by Tania Bayard
As she’d listened to a song about lovers in a beautiful springtime garden, Christine had suddenly realized it was something Étienne had sung for her. So lost was she in the music and her memories, it was a while before she realized that the dwarf, in a voice clear and sweet and perfectly in tune, had joined in. Ignoring the scowls of the ladies-in-waiting and the disdainful looks of Catherine de Fastavarin, Alix rose from her stool, crossed the room, and sat down on the floor beside the misshapen little woman, smiling as the two of them continued the song.
Then Alix had returned to the queen and talked to her, telling her about the trouvère who had written the song, and confiding that she had always dreamed of being a minstrel herself. The queen had nodded sympathetically, but one of the ladies-in-waiting had said, ‘Surely that is not the dream of the wife of a royal chamberlain! Nor is it fitting to sit on the floor with a dwarf!’
Alix had merely picked up her harp and started singing again. At the time, Christine had longed to ask her about the song, and she started to do so now, but Alix was no longer paying attention to her; she was staring at the floor.
Christine looked down, too. At the bottom of the tapestry, the ill-fated men and women of Babylon plummeted into a sea of flames, their hands thrust out in front of them. Below that, on the floor, was another hand – a real hand, with dirt in the creases and blackened fingernails. It belonged to someone behind a low wooden chest that stood near the tapestry.
A sergeant-at-arms entered the gallery. Christine motioned to him, but when he came over and stood waiting for her to say something, she was unable to speak. She just pointed to the hand. He stared at it for a moment, then grabbed the chest and pulled it away from the wall.
A man who was wedged between the chest and the wall slumped to the floor. His filthy black cloak was covered with blood, his scruffy beard glistened with spittle and vomit, and his eyes were open and staring – at nothing.
He wasn’t wearing shoes.
Christine no longer had to wonder where the barefoot fiend who had knocked her down in the street might be hiding. He was lying right in front of her, with a dagger through his heart.
FOUR
The people prostrated themselves before the Lord, crying and lamenting, begging Him humbly and contritely to cure the king.
The Monk of Saint-Denis,
Chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denis,
contenant le règne de Charles VI de 1380 à 1422
Christine looked away. She couldn’t breathe. Then she looked back, praying the dead man would be gone. But he wasn’t. The sergeant she’d summoned dashed away to get help, and she was alone with Alix de Clairy, who reached down toward the dagger protruding from the man’s chest. Christine gasped, and Alix drew back her hand, as if she’d been burned.
Suddenly, the gallery, which had been so empty and silent, was filled with people. Women in velvet surcoats and tall linen headdresses pressed against her, men in long, pointed shoes trod on her feet. Above her, the tapestry billowed and swayed, threatening to bring the terrified citizens of Babylon down on her head. She lost sight of Alix, and when she looked around for her, she was gone.
Renaut, the boy from the courtyard, came running toward her, pushing past the long skirts of the women, weaving in and out of the legs of the men. He held something in his hands, and as he stood looking down at the dead man, a melting snowball dripped water into a pool of blood on the floor. A moment later, Simon appeared, followed by the Duke of Orléans and a sergeant-at-arms with a huge mastiff on a leash. Maddened by the scent of blood, the dog lunged forward, and then, as the sergeant yanked him back, turned and sank his teeth into the man’s arm. The duke thrust the swearing sergeant aside. He threw open the dead man’s cloak, oblivious to the spittle and vomit splattered across it, and ran his hands over the lifeless chest, thighs, and legs. When he didn’t find what he was searching for, he leapt to his feet and kicked the corpse, the dagger still protruding from its chest, back against the wall.
Christine fled through the crowd toward the entrance hall, and Simon followed, dragging Renaut with him and muttering, ‘Saint Peter’s beard! Where is his grandmother?’ At that moment, the seamstress – hood askew, strands of grey hair flying – strode into the hall. Her face softened with relief when she saw Renaut. She rushed to him, seized his arm, and started to take him away, but the boy twisted out of her grasp and ran to Christine. ‘Goblin’s in the fountain,’ he cried. ‘You promised to take him.’
