In the Presence of Evil

by Tania Bayard

  When she opened her eyes again, it was midday, and the bells at Sainte-Catherine’s were chiming sext. She dressed quickly and went downstairs. She could hear the family in the kitchen, eating the midday meal. She wanted to go in and scold her mother for not waking her earlier, but the smell of onions and cabbage turned her stomach. She put on her cloak and boots and snuck out of the house.

  The wind nearly blew her off her feet as she turned down the rue Tiron. She looked up and down the street for Marion, but the girl wasn’t there. She crept along the overgrown path toward the brothel, still hoping to see her. But no one was outside.

  She hurried past the brothel and came to a tiny hut. Its walls were formed of wooden slats barely held together by rusty nails and with such large gaps between them that they couldn’t possibly keep out the wind. A crude wattle fence marked off a plot where brown stalks poked through the bare earth, obviously the garden where, in summer, Margot cultivated the plants she used in her potions. Christine thought of all the poisonous herbs the woman could grow – henbane, hemlock, nightshade. And wolfsbane.

  She knocked on the door of the hut. When there wasn’t any answer, she looked through the slats and saw a faint glow coming from a small fireplace. She knocked again, louder this time. Still no one came. She tried the door and found it unlocked, so she pushed it open and stepped inside.

  The one-room hut was empty except for a few dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, a barrel seat, a table lying on its side, and broken jars spilling dusty herbs and foul-looking liquids onto the floor. The fire had died down to a few embers, and the place was icy cold. In one corner, a smoke-blackened curtain hung from the ceiling. ‘Margot,’ she called out, thinking the old woman might be behind the curtain. A nasty gust of wind darted through the open door and snatched at the cloth, pushing it aside for an instant so she could see what looked like a heap of pillows on a straw mattress. She picked up her skirt, squeezed between the barrel seat and the overturned table, and pulled back the curtain. The heap of pillows was an old woman, sitting with her back against the wall, like a discarded doll. Small and gray-haired, she wore a ragged brown chemise and had a crutch lying across her knees. Christine couldn’t see her face, and she had no desire to do so. Margot’s head was bent down at an impossible angle. She’d been strangled.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  What does it matter if you are lying on a little pile of dung or living in a wretched and miserable hovel where you have nothing to make you comfortable? This will last only a short time, because a blessed home, more beautiful and delightful than anything else, awaits you in Paradise, and there you will have everything you need.

  Christine de Pizan,

  Le Livre des Trois Vertus, 1405

  She let the makeshift curtain fall and stood in shock, hardly able to breathe, her heart pounding. When her breathing returned to normal, she pushed the cloth aside again and knelt by Margot’s body, aware that she was alone in a hut with a dead woman – a woman who lived with prostitutes and might have sold poison to a murderer. She heard a sound and rose to her feet, her heart beating wildly again. The door to the hut had swung shut in the wind. Now it slowly opened, squeaking on its rusty hinges. She reached down, seized the old woman’s crutch, and turned around, swinging it over her head.

  ‘The plague take you!’ Marion cried. ‘Don’t hit me!’ Imposing in a large crimson cloak, her thick red hair hanging loose over her shoulders, she stood stock still in the doorway, her eyes wide with astonishment.

  Christine set the crutch on the floor. ‘Forgive me. It wasn’t for you. Come over here and you’ll understand.’

  Marion closed the door with her foot and stepped in warily, keeping her eyes on Christine as she crossed the room. Then she saw Margot. ‘God’s balls,’ she whispered, and she bent down to touch the old woman’s cheek.

  ‘Do you know who could have done this?’ Christine asked.

  ‘No one here. We all liked her. She told us when the stars were lucky, and which plants to use for pain, and what days were right for … well, you know.’ Marion’s eyes glistened with tears, and she bowed her head to hide them. ‘At least now she’s in a better place than this miserable hut.’ She stroked Margot’s cheek gently. Then she stood up, put her hands on Christine’s shoulders, and asked, ‘Who knew you were coming here?’

