She nodded nonetheless. ‘Safer. They have special doctors there. Plague doctors. And places for the sick. Pest houses. The plague is coming from the north-east, they say. Soldiers are bringing it with them from the wars in the Low Countries. We shall head west, where the air is much better. Don’t worry.’
The goat twitched an ear and altered her position on the ground. She fussed loudly, then rested her whiskery chin in the cool dirt, observing them with her twitchy, slipshod eyes. Charlotte reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of mulberries. She nibbled the sour fruit from their stems until her lips were bruised with dark juice. Nicolas did the same. Together they watched a lone hawk lofting soundlessly on the breeze, going higher, drifting in ever wider circles until, finally, it arched its wings, veered away and dissolved against the brown and green patterns of the earth. It was, somehow, a sorrowful sight and Charlotte feared that the tide of dread she had managed to contain within her would soon split her skin.
‘Perhaps all the mice died of fever, too?’ Nicolas ventured.
Despite herself, Charlotte laughed. ‘Yes. Perhaps.’
Presently, they heard the distant tinkling of a bell, followed by the bark of a dog. Nicolas stood and looked around.
‘It’s Anton,’ he said, delighted, and stepped from the shelter to wave him down.
Eventually, the grubby peddler noticed the boy waving and hooting to him and changed direction, leaving the track and bearing straight through the field. His voice became clearer as he approached, goading his dog onwards with a combination of endearments and furious curses. ‘Come on, you lazy bastard, my beautiful boy, my evil whore, that’s the way . . .’
Soon he loomed through the wheat, the large black dog ahead of him pulling a trunk which had been adapted, ingeniously, with wooden wheels and a canine leather bridle. A brass bell dangled at the poor hound’s throat.
On his own back, Anton lugged a massive woven basket which was itself packed with numberless other canisters and packages, each of which was, in turn, stuffed with pins and needles and bobbins and tools and knives and who knew what else – probably Anton didn’t even remember everything he carried anymore. He sold household items, sharpened knives, dispensed worldly advice and attempted to seduce all the prettiest women.
They exchanged greetings as the peddler and his hound moved into the shade of the chestnut tree. Anton uncoupled the dog’s trunk of goods and the poor animal flopped, panting, to the ground, pink tongue lolling. Then, with much grunting and sighing, Anton steadied his walking staff – which was fashioned with a curved seat at its top – against his ample arse and leaned back until it supported him against the earth. A contented smile seeped from his lips and spread across his face.
Anton was a big man, always sweaty, roughly bearded. His nose was missing its tip after a corsair hacked at him with his cutlass in Saint-Malo, or so he had always claimed, and this aspect of his face gave him a decidedly sinister appearance. His white shirt was poorly patched, as were his breeches. He had come every summer for as long as Charlotte could remember, beetling across the countryside, stopping here and there, accumulating gossip and sweethearts, ridding himself of his wares, drinking most happily the wine of strangers.
Charlotte observed him suspiciously, this fellow who claimed to have sailed at sea, to have killed a bear in the Spanish mountains. There were those who adored him and welcomed his seasonal arrival, while others maintained he was no more than a sly villain whose principal skill lay in divining and exploiting the weakness particular to each person’s heart. It was whispered that, in addition to household goods, he stocked more unsavoury items – the teeth of hanged men, dried rabbit hearts, the finger bones of saints. Who knew, really, what to believe about such a man? As usual, he smelled of rotten onions, of things overripe and old.
‘And what are you doing up here, so far from home, my little ones?’ he asked in his creamy northern accent, untying the thin blue scarf from his neck to wipe sweat from his face and brow. He breathed like the bellows at a blacksmith’s forge.
‘The plague has come,’ Nicolas said.
Anton spat on the ground. ‘Ah. Here as well?’ He scrutinised Charlotte, then Nicolas, eyes slitted with mistrust. ‘And you have it too, I believe.’
‘We don’t,’ said Nicolas.
‘Yes. I think so. Both of you.’ He tapped his dirty fingers to his lips. ‘Here. Do you not taste blood on your mouths?’
