by Hana Cole
Etienne and Christophe arrange themselves cross-legged, ready for the time takes Yalda to dispense with the visitor, but no sooner have they sat does her voice ring out, shrill and unexpected.
‘Boys! Come down now!’
She is waving and grinning like a long-lost aunt on Christmas Eve, and as Etienne lowers himself down to make the short drop from the mezzanine floor he sees why. His heart skips as he stumbles over the plant pots and ornamental stones.
‘Father!’ he cries. ‘You took so long. I thought you might never come.’
Laughing, his father raises an eyebrow. ‘It’s only been five days,’ he replies.
Gui turns to Yalda. ‘What do I owe you?’
A smile hovers on her lips. ‘Your faces are payment enough. I have gems and coins aplenty from my admirers. ’
Hi father’s shoulders sag in a concession he does not want to give. He draws Yalda to one side. Etienne can tell he and Christophe aren’t supposed to be part of the conversation, but the space is so small there isn’t really anywhere else to go. They shuffle awkwardly towards tiny courtyard, pretending to admire the overcrowded family of plants, even though he has spent so long staring at it over the past few days he is sure he will remember it until the day he dies.
‘But the boat passage… Really, it is too much,’ Gui whispers.
‘Let us just say I know the harbour master,’ she replies. ‘Once you are home perhaps you will be able to warn people. Stop others from suffering the same fate.’
‘You have my word,’ Gui says solemnly. From the corner of his eye, Etienne sees his father take Yalda’s hand and bring it to his lips. He knows his father feels guilty that Yalda has risked so much to help them. Still, the way he is staring all moon-eyed at her makes him cringe. Although he is pretending to inspect a collection of tiny mosaic boxes on the table by the window, there is only so much Etienne can do to distance himself from the embarrassing goodbye.
Gui’s eyes narrow accusingly at Etienne - I know you were watching me. Priests are good at making you feel guilty, even though you haven’t really done anything, he thinks.
‘The boat Yalda has arranged for us is leaving now,’ Gui says. ‘We must hurry.’
All at once there is an explosion of sound. Heated voices intrude from the street.
‘Al Kamil!’ Yalda shouts. She nods upwards. ‘Amshi! As-saqf.’
‘The roof!’ Etienne repeats.
One by one they haul themselves up onto the balcony above and clamber across onto the flat roof of the building next door. It is easy enough to negotiate, and Gui drops to the ground first.
‘Hurry!’ Etienne hisses at the prevaricating Christophe as angry tones caw out like seabirds from the street on the other side. The boys slither down via Gui’s shoulders and away, streaking through the maze of the old city, its streets in afternoon slumber.
Gui grabs Etienne and Christophe by the hand. It makes it harder for them to run, but there is something about the insistence of his father’s grip that prevents them from pulling away. They lollop along, half a step behind, skipping over the loose stones and the feet of the beggars.
When they reached the dock Gui holds up his hands and they clatter to a halt, panting.
‘You are my servants, remember. Now, let us take a steady pace to where you see that merchant cog flying the flag of Marseille.’
Although they are trying to walk casually, Etienne notices there is a hitch to Gui’s gait. He is holding his head completely rigidly, as though he is trying to stop himself from looking about.
‘It’s him!’ Etienne yells.
They spin round to see Nasir the slave master cantering towards them.
‘Run!’ Gui pulls the boys onwards and they weave through the bustle of the port. The sailors on the dock are untying the cog’s mooring ropes.
‘Jump!’ Gui hitches both boys aboard. He vaults onto the gangplank behind them, now under the protection of the blue cross of Marseille. Nasir is left cursing on the quay as an inch of water appears between the boat and the hard. Breath ragged, Gui comes to kneel and gathers the boys into him as the first strokes of the vessel’s oars dip into the murk below: dark, foamy, stinking port water that will soon become the beautiful, boundless, clear sea.
