Between Two Fires (9781101611616)

by Buehlman, Christopher

  The third was Yvette Michonneau, the bishop’s acknowledged mistress, who died after fighting grimly through an unheard-of ten days of lancings and bleedings, leaving behind three of the bishop of Auxerre’s chubby, dark-eyed bastards. She had been wrapped in a shroud and buried, but the German boy commanded her to be retrieved. Yvette’s mother, also a fighter, had brawled in the churchyard to keep her daughter’s hard-won Christian burial from being upset, grabbing away the sexton’s shovel and breaking one Penitent’s nose with it before being wrestled down and hustled off by her neighbors.

  Auxerre had tried to please God with Christian burials, but clearly something more was required.

  * * *

  The cart was drawing near Auxerre; the square tower of the cathedral beckoned them as they topped a hill near Perigny, but, with only an hour of sun left, they decided to make camp near the wall of an old convent, long abandoned and swarmed with ivy now blushing mostly red. All the ivy in the abandoned village of Perigny crawled toward Auxerre, as if reaching for it with delicate fingers.

  The girl slept hard and neither man wanted to rouse her from her sleep. Thomas covered her with their horse blanket, and then he and the priest left her and went into the damp woods bordering the field looking for sticks dry enough to burn.

  Delphine woke alone in the cart, her heart racing from a dream that a devil was in Auxerre turning people into poppets. In the dream, she was able to stop it, but the devil, who had too many eyes, was very angry, and it chased her. That was when she awoke. She knew the dream was true, and this frightened her so much that she pulled the blanket over her head; then she thought of her father and mother, and of how she would have felt to see either of them turned into a devil’s plaything. She gathered her blanket around her, meaning to set off down the road, knowing she didn’t have much daylight in which to walk the last few miles.

  An angel was sitting on the back of the mule, facing her and wringing its hands. It was the same one she had seen in Paris and back home in Normandy; it was the saddest she had ever seen an angel look. It told her to stay in the cart, speaking as if every word hurt it.

  “Why?” she said.

  She would only make things worse, it said, however noble her desire was. Getting to Avignon was all that mattered.

  “Is a devil going to Auxerre?”

  Yes. A very strong one is already there. And another is coming.

  “Who will help the people in the town? Will you?”

  It hung its head. It was a minor angel, made better at messages than war. The strong ones were fighting in Heaven.

  Delphine thought, from the way the angel spoke, that this fight must not be going well.

  She wanted to cry.

  What would happen to the souls in Heaven if the angels lost? Would they have to go back to their bodies? Now she imagined her mother and father at the end of a stick, jerking beneath a devil’s hand in a parody of a dance.

  Stay in the cart.

  She could not bear to say no to the angel, so she shook her head, though so gently a person might not have noticed.

  She looked around to make sure the priest and the knight didn’t see her, because they would stop her, or follow her and put themselves in danger. She bent to muddy her finger and wrote on the side of the cart. Then she patted the mule’s side, as much to comfort herself as him, and started off down the road barefoot.

  Please, the angel said behind her, and she stopped for a heartbeat and then kept going. She was afraid she might lose heart, so she made herself count ten steps before she looked behind her.

  The angel was gone.

  Thomas found the cart empty, with writing on its side. He put his meager bundle of sticks and chestnuts on the ground and called the priest over.

  The priest read it aloud.

  STAY HERE

  Fully one hundred people had gathered to see the Penitents perform their miracle in the square before Auxerre’s cathedral. A light breeze blew, but it was not so cold since the rains stopped. Rutger’s followers held candles, the last candles the remaining Benedictine monks at the abbey of St. Germain had. They wanted no part of the Penitents’ display, but the Auxerrois had told them plainly that they would have no more food brought to them unless they gave over their tapers; the brothers had already killed their last hog and chickens, and their measly garden could not get them though the winter. They had reminded the crowd that starving out monks was not high on the list of deeds that would get one into Heaven; further, the abbey was dedicated to St. Germanus, who had taught St. Patrick and argued against the Pelagian heresy, and these brothers were the keepers of his holy bones.

  When Giles the armorer suggested that these bones might be put into broth, the monks knew they would get nowhere appealing to the better natures of the Auxerrois, and the candles were surrendered.

  Rutger beat his drum, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

  The Penitents, having handed their candles off to the people, bloodied themselves with their whips and branches in time to the rhythm, ending in an orgiastic frenzy that actually sprayed droplets into the crowd. The madness spread from the flagellants to the townsfolk; many cried out or swayed, and some were moved to begin striking themselves or one another.

  “More!” shouted Rutger, and the blond boy echoed him, crying, “More!” His openmouthed grin might have been the same if he were sledding down a steep hill.

  Some in the crowd punched each other.

  Then the biting began, and the scratching.

  One who held a candle held it to his face, lighting his beard, then slapping it out with a hoarse scream.

  At the crescendo, Jules cut his little finger off with his own knife, shocking Emma, who stood near him openmouthed.

  Rutger saw this and smiled for the first time, showing his crooked teeth.

  “Yes!” Rutger said. “Und zo! It is enough!”

