City of Crows

by Chris Womersley

  ‘But if this man said he loved you, why do you need a charm?’

  ‘To make sure, madame. I do not wish him to find another woman to marry, do I?’ Marguerite frowned, apparently puzzled by Charlotte’s lack of enthusiasm. She withdrew a purse from her dress pocket. ‘And, of course, I can pay you, madame.’

  Charlotte stared at the purse. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said finally. ‘I am hungry. Step outside and buy a candle and some bread for me. I’ll need a scrap of paper, too.’

  By the time the girl returned, Charlotte had removed the pigeon from its cage, twisted its neck and sliced out its warm heart, which was about the size of a cherry stone. After worrying all day about Nicolas, she was grateful to have something practical to do. Her fingers were greasy with the bird’s blood and grey feathers jostled on the floor at her feet. She wiped her hands on her dress and devoured some of the bread Marguerite had bought.

  Finally, with the girl watching on anxiously, she picked up her book and held it unopened in her hand for a long time. The cover was rough and marked, its corners torn in places. She hefted it in her palm. The book was warm and solid and she was reassured by its weight. Like any human heart. Its voices were becoming more and more familiar.

  ‘Can you write?’ she asked the girl after a time.

  ‘No, madame.’

  Charlotte wrote the man’s name for her on the scrap of paper. francis bernard. Then she dripped some of Marguerite’s blood from the vial over the pigeon’s heart and wrapped this in the paper. This she bound as tightly as she could with the lock of Monsieur Bernard’s hair. She hesitated, suddenly unsure if she should perform such magic, but reasoned that everyone did such things. At the gates of Saint-Gilles women cast dust gathered from the church floor to ward off dark spirits, they scrawled secret formulae on strips of paper that were sewn into their clothes. Her own mother had been in the habit of kissing a protective charm worn around her neck when she glimpsed lightning. There was no real harm in it.

  ‘Now,’ Charlotte said. ‘Repeat after me: My Lady Saint Martha, worthy you are and saintly.’

  ‘My Lady Saint Martha, worthy you are and saintly.’

  ‘By My Lord Jesus Christ you were cherished and loved. By My Lady the Virgin Mary you were hosted and welcomed. Just as this is so, bring to me Francis Bernard, who is the person I desire. Calm, peaceful, bound of hand and foot and heart . . .’

  As obedient as a lamb, the girl followed her example. The prayer was lengthy and by the time they finished, it was almost dark. With flint and tinder, Charlotte lit the candle. Her heart tolled heavily in her chest. Your blood, your blood, your blood.

  ‘Wear this next to your heart for three days, then bury it somewhere this Monsieur Bernard will pass by.’

  Marguerite took the thumb-sized package. ‘And this will work?’

  ‘It should. Now go. You might as well take this pigeon for your family. It will make a good pie.’

  Marguerite bundled the gutted pigeon in the folds of her dress. When she had finished, she looked up at Charlotte. ‘I was thinking, madame. When you find your son, you should order Lesage to strike down the men who took him. My mother says he is a very dangerous man.’

  ‘Your mother knows Lesage?’

  ‘Yes. She says she met him here in Paris but couldn’t recall who he was at first. He worked at the fair a lot, she says, and his name used to be Adam du Coeuret, but she had not seen him for some years.’

  ‘Adam du Coeuret?’

  ‘Yes. He used to work with La Voisin.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  The girl shook her head in wonderment. ‘I am surprised that someone like . . . yourself does not know her. Catherine Monvoisin is a terrible witch. She helps women who are with child. She murders the babies and burns them in her oven. Other things – worse things, if you can believe it. She has an Enchiridion, the blackest of all the black books, full of dark magic. How to raise the dead, turn people into dogs and crows. She sells inheritance powders for men to kill their wives and for wives to kill their husbands. My mother says La Voisin has met with the Devil himself. Lesage used to be her assistant.’

  Charlotte crossed herself, closed her eyes. ‘Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum . . .’ Afterwards, her spirit felt becalmed. ‘Are there many such witches in Paris?’ she asked.

  The girl pushed her dirty hair back from her eyes. ‘Yes, madame. The city is full of such people. They are everywhere, even if you don’t see them. They are doing the Devil’s work for him here on earth, my father says. The one called Françoise Filastre has made a pact with the Devil himself. She’s a fat, ugly crone. And they say La Bosse has killed dozens of people with curses and charms. They mostly live up in Villeneuve, on the outskirts of the city. You should find them and ask them if they know about your son. They deal in such matters. They might know something.’

  Charlotte considered what the girl had told her. Her blood trembled to think of all the people in this city crawling over each other like rats in a cellar. A man sang in the street below. ‘Go home now, girl,’ she said, ‘before it grows too late.’

  The girl seemed relieved to have been dismissed. Without another word, she stood, took her empty cage and slipped from the room into the dark passage.

