He glanced around before again drawing the tavern keeper to him. ‘Look, monsieur, this is not an offer I make to many people, but I feel it is my duty to help you obtain what you so clearly deserve. Now, don’t misunderstand me, there is nothing wrong with your tavern out here, but . . .’
‘And how would you achieve this?’
Lesage hesitated. He was wading into dangerous territory. ‘Well. Not me, actually. Let me rephrase that. Let’s say there are others I can call upon to help you achieve your ambitions. One might send a message to powers far greater than those here on earth – if you understand my meaning?’
‘But that is why I pray, monsieur. And go to church every week.’
‘Of course you do. Of course. But you and I are both men of vast experience, monsieur. Let’s not pretend. Wars, plague, death. We both know who has the power on this earth.’
‘You are playing a dangerous game, Monsieur Lesage. There are plenty who would not take kindly to this sort of talk.’
Lesage felt the man’s hand heavy on his shoulder. He swallowed and glanced around. ‘The more dangerous the game, the greater the reward. A man of the world such as yourself knows this to be true, I am sure. Think of the freedom, think of your woman friend.’
Scarron was silent for a long while. Then, almost under his breath, he murmured, ‘I have very little money as it is, monsieur. As I have already told you. How would I pay you? I am sure these services do not come free.’
It was all Lesage could do to contain a squeak of excitement. How well had his snare been set and how perfectly had he lured this fool into it! Clearly, his skill at breaking into the hearts of men had not waned at all during his years of imprisonment; a simple appeal to lust and avarice was still the key.
‘I see,’ Lesage said after a short pause. ‘Well. I understand completely, Monsieur Scarron. But let me think. There is usually a way. Perhaps there is some other manner in which I might be compensated for my services.’
‘Such as?’
Finger on chin, brow furrowed, Lesage made a great pantomime of consideration. ‘I know! How about you give me some information?’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. How about you tell me, for example, where I might find this so-called Forest Queen. I have a very interesting proposition for her. You have seen her, haven’t you?’
Scarron shrugged like a schoolboy caught out in an obvious lie. ‘Yes. I have.’
‘Well, perhaps in the course of our business together you might let slip accidentally, almost in passing, where one might find this fabulous creature.’
The tavern owner exhaled and some animal or other shifted in the barn behind them. Dull clock of hoof on wood. There followed a lengthy silence between the two men, and Lesage became aware of a soft mewling sound somewhere nearby. He tried to ignore it, but the noise was insistent. Was there perhaps an injured cat in the barn? No. It was something else. Could it be – no – a child? A child weeping horribly? He glanced around but there was not much to see. An intimation of pale road, buttery glow of lamplight through the tavern window, the glossy shimmer of leaves.
‘What is that sound?’ he asked Scarron.
The tavern keeper creased his brow and listened, then said, ‘Ah. That. It’s nothing, monsieur.’
‘But there is something, Monsieur Scarron . . .’
Lesage made his way unsteadily towards the barn. The sound grew louder. Holding the candle aloft, he peered into the gloom, but could discern very little. Hay bales and dim shapes. There was an earthy, pissy smell of wet straw. Eventually, a shape consolidated into something more or less recognisable. A pale cheek, a nose, black scribble of hair. It was a boy with a torn blanket drawn to his chin. There were several children, in fact, boys and girls, most of them asleep with arms and legs so wild and askew they might have been one somnolent, many-limbed creature. Again the terrible sob.
He crept towards the fretting child and was overcome with a pang of tenderness, the like of which he had not experienced in many years. His heart sighed. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he lowered himself onto one knee. The poor boy’s cheek was bruised and he had an ugly cut on his forehead. He might have been any man’s son lying in the straw like a beast.
Lesage reassured the boy. ‘I won’t hurt you, my child,’ he whispered. He saw now that the children were all chained together, as he had been when taken to the galleys. He reached out towards the boy – for what? to wipe the dirt from his nose? to otherwise comfort him? – before pulling back.