Christine had a vision of yet another body, that of a drowned dog, until she remembered there was no water in the fountain. Before she could say anything, Blanche took the boy in her arms, cradled him against her chest, and forced her way back through the mob.
Simon said, ‘They tell me you discovered the body. I should not have allowed you to come in here alone. I hope you are not too distressed.’
‘I’m all right. But Hugues de Précy’s wife was with me, and she’s disappeared. Did you see her leave?’
‘I did. She ran out into the street without her cloak.’
‘I think she has some knowledge of the dead man.’
‘I am not aware of that. But I think I know why the man was killed. He was bringing the Duke of Orléans a book, and the book is gone. The murderer must have taken it.’
‘What manner of book?’
‘No one has told me. All I know is, the man had a large sack, and it must have been in there. The duke is raging. There will be hell to pay for the guards who left their posts.’
Someone tugged on Christine’s sleeve. Startled, she turned to find a boy she knew to be the brother of her family’s hired girl, Georgette. He asked, ‘Were you frightened when you found the body?’
‘It is discourteous to creep up on people like that, Colin,’ Simon said. He gave the boy a gentle cuff on the side of the head. ‘Make yourself useful. Walk home with the lady.’
Christine started to object, but she didn’t want to offend the boy, who ran small errands around the palace and was much fancied by the queen, so she followed him into the courtyard. The snow had stopped, the wind was not blowing, and the sun was about to come out. Frenzied barking came from the fountain, where she found the little dog hurling himself against the sides of the basin, trying in vain to leap out.
Colin laughed. ‘His legs are too short. I wonder who he belongs to.’
‘I found him in the street. Why don’t you take him home?’
‘I have no liking for dogs.’
‘Very well, Goblin. You’ll come with me,’ she said, as she leaned down to lift the dog out of the fountain. At least I’ll have something to give the children to make amends for my bad temper this morning, she thought.
Out in the street, Colin pranced along at her side, pestering her with questions about the murder. When he was convinced she knew no more about it than he did, he darted away and ran around looking for the killer’s footprints in the snow. How unlike his sister he is, Christine mused. At fifteen, Georgette was thickset and sluggish, while Colin, a year younger, was thin and agile and growing so fast his clothes were too small for him; the sleeves of his brown fustian jacket barely reached his wrists. She wondered why the queen – who’d found him working as a stable boy and decided he should have a better job – didn’t provide him with better clothes.
Colin talked too much, and Christine was afraid he’d blurt out the news of the murder to her mother, so when they reached the other side of the old city wall, she sent him back to the palace. She started down her street, then turned and then looked back when she heard loud noises. Over the snow-dusted ramparts of the wall she could see banners and pennants floating gaily over the blue slate rooftops of Paris, but the scene was not peaceful. Orange and yellow flames shot high into the air through clouds of black smoke, and she heard frenzied cries and smelled acrid fumes. Somewhere in the city, a fire raged, and for a moment she thought Paris was burning, like Babylon in the tapestry at the palace. She remembered Alix de Clairy saying the city was doomed, and
it seemed possible, considering all the shocking sights she’d seen that winter, when the people realized something terrible had happened to their beloved ruler: grown men weeping in the streets; distraught crowds swarming into the churches to pray; frightened old women crawling on their knees in the mud, clutching at the robes of the priests, begging for a miracle to drive away the demons that had taken control of the king’s mind. Even worse was the sight of the priests themselves bringing wax images of the king into the churches and stationing them in front of statues of the Virgin, pleading with her to cure him. Everything seemed like a hideous dream.
And now, to add to the horror, a murderer had struck at the palace.
She wondered where her mother had gone, and she hurried to get home.
FIVE
There is a Latin proverb that men use to defame women. It says, ‘God created women to weep, speak, and spin.’
Christine de Pizan,
Le Livre de la Cité des Dames, 1404–1405
Hiding Goblin under her cloak, Christine arrived home as the bells of Sainte-Catherine’s sounded sext. She was relieved to see her mother there.
