“And if it was you? It was you, in fact, and not so long ago, either.”
Their eyes met. Shasha had sent Firas for Johanna when Johanna was a prisoner in Talikan. She might not have escaped Gokudo if Firas had not come for her. She might now be prisoner in her stepmother’s house in Cambaluc, subject to mistreatment no less degrading and humiliating than what Félicien was no doubt experiencing right now. She had not been angry to see Firas, she had been ecstatic.
All the tension that had existed between her and Jaufre since his return from Sant’ Alberto fountained up and something inside her seemed to break beneath the pressure.
Shasha saw it in her face. “Here now,” she said, drawing Johanna down to a cushion by the hearth and pulling her into a comforting embrace. “Here, now.” She rocked them both back and forward, and made no mention of the hot tears soaking her shoulder.
“I never thanked you for sending Firas after me, Shasha,” Johanna said, snuffling miserably into her foster sister’s tunic. “I am the most selfish and ungrateful person who ever lived.”
“Nonsense.” Shasha patted her and continued to rock. “It’s not that you don’t want to save Félicien, Johanna,” she said. “It’s that you’d rather Jaufre didn’t want to save her quite so badly.”
Johanna didn’t deny it. How could she, when it was true?
They reduced their belongings to the bare minimum, storing the excess with the ever resourceful Sieur Imbert, and at dawn boarded the barge on which Firas had procured them deck passage. It was a long, wide boat with a nearly flat bottom, made for ferrying goods up and down the Rhône from Genéve to the shores of the Middle Sea.
“There’s no sail,” Johanna said, and then subsided when the boatmen tied their bowline to the stern of another barge almost exactly like it, which was in turn tied to the barge ahead of it, and so on for a total of six. The lead barge was harnessed to a team of horses on shore, as was a spring line from each of the other barges. A boy who looked younger than Tiphaine had the lead horse on a rein and led them down a well-worn path on the edge of the river bank. The lines took up the slack between horse and barge, the horses strained briefly against their harness, and they began to move slowly down the river. “It’s been a dry summer,” Firas said. “The barge captain says that normally there is enough current that they can float down in good time, but not this year.”
Each barge was piled high with goods, and each carried deck passengers as well. There were two horses in one of the barges, and Johanna tried hard not to be resentful at leaving North Wind behind. North Wind was an army in and of himself. Besides, she already missed him.
The water lapped contentedly at the hull and the landscape passed slowly by. Here, it was mostly tall grass interrupted by the occasional drainage ditch. They passed fields with the harvest grouped together in shocks, waiting to be winnowed, other fields where serfs were already beating the grain against cloths spread on the ground. A high, thin layer of clouds muted the usual ferocity of the southern sun, and an unusual air of peace and tranquility settled upon the company. It was the first moment of inaction they had experienced since Jaufre and Alaric’s return from Sant’ Alberto.
“I’ve been thinking about how we get into L’Arête,” Johanna said.
Most of them had made comfortable nests against and among the bales and bundles on deck, but this statement brought everyone into an upright, attentive position.
She smiled a little. “It’s not that startling,” she said. “Alaric has told us that troubadours are a tradition in Provins. What could be more natural than for a group of troubadours to be traveling there?”
“The Lark of the South escaped the first time with a band of troubadours, we’ve been told,” Alaric said dryly. “I don’t think the Blade is going to look too kindly on the breed. Besides, I can’t sing.”
“You don’t have to,” Johanna said. “I can, and so can Shasha, Hayat and Firas. Hari can hum. Alma can play a flute.”
“Not very well,” Alma said. “I haven’t practiced since Talikan. I don’t even have a flute with me.”
“We’ll buy you one in Avignon,” Johanna said. “It’ll come back to you.”
“I can sing, and kept a decent beat on a tambour, too,” Jaufre said.
They all gaped at him. “What?” he said, a little defensively.
He really didn’t know, Johanna thought, marveling.
