by Tania Bayard
Alix removed her blue velvet mantle, handed it to a chambermaid, stepped into the room, smiled at the queen’s dwarf, and knelt beside the queen. Christine, waiting to be summoned, stroked the dog’s head and gazed at Queen Isabeau, reflecting that she did not look like a queen. The daughter of a Bavarian duke and an Italian mother, she was shorter and darker than most of her ladies-in-waiting, and a little plump; she might, at first glance, have been mistaken for a child. But Christine knew her youthful appearance should not be mistaken for innocence. The queen was only twenty-two, but she was suffering. At fifteen, she’d been brought from Bavaria to marry the young French king. Now she had born five children – two of whom had died – and her husband was not in his right mind. How lonely she must be, Christine thought, far from her homeland, speaking our language with difficulty. She wondered whether Catherine might not be the only real friend Queen Isabeau had in Paris. The queen’s other ladies-in-waiting, many of whom were much older than she was, seemed kindly enough, but they’d been chosen for her from the nobility at the French court, and, as far as Christine could tell, none of them conversed with her in German.
Madame de Malicorne, the lady-in-waiting in charge of the royal children, came into the room holding the queen’s year-old baby. She knelt and placed the little prince in his mother’s arms, then stepped back. The queen cooed and rocked her son gently. Catherine de Fastavarin moved away, a disdainful look on her long, aristocratic face. Christine wondered what her expression would be when she found herself surrounded by men dressed as hairy savages.
The seamstress, Blanche, came down the hallway. The last time Christine had seen her, the woman had been frantic and disheveled as she rushed to take Renaut away from the scene of the murder. Now she was herself again, in a neat brown cotte and a black hood, and she smelled pleasantly of cloves. She was carrying a rose-colored gown embroidered with silver leaves, no doubt made for one of the ladies to wear at Catherine’s wedding ball. A chambermaid came to the doorway and took the gown, but Blanche hardly noticed; she was looking into the room and staring at Alix.
The chambermaid came back, took Christine’s cloak, and indicated that she should approach the ceremonial bed. Christine adjusted her linen headdress, touched the pockmark on her cheek, went into the room, and knelt. The queen hardly noticed her at first; she was playing with the little prince. But Christine was sure her shrewd, black eyes missed nothing. As though she could read her mind, the queen looked up.
‘The copying, it is going well?’ she asked in her thick German accent.
‘Yes, Madame. I am sorry it will not be done in time for the wedding.’
The queen smiled reassuringly and indicated that she should rise. Christine went to a small adjoining room where a desk had been set up for her. Mademoiselle de Villiers, the lady-in-waiting who cared for the queen’s large collection of books, came into the room and placed an illustrated Life of Saint Catherine of Alexandria in front of her. Christine thought the little volume, one of the queen’s favorites, an interesting wedding gift for Catherine de Fastavarin, who might have been named after the saint. She enjoyed her work, taking pride in the columns of text she wrote around blank spaces an illuminator would later fill with miniature paintings of the saint’s life and martyrdom. She could visualize those pictures, glowing in lustrous reds, blues, and greens, and touched with gold. The finished book would be – like the original – an exquisite jewel.
But she found it difficult to keep her mind on the copying. The room was cold and damp, her fingers were chilled, and she was hungry. She got up, added more logs to a fire that fidgeted and sputtered in a small fireplace, and ate the rissoles she’d brought in her pouch. Then she stood on the hearth, rubbing her hands together to warm them, and looked through the open door into the room where the queen and her ladies sat. What she saw sent a shiver down her spine.
The queen, holding her baby, reclined on her bed. Catherine de Fastavarin, cradling something in her hands, sat beside her, while the other ladies-in-waiting hovered around her, attracted to the object she held as moths are drawn to a flame. Alix stood apart, observing them calmly, but the greyhound and the dwarf were far from calm. The dog had retreated to a far corner of the room, where he half stood and half sat, whining and trembling. The dwarf, who had thrown her arms around him, held him tightly and spoke to him in a strange tongue as she tried to quiet him.