  20

  The late afternoon was much too sunny, the merchants were barking too loudly and Rue Saint-Denis stank more pungently of rubbish and shit than Lesage recalled – and yet how wonderful it felt to be back in Paris, inhaling its unlovely urban stench. His head ached dully after the rowdy evening he had spent with François Mariette in a tavern somewhere near the river. It had been a long time since he had been able to indulge in such an exuberant manner and he was unaccustomed to such carousing. His head ached and his eyes seemed not to be working properly yet. Under his breath he sang his nursery rhyme: ‘Les ennemis ont tout pris, ne lui laissant par mépris, Qu’Orléans, Beaugency . . .’

  His fears that the odd events of the past few days were merely a lovely – but, ultimately, cruel – dream were evaporating with every step. In his mind’s eye he reconsidered everything as a jewel merchant might repeatedly examine a rare stone to ensure he had not, in his excitement, mistaken mere glass for a ruby: there was his visiting Catherine Monvoisin yesterday; travelling with the troubadours before that; encountering the witch Madame Picot on the road; and, where it all began, his unexpected release from the dungeons. Yes. Quite the adventure.

  He glanced down at the new clothes he had purchased with the money Catherine had given him. A wonderful grey cloak, boots in the latest style, a new hat and a red wig. The wig was of horsehair only, unfortunately, but he felt it conferred on him a slight but alluring air of mystery – and a hint of eccentricity. Yes, here was the dirt under his feet, and in his ears echoed the cry of a fishmonger; here was the usual congregation of women and children clustered around the Fontaine des Innocents like flies on a fresh wound. Undoubtedly, it was all true and real.

  His thoughts were interrupted by someone shouting. A bearded man was gesticulating on a street corner. He was shoeless, with ragged clothes and a large wooden cross strung around his neck. A monk, judging by his appearance, fulminating about the apocalypse and damnation and so on. Angels and trumpets and disease and the dead rising from their graves; the usual things. Lesage had heard this sort of talk on countless occasions – in the squares of Paris and Naples, in the galleys, from dozens of Christ-haunted men wandering along the roads – and never paid it much heed. A Spanish hermit named Raphael had lived in a cave near Caen, where Lesage grew up, and was notorious for accosting passers-by with his tales of hellfire and retribution from his perch upon a log in a forest clearing. The end of the world was always near, Lesage thought to himself, and such doomsayers had become even more common in the years after the London fire.

  A small, sceptical crowd had assembled to watch this monk. A man cursed, some boys
giggled, someone tossed a half-eaten apple at him. Lesage navigated gingerly around a cart that had halted in the road so that its driver, a man of beefy proportions, might remonstrate with a washerwoman walking in front of him.

  Ah, Paris! Laughter, scorn and an appreciation of the lusty theatre of the street. Lesage inhaled the spirit of the place and ambled onwards with his head lowered, taking care not to muddy his new boots. He hailed a passing brandy seller and gulped a cupful of the scalding liquid to clear his head. Terrible, beautiful stuff.

  He had been gone an entire night and half a day, but later, when Lesage entered the tiny room at Madame Simon’s, it seemed Madame Picot had barely moved since yesterday morning; her wan face and dark hair, the restless fingers of one hand worrying at her fraying shawl like a pale, fat-legged spider dancing upon her knee. In her other hand she clutched a book.

  She leaped to her feet at his entrance. ‘Did you find my son?’

  Lesage shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. Not yet, madame. Not yet, but I’m sure we will.’

  She seemed disappointed, naturally. ‘Where have you been?’

  He wiped his sweaty brow to demonstrate his effort. ‘Here and there, madame. All over Paris. I have been asking some people I know. Searching for anyone who might be acquainted with Monsieur Horst or –’

  ‘And buying new clothes?’ She was regarding him with contempt.

  ‘Ah. Yes. A few items.’

  ‘With what money?’

  Dear God, would she not shut up? ‘Are you my wife, madame? No. I don’t think so. I had a small amount of money. This is Paris. One cannot go about looking like a vagabond . . .’

  ‘Who did you visit?’

  ‘Oh, acquaintances. Some people. It’s a large city. I’m not sure which of my old friends might even still be alive. I am working as hard as I can to locate your boy, Madame Picot.’

  She appeared unhappy with his answer but quizzed him no further, thankfully. Lesage’s attention was drawn to several feathers ebbing about on the floor. ‘Why are these inside the room, madame? Did a bird fly in through the window?’

  But the woman waved away his query. ‘I know Nicolas is still alive,’ she murmured after a short silence. ‘He is somewhere in this city.’

  ‘Oh, of course, madame.’

  ‘It was in the cards, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, yes. You saw this for yourself. Most clearly. Alive as you or I.’ He indicated the book in her hand. ‘You have been praying, madame. A wise course of action, I think. It might settle your troubled imagination.’

  With a sour smile, she displayed her book. ‘This is no Bible, monsieur.’

  He saw it was, in fact, her magic book, and he recoiled.

  ‘Your name was Adam du Coeuret before?’

  He was too startled to speak. Dear God, what else did she know?

