Armed in Her Fashion

by Kate Heartfield

  “Stand, then, and give your name and your account.”

  Claude stood.

  “I am Claude Jouvenal, formerly of the Genoa Company, and I have never stolen anything,” said Claude in his deepest voice. “I have raided, I have taken my due after battle, I have bought and I have bartered. I know who I am. I am not a thief.”

  The Chatelaine gave him a look like a basilisk.

  If the Chatelaine wanted to hunt him, let her call her dogs. Claude would look after himself. He would not step into a trap.

  “She is lying,” said the Chatelaine. “She admitted her guilt to me, and now she denies it.”

  Claude smiled indulgently.

  Chaerephon coughed and stood. He was cloaked, even in the warm hall, as though the heat of the sun could not touch his skinny body.

  “If I may add, this woman is, as she has admitted here, a liar of long habit. She pretended to be a man, and took up arms, against all of God’s laws and man’s custom.”

  “Is this true?” the bishop asked, looking Claude up and down, as though he might see a mark on his body, as if he might see something dangling between his legs.

  “I was a member of a company and bore arms, Your Excellency.”

  “And have you put aside this sinful practice, and confessed?”

  Claude swallowed. This was a dangerous moment. The Church could put him on trial for heresy if he wasn’t careful.

  “I confessed my sins not long ago, to a priest in Bruges,” he said truthfully. It had not been his idea. He had not had much to say. “I am here today as you see me, in woman’s clothing.”

  There was a long moment, a moment with all sort of possibilities in it, none of them very good. He should have known not to get himself into this mess, to get himself into a place where people stood around him and peered at him and judged him by his body. Was this not his own idea of Hell, from a young age? And here he was, because he had got himself wounded by his own weapon, somehow, and lost his company, lost himself.

  “Are there any witnesses who can speak to the manner of this crime, then?” the bishop asked.

  Claude blinked. Crime? The bishop meant the mace. It was over, then; the question of Claude’s sex was done with. Oh, let it be done with.

  “I shall,” said the Chatelaine. “She was a guest in Hell, and many saw how she greatly admired my arsenal, in particular this mace I wear myself. Then one day she was gone, and with her she took a mace, forged by one of my smiths in copy of mine. She sold the mace to Willem de Vos, the husband of this woman Margriet. That is how the mace came to be among this wealth that she claims, but the mace is mine by right. It was forged by my smith in my fire. It is mine.”

  The bishop sighed. “We shall have to see it.”

  The Chatelaine inclined her head and lifted her hand.

  The Mantis-man brought her a long casket of fresh wood and opened it, holding it out to her. The Chatelaine reached in with her left hand and pulled it out with a triumphant snarl, so that she held one mace in her left hand that was an exact copy of the one she wore on her right.

  An intake of breath echoed round the chapter house. Claude’s arm jumped and quivered. It called out to him. It was his.

  “Your Excellency, if I may?” the king asked.

  The bishop nodded.

  “Come here,” said King Philippe to Claude, “so I may question you.”

  Claude knelt to one knee, then stood and walked toward him.

  “Closer.”

  He did not like the king’s smell, perfumed and oily. Claude had known men like him before. Vainglorious. There was a kind of violence that went with such vanity, an unwillingness to let anything else in the world be beautiful. The King grabbed his kirtled arm and felt it up and down. He took his chin in his hands and looked into his eyes.

  “You are a twisted thing,” he said. “Unnatural. What did you want with the Chatelaine’s weapon?”

  “I wanted to use it to escape,” Claude said, the full truth rolling from his mouth like a ball of fire. “I knew that the mace could open the mouth of Hell.”

  This time it was not a mere intake of breath but a gasp.

  The Chatelaine blanched, but there was nothing she could do. A servant opened the chest and brought the mace to the king. He turned it over in his hands, and peering into the hollow end that had fit over Claude’s arm. It was all Claude could do to stop from grabbing it from him.

  “God be praised, this is a marvel in truth,” said the king. “Not quite as beautiful as the one my lady the Chatelaine wears, of course, but a marvel. And who was the one who made this weapon for you?”

  The Chatelaine whirled to Chaerephon, who stood beside her. He stood, putting out a hand toward her, as if in reassurance.

  “His name was Gobhan Og. An angry man with a long forked beard. He made it for me as a gift, in the hours he was given to rest. He was in the habit of making small secret items, as a sort of practice, I imagine. As my lord, the king, has said, my mace is not nearly as beautiful as the Chatelaine’s. It is rougher at the ends, and has no adornment. If he gave away some of his practice-work that would make him no different than any smith I have known, and it does not make me a thief. You cannot ask him, because now he is dead. Perhaps the Chatelaine would like to explain how he came to be that way.”

  Claude almost laughed as the truth, like a cat o’ nine tails, whipped where it was least expected. It had been a gift, of a sort, although given in exchange for the gift of Claude’s silence about the little arsenal Gobhan Og had been making for himself. Claude had not yet decided whether to tell that part of the truth, or to hold it back, and had not yet decided which would be the mercy to the Chatelaine.

