by Hana Cole
Again he calls out. A flash of black appears. At first moving too fast for the eye to follow, he catches it as it dives, then it is hidden once more by a cloud. It emerges, swooping, to return to his arm, the stringy corpse of a fledgling magpie in its claws. Maintenon tries to quash the superstition that the magpie is a lucky bird.
In the same moment as he is telling himself that there is no such thing as an unlucky portent, a messenger rides up. All his years of experience allow him to read the man’s news before he opens the note. The rider is composed, but it is the studied composure of a professional who has ridden long and hard with important news.
Feeling the flutter of anticipation, Maintenon rips open the sealed parchment. The grey eyes shine, almost translucent in the sunlight, and he begins to laugh. A raucous, mercenary yowl that has his men exchanging glances. The note, bound with the Bishop of Chartres’ seal, is confirmation of the appointment of Gautier de St Pol as Abbot of Maintenon. The letter continues; Item, Regretfully, we inform you that Inquisitor de Nogent is arraigned in Marseille for the crime of trafficking in Christian souls. Appointment of a new inquisitor for the lands of the Île de France and the counties of Blois and Champagne is pending.
How thoughtful of someone to draw his enemy to a convenient location. What easier place is there to have a man silenced than in prison? He promises himself a trip to the bishop’s palace to reveal in the prelate’s downfall. All he has to do now is ensure that the source of de Nogent’s information is similarly snuffed out. He is certain it is the de Coudray woman. There is no one else it could be. Better he get there sooner than risk the loose thread of a desperate harlot trying to talk her way out of her gaol. The inquisitor is not his only enemy.
‘Send a note to bailiffs at Dreux,’ he instructs the messenger. ‘Tell them Inquisitor de Nogent of Chartres has been arrested. I believe he has taken a captive who must be found. Tell him to search the church lands around Maintenon. Any abandoned buildings. Use as many retainers as they need.’
*
There is something strange about this delivery wagon that Agnes cannot quite put her finger on. Usually, it arrives in the early afternoon on a Monday. Its regular appearance is the only reason she can be sure she has been at this place for three weeks now. It is not quite spring but the worst of the winter is past and the hardiest of the daffodils are readying to poke out their pale heads amongst the lengthening grasses. Dandelion clock clouds skip along fast, chasing past the sun, which is not yet high enough in the sky to mark noon.
The man who steps down is not the usual farm hand who brings the supplies. Although his features are concealed beneath a hat, pulled well down against the early April bluster, he is familiar to her. Opening up the rear of he coach, he heaves up a large bag of flour as the charwoman comes out to meet him. From their exchange Agnes is sure the old woman cannot know him. She points to the scullery entrance and he waddles off. This is not a man who is used to lugging sacks of flour.
She glances out to make sure the old woman is busied elsewhere, then creeps into to the scullery. She watches the man from the door. He lets the flour drop with a thump. Bends over, winded. He looks up, catches her.
‘Dear Lord!’ cries Agnes, and runs into the soft, corpulent belly of Philippe de Champol.
‘Philippe!’ She covers her mouth with her hand to stifle the cry that is building inside her.
The merchant’s eyes twinkle. He takes her by the shoulders as though he is checking she is real. ‘I have been trying to find you ever since he departed,’ he says.
‘You’ve had word of Gui?’
A quick twitch of his head and her heart sinks.
‘I’ve heard rumours about a scandal that erupted at Marseille though… Someone trafficking in Christians. I’ve got scouts there now. If he’s returned, I’ll know soon enough.’ He pats her hand with his chubby paw. ‘Let’s just say I’ve got a feeling in my bones.’
Agnes nods, mute. His childlike certainty is infectious. She wants so badly to believe in it, but all she can feel in the pit of her stomach is the nausea of disappointment.
Rubbing at his shoulder, Philippe continues, ‘Last time I saw Gui, I took this arrow. I knew then we’d stumbled on something grave. I never thought I’d trace it back to my own kin.’
‘Bernard de Nogent is your kin?’
‘No, Amaury de Maintenon.’
Agnes gasps.
