like you.’

  ‘No he doesn’t,’ Etienne snaps back.

  ‘I mean you look like him. Not quite as serious and you are blond. But yes.’

  Etienne shrugs and turns his head away. Christophe puts down his pail and kneels beside him, freckly face all full of concern. A stab of guilt turns Etienne back towards his countryman. The frightened boy from Saintes really does look worried on his behalf.

  ‘Are you in trouble? I won’t say anything, I swear on my mother’s life.’

  Etienne smiles against his will. Poor Christophe. What a terrible story must he have, thinks Etienne. He has guessed that a relative of mine has arrived at the palace, and his first thought is that I might be in trouble. He looks so forlorn it seems unfair to deny it. Of all the boys, Christophe is least likely to foghorn the news around the palace. In fact even less than the least likely, Etienne decides - the most impossibly unlikely.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ he says.

  ‘To me, yes.’

  ‘Alright then, you promise not to tell?’

  Christophe’s watery eyes widen in earnest and he nods.

  ‘He is my uncle. He comes from a rich family in the Beauvais.’

  ‘Really? Has he come to free you?’ Christophe’s face is shining as though he has just been told that someone has come to free him.

  Etienne shrugs. ‘He isn’t sure if he can. The governor hasn’t decided yet. And he wants compensation.’

  ‘Oh. Your uncle is rich though?’

  ‘Yes but…look I don’t know what’s happening. Please don’t say anything.’ Etienne instantly regrets wading into the lie. Just by hinting at the truth to the friendless Christophe, he can feel the cogs of what is supposed to happen start to slip.

  ‘Of course not. I swear it. On the lives of my mother and sisters and the Holy Virgin herself.’

  Etienne smiles at the other’s boy’s excitement.

  ‘When are you going?’ He asks.

  ‘Shhh!’ Etienne throws a glance around.

  ‘Sorry, sorry…’ The boy’s face falls apologetically.

  ‘I told you, I don’t know anything more.’

  From across the courtyard they hear raised voices. Abubakr is on the warpath. Hurriedly, Christophe reaches into his tunic.

  ‘Please do me a favour when you do go.’ He plucks something out from his undergarment. Etienne frowns. ‘Sorry,’ says Christophe. ‘I have to keep it safe.’

  Etienne holds the golden disc in his palm. It is the front part of a cloak pin, emblazoned with the heraldry of some noble house he doesn’t recognise.

  ‘Please give this to my mother if you ever get back to France. It was hers. Let her know that I am alive.’ He picks up his bucket and rags.

  ‘This is your mother’s?’ Etienne tosses the pin over in his hand. It has good weight - real gold. ‘Who is your mother?’

  ‘The Countess of Saintes.’

  ‘What?’ Etienne chokes. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Christophe replies.

  Etienne’s mouth falls open, his mind spinning with a carousel of possibilties. ‘What do you mean what does it matter? Are you mad?’ He pushes his hands through his hair to stop himself from grabbing useless Christophe by the collar. ‘For a start, if the governor knows you are from a noble house he might write to your father for a ransom!’

  ‘My father would never pay anything to rescue me. He’d be too angry that I had shamed him.’

  ‘Shamed him?’ Etienne shakes his head.

  ‘I have three older brothers. They are all better and at riding and fighting than I. Even the one who is for the priesthood. My father doesn’t care about me.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Believe me.’

  Etienne scratches his head. He feels bad for Christophe. What kind of father would be ashamed his son was captured, even if he was a bad horseman? He can’t imagine. Maybe Father Gui will have an idea how they can help him. The idea that he could share Gui with Christophe to make up for his own father makes him smile inwardly.

  ‘Please don’t say anything,’ says the red-haired boy urgently, as though he can sense Etienne might be hatching a plan. And he is.

  ‘You know I told Alberto the man who came for me was a priest?’

  Christophe nods cautiously, in exactly the same way Etienne used to back home when he was sure the other boys were about to play a trick on him.

  ‘Actually that’s true.’

  Christophe’s face crumples in confusion.

