by Joanne Dahme
Gracias rubbed the amulet between his thumb and forefinger and frowned, his eyebrows intersecting in a V.
“You, senor. Give me one of your pociónes,” he called. Albert suddenly scurried from the cave, clutching a green-colored bottle by its long, thin neck.
“Grab a stick, boy, and allow the amulet to rest on it as this gentleman pours his liquid.”
George carefully edged to the toe of the bluff to pick up a stick. Albert watched in silence as George returned to hold the amulet by the stick’s tip. It dangled on its thin chain.
“Pour, senor,” Gracias instructed.
Lines of sweat appeared on Albert’s forehead, yet his hand remained steady as he slowly poured the contents of the bottle over the amulet. A hissing steam rose from the metal.
“Ahh,” Gracias said as he took the stick from George. Albert, George, and I leaned in closer to peer at the amulet. I could just barely make out the strange words scratched into the amulet’s back.
“What does it say?” I asked in dread.
“It’s an incantation,” Gracias replied.
“But my amulet didn’t have those marks,” George protested.
“Then perhaps this amulet belonged to the príncipe. Did he show you one?” Gracias prodded, gently now.
“Yes!” George answered excitedly. “He said that our matching amulets made us like brothers.”
Gracias smiled knowingly. “He switched them. This amulet has served as his hawk. It has been tracking you like prey.”
The image of the Black Prince proudly holding his amulet next to George’s suddenly came to my mind. It was after George shared his lunch with the two little French girls. I recalled that despite his feigned friendship with George, my heart had recoiled at the menace in his eyes. An incantation. A curse.Were those similar spells he offered as he danced around the fires on the beach of Bordeaux?
“You won’t dare dig it up again, will you, boy?” Gracias asked severely, interrupting my thoughts. He slipped the amulet into a pocket in his tunic.
George shook his head while looking at his feet. Albert nodded gravely, as if he, too, were making a pledge.
I looked beyond Gracias, at the black forms of the treetops below us that seemed pressed into the night sky. There were no stars or moon tonight.The thunderclouds, though silent now, smothered them all.
“When will you be back?” I asked him. I shivered, thinking of us all sleeping in this cave.
He turned to follow my line of sight and then looked back at me. His teeth, exposed in a teasing smile, seemed to glow eerily in the blackness like an animal’s.
“I will be back by dawn,” he said. “Then we will get on with the final part of your viaje to Bordeaux.”
It was then that I felt Henry’s presence behind me.
“I will be with you,” he pledged in my ear.
I nodded, but did not turn to look into his eyes. When I felt him walk away, I attempted a smile at George and Albert.
“We all should get some sleep,” I advised.
Albert agreed. “I am going to instruct my brothers to lay out their blankets by the cart.We have enough to share with you, princess, and for your two soldiers.”
George perked up at that. “I will lay them out,” he volunteered. Without waiting for an answer, he ran back into the cave to the knot of Albert’s brothers.
We rested by the cart as Henry took the first watch by the cave’s entrance. I watched him tether our horses to a tree, only feet away from our shelter. They both began to tear at the leaves that dangled before their eyes. I then picked up my blanket as Henry threw his cloak over his shoulders and squatted, his back to us, as he gazed into the night.
I shivered beneath my own cloak, as I pulled George’s over his shoulders as he slept beside me.The bulky forms of Albert and his brothers were lined along the wall of the cave, far from the hole that led to the other side of the earth. I listened to their snoring, trying to take comfort in their faith that it was safe to sleep.Their collection of animals, clustered around them, made their own night noises, and lent an earthy smell to our potion-filled cave. Only the cows remained standing, their eyelids closed, as if that was all that was needed to escape the world.
Henry. George and I needed Henry, despite the things that Gracias made him confess. I would have to trust that his heart was pure, as I felt that, if not, my own would break. How I despised the night, I realized, as it brought such black thoughts.