  “Ah,” said the king. “Now I begin to see. The question, it seems, is whether this armourer was free to make and give the piece, what his terms were as he saw them. What a pity he is dead and cannot speak about it.”

  “The mace itself is a small matter,” said the Chatelaine, her voice sharp, “I use it only to make the point that this Willem de Vos was like a magpie, picking up things of unknown provenance. All of it could have been stolen.”

  “But who can ever say, with coins and cups and even weapons?” said the king. “It was all in his possession, and it seems the task before me is to decide which woman should leave here with this chest. That is the reason I called for this trial. After that, if anyone wishes to make a claim on a particular piece, let them bring it to whatever local bailiff or petty lord they wish.”

  The Chatelaine inclined her head. Claude could see her breast rise and fall a few times, and her right hand clenched. Then she raised her head and smiled.

  “As you say, of course. We have made our argument.”

  “Good bishop, do you have enough evidence to make your decision?” said the king.

  Claude watched the bishop’s face. He looked strangely nervous, and would not meet the king’s eye. Ah, then the king had ordered an outcome—which?—and the bishop was not easy about delivering it.

  “I believe we need to devise some sort of test,” said the bishop. “Some way for all to witness the truth, rather than the opinion of one man, no matter how humble and prayerful.”

  Chaerephon coughed. “As it happens, we have already devised just such a test,” he said.

  The bishop smiled at him. An arrangement, or a happy accident for this bishop? And what sort of test?

  Charephon stood. “It remains to be proven that these women are truly widows, and that their husbands are truly dead. So we must see a revenant, and then all can judge.”

  A murmur spread around the chapter house.

  The bishop raised his monumental eyebrows. “Then let us pause for the noon meal and take some time for prayer, for I suspect this procedure will have to go on past Vigils, if we are to question revenants.”

  Claude looked for the first time to M
argriet and Beatrix, to the faces that he knew. And he almost smiled because the weight was off him, because he was an honest man, still. But his smile died when he saw the pallor on Beatrix’s face.

  Mother insisted they eat not in the refectory but eat their own food, outside, away from prying ears. Jacquemine and Mother muttered together while Beatrix nibbled an apple.

  Soon she would be asked to deny her father. And then that would be it, over, the last time she would see him. And Baltazar? Would he come to her again, after all this was done? Would he know that she still loved him, would always love him, even after death?

  The sun was nearly setting when they gathered outside the chapter house, where they could see a revenant without bringing the Plague upon anyone.

  Monks brought torches and they stood in a circle: the king, the Chatelaine, Chaerephon, Margriet, Jacquemine, and Beatrix. And Claude. The knights and squires, dressed in velvet, stood near the king, looking all around as if they hoped to see a wonder. Did they not know to be frightened? Had they not seen what the Grief would do?

  Beatrix was grateful she had left her distaff at the millhouse. No one could blame her now for what came in the night, be it fireflies or apparitions.

  Someone took Beatrix’s hand, with cold fingers.

  She turned to see the face of her husband, and screamed.

  He looked even more battered now. Some of that was her doing: long scratches down his head and face.

  “Oh my love,” she whispered.

  Everyone had moved away from them

  Mother took her shoulders, pulled her away and said, “That’s the wrong one. That’s Baltazar.”

  Beatrix let her mother move her into the crowd of people, leaving Baltazar standing alone.

  “You call him by name,” said the Chatelaine.

  “This is the wrong one,” said Margriet.

  The bishop strode forward and looked at Baltazar in the torchlight. He stood impassive, staring at Beatrix. He only wanted her. He wanted her, and nothing else, just as he always had. And yet she had spurned him, had called an owl upon him.

  She thought she could see, around him like a golden miasma, all his love for her.

  “This is your husband, I believe?”

  Beatrix nodded.

  “Beatrix!” Mother hissed.

  “It was,” she managed.

  “Speak, then,” said the bishop. “Are you alive?”

  Baltazar looked at the Chatelaine and back to the bishop. “I am.”

  “This is not the man in question,” said Jacquemine.

  “One is as good as another,” said the Chatelaine.

  “If one revenant is not dead, none of them are,” said Chaerephon.

  “Is he your husband?” the king asked Beatrix. “What do you say? Look at him, and tell us the truth.”

  Beatrix turned to see him. The wounds on his face and head were as fresh as the day she gave them to him. His gaze was on her.

  “Come closer,” Baltazar said.

  Mother’s grip was strong but Beatrix pulled her arm away and stepped to him.

  “Are you the man I married?” she whispered, so quietly she could barely hear the words herself.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him. When he whispered in her ear there was no breath, no warmth in it.

  He whispered, “I remember all of it. Every word we spoke outside the church door. Every bite of pigeon pie, including the one that fell on your kirtle, and the way you blushed. Every touch of my fingers that night, and how all we did was use our hands on each other, and kiss, that night. I remember all of it. I am very much changed and for that I am sorry but if you deny me you deny those memories.”

  She pulled away and looked at him. His eyes were so dull, his face like stone. He might have been reciting the month’s cloth sales. He knew, he knew it all. But did he still care? And did that matter? She had sworn a vow to him before God.