  He beat the drum one time hard.

  The crowd’s violence ebbed, and they edged closer.

  Now he pointed at his acolytes, the four men and women who had given the call and response.

  They took their evil, hooked whips and stood near the dead.

  Rutger banged the drum.

  “Death, where is your power?” he asked.

  “Gone!” responded the eight, whipping the dead ones.

  With each question, he banged the drum.

  With each response, the dead were scourged.

  Death, where are your teeth?

  —Broken!

  Death, where are your wings?

  —Gone!

  Death, where is your staff?

  —Broken!

  Death, where is your glass?

  —Gone!

  With this last stroke, the body of Yvette Michonneau jerked.

  The crowd gasped.

  Death, whom do you serve?

  —The Lord!

  Death, will you obey?

  —Yes, love!

  Death, will you relent?

  —Yes, love!

  Now all of the dead spasmed when struck. Some at the edges of the crowd ran away, but others leaned in, eyes wide. The last slice of sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky lavender and pink.

  Death, will you release this woman?

  —YES!

  Yvette stood in her shroud. A stain spread from where her mouth was. A woman screamed while a few men cheered, and more ran.

  Death, will you release this girl?

  —YES!

  The once-pretty barmaid stood, her blackened face searching the crowd, bewildered.

  Death, will you release this man?

  —YES, LOVE, YES!

  After three savage whip blows, Richard unbent his legs and rolled over on his stomach. He lacked the strength in his limbs to stand unaided, so the acolytes helped him. He swayed there, his simple cap still tied below his chin, moving his ruined jaw as if to speak, but nothing came out. Another half dozen broke and ran, including two shirtless Penitents who had come from the las
t town.

  “When these sisters and this brother are strong enough, I will send them to find the unbelievers who ran from this holy place. They are very good at finding. And all of you who march with me shall be proof against the plague; for if you die, I will make you live again, as you have seen with your own eyes.”

  Emma, who had been watching all of this as if in a dream, moved forward shouting, “No!”

  Rutger saw her, and said, “This woman fears her husband, even as Lazarus was feared. But her man will heal and love her once more. All these departed shall be restored to health. If you believe.”

  “This is wrong!” Emma shouted, pointing her cane. And then, pathetically, “Leave him alone.”

  “Wrong? How can this be wrong when it comes from the Lord?”

  “It is only for Christ to raise the dead. And I do not think you are Him.”

  “Are you sure? There is no middle place, you know. You had better be sure.”

  “If you’re a man of God,” Emma said, “pray the Pater Noster.”

  Rutger smiled and wagged his finger at her, as if she were a naughty child.

  “Lord,” Rutger said, “if this woman’s disbelief displeases you, show us some sign.”

  The boy threw the stub of a carrot at her, hitting her dress.

  The crowd gasped.

  Everyone was looking at her, many with their mouths open in disbelief.

  She looked at her arms and saw why.

  She had turned yellow.

  Now a voice from the crowd spoke up.

  “Stop it!”

  A young girl in a dirty gown stood near the front of the crowd, holding a blanket around her.

  “STOP IT!” she shrieked. The people of Auxerre parted to let her through. All of the Penitents, even Rutger, were dumbstruck at the sight of her, and nobody stopped her as she went to poor old Richard and kissed his hand.

  As soon as she did, he collapsed and returned to death.

  “No!” Rutger shouted.

  The boy ran over to her, shouting madly, “Was tust du?! Was tust du?” She ignored his words and shouldered him aside, now kissing the hand of the wine maiden, who also gratefully crumbled.

  Now the boy pushed her from behind, but instead of falling, she let the momentum carry her forward toward Yvette, whose hands were still bound in the shroud. The girl knelt and kissed one of her bare feet, causing her, too, to fall.

  The boy spun the girl around.

  “WAS TUST DU, HEXE!?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at him, even through him, with her sad, luminous gray eyes, “It’s not your fault. But you’re dead, too.”

  She kissed the beautiful boy on the cheek and he exhaled in a long rasp, and did not inhale again. Rather, he turned back to the plague-spotted dead boy he had been when Rutger found him, and fell as if exhausted into Delphine’s arms. She laid him down and gently closed his eyes.

  Now two of the Penitents grabbed Delphine’s arms brutally, shouting, “Witch! Witch!”

  “Let go of her!” shouted a woman.

  “No! She is a witch!” a man screamed, and soon the crowd was pushing and tearing at itself, some trying to get at the girl, some trying to protect her. She was slapped sharply, and her hair was yanked so hard it hurt her neck. The acolytes who held her pulled her back, looking at Rutger for leadership, but he was oblivious to them, staring at the girl as if he might stare through her skin and see what she was.

  The crowd had become a mob.

  Those who saw the girl as wicked had overpowered the others and now surged toward the acolytes, who threw her to them and ran.

  The crowd grabbed her roughly, tearing her blanket from her and using it to bind her arms to her sides. She knew she was too weak to fight them; she wished Thomas were here, then blinked that wish away, knowing he would die for her and still the mob would have her.

