The Miracle Thief

by Iris Anthony

  I tried to gather my courage, but I failed miserably.

  A pig nosed at the gate, nudging it farther open. A man looked in at me as he passed.

  I drew back into the shadows.

  The pig squealed as he found the cook’s pile of garbage. Another came trotting over to join it.

  As I stood there, thinking about leaving, a second man looked in, slowing his pace. Stopping altogether, he put a hand to the gate, drawing it open even wider. Searching the courtyard with his eyes, he sent a furtive glance back over his shoulder before advancing.

  And then he saw me.

  He started, touched his hat and, mumbling something, moved away, joining the others out on the street.

  The pigs moved on as well, snorting and squealing as they went. Knowing I must leave at some point, I followed. As I stepped onto the street, I felt certain someone would say something. That someone would point to me. Laugh at me. Tell me to go on home.

  But nothing happened.

  Things went on the same way they always had when I had been on the other side of the window, safe inside the house. No one stopped. No one looked. No one even noticed. But even so, it was…different. Viewing the goings-on was not the same as being a part of them. I had not known that a horse was so big or that a child could be so small. I had heard the rattle of carts as they’d passed by, but they sounded so much louder now that I was in the midst of them.

  “Hey, girlie. Move!”

  I turned around to see a cart coming at me; the man pulling it was red of face, and he seemed not to care that he was about to walk right into me.

  Someone grabbed at my elbow and pulled me from his path. But when I turned to offer my thanks, I was nearly knocked over by a horse.

  “Are you blind?”

  Everything was so loud, and everybody was moving so quickly. There were too many things to be kept track of. Somehow, I found my way to the side of the road and stood there, trying to determine a safe way to join the throngs. But no one slowed, no one stopped; there was never a break in all the humanity that passed before me. I glanced back across the road at the gate to our house. Going back seemed just as dangerous as moving forward. But in this world beyond the window, I did not have a mother to tell me what to do, and I did not have any servants to assist me.

  How did people survive?

  Who told them all what must be done?

  A man brushed past as if I was not even there, pushing into my shoulder as he went. A dog ambled by and then turned back, pausing to snuffle around the hem of my tunic. Lifting the skirt, I shook it at him. He let out a whine, wagging his tail, and then darted out into the street.

  As I stood there, overcome and defeated, bells began to ring.

  Was I already late?

  Staying as far from the road as I could, I started off in the direction from which I’d always heard bells. Mother had described them to me, the pair of them, sitting high on the roof of the church. If I followed their sound, then I knew I would find the church.

  I need not have worried. As I neared the end of the street, wondering which way to turn, a glance toward the sky gave me a glimpse of a steeple. I followed that sight as it bobbed in and out of view, and finally the street opened up onto the market square with its fountain. Reminding myself I had nothing to fear, I walked up the church stairs and then in through the doors, pausing as the light outside gave way to the darkness within.

  I took a deep breath and then started forward toward the altar.

  Here, at least, I knew what to do. My mother had told me. There, on my right, was the holy water in its stone font.

  I bent on one knee, twisted to put my good hand in the water, and then made with it the sign of the cross. There were windows, high above near the roof, but they spread only a feeble light. And even then, far above my head.

  It took me a while to find the priest. His dark robes obscured him from sight. When I reminded him I was to go on pilgrimage, he pointed out a second priest, who was sitting in a chair up front near the altar. “You must make your confession before you leave.”

  I went and knelt before him.

  “When did you last confess yours sins, my daughter?”

  Relief infused my face with heat. These were the words I was used to hearing. A priest had come to our house each week and listened to my confession. “It has been a week since my last confession. I confess…” I supposed now was the time for truth. “I confess I have great fear.” But perhaps life outside the house would be different this time. I was grown now. Perhaps this time no one would mock me or beat me.

  “Do you not know what God has said? Fear not, for He is with us.”

  “But I must also confess I do not think God approves of me.”

  “God approves of none of us.”

  Was that true? And if it were, then what was there to hope for?

  I confessed to the sin of covetousness, for I longed to keep the bed that would soon belong to someone else. And I confessed that I doubted God’s provision, for I still had anxious thoughts concerning the pilgrimage I would undertake. I might have confessed to stealing, but I decided my mother would have wanted me to keep her pendant, and it was so small it could not have mattered very much to anyone but me. As well, I would have confessed to the sin that had disfigured me, but I did not know what it was.

  It was not difficult to know why my mother had sent me on pilgrimage to Saint Catherine. No other prayer had healed me. Even so, had she told me what she had written in her will, I would have begged her not to do it. But what else was there for me? No man, no master, would have me with a hand like mine.

  The priest assigned the pilgrimage as penance, and then he absolved me of my sins. When I rose, he asked me to stand to the side, where a growing number of people were milling about, waiting on a man who wore a crimson robe. I stood while others presented gifts or made their petitions, and then he turned to me.

  “And what of you, child?”

  I bowed my head. “I am to go on a pilgrimage to the abbey at Rochemont to pray to Saint Catherine.”

