Silk and Song

by Dana Stabenow

  “You could have become a nun,” Alaric said.

  “Or I could have had myself locked in a dungeon for life and been done with it!” Félicien said, almost shouting.

  Prudently, no one else offered commentary.

  Félicien bent forward from the waist and was suddenly and comprehensively sick over the side. Shasha rubbed her back until she straightened, wiping her mouth on a corner of her cloak. “Afterward, the boy vomited, and Ambroise took him outside to see if he could fly. Do you know what that means? Do you, Shasha?”

  “Yes, we know.”

  “Their parents must have heard something,” Félicien said. She sounded exhausted now. “A messenger came from them, demanding the return of their son. It’s why Audouard took the rest of the troop to their château, why they were gone when you came, why the guard was so lax.” She began to laugh, half hysterical. “Little Roubin died so I could escape. Isn’t that funny, Shasha? Isn’t it?”

  Shasha moved forward to take Félicien in a secure embrace that ignored every effort to throw it off. “Sit down, Félicien. Sit down here, and take comfort. You are with us now. Free once again to determine the course of your own life.”

  “I won’t be free until you rid me of this incubus in my belly.”

  Félicien spoke no more, her confidences at an end. Soon she dozed off, jerking and whimpering now and then in her sleep. Shasha went back to her place at Firas’ side and was grateful for the warmth of his body to take the chill from her flesh.

  Johanna could not sleep, eyes wide and staring blindly up at the starry sky.

  By his breathing, Jaufre lay wakeful, too, throughout all of that very long night.

  12

  Lyon and environs, Late Fall, 1325

  They debarked at Lyon with due haste and went directly to Sieur Imbert’s. He came forward to kiss Johanna’s hand and smile warmly into her eyes.

  “Sieur Imbert,” she said, allowing it. “Well met.”

  “Sieur Imbert? Surely it was Phillippe the last time we met?”

  She had the grace to blush. “Phillippe then. Forgive our manners, but we are in something of a hurry.”

  “You are returning to Venice?”

  They had discussed this thoroughly on the boat. Félicien—she would not answer to any other pronunciation—had told them, and repeated herself with bitter emphasis. “He is coming. He is right behind us. He won’t stop. He wants this—” she clenched her fist and struck herself in the belly, not gently “—he needs it to reinforce his title to L’Arête, and he won’t stop until he has possession of it again.” Her face twisted. “And he won’t want to have to go through a second time what he went through to get it the first.”

  She had paused, and then turned abruptly and was sick over the side. Other than a little water she had been unable to keep anything down, and she seemed to grow thinner and paler with every passing hour. She wiped her mouth on the hem of her cloak. “He is coming.” She looked at Jaufre and said angrily, “I traded myself for you! And look how you treated the gift of your lives!”

  Jaufre opened his mouth to respond but Firas said, ”Did Ambroise travel to Avignon with only the ten spearmen?”

  Félicien frowned, her near hysteria arrested by the assassin’s calm manner. “I don’t—no. He took Florian. And the four pages, of course.” Her lips twisted. “John likes his vassals to put on a bit of a show.”

  It took a moment for them to realize that she meant Pope John.

  “With Ambroise, that makes twelve armed, experienced men.” Firas was silent for a moment, hands on his belt, a calculating look in his eyes. Presently he said, “I believe Félicien is correct. Ambroise will be coming, and he won’t be coming alone.” He looked around with a slight smile. “Well, we are not exactly toothless ourselves, and he won’t expect any of the women to be able with arms, so we may even have a slight advantage.”

  “I know something else he won’t be expecting,” Johanna said.

  Alma and Hayat looked at her, and then at each other. “No,” Hayat said. “No, he won’t.”

  Firas looked at Johanna. “Oh. Ah. Yes. I had forgotten. Very well. We need a plan.”

  “We can’t go back to Venice,” Johanna said. “This trouble started there and followed us here.” She paused. “What happened to Jean de Valmy? Did anyone see him at L’Arête? Or in Avignon?”

  “Ambroise killed him just after we left you, rather than pay him the rest of his Judas price,” Félicien said drearily. “They dragged his body into the woods and left him for carrion.”

