by Tania Bayard
‘And if the duke gets his hands on the book, what do you think he will do with it?’
Michel shook his head. ‘No one can tell.’
‘Do you really think I could come under its spell? Is that why you don’t want me to know what’s in it?’
Michel blushed. ‘Forgive me. I don’t think that at all. It’s just that this book can cause so much trouble, and I don’t want you to be involved in it. You’re certain Gilles doesn’t know you found it?’
‘Almost certain. But I can’t believe Gilles is the murderer.’
‘If you want to save Alix de Clairy, you have to entertain every possibility.’
‘It could have been Henri Le Picart. He uses the library. And you told us he knows about magic and alchemy and how to make gold. Someone like that would certainly want to have such a book.’
Michel shook his head. ‘You are making no sense. Even if Henri had stolen the book, why would he hide it in the library?’
Christine rose and walked around the bench. The sky had grown threatening, and the wind pulled angrily at her cloak. Michel stood, too. ‘You must inform the Duke of Orléans about the book without delay, Christine. I don’t know what he intends to do with it, but he has to be told. No good will come of this, however. I wish that damnable book would disappear forever.’
‘And now that the book is found, there is no way to save Alix de Clairy,’ she moaned.
Michel put his hand on her arm. ‘A wise man once said, “While a man has life, there’s hope.” The same goes for a woman.’
Large drops of rain began to fall. Christine was tired and hungry, and now she feared she would be drenched. ‘I must go home,’ she said.
‘You can’t go home just yet. With all this discussion of the book, I forgot to tell you, the Duchess of Orléans is very ill, and she is asking for you.’
‘But I spoke with her the other day and she was no more frail than usual. I told her what I’ve learned about Hugues de Précy’s murder, and she said she would help save Alix de Clairy.’
‘She was all right early this morning, too. I saw her in the courtyard talking to that boy, Renaut. But later she fell down some stairs. No one knows how it happened. She is ailing badly. She has something to say to you, and you must go to her immediately. After that, you can tell the duke about the book.’ He picked up her pouch. ‘I’ll carry this.’
‘It’s for you, anyway, Michel. It’s the mandrake.’
He slung the pouch over his shoulder and whispered, ‘Damnable thing.’ The pouch bounced up and down against his black robe as they hurried up the street.
THIRTY-FIVE
Many perils come from talking too much.
From a book of moral and practical advice
for a young wife, Paris, 1393
After Marion left Christine at the library, she didn’t go to the secondhand clothes market. Instead, she went to the church of Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie and looked into all the booths where the scribes worked. The scribe she was looking for wasn’t there. She walked around the streets near the church until she came to a house with sinister-looking carvings of dragons and serpents on its door. Henri Le Picart stepped out and walked across the street, dressed in his customary black cape with the long black hood and the ermine collar. He looks as evil as his house, she thought.
Henri went over to the church and into one of the booths. She crept up and looked around the corner of the little compartment. He was busy writing and didn’t seem to see her. She wondered whether any of the other scribes could tell her something about him, but she didn’t want to ask them; she felt more comfortable with the thieves, beggars, and loose women who frequented that part of Paris, so she walked to a narrow cul-de-sac where she knew she would find her friends and asked if anyone knew Henri Le Picart.
A prostitute named Hélène laughed. ‘He got me out of prison.’
‘How did he do that?’
‘I got caught stealing a gold belt from one of the shops on the Grand Pont. He paid some men to come to my trial and swear I’d been somewhere else at the time. The provost had to let me go.’
‘So Henri is a friend of yours?’
‘I hardly know him. He only helped me because he wanted to annoy the provost.’
Some of the other vagrants were eager to volunteer information. ‘Henri owns a lot of houses,’ said a thief who was taking coins out of his sleeve and counting them. He made a face when Marion said she lived in one of those houses. ‘I wouldn’t rest easy in a house belonging to that man.’ He spat into the gutter.
‘He scares me, too,’ said a beggar with his arm in a sling and a patch over one eye.