  ‘Just you, and a friend of mine – a monk from the abbey of Saint-Denis.’ Then she remembered her conversation with the king. The duke, Ludwig, and Guy de Marolles had all heard her say she was going to visit the old woman at the brothel. Ludwig had told the queen, which meant the queen’s ladies would have heard, and by now any number of other people would be aware of what she’d intended to do. She shivered, and it wasn’t because of the icy gusts that burst into the hovel through the holes in its flimsy walls. ‘Actually, a lot of people know,’ she said.

  Marion turned away and stalked to the other side of the room, her crimson cloak swirling around her. She came back and grasped Christine’s shoulders again. ‘Someone killed Margot so she couldn’t talk to you. Someone who wants to make certain you never find out who poisoned Hugues de Précy.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ Christine said.

  ‘For now, we must be the only ones besides the murderer who know Margot is dead. We have to leave before someone finds us here.’

  Marion went to the door, opened it, looked around, and stepped out. In a daze, Christine followed. The wind blew the door shut behind them.

  ‘Over here,’ Marion yelled, pulling her onto a narrow path winding through tall brushes behind the hut. ‘This will take us to the street.’ They pushed their way through thorny branches, and when they came to an opening, Marion darted out. Then she flew back. ‘Merde! Someone’s coming!’

  Christine recognized the bowed head and the black habit. ‘It’s Brother Michel, the monk I told you about.’

  ‘Pretend you don’t see him!’

  ‘He’s a friend,’ Christine shouted over the wail of the wind. She stepped into the street before Marion could stop her.

  Michel raised his head. ‘What are you doing here, Christine?’ He took her arm to draw her away.

  Christine shook his hand off. ‘This is Marion.’

  He blushed. ‘Marion … yes … Marion.’

  ‘I went to ask the old woman about the poison. But she’s dead.’

  ‘What did you say? I can’t hear you because of the wind.’

  ‘The old woman in the hut behind the brothel. Someone strangled her.’

  Michel looked at Marion. ‘What have you to do with this?’

  Marion drew herself up to her full height, towered over him, and roared, ‘Trou de la Sybille! I didn’t kill her!’

  He backed away. ‘God, give me strength. I didn’t say you did.’

  ‘No one else knows Margot is dead,’ Marion raved. ‘I have to take Christine home. Out of the way, porc de Dieu.’

  ‘But if the woman has been killed, we must tell the authorities, and we must do it without delay.’

  ‘No, you dullard! Someone killed Margot so she wouldn’t talk to Christine. That person may try to kill Christine.’

  Marion tugged on Christine’s right arm. Michel stood dumbfounded for a moment, then he pulled on her left arm, saying, ‘Yes, yes. We must take her home.’ The two of them started to drag her down the street, Marion’s crimson cloak and Michel’s black habit flapping in the wind. The wind propelled them along, while frenzied birds wheeled over their heads and a stray dog ran after them, yapping and nipping at their heels. Christine pulled back. ‘Stop! Anyone who sees us will know something is wrong. We must be calm and think.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Michel said. ‘But it is not wise to stand here while we think. Not wise at all.’

  ‘Marion,’ Christine said, ‘you must not go back to the brothel. Someone there may know what’s happened, and you’ll be in trouble. Go to your lodging house. Tell no one what you’ve seen. Michel, you come home with me.’

  ‘He won’t be a
ble to protect you,’ Marion said. ‘He’s not worth the handle of a bucket.’

  ‘Don’t be deceived by appearances,’ Christine said.

  Marion scowled at the monk, made him a little curtsy, and flounced down the street toward the center of the city.

  ‘How do we know we can trust her not to tell all her friends what has happened?’ Michel asked.

  ‘You don’t know her. I do. Where are you coming from?’

  ‘I’ve been at the court. The last of the men burned at the masquerade just died. Everyone is distressed. And the Duke of Orléans told me about your audience with the king. But somehow you succeeded; the king has asked the provost to let Alix de Clairy live for a few more days.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  My happy mother gave me my name, nourished me, and cherished me so much that she breastfed me herself as soon as I was born.