“Jaufre, you can’t go,” Shasha said when it became clear that Johanna wasn’t going to.
“What! Why not?”
“Because Ambroise has seen you, Jaufre,” Firas said, “and in Félicien’s company, too. He will know you again. You and Alaric, neither one of you may go with us to L’Arête. It would probably be best if both of you waited for us in Avignon. In fact, I’m not at all sure we shouldn’t put the both of you off at the last stop before Avignon.” He paused. “Or perhaps you should stay on board until the next stop after Avignon. The last thing we need is for someone to describe you to de L’Arête or any of the twenty of his men who have also seen you.”
They were still arguing about it five days later when they docked at Avignon. “I can dye my hair and my skin,” Jaufre said. “I could give myself a tonsure and dress in a habit.”
“Yes, a Christian monk would be traveling with a troupe of troubadours,” Shasha said.
“Why not?” Jaufre said. “We’ve already got a Buddhist one.”
“So far,” Firas said, “we’ve got one good idea on how to get into L’Arête. We haven’t talked about how we’re going to get out again.”
They were speaking in low voices, crowded into the only room they’d been able to find in the most flea-ridden inn farthest from the city gates. Not that the inn wasn’t noisy enough to drown out any conversation. Their door looked out onto the kitchen, which abutted a yard where the cook pitched out excess offal and left it to be fought over by stray dogs. The only way to breathe without vomiting was to keep the door closed, which made the room almost unbearably stuffy. And to Shasha’s indignation they were paying more for a night there than they had for a week anywhere else on their entire journey from Venice.
Avignon was the seat of the Christian Popes, and the city overflowed with papal officials, petitioners noble and common, ambitious priests and prelates from England to Venice looking for advancement, servants, flunkeys, sycophants, bootlickers and hangers-on. Perched on a hill on the edge of the Rhône, the massive stone wall that surrounded the city seemed barely strong enough to contain the many towers that sprouted from inside it. They were all topped with banners and standards and pennons standing straight out in the harsh wind blowing out of the south that the locals called the mistrau. The banner flying from the tallest towers on the tallest hill of the city bore the crowned keys of the Pope himself.
The nobles were the worst, of course, as they never traveled alone and their enormous entourages were each determined to prove how much more important their liege was than anyone else’s. That afternoon, in the time it took to find shelter for the night, Johanna saw three street fights between servants dressed in different liveries.
“Young men with swords,” Shasha had said with a sigh.
Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when a young man with, yes, a short sword at his waist shouldered past her, followed by three of his fellows, all four clad in similar blue and green livery. The last to shove past her jostled her with enough force that she was knocked off balance. Firas caught her and set her back on her feet.
“Watch where you’re going,” this gentleman said over his shoulder.
“Watch yourself!” Johanna said.
As if she had rung a bell the four swerved around and came back to array themselves in a line in front of Johanna and the others. “Did I hear a mouse squeak?” one said, wriggling a finger in his ear. His friends laughed heartily at this sally.
Another stepped forward and had the temerity to flick the badge on Johanna’s shoulder. “And to whom might you belong, my pretty?”
“Myself,” Johanna said.
He had a spotty face with dark eyes and a full head of dark hair. “Oh ho, this one has teeth,” he said, evidently vastly amused. He snaked an arm around her waist. “And how does your master let you out alone, my pretty?”
“I have no master,” Johanna said. She even smiled when she said it.
Jaufre stepped up and by a feat of legerdemain managed to insinuate himself between them. He smiled down at the gentleman from his superior height and said, “We littles aren’t worth the trouble, my lord.”
The gentleman wasn’t a lord and if they hadn’t known that before they would have known it soon afterward by the whistling and stomping and catcalls of his companions. When the commotion died down enough to be heard Jaufre said, “We’re but lowly merchants, my lords—” including them all in a deferential bow “—grubbing about with buying and selling. No one you could wish to dirty your hands on.”
