‘But who was the message for?’
Normally, at this juncture in a conversation as delicate as this, Lesage might place one hand on a woman’s forearm to further enhance the intimacy these exchanges required, and he prepared to do so before thinking better of it. Instead, he raised an admonitory forefinger, glanced around again, and adopted a conspiratorial expression – mouth pursed, eyes downcast, brief shake of his head – as if fearful to gossip about someone who could be in earshot. ‘I think you know who I mean, Madame Picot,’ he whispered.
She was clearly shocked. ‘So it’s true? You can speak with the Devil himself?’
‘Shhhh, madame.’
Madame Picot crossed herself and muttered under her breath – a prayer presumably. ‘But what was the message?’ she asked.
Another display of reluctance. ‘Monsieur Scarron is seeking a new wife. He’s had enough of the woman he married and she is not – how shall I put this? – being very wifely.’
Madame Picot tore off a chunk of bread and put it in her mouth as she considered this. ‘But a man cannot have two wives, monsieur. It’s against the law.’
‘Indeed it is, Madame Picot.’ Then, seeing that the woman was still failing to comprehend what he was telling her: ‘He wished his first wife to have an accident of some sort . . .’
‘My God, what a terrible business,’ she murmured after a shocked silence. ‘What a terrible man.’
‘It’s not me,’ he protested. ‘I don’t, you know, hurt anyone. That’s not in my nature. I merely pass along the request. Besides, if the whore won’t fulfil her wifely duties, then surely the poor man is entitled to find a woman who will?’
She glanced at him as if he were a vile creature, before looking away, and while her attention was on the creek, Lesage took the opportunity to inspect the woman, this witch to whom he owed his so-called freedom. Madame Picot had removed the scarf from her head. Strands of her dark and tangled hair were pasted with sweat across her forehead and had arranged themselves into hieroglyphs: a large, sloping S swirled over one temple, along with other, less determinate symbols – a T, perhaps, and the outline of a child’s surprised face high on one of her pale cheeks. The slope of her breast was visible beneath her clothes. He shifted his position and was reminded of the dagger jammed in his belt. A dull anger surged through him. Oh, how he longed to press it to her throat.
‘Do women such as yourself have husbands, madame?’ he asked.
She looked askance at him. ‘He died of fever a few days ago.’
‘A good man, was he?’
There was a long silence. ‘Yes’ she said at last. ‘A good man. He was a horse trader. Most years he helped with the harvest. We were married for a long time.’
‘And are there other children?’
‘Two daughters and a son. The girls died of fever and the boy didn’t survive his infancy.’
‘Ah. No other family?’
‘Why would a man such as yourself wish to know these things?’
‘Curiosity, madame. Just being sociable.’
She looked perplexed. ‘I have a brother somewhere – if he is still alive. That is all I have left.’
‘I see. And if we find this Monsieur Horst, what do you propose we do? Is he not armed?’
‘That is why I have summoned you here, monsieur.’
Lesage forced a laugh. ‘And you expect me to – what? – fight with these men?’
Madame Picot stared at him. ‘Of course. What else?’
‘But I am no mercenary, madame. I was never a soldier. I think perhaps you have misjudged my abilities.’
‘Then shall I send you back where you came from?’
‘No, no, no, no. That is not what I meant. Not at all. I shall, of course, be glad to assist you. But tell me: what will be my reward? If we find your son, will you release me from further . . . duties?’
Madame Picot shook her head, not only in response to this most reasonable of queries but also, it seemed, in sheer incredulity that he should ask such a thing.
‘Well, if that’s the case,’ he went on, ‘then why should I help you at all?’
The sorceress got to her feet, wincing as she did so. ‘It is the only reason you are here, monsieur. You have to assist me, as I have already told you.’
‘So if I help, you will send me back – and if I don’t help you, you will also send me back?’
At this she appeared vexed. ‘I cannot leave you to wander the countryside at your leisure, monsieur.’
Despite himself, Lesage laughed. ‘I fail to see what might be so wrong with that.’
Madame Picot did not share his joke. He decided on a fresh approach and got to his feet also. ‘Madame! Wait, wait. I have something. I know of something you will be most interested in. It is the reason, in fact, I sought you in the first place.’
‘You did not seek me out, monsieur. I summoned you.’
‘Well, that might be a matter of perspective. In any event, I was wondering what you intend to do once you have – once we have – found your son safe and well?’
‘There is an abbey taking people in to escape the plague. My son and I will go there.’
‘But how will you survive? With what money? You have no family, no man to support you. Are you able to manufacture money in some fashion with your skills?’
Madame Picot shook her head.
‘Because I – and only I – know where there is a vast amount of money hidden in Paris. Thousands of livres. More money than you will ever see in your entire life. It could be ours. We can share it. Is it not true that you have the ability to cast aside spirits?’
Madame Picot laughed derisively. ‘Yes. As I have already warned you. A spell to conjure spirits and one to cast them back.’
‘Indeed. Well. The money is locked away in a cellar beneath the city.’ He fumbled through his pockets until he located the purse containing the much-folded map with the instructions written on it. He drew it out. ‘I have a map here showing the exact location. No one else knows where it is. The treasure is guarded by several ferocious demons, but you, with your particular abilities . . . The instructions are right here. You see here, it says –’
‘Who does the money belong to?’
