In the Presence of Evil

by Tania Bayard

So she turned around and went back to her own safe, respectable home, where, although they had to count every denier, there was always a cheerful fire and something delicious for dinner. She took off her cloak and stood for a moment in the front hall, comforted by familiar sounds and savory smells – the children taunting each other on the stairs, her mother and Georgette arguing in the kitchen, dishes rattling, the fragrance of her mother’s cooking. She couldn’t blame Michel for always arriving at dinnertime.

  She went into the kitchen, where she found Georgette grinding something with a mortar and pestle and her mother preparing a compote of dried pears and wine. ‘Where have you been?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘I met Brother Michel. He told me two more of the burned men died this morning. The king and his uncles are very distressed. They fear more unrest in the streets.’

  ‘Cretini! Those uncles should be run through with daggers, like the man you found at the palace.’ Francesca drove her knife into one of the pears.

  ‘Michel also told me Alix de Clairy has been sentenced to die the day after tomorrow.’

  Francesca set the knife down. ‘You must not upset yourself too much over this, Cristina.’

  ‘I’m going to speak with the king, Mama. Michel went to the palace to arrange an audience for me.’

  ‘How did you convince him to do that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He’ll come here later and tell me when the audience is to be.’

  Francesca shook her head. Then she brightened and said, ‘Michel will stay for dinner. We are having civet of hare. Georgette, you must break up some bread. Christina, you will bring the spices.’ She handed her the key to the small cabinet where she kept those expensive items.

  Christine unlocked the cabinet and stared at the shelves, knowing she should be able to remember which spices were required for the hare recipe. But she couldn’t.

  Her mother sighed. ‘Cloves, pepper, and mace. And also ginger, saffron, and cinnamon for the pears. How is it possible that my daughter, who enjoys eating so much, has no interest in cooking?’

  Christine found the spices and set them on the table. She could have informed Francesca that she had no time for cooking now that she was working to support the family, but she didn’t, because she knew that was a paltry excuse. In truth, she hated cooking.

  Georgette tossed some pieces of bread into a bowl and then stood with a blank look on her face until Francesca told her to bring the hare. The girl shuffled into the pantry, came back with a skinned carcass, and threw it onto the table. Francesca started to cut it into pieces, and Christine looked away until her mother had added them to the onions in the skillet. By that time, she was tired just from watching, but her mother wasn’t finished. She said, ‘For Michel, we will have pasta with a sauce of marjoram and cheese. No one in France knows how to make pasta.’

  ‘That’s because they don’t know how to eat it.’

  ‘They should learn to use these,’ Francesca said, going to the cupboard and bringing out some bone-handled forks she’d brought from Italy. She wiped each one lovingly with a linen cloth.

  Christine snuck up to her room to rest.

  Before long, there was a knock at the front door. She went down to let Brother Michel in, eager to find out what the king had said.

  ‘I reminded him who you are, and he agreed to receive you early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Did you mention Marion?’

  ‘That is up to you.’

  ‘Please say nothing about her to my mother.’

  Francesca came in. ‘Michel! You are just in time for dinner.’

  He smiled. ‘An empty stomach rarely refuses food. At least, that is what they tell us at the abbey.’ He followed her into the kitchen, where she’d laid the table as if for a banquet, covering it with a crisp linen cloth and setting out her silver wine cups. Prominently displayed in the center stood the shell-shaped saltcellar Georgette had dropped, the dented side turned away from the monk’s place. Francesca glanced at Christine to make sure she’d noticed.

  Michel rubbed his hands together in anticipation and greeted the children, who raced in, laughing and pushing Goblin back into the hallway; they knew what their grandmother would say about a dog at the dinner table when they had a guest. Georgette brought a basin and towels so they could wash their hands, Michel said the blessing, and they sat down. When Georgette served the pasta, the monk smiled and looked pleased with himself. He’d learned how to use a fork.

  It didn’t take long for Francesca to begin her interrogation. ‘Tell us about the men who died at the palace this morning, Michel.’

