Weighing Shadows

by Lisa Goldstein

  She found him in their rooms, practicing on his lute. She was panting from her run and had to stop a moment, take several deep breaths, but finally she managed to tell him what the kitchen boy had said. “Go get the others,” he said. “And then we’ll find Guilhem.”

  Franny and Jerry were still in the kitchens, and she hurried back to them. Then another run through the castle, all three of them this time, and finally they were all together in their room, gathered around Charles.

  “Ann and Franny, you go out into the city, try to find this man,” Charles said. “Do you know where the market square is?” They both nodded. “And Jerry and I will look through the castle, see if he came here.”

  He gave them a handful of coins to bargain with. “Although,” he said, “if Guilhem truly thinks the key was left by an angel, he might not want to give it up for any price.”

  None of the guards said anything as they walked out of the main door. Apparently people here were free to go if they wanted, though the expressions on the guards’ faces said that they were crazy to leave the protection of the castle.

  A loud crash sounded as they went down the road into the city. They both startled, and then Ann laughed. “It’s just the catapults, throwing stones against the walls,” she said.

  “Just?” Franny said.

  “I thought it was a bomb. That’s one thing to be grateful for, anyway, that they don’t have modern technology.”

  “They can do a lot of damage with what they have. You heard them in the kitchen—Simon de Montfort is here. Remember him?”

  “Of course.” Montfort had shown his abilities as a military tactician at the beginning of the crusade and had been promoted from the ranks. He would go on to win nearly all of the Languedoc for the northerners, and be given Trencavel’s titles of Viscount of Béziers and Carcassonne.

  “And it’s nowhere near the time he dies,” Franny said. Montfort had been—would be—killed nine years from now, when the defenders of Toulouse threw a catapult stone back at the crusaders’ army. According to legend, it was the women and children on the walls who threw the stone.

  “Well, we don’t know when he dies in this timeline,” Ann said. “He didn’t have to invade Carcassonne in the history we know about—he could die in the fighting hern.” She paused, thinking. “Doesn’t it seem like the company is changing a lot more than they usually do, in this tace?”

  Franny nodded. “I thought of that too. Anything can happen now—anyone can die, even people who survived in our timeline. Well, they must know what they’re doing, up on the fifth floor.”

  They had come to a confusion of streets and pathways, what would look like a child’s scribble on a map. Walls leaned outward, creating pools of shadows that kept out the heat from the sun.

  “We should be paying more attention here,” Franny said. “I think the market square is back that way.”

  They turned around and reached the empty market square. A few banners hung listlessly in the hot air, and Ann could smell cattle dung, but the market itself was deserted.

  They reached the street the church was on, then turned right, away from the market. “What does a shoemaker’s shop look like in this tace?” Franny asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it has a big old sign in the shape of a shoe. Like this sign here.”

  Franny looked up and saw the sign, then bumped her hip against Ann’s, delighted. “Oh, thank God,” she said.

  They knocked on the door. “Who’s there?” someone called out.

  “Guilhem?” Ann asked. “We’d like to see the angel’s relic.”

  Guilhem opened the door a crack, then swung it wider when he saw the two women. “Of course,” he said. “Come in.”

  He led them through his front room, a cobbler’s workshop. Wooden feet stuck up into the air, guides to shoe sizes; they looked like people buried head down, only their feet showing. They passed sheets of leather laid out on counters, and knives and needles and thick, heavy thread. The smell of leather saturated the air.

  Guilhem reached under a counter and brought out the key. “Can I—can I hold it?” Ann asked.

  “No,” Guilhem said. He set it down on the counter. “It’s a holy object—I don’t want it to lose its virtue with too much handling.”

  “The Church of St. Michael sent us,” Ann said, the idea coming to her at that moment. Franny, she was gratified to see, revealed only a small start of surprise, and then schooled her face to show nothing. “They want us to buy the relic from you, so all of Carcassonne can benefit from it.”