These were the worries that folded into my sleep. I held George’s hand as I held the image of Henry, guarding the cave entrance, in my head. But my bitterness towards the prince soon pressed against my dreams, which became filled with the angry squeals of rats.
A yelp from Albert the Shy awoke me. Shy Albert had been on watch when Gracias returned and the sight of the minstrel’s companion was the cause of Shy Albert’s alarm.
It was the gravedigger.
He stood beside Gracias at the mouth of the cave. In the early morning mist that seemed to hang like a tapestry woven from otherworldly threads, the two figures did indeed appear like ghosts.
I arose slowly, pulling my cloak around my shoulders. Henry was already standing, squinting at the spectral forms. The air smelled of dew and sweat and spoiling potions.The snores of Albert and his other brothers reverberated softly within the confines of the cave.
“Gracias?” I whispered, not wanting to wake George and Albert and his brothers. “Is that the gravedigger?”
“The very same,” the gravedigger replied eagerly amidst the vapor. “I’m so glad to see that you are safe, princess. I knew that Albert could protect you.”
Henry joined me as I approached the cave entrance. Shy Albert cut between us, seeking the comfort of his sleeping brothers.
Indeed, there stood the gravedigger, next to a smiling Gracias. His gray beard was beaded with dew and his blue eyes were clear as glass. If at all possible, his brown tunic and red stockings were even dirtier than when I last saw him standing among the death pits. I flinched for a moment, imagining a long succession of burials since yesterday.
“Thank you for sending Albert, sir.” I almost curtsied but stopped myself. I never saw the princess curtsy to anyone save the king, much less a gravedigger, but I was so pleased to see another friendly face. “He and his brothers have been most helpful to us. Will you be joining us now?” I asked a bit hopefully.
At this, the gravedigger scratched his thick black hair and looked at Gracias.The snoring brothers dispelled any possibility of a thoughtful silence. And then Gracias shook his head, his bell tinkling softly.
“The gravedigger will be your último and only guide to Bordeaux, princesa. You shall arrive as so many have already left,” Gracias said, his amused smile conveying no doubt as to his meaning.
“You aren’t serious?” Henry interjected. “Should we really mock death in such a manner?”
The gravedigger reached out now, startling Henry by placing his dirty, weathered hand on Henry’s shoulder.
“The dead cannot be mocked, monsieur. It is they who mock the living. Do not worry about their honneur,” the gravedigger admonished. “They are not burdened by such vices.”
“Surely there must be another way,” Henry insisted. He glanced at me, as if waiting for me to back him up.
“There is not,” Gracias replied dismissively. “Unless you know something that we do not, that might lend itself to an alternate plan?” Gracias raised his thick black eyebrows. His sardonic smile implied his meaning.
Henry’s blue eyes flashed. His fists were balled.“You do trust me, don’t you, princess? You don’t believe the insinuations of this sly heathen, do you?” he asked desperately.
I did not like what Gracias was proposing any more than Henry, but I knew we had no other choice but to trust Gracias’s allegiance to us. Had he not had many opportunities to give us up to the prince, or to do away with us himself? And it did appear, from what we knew or could deduce, that the Black Prince considered Gracias
an enemy.
I stared hard at our little circle that contained the mocking minstrel, a chastened soldier, and an oddly serene gravedigger.With the exception of the gravedigger, suspicion was our strongest link. I knew then that to survive, I would need to cut that thread.
“We would be honored to share you as our guide, sir,” I said, ignoring the fear in Henry’s eyes. I would need to be brave enough for us all.
Only Albert was bold enough to bid us farewell on the forest path. It was just after dawn and last night’s thunderous clouds still filled the sky. His dark cloak muted his usually bright attire but his red hair and beard served as a beacon for his brothers, who were gathered together in a clump on the top of the hill, peering down at us anxiously.