  It might be the one action taken by Ambroise de L’Arête that they could all approve of. Johanna wondered what had happened to Pascau. “We can’t return to Venice,” she said again. “This trouble could follow us back to Gradenigo. We owe him too much to take the chance.”

  “There are merchant fairs north of Paris,” Firas said. “I have heard people speaking of them.”

  “We have nothing to trade at present,” Johanna said.

  “Chartres,” Alaric said.

  “Where is Chartres?” someone said, and someone else said, “Why Chartres?”

  “A hundred leagues, maybe a little more,” Alaric said. “North and west of here. And because I have a friend there who may be able to advise us.”

  Jaufre glanced at him but held his peace. From the conversation between Alaric and Gilbert, he wouldn’t have thought that Alaric and Wilmot would have much to say to each other, or that a stonemason would be especially able to advise them on matters of trade. “Everyone I’ve talked to since we stepped ashore in Venice wants wool,” he said. “By all accounts the best wool comes from the north. Let’s go look for wool.”

  Afterward, Jaufre wondered at the spark of satisfaction he saw in Alaric’s eyes when the group decided on Chartres. Much later, he wondered if Alaric’s irritation at riding to Félicien’s rescue might have been less because he disapproved of their violating the sanctified bond of marriage than because they were riding in the wrong direction.

  “Ambroise will come,” Félicien said in a hopeless voice. “He will kill you all.”

  “No,” Johanna said. “No, Félicien, he won’t.” She leaned forward and grasped Félicien’s hand. “He won’t. Trust me, Félicien. Trust us. Firas? Let’s work on that plan.”

  “Indeed, young miss,” Firas said. “Let’s.”

  Here in the present, in Lyon, Johanna smiled at Gradenigo’s agent and said, “No, Phillippe, not Venice. We thought we’d try our luck in the north.”

  Firas, Jaufre and Alaric retrieved their weapons from Sieur Imbert’s warehouse and spent a day giving everything in their armory a new and sharper edge, in case the plan went awry. Shasha scoured the markets for supplies. Alma and Hayat returned to the convent to inquire after maps apropos to this journey. Hari went to the cathedral to insinuate himself into the bosom of the clergy there and perhaps acquire some names of brother clergy in Chartres who might look kindly on visitors from Outremer.

  The next morning Johanna and Tiphaine walked to the farm where their mounts were stabled, some two leagues south of town. North Wind caught Johanna’s scent on the mistrau and they heard him trumpeting half a league away. Dusty, hungry and thirsty, Johanna broke into a trot, bypassed the farmhouse and went straight for the paddock in which the great white stallion was stamping up and down. The fenceposts around him were made from sawn lengths of tree trunks buried deep in the ground, which explained why he was still inside them. Johanna undid the latch on the gate and North Wind thundered up and whickered and whiffed down her neck and back and sides and around her waist and between her legs and under her arms until, laughing uncontrollably, partly from relief that he was still here, she caught a handful of his mane in one hand and vaulted astride. He went from a standstill to a full gallop and she wound her hands in his mane and flattened herself against his neck and let him go. Behind them she could hear Tiphaine whooping and shouting. Her eyes blurred with tears, not all generated from the wind forceful enough to bl
ow the braid out of her hair. Félicien was free, none of their company had died in L’Arête, and she was on North Wind’s back again. In this moment it was more than enough.

  After what felt like a league at a full gallop she judged it safe enough to pull North Wind into a canter and turn him back toward the farm. As she approached she saw the farmer and his wife and two children gathered outside the front door of their farmhouse. Tiphaine was perched on top of a fencepost, waving her scarf over her head. The farmer was grinning, but his wife and children looked as if they’d bolt inside at the first opportunity.

  Johanna stopped at a safe distance, or as safe as North Wind would ever be, swung her right leg over and slid to the ground on legs that trembled just a little. Her smile trembled just a little, too.

  “That big one, he thinks he is so tough,” the farmer said, coming forward, “but he missed you. He pined for you, I swear it.”

  “I pined for him, too, Glaude.”

