Commedia della Morte

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  It is the goal of the Revolutionary Artists and Writers to reveal the entirety of revolution in all our work; the Commedia della Morte sets a superb example that we may all strive to emulate and through that emulation, to excel in our arts to the limits of genius and liberty.

  3

  “Tomorrow we arrive at Lyon; your journey’s end,” the Revolutionary Guardsman announced with a sly grin to the gathering of men and women standing on the low wharf where a barge was tied up; his breath smoked in front of his face and he pulled on his gloves as he looked over his prisoners. He was a Corporal, and as such, although not the oldest, was the senior-most Guardsman present. He raised the collar of his greatcoat with deliberation, showing his prisoners that, unlike them, he had the means to protect himself from the weather. The first drizzle of rain was falling around them, dank and chill.

  “Will we have anything more than bread this morning?” asked an old woman in a soiled gown of damask and lace.

  “Why would you?” the Guardsman asked; during their northward journey from Avignon, he had grown to despise these high-born cowards, who allowed him to bully them, and cringed when he shouted at them. Where was the dignity and power they had brandished in the face of the poor for so many generations? he asked himself as he swaggered along the edge of the wharf.

  “Because we’re cold,” she answered, her tone blunt until she began to cough; she bent double, her face showing red splotches.

  “Everyone is cold,” the Corporal said dismissively, taking obvious satisfaction in the prisoners’ misery. “You’re no different now than the people you abused and starved to suit your whims. Be glad that we give you so much—you withheld food and fire to your servants and your peasants, and now you’re paying the price for your neglect.” He gestured to the old town walls behind him. “The people of Sainte-Sophie would probably provide you slops, if you ask them—same as their swine.”

  “You had hot pastry to eat!” the old woman protested, her complaint broken by her eruptive coughing.

  Around her a few of the other prisoners mumbled agreement, less vigorously than she had spoken, but more troublesome for being sullen; resentment had been simmering among them and today was high, and this miserable day only served to sharpen their rancor. A few voices were loud enough for the Guardsmen to hear a smattering of derogatory words, words that alarmed the Guardsmen. Two of them drew their pistols.

  The Corporal shook his head and spat in their direction. “What grandeur you have now, you pathetic creatures. Go on; huddle together. You’re wretched as beggars.”

  From her place behind the Guardsmen, Madelaine raised her voice. “If you don’t feed them something warm, they will become ill, and that would not redound to your credit. Three have died since we left Avignon; more might bring you—”

  Wheeling around, the Corporal raised his hand, ready to strike out at her. “Another word, and you’ll ride on the barge again! Then we’ll see who’s ill.”

  Madelaine went silent but there was no mistaking her anger, or her disgust.

  The old woman struggled unsuccessfully to stop coughing; she clung to the arm of the middle-aged man next to her, looking deeply embarrassed by her helplessness. The man patted her shoulder and took a step back from her, wiping his hands with a torn handkerchief. The old woman continued to cough; she was visibly trembling. A handsome woman in her thirties wearing a badly soiled satin dress handed her a fur-trimmed cloak, and glared defiantly at the Guardsmen, daring them to take the cloak away.

  “You have charity for your own kind,” the Corporal sneered. “How compassionate you are.”

  Someone among the prisoners screamed a curse.

  The Corporal drew his pistol and fired into the crowd of prisoners; it was impossible to say if he had taken deliberate aim or not. An instant later, a cry went up from the old woman, who sank down onto her knees, blood pumping from a wound in her neck; she was coughing still, but sounding more as if she were drowning than ill. “That is what happens to you if you speak against the Revolution. One of you dies.”

  Exclamations of dismay went up around the old woman as rain and blood mixed on the garments of those near her, and soaked the damask of her dress. Another of the prisoners, a man in the ruins of clerical garb, pushed forward and began to recite Extreme Unction for her, though it was apparent that she was almost dead, for the blood running from her wound had slowed and no longer pulsed.