  “It’s not for sale. I was the one the angel chose—he must have had a reason for it. I can’t possibly give it to you, or anyone else.”

  “You have to,” Franny said. “The city’s under siege—you know that. All of us need the angel’s help, his blessing, not just you. You have to share it with the rest of us.”

  “No, I don’t.” His face grew sly. “How do I know you’re from the church, anyway? I’ve never seen you there. And why wouldn’t the fathers come themselves, instead of sending two women—and two women I’ve never seen before, with outlandish accents?”

  Ann felt a desperate impatience. The key was so close, almost within her grasp. “You’re being selfish,” she said. “What happens when the army invades? You’ll get the luck of it, and everyone else will die, will be killed. You’ll be condemned to hell for your greed.”

  “I want the fathers to tell me that, like I said. Anyway, the army won’t invade. The relic will protect us, that and the strong walls.”

  At that moment, almost as if he had called them up, loud voices rose from further down the hillside. A trumpet sounded, and another answered. Someone screamed.

  “They’re here,” Ann said.

  THE COBBLER LOOKED AROUND, panicked. “No, they can’t be. They can’t. The angel—”

  Ann caught Franny’s gaze and grabbed the key, and the two of them ran for the street. The cobbler raced after them, shouting. Franny seized a hammer from the counter and threw it at him, and he groaned and fell to the floor.

  They hurried outside. The shouts were louder here; it sounded as if the crusaders had reached the market square.

  “Which way’s the castle?” Ann asked.

  “Over here.”

  They ran through the streets, away from the market. They got lost again almost immediately, finding themselves in a narrow road with three ways leading out. High rooftops blocked their view.

  “Which one?” Ann said.

  “God, I don’t know. Here—this one goes uphill, at least.”

  They ran up the pathway and reached a dead end, hemmed in by the backs of several houses. They turned around, back to the narrow road and the three choices.

  Ann took one of the two remaining roads at random. It let them out onto a larger street, one she had never seen before. Someone shouted, sounding very close, and someone else screamed.

  They ducked into an alleyway and peered out. A horse and rider trotted past them, hooves striking loud against the cobblestones. A banner flew from the rider’s lance, and he wore a red cross sewn to his tunic. Ten or twelve foot soldiers followed behind him.

  As they watched, another group came around a corner. The horse neighed through its headguard, and the two companies clashed together.

  The crusaders had more men, Ann saw, and they were better armed. And the soldiers of Languedoc didn’t seem ready for battle, despite all of Trencavel’s preparations. Like Ann they had probably expected the war to start only after the walls had been breached. But she hadn’t heard the walls come down, and she wondered how the crusaders had gotten inside.

  The man with the cross leaned down from his horse and swung a sword at his opponent. Ann looked away. She couldn’t stop herself from hearing the sounds of battle, though: cries and groans and screams. One of the crusaders shouted triumphantly, “God wills it!”

  Someone started singing. Others joined in, ragged at first and then louder. She looked back. Several men lay
dead or dying, and more were hurrying away. The crusaders marched on down the street, still singing lustily. One or two kicked at the dead men as they passed.

  Without talking about it she and Franny waited for a long time, until the crusaders had gone out of sight. Then they edged out into the larger street and looked around them.

  They could see the castle now, and they headed toward it. Horses neighed from somewhere, and they heard hooves galloping over the cobblestones. Black smoke blossomed a few streets away.

  Someone shouted behind them: “There’s two of them, over there!”

  They turned and saw another group of men coming around a corner. They began to run.

  The men hurried after them. “Why are you running, ladies?” a voice called out. “Why aren’t you safe inside the castle, with your menfolk?”

  “Heretic women don’t have menfolk,” someone else said.

  “We’ll show them what they’re missing, then!”

  Ann looked around frantically. A row of houses, another church way down at the end of the street. Would it give them sanctuary? No, probably turn them over to the crusaders. Anyway, they couldn’t possibly reach it in time.