Charlotte touched her lips, heart thrumming. No. Surely not. It couldn’t be true. She put a hand to her throat, felt the sweat on her face. It was from the heat of the day, surely, and the arduous walk? She spat into her own palm and was dismayed to see her saliva was thin and discoloured with dollops of red. She stared at it, disbelieving.
Anton made a face at once sympathetic to their plight and triumphant at being the first to diagnose it. Nicolas had grown pale and he ran his hands over his body, under his arms, feeling for swelling or heat.
‘It can’t be,’ Charlotte muttered, panic swelling in her throat. Then she understood. From her dress pocket she produced the remaining mulberries, which glistened in her palm like freshly hacked clots of blood. She held up her hands, displaying as proof the resemblance between the two globs. ‘It’s only mulberry pulp. Not blood at all.’
Anton chuckled, hands on his belly, then wiped his face again with his kerchief.
‘But my father died of it,’ Nicolas added. ‘And Mother says we will too if we don’t get away.’
Anton stopped laughing. None of them spoke for some time. Charlotte wiped the mulberry spittle on the tree trunk.
‘That’s a shame,’ Anton said eventually. ‘Michel was a good fellow.’ He paused. ‘Did he have a good death, at least?’
Charlotte considered the question. It was one that people asked and yet she was never entirely sure what they meant by it. Was the death fast, or slow? Painful? Her husband had developed the sickness in the morning and died the following day. During the night he had suffered greatly and cried out and wept with the agony of it. Blood leaked from his nose. His skin was as slick as that of a fish. The air in their cottage grew soupy and close as she and Nicolas had prayed over Michel and attempted to bathe him in lavender water. They wrapped him in blankets until he cast them off with screams and groans. It was a terrible sight, to see such a strong man reduced to shivers and sweats. Nicolas went to fetch the curé, but he was nowhere to be found. And the moment of his death? The moment of his death? Merely a gasp, as if he were preparing to dive under water, or had seen something incredible, and then he was gone.
Charlotte cleared her dusty throat. ‘Before he died, Michel said, “Help me, help me.” He was not calm, as some others are. He feared for us, for Nicolas and me. Feared what would become of us, I mean.’
She was unsure if she had answered his question, but Anton absorbed this information with a grave expression on his face.
‘Did you not think to take him to the Forest Queen?’ he asked.
Charlotte, now weeping softly, shook her head. She had heard of the Forest Queen, who lived in a low house in the forest; an old woman who could speak with animals and knew all sorts of powerful magic. Some even claimed to have seen her floating high above the ground. ‘I would not do business with a witch, monsieur.’
Anton shrugged. ‘The woman knows all manner of things about the world, Madame Picot. She can heal many ailments, you know. She has a particular book . . .’
‘Have you seen her?’ Nicolas asked Anton.
‘Indeed I have. Most years we cross paths at least once. I have seen her in the forest gathering herbs and barks for her medicines. On her head she wore a crown of yellow flowers, like a rickety old bride. A strange sight it was. Most strange. They say she has taken the form of different women over the years. Sometimes she is young, sometimes old. Tall, short. And many others? Did the fever take many others yet?’
�
��The midwife is dead,’ Charlotte said. ‘As are the woodcutter’s daughters.’
‘The woodcutter’s daughters? Shame. Most unfortunate. They were pretty. I had hoped to fuck them both one day. Well, I shall bypass Saint-Gilles this summer, I think. It’s a bad season for it. And these crops will go to waste if there is no man to harvest them.’ Anton considered their possessions. ‘And you are – what? – going away, are you?’
Nicolas nodded. ‘Yes. To Lyon, to escape the fever. My father said we should go there.’
Anton shook his shaggy head. ‘No, no, no. It’s not safe there. I was in Lyon – let me see – only two days ago. The pest house is full. Besides, the town gates are closed. They’ll not let anyone in for anything. There are far too many people wandering the countryside seeking refuge these days, what with one thing and another. I’ve heard that even Paris might soon close its gates. You should return to your village.’