  He grinned again. “He would have been all the better for a gallop every day, but no one had the courage to try to get on his back.”

  She stepped back and ran her hands down the stallion’s flanks and legs. “He looks well, very well indeed. I am grateful for your care of him.”

  Glaude shrugged. “C’est normal.”

  “And the others?”

  Glaude shrugged again. “Eating their heads off.” He cocked his head. “One of my mares came fresh while you were away. I put the black to her.”

  Her turn to shrug. “You had my permission.” Her turn to cock her head. “Not North Wind?”

  He shook his head. “She is small, my Celestine. I would not burden her with a too-large foal.” He jerked his head at North Wind. “He could smell her. He wasn’t happy.”

  Johanna laughed. “I can imagine.”

  The wife came forward, a little fluttery, one wary eye on North Wind. “Please, come in and refresh yourselves.”

  They adjourned to the farmhouse, which was old even in these parts, and small, snug and immaculate. A sharp word and both children scurried to lay the long table in front of the hearth with bread and cheese and olives and a pitcher of water. “The water is good,” she said, “we have our own spring,” and took a drink to prove it. Everyone sat down and ate heartily. At last Johanna sat back with a sigh. “That was wonderful, Magali. Thank you.”

  The housewife beamed, and cuffed her son, who was pinching his sister. “Outside, the pair of you, and feed the chickens.” She refilled Johanna’s cup and her husband’s, and bustled about setting her kitchen to rights.

  “Glaude, I wonder if you have room here somewhere for ten of us. Perhaps tonight, and definitely tomorrow night and perhaps for a third night, but that would be all.”

  He considered. “We have not beds enough—” a wave of his hand indicated the farmhouse, which was not large “—but there is a loft in the barn. It is clean, and there is hay to make your beds. And you may use the spring, of course.”

  Johanna smiled. “Hay beds are a luxury for the likes of us. Can you feed us, too? We will be happy to pay.”

  They agreed on a price, and Johanna spent the afternoon going over the horses and their tack, which was in better repair than when she had left it behind. She remonstrated with Glaude, who waved a hand and said again, “C’est normal.”

  Perhaps rendering kindness to strangers was normal in this part of the world, Johanna thought. She was immeasurably soothed by the notion. No one joined them that evening and after a hearty dinner of pottage and bread Johanna sang and Tiphaine taught “the children” (as she referred to them) how to do a basic fountain, which she did not see fit to tell them she herself had only learned how to do not three weeks before. Everyone went to bed pleased with themselves.

  The rest of Wu Company arrived in good order the next day at mid-afternoon. Félicien had new clothes in unrelieved black, tunic and trousers and cloak, and tough new boots. When her hood fell back Johanna could see that she looked far from well, and as soon as she dismounted she went to the edge of the trees and was sick.

  Jaufre was watching her with a worried expression. “She’s been continually ill,” Shasha said. “I don’t know how far or how fast she is going to be able to travel.”

  “Is this normal for pregnant women?”

  “Not to this extent, nor of this violence, not in my experience. She has diarrhea, too.”

  “What?” Johanna said, when Shasha seemed reluctant to say more.

  Shasha drew Johanna to one side and lowered her voice. “I consulted a midwife in Lyon. She says there are cases, very rare, of pregnant women who suffer excessive, constant vomiting and diarrhea throughout the first months. It frequently leads to miscarriage.”

  They looked at Félicien, still standing at the edge of the trees, bent over, shoulders heaving. Jaufre approached and said something they couldn’t hear. They did hear Félicien tell him to go away, and so did everyone else.

  “Miscarriage?” Johanna said.

  “Yes,” Shasha said. “Even, in extreme cases, the death of the mother as well.”

  “Is there nothing you can do?”

  “The only thing that might help would be to confine her to bed. She would want to know why.”

  Their eyes met. Johanna said nothing. There was nothing to be said. They had to leave very soon, whether Félicien could travel or not, and if Shasha told Félicien what might happen, Félicien would be the first of them on a horse.