  ‘In fact, he’s not really my uncle at all. He’s my father.’ He laughs a little too heartily. ‘I didn’t even know that until today,’ he says as, inexplicably, his eyes begin to fill with water. Christophe’s mouth is agog as Etienne continues.

  ‘Back home I was a shepherd. My mother was Father Gui’s house keeper.’ He gets to his feet, suddenly compelled to convert Christophe to this unfamiliar new feeling of hope. ‘He’s come all this way for me. I know I’ve been lucky in that. But even if it seems to you that you are not so lucky, it doesn’t matter. You can’t just give up because of your father.’ He shrugs. ‘You just can’t.’

  The pale, freckled boy’s lip is trembling and Etienne can tell it is the first time anyone has ever spoken to him like they cared. He reaches out and an uncertain hand and pats Christophe’s shoulder.

  ‘If Father Gui can get me out of here, then I’m sure he can get you out too,’ he says. ‘And if you really don’t want me to, then I won’t say a word about your father. Please say you’ll come with me.’

  All Christophe can do in reply is nod.

  From around the corner, the sharp, thin shadow of Abubakr sweeps over the path like a torch. Etienne slips away, whistling a little ditty that his mother used to sing when she did the laundry. He heads for the gardens with his brushes, planning to sit underneath the purple tree by the fishpond until it gets a little bit cooler, and watch the flashes of orange and gold dart by. He doesn’t even care that Abubakr is lurking across the way, scowling at the prickly pears.

  *

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ says Gui. ‘And I must have your full attention. Do you understand?’

  Etienne nods. Father Gui has clipped his hair and beard, so he looks a little more composed now and less like one of those crazy desert men. He has a plan for them, Etienne can tell from the serious and distracted way he is talking.

  ‘I understand,’ he replies solemnly.

  Gui’s attention flickers to the servant who is pretending to inspect the floor tiles.

  ‘In three days you are to board a ship bound for Gibraltar. From there you can find passage to Marseille with the coin that you earn aboard the ship.’

  Etienne’s blood fizzes with panic. ‘What do you mean me? Where’s Gibraltar?’

  ‘It’s on the southern most tip of Moorish Spain.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  Gui ticks his head negatively. The room begins to spin. This can’t be right.

  ‘What do you mean you’re not coming? How do I know it won’t be another slave ship? That I won’t be bundled down to the hold with no chance to see any coin at all?’

  ‘Because the governor is a man of honour.’

  Etienne widens his eyes.

  Gui looks stern. ‘And so we must trust him,’ he says as he inclines his head ever so slightly in the direction of the loitering servant.

  ‘Right. Yes…’ Etienne stalls, and there is an awkward moment as he realises Gui knows he was about to call him ‘father’.

  Gui’s eyes are smiling, even though the rest of his face is expressionless, and Etienne notices a slight colour to his cheeks as he leans in and whispers, ‘Will you call me father?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Etienne says and they both laugh - a low, nervous laugh of relief that attracts the attent
ion of the man who is now bent over, peering at the door handles.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Etienne asks.

  ‘I have agreed to remain as tutor to the governor’s sons.’

  Etienne hears his own intake of breath. ‘But I thought…’

  ‘Enough.’ Gui eyes rove to the door before he gives a subtle nod down to his hand. ‘Now let us pray.’

  They kneel, and without taking his eyes off Gui, Etienne snatches the sheet that his father offers, folded in his palm, and secrets it up his sleeve.

  Gui begins the murmuring of prayer, then mutters, ‘Go to the docks as you are bid, then follow the instructions on the map I gave you. You will be safe there until I arrive.’

  Etienne’s hands are still clutched tight together, feigning worship.

  ‘How long must I wait?’

  ‘However long it takes me to get away from here.’

  Etienne can feel the pressure of a thousand questions fighting in his throat.

  ‘I will be there,’ Gui says.

  ‘What about the other boys from France who were sold here? We could all go back together.’

  ‘We don’t have time.’ His father looks alarmed. ‘Do nothing until I arrive in Alexandria.’