  ‘That is not a subject for young ears,’ he said, looking at the children.

  ‘Tell us about the king then,’ she said.

  ‘He is distraught, too upset to pay any attention to the queen, though she is as upset as he is. She has to look to her ladies-in-waiting for comfort. And to her brother, Ludwig.’

  Francesca sniffed. ‘That brother – not worth a peeled onion. He does not belong here in Paris. The queen is always giving him expensive gifts so he will stay.’

  ‘Have you heard anything about a mandrake, Michel?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Unhealthy things, mandrakes. Last week, Alix de Clairy brought one to the queen, and now it has disappeared. The queen is unhappy about it. Very unhappy. She thought it could be used to cure the king.’

  Thomas had been squirming in his seat, and he could no longer contain himself. ‘The fire. Tell us about the fire. And how Hugues de Précy got poisoned.’

  Michel looked at Christine, and she shook her head. ‘There’s nothing you don’t already know,’ the monk said to Thomas.

  ‘I’ll be a knight someday, and I won’t let anyone set me on fire,’ Thomas said. ‘Or poison me.’

  Jean said, ‘Georgette says if you dip a unicorn’s horn into your drink, it takes out poison.’

  ‘Surely you don’t believe that,’ Christine said to the girl, who had served the hare and was standing behind her, listening to every word.

  ‘Colin told me. He says the king and his brother carry unicorn horns so they can’t be poisoned. Most of the king’s knights have them, too. Hugues de Précy must have forgotten to get one.’

  ‘Many such things are believed at the court,’ Michel said. ‘Some people have diamonds that are reputed to turn black when they are near poison. The king has a sapphire that is supposed to cure diseases of the eye – he inherited it from his father. It is set in a band of gold, and it is very valuable. Unfortunately, it has recently disappeared, and he is upset about it. But he still has another stone, a magic one that cures gout.’ Christine frowned at him. ‘Or, so they say,’ he added.

  ‘A tortoise foot is better for gout,’ Georgette said.

  ‘No. Henbane,’ Francesca said. ‘But you must be careful. It is also a very strong poison.’

  Thomas squirmed in his seat. ‘I want to know about wolfsbane. The poison the witch used to poison her husband.’

  ‘She isn’t a witch,’ Christine said.

  ‘She is a witch,’ Georgette muttered under her breath.

  ‘Bring the pears, Georgette,’ Christine said.

  The girl went to the pantry and came back balancing the bowl of pear compote and all the necessary dishes and spoons against her chest. She set everything in the center of the table and stood behind Christine as before.

  ‘What do they say at the court about the murder, Michel?’ Francesca asked. ‘Do they all believe the knight’s wife is guilty?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m not so sure she is. There was a witness.’ He looked at Christine, who shook her head. To change the subject, he said, ‘And one must not forget the other terrible crime, the murder of the man who was bringing a book to the Duke of Orléans.’

  ‘Why is that book of such consequence?’ Christine asked.

  ‘It is not a book the duke should have,’ Michel said. Something in his voice deterred Christine from asking any more questions.

  Georgette was leaning ove
r the table. ‘The compote,’ Francesca said. The girl straightened up, spooned the pears into the bowls, passed them around, and resumed her listening posture.

  ‘Why would anyone poison a man for a book?’ Thomas asked. ‘There are books in my school, and I’d be glad to give them all to the murderer. I’d give away all the teachers, too.’

  ‘Only the ignorant despise education,’ Michel said.

  ‘I wouldn’t give away any books,’ Marie announced.

  ‘That’s because you realize how lucky you are to be able to learn to read,’ Christine said, looking fondly at her daughter, who was determined to learn as much as she could, no matter how often her grandmother and her brothers told her girls didn’t need to be taught about anything other than housekeeping. Over Francesca’s objections, Christine had found a school that accepted girls as well as boys, and she sent all her children there. Marie loved it.

  ‘Books,’ Francesca groaned. ‘They cause trouble. Do you remember, Cristina, when that young theologian from the university came here and accused your father of using books to work magic?’