He nods, half admission, half apology. ‘Still, it’s how I was able to find out he has raised a retinue, looking for an escaped heretic.’ The merchant chortles. ‘So come, it’s time. Get your cloak. The wind is chill and I am not sure where we will be able to stop.’
Agnes races back to her room, retrieves the cloak that she arrived in and searches under the mattress for the arming sword that has lain useless beneath the straw for so long that she has a bruise on her thigh where it digs in at night. Her palms are slick with the anticipation of escape, her heart flooded with the possiblility of Gui and Etienne.
‘I haven’t seen the guards this morning,’ she says.
‘Good!’ Philippe hollers.
She shakes her head. ‘Something’s happened.’
‘Then let’s away before we find out what it is.’
Puffing from the urgency of their task, Philippe flicks the horse on with his crop. The cottage clears from sight and Agnes feels an alchemy of relief spread through her body. But they are not two hundred yards on and the merchant lets out a cry. Agnes cranes forward and sees them; a levy of mounted men heading across the boggy plain.
‘Get out!’ Philippe yells, uncoupling the wagon from the horse as two of the men gallop towards them. He points towards the cover of a copse, but the men are upon them now. Hauling up her skirts, she runs for her life, leaving Philippe to mount the mare. Unsheathing her sword, she swings round to face the rider as he catches up with her. It’s Michel de Plaissis. For a moment they stare at each other.
She raises her weapon. He casts a fleeting glance behind him. Then, clamping his hand firmly over her wrist, he forces her arm down with a strength he has not used against her since the day they met. There is a wildness to him, she can see the tug of his breath in his chest. His eyes are fixed on her and she has no idea what he is going to do.
‘De Nogent has been arrested in Marseille,’ he says. ‘I have alerted the Count of Blois’s constable to the burial site at Gazeran, it’s in his county.’
Then, before she has time to take stock of his words, he turns her hand and plunges her weapon into his own thigh. He grunts through clenched teeth as his clothes turn red. The hazel eyes are still on her, and they are telling her to run.
It is not until she reaches the cover of the copse where Philippe is waiting that she realises how violently she is shaking. The portly merchant kneels down and makes a stirrup with his hands. She places her hand onto the dappled mare and leaves her print in blood upon her haunches. Two of the horsemen have cantered up the path to the cottage, another is scouring the gorse. Philippe walks the horse along the other side of the hedgeline, until they hit a rough track, then he mounts as well, and they are away.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Gui kneels over a faltering tower of sticks and moss, trying to kindle a fire. He has been used to the desert air and the crackling grasses of the south where fires near light themselves. Now they are further north he sighs at the reluctant woodland moss, inserting more twigs into the smoking pile.
‘We should be there by this evening.’ Etienne’s eyes flicker in contemplation. ‘Are you sure she will be there?’
‘Of course.’
‘You don’t sound very certain.’
Gui laughs, a harried cackle. It is impossible to hide anything from the boy. ‘I am as certain as any man could be.’
‘Alright.’ Etienne picks at a scab on his leg. ‘The fire’s out again. I told you that moss isn’t dry enough.’
‘Why don’t you get it going, then. You are better at it than I.’
Etienn
e beams. ‘That’s because you never had to set a fire in a damp shepherd’s hut.’
Gui’s side aches from being hunched over and he is relieved to stand. It has been nearly two weeks since they left Aunt Margarida’s cottage, keeping to the less travelled roads and waterways. Despite the ease of their pace and the red, garlicky balm he coats it with daily, his wound has refused to heal. Some days he near forgets it is there, but a few days later it swells and begins to weep anew. The pain that gnaws at his side tells him how badly infected it is.
Gingerly he stretches, watching as Etienne dismantles his stack of tinder and begins to rebuild it. His son has an instinct for practicality, a natural skill with the physical world. Nonetheless he is fortunate and fortune will come to him. He recalls the words of the astrologer from Alexandria with a wry smile.