  Christine de Pizan,

  Le Livre de la Mutacion de Fortune, 1403

  They walked in silence for a while, battling the wind. Then the monk said, ‘It is deplorable that you have discovered another murder, Christine. Deplorable.’

  ‘Matters are even worse than you know. The queen is very angry with me.’

  ‘What reason has she to be displeased with you?’

  ‘It concerns the mandrake she lost. There’s no time to tell you about it now.’

  The wind gave them a last angry shove, and they arrived at the door of Christine’s house. They went inside, and Christine took off her cloak and started to go into the kitchen to look for her mother, but Michel stopped her. ‘Have you considered the implications of what has happened, Christine?’

  ‘Of course I have. But the sergeants from the Châtelet will find out who murdered the old woman, and I’ll be safe.’ She tried to sound unconcerned.

  ‘They haven’t found out who stabbed the man behind the chest. How much effort do you think they will expend trying to learn who murdered an old harlot? You are in peril, Christine, great peril, and it is time you ceased hiding it from your mother.’

  ‘Why should I worry her?’

  ‘There is no way to keep it secret. Think of her distress should she hear about it from someone other than you.’

  Christine was reluctant to admit it, but she knew he was right. ‘I suppose you think I should tell her about Marion, too.’

  ‘You must.’ He stood lost in thought. ‘Perhaps one day we can turn Marion away from sin.’

  ‘That is my hope. But it will be difficult. Believe me, I’ve tried.’

  The monk shook his head. ‘All things change, and we change with them,’ he said, adding sadly, ‘Although I suppose that is not always true.’

  Christine looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway. ‘Where have you been, Cristina? You left without telling me. And why are you here, Michel?’

  ‘We must go in and sit down, Francesca. Christine has something to say to you.’

  ‘I am sure it concerns Alix de Clairy.’ Francesca looked frightened.

  ‘Be calm, Mama,’ Christine said, putting her arm around her mother’s shoulders and drawing her into the kitchen. Georgette had been making candied orange peel. The table was covered with honey.

  ‘The foolish girl has gone to the market. She was supposed to clean this up first,’ Francesca said.

  Christine sat down at the table, took a piece of orange peel, and nibbled on it. She didn’t know where to begin, and Michel wasn’t helping; he stood by the fireplace, warming his hands, his back toward her.

  Francesca sat beside Christine and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well?’

  ‘I know Alix de Clairy didn’t poison her husband.’

  ‘So you have told me. But what can you do?’

  ‘I can try to save her. Michel is willing to help me.’

  ‘Is that true, Michel?’ Francesca asked.

  The monk turned and faced her. ‘Yes, it is.’

  Francesca scowled at him. ‘You are as foolhardy as my daughter.’

  ‘If God is with us, there is nothing to fear,’ he said.

  ‘There is someone else who wants to help,’ Christine said. ‘She’s a good girl at heart, Mama. You must believe that when I tell you who she is.’

  ‘Is it someone I know?’

  ‘Do you remember Beatrix, the maid you dismissed?’

  ‘Her daughter was raped and became a prostituta.’ Francesca thought for a minute, and then she shook her finger at Christine. ‘How many times have I told you not to go out after dark?’

  Christine almost laughed. ‘That’s not the point, Mama. The daughter’s name is Marion. You must remember.’

  ‘Yes. I am sure it was not necessary for her to become a prostituta.’

  ‘Have some compassion. It was the only thing she could do.’

  Francesca made a clucking sound with her tongue, and Christine looked at Michel in despair. He wiggled his fingers at her, indicating that she should continue.

  ‘You don’t walk on the rue Tiron, Mama,’ Christine said, ‘because of the brothel. But I do. I often meet Marion there, and I talk to her. She’s not a bad person.’

  Francesca rose and paced around the kitchen, running her hands over bowls and platters, setting trivets upside down on the hearth and then turning them right side up again, lifting a towel from the pole where she’d hung it to dry and running it through her hands, jabbing a knife into an onion lying on the table. ‘First you go out to work, and I do not think that is respectable for a woman, and now you are talking to prostitutes. What would your father say? What would Étienne say?’