  “Ah! The heiress’s daughter. You have put your affairs in order? You have signed a will?”

  “I own nothing.” Nothing but what I wore and those few things I carried with me.

  “But the poor are always blessed.”

  I did not feel blessed. I felt sad and lonely.

  “Here is your letter.” He handed me a folded piece of parchment.

  I took it with my good hand.

  “Show this to any who ask, and he will know you are a pilgrim.”

  I nodded.

  His brow wrinkled as he looked at me. “Do you not have a proper scrip?”

  “A—a what?”

  “A scrip. A pilgrim’s bag.”

  “I have this.” I held up the cloth into which I had bundled my few possessions.

  The priest frowned. “It is not the same.”

  “I did not know it was required.”

  His gaze traveled the length of me, from the toe of my shoes to my uncovered hair. “If you are not properly equipped as a pilgrim, I do not know that you can make a proper pilgrimage.”

  “Please, Your Excellency. It was my mother’s dying wish, and I have no home. Everything is to be sold to pay our debts. There is nothing else for me to do.”

  “Then you must marry.” He gazed out around us at the people who were waiting for him, as if looking for someone to agree to take me.

  “I…cannot.”

  His eyes came back to me, his gaze softening. “Have you made a vow to God then?”

  “No.” God had already made it clear He did not want me. “Please, Your Excellency.”

  “Your tunic has no cross, you have no scrip. Do you even have a pilgrim’s hat? Or a staff?”

  “Please. I have none of those, and it is too late for me to come
by them now. I could not hold a staff if I wanted to.” I lifted my arm and let my sleeve fall back from my hand.

  As he saw it, his mouth dropped open, and he shrank from me, making the sign of the cross as he stepped back.

  I had deceived myself. Everything was exactly the same as before. Nothing had changed in the world beyond my window. He was just like the rest: he too believed I had the devil’s hand. I sank to my knees, letting my sleeve fall down across my hand. “Please, bless me. I wish only to be healed. Perhaps Saint Catherine will hear my prayers and help me.”

  The people who had been waiting behind me had stepped back at the sight of my hand. The church that had hummed with whispered conversations had stilled. Somehow, this sudden silence was worse even than shouted cries and cruel blows.

  I bent, resting my head upon my knees. Was my pilgrimage to end before it had even begun?

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  I lifted my head and saw the bishop.

  “Rise, Daughter. Hand me your pack.”

  I rose, handing it to him.

  Taking it, he walked over to the font. Sprinkling it with holy water, he blessed it. “Lord Jesus Christ receive this scrip, the habit of your pilgrimage, that after due chastisement you may be found worthy to reach in safety the shrine of Saint Catherine, and after the accomplishment of your journey, you may return to us in health.” He sprinkled my tunic with the holy water as well, and then he blessed me. I stood there, head bowed, until he stepped away and started back toward the others who awaited him.

  “Please, Your Excellency?”

  His footsteps paused.

  “Where is Rochemont?”

  “It is…” He frowned. “Well, it is to the east. In the mountains.”

  “And how am I to get there?”

  “What do you mean how?”

  “I mean…I mean… Where do I go?”

  “You go out through the gate, and you walk. Walk until you get to the hospice at Couches. Spend the night there. Walk until you gain the next one.” He turned with a shrug.

  I walked out of the church and down the steps into the square. There, I paused. I was far beyond the view from my window now. I had never been past this square before, and I did not know where the abbey at Rochemont was to be found. I did not even know where the walls of the city were. Should I go to the right or to the left?

  I went left, away from my misshapen right hand. At length, I saw a stone wall ahead of me. I followed it around to the left and finally found what I was looking for: a gate. As I walked beneath its soaring arches, I left the city and everything I had ever known behind me, knowing only one thing for certain.

  I still did not know which way to go.

  CHAPTER 6

  Gisele

  SAINT-CLAIR-SUR-EPTE

  It was so bright. My eyes contracted suddenly, painfully, leaving me squinting as sunlight glinted off the river that wound past at my feet. Ignorant of the scores of soldiers who had perished to the north in the battle against the Danes—that vile, evil, wicked race—the River Epte swirled by in lazy currents as birds foraged in the grassy banks. It seemed the world cared not what had happened at Chartres.

  I leaned too far forward, and the earth crumbled away beneath my toes and dropped into the water.

  A man on the opposite bank came down the tree-lined road toward the river. I stepped back, shrinking behind the willow tree I hoped was hiding me from view. Across the narrow river from our own Frankish camp, the Danes had struck a camp of their own. Only the river’s slim, silvered arm separated us from them.

  From some distant childhood past, a voice came back to me in a whisper. Along with the memory of a cool hand gripping my arm, and of fingers digging into my flesh.

  They’ll come back for you if aren’t good. Those Danes will come for you like they came to Paris: in the dead of night with seven hundred ships and forty-thousand men. They’ll put your father’s palace to the torch, and it will be all your fault.

  Another voice, another hand. This one gentle, gripping my shoulder, releasing me from the spell cast by those frightful words. I closed my eyes, trying to remember to whom those words and gentle touch had belonged. Not my mother. It could not have been my mother, for I had never known her.