Over a bowl of spiced goat soup and some hard bread Etienne persuades Christophe to tell his tale. Having been allowed to accompany his father’s squire to a saddler’s in La Rochelle, he wandered off when he shouldn’t have. He found himself at the dock, where a fat man with a fancy coat promised him many fine things. Christophe rubs at his arm. Etienne winces for him as he explains how he ended up following him into a trap. He didn’t like the man, and when he realised what was happening he tried to run for it.
‘I even made it back down the plank. I had a foot ashore.’ Christophe stares off to the horizon as though he is still searching for a way back to that day, before everything went wrong. ‘But there was another man, a French noble man, as finely dressed as anything. He was talking to the man who tricked us. I ran right into him.’ He looks down at his soup, then up at Etienne. ‘I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had run off the other way.’
‘Well, you’ve escaped now!’ Etienne says brightly. ‘Just think, people will be so impressed with your tales.’
‘What? That I was taken as a slave?’
The boy shrugs and glumly submerges a piece of hard bread in the stew.
‘No. Don’t tell them that bit. Tell them you went on an adventure and saw things they could never imagine in their whole boring lives.’
‘My father will be so ashamed.’
‘No. No he won’t,’ says Gui.
Christophe shakes his head. ‘I wish you were right.’
‘His father is the Count of Saintes, see?’ Etienne says. ‘It’s not like having an ordinary father.’
‘Count of Saintes?’ Gui eyebrows fly up.
Christophe nods. ‘Third son.’
‘No matter that,’ Etienne chimes in. ‘I’m sure there will be a reward,’ he says to Gui.
Gui cuffs him across the head.
‘And this noble man you saw, Christophe. You would recognise him again?’
‘Yes,’ the boy replies, eyes once again trained back on that fateful day. ‘I am sure that I would.’
Chapter Thirty-four
Amaury de Maintenon stares at the inquisitor as though the forces of the Dark One are massed in his heart and being directed out of his eyes. He is sure it is not the first time that someone has been looked at the treacherous prelate with such malevolence, and he is sure it will not be the last.
‘So, you see, my men are at the site. Whether or not I apply for permission to exhume the bodies is down to you,’ purrs Bernard de Nogent.
Maintenon’s eyelids fall, heavy. He rubs the fist of one hand into the palm of another. Never before has he been required to employ such self restraint. He ensures his tenants provide what vittels the Count of Blois’s household requires, he raises the feudal retainers due under his ban, and rides to war as gladly as any man when called. Who has there ever been to stay his fist?
‘I have never set foot in that place. It is not on my territory,’ he replies.
‘It’s close enough,’ says de Nogent.
‘You will find no evidence of me in that place,’ he says coldly, mind turning on who could have alerted de Nogent to the crypt on the Gazeran estate.
The inquisitor smiles with a checkmate satisfaction. ‘You might find it hard to deny given your men have been caught red-handed taking delivery of wagon load of heathen children. No doubt the same provenance as the dozens of dead ones we found buried there.’
‘What court would prosecute the death of heathen slaves?’ Maintenon growls out the last words, challenging de Nogent to defend such a thing. The inquisitor is too well into his game to be distracted by the other man’s menace.
‘It is good evidence of depravity,’ de Nogent replies. ‘And besides, they would prosecute the murder of one of France’s noble
born daughters. A de Coucy for example. I hadn’t realised you were such an unlucky spouse. Perhaps St Pol’s nephew should know before he commits his daughter to you?’
‘So, you’ve been digging in more ways than one, inquisitor,’ says Maintenon, inwardly cursing the prelate’s uncharacteristic display of boldness. Still, the de Coucy girl’s death could be a lucky guess. He has never hidden the fact of his first marriage.
Maintenon leans back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. ‘I am held in highest account with all those knights with whom I took the cross. I fought at Acre with the Count of Dreux.’
‘Seeing the cadaver of your kin with her head staved in does funny things to a man.’
Maintenon nods, a long, slow gesture that buys him the time to channel his anger. There was only one other he knew of who had seen the de Coucy cadaver. And he is long dead. So, he muses, the salt seller had told his daughter. Maintenon allows his eyes to cloud murderously. He smiles slowly, letting Nogent know he has seen his hand.