Francesca had come in just a moment before. She sat on a bench by the kitchen fireplace, hoping her daughter wouldn’t notice she was out of breath. Christine didn’t notice, because she was lost in her own thoughts, trying to decide how to tell her mother about the murder at the palace. She stood at the door and watched as Francesca drew Lisabetta to her and started to comb her hair, seemingly unaware that dirty pots, spoons, and ladles were scattered everywhere, and that the floor was littered with crumbs. Then Georgette, untidy as usual in a rumpled dress and a grimy apron, appeared, and Francesca began to scold her. The girl sniffled and picked up a copper pot that looked greasy even though she’d just washed it. She held it by the rim, dabbed at it with a towel, and set it down on the worktable, perilously close to the edge.
Francesca threw up her hands, loosening her hold on Lisabetta, and rose from the bench. The child stumbled and bumped against the table, causing the pot to fall and roll along the floor. Francesca picked it up and gazed into it, spellbound. Christine knew what she was thinking, but Georgette didn’t. ‘Is it dented?’ the girl asked timidly.
‘It is my husband,’ Francesca whispered. ‘Observe.’
Georgette peered into the pot. ‘I cannot see him. What color are his clothes?’
‘I see only his face. Why do you ask?’
‘Because if he’s dressed in black, he will appear to you again. If he’s in white, his soul has been saved, and he’s free to leave.’
‘È vero?’
‘In France, we know about these things.’
‘Che miracolo!’ Francesca sat down on the bench again and motioned for Georgette to sit beside her. ‘You must tell me all about it.’
And so it was that when Christine got up her courage and walked into the kitchen, Francesca sat before the fire discussing ghosts with Georgette, completely unprepared for what her daughter had to tell her.
‘Bene. You have returned home in time for dinner,’ Francesca said. Tempting smells came from a pot simmering over the fire, and Christine knew her mother was making one of her favorite soups, a delicious combination of eggs, cheese, and spices. She decided to wait until later to tell her about the murder. Goblin smelled the soup, too. He jumped out of Christine’s arms and stood on his hind legs, wagging his crooked tail and waving his front paws in the air. Lisabetta ran over and hugged him, but Francesca looked at him in disbelief. ‘Why have you brought a dog into the house?’
‘He was about to be eaten by some hounds.’
‘Pazza,’ Francesca tapped her head with her finger and stalked into the pantry. Christine followed, hoping to find some tidbits of yesterday’s dinner for the dog and expecting to hear loud complaints from her mother. Instead, she found Francesca tossing scraps of meat onto an old platter. ‘I was going to throw these out anyway,’ she said.
Christine thought the meat looked quite savory. She put her arms around her mother and said, ‘His name’s Goblin.’ Francesca sniffed, added more meat to the platter, and took it to the dog.
When the older children came home from school, they managed to contain their excitement over the dog while Georgette set up trestles and a board for the dining table, covered the board with a linen cloth, and set out the dishes, using the plates to hide soiled spots. They washed their hands, sat down, said their prayers, and then exploded with questions about the dog. ‘Can he stay?’ they asked Christine over and over again. ‘You have to ask your grandmother,’ she said, and they all turned to Francesca, who shrugged her shoulders.
‘That means “yes”,’ Thomas cried, and he jumped up, nearly overturning the table. Francesca tried to scowl, but the dog leapt into her lap and licked her face, tickling her with his whiskers, which made her laugh. Then he crept under the table and went to sleep.
Jean sat at the head of the table. Tall and thin and serious, with a wisp of brown hair hanging over his forehead, he reminded Christine so much of his father, she felt tears in her eyes. But she had to smile when she looked at Thomas, who was short and chubby and ate noisily, all the while chanting ‘zanzarelli, zanzarelli,’ the name of the soup, and glancing knowingly at Francesca, who was teaching him Italian. Marie, on the other hand, sat up straight and looked smug. ‘That’s disgusting,’ she snapped at Thomas when he wiped his nose on his sleeve.