Henry had offered to go first, to show George that there was really no harm in being wrapped like the dead. I felt a rush of warmth for Henry, as I knew the terror the death carts held for him. He had told me of the nightmares, which visited him still, where he is a young boy again, working with the men who pulled the carts through the streets of London during its last great plague. He told me that in each dream, the bodies are piled higher than a haystack, until he can no longer pull the cart beneath such weight. In his dream, the bodies begin to mock him. They call him names and laugh, turning their heads to stare at him with wide black mouths full of worms. He stood there now allowing Gracias to approach him, for whom he held no regard. I wanted to grab his hands and thank him, but instead I offered my gratitude through a smile.
He noticed but looked away, almost shyly, as he stood beside the gravedigger’s death cart as Gracias dropped the dirty white shroud over his head and wrapped it around his body.
“I will not be able to move,” Henry growled from within. Albert hugged George as he gasped.
“That is Henry talking, George, not a ghost,” I said gently as Albert and George stared fish-eyed as Gracias picked Henry up like a small boy and laid him full length in the bottom of the wooden cart. He then placed Henry’s sword, blade down, beside him.
“You are not supposed to move, soldado. You are muerto. Remember that, or the game will be up,” Gracias replied severely. He glanced at me as if sensing my stare. “You need to trust us, princesa,” he said, seeing all the fear on my face. I tried to dismiss the image of my father and my mother the last time I saw them.They had been tossed into a cart, not very different from this one, like rank garbage.This was the impression that had stayed with me since their deaths. The pestilence had robbed them of their lives and stole from me any comforting memories.
“I will go next,” George suddenly volunteered, breaking away from Albert in a burst of bravery. “I trust you, Gracias, and the gravedigger, too.” His stocking-covered knees were trembling violently, though.
“Muchacho bueno,” Gracias said, not seeming to notice, or at least pretending not to. He lifted George into the cart and swaddled him in the death wraps. I immediately went over to him to hold his hand for as long as I could. I knew that George was being brave for me.
“When can we expect to arrive?” Henry barked, shimmying aside to make room for George.
“Perhaps by late afternoon,” the gravedigger responded. “I travel the forest paths gently, and no living man purposely gets in my way.You should all take a petit somme, a good nap,” he encouraged. His blue eyes looked soft in the fading darkness. The birds of the forest trilled, as if in agreement.
“Princess,” Albert reached out to me, pulling from the pocket of his cloak a red bottle in the shape of a long thin vial about the length of my hand. A potion.
“The garçon asked me if I had a potion for rats. I did not before, but I mixed a few together last night. It is a mixture that I hope can address all the creatures of the dark. Hold on to this,” he finished, slipping it into my cloak pocket.
Again I did not curtsy, though I wanted so badly to hug Albert, as if he were my father. I extended my hand instead, as I knew the real princess would have done, but my eyes, unlike hers ever did, blurred with tears as Albert stooped and kissed my hand gently.
I turned awkwardly to Gracias.
“I am ready,” I said.
betrayal
I TRIED TO SLEEP, but of course it was impossible. The bindings were tight and made any real movement impossible and if I took too deep a breath, it felt as if a gloved hand covered my mouth and nose. The best I could do was rock my body to keep it from going numb. I did not know what thoughts went through Henry’s head as he lay beside me in the cart, dressed in the death wrappings, but I prayed that his nightmares were kept at bay by my presence. I knew that courage was often born when one needed to be brave for others. I told myself that I needed to summon my own courage, too, as I felt George trembling against my side. Does he relive that day in London in his dreams, too?
“I am here, George,” I mumbled through the shroud.
“Why don’t you go to sleep?”
I was thankful when eventually he did.
My own thoughts were fed by a porridge of feelings. We did not talk, as Gracias had insisted. We knew that such idle chatter could be the death of us. Instead I mentally reviewed our conversation beside the death cart. Henry and I had peppered Gracias with a few more questions.
“What if some family along our way wishes to add a body to the cart?”
