by Tania Bayard
‘That is the criminal lieutenant’s job.’
‘He won’t pursue the matter further, now that the provost has made up his mind that Alix is guilty.’
‘So there is nothing you can do.’
‘There has to be something.’
Francesca’s dark eyes were moist. ‘I know I am not able to stop you, Cristina, but I am frightened. Especially today, because of the thunderstorm. At this time of year, a thunderstorm is a very bad sign.’
Christine’s head ached. She said, ‘I’m going to bed.’
TWENTY-TWO
The Feast of the Purification of Mary has three names; the third is Candlemas, because on this day the faithful carry lighted candles.
Jacobus de Voragine,
The Golden Legend, thirteenth century
After Christine’s visit, Alix de Clairy sank to the floor of her cell and wept. Then, ashamed of herself for giving in to her misery, she sat up, leaned against the damp, moldy wall, and watched dust motes float on a sliver of light that worked its way in through a tiny window. Christine had said it was Candlemas. That meant the churches would be filled with the glow of candles and the fragrance of beeswax. Her father had always taken her to the cathedral in Amiens for the Candlemas procession, and for a moment she imagined her cell resplendent with candlelight. She felt her father lifting her onto his shoulders to carry her above the crowd, and herself smiling down at Gillette, who walked beside them, her white hair glistening.
Where is Gillette now? she wondered. Does she know I’m here? She was certain her old nursemaid would come to the prison to comfort her if she were allowed to do so. Gillette had been her companion for as long as she could remember, taking her along everywhere she went – to the market, to church, to visit her friends. Alix tried to remember all those friends of Gillette’s: the fishwife in the market with her baskets of eel, lampreys, and herring, haggling over prices with her customers; the aged crone who sat in the square with her distaff, drawing out a seemingly endless stream of woolen yarn as she promised to make it into a hat for the little girl; the widow who brewed ale for the villagers and sometimes gave her a taste; the shepherdess shearing her sheep, letting the fleece fall into soft, fluffy piles. She had liked all of Gillette’s friends except one, a woman who lived in a cottage near one of her father’s estates. ‘She’s a midwife, but she’s fallen on hard times,’ Gillette had said, and one day she’d decided they should go to visit her. Alix recalled every detail of that sunny winter afternoon. They’d walked across an open field, crunching snow under their feet, leaving a trail of icy footprints, and then they’d followed a winding path through snow-laden trees until they’d come to a yard where a pig, its breath turning to mist in the frigid air, rooted in the mud under the snow, and chickens, shadowed by a flock of chattering blackbirds, scratched at the frozen ground. She remembered how the midwife’s one-room cottage, attached to a cowshed, had smelled of hay and dung and a cow’s fruity breath, and how the woman had stared at her with eyes sunken in a pockmarked face, and how she had tried to touch her hair. Terrified, she’d turned away and demanded that Gillette take her home. Afterward, she’d felt sorry for the woman, whose house contained nothing but a barrel chair, a table made of rough boards, a bed covered with a tattered brown cloth, and sooty pans hanging on nails driven into the wall. Now, as she sat in a prison cell thinking of that long-ago day, the midwife’s cottage with rays of sunlight filtering in through a crack in a broken shutter seemed like a shining palace.
Despair almost overtook her, but she refused to give in to it. She tried to remember everything about her home near Amiens: pale green leaves in springtime, flowered meadows in summer, autumn forests dressed in orange and gold, snowflakes glistening in crisp winter air. She recalled running through mowed fields, wading in sparkling brooks, smelling roses in her father’s garden, listening to hunting horns and barking hounds, tasting sweet red apples in the orchard. She pictured herself opening the door of the large manor house, stepping in, touching the cool stone walls, running her hands over the smooth, dark wood of benches and chairs, looking at her reflection in the polished copper plates on the shelves. In her mind, she entered a room with a large tapestry depicting elegant ladies playing vielles and psalteries in an enclosed garden. That was the room where she’d learned to sing and play the harp, and she imagined herself sitting there again with her teacher as he reminisced about the minstrels of the past and taught her their songs.
Forgetting her grim surroundings, she sang softly to herself, smiling as she remembered the words to a song about a beautiful lady who loved a brave knight. She’d sung it for Hugues, before they were married. Then she remembered a song about a woman who had given herself to a man who did not love her, a woman so sorrowful she hoped to die. She thought of her marriage, and she awakened from her reverie. Hugues was dead, and Christine had said she should try to think of someone who might have wanted to kill him. She wasn’t sure she cared.
She stretched out on the cold floor of her cell and tried to sleep, but thoughts of her old home kept her awake. Her father was dead, and everything belonged to her now. She’d been planning to go there in the spring. If they kill me, I’ll never see it again, she said to herself. Perhaps I should try to help Christine discover who poisoned Hugues.
She thought of the people she knew in Paris: the king, who, even after demons had conquered him, had loved Hugues; the king’s brother, who had been resentful because the king was so fond of Hugues; the queen’s ladies-in-waiting – perhaps one of them was bitter because she’d had an affair with Hugues and he’d abandoned her; the queen, who had no reason to dislike Hugues. Alix was fond of the queen, and she couldn’t understand why she had accused her of stealing the mandrake. She pictured her in the royal bedroom, surrounded by her ladies. She saw someone else there, too – the queen’s brother, Ludwig. She remembered something she knew about Ludwig, something she’d told Hugues. Hugues had been pleased to hear it.