  “Vain, greedy, and superstitious—so completely useless,” scoffed the Corporal before he strode toward the groups of six other Guardsmen who waited with their horses and the mule-drawn wagon to begin the trek northward once more. He made a fastidious motion with his hands as if to rid himself of the taint of death. “Where is the tow-horse? Has anyone seen the barge-master?”

  “You’re a fool, Niege,” said one of his comrades. “You’ll have to explain that shooting when we get to Lyon. They’re sticky about abuse of prisoners.”

  “Because they want the kill for themselves,” said another.

  “Do you think any of them will care? If they bother to ask, I’ll tell the Court that the old woman showed me disrespect and encouraged the same in her companions, and it will suffice. You’re a sentimentalist, Bonfils. Genevere’s right. What’s one old Comtesse, more or less? She’d have probably died of her cough in a week or so, in any case, and spared the executioner the trouble.” He grabbed Madelaine by the elbow. “Which mount is hers, today?”

  “The one with the side-saddle,” said Genevere, taking his pipe from between his teeth. “Or were you planning to ride that one?”

  The laughter that greeted this question was harsh; the grins were ferocious. One of the Guardsmen made a suggestive gesture with his hand at his groin.

  Madelaine pulled her arm free of his grip. “I can manage myself, Corporal,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “Naturally you can. You’ve demonstrated you can keep up with the best of us,” he rejoined as he shoved her toward the blue-speckled white gelding that stood patiently at the end of the line of horses. “But we don’t want it said that you were not treated as the enemy of the people that you are. You are in custody, and must obey us or suffer the consequences.” He reached for her, preparing to lift her into the saddle.

  “I will manage,” she repeated, not wanting him to touch her.

  He made a point of showing disinterest, speaking in a flat voice with an air of boredom. “Anything you like, Madame. You have only to name it.” He offered her an insulting bow and turned away as she tested the girth, tightened its billets, then fitted her foot into the stirrup and pulled herself up, using the leg-support to do it. She settled into place, adjusted her skirts, and gathered up the reins.

  Genevere swung aboard a seal-brown Spanish mare with a single white foot and an elegant curve to her neck, letting her caper a bit before pulling her head down and steadying her; he was chuckling at her antics as she half-reared before coming to order. Madelaine watched him with approval, as she had during all their journey north, impressed by his skill in the saddle as well as his kindness to his mount. The Guardsman, unlike some of the company, was fully at ease with riding and seemed to like horses.

  “What do we do with the body?” The cry came from one of the prisoners, and was seconded at once by another. “Or do you intend it to lie here on the wharf?”

  “You can’t take it to Lyon. Wrap it in the cloak. Throw it in the river,” said Corporal Niege, sounding offended. “If anyone finds it downstream, they can bury it, if they like.” He approached a broad-chested red roan, patted the mare’s rump, then vaulted into the saddle. As he adjusted his stirrup-leathers, he called out, “Faille, ride down the river road and find the barge-master. Tell him to hurry. We need to be under way shortly, and that means having the tow-horse to pull the barge.”

  Another one of the Guardsmen mounted up and headed south, his head turned away from the cluster of horrified captives; the prisoners were struggling with the dead woman, trying t
o move the body to where they could shove it into the Rhone, while the priest recited the Requiem for the repose of her soul.

  Watching Faille as he spurred his horse to a canter, Madelaine shook her head at the poor seat he had, and she wondered, as she had several times before now, how he had come to be assigned to a mounted company, and was required to spend long hours in the saddle. She felt pity for the fellow’s horse, to have so clumsy a rider; nevertheless, she was grateful for the diversion he provided her. Keeping her attention on Faille’s amateurish horsemanship stopped her from protesting in outrage the off-handed killing of Auralie, Comtesse de Saint-Sorrai, and the insolence of Corporal Niege.

  “So, Madame Montalia,” said the Corporal with mocking courtesy, “are you prepared for a hard ride today?”