‘No one. It was buried by a wealthy aristocrat during the Fronde.’
‘And what is the Fronde?’
‘A war. It was a war.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes. In Paris, mainly. A battle for power between the King and the nobles.’
‘There was a war in Paris?’
‘Oh yes. But it was some years ago. You don’t know much about the world, do you?’ Lesage said, unable to keep a note of wonder and satisfaction from his voice.
‘So I have been told.’
He tapped the map with a finger to draw her attention back to his proposal. ‘It requires a sorceress such as yourself to cast aside the demons guarding the treasure. You can mark a magic circle on the ground, as you did when we met. We could release this money and be very rich, madame.’
The witch sighed as she leaned down and picked up her sack. Then she looked at him but said nothing. It was unnerving, this silence of hers. Why would she not answer him?
‘Why do I not answer you?’ she asked in a voice thick with scorn.
Lesage flinched. ‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Because my son has been taken. I am tired. My heart is most painful.’
Madame Picot did indeed look most unwell. She was probably a bony thing at the best of times but now, with hair stuck to her face with sweat and the neckline of her green dress dark with blood, she resembled a woman recently emerged from the earth. She had removed the bandage from her left hand and he saw that her palm was also filthy with encrusted blood. Despite himself, Lesage felt a twinge of pity for her. Most likely her son had already been sold to s
ome farmer or sorcerer for God knew what hideous purpose and was at this moment being subjected to all sort of appalling treatment. The woman had no true idea of the wickedness of the world. Lucky, perhaps, for her.
‘But do you not have some sort of magic with which you might free your son – aside from darkening the sun and summoning wolves from the forest, that is? A spell or charm of some sort? Or a curse, perhaps? Could you not . . . kill these fellows who took him?’
Madame Picot shook her head. ‘I don’t know such things. My magic is only simple. Charms and healing, spells for protection.’
‘But can you not at least conjure some assistance for our journey to Paris? It is such a long way.’
Madame Picot looked at him thoughtfully for what seemed a long time before she nodded, produced her black book and muttered something under her breath. She was making a spell, presumably, but nothing happened – even after she had returned it to her pocket.
‘Well?’ he said after a few moments. ‘Did you request something? What happens now?’
‘These things can take time, monsieur.’
‘But your wolf didn’t take long at all. That was very sudden.’
Madame Picot hoisted her sack and began to walk away. ‘Your fate does not come to you, monsieur. You must meet it halfway.’
Lesage groaned. ‘What about the treasure? I think you should at least consider my offer . . .’
‘No, monsieur,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I have no need of such riches. Besides, I was warned not to strike bargains with creatures like you.’
15
Lesage trailed along the narrow forest tracks behind Madame Picot, fretting still about how they might get to Paris. It was, after all, much too far to walk – especially with the woman injured – and they had no money for transport. Had she made a proper spell? What kind of witch was she, really? Perhaps not a very accomplished one, after all. This thought consoled him slightly – perhaps he would be able to find someone in Paris to unwitch him? Surely La Voisin would know some sort of conjuration or could locate something in one of her many books? Then he remembered the wolf Madame Picot had summoned and his confidence ebbed.
He comforted himself with thoughts of Paris. Paris. The city trembled on the far horizon of his imagination. The smell of bread, its bustling women, the hoarse cries of boatmen drifting up from the muddy old Seine. Truly a city of dreams. Sometimes, while rowing in the galleys under the ferocious Mediterranean sun, he had glimpsed cities floating on the water, magical palaces with towers and churches, shimmering with life. He’d heard of convicts who, convinced of their own imminent deliverance, leaped into the water at the sight of such palaces and paddled into the distance. Always a mirage, of course; as they drew closer, the buildings would reveal themselves to be no more than a heat haze upon the water, some broken wood, three fishing vessels flinging out their nets. Paris, however, was no illusion, and he would arrive eventually and somehow escape the spell of this wretched woman.
‘You’re fortunate I am your guide,’ he called out to Madame Picot as he scurried after her. ‘Paris is a most dangerous city, oh yes. Filthy, my God. Full of rats and other vermin. Bodies lying dead in the streets. Horrible carrion birds everywhere, living off the refuse. You know, I’ve heard some people refer to it as the City of Crows. And a man I know told me that many of these crows are inhabited by the souls of dead witches. Yes.’
Lesage paused to catch his breath. ‘And the Parigots themselves are a very coarse people,’ he continued. ‘It’s where the worst in all of France come together. Violent, rough. Speaking all sorts of hideous tongues and dialects, several of which I speak myself, of course. Oh yes. You are lucky, madame, to have a man of the world such as myself at your disposal.’