  There’s no need for fear. The voice had been trying to reassure herself as well as me. The Danes are gone. Robert the Strong sent them home, to the lands in the north. They will never trouble us again.

  But that woman had been wrong. The Danes were not gone. They had come again, bringing strife and death and all kinds of evil with them. They had returned.

  I edged away from the tree, just a bit, leaning forward as I held onto a handful of slender branches that had drooped to dangle their tips in the water. I saw the man kneel at the river’s edge. In three leaps, I could have joined him. At this place near the ford, the river was that narrow and that shallow. He cupped his hands and dipped them into the water, and then brought them out to clap against his bearded cheeks. The water snaked down his hands and disappeared into the sleeves of his tunic, while the breeze ruffled his fair hair. His ears were a bright, ruddy red, his eyes a light, piercing blue.

  The wind skipped across the river, fanning the ripples and bringing with it a curious stench. The smell of dung and something the pagans must have eaten that morn. But underneath those odors was something else. I felt my nose curl. It was something unpleasant.

  I let go of the willow’s branches, and they closed in front of me. But still, through the leaves, I could see the man splashing about in the water. And I heard him call out. A second and a third voice joined his.

  I should not have come. Not this close to the river. And not by myself.

  There ought not have been a need for fear. The Danes had been defeated. Robert, the Count of Paris, had taken them at Chartres. They were here to make peace, not war.

  I parted the branches and risked another look.

  They did not seem defeated. The man was standing now, laughing as he called to the others who stood back by the road, drinking from horned cups. As I watched, they were joined by one I had decided was the chieftain among them, an enormous bull of a man, a veritable giant, whose height was matched only by this girth. His hair was the color of flames, and his beard as well, though it was grizzled with gray. Rollo they called him. It was said that when he attacked Bayeux, he had taken Poppa, one of the noble’s daughters, to wife; although in truth, some said she was little more than a concubine. And when they said it, they would send sly glances in my direction and then pretend to apologize when I made it known I had heard what they had said.

  Wife or concubine, she had given the heathen two sons. I shuddered to think of being claimed by such a man. Shuddered to think others might ever say those things they said of Poppa about me. In truth, I did not so much care what any said… It was their thoughts that wounded me. Their unspoken disdain of a princess born to a king’s concubine.

  It did not matter. That is what my father told me, and my grandmother as well. But the more they had reassured me, the more I had doubted their words.

  A girl without a mother grows up knowing things she should not. As well, she grows up wanting things she could not have. Things no girl could have. And yet, still, I craved them. I would have a proper marriage, there was no doubt of that, but I wanted more than an alliance. I wanted a man who would never cast me aside for another. I wanted a man who would never give me reason to be disrespected. A man about whom none would speak behind their hands. I would not be like Poppa. I ought to have smiled at the thought. I could not be like Poppa, for I was the daughter of the King of the Franks.

  As I watched the Danes, contemplating the best way to leave without being seen, a whistle came winging through the air, rustling the willow’s leaves. And then something struck the trunk above me with an alarming thump. As I turned, I realized my curiosity had caught m
e out.

  Andulf, my knight, was sitting atop his courser, scowling at me. Though he was older than some of my former knights had been, he would probably still go on to do great things. Beneath his gruff manner, blunt features, and his steel-colored eyes, he had that look about him. Many of my past knights were now in my father’s service. I was forever following my father about, and they were forever following me. My father got accustomed to them, and then he came to rely upon them, and soon he had taken my men for himself. There was no quicker way to him than through me, and everyone knew it.

  “I was instructed to retrieve you, my lady. And just in time. You look as if you might have wandered across the river to the other side.” He nodded toward the opposite bank.

  Following his gaze, I realized the Danes had made note of our presence. The large one, the chieftain, lifted his horned cup in our direction.

  “Look there, they invite you. Why don’t you go? It might lend some interest to an otherwise dull and dreary duty.”

  Andulf was not the worst of knights. At least he talked to me, even when he did not have to. For a long while, before my father had taken to wife, I was the princess. Now I was just a princess. One of many…the least of those many. I was a princess no one had need of anymore. Lotharingian blood did not flow through my veins as it did through the others’. I could offer a bridegroom only an alliance with my father, and he had more enemies than he did relations. I could not bring anyone ties to Lorraine, like my half sisters could. No one cared what I did, and I had no honor to preserve. Everyone knew I was common; my mother had been a palace servant.

  Even so, at eighteen years, I should have long ago been married, but as loyalties throughout the empire shifted, so did my marriage prospects.

  Andulf extended a hand. “We’ve had word the archbishop is returning.”

  There would be news of the treaty then! I came away from the willow and clasped his hand so he could pull me up to sit behind him.

  He took me back to the villa. As we rode through the palisade, the breeze snapped at the banners that had been hung about, announcing the royal presence. There were horses and squires aplenty in the courtyard, evidence of the counselors who had assembled at their sovereign’s behest.