It was obvious the four of them were greatly tempted to give Wu Company a drubbing just on general principals. Then again, eyeing this oddly well-armed company, some instinct for self-preservation told them to live to fight another day. When they had achieved a safe distance they called a few insults concerning merchants and traders and took to their heels, disappearing into the crowd, which had barely taken notice of the entire encounter.
After which Jaufre rounded on Johanna. “Unnoticed and if possible, barely seen,” he said in an infuriated whisper. “Did I not make myself clear?”
Remembering it now, Johanna allowed her gaze to dwell on him, pacing back and forth between them and the single, tiny window placed high up on the wall of their stuffy little room. Even on the barge he had been constantly in motion, bow to stern and back again, earning more than one reproof from the crew, who offered to set him ashore where he could walk behind the horses. On occasion he took them up on it. Once she had accompanied him, pacing beside him, saying nothing. It was the only comfort thus far that he would accept.
There was a fumbling at the door and Johanna was halfway to her feet, hand on her knife, in company with almost everyone else in the room, when Tiphaine tumbled into the room. “He’s here!” she said, eyes bright, breast heaving.
Shasha put her finger to her lips and Johanna said in a low voice, “Who’s here?”
“Him!”
“Him who?”
Tiphaine all but stamped her foot. “Ambroise! The Blade! The man who stole Félicien!”
In two strides Jaufre had Tiphaine by both elbows. “Are you sure? How do you know it’s him?”
She wrestled free and this time she did stamp her foot. “It’s the talk in all the markets! He’s here to petition the Pope about something, I couldn’t find out what, but he’s got a company of ten men with him.”
Jaufre spun around, his face lit with a fierce excitement. “That’s ten men not at L’Arête,” he said.
“We need more information,” Firas said, a warning note in his voice. “How long will it take him to get his audience with this Pope of theirs? As you can plainly see, there are many in line in front of him.”
“Lines!” Jaufre stared at him incredulously. “You think this is about lines, about who got here first! It’s about whoever offers up the most coin! We saw that in Venice!”
We saw that in Cambaluc, Johanna thought. It was the same the world over, evidently.
“By the sheerest of luck,” Jaufre said, “we have been given an opportunity here, Firas. We must take it. We leave tonight.”
His force of will nearly had them all trooping for the door, until Alaric spoke. “Wait,” he said.
He’d been sitting in the darkest corner, wrapped in his cloak, a pitcher of something cradled protectively in his lap. Now he set the pitcher carefully to one side and rose to his feet. It was easy to dismiss this man as negligible, to define him by his sour attitude and the drink ever to hand. But in this moment, as he rose to his full and not inconsiderable height, Johanna was faintly surprised at the presence and the authority he managed to gather around him.
“We have followed you on this ridiculous quest to rescue your lady fair,” he said to Jaufre, “even though I warned you how it would be from the beginning. She is his legal wife, in the eyes of God and under the law of the land. She has been with him long enough that the marriage has undoubtedly been consummated. She could even by now be with child.”
He stepped out of his corner and into a stray ray of the day’s last light fell on his face. He looked most stern.
“Now you want us to follow you into L’Arête itself, which is by all the accounts one of the most inaccessible châteaux in Provins. A place with one small road traversing the face of a sheer, vertical cliff face some furlongs in height. The same cliff face, I would point out, that surrounds the entire castle. There is one gate, we are told barely large enough to admit one man at a time, and that man must be walking, not riding. It is unassailable, Jaufre, possibly even impregnable, and since we don’t muster an army at our backs, we are not capable of settling in for a prolonged siege. I have no intention of allowing you to lead us recklessly to our deaths in a quest that is hopeless, not to mention unlawful, to begin with. And we don’t even know if she wants rescuing.” When Jaufre would have spoken he held up a hand. “I know, I was there. She did not want to go with him, but in this world, Jaufre, this world to which she willingly returned, I might add, she had no choice. She is his wife. She lives on his sufferance and under his authority. And she knows it, Jaufre, if you don’t.”