That is something to tell Christine, if I ever see her again, she thought before she finally slept.
TWENTY-THREE
This deplorable calamity had been foretold by an omen … it was a sign that a great catastrophe was about to break forth in the kingdom.
The Monk of Saint-Denis,
Chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denis,
contenant le règne de Charles VI de 1380 à 1422
As she was making her way home from Mass early Sunday morning, walking slowly through the gloom of a windy, damp day, Christine saw a dark figure moving toward her. An image flashed before her eyes of the monk her mother believed roamed around Paris strangling people. After a moment she realized with relief that this was a very different sort of religious – Brother Michel from the abbey of Saint-Denis. A friend of her husband’s, he’d often come to her house. Her mother liked him, because he loved her cooking and always managed to arrive just in time for dinner. He also enjoyed talking with Francesca about omens and portents. Christine was intrigued that a monk would be interested in such things.
Brother Michel, his black habit whipped around his legs by the wind, came scurrying along with his head down and almost bumped into her. He waved his hands in her face and tried to shoo her back the way she’d come.
‘This is no time for you to be out here, Christine. Two more burned men died this morning. The king and his uncles are afraid there will be more unrest in the streets.’ His pale blue eyes blinked and his round cheeks twitched.
‘Has the king lost his reason again?’ she asked. The wind tugged at her cloak and set dry leaves and pebbles capering around her feet.
‘Praise God, no. But he is more distracted than ever. His uncles confuse him with all manner of advice, most of it meaningless.’ His hood blew off, and he pulled it back over his head. ‘And to make matters worse, the king’s brother wanders about the palace weeping and saying everything is his fault. He promises to build a chapel at the church of the Celestines, to make amends. I fear his regrets are more for hi
mself than for those unfortunate men who burned. The queen is very upset, too. The only one at the court who remains calm is the Duchess of Orléans. Very calm. Admirable woman.’
Christine had other thoughts about the duchess, but she said nothing. Obviously, she was a friend of Brother Michel’s. He was close to everyone at the court, because the monks of Saint-Denis had for years been writing the history of France, and the current abbot had given him the task of chronicling the reign of the present king. Christine had been astounded when her husband told her about it. ‘It will be a great work,’ Étienne had said. ‘But Michel won’t affix his name to it. A hundred years from now, no one will remember who wrote it.’
‘Were you at the masquerade?’ Christine asked. She knew he stayed close to the court at all times so he could witness events firsthand. He’d even been with the king the previous summer when he’d suffered the attack that led him to kill four of his own knights. But she couldn’t picture Brother Michel at a masquerade – not the little man who stood before her with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his habit.
‘No, I was not. But the people who were can describe the catastrophe so vividly, I am able to write about it as if I had seen everything.’
She shuddered. How shocked he’d be if he knew I could add my own description, she thought. She couldn’t resist asking, ‘Did you have any premonitions beforehand? Were there any signs or omens?’
‘I hope you are not mocking me, Christine. Even the ancients knew that certain signs come before certain events, and although I myself had no premonitions, there were indications, if one had known how to interpret them. One such occurred at the church of Saint-Julien in Le Mans last summer, shortly before the king went out of his mind. Surely you have heard what happened there.’ His hood fell back, and gusts of wind fretted with the tufts of thinning hair around his tonsure.
Christine shook her head. Francesca must not have heard, either, or she would have talked about it endlessly.
‘I write about it in my history. In that church, there is a little statue of the Blessed Mother, much venerated by the people of Le Mans. One day, not long before the king fell ill, this statue began to turn around and around on its pedestal, all by itself. No one had touched it. No one had even been near it. Yet it revolved like that for at least half an hour.’ He made a slow, circular motion with his finger. ‘That was a truly significant sign, you must admit.’ He looked at her expectantly, his blue eyes blinking.
‘My mother says she saw a dead baby brought back to life at the church of Saint-Martin. Do you believe that, too?’
‘I know all about it.’
Christine sighed and turned the conversation to another subject. ‘Will you include the murder of Hugues de Précy in your history?’
‘No. It is painful enough to have to write about the tragic masquerade. The murder is a minor event compared to that. God have mercy on the young woman who did it, though. She seemed to be an altogether different sort of person.’
‘Are you convinced she poisoned her husband?’
‘She has said nothing to defend herself, even under torture. The provost and his officials have tried her and judged her guilty.’
Christine was stunned. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. She will die the day after tomorrow.’
‘She can’t!’
‘You don’t believe she’s guilty?’
‘I’m sure she’s not. Someone else gave her husband the poison.’
‘Someone else? How do you know?’
She hesitated to say it to the monk, but there was no other way. ‘A prostitute from the brothel on the rue Tiron told me.’
‘Surely you don’t speak to prostitutes!’
‘Christ spoke to them.’