Gracias said that the gravedigger would know what to do. Besides, he added, almost anyone left in the forest villages between here and Bordeaux had already died if they were meant to do so. Also, Gracias had warned us that we would have to exit the cart before we reached the gates into Bordeaux, as a death cart entering the city at this time would appear highly suspicious.
I had run through a number of scenarios as I listened to the gravedigger hum his haunting tunes. When he wasn’t humming, or addressing the birds, as he was wont to do, I tried to concentrate on taking note of the daytime sounds of the forest that mingled with our squeaking cartwheel, which was jarring yet soothingly rhythmic at the same time. I listened to the birds, the cicadas, a distant howl—the sounds of life around us seemingly unaffected by men. I was glad to have such sounds, anything to keep out the thoughts of the past or of my immediate future.
But such daydreams only sufficed for some time.
Soon we would arrive in Bordeaux, and according to Gracias, give ourselves over to the protection of its mayor. Will he send us back to England to tell the king what happened? Will the king believe me? The Black Prince was his blood. I was nothing but a servant.
Or will the mayor hide us in Bordeaux to ensure that my marriage to the prince of Castile does not take place? Neither choice consoled me.
I suddenly began to panic.
“Princess,” Henry whispered in my ear. “You are breathing much too quickly. Are you all right?” Henry sounded as anxious as me.
“I do not know if this is right for us, Henry.What will happen to us in Bordeaux?” I tried to keep my voice even.
“Well, this is a fine time to have second thoughts,” he muttered, “with us wrapped like pickled fish.”
“You didn’t have any other ideas,” I replied accusingly, angry with him now for not comforting me.
“You are the princess, and you seem to favor Gracias’s advice,” he shot back as best as he could through the muzzle of cloth. “I am nothing but a soldier.”
I am not the princess I wanted to scream, but held my tongue. I attempted to inch away from him, but George’s sleeping body wedged me in.
The cart suddenly dropped to a halt. “The dead I carry are usually not so talkative,” the gravedigger said, without a hint of sarcasm. It was hard to tell if he was angry without seeing his face. I felt ashamed. We should not have talked so freely. We did not know how much Gracias had told the gravedigger. I was not behaving like the princess.
Neither Henry nor I said a word.
George jolted awake, though, at the abrupt end of the cart’s lulling motion.
“Are we there, Nell?” he asked, his voice high as a tiny child’s.
I hoped the gravedigger did not hear him, but how could I be angry with George when I had behaved badly?
“Not yet, garçon,” the gravedigger answered. “We have just a bit longer to go. Should I continue?” he asked. I could feel the cart being lifted by its handles.
“Yes,” I said. “It is not you I question, sir,” I added contritely.
“I know that, princess,” he answered warmly. “But you have no need to fear.The mayor is a good man.”
The gravedigger stopped again at the end of the forest, where its wildflower fields spilled out to the gatehouse of the walled city. He had hidden the cart in a small grove of trees, young trees whose leaves were still soft like babies’ skin and whose height rose barely two feet above Henry’s head. He lifted us out one by one—first myself, then George, and finally Henry. We each inhaled deeply and tasted the earth as our shrouds dropped away. We needed that breath, because once our eyes became accustomed to the blinding sunlight, we gasped again at our first sight of Bordeaux. We clung to the sapling branches as we peered at the fortress before us.
“It suffered much,” the gravedigger said, as if reading our thoughts. “First by the Black Death, and then by the fires.The mayor did not mean for so much to burn.”
I grabbed George’s hand. Henry stood close by my side, our afternoon disagreement obviously forgotten. A breeze smelling of the sea touched our faces. Its salt caused my stomach to stir. I realized we had not eaten since yesterday morning.
Two soldiers stood by the first gatehouse that gave entry to the lower city. Bordeaux filled the entire horizon like a monstrous hearth fire that had been stamped out and forgotten. Its walls were blackened, as were the walls of the castle that rose over the city like its once majestic crown.The grand capital was nothing more than ashes.