‘It’s the Le Coudray girl, isn’t it? You’ve found her.’ He laughs. It is loud and callous enough to have de Nogent shifting in his seat. ‘You are prepared to take the testimony of a heretic who whored herself to a guileless fool of a priest as the footstool of your ambition?’
De Nogent draws himself as upright as he is able.
‘There is always one that gets away, Lord Amaury. And I am tired of your half promises. You thought you could discard your contract with me to suit your new marital interest? If you do not relinquish the abbey and all it’s territory to me, along with half of the original Le Coudray estate I will release the whore from her penalty and put her in the dock to testify against you. Along with a pile of cadavers that make the latest plague rolls from Paris look modest.’
Blinking like a sparrowhawk shocked at the size of the prey it has baited, the inquisitor turns on his heels and hurries out. Perfectly still, Amaury of Maintenon stands by the window and watches as the quisling inquisitor rides away. Then, in one stride he crosses the floor, seals his fingertips beneath the lip of his oak desk and hurls it into the centre of the room. He stalks over and hurls it again, and again, until the top has come away from the legs, and the drawers lie shattered in the four corners of the room. The whole piece is utterly broken.
*
It is hard to tell how long it has been since she has seen another soul. A few days? A week? This cottage chamber is not the stinking dungeons of the Inquisition but it is cold and dark. Her window has now been shuttered. Even though a sliver of light prizes its way through the slates, the days are still too short and the light too dull for her to be able to gauge time.
When de Nogent had heard as much of her story as he required, he stalked away, presumably to Gazeran to verify her account. Sooner or later he will return though, to demand the evidence that links him to Maintenon’s slavers. By then she must be able to provide him with a solid reason as to why he should keep her alive.
She hears the carriage approaching from some distance away. The wind carrys the scratch of wheels and the crunch of hooves along the tree lined lane. It must be nearly evening by now and Agnes is tired. There is still a tiny corner in her heart where hope resides, where she presses her lips into the soft hair of her son’s crown, the man she loves standing over them. But the bone-aching damp of these grey-washed walls are tearing at her will. She knows what is coming next.
Beneath the mattress, her arming sword pokes mockingly into her back as she turns over. If there is nothing else to hope in, then why not run him through? It would take all her cunning and power - there would be no romantic flight - but her death would have some meaning, some dignity. She could stand alongside the martyrs of her father’s soil unashamed. Who knows, perhaps it is they that reside in Paradise after all, for there is no God she can believe in who would provide an escort of angels for the torturers of the Inquisiton and shun the children orphaned by their pyres.
She slips out of bed and kneels. The cold floor sends blades into her knees. Hands clasped together, she bows her head and closes her eyes, as though it might shut out this mercilessness world. What comes to her is the blond angel curls of her boy, the thrill in his eyes as his father presents him with a a toy trebuchet he spent weeks perfecting. She meant to say the Pater Noster, but now water squeezes from her eyes. What has she done to bring down Hell upon those she loves? What has she done but be a daughter? There are voices out in the hall. Prayer is all that is left, so she prays to the one Grace she knows will not abandon her. To Mother Mary.
She pretends not to hear the door open. He gives a cough and she rises to uncertain hazel eyes. Spirit roused by the possibility that her hopes could be so swiftly answered, she quizzes the bailiff with a curious frown. All that returns is tension in his jaw, his stiff-shouldered gait.
‘Come with me,’ he says.
The table is laid out in the middle of the room with buckled straps attached to the legs. Although she expected, her heart begins to thump at the sight of a newly-lit fire in the hearth and the array of smithing tools in the grate. It will be pain, that is all, she tells herself - a passing torment of the flesh. She stares defiantly at the scene as though that might temper its menace. Is this Our Mother delivering strength in her last hours? Will she feel as brave once it begins?