To Charlotte it seemed as if the earth were momentarily jolted, and she experienced the unnerving sensation of losing her balance even while squatting on the ground. ‘No. We cannot go back to Saint-Gilles. The plague is rife. Everyone is dying.’
Anton scratched his hairy throat and retrieved a wineskin from some sack or other hanging about his person. He removed the stopper with his teeth, gulped loudly from it, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He was a disgusting man, a peddler of bad tidings, and Charlotte wished they had not encountered him at all.
‘What were you intending to do in Lyon?’ he asked. ‘Do you have some family there?’
‘No. I have some money. I can sew, run a house, make cheese. I could be taken on as a servant, perhaps?’
‘You have a brother, though. I remember.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know where he is. I have not heard from him in many years.’
‘You are not so old, madame. And, of course, you are quite a beauty. You might be married again. Have some more children to replace those you have lost. You’ll need a man to care for you now. Why not be my wife?’
Charlotte’s anger overcame her instinct to ignore such impertinence. ‘I do not think you are a suitable man for me, monsieur. Besides, I am in mourning. My husband is only one day in his grave.’
‘I am not as bad as some. I could take care of you and the boy. I have a good business. Not as wealthy as some men, but certainly you would never starve with me.’
‘You have enough wives scattered across the country, I think.’
Anton laughed and patted his capacious belly, as if she were referring not to women he’d had but to meals consumed. ‘A man can never have enough wives. This you will understand one day. There is no point being faithful to a dead man.’
The sneaky old peddler let this last statement hang in the air, then passed his wineskin to her. Charlotte took a draught of the warm, sour liquid before passing it to Nicolas, who also drank.
‘That’s lousy wine,’ Nicolas exclaimed, wiping his mouth. ‘Tastes like piss.’
‘I suppose you would know, my piss-drinking young fool,’ Anton said. ‘But it’s better than no wine at all, believe me. It’s good for keeping the fever at bay. I’ve never had it in all these years and I have seen some dreadful plagues. Bodies piled like giant, hairless rats. You know, sometimes they bury you alive to save time. Might as well, because you won’t last long anyway. It’s true! Outside Marseille many seasons ago I saw people trying to crawl out of the pits, grown men weeping like infants, pleading’ – here he made his voice like that of a girl’s – ‘Please, please, please, lift me out of here.
‘And I remember your own fever, madame,’ he said to Charlotte. ‘All those years ago. You were probably the age your son is now. Covered in spots – not like the one this year. Your father was already dead of it when I arrived. A terrible thing. Your mother begged me to help her. She was very afraid. Your father was a decent fellow, and she prayed for three days on her knees to save him. On her knees. And when you fell sick, too . . . You were fortunate to survive, madame. Once it has you in its grip . . .’ Anton shook his head, overcome.
Charlotte’s memories of that time were akin to glimpses of a stranger’s vision. A woman weeping, a boy crying out, the shape of the Wild Horde skulking beyond the fire’s flickering light. She took the flask of wine from her son and drank deeply from it. It did indeed taste sour but she was glad of it nonetheless. And perhaps the peddler was correct when he said it protected one against the plague?
They sat in silence for a while until Nicolas said in his small voice: ‘What will we do now, Mother?’
In lieu of an answer, Charlotte picked up an ancient shard of pottery and thumbed a scab of dirt from its surface to reveal a clumsy image of a dragon or winged lizard. She silently considered the flying creature. How beautiful it would be to escape into the sky, she thought, to escape the bounds of this earth.
Anton belched. ‘You could go to the abbey at Saint Bridget. They are taking people in, especially if you have a goat and chickens to offer. It is only two or three days’ walk.’
‘Are you sure about Lyon?’
‘Oh yes. I’m sure.’ He held up a clenched fist. ‘Sealed tighter than a chestnut.’
Charlotte pondered this. ‘How do we get to this abbey?’
Anton shook his head, as if he already regretted telling her of it. ‘I don’t think you should go alone. It’s not safe. Plenty of bandits about these days. If you wait for one day while I do some business nearby, then I can accompany you there. I will take you there myself.’
‘No. Thank you. We need to get away from here. We will be careful. God will provide a safe passage for us.’