‘What about all those weird carvings on his door?’ another of the thieves said. ‘They’d frighten anyone. But I tell you this. Henri Le Picart is rich. He knows how to make gold.’
A beggar in filthy, gore-stained rags had come into the cul-de-sac. He smeared blood from a dead cat onto his tattered clothes, then reached into the gutter for some foul-smelling muck and added it to his costume. When he’d completed his disguise, he said, ‘I was in that house the other day. Henri had a job for me. He paid me to pump a bellows under a fire in a little brick oven. He had glass vials with colored liquids. Lots of books, too, with strange symbols on their covers. And roots and dead plants hanging from the ceiling. It was scary.’
Marion shuddered. She remembered the book stolen from the murdered man behind the chest at the palace, and the mandrake root hanging in Christine’s fireplace. She hurried out of the cul-de-sac, eager to find Christine and tell her she’d learned more from her friends than anyone would ever learn from some dusty old librarian.
She turned the corner, and ran right into Henri Le Picart.
‘You and your friends talk too much,’ he said. ‘I suggest you learn to hold your tongue.’ He walked away.
I’m not going to let him frighten me, Marion said to herself, wondering how much he’d heard. It had started to rain, but she scarcely noticed. Keeping well behind and ducking into doorways to avoid being seen, she followed him.
THIRTY-SIX
The princes of the realm had sincere affection for the Duchess of Orléans. They regarded her as the most honorable and magnificent lady of the kingdom, and during her lifetime they always respected her like a mother.
The Monk of Saint-Denis,
Chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denis,
contenant le règne de Charles VI de 1380 à 1422
Long before Christine and Michel reached the palace, the storm broke with driving rain and a fierce wind that tried to hold them back as they struggled along the slippery streets. By the time they arrived at the queen’s residence, they were soaked through. When Michel told Simon they were on their way to see the Duchess of Orléans, Simon looked at their wet clothes and shook his head.
‘You can’t go to her in that condition.’ He led them to the little room with a fireplace where the palace guards sheltered from the cold and told Christine to remove her cloak and spread it out on a trestle in the corner.
Michel hung the pouch on a nail protruding from the wall and opened it partway. ‘I want the mandrake to dry out before I give it to the infirmarer,’ he explained. Christine wished he’d leave the pouch closed.
They sat on a bench before the small fireplace and warmed their hands over the flames. Simon had returned to his post, but his sack lay in the corner, and Christine wondered whether it contained anything to eat. Then Renaut bounced into the room, dived into the bag, brought out a slice of gingerbread, and stood in front of her munching it. ‘You can have some, too,’ he said as he reached back into the bag and produced another piece.
Christine didn’t hesitate to take the gingerbread. ‘Do you think Simon will mind?’ she asked Michel.
‘Surely not. The boy can do nothing wrong in Simon’s eyes. He and his wife have no children.’
When Renaut had finished his gingerbread, he went to a corner of the room, sat on the floor, and took his little red top out of h
is sleeve. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked as he set the top spinning.
‘We’re going to speak with the Duchess of Orléans,’ Michel said.
‘She’s about to die. My grandmother told me. You can ask her about it yourself.’ Renaut picked up his top and slipped it into his sleeve as Blanche strode into the room.
‘Is it true the duchess is dying?’ Michel asked her.
‘That is what I’ve heard.’ She stuffed Renaut into his red jacket and pulled him out the door, leaving the faint odor of cloves behind.
Michel went to the trestle, lifted Christine’s cloak, and spread it out again. ‘It is still damp,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to come back and get it later. We cannot delay going to the duchess any longer.’
They went into the courtyard, where Christine was horrified to see Gilles Malet and the Duke of Orléans coming toward them, followed by Guy de Marolles. The duke will ask me about the book, she thought. And right beside him is the person who has it, the king’s librarian.
But Michel spoke first. ‘We’re on our way to the duchess,’ he said, as he hurried Christine across the courtyard.