  Then she saw it, a word painted on one of the houses. No, it couldn’t possibly say that. But as she got closer she saw that she’d been right: “Cor,” it said. “Heart,” in the dialect of Languedoc, but it could also mean …

  “In here!” she said to Franny.

  “What? Why?”

  She was panting too hard to answer. Instead she grabbed her and thrust the door open.

  “No, wait,” Franny said. “Who lives here?”

  She closed the door behind them and leaned against it, breathing heavily. “What is this place?” Franny asked.

  “Shhh,” Ann said. “I think it’s—”

  A section of the wall rotated around a central hinge. A woman came out from behind it. “Good day, my ladies,” she said. “Would you take some refreshment, for your hearts’ sake?”

  “Refreshment!” Franny said. “There’s an army—”

  “Hush,” Ann said. “Yes, we would love some refreshment. For our hearts’ sake.”

  “We must hurry then,” the woman said. They followed her into the next room, and the wall rotated back.

  The woman wore a long white gown; it looked like Maheut’s dress but opposite, like those photo negatives they used to have. Another woman, younger than the first, was cutting up some fruit and setting it on a plate.

  The second woman held the plate out to Ann and Franny. Apples, sliced neatly through the middle. It looked like a ritual, or a sacrament. Was she supposed to say something, or do something? Would they throw the two of them out if she got this wrong?

  A shout came from behind the wall. “Ann! Franny! Let me in!”

  “Is that a friend of yours?” the first woman asked.

  It was Jerry. How had he gotten here? Had he followed them?

  “Yes,” Ann said. “Could you help him please? Bring him inside?”

  “We don’t allow men into our gatherings,” the first woman said.

  “I saw you go in there!” Jerry called out. “You have to let me in—they’re coming after me!” He pounded on the wall with his fists but it didn’t move. “Please, they’ll kill me!”

  “Can’t you—can’t you make an exception?” Ann said. “You heard him—they’ll kill him if he stays out there.”

  “I’m sorry, truly.” The woman did look unhappy, even compassionate, as if she would have let him in if the rules hadn’t made it impossible. “There are no exceptions. If one man finds out about us he’ll tell others, and our safety would be gone.”

  “He won’t tell anyone, I promise,” Ann said.

  “I know what you’re up to,” Jerry said, quieter now. “Charles told me to follow you, see where you go. You belong to Core, don’t you? Look, I won’t say anything to him, I swear. I’ll tell him you went right to that shoemaker, that the company has nothing to worry about.”

  The woman had grown more and more alarmed during this speech. “How does he know about Cor?” she whispered.

  “If you don’t let me in I’ll tell them everything,” Jerry said. “Where you went, what you did. They’ll round up everyone you met and—”

  There was a terrible sound, a sort of squishy thud, and then Jerry screamed. Ann listened, horrified. Had someone run him through with a sword? Then another sound, a body falling to the ground.

  “That’s done for him,” a voice said.

  “He was talking to someone, though,” another voice said. “Is there anyone else here?”

  “No. Don’t worry about him. He was crazy, terrified.”

  “All right.”

  They heard footsteps, and the door opening and closing. Then silence.

  “You see?” the woman said. “He knew about Cor, he was threatening to tell others. We can never make exceptions, not even for friends. Now, let’s eat.”

  How could she sound so unconcerned? Jerry was dead. Ann had worked with him, lived with him, gotten to know him—how could she eat anything now? It reminded her of Kaphtor, where life and death had lain so close together there was not even a breath to separate them.

  She looked around her. Bright cushions lay scattered over the floor, covered with pictures of birds and fish and flowers. A third woman was sitting there, a very old woman with wrinkled face. Her mouth had collapsed inward; probably she had few teeth left. But her hair was still beautiful, long, the color of lustrous ivory.

  Light came from oil lamps set in niches around the room. There was another niche at the front, larger than the others, with a statue of a woman. Mary, probably, she thought.