  ‘If you’re referring to the time Papa made those tin figures of the Englishmen and buried them in the gardens at the Hôtel Saint-Pol because he thought that would cause the English to leave France, he didn’t get the idea from a book. He heard about it from a friend. He told me.’

  ‘You are right. It was a friend.’ Francesca thought for a moment. ‘I do not remember his name. But no matter. If your father had not been reading books all the time, that young man from the university would not have been able to accuse him of finding recipes for magic in them. I do not care for books.’

  Brother Michel looked up from his pear compote. ‘It is said, “No book is so evil that some good cannot be found in it.”’ Then he sighed. ‘Unfortunately, I’m afraid that saying doesn’t apply to the book stolen from the dead man you found behind the chest at the palace, Christine.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ladies, see how men accuse you of the most terrible sins. Expose their deceit by the splendor of your virtue; by doing good, disprove the lies of all those who slander you.

  Christine de Pizan,

  Le Livre de la Cité des Dames, 1404–1405

  Early the next morning Christine went to the Hôtel Saint-Pol. Although she had tried to conceal her misgivings from her mother, she was troubled. She was well aware of what would happen to Alix de Clairy were she unable to convince the king that she was innocent. And what would be her own fate then? And that of Brother Michel? The king was a compassionate man, but when he was not in his right mind, he was capable of terrible things.

  Freezing rain had glazed the streets during the night, and although the sun was shining, the cobblestones in the courtyard of the king’s residence were still wet and slippery. As she crept across them, a man ran past her, bumping into her and sending her to her knees. He rushed off without an apology, and as she picked herself up she couldn’t help thinking of the mysterious man with the bare feet who’d knocked her down on his way to the palace to be murdered.

  She stumbled to the entrance of the king’s residence, where she was surprised to find Simon standing guard, with Renaut at his side.

  ‘Why aren’t you at the queen’s residence?’ she asked.

  ‘I was instructed to come here for the day, and Blanche asked me to bring Renaut along. She’s over there attending to the gowns damaged the night of the ball.’

  ‘Who was the man who made me fall? I couldn’t see his face.’

  ‘You know him – the duke’s favorite knight, Guy de Marolles. He’s been in a disagreeable humor for days. I think it’s because his wife is ill.’

  ‘That seems to be his customary demeanor,’ Christine said. Guy de Marolles was a rude, unpleasant man who followed after the Duke of Orléans, complying with his every wish and disdaining everyone else. In addition to his loathsome manner, he was exceedingly ugly, with a short, thick neck and bulging eyes. Christine had often wondered how he could fancy himself so superior.

  Renaut pulled on Simon’s sleeve. The portier reached into his burlap sack and brought out a tart that smelled of herbs and strong cheese. The boy ate it in a couple of bites, then looked at Christine. ‘Do you have more almond cakes?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Would you like one of my tarts?’ Simon asked her, reaching into his sack again. The burlap looked a bit unclean, but she accepted the tart gladly. She’d been too apprehensive about her coming ordeal to eat anything at home that morning.

  ‘I have an audience with the king,’ she said, her mouth full.

  ‘I know. But I was instructed to tell you he cannot see you for a while. He is very distressed today. You must wait while his brother calms him.’

  ‘Brush the crumbs from your face before you go to the king,’ Renaut said, and he skipped out into the courtyard.

  Christine laughed. She watched the boy take his little red top out of his sleeve and set it spinning on the cobblestones. ‘He’s always by himself,’ she said.

  ‘He has friends,’ Simon said. ‘Everyone who comes to the palace stops to talk to him. But Blanche worries about him. She worries about Loyse, too. I think that is the reason she chews on cloves all the time – to soothe her stomach.’

  ‘How old is Loyse?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  Christine was too uneasy to stand talking with Simon. And she was curious about the seamstress’s daughter. ‘I’m going to look at the lions,’ she said.

  ‘You won’t see Loyse,’ Simon called after her as she walked away.