The whimpering boy shrank away. ‘Please, monsieur. Help us.’
Panting with the effort, Pierre Scarron came up behind Lesage and joined him in consideration of the children.
‘Who are these children?’ Lesage asked him.
‘They are orphans, the poor things. Lot about with the fever taking off their parents and families. They sell them in Paris. Put them to work. They make good servants or apprentices. Other things, if the price is right. Sodomites enjoy using them, I’ve heard. Priests, of course. Do you need an assistant, monsieur? Monsieur Horst will be here all tomorrow morning, he told me. He has some business to conclude before he travels onwards. He is their guardian.’
‘But they are in chains. And one of them is crying . . .’
The tavern keeper appeared ashamed at Lesage’s discovery. He glanced around and scratched his throat. ‘Please, monsieur. Come away. Please. You must not worry about them. Monsieur Horst pays me to lodge them here on his way to Paris. I cannot refuse the money.’ He paused, and into his voice crept a threatening edge. ‘It seems that you are not the only one to do business with undesirable creatures, monsieur. But I promise not to tell anyone of your proposal if you pledge not to tell anyone about these children being kept here.’
Lesage felt Pierre Scarron’s meaty hand on his shoulder and turned to face him. The man’s face was large, impassive. Lesage nodded.
‘Come then,’ the tavern keeper said. ‘Leave them be for now. It’s late. Let’s go inside and send a request to your friend the Devil, since you claim to be able to do such a thing.’
10
Kneeling on the hard floor, Charlotte trembled as she held out her hand, palm up, as she had been instructed.
Madame Rolland grabbed it and Charlotte had to fight the urge to pull away and flee the cave. But the old woman, doubtless sensing her reluctance, gripped her ever tighter. Madame Rolland pursed her lips. She brushed Charlotte’s hand free of dirt, then took up a cloth from a bowl of water, wrung it out and washed Charlotte’s hand.
The reflection from the water in the bowl skittered on the cave ceiling, vanishing, reappearing. They said a witch might manufacture a storm in this manner, could bend the elements to her will; that her exhalations might cause great oaks to bend and snap. Charlotte turned her attention back to Madame Rolland, who was absorbed in her task, and she felt an inexplicable urge to weep. The old woman’s laboured breathing, her priestly devotion. Such tenderness. Long, long ago she’d had a mother who had cared for her in this manner. She wondered about Nicolas. Her poor son, terrified, trembling, crying out. It was an unbearable thought. The world was so cruel.
‘Now,’ Madame Rolland said, ‘pay close attention, for you will need to do this for another woman one day or the knowledge will be lost forever. It’s most important. You must swear to give this book – and the knife – to another woman when the time comes. It’s like a fire that must never be allowed to go out. The spell for this procedure is at the back. Here? Do you see it? It’s how the knowledge is absorbed. There is no other way. Even if someone else tries to use the book, it will not be of use to them. The book can be given only in this way. And remember – if you die with the book in your possession, then your soul will be lost. Now. Do you promise, Madame Picot?’
Charlotte peered at the scrawl on the page Madame Rolland displayed for her. It was tiny and s
eemed to be in a language unknown to her. ‘But I cannot read that.’
‘No matter, woman. You don’t need to read it. It will come to you. Did you learn your country’s language from reading it? No. Of course you didn’t. It came in your mother’s milk. This is the same. Soon it will be like your own tongue. You’ll understand it soon enough. Mostly, they are things you know already, but are unaware of. Everything I have learned, and what Vivianne learned – and the woman before her, and the woman before her – you will now know. What they call a witch is merely a woman with power. Now. Do you swear?’
Charlotte paused. ‘Yes. But I am afraid.’
Madame Rolland paused to look up at her. Her face softened slightly and she nodded. ‘As you should be. You will have something other people might want. This is not common for women like us, eh? Imagine it. But you no longer have to be afraid, madame. Instead, others will have cause to fear you. After I pass along the knowledge, you will sense the world as never before. See things, smell things, hear things you have never known. I am glad to be giving it to you.’