  The two women sat, and she and Franny joined them. “My name is Azelaïs,” the first woman said. “This is Hélis, and Giraude.” She indicated the young woman, and the old one. “And since you don’t seem to know the ceremony of the apples, I will perform it for you. But you must tell me how you knew the password, but not this ritual.”

  Azelaïs took the plate of apples from Hélis. Then she took out a knife from her belt and used it to cut lines between the five seeds of an apple, lines which, when she was finished, joined up in a pentagram. “Thus did Teacher Mara show us, in the long-ago time,” she said. She scored the other apples on the plate, then held them out to Ann and Franny.

  Ann had been glad of the ceremony; it gave her time to concentrate, to think about what she was going to say. In the end, though, the only answer she could come up with was the truth.

  She took a deep breath. “We’re from very far away, another country. We heard about Cor”—she tried to pronounce it the way Azelaïs had, with a nasal “r” at the end— “and we wanted to join, but we knew nothing else about it.”

  “Nothing? Not about Teacher Mara, and the prophecies?”

  Mara? Did Azelaïs mean Mary? She glanced at the statue in the niche and noticed for the first time that the woman was black. There were supposed to be statues of Black Madonnas all over Europe, she knew, but Professor Strickland had not talked about them much in history class; they had nothing to do with the current assignment.

  Azelaïs followed her gaze. “Yes, that’s her,” she said. “She gave us all our assignments in the long-ago time. And she spoke prophecies, told us about events that came to pass just as she said they would, down through the many years.”

  “Meret!” Franny whispered urgently, just as the same thought had occurred to Ann. Had Meret done what she said she would do, had she gathered a group of women around her in Kaphtor and taught them to resist the company? And could a group like that have survived for twenty-five hundred years?

  “We heard something about Teacher Mara,” Franny said cautiously. “How accurate her prophecies are.”

  “Very accurate,” Hélis said. “More so than any soothsayer we have ever seen, or heard of.”

  Meret had to be Mara, then. Who else could have given such accurate predictions of the future? Meret had a computer with her, aft
er all, which could have held all of human history. She thought of the scope of Meret’s achievement and felt a thrill travel through her, starting at her heart and shivering outward.

  “But we may have failed in our assignment,” Azelaïs said.

  “What do you mean?” Franny said.

  “We were supposed to introduce the poetry of the Moors to the people here, in the south of France. Not us, of course, but our sisters in Cor a hundred years ago. And the people of that time took up the Moors’ poetry eagerly, they composed songs that talked about their love for women, of their beauty. We had thought that this would remake the way men think of women, that they would remember her essential nobility before they raped a woman, or hit her, or killed her. And some men did change, some of the nobility, and among the troubadours. But for the most part they stayed the same, they continued to think of women as they always had.”

  Someone shouted in the street. Ann stirred uneasily. She had kept the key in her left hand, had held onto it through everything that had happened, and now she felt it digging into her palm. Shouldn’t they be heading back?

  But she wanted to talk to Azelaïs, to hear more about Core. And Charles could wait, she thought. He hadn’t trusted them, had sent Jerry to follow them … Jerry. That’s right, Jerry was dead, his body waiting for them just outside the doorway. How could she have forgotten?

  She forced herself back to the conversation. “But you did change some things,” she said. “Trencavel, he was always very polite to me, and I was only a servant, someone who worked in the kitchens.”

  “Have you noticed that they will call a woman beautiful, but they never say what she looks like?” Azelaïs said. “What color her hair is, or her eyes, or whether she is tall or short or fat or thin? Any of these women can be exchanged for any other.”

  Ann hadn’t, but she realized it was true as soon as the other woman mentioned it. She nodded.

  “They sing to a statue of a woman,” Azelaïs said. “A woman they created.”

  Ann nodded again. She’d heard people talk about putting women on pedestals, but she’d never really understood it; no one before had ever singled her out, made her feel special. Now she got it, though. If you put a woman on a pedestal you didn’t have to deal with her, her messy flesh and blood, who she really was. You could treat her as your own construct, a made-up woman, a receptacle for your fantasies.