They are camped on heath land, a disk of wild grasses surrounded by gorse. Gui scuffs at the earth with his boot – garlic, yarrow leaves. There is a cattle pond on the other side of the scrub where they might find some asparagus. If Agnes were here she would already have rounded them up a feast. He raises an involuntary gaze in the direction of the city. Up until now he has been able to bury his worst fears beneath the urgencies of survival, but by tonight he will have no more hopes to sell. The lion of truth will be upon them once again. He cannot contemplate the possibility that she will not be there. Brow furrowed, he resumes the pretence of forage.
A noise breaks his distraction. Too clumsy to be an animal, it halts him in his tracks. He unsheathes his knife.
‘Get down.’ He ushers the boys to the cover of the gorse. There pass a few breaths of ominous silence before he sees them. ‘Beyond the trees, over there.’
‘What is it?’
Gui holds his finger to his lips as two mounted men emerge from a canopy of trees. One is a hard-eyed feudal retainer - hired muscle. The other rider lingers by the tree line, a tall, thick-set silhouette in a fur-trimmed chaperon that he has wound around his head like a Corsair. Amaury de Maintenon. Philippe’s cousin.
Still as statues, the trio watch as the retainer dismounts, inspects the cooking pot and scours the ground for tracks. Gui points to a faint path through the scrub and whispers, ‘Take that path for less than half a league until you meet a stream. Cross it. It’s shallow but fast running so take care. Then turn right and follow the track. You should be able to see the spire of Chartres’ cathedral above the trees. After another league or so the stream widens and branches into two. Take the right hand one. Two or three leagues on you will see the mill. That’s the place. Now go!’
‘You aren’t coming with us?’ asks Christophe.
‘Come on.’ Etienne yanks Christophe by the hand and they are gone, a whisper on the trodden-down grasses that cover the earth.
The dismounted man is standing a few feet away. Gui can tell from the way he is poking casually at the shrubs that he hasn’t seen them. Boots stamping down the bracken, he draws near enough for Gui to hear the slow grunt of his breath. The temptation to crouch lower is almost overwhelming. A searing cramp spreads down his flank, igniting his laceration. Much longer folded over like this and it will disable him. Damn it man, move on.
Finally, the retainer turns his back. There will be only one chance to ensure the boys are not followed. He cannot fail. Grim determination is his splint as he rises up and, with the force of his whole being, sinks his dagger into the soldier’s neck. The rider jerks at his companion’s cry and charges. But the heath is not easy terrain for a horse. The pathways through the briar have been made by peasants on foot and it gives Gui an advantage. Maintenon will have to dismount to follow him.
Gui scrambles through a cathedral of ivy and brambles until it spills him out into woodland. There he pauses, catches his breath. It will take Maintenon a few minutes to circumnavigate the pond and come round to his flank. Up ahead is the stream that leads to Marie’s cottage. Etienne and Christophe cannot be far down the path. He belts his dagger onto a fallen branch as a makeshift lance and finds a hiding place. Ambush is the only tactic he has to unseat his opponent. His ears strain for the dull echo of hooves but he hears nothing except the drum of his own heart and the shuffle of small creatures. He should be here by now. Understanding sinks in his gut like a stone. Maintenon knows where the boys are going. He knows where Agnes is. He is not chasing Gui, he is heading to the cottage.
*
The light has begun to turn, draining the array of woodland colours into shades of grey and brown. Agnes stands barefoot in the doorway, watching the blades of the water wheel turn in the stream. At first she pays no mind to the two boys lolloping along the path. Now the sun rays have dried the thoroughfare, she often sees children chasing along, voices shrill with laughter or song, arms stacked with piles of wood, fruit, laundry. But there is something about the flashes of blond that snag in the kernel of her heart and she pads out for a closer look.
Every day she has dreamt it. A dream so vivid, so lived-in, that she is sure it will never come to be, for it has already been birthed into another realm. Squinting through the trees she tells herself they are two local boys who have been out for longer than they should, hurrying home against the light. Still, there is something about that hair, the gait that sends her heart pattering. ‘It cannot be,’ she says aloud and sets out on the path towards them.
Next there is the pause between breaths, the silence before the thunder, the hair’s breadth between life and death, and she knows he cannot be anyone else.