‘Thank you, Michel,’ she breathed when they were well out of earshot.
‘It is only a short reprieve,’ he said. ‘You will have to tell the duke about the book as soon as you have spoken with the duchess.’
In her cold room, the duchess lay motionless on her hard bed, attended by one of the king’s physicians, as well as the queen and her ladies-in-waiting, who looked like peacocks stranded in a monk’s cell. The old lady’s eyes were closed, but she opened them when Michel said, ‘You asked for Christine, and here she is, Madame.’
Christine knelt by the bed. ‘You wished to see me, Madame?’
The duchess attempted to sit up, but she fell back against her pillow.
The queen stepped up to the bed. With a little motion of her trembling hand, the duchess waved her away. Michel said, ‘Should everyone but Christine leave, Madame?’ She nodded.
Michel said to Christine, ‘Sometimes when she tries to speak, no words come. Be patient.’
Alone with the duchess, Christine continued to kneel, shivering on the cold floor. She said, ‘I know you have something to tell me, Madame. Does it have to do with Hugues de Précy’s murder?’
The duchess nodded and tried to smile.
‘Do you know who poisoned him?’ The duchess nodded again. She put one trembling hand to her throat and with the other pointed to a book lying at the foot of the bed. Christine got to her feet, glad to give her knees a rest, and picked it up. The duchess moved her hand in the direction of a stool by the fireplace and nodded approval when Christine brought it near the bed and sat on it.
Christine held the book, an illuminated Book of Hours with an inscription identifying it as the queen’s, close to the duchess’s face and turned the pages. The old woman watched the colorful illustrations, and when the calendar page for the month of February appeared, she raised her shaking hand and pointed to a picture of snow-covered houses clustered around a small church.
‘Are you trying to tell me someone who lives in a village poisoned Hugues?’ Christine asked.
The duchess shook her head and motioned for her go on. She showed no interest in any of the following illustrations until they came to the image of a Cistercian monk. Here she raised her hand again.
Christine looked puzzled, and the duchess sighed.
At last they came to the Office of the Dead and a scene of the first horseman of the Apocalypse. With great difficulty, the duchess lifted her hand until it touched the flank of the white horse. Christine could only stare at the picture, realizing she’d failed. ‘I’m so sorry, Madame,’ she said, taking the duchess’s hand in hers. A slight pressure of the old woman’s fingers indicated forgiveness. The duchess lay back against the pillow, closed her eyes, and seemed to sleep. ‘Madame?’ Christine asked. There was no answer.
Christine went into the hallway. The queen, tapping her foot and glaring at her footmen, stood rubbing her hands together over one of the moveable stoves her footmen wheeled around the cold corridors of the palace whenever she left her apartments in the winter. All her ladies had left, but Michel and the doctor were there. The queen went into the duchess’s room, and the doctor followed her.
‘Why does she seem so angry?’ Christine asked the monk.
‘One of her rings has disappeared. She thinks someone stole it. But tell me, what did the duchess say to you?’
She looked around. Several sergeants-at-arms leaned against the wall. She drew Michel away from them, and whispered, ‘She knows who murdered Hugues de Précy. But she couldn’t talk, so she tried to tell me who it was by pointing to the illustrations in a Book of Hours.’
‘What illustrations?’
‘A village in the snow, a Cistercian monk, and the first horseman of the Apocalypse. I was too dim-witted to understand what they meant.’
Michel drew his hands into the sleeves of his habit and studied the floor. ‘It makes no sense to me, either,’ he said. ‘Perhaps God will speak to me about it. But in the meantime, you must tell the duke about the book in the library. You will find him at the Celestines. He has gone there to pray for the duchess.’ That did not surprise Christine, who knew that whenever Louis was in one of his penitent moods, he went to the church of the Celestines, next to the Hôtel Saint-Pol. ‘And to beg forgiveness because he is convinced he caused the tragic fire. He is more upset than you know,’ Michel added. ‘I will go with you.’