  Christine wandered through cloisters and courtyards she hadn’t seen since she was a child. First, she came to the royal kitchen – a large building close to the palace with a high, vaulted ceiling and four fireplaces. The door was open, and she could see the king’s chef and a multitude of lesser cooks and perspiring kitchen boys rushing about as they prepared the noon meal for the hundreds of people who lived or worked at the palace. For once, the smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread didn’t tempt her.

  She walked through a courtyard with a fishpond and ran her hand over a layer of ice coating the water, imagining she could see the salmon swimming lazily beneath it. She came to aviaries, pigeon houses, and dovecotes, and she made cooing sounds, hoping the birds would answer her. She paused beside kennels and listened to the muffled barks of the dogs, and she looked into a stable where the horses pawed the floor as grooms brushed their long winter coats. The warm, moist odor of manure and hay drifted out into the cold air. One of the grooms tossed a saddle over the back of a large brown stallion and led him into a courtyard. The sharp sound of hooves striking the paving stones startled her, and she moved away.

  She continued on through bare gardens bordered by fig trees wrapped in straw for the winter and entered the orchards, where leafless branches traced lacy patterns against the sky. Beyond, she could see the new wall King Charles the Fifth had built, and the fortress they called the Bastille Saint-Antoine, which he had constructed to provide protection for the royal residence. To the right of the Bastille stretched a field dotted with sheds and barns for storing catapults, battering rams, and canons. She was glad to see no movement there, because that signified the weapons were not being readied for war.

  Then she came to the lions. She thought there had once been ten, but she wasn’t sure, because although her father had sometimes taken her to see them, she’d been afraid to go too near. Some had died; she didn’t know how many remained. She heard them shuffling around in their stockade, an area enclosed by trees and a thick fence, but when she peered through an opening in the palings, everything became quiet. She could see several of the animals standing motionless near the entrance to the den and someone in a ragged chemise hovering nearby. The woman’s long auburn hair obscured her face, but Christine sensed she was watching her. ‘Loyse,’ she called softly. The woman vanished into the den, and the lions padded after her.

  She heard something move in the trees, and
she hurried away.

  ‘Did you see her?’ Simon asked with a grin when she arrived, breathless, back at the entrance to the king’s residence.

  ‘Just a glimpse. But I didn’t stay. Someone was following me.’

  ‘I know. I told one of the sergeants to watch over you. Did you think I would let you roam about by yourself, after all that has happened?’

  She wanted to be annoyed, but she was too relieved.

  ‘Have another tart,’ Simon said. ‘Then you can go to the king. Colin is here, and he’ll go with you.’

  She refused the tart, still tasting the one she’d eaten earlier, and went into a long gallery, where she found Colin waiting for her. She tried to be calm as they walked toward the chamber where she was to have her audience, but her heart was beating wildly and her palms were sweating. At the door of the audience chamber, she stopped and wiped her mouth with her sleeve, but, for once, she forgot about the pockmark on her cheek. The huissier guarding the door stepped aside and let her pass into the room.

  Just inside, Guy de Marolles slouched against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, his short arms folded across his thick chest. He eyed her insolently. She took a deep breath, held her head high, and swept by him. Then she saw the king, slumped in a high-backed chair at the far end of the cavernous room, and she didn’t feel bold anymore. She crossed what seemed like an endless space to reach him. The cold floor tiles chilled her feet, and she could feel no warmth from the flames in a huge fireplace near where the king sat.

  The king was not alone. Next to his chair stood the Duke of Orléans, and beside Louis was the queen’s brother. She wasn’t surprised to see the duke, but she was astonished to see Ludwig.

  The duke, wearing an emerald green houppelande with wide, ermine-lined sleeves, looked, as usual, elegant and proud; nothing in his expression indicated that he might be feeling remorseful about the tragic fire. The king, dressed in the same red houppelande she’d seen him in the week before, grasped with one hand a carved lion’s head on an arm of his chair, squeezing it so tightly his knuckles turned white. In the other hand, he held a shiny red object, and he gazed at it intently, seemingly unaware of her presence.