  ‘But my friends…’ Seized by the memory of what he has promised Christophe, Etienne’s skin feels like it is crawling with lice. How in the Devil’s name is he going to get Christophe out of the palace without Gui’s help? He scratches fiercely at his shoulder.

  ‘Amen.’ Gui raises his voice.

  ‘Amen.’ Etienne mumbles.

  ‘Go with God,’ Gui says gravely, and they rise to find their observer has retreated. Lowering himself to Etienne’s height, he kisses his palm and takes it to his son’s cheek. ‘I will see you soon.’

  A shadow of anxiety creeps over Etienne’s face. ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘God be with us,’ he says, then turns to go.

  Suddenly his father pulls him back into a fierce hug and it catches him by surprise. At first he stiffens against the constriction, unsure of how to respond. He is holding onto me like he might never see me again, Etienne thinks, and the demon of panic begins to beat its wings in his gut. He encircles his arms around his father, and finds himself thrown back to what seems like twenty life times ago, to the last time Gui embraced him at their cottage in Montoire. It was right after the fight he’d had with Marc about his rude woodcuts and he had been afraid he was going to get in trouble. He realises that squished against the body of this man he feels safe. Please God, he mouths into Gui’s chest, don’t let anything else go wrong. He cranes his head up underneath Gui’s chin.

  ‘Please come as quickly as you can,’ he says.

  ‘I will, don’t worry.’ Gui rubs his back, and he cannot help but flinch as his father’s hand meets with the scabs that still remain from his beating.

  ‘What is it?’ Furrows of concern dent Gui’s forehead.

  ‘Nothing.’ Etienne’s stomach churns. He doesn’t want his father to bear witness to his shame on top of everyone else.

  ‘Etienne, let me see.’ Gui spins him round by the shoulders and lifts up his tunic. Etienne hears him gasp. He snatches back round to face his father.

  ‘I tried to escape,’ he says with a shrug.

  Gui blinks several times and Etienne feels as though he is looking right into his soul. The look on his father’s face reminds him of the time he was playing on the weir with the village boys and one of them slipped on the moss. The boy threw out his hand and Etienne grabbed it, just a reflex, without thinking about it. For a moment, before the others reached them, they had been in perfect balance, the boy hovering over the weir, Etienne pulling the other way. The boy looked up at him and Etienne could tell that he wanted to throw up his other arm so he could grasp on with both hands. But he knew that if he did, he would have pulled them both in.

  ‘I will be there. I swear it.’ Gui whispers, almost as if he is talking to himself. Etienne can see that his gaze is fixed far away, eyes as black as the onyx stones the countryside pagans use to make their spring sacrifices.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The spring winds are screeching like a graveyard of demons when the message comes. It has been almost a year since those accursed processions came trumpeting through the Chartraine, with their bright banners, gay pipes and beguiling promises that carried away her son and a thousand other sons.

  The forester has offered to come with her, but as much as she would like the company, she cannot risk it. She has walked from the Languedoc alone, over five hundred miles by the rough reckoning of the roadside milestones. Experience has taught her that the only way to tell if you are in danger is when you, and you alone, are responsible for every single step.

  Once more she slips into a man’s hose and binds her breasts with a linen bandage. There is a reassuring discomfort to it. It has been so long since she has seen her true reflection that briefly she wonders if she still makes a plausible youth; for as a grown man, she knows she will never convince. Not without garb far finer than she has the means to acquire. A foppish jongleur or pampered merchant perhaps, but never a man who toils. She has neither the forearms nor the shoulders for it. There is a subtle discord that the eye of any keen spy would spot a league away.

  The letter she received looks as though it has been written by someone self –taught. Sister Octavia, she presumes. Its half- invented abbreviations and words spelled in haphazard, local dialect make it hard to decipher. She understands that she has until the half moon in the second week of Lent to get to the rendez vous. The place, roughly sketched, indicates a triangle of land between a tributary of the river Eure and the convent near Houx. All the ‘apropos gentlemen’, she is assured, will be waiting. Her Madame, pays compliments. Agnes commits the spindly map to memory, throws the note on the fire and crosses herself that the ‘apropos gentlemen’ will indeed be there.