When they returned into the guards’ warming room, they were surprised to find Renaut curled up asleep with his head on his red jacket. ‘Blanche was about to take him home, but she changed her mind and left him here,’ Simon said. ‘I can’t imagine what she is doing here at this late hour.’
Renaut opened his eyes, looked at Christine, and reached for Simon’s sack. ‘Do you want more gingerbread?’
Christine’s stomach growled obligingly. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said to the portier. ‘I was not home for dinner.’
‘I have something better.’ Simon went to a small cupboard in the wall, brought out a loaf of bread, a wedge of strong-smelling cheese, and a flask of wine, and set the small feast on a bench. Michel was as hungry as Christine, and, with Renaut’s help, the food was soon gone. Then the boy stretched out in front of the fire and fell asleep again.
Michel helped Christine into her cloak, and they went out. It was almost dark, and the storm, which had been gathering strength all afternoon, raged. ‘I know a path to the Celestines that won’t take us into the street. It’s quicker, and we won’t get so wet,’ Christine said, leading the monk toward a path through one of the palace gardens. Only then did she realize something was missing.
‘Michel! You forgot the pouch with the mandrake!’
He stopped and clapped his hand to his head. ‘So I did. It can’t have been on the nail where I left it, or I would have remembered it.’
‘You don’t seem to want it. Otherwise you’d have taken it back to the abbey long before this.’
Michel thought for a moment. ‘You may be right, Christine. I’m not so sure it’s wise to carry a mandrake around.’
Christine smiled to herself and didn’t feel so ashamed of her own thoughts about the horrible root. She said, ‘Nevertheless, somebody must have taken it. We have to find out who it was. Mandrakes are dangerous. We should go back and ask Simon.’
‘Not in all this rain. I’ll find out later what happened to it,’ Michel said.
It was night now, and since they hadn’t brought torches, they had to make their way along the path in nearly complete darkness, clinging to each other as the rain beat down and the wind blew against them. They came to the orchards. The trees, black silhouettes against the gray sky, strained and shuddered as the gusts tore away branches that crashed to the ground.
‘Do you know where you are going?’ Michel shouted.
‘This path should come out at the church,’ Christine shou
ted back.
Suddenly, the rain relented, the darkness lifted, and for a moment, they could see shadows moving through the trees. Then night closed in again.
Christine took Michel’s arm and pulled him along the path until they came up against a large obstacle blocking their way. She groped around and felt the bark of a fallen tree. When she turned aside to go around it, she lost the path.
‘Great God in heaven! Where are we?’ Michel cried.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have patience and endure,’ the monk muttered to himself.
The rain poured down again, and the wind whipped their wet clothes around their legs. Christine tried to hang onto the monk’s arm, but he shook her off and walked away. She heard him bump up against something.
‘What is it?’ she called out.
‘Wooden palings,’ he called back.
She heard a roar, and she knew what he’d found. ‘Michel! That’s the lions’ stockade!’
‘A plague upon it! The gate is open.’
‘Get away from there, Michel!’ Christine cried. But it was too late; the lions were out. She could sense huge shapes padding toward her, and she cowered against the trunk of the fallen tree, listening to throaty, grunting sounds as they plashed past her through puddles and mud. Their wet fur smelled heavy and rank, like dung and rotting hay.
She stayed perfectly still, and Michel must have done the same, for she could no longer hear him. She wondered how many lions there were, but it was too dark to count them. Sometimes one roared, and she waited to feel sharp teeth closing around her arm, or claws digging into her throat. She closed her eyes and prayed.
After a while, all she could hear was the rain, and she thought the beasts had gone. She was about to step away from the tree when she saw a light floating toward her and a woman ran past, an apparition dressed in rags, her long auburn hair – so thick and disheveled it obscured her face – shining in the glow of her lantern. The wind died down, the rain fell softly, and the lions, driven by the spectral woman, came slinking back, grunting and grumbling to themselves. They filed past, and then all was quiet, until Michel shouted, ‘Christine! Are you safe?’