Anton paused, shrugged. ‘So be it. But you need to be wary. The roads can be dangerous. Sleep in the forest, but do not light a large fire, only something to keep the wolves at bay. Avoid groups of men, soldiers especially. There are people who would kill you for the goat. Kill you for their pleasure. Worse things, if you know what I mean. Give them what they want if you have to.’
Charlotte did indeed know what he meant. She showed him her knife.
‘That’s not a very big knife,’ Anton said.
‘But knife enough to slice a man’s throat.’
‘Then, by all means, go for their throats,’ he said admiringly.
Then Anton took her by the shoulder and led her into the field where the sun was hot on their heads. He explained how to get to Saint Bridget – back down the valley and up the other side, across the hill shaped like a mole’s back and in the direction of a distant stand of birch trees that huddled as pale and thin as skeletons waiting for their graves to be readied.
‘Cross the old Roman bridge and follow the path up the mountain. From the top you will see the ruins of the old castle – you know the one I mean. Spend the night there, but be careful of snakes. Head north-west along the ridge until you come to a fork. Let me see. Oh, yes. The next day bear to the right, heading more directly west. A day’s walk. You might see the camp of the troubadours if they are still there. They’ll not trouble you. The path leads downwards and you'll come to the abbey by the river. Ask for Sister Junius. Tell her your husband is dead.’
‘The truth.’
‘Yes. They’ll put you to work washing clothes or in the garden. The boy can help, too. They’ll pray for you, at least. And you will be safe, or as safe as anywhere, until the fever passes. Who knows? You might even take the veil.’
‘I do not wish to be a nun.’
Anton found this highly amusing and glanced over to where Nicolas squatted in the shade to involve him in the joke. ‘Ha ha. Does your mother think she’s the queen or something?’ he called out to him. Then, to Charlotte: ‘You might as well become a nun if you’re not intending to put that cunt of yours to its proper use.’
Charlotte ignored him and stared out over the countryside, going over his directions to the abbey in her mind, memorising the
route. Anton ambled back to the shade of the chestnut tree. He tousled Nicolas’s hair and set about hitching his dog to its tiny wagon, a procedure the creature accepted with gloomy resignation, looking sidelong at Charlotte as if she might intervene to spare him this indignity.
When it was done, Anton pissed against the tree, sighing loudly with satisfaction. Then he wished them well, urged his hound on and strode away.
Charlotte watched him go, then joined Nicolas in the shade of the tree. The peddler’s wine, combined with the awful heat, had made her sleepy. The sun was high overhead; there was still plenty of daylight remaining. She lay down and closed her eyes. A short rest, she thought, before we continue on our way.
She grew aware, gradually, of all her children huddled close and hot and sweating around her, even her infant son Philippe. Michel was there, too, his grumbling laughter, tallying numbers in his ledger. The dusky scent of their hair, their kisses. Oh, their milky kisses! They had returned to her. She drank them in. Skin as soft as flour, eyes like gems. Their limbs, their knees, their grasping hands. Something loomed over her. Glimpse of ring, a whisper and grunt. She was conscious, dimly, of a rustling. The chickens clucked frantically. Her children called out. One child. Such a strange darkness. Mother! Mother! Nicolas’s voice. It was Nicolas, his voice high-pitched and strangely distant. But her body was unwieldy and her legs oddly encumbered. She saw a flicker of light behind her eyelids, felt her tongue dry and sluggish in her mouth. Sweated brow, body tangled in the lark-net of sleep.
She woke at last to find herself in the dirt. The hot afternoon, drool on her mouth. The wine. The damn peddler’s wine had put her to sleep. She gazed around. The Giant’s Table, the chestnut tree. But where was the goat, the basket with the chickens? A dream. Of course, of course. Still she heard Nicolas’s distant cry. She got up woozily and staggered into the hard, gleaming daylight. Red and purple shapes danced across her vision. When her eyes finally adjusted she saw that further down the hill, at the edge of the forest, were some people. Men on horseback and a wagon. Another cry. But where was Nicolas? Where was her son? She looked around, panicked.
City of Crows Page 3