  “I’m prepared for a wet one. That will be hard enough,” she answered.

  “This is the first real rain of the autumn,” the Corporal observed. “At least there isn’t much wind.”

  Bonfils shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “It may come up later,” Madelaine agreed, and looked at the other Guardsmen as they prepared to mount their horses; it was an effort to speak of such trivial matters when she wanted to scream. “And there will be mud.”

  “Good thing then that we have only the one wagon,” said the Corporal. “If there is too much mud, we can put it on the barge.”

  “And lead the mules,” said Bonfils, signaling to the Guardsman who drove the wagon. “Up you go, Claudin.”

  “I’m ready when the tow-horse arrives,” he said as he got into the driving-box, where he gathered his greatcoat around him, then took his place. “But I don’t like to keep the team standing in weather like this.”

  “Possibly you should walk them up the tow-path a way,” said Corporal Niege. “Try to avoid the mud.”

  “Mud makes hard-going for the tow-horse as well as for mules,” Madelaine said; hearing a splash from next to the wharf, she winced.

  “You’re a fool to be so maudlin,” said the Corporal, noticing her reaction. “A body is nothing more than meat and bone.”

  Madelaine almost added and blood, but the thought made her more aware of her hunger; she kept the words to herself, as if to stave off the pangs. She had taken no nourishment in more than a week and she was depleted of energy to a degree that distressed her. A dreary finger of wind bent the rain and she felt a cold trickle down her neck; she reached to pull her hood more closely around her face.

  “So tell me,” Corporal Niege began as he nudged his roan next to Madelaine’s spotted gelding, “what do you think the Revolutionary Court will do with you?”

  “Take off my head, as you well know,” she said calmly. “It is what you demand so that there can be no going back to the old ways.” She felt a pang of regret that her life could end so soon—not even half a century of vampire existence!—if Saint-Germain could not contrive some way to reach her before her sentence was imposed and carried out. She realized she had been slumping and straightened up in the saddle.

  “A pity to sacrifice one so young, Madame,” the Corporal said, mocking her.

  “I no longer feel young.” She knew he could not guess the meaning of her answer and took some satisfaction in the realization that she had been able to maintain her true nature in secrecy; as imprudent as it was, she wanted to challenge him, to make him admit his satisfaction in the increasing slaughter the Revolution had spawned, to acknowledge that so much death did not serve justice but revenge, yet she said nothing more.

  Disappointed by the lack of response Madelaine offered him, Corporal Niege swung his mare around and shouted, “You prisoners! Get aboard the barge! Stay in the cabin! We will leave as soon as the tow-horse is here. Be ready!” He added under his breath, “We’re already two days behind our schedule. We won’t make up much time today.”

  The prisoners started along the wharf toward the barge, all of them moving slowly, all of them shivering and sodden. They reached the boarding-plank and went aboard single file, clutching the flimsy hand-rail as they went as the plank bent and swung. One of the men tripped and nearly went into the river, but was spared that as two other of the men seized his arms and pulled him back onto the unsteady boarding-plank. Last to step onto the barge was the woman who had given the Comtesse her cloak; she paused and looked back at Corporal Niege with such utter contempt that he swore at her.

  Claudin started his team off along the tow-path, whistling encouragement to the four disgruntled mules; the team responded by tugging unequally in their harness. He pulled his hat down low to keep the rain out of his eyes, then reached for his driving-whip, swinging it experimentally, flicking the water off it before he caught the end of the lash and returned it to its bracket. The mules settled down to a slow jog, all four of them finally working together.

  “Don’t go far!” Corporal Niege yelled at Claudin. “The tow-horse should be here shortly.”

  “You hope,” Claudin answered.

  Bonfils laughed cynically, shaking his head.

  “It’s the weather,” said the Corporal to his men. “The barge-master is late because of the rain.”