‘But not a respectable woman like you. If anyone is going to converse with prostitutes, let it be a priest.’
‘Some priests are only too eager to do so.’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Michel stared at her for a moment, drew himself up to his full height, which made him only slightly taller than she was, and said, ‘I always wondered how Étienne could put up with your sharp tongue, Christine.’
She felt herself blushing, and she knew she should apologize. But then Michel added, ‘Still, I cannot be angry with you for speaking the truth. Many priests have fallen into sin. Many monks, too. Even some from my own abbey.’ He sighed. ‘Tell me about this prostitute.’
‘Her name is Marion. I’ve known her for a long time. She has many faults, but she’s not a liar. She was outside the palace the night of the murder. She saw the real murderer give Hugues the poison and put the flask under Alix de Clairy’s hand.’
Michel started to say something, but she interrupted. ‘She can describe it all accurately.’
‘Then she must know the identity of the murderer.’
‘That’s the unfortunate part. She couldn’t see who it was.’
‘Has she told anyone else about this?’
‘She knows no one else would believe her. Certainly not the provost.’
‘He wouldn’t believe you either. You’d be foolish to go to him with something a prostitute told you.’
‘There is something else, Michel. I went to the Châtelet and spoke to Alix de Clairy yesterday morning.’
Michel stared at her in disbelief. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘It’s too much to explain right now. I thought I might learn something that would prove her innocence, and I did.’
‘She told you something she didn’t tell the provost?’
‘No. It’s something I saw. Blood.’
‘That’s not surprising. She had a bad fall.’
‘Marion says she fell on her face, and that’s true; she has a big bruise on her cheek. But she has blood on the back of her head, too.’
‘Probably from the torture.’
‘She hadn’t yet been tortured when I saw her.’
Michel’s eyes widened.
‘I think someone hit Alix on the head, to make sure she wouldn’t be able to run away before she was found lying by her husband’s body, with the flask under her hand.’
The monk stared at the ground and kept silent for a long time. Christine waited, scarcely breathing. Then he looked up, and said, ‘I think you may have discovered something very important.’
She breathed in deeply. ‘There’s something else, Michel. An old woman who lives behind Marion’s brothel sells poisons. Marion thinks the murderer may have been one of her customers. I’m going to visit this woman and try to find out who it was. Marion is arranging it for me.’
‘It may be too late. You must speak with someone right away. Not the provost, though. He’s already condemned Alix de Clairy to die, and I’m sure he won’t change his mind. You will only anger him. I think you must speak with the king. He might listen to you, because he will remember the days when you were children together at the palace. In spite of his illness, he is a compassionate man, and when he hears what you have to say, he might ask the provost to spare Alix de Clairy for a few more days. I will do my best to arrange an audience for you.’
He looked at Christine thoughtfully. ‘But you must not be disappointed if the king spurns your request. He may not even fully comprehend what you tell him. Sometimes he is just like a child. He even had the flask that contained the poison brought to him, and he plays with it all the time, like a toy.’
Over the monk’s shoulder, Christine could see the buildings of the Hôtel Saint-Pol, shrouded in fog and gloom. The wind had subsided, and the pennants and banners adorning the towers drooped, as if dispirited by what was happening inside the palace – the pitiful king, his mind shattered; the king’s brother, weeping for his sins; the queen, distressed because she’d lost the mandrake she thought would restore her husband to health.
Michel said, ‘You will be taking a great risk, Christine. You know what they say: nothing is heavier than the wrath of kings.’
‘I’ll be placing you in dange
r, too.’
‘That is of no consequence,’ he said, and Christine realized that this man who looked so meek was just as obstinate as she was. She could hear Étienne chuckling.
Michel interrupted her thoughts. ‘This prostitute seems to have told you many things. Do you see her often? I can’t imagine what your mother thinks.’
She wanted to tell him to stop troubling himself about what her mother would think and instead have sympathy for a woman who had fallen into the only profession open to her. But she resisted.
‘In any case, I will go to the palace now,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll come to your house and let you know whether the king will see you.’ He turned and started back toward the Hôtel Saint-Pol.
She knew he’d arrive just in time for dinner. As she watched him hurry along the street with his black habit flapping around him, she asked herself how it was possible that this unprepossessing little man was writing a great history of their times. She heard Étienne say, as clearly as if he were standing beside her, Don’t be deceived by appearances, Christine.
TWENTY-FOUR
If little girls were sent to school, they would learn and understand the fine points of all the arts and sciences just as well as boys.
Christine de Pizan,
Le Livre de la Cité des Dames, 1404–1405
Christine walked to the rue Tiron, hoping to meet Marion. The wind began to blow again, but the chill she felt wasn’t caused by the weather. It was caused by the fact that she’d pledged to help a woman accused of murder, and the realization that she was placing herself, and now Brother Michel as well, in peril. She came to the path leading to the brothel and gazed at the old cottage half hidden by bare, tangled brambles, writhing in the wind. Marion was nowhere in sight. If she wanted to speak to her, she would have to go to the door and ask for her, and that was impossible. She would try to find a murderer, but she would not go into a brothel, not even to defy her mother. Or Brother Michel.