  *

  Clouds flit like ghosts past the pale semi circle of moon. Damp vapours rise from the cold, mossy earth. It is not late, the bells for Vespers have not yet tolled. Still, it feels like the kind of evening that makes people believe witches can depart from their sleeping bodies and fly on broomsticks to make communion with the Devil. If she had not walked through half a lifetime of these nights already, Agnes fancies she might believe it too.

  Her enemies though are all too material; for them she has a hand axe and a slim arming sword she found in one of her godmother’s chests. The hand axe she has wielded often enough chopping wood, but the only experience she has of an arming sword is watching Gui act out his youth. How he would laugh to know she had it clanging from an ill-suited tooling belt at her side, causing more chaffs and bruises to her thigh than it will likely do to an enemy. ‘More likely to injure myself, I know’, she says aloud to the man who is left only in her memory.

  The conversations she still has with him are a necessary comfort. They are so real to her that when the whistle comes, shrill on the cold air, it makes her start and scalds her blood. The man who canters up on an expensive stallion wears a well-tooled leather hauberk, armed with a true longsword that only a well- practised feudal retainer can carry.

  ‘I am the bailiff of Dreux,’ he says and Agnes’s heartbeat dips a notch. Lady Yolande has kept her word.

  He swings himself down from his mount and leads it into the shadow of an oak. From the half-light of the moon, she can see he is a man in his twenties with a full beard, chest well-lifted, and firm muscles that say he is no idler.

  ‘Are you alone?’ she asks.

  ‘For now,’ he begins, but with the approach of a wagon he brings his finger to his lips and they duck into the cover of marshy grasses. There is an air of calm authority to his actions. Finally, it seems the Lord has sent her a champion. Agnes makes the sign of the cross in her mind’s eye.

  A voice carries on the air. The reply skims back over the heathland. It is the cry loaders make as they barrel merchandise through the stre
ets of busy towns. The glow of a lantern appears, hovering like a willo’ the wisp, and a wagon emerges under the pale yellow circle of light. Agnes watches as a man steps out from the brush. He converses briefly the wagon’s driver, who dismounts. Bulky and squat, the driver strides around to the back of the coach, arms swinging. He opens the doors.

  Although she has been expecting it, Agnes is still shocked as the whites of an eye catch in the light. It is impossible to tell anything of their owner – is it a child? She hasn’t thought that far ahead. Her heart gathers pace as she takes stock: in a few moments time she will have a group of frightened children in her charge. In all the months they have been separated, never has she wanted Gui to be at her side more than she does now. Salt stings the back of her throat. There is a gift to giving comfort without revealing the sorrow in your own heart, and Gui is a master of it.

  Her stomach flips as the first, thin pair of legs appear on the wagon’s step. She gives an audible gasp. The bailiff extends a low, restraining palm. She looks at him - are you going to do something? Keeping his eyes fixed on the scene, he brings the tips of his middle and index fingers to meet them. Still watching. The body descends from the wagon. This she is not prepared for. It is Sister Octavia. Her coif and wimple are torn away, a thick mass of red hair falls across her bruised cheek. She cannot help it, Agnes lets out a stifled cry.

  The waggoner spins round. Beside her the bailiff tenses, shrinking down lower as the waggoner kicks his way through the scrub towards them. Barely upon them, the bailiff grabs his ankles, pulling him flat on his back where he lands a brutal punch on the side of the man’s head.

  ‘Drop your weapons!’ The bailiff springs up as the other delivery man draws his dagger, swipping it to and fro. He is no match for a professional. The bailiff smirks and repeats, ‘Drop it.’

  The man grabs Octavia as the bailiff strides forward, his knife quickly at her throat. ‘Make another move against me and you’ll kill yerself a woman of God.’

  The bailiff shakes his head. ‘Her blood will be on your head as surely as yours will be on mine,’ he says.