‘Is there not some other magic we might use? A spell to get my son back somehow?’
‘There is a limit to this magic, woman. If you live to be old, you might learn how to do all manner of things.’
‘But the spirit we wish to summon – is it not unruly? Dangerous?’
‘Oh yes,’ the old woman conceded. She picked up the book in one gnarled hand. ‘But it can also be controlled. It must be controlled.’
‘Where does it come from?’
Madame Rolland paused. ‘From places beyond. But when he arrives, you will be his only mistress. Don’t worry, I will help you to summon him.’
The old woman put the book aside. Then, from within the folds of her clothing, she produced a short knife with a bone handle. ‘This knife offers protection. It has been blessed by an angel. Guard it well. It can make a circle that cannot be penetrated by anything except God himself.’
Then, in a single movement, she drew the blade across Charlotte’s palm. Charlotte gasped with pain and surprise and tried to wrest her hand back, to no avail. Madame Rolland held her fast until the worst of the pain subsided. Blood bubbled on her palm and dripped to the cave’s dusty floor. Madame Rolland released Charlotte and made a similar incision in her own palm. Then she took Charlotte’s bleeding hand once more and pressed their two hands together, wound to wound, in a sort of handshake, like men did. Their blood mingled. Madame Rolland closed her eyes and muttered a few words under her breath.
Finally, when it was done, Madame Rolland got to her feet in stages, like an ancient horse.
Still kneeling, Charlotte gradually came back to herself. It felt as if much had happened. She feared she might swoon. Her hand was sticky. There was blood on her dress, drops of dark blood on the floor. She gazed around at the cave walls, at the candle sagging on its saucer, a broken axe in a dim corner. Her hand was sore, and her shoulder, where the arrow had lodged, also ached. She felt heartsick and weary.
‘I don’t feel any different,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, you will. You will. Here.’ Madame Rolland held the book out to her. ‘Take this, woman. Take it if you want to see your son again.’
Charlotte did as she was told. The book was small, like some books of hours she had seen, and fitted snugly in her hand. The black leather cover was rough, its corners battered and torn. It gave no indication of what it might contain. Awkwardly, for she was loath to smear it with her blood, she opened it on her lap. The cover was almost as stiff and weighty as a church door. She sensed Madame Rolland observing her keenly. The sight of the book’s innards sent a chill through her. There were crosses, circles, pentagrams, a drawing of a nun, and many others of herbs and flowers. Sunflowers, ginger, lavender. Some of the drawings had been made with coloured inks – mainly green and red and brown – while others were only in black. Some entries appeared more recent than others, many more were difficult to discern in the low light. She turned the thin pages. There was a naked woman frolicking in a cane basket, a red flower, a mortar, two lions intertwined, smiling suns and moons, diagrams, arrows, various other heavenly bodies. Words, too, although she was faintly relieved to see that many of them were illegible, almost impossible for her to decipher, while other pages were in scripts utterly unknown to her. Lines of minuscule words, like those made by an insect having crawled through a dollop of ink. She thumbed further through the book and discovered several pages in the middle that were sealed with a small, metal clasp.
‘What are these?’ she asked, although she already suspected the answer.
‘That’s the magic you did not want to know, Madame Picot. The part of your heart you wished to keep hidden.’
‘Dark magic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ever open these pages, madame?’
Madame Rolland paused, made a face. ‘They are hard to resist.’
‘I will resist.’
‘Of course. Now, turn to the last page.’
On the final page of the book were dozens of whorled fingerprints that resembled roughly severed heads gazing out mutely from the past.
‘They are the thumb prints of each of the women who have owned this book before you. Heloise, Jeanne, the Maid, Vivianne, myself. Now, dip your thumb in your blood and make a print alongside them.’
‘Are you sure, madame, that my soul will be unstained by this?’
‘Everything can be forgiven.’
‘Everything?’
‘Did God not make everything?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘Then whatever is, is God.’