It was as many words as Alaric had ever put together in one speech without slurring them or burping an interruption. Sheer astonishment held them speechless for a long moment.
“I agree,” Shasha said, breaking the silence. She met Jaufre’s furious and somewhat wounded look without flinching. “For one thing, we should try to discover if Félicien is here with him.”
Jaufre opened his mouth, and closed it again. It was clear he hadn’t thought of that, but then none of them had.
Tiphaine frowned. “I heard no word of her.”
“We must be sure,” Shasha said. “There is no point in racing off to L’Arête to rescue Félicien if she isn’t there.”
“Agreed,” Firas said in his calm way. “Alaric, Jaufre, you will remain here tomorrow, out of sight of Ambroise and his men. The rest of us will go into the city when the gates open and glean what information we can. We will meet back here at nightfall to take stock.” He held up an admonitory figure. “Remember not to get caught inside the gates. If you do and we decide to leave tomorrow night, you will be left behind.”
The next morning Johanna headed straight for the palace, a massive stone edifice with multiple towers, many doors including the main, columned portico, and staircases large and small that led up or down labyrinthine passages. A bell that she was certain could be heard in Lyon clanged every quarter hour and brought everything to a momentary, wincing halt.
She ordered a cup of small beer from one of the many taverns scattered around the edges of the palace and disposed herself at a table tucked into an alcove that had an excellent view of the palace’s front door, which appeared to accommodate most of the traffic. A discreet bribe to the host and she was left alone.
The Place des Papes was teeming with people of every station, although the crowd was dominated by religious. They were all dressed head to toe in black, which must have been stifling on such a hot day. The higher prelates were easily identified, their garments were of the finest quality fabric, fit the best and were for the most part the cleanest. None of them could take a step without a citizen, lord or commoner, catching their sleeve and whispering in their ear. This was almost invariably followed by something passing by hand from one pocket to another, and the cleric taking himself a few more steps down the Place, there to repeat the experience.
A lucrative business, religion.
There were many carts selling foodstuffs and religious souvenirs. More than one cart was upset by groups of young men engagin
g other groups of young men dressed in differing livery, a repetition of the scene they had witnessed outside the city the day before. In all instances the vendor was left to pick up the pieces and reassemble his business as best he could, with no assistance, no recompense and no apology. It didn’t seem to discourage any of them, or their customers, who waited at a distance until the young hooligans had swaggered on, and then gathered again around the resurrected cart.
A lucrative business, but a labor-intensive one.
The bell in the tower thundered out one o’clock and when her bones stopped vibrating Johanna ordered a plate of bread and cheese and another cup of small beer. The bread was fresh baked and hearty and the cheese a kind she had never seen before, hard with blue striations. It was several steps above the Mongol byaslag she was used to, and she was settling in to enjoy it when another commotion drew her attention. She was vastly unsurprised to see two groups of young men scuffling together, to encouraging shouts from the crowd and heartfelt curses from the vendors. One dressed in silver and black threw another dressed in red and blue against a cart selling roasted hazelnuts. The cart went over and the brazier scattered coals and nuts, causing everyone nearby to dance out of the way. The hapless vendor bleated his distress and scrambled after his goods.
This time a priest came forward, a man whose lack of height was more than compensated for by the bulk of his brawn. He reached into the welter of flailing limbs for an ear each and banged their heads together, hard enough to have Johanna cringe just a little in sympathy. He then stood them on their feet, not letting go of their ears, and looked around the circle of staring faces. “I’m sure all you good Christians have something better to do with your time than stand around watching a couple of foolish boys—” he banged their heads together again for emphasis “—beat up on each other for no good reason other than the colors they wear.”
Such was the priest’s authority that the crowd found something better to do immediately, and the priest let the two boys go and strode off, followed by many an admiring glance, not least Johanna’s. When she looked again for the two heroes, still staggering, she found the one in black and silver had been helped tenderly to a table in the very tavern at which she was sitting, and had been joined by his fellows.
Silk and Song Page 54