  Michel went to the table and stood beside Christine. ‘I think they would be proud of her, very proud. She has discovered the truth about Hugues de Précy’s murder, and she has the courage to do something about it.’

  Francesca stopped pacing. ‘What does Marion have to do with this?’

  ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you,’ Christine said.

  Francesca sighed and lowered herself onto the bench again.

  ‘It was Marion who told me Alix de Clairy didn’t murder her husband. She was outside the palace that night, and she saw someone else give Hugues de Précy the poison.’

  Francesca stood up and went to the fireplace. ‘How can you believe a prostituta?’

  ‘She wouldn’t make up a story like that.’

  ‘Then why does she not go and tell the provost?’

  ‘You know Jean de Folleville wouldn’t listen to her.’

  The front door banged, and Georgette came rushing in, spilling the turnips and carrots she was carrying in a basket. ‘There’s been another murder!’ she cried.

  ‘Who has been murdered now?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘An old woman at the brothel on the rue Tiron. I heard the sergeants from the Châtelet talking about it in the street.’

  ‘You see, Cristina. You must not walk on the rue Tiron.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too late.’

  Georgette threw the basket onto the table and went to the hall to take off her cloak. Michel said, ‘Send the girl out on another errand, Francesca. One that will take some time. I do not want her to hear what Christine is about to tell you.’

  ‘Dio buono.’ Francesca put her hand on her breast. When Georgette returned to the kitchen, she said, ‘Go out and buy some cheese. And draw water at the well.’

  ‘But there’s cheese in the pantry. And I just took off my cloak.’

  ‘Never mind. Do as I say.’

  Georgette walked sullenly back to the hall. The front door slammed.

  ‘Sit down again, Mama,’ Christine said, and she sat beside her and told her everything. Francesca stared at her in horror and disbelief, uttering not a word, while Michel – who had not yet heard how the queen had thrown Christine out of her chambers because she had not been able to recover the mandrake, or how the duke had written another letter to the provost thinking she would be able to find out from Alix where the missing book was – walked around the room, shaking his head.

 
‘The situation is more grave than I thought,’ he said. But when he realized he was adding to Francesca’s alarm, he went to her and took her hands in his. ‘Be strong, Francesca. God will keep Christine safe. But we must help.’

  ‘It is not proper for a woman to be looking for murderers. I cannot believe you are encouraging her in this, Michel.’

  ‘Who else will help Alix de Clairy, if I don’t?’ Christine asked. ‘She will burn at the stake for something she didn’t do. Is that what you want, Mama?’

  ‘Why can you not be like other women?’

  They heard the front door open. ‘Here’s a proper woman for you,’ Christine said as Georgette came charging into the kitchen, waving a large slice of Brie above her head and spilling water from the bucket she carried.

  ‘Put the cheese in the pantry before you drop it. And mop up the water immediately,’ Francesca snapped at the girl. Then she went into the hall and called the children down to supper. ‘You may as well stay, Michel.’ It was not her usual gracious invitation. The monk looked pained.

  While the children slurped their soup, Francesca, Michel, and Christine stared into their bowls. Marie and Jean tried to break the silence by starting a conversation about books, and Thomas, who’d just heard all the details of Margot’s death from Georgette, thought he could make them laugh by pretending to be strangled.

  ‘Basta, Tommaso. One fool in the house is enough,’ Francesca said, looking at Christine. Then she said to Jean, ‘You wondered what monks do when they are not in their monasteries. Why do you not ask Michel? He seems to be very busy outside his.’

  ‘What would you like to know, Jean?’ Michel asked calmly.

  ‘I thought monks were supposed to stay in their monasteries all the time and pray,’ Jean said.

  ‘A logical inference. But the abbot of Saint-Denis wants me to write down everything that happens during the reign of our present king, and that means I have to be out in the world to see what is going on.’

  ‘Does the abbot expect you to meddle in everything, too?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘That’s enough, Mama!’ Christine said.