‘Better a snotty child than one with no nose at all,’ he announced, giggling so hard he nearly rolled off the bench. Jean smiled and put his arm around shy Lisabetta, who snuggled up against him.
‘Basta, Tommaso!’ Francesca smothered a laugh, and her dark eyes sparkled. He’d repeated a proverb he’d learned from her, and that pleased her. Her grandsons, especially Thomas, could do no wrong. It had been the same with her own sons.
Christine only half heard all this, and she couldn’t eat, not with the image of the dead man behind the chest constantly before her eyes. She’d told her mother it was perfectly respectable and safe for a woman to go out and work as a scribe, assuring her there were other women scribes in Paris and nothing bad would happen to her. Now she stared at her uneaten soup and realized it was not true. She began to have doubts about her decision to take up a profession that often took her away from home. But when she looked at her mother and the children, she couldn’t help imagining them all begging in the marketplace, and she knew that when the queen summoned her back to the palace, she would have to go.
Usually she escaped from the kitchen after a meal, but that day she stayed, trying not to get in the way as her mother moved around the room hanging pots on hooks and arranging platters on top of the cupboard. Georgette had washed the spoons, ladles, and knives, but most of them were still covered with grease, so Christine rewashed them and put them away, only to be told by her mother she’d put them in all the wrong places. At least I’m not as witless as Georgette, she said to herself as she watched the girl toss leftovers at the midden beside the fireplace and wipe her hands on an apron covered with the remnants of the week’s meals.
Francesca looked at the girl with disgust and sent her to the market to buy bread for supper. ‘Take the children with you. Goblin, too,’ she called after her.
Christine couldn’t put it off any longer. ‘There is something I must tell you, Mama. A man was murdered at the palace this morning. I discovered the body.’
The pitcher Francesca was holding crashed to the floor and broke into several pieces. Francesca didn’t notice. She just stared at her daughter. Christine was sure she was going to remind her about the signs. But after a long silence, Francesca said, ‘I have said to your father many times, it is dangerous to teach a girl to read and write.’
Christine was tempted to laugh. ‘What have reading and writing to do with it?’
Francesca threw up her hands and raised her eyes toward heaven. ‘Oh, Tommaso, why did you not listen to me? For women, the best is to stay safe at home with the cooking and sewing.�
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‘You know it is not possible for me to stay home, Mama. How would we live?’ To hide her exasperation, Christine bent down and picked up the pieces of the pitcher. It was one of her favorites – faience decorated with blue and green vines. She put the pieces on the table. The breaks were clean, and she was able to fit the fragments together, remembering how her father had always been able to repair broken crockery. He knew so much, she thought, and he taught me so much, especially how to read and write. She pushed the pieces of pitcher aside and glared at her mother. ‘Don’t you want me to tell you what happened?’
Francesca sighed and sat down on the bench by the fireplace. ‘I suppose you must.’
Christine sat beside her mother and told her everything, her voice trembling when she came to the moment when she’d seen the hand reaching out from behind the chest. Her mother said nothing; she just put her arm around her and held her close. Christine felt comforted – until Georgette burst into the kitchen brandishing a loaf of bread and shouting, ‘Someone was murdered at the palace! Colin told me.’
‘Calm yourself, Georgette. We know about this,’ Francesca said. ‘Put the bread away. Go upstairs and sweep.’ She stood up, went to the fireplace, and picked up a metal jug that had been warming on the hearth. ‘You have had a terrible experience, Cristina. All the more reason for you to drink the tisane I have prepared for you.’
Because Christine had been ill and had become very thin, Francesca prepared for her a daily mixture of licorice, figs, and barley water, hoping it would help her gain weight. So far, to avoid an argument, Christine hadn’t complained about the tisane, but that day, as she watched Francesca pour the warm brew from the jug into a beaker, she said, ‘I’ve had enough of that, Mama. Who prescribed it? Your old doctor?’