Alas, it was indeed true what he told her of the city; despite its pleasures, Paris was a dirty, stinking place of muddy streets and dim houses. One saw all types of people and heard all sorts of garbled languages in the street. There were men and women, it seemed, from every corner of the globe. Thanks to his years travelling as a wool merchant, however (and his time in the galleys with all manner of despicable foreigners), Lesage could understand and make himself understood in a wide variety of tongues. After all, one could not do business without at least a few words of the dialects they used in the more backward parts of the country – not to mention those merchants in other cities and ports. He understood most villagers in the Pyrenees quite well, for example, with their language like that of bears; a little of what they spoke in the Low Countries; Italian and Spanish, of course; plus an assortment of other tongues, some Latin. Versatility was what a man needed in this day and age. Versatility, oh yes. Besides, the woman might be a witch but it was clear she knew almost nothing of the wider world. What was the harm in some embellishment?
But Madame Picot stopped and raised a hand for him to be silent. Dear God, what now?
She scowled at him. Scowled! As if he were a child.
‘Be quiet,’ she whispered. ‘Do you hear that?’
He strained, but heard nothing other than the endless birdsong of the forest and the rustle of leaves in the trees. They were probably leagues from anywhere.
Madame Picot revolved slowly on the path, features fixed, listening. Lesage was afraid she might again darken the sun or – he dreaded to think – something worse.
Then, without another word, she stepped off the track and disappeared into the undergrowth. He glanced around, then followed. Soon enough, he heard what Madame Picot had doubtless been referring to. A melody picked out on a flute – high-pitched and tremulous, like that of a lone forest angel. Soon they came to a glade in which a number of people were gathered in the dappled sunlight. A crow launched itself from a tree branch and disappeared into the arboreal murk, leaving one of its black feathers to flutter to the ground.
There was a wagon with a canopy of brightly coloured patchwork fabric affixed to its side. Another, larger tent was set up nearby. Smoke from a fire rose in a single grey thread. Clothes were spread out to dry on bushes. There was a handcart piled with household possessions. A donkey was tethered to a tree, a lute rested against the wheel of the wagon. It was, quite obviously, a family of troubadours.
Lesage had seen such performers, usually Italians, on numerous occasions at the fair at Saint-Germain or on the Pont Neuf – juggling, dancing, telling stories of courage and singing their bawdy songs. This one was a motley group indeed; several adults, plus a number of children scattered about. A girl with one frosted eye gazed at him and Madame Picot with her head aslant. A boy was tossing several balls up and down in the air and a tall, dark-haired woman cradled her baby in one arm as she bit into a red apple.
Madame Picot grasped his sleeve. ‘What is that creature?’
Lesage followed her gaze and noticed – could it really be? Yes! – a monkey on a chain squatting by the wagon. Good Lord.
A fellow around Lesage’s age was the first of the adults to notice them hovering at the edge of the clearing, and he stood from his card game. The flute player halted his song. One by one, all the members of the group stopped what they were doing and stared at them. The forest fell silent.
‘Good morning,’ the man called out eventually.
He was dark-skinned, narrow-shouldered and wore a beard trimmed in the Spanish style. Strands of black hair trailed from beneath his cloth cap and an uncertain smile twitched along his lips.
After an awkward pause – in which Lesage waited for the witch to speak, for it was she who had led them here – he introduced himself and Madame Picot to the troubadours.
The strangers declined to offer their names, merely nodded. A most suspicious gathering.
‘You are entertainers?’ Madame Picot asked.
‘Yes,’ the bearded man answered.
‘Are you performing for the birds in the trees?’ she asked with a wave of her hand.
The man grinned,
perhaps as surprised and impressed by her spirit as Lesage was. A gold ring glinted in his ear as he glanced around at his companions. ‘We would perform for them if they would pay us in anything other than song,’ he said.
‘You are going to Paris, then?’ Madame Picot asked.
‘Yes, madame.’
‘We are searching for some men who have my son. Perhaps you have seen them?’
The fellow shrugged. ‘We see many people on our travels, Madame Picot. What do your friends look like?’
‘These men are no friends of ours, monsieur. One of them is called Monsieur Horst. My boy is named Nicolas Picot.’
Some of the troubadours exchanged glances; it was clear they had indeed seen this Monsieur Horst.
Madame Picot stepped forward. ‘You saw them, didn’t you? When did you see them? Where?’
‘They made camp not far from us here in the forest, but they left before dawn.’
‘Were they going to Paris?’
‘I suppose so. They took the road to the north. They had several children in their covered cart. They were orphans, one of the men told me.’
Madame Picot turned to Lesage. Her face, previously so wan, was flushed with colour as she smiled.
‘Why do you seek them, madame?’ asked the woman with the apple and the baby, who was by this time standing with one hand resting on the shoulder of her older daughter. She nibbled her apple, wiped the back of her wrist along her mouth and flung away the core. The baby emitted a little croak and was comforted by the woman.
Lesage cleared his throat. ‘They have stolen the boy,’ he said. ‘We think they intend to sell him in Paris.’
The gaze of each of the troubadours swung across to him, like that of a many-headed creature. Even the monkey paused in its chittering to stare at him with its big brown eyes.
‘These types of villain are well known hereabouts,’ Lesage went on. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t take any of your own beautiful children, madame. They would fetch a fair price. As servants, I mean. And other, worse things. The baby . . . There is quite a trade in this sort of thing, as I am sure you have heard. Sorceresses sometimes make use of them . . .’
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