  They stayed two nights at the farm and woke the morning of their departure in the hour before dawn and were riding out of the farmyard before the family had woken. Johanna left a pouch filled with coin on the sill of the window next to the door, and sent a silent wish for good fortune to follow Glaude and Magali and their children always.

  There was a well-traveled road near Glaude’s farm that ran north to Paris but they had decided to keep clear of the road and so struck out through the forest, made up of mature trees with broad canopies of leaves turning gold and orange and red. There was little undergrowth, certainly nothing like the choked countryside around L’Arête, and the horses had no trouble picking their way.

  It was a cool morning beneath clear skies, and after so many days without rain the ground was hard as iron. They kept to a brisk walk and gradually the land began to rise. Firas was riding ahead and Alaric behind, and both came cantering up when the party emerged on a knoll covered in sweet grass and a tiny spring bubbling up out of the ground. The sun was well up by now and they dismounted to break their fast.

  And that of course was when Ambroise sprung his trap, catching them out of the saddle, weapons sheathed, food in hand.

  They emerged out of the tree line, the lord of L’Arête, Florian, ten mounted spearmen and four boys who rode two to a horse and looked cold, tired, and terrified. The men held spears at the ready. No one had bothered with bows, Johanna noted, probably because arrows occasionally went anywhere and the count’s lady was among them.

  Ambroise was dressed in the same black and silver Johanna had seen him in in Avignon, with additions. The sword at his side did not look the least bit ornamental and his neck, shoulders and arms were thick with muscle, statement enough that he knew how to use it. He wore a round helm with a nose guard and a cuirass, both of black steel polished to a dull gleam. He rode an immense black destrier who was curried to a fare-thee-well, tacked up in black leather and whose hooves looked oiled that morning.

  Together they formed a single weapon that gave every appearance of being unstoppable, invincible, ultimately lethal. It was a first blow struck before the battle had even begun.

  A veritable Prince of Darkness, Johanna thought, an appearance deliberately designed to intimidate and if possible frighten.

  North Wind snorted and sidled and she realized that her hands had tightened on his reins. Her heart was thumping in her chest hard enough to escape and run away on its own, and she didn’t seem to be able to catch her breath.

  Yes. It was possible.

  She
took a deep breath and walked forward to stand next to Félicien. Behind her North Wind stamped his displeasure.

  Jaufre had his sword out before Alaric and Firas, but only just. Johanna, Alma and Hayat did not reach for theirs.

  “I’ll go with him,” Félicien said. She sounded tired.

  They ignored her, spreading into a half circle that would have looked rehearsed to anyone paying attention. Johanna and Félicien hung back. Alma, Hayat and Hari scattered to the sides of the clearing but did not go so far as to disappear into the trees.

  “My dear Félicienne, you most certainly will go with me, but it will avail your companions nothing,” Ambroise said. “You gave me your word, you broke it, and I, as you well know, always pay my debts in full.” Ambroise pulled his sword and nudged his mount forward. “In fact it will give me very great pleasure to dispatch them one by one myself, while you watch.”

  Jaufre stepped into his path and his sword was dealt a contemptuous blow that had it flying from his hand. He tumbled back just out of the reach of Ambroise’s sword. Firas fell back into a guard stance and was similarly dealt with, and Alaric as well, although this was the part of the plan they had had the most trouble getting Alaric to agree to. “You never learn, old man,” Ambroise said.

  Alaric regained his feet and glowered.

  Now Ambroise was facing Félicien, and Johanna.

  Johanna said, she hoped clearly over the thundering of her heart, “You may not have her, Ambroise.”

  “Ah yes, the lady in the Place des Papes,” Ambroise said. His smile bared his teeth and no more. “You made only one mistake. Well, two, actually. You stayed around long enough for me to notice you, and you wore the same sigil as your friends there.” He gestured at Wu Company’s badge. “It wasn’t difficult to find word of that sigil, and of you, in Lyon, which led me directly to Sieur Imbert.” His smile was thin. “He was persuaded to tell us all he knew very quickly indeed.”

  Johanna knew a pang of remorse and then a flare of anger. “You may not take Félicien again,” she said again and stepped forward, well within reach of Ambroise’s sword.