‘This is a magic root. It has in it a spirit,’ Catherine said. She held the mandrake high so everyone could get a good look at it. The ladies drew back, and one of them crossed herself.
‘It’s the elf, “main de gloire,”’ someone said, using one of the names by which the mandrake was known in France. ‘We must treat it with respect, or it will do us harm.’
Madame de Savoisy, the wife of the queen’s grand maître d’hôtel, said, ‘Perhaps it is not necessary to believe all the things one hears about the mandrake.’
Mademoiselle de Villiers and Madame de Malicorne said they agreed, but Catherine ignored them. She looked at the queen and said, ‘This is Alraun,’ emphasizing the German name for the mandrake, but speaking in French so all the ladies would understand.
The queen clutched her baby to her breast.
‘You must not be frightened, Liebling. Alraun has grown under a gallows, and he knows how to help you. He will cure the king. But first we must do certain things for him.’ Catherine leaned over and adjusted the pillows on the queen’s bed. ‘Listen carefully.’
She held the queen’s hand, but looked at the other ladies, as she said, ‘We must prepare for him a bath of the finest wine and carefully wash him in it.’ The ladies moved closer.
‘When he is bathed,’ Catherine continued, ‘we will bake him in an oven, and then we will dress him in silk.’
The ladies stepped even closer.
‘But most important is this,’ Catherine said. ‘Once alraun has been made ready, we will bring to him communion bread. Then we will take him to the king, and he will give back to the king his proper mind.’
Christine expected the ladies to object to the sacrilege, but no one did. They stood immobile and silent, as if under a spell.
Catherine held the mandrake over Alix’s head and shook it. ‘The little spirit might help you, too. It might help you have your husband’s love.’
Alix grew pale, but said nothing.
Catherine rose. ‘I must go to the seamstress. She will prepare clothes for the little gallows man.’ She laid the root on a cushioned stool at the foot of the queen’s bed and left the room, nearly colliding with Blanche, who was standing at the door.
‘Come with me,’ Catherine said, and the two women disappeared down the hallway.
The queen relaxed her grip on the baby, and the little prince, who was usually quiet – unnaturally so, Christine thought – struggled out of her arms and crawled to the end of the bed. Suddenly, he leaned over and reached for the mandrake. Madame de Malicorne grabbed him and lifted him high into the air. The queen gave a little cry, jumped up, snatched the baby, and fell back onto the bed. The ladies-in-waiting fluttered around her, uttering frightened cries that mingled with howls from the dog in the corner.
Christine thought the ladies might realize how foolish Catherine’s words had been, but instead, they stood around discussing her instructions. They were too preoccupied to notice her, so she tiptoed into the room and stood by the stool and looked at the mandrake. It was like a parsnip, but larger, and it was black and hairy and shaped like a wrinkled little man, with a knob bent to one side for a head and something resembling a tail dangling obscenely between leg-like appendages. She told herself it was only a root, but she couldn’t help feeling it exuded evil. She could almost understand why Catherine de Fastavarin believed it had magical powers.
Catherine came back. As she went to the queen’s bedside, she passed Christine and indicated with a toss of her head that she should return to her copying. Christine turned to go and found Alix standing beside her. Christine said to her, �
��The mandrake will cause trouble.’
Catherine heard, and she glared at Christine. ‘You are wrong,’ she said. ‘The mandrake will cure the king.’
‘I do not believe any good can come of such beliefs,’ Christine said. Catherine glowered at her, and the hostility of the other ladies-in-waiting was palpable. When Christine returned to her copying, she found it impossible to concentrate. She went to the doorway and watched the women: the queen propped up against her pillows, like a limp doll; Catherine de Fastavarin sitting beside her, gently stroking her forehead; the other ladies-in-waiting gathered around, whispering together; the dwarf comforting the cowering dog in the corner; and Alix de Clairy, standing alone by the fireplace, staring into the trembling flames.