  “Deny me and I will pester you no more,” he whispered, and his lips quivered as if he were trying to remember how to smile.

  Of course he cared. It was his only care now. Everything else had been stripped away.

  “Do you deny him?” asked the Chatelaine. “Do you deny that this is your husband?”

  If she said yes, she might never see him again. Mother would take her across the ocean, where, people thought, the revenants would not walk. Mother wanted to give her a chest full of gold and a new husband. Beatrix did not want a new husband. She would rather live a pauper, shut away in some hut, like Heloise, clutching to her heart the precious scraps of the love-promises her husband had made. The ghost of Baltazar was worth ten living men.

  “Do you deny him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Beatrix desperately. “I don’t know.”

  “Then you are no widow,” said the Chatelaine gleefully.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The bishop said he would pray on the problem and render his decision in the morning, after lauds.

  The three women slept in the little guesthouse outside the gate. They were invited to the Michaelmas feast, but they chose not to go. Claude, accused of theft, was not invited to the feast, which was just as well. He stayed under guard with the Chatelaine’s lesser servants in the dormitory, but all night long he could hear Baltazar calling Beatrix’s name.

  Was Beatrix covering her ears, or would she have let him in if Margriet and Jacquemine had not been there to stop her?

  Claude wondered what he would do if he heard Janos’s voice on the wind, now, after all these years. It was an idle thought to torture himself with, for Janos had died before the Hellbeast broke the surface of the earth, before revenants became an ordinary sight.

  Claude slept in shallow fits until Monoceros came to collect him at dawn. He found he was relieved to see the horned man. Was it merely that prisoners become fond of the wardens, after a time? Or that Claude recognized in the brigand-turned-marshal a man of the same sort of solitary honour as himself? Or was it only, if Claude were to admit it, that Monoceros’s kind eyes and strong shoulders were fair to look upon?

  He smiled, despite himself, as they walked to the chapter house.

  “You are confident, Claude Jouvenal,” murmured Monoceros.

  “Not in the least,” Claude said. “I except I shall end this day in Hell, one way or another.”

  “You had a chance to earn the Chatelaine’s mercy,” said Monoceros evenly. “You didn’t take it.”

  “I never did expect mercy from anyone,” Claude said. He felt as if he were leaving his body behind already, as though he might as well be a revenant.

  “Well,” said Monoceros, and stopped walking. He glanced around, as if to see whether anyone were in earshot, but the little clumps of people scurrying back to the trial were not close enough to hear. “It is not mercy, and not pity, but if you do find yourself free today, you will find something buried at the crossroads just south of here on the road to Lille.”

  “Something?” he breathed, looking up into Monoceros’ face. It was a well-lined face, the grooves determined, engraved.

  “My old armour,” said the horned man. “It doesn’t fit me anymore anyway.”

  Claude had to take two breaths before he understood.

  “You’re giving it to me?”

  “Don’t tell anyone. A man has to have proper clothing. You can’t very well rejoin your company in a kirtle.”

  Claude swallowed his only response, which threatened to be tears. He couldn’t very well rejoin his company anyway, not with his arm as it was.

  At last he recovered his voice, and nodded.

  “Will you do me another kindness, Monoceros? If it goes the other way. Will you try to make sure that my death is a clean one? Clean and quick?”

  Monoceros did not smile. He closed his eyes for a moment, and gave a very small no
d of his head, just enough to dip the horn a little.

  Claude nodded, too, the movement of his head an anchor, keeping him from weeping, from pleading.

  “My mistress is not cruel,” Monoceros said. “She is only … well, all great lords and princes do as they must. She will want to be rid of you, but I do not think she will want to see you suffer.”

  But she might want to feed me to the Beast, Claude thought, and see me spit out as a revenant. She might relish that indeed, being able to order me hither and thither as if I were one of her dogs. There is no honour in that life, a life without will. If it comes to that, I could wrestle a knife off a guard and cut my throat.

  In the chapter house, Margriet sat on the edge of the stone bench, her hands in her lap. Her face was grey. Her right leg trembled; impatience, Claude reasoned.

  The bishop rose and said, “On the question of whether these so-called revenants can be said to be truly dead, on the question of the state of their souls, I am disinclined to rule.”

  Disinclined to rule? Was that it, then?

  Claude looked at Margriet. Her face was like stone. He looked to the king: he looked angry. Indeed he had wanted a particular outcome, then, and this was not it.

  “I shall send a delegation to Avignon,” said the bishop, “to convey our evidence on this question to our Holy Father the Pope. As for the question before me, though, that is a narrower one. I do not need to rule on whether a revenant is truly dead, but whether his wife is a widow.”

  Blood of Christ, this bishop could out-argue Chaerephon. Men who lived in their own heads were bloody dangerous.

  “As to that,” the bishop continued, “It seems clear to me that the husband, whether he is dead or alive, is still able to work and provide for his family, and I see no obligation for the husband to hand over all his goods to his wife, no matter how vigorously she scolds him. However, I caution that this means Willem de Vos still has the care of his wife, and that God’s law requires him to keep her as a man would any wife, in the way he sees fit.”