  “Very likely, and hardly surprising,” said Bonfils, who had mounted a ewe-necked bay. “But if we aren’t under way soon, we won’t reach Lyon today; we’ll have to stay on the road another night. More delay! The Revolutionary Court at Lyon may not be pleased that we have taken so long to get to them.”

  Corporal Niege scowled. “We can commandeer a place at Cours la Pleine. The garrison there has room enough for us and our animals.”

  “That place is more a ruin than a fortress; it’s been there since Charlemagne; the rafters are home to bats and the cellars are filled with rats,” Bonfils objected, but shrugged. “Still, we’d be out of the wet.”

  “Better than a tent,” Genevere remarked, and turned to the sixth member of the escort, a taciturn Gascon named Troisbec. “Do you think we’ll reach Lyon?”

  “No,” said Troisbec. “Not tonight with the rain.”

  “If the rain doesn’t last? What if the afternoon clears and we have a dry evening?” the Corporal asked, determined to get the answer he sought. “One of the farmers at the inn said it wouldn’t last past mid-day.”

  “I doubt that,” said Troisbec.

  “If we leave within thirty minutes?” Corporal Niege pursued, glowering as he saw Troisbec shake his head.

  “It takes twenty minutes to harness the tow-horse,” Genevere said. “Since the horse isn’t here yet—”

  “A pox on Faille and the barge-master!” Corporal Niege burst out. When the others remained silent, he added, “They’ll regret their delay.”

  “You won’t report either of them to the Revolutionary Court, Niege, and you won’t complain of us, for your sake as well as ours,” said Bonfils, his manner somber, his gaze hard. “It’s a dangerous precedent, to start denouncing our deputies and blaming Guardsmen. Who knows where it would end?”

  Troisbec offered a sneering laugh.

  “Listen to him, Corporal,” Madelaine advised. “Think of how your Revolution began and what it has become.” It was dangerous to point this change out to him, but she could not refrain from speaking up. “Aristos and clergy first, then intellectuals and lawyers. Now they’re killing shopkeepers and servants. Eventually they may get around to Guardsmen.”

  Corporal Niege muttered an obscenity, but offered no argument. He clapped his heels to his mare’s sides and sent her into a sudden canter; he reined in just as the horse was about to go onto the wharf.

  “Better to use the tow-path,” Bonfils recommended sardonically.

  “Be quiet,” the Corporal told him.

  Madelaine turned the spotted gelding toward the tow-path, hoping that she might be allowed to ride a short way along the river; she had sat this horse twice before and found him a comfortable ride, with a gentle trot and a collected canter and enough stamina to carry her for miles without flagging. She reached down and patted his neck; she was sorry sh
e had no bits of apple or grapes to give to him as she would have done for her mount before she was taken prisoner.

  Another gust of wind sent the rain spattering, and two of the horses shying, while the barge rocked more energetically.

  “May they all perish from boils!” Corporal Niege shouted.

  Madelaine, who had been looking south along the tow-road, suddenly narrowed her eyes. “I think Faille is returning.”

  “And the barge-master?” Corporal Niege demanded, swinging his roan around to get a better view of the road.

  “I don’t see him,” she said. “And no tow-horse, either.”

  Corporal Niege forgot himself enough to swear “By the Virgin’s Tits!”

  It was apparent that Faille was alone as he rocked cumbrously on his horse’s ungraceful canter, his elbows flapping like useless wings. As he drew near, he shouted, “The tow-horse threw a shoe. The farrier is with him. As soon as he’s reshod, the barge-master will bring him and we can be under way.”

  “But that could take up to an hour!” Corporal Niege complained. “Did you impress upon him the urgency of our mission?”

  Faille slowed his horse to an uneven trot. “I did: the barge-master said he wouldn’t risk the tow-horse going lame on the tow-path. He said that if he did, it could slow us down by more than a day, having a lame tow-horse.” He came up to Corporal Niege. “The farrier is already working on the tow-horse, Corporal. What else could I do? I thought you should know as soon as possible.”