  They lifted her up above them, and she was sure they would dash her head against some wall; it seemed they were all shouting at once. She let her body go limp, trying to see it from outside herself. If she must die, she would neither cry nor cry out—it was all she could do, so she focused on that. She would die bravely.

  Rutger was walking closer, still staring at her.

  What are you?

  “Throw her in the Yonne!” one shouted.

  “Yes! And with a stone around her neck!”

  They had started moving in that direction, toward one of the dark little streets that led steeply downhill and to the river, but they did not leave the square with her.

  A woman who was holding Delphine’s leg screamed.

  Then another.

  Delphine was dropped, but thankfully landed on her feet.

  She worked her arms free from the hastily bound blanket as a man yelled, “I’m blind!”

  “Me, too!” said another.

  “God help us!”

  Rutger pulled the tongue from the one who said that and flung it to the ground, now looking around madly for whatever or whoever had struck the people blind.

  All of the townsfolk and acolytes near the girl had lost their sight, falling on all fours, groping their way toward the walls of the church or the buildings nearby, moaning or sobbing or praying. She took a thumb in the eye from one of them, got kicked in the back, and scampered between the legs of another. It was chaos.

  A knight with a face somewhere between a man’s and a lion’s had entered the square from the direction of the river. His armor was bloody, as was the axe he carried head-down in his left hand. He was riding a grayish horse with human mouths where its eyes should be and hands instead of hooves.

  Rutger, who was a head taller than he had been, started moving toward Delphine, flinging the blind out of his way; his eyes seemed to be multiplying, now four, now eight. The ghastly horse at the far end of the square reared, the hands at the ends of its forelegs grasping at the air.

  Now Delphine saw the angel; it stood in an alley, unseen by the devils in the square, more purely itself than it had been upon the mule. Its beauty crushed something inside Delphine and made nectar of it.

  It looked right at her.

  Then, with what seemed very little effort, it pushed over the glover’s shop it stood next to, a woman screaming from the top floor; the building fell heavily between Delphine and the devils, shielding her from their view.

  The angel said only one word.

  It said, Run.

  NINETEEN

  Of the War Drawing Near

  The wind picked up, now rushing north, then turning hard south as though something massive were sucking air in and blowing it out again. Thomas and the priest looked at one another, the sound of the rustling leaves thick around them and the sky seeming to glow faintly green, though the sun was well down.

  The glowing coals of their fire went out entirely.

  “The girl,” Thomas said.

  The priest licked his lips and looked at the sky.

  A tar-black cloud of sorts bled up from Auxerre, tapered from the ground like a snake’s tail, spinning. He had heard of such a thing before; a sailor had told him of spouts that came down from the clouds and played on the face of the sea. But this one did not dip down from clouds; it rose from the ground and spread, making clouds where there had been none, blackening the faint green of the sky like ink polluting water. The tapered cloud, spinning ever faster, swayed now like a seductress at her dance, kicking up debris at its base.

  The two men thought they heard the sound of screaming, but it was impossible to tell if it was coming from Auxerre or the awful wind, which blew harder now, sucking in, blowing out.

  “Mary, Mother of God,” the priest said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

  “We have to find her!” Thomas said, pulling the priest into the cart, but neither one of them could make the mule move. So they went on foot, at something between a walk and a run, Thomas still limping on his hurt leg.

  Now the ground shook, as though something impossibly heavy had fallen.
One corner of a stone farmhouse to their right collapsed, and the wind blew harder yet, slowing the men to the speed of a steep uphill walk. Stinging twigs and other small missiles pelted them, and then a branch tumbled from the sky, catching the priest on the crown of his head, knocking him down. Thomas took his hand and yanked him up; they trudged on, coming to a higher place on the road. Shielding their faces with their arms as best they could, they saw that a second spinning cloud had joined the first, both of them tearing trees from the ground and sucking them upward. A man’s shout rose from a farmhouse nearby, and the men saw why; the two clouds had broken contact with the ground. Their tapered bottoms became tails, and their thicker tops seemed to become wings. One of the clouds grew two great black wings, and the other grew six that seemed to fold in on one another

  Seraph good sweet Lord a fallen seraph

  and, just like that, both of them bled themselves up into the larger cloud that now covered most of the sky.

  The exhausted priest stopped running and fell to his knees.

  God God God

  “Where are you?” the priest said.

  “Here!” Thomas said, but the priest was looking at the sky.

  “WHERE ARE YOU?” the priest now screamed, gnashing his teeth.

  Thomas yanked him up, but he pulled away, shaking his head. Finally he collapsed against a tree and wrapped his arms around it, refusing to move farther.

  Thomas left him and trudged on for Auxerre, where the bells of the cathedral were ringing with great urgency.

  The cloud had become a proper thunderhead now, its tops chaining with jags of lightning.

  Everything about the sky was wrong.

  It was a sky of Revelation.

  The ground shook again, harder than before, raising a chorus of shouts from the town.

  The bell stopped ringing.

  Thomas stopped walking now, transfixed by the spectacle taking place in the sky.

  And then he saw it.

  A great blackness against the sky.