She suspects that if the bailiff has anything to do with it it will not last long. The only armour she has for her bluff against de Nogent is the letter Lady Yolande sent her that ties him to Maintenon, now in the safe hands of the forester. She must play it well enough to convince the inquisitor it is worth her life.
She can make out three distinct voices in the corridor beyond. They rise from hushed formalities to an agitated competition, and for several ridiculous minutes she and Michel de Plaissis stand and wait. The man whom she suspects is just as much a victim of circumstance as she, does everything he can to avoid looking at her.
When de Nogent appears, she can tell at once that something is wrong. Face puckered, his body is coiled like a viper readying to spit venom at a larger predator.
‘Unfortunately, I am called away on other business,’ he says. Hand behind his back he strolls over to the fire. Any relief that Agnes should be feeling at his announcement is kept in check as he bends down to pick up a smithy’s iron. She feels the bailiff tense beside her. De Nogent inspects the tip, raises a brow. The fire is not yet hot enough.
‘Still.’ He sends it clattering back down on the grate. ‘My men will see you tell us all about this information you claim to have.’ There is a scrutiny to the black, glassy beads that has her raking up every doubt she has ever held about herself. ‘It never takes as long as you think,’ he says, withdrawing his hand from behind his cloak. ‘Once it begins.’
He presents a linen cloth, smeared with the unmistakable rusty stains of dried blood. Instinctively Agnes averts her eyes. Her heart begins to jump.
‘Something for you to consider while I am gone.’
With a flick of his wrist, de Nogent unfurls the package: a female hand. Agnes hears her lungs dredge up a cry. De Nogent throws the grisly package at her feet.
‘She’s still alive. If you tell do not tell me where the letters are, I’ll feed the rest of your little nun accomplice to the hounds.’
Agnes can hear the protests and jeers from the other side of the half open door.
‘Can’t we join in?’
‘What sort of cousin are you?’
‘Later,’ Michel replies, ‘if you behave. Now get on with you!’ A ribald cackle echoes through the walls.
The bailiff returns, shutting himself in the makeshift torture room with Agnes. She holds her breath as he picks up the hand and studies it. Then, he carefully wraps it back up and places the bloody parcel on the table. The reverent way he handles it drains the fear from her.
‘It is a woman’s hand,’ the soldier says. ‘But it looks like it was cut from a body that is long dead. Probably taken from a graveyard.’ He speaks matter-of-fac
tly, showing nothing but the restraint he has already shown.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks.
The bailiff stands mute, and for a moment Agnes thinks that any sympathy he had for her is lost. He wipes his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, leaving a smear of dirt, and says,‘Because I am a fool.’
He looks like the weariest man on earth.
‘I have gambled away more than I can ever repay, and stole from Amaury de Maintenon to pay the debt. We have ridden out together a few times, local skirmishes. I do the jobs he doesn’t want anyone else to know about. He was an easy target.’
‘De Nogent found out what you’d done?
‘You don’t get to be in the position I am for long without other men learning something about you they can use.’ His smile is full of self reproach, but it makes him look handsome. Agnes feels a tug of guilt that she is glad to hear of his misfortune. It means she has found a victim of sorts who might be in a position to help her.
‘Do you know where de Nogent has gone?’
‘South, was all he said to me.’
‘South? Did he say why?’
‘No. I was only given instructions to interrogate you.’ Michel nods towards the table and there passes an uncomfortable moment as they both consider what he has been tasked to do. He shakes his head, as though in denial of what she knows he must be capable of.
‘What of the slaves that escaped the night we freed them?’
‘No trace. There’s only so much I can find out without running the risk of talking to the wrong person.’ Michel presses his lips together as though he is considering her words, but his gaze rests elsewhere, far beyond the confines of the room.
‘We found the bodies at Gazeran where you said they would be,’ he says suddenly, almost as if it is a confession. He leans his ear to the door, listens for a movement. Satisfied there is no-one beyond, he rests both hands upon the frame, head hanging down between his shoulders. ‘Fourteen in all.’