TEN
Women at the court should be more honest, more courteous, and have better manners than other people.
Christine de Pizan,
Le Livre des Trois Vertus, 1405
Later that afternoon, Christine, having completed her work for the day, rose from the desk and looked into the other room. She found the scene oppressive – the queen and her ladies, encased in ornate, burdensome garments; the red coverlet spreading over the queen’s ceremonial bed like a pool of blood; the heavy tapestries shrouding the walls; the thick carpets covering the floor, smothering any sound. These were somber surroundings for Alix de Clairy, who stood to one side in her sea-green dress. The young woman looked troubled, and Christine hoped it was because she regretted having brought the mandrake.
The disgusting root, not yet dressed in silk, still lay on the stool at the foot of the bed, and the ladies-in-waiting glanced at it uneasily from time to time. As she looked at the women, Christine wondered how they could be so foolish as to believe the mandrake had magical powers to heal the king. What would the men at the court think, she wondered, and then she had to laugh to herself; the king and his friends had an even more foolish plan – a masquerade to drive the king’s demons away.
The queen beckoned, and Christine went to kneel beside her. ‘There is still more to copy, Madame,’ she said. The queen nodded and indicated that her scribe was dismissed. Christine retrieved her cloak from a chambermaid and left quickly, glad to escape from the sinister little ‘man’ lying on the stool at the foot of the queen’s bed.
As she went out the door, she felt a hand on her arm and looked around to find an old lady in a simple black cotte and wimple, leaning on a crutch. She recognized the Duchess of Orléans, the king’s great aunt by marriage, and she felt like a child again, for when she and her family had lived at the Hôtel Saint-Pol she had often been chastised by this imperious personage for wrongdoings she didn’t even know she had committed.
The duchess motioned for her to follow her. Walking slowly and painfully, she led her across the entrance courtyard, through courtyards and cloisters, up steep stairs, and along narrow passageways and dark corridors in a part of the palace Christine had never seen before, until they came to a room very different from the queen’s chambers – only a few tapestries and cushions, thin rugs on the floor, a plain wooden bed with no canopy. The duchess sat down on a wooden chair by a small fireplace where a few flames fluttered against a lone, charred log, laid her crutch on the floor, and motioned toward a small bench. Christine brought the bench up to the fire and perched on it gingerly, hoping the old woman was not about to scold her for something.
The Duchess of Orléans was sixty-five, and with her heavy-lidded eyes and sallow skin stretched over sunken cheeks, she looked even older. Her face was ghostly in the flickering light of the dying flames. She leaned forward and grasped Christine’s hands, imprisoning them with her cold fingers. Christine could feel her sour breath on her cheek and see the network of tiny lines covering her face as if spiders had been at work there. She pulled her hands away and drew them into the folds of her cloak. She’s going to treat me as if I were still a little girl, she thought.
‘I am told you discovered the murdered man in the great gallery. Were you not afraid to return here after such an experience?’
Christine shook her head.
‘I admire your courage.’
‘I must earn my living, Madame.’
‘So I understand. That is why I have brought you here. I have work for you.’ The duchess pointed to a desk in the corner of the room. On it lay a pile of manuscript pages. ‘Bring those to me.’
Christine went to the table and picked up the pages. She started to place them in the duchess’s lap, but the old woman waved her back to her seat on the bench.
‘Those are for you. I want you to copy them.’
Christine folded her hands over the pages, noticing with satisfaction that there were a great many of them. She would have plenty of work for a while.
The duchess said, ‘As you probably know, I have for some time occupied myself with matters of morals and etiquette here at the court.’
I certainly do know, Christine thought, remembering her childhood.