Aware of Madame Rolland’s stern gaze on her, Charlotte pressed her bloodied thumb to the paper and joined the serried ranks.
Madame Rolland handed her the knife. ‘The book and the knife belong to you now. The knife for protection, the book for its magic.’ Then, wheezing with effort and satisfaction, she began to move away. ‘But it’s time to go. Let’s find someone who might help you to rescue your son. Come now, chicken. Before it grows too late.’
Charlotte didn’t move. When she was a girl, there was a blind man in Saint-Gilles called Thomas who ran his hands over objects to identify them – faces, fruit, leaves, furniture – and many said his understanding of the world was greater than those people with eyes that functioned. She ran her fingers over the writing as Thomas might have done.
She felt the little indentations. The smell of the vellum, its dimpled texture. Her fingertips, rough as they were, grew sensitive to the myriad scratches and curls. And, gradually, she heard whispers, muttering, incantations – the individual words initially as difficult to comprehend as those of immured women – but, eventually, the clamour splintered into distinct voices, both old and young. The feather of a week-old sparrow, one of them said. A winter chestnut, summer moon. This one is for protection from sweating fevers and pox. Here are love charms, a cure for insomnia. There were directions for summoning spirits, for sending them back, as well as countless other things: for finding treasure; the health of a child; to keep a man hard in the night. Avaunt, avaunt, avaunt. Take mandrake, yarrow, a lock of hair. Belladonna, coriander, chicory. The Devil is as old as the world, you know. Female demons came first. Hellebore for madness, thistle for love. Birds live four times longer than a man, a deer four times longer than a bird and a crow five times longer than a deer. In Spain, healers are born with a mark on their bodies in the shape of half a wheel. The spells and charms and recipes were familiar somehow to Charlotte, as if she were being reminded of them rather than learning them for the first time. Mandragore, the noonday demon, appears as a small, dark man without a beard. The moon governs the brain but the kidney is governed by Venus. Astaroth, In Subito, Eloim. The teeth of a hanged man have great power. The blood of a freshly executed person is the only cure for epileptics. Petrica, Agora, Valentia.
And, b
eneath all these words, weighty as ballast, she detected the dull knock of her own heartbeat, itself like an ancient chant she had never before deciphered. Your blood, your blood, your blood.
11
Charlotte was relieved to leave the cave at last, although it was unclear how long she had spent there, and Madame Rolland seemed unable to advise her. It had been some days and nights, at least. The late afternoon was warm, quite cloudless. Her injured shoulder made movement of her upper body awkward and painful. Madame Rolland followed, urging her on, muttering angrily upon encountering any tree roots, rocks or uneven ground that hampered their progress. She chattered as they walked, telling stories of her life in the forest, explaining the magic. How to make vinegar, a prayer for warding off foxes. The summer a noblewoman came to consult her for her warts. Starlings were not to be trusted. Circles and signs and incantations. There was an order to the world, she said, to the movement of the stars and the life of plants and animals – but one might, with the proper tools, alter its course.
‘Our gift is to be able to interpret it,’ she wheezed. ‘The magic is imperfect, of course. It’s like throwing a line into a river or stream – you can never be sure exactly what kind of fish you’ll get until you see it on the bank. You can try, of course, and I’ve seen people use all sorts of special tricks to catch the fish they want, but it doesn’t always work. Don’t fret, woman. It will become clear. There is hope and trust. Command the elements and they can be yours.’
Their progress was slow, but, eventually, they cleared the forest and arrived at a barren crossroad. Madame Rolland called out for her to stop. Charlotte was sweating, breathing heavily. The bandage on her hand was moist with blood. The sun was sinking slowly into the west and the pale dirt of each of the four roads faded into the distance, their surfaces rutted from the carts that had travelled this way. There was no wind in this part of the forest, only silence, like that of an abandoned world. Soon it would be night and Charlotte felt uneasy. She worried about wild animals, about mercenaries and ghosts.
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