‘Holy Mary! Holy Mary! Etienne!’ Her cry is a screech that barely sounds human. She tears along the path, her bare feet oblivious to the prick of the thorns and nut shells beneath.
‘Sweet Lord. Etienne!’
Etienne summons a burst of speed, and, as he stumbles over the last few paces of uneven ground, she hears the words she had forbidden herself to hope in.
‘Mama!’
He throws himself into her arms and time rolls away. The hot, clammy embrace of her child, the sweet smell at the nape of his neck, and the pain of everything she feared she had lost, sear her chest. She feels a tremor go through her body - a demon taking flight.
‘Oh thank you, sweet Lord. Thank you.’ Agnes rocks him to and fro, tears running down the side of her nose, leaving a salty tang in her mouth. ‘I thought you were lost.’
Head still buried in her shoulder, he squeezes back and she can feel him shaking his head. Etienne straightens himself up and beams at her, a damp-cheeked smile of wonder. But she can see there is a question in his eyes. He casts over his shoulder.
‘What? What is it?’ Agnes’s fingers grip Etienne’s tunic as she peers down the path. ‘Gui? Where is Gui?’
‘He was with us. But men came and he stayed to fight them.’
‘Men?’ Agnes’s hand circles her neck.
‘Yes. There were two of them, weren’t there Christophe?’ Christophe, half camouflaged by the trees, steps forward and gives an uncertain smile. ‘This is Christophe. He came back with us on the boat to Marseille.’
Agnes gathers the boys to her, and says, ‘There is something very important you must do. About half a league along the river, you will see a track that goes uphill. It leads to one of the woodsman’s cottage. Tell him what has happened and that we need help. Tell him he is not to come alone. We need at least three or four men. Armed.’
‘You cannot stay here alone,’ Etienne says. ‘Father said.’
Her chest hollows to hear the word father. He knows. A breath releases from some long-sealed cavity of her lungs. It is the weight of a press being lifted.
‘Your father,’ she whispers.
There is an unfamiliar flint in her boy’s eyes. He is not going to let her stay here by herself.
‘Christophe. Do you think you can go alone?’ she asks.
Christophe nods mutely.
‘Etienne, untie the mule.’ Agnes disappears into the mill and re-emerges with a branding iron.
‘We will be faster without the mule,’ Etienne sa
ys.
Agnes looks back at the cottage and for a moment all she can see is the same ruin that greeted her arrival. Before she has a chance to respond, Etienne has read her thoughts.
‘But we will need it if we can’t come back.’
‘Saddle him,’ she says. ‘I must fetch my shoes.’
The pair set off at a brisk walking pace, the mule trotting behind them on a rope. Its load is a flask of water, some bread, two rolled blankets and the branding iron. The sun has left the sky now and a lilac hue paints the woods with a vivid luminescence, like a strange, future land. In a matter of minutes, the light will leaden and they will have darkness on their side.
A few hundred yards on from the cottage and she hears the beat of a fast-moving horse through the trees. It thrums inside her - the taut drum of war.
‘Over here.’ She leads them to a makeshift bridge where the stream runs shallow and a copse of oak and laurel will better shield them. Barely are they over the brook when the clattering hooves is upon them. Instinctively they crouch as the silhouette of a horse canters by.
‘It looks riderless.’
‘I can’t tell from here,’ Etienne replies. ‘Both of the men who arrived at our camp were mounted…’
Agnes hears her son exhale a long, whispering breath. ‘I hope Christophe is alright,’ he says.
‘I’m sure he is. There is always someone in the woods, especially this time of year,’ she says, and in truth it is not Christophe she is worried about. The boy, she knows will stumble across someone soon enough. ‘Let’s cross over here just to be safe. We can cross back over again just before the river forks.’
The bridge is a fallen oak, spliced and bound, and it takes both of them to persuade the mule to cross. Around them, the sharp shadows of the evening are receding and Agnes breathes a little easier as a mantle of deep blue folds over them. She takes them into a natural archway, thickly garlanded with leaves. Roosting birds quieten their evening song amid pitter patter and shuffles; the change of guard between day and night hunters. For half a mile they walk on beside the stream, the living forest a low hum all around them.