‘I am old and ill,’ the duchess continued. ‘Soon I will not be here to give advice. So I think what you have there may be beneficial when I am gone. It was written for a young wife, to teach her how to run a household and conduct herself properly. It might be useful for other ladies, including some of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. I have observed that they do not always act wisely.’
Christine couldn’t resist smiling.
The duchess noticed her smile and added quickly, ‘There are many women here in service to the king and queen. They can always use some advice. There are even a number of recipes the cooks might use.
‘I understand, Madame. I accept the work gladly.’
‘You will be well compensated.’
Christine placed the pages in her large leather pouch, knelt, and left. With difficulty, she found her way through all the unfamiliar corridors and passageways back to the great gallery, where courtiers, royal officials, and commoners milled around, talking in hushed voices. She wondered whether any of them remembered that a man had been murdered in that gallery the week before. Would they be concerned, she asked herself, if they knew that in another part of the palace the queen and her ladies were under the spell of a diabolical root?
They all grew silent as the king came in, accompanied by the Duke of Orléans and Hugues de Précy. The duke had his arm around his brother’s shoulder, and the king seemed calm, but Christine, like everyone else, knew his composure could be short lived. She remembered Marion’s prediction that something dreadful would happen at the wedding ball.
As she turned to leave, she nearly collided with Blanche, who was standing in the shadows, staring at Hugues. The seamstress greeted her with a little wave of her hand, then moved away toward the palace entrance. She wore her cloak, and Christine hoped she was going to take Renaut home: it was late and the boy would surely be cold and hungry.
Colin sauntered up to Christine and announced that he would walk home with her if she would wait while he ran an errand. She was glad to have someone to accompany her through the dark streets, so she agreed. But she found the smoke-filled air in the gallery suffocating, and she went out into the entrance courtyard. Simon was there, watching Blanche and Renaut leave.
‘Where do they live?’ she asked.
‘On the other side of the river, on the rue de la Harpe. It’s about time she took the boy home. He’s been here all day.’
Colin reappeared, and they walked toward Christine’s street, the boy prattling all the while about the murder the week before and how he wished he’d been the one to discover the body and how much blood there had been. She was relieved when they arrived at her house and he turned back toward the palace.
Francesca stood outside the door, shivering in the cold, so lost in thoughts of possible misfortunes, she didn’t even notice Christine coming down the street.
‘What are you doing out here, Mama?’
Francesca snapped out of her reverie. ‘I am waiting for you. The streets are full of murderers and thieves.’ She to
ok her daughter’s arm and hurried her into the house, where they were met by the children, holding lighted tapers, at the foot of the stairs.
‘Where were you, Mama?’ Jean asked. ‘We were worried, it’s so late.’
‘Georgette’s brother walked home with me.’
‘He’s not very big!’ Jean protested. ‘How could he protect you?’
The other children moved closer and put their arms around her. She gave them all a hug and sent them up to bed.
In the kitchen, Francesca told Georgette to bring Christine bread, a goblet of wine, and a bowl of warmed-up mutton stew. She gave Goblin a piece of the mutton before asking, ‘Why did you stay so late at the palace?’
‘The Duchess of Orléans gave me something to copy,’ Christine said, taking the pages out of her pouch and placing them on the table.
‘Who wrote it?’
Christine looked at the first page. ‘It seems to be by an elderly man, for his young wife. The duchess said it has to do with proper conduct and housekeeping. I’m surprised she gave the work to me. I thought she didn’t like me. Do you remember how she used to scold me?’
‘That was many years ago. She treated everyone that way – even your father.’
‘The duchess is a good person,’ interjected Georgette, who stood listening at the door to the pantry. ‘Colin told me. She’s given all her money to poor people.’
Christine had heard that. Despite her childhood memories of the duchess, she knew the woman had a reputation for good works.
Georgette walked to the table and leaned over Christine’s shoulder, trying to see the manuscript pages.
‘Why are you looking?’ Francesca asked. ‘You cannot read.’
‘Neither can you,’ the girl said under her breath.