  ‘I know that you were a great magician. And that you worked with a famous witch called La Voisin, who lives in Paris, in a place called Villeneuve.’

  Lesage pressed a hand to his cheek to stay its twitching. His thoughts. The woman knew his thoughts. He nodded.

  ‘What sort of magic could you perform?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, we helped people to achieve their desires. We told their fortunes, made predictions. Often a prayer for help with a marriage or birth. Catherine is most adept at making various concoctions for love and that sort of thing. To help women attract a rich husband. She could enhance their looks with creams. Cosmetics. Nothing serious . . .’

  ‘And poison?’

  ‘No,’ he said cautiously. ‘If the truth be told, most of what we did was harmless. Fooling people out of their money.’

  ‘Is it true that she murders unborn babies?’

  He hesitated. ‘I have heard rumours of such acts, madame.’

  ‘But not seen them yourself?’

  ‘That is women’s business. I’m not privy to these things, naturally.’

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘People have their reasons. One can never truly know another person’s heart.’

  ‘That is why you ended up where you did.’

  He nodded, embarrassed.

  She looked him up and down. ‘Do you not tire of doing evil deeds?’

  Aggrieved, Lesage stepped forward. Who did this fucking bitch think she was – Queen Marie-Thérèse? He was tempted to slap her face. Any other man would surely have done so – or worse – by now. ‘Is it not the case, Madame Picot,’ he hissed, ‘that certain unsavoury qualities of mine are precisely the reason you summoned me to your side? I think it was not for my handsome looks or my gentle manner. Nor my educated way with words. You know, I am the kind of man who might normally press you against the wall and slit your throat on a dark night. But isn’t that what you desired of me? Isn’t it, madame? Tell me: you didn’t want a cowardly merchant, did you? A baker? A decent fellow? No. I thought not. You wanted a cutthroat, madame, and that is what you got.’ This was untrue, of course. He had never really physically assaulted anyone, much less carried out any threats of murder. Even that boy Armand on the docks in Marseille he left unharmed – apart from a bruised ankle, perhaps.

  Madame Picot shrank back, but held his gaze. ‘Don’t threaten me, monsieur. Take me to see this La Voisin. Perhaps she knows something about my son or Monsieur Horst?’

  ‘No, no, no. I already visited her. Yesterday. Unfortunately, she has never heard of this Horst or of your son. But she will ask her colleagues.’

  ‘I see. Do you know of a woman called Françoise Filastre, who also lives in Paris?’

  Lesage gestured vaguely. Again he was unnerved; it was impossible to determine what the woman did and didn’t know. Lesage did indeed recall La Filastre, who was young, quite well-bred, lovely in appearance, married to a coachman. But he hesitated before answering. ‘Yes, madame. I might have heard of someone of that name, but –’

  ‘Perhaps she would know something?’

  ‘But how do you know of this person, madame? It seems you are more familiar with Paris than you told me.’

  ‘No, monsieur. I have never been here before in my life. But I am eager to find my son and get away from here.’ She crossed to the door. ‘Come. Take me to see this woman.’

  ‘Do you not think it would be much safer to stay indoors, madame? It’s quite late. I am not certain where La Filastre lives and it might take some time to find out. I can go see her and I’ll come back immediately. Yes, and –’

  She flourished her black book with a trembling hand. ‘You have not been very useful so far, monsieur. Perhaps I should send you back to the Devil immediately? All it takes is one word, said three times, and you are banished once more.’

  Her threat was a hard, thin blade nosing about his ribs, and his anger drained from him immediately. Why could he not keep his mouth shut?

  ‘Please don’t send me back, madame. I beg you. These things take time. Paris is a huge place, as you can appreciate. Many thousands of people. I am doing my best. It won’t take long to find your son. Please, madame. No.’

  He had not intended to plead in such a degrading manner and he was embarrassed and appalled to find himself on his knees with his hands clasped in supplication, as if his limbs had arranged themselves without direction.

  Madame Picot lowered her black book, apparently appeased. But she shook her head authoritatively. ‘No. I will go with you. Come. I’m told she lives in Villeneuve, along with the other witches of Paris.’

  ‘But how would you know such a thing, Madame Picot?’

  The woman gestured to the feathers on the floor. ‘A bird told me, monsieur.’

  And with that, she slung her shawl across her shoulders and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Lesage to trail after her, cursing under his breath.

  21

  Charlotte strode across the courtyard, trying not to reveal th
e fear she felt in her chest. She paused at the high gate until Lesage came up behind her and together they stepped into the street. It was late, almost dark. Several children were fighting with swords fashioned from sticks, shrieking with terror and glee as they parried and lunged. A cart rumbled past, rats snickered in the darkness.

  Lesage paused, obviously pondering which direction to take, before saying, ‘This way, madame.’

  He led her north, past houses and dungheaps and piles of rubbish, past merchants and knots of people gossiping in doorways and courtyards. Lanterns were being lit in windows and servants were running out for provisions. No one paid them the least attention. They passed a crowd gathered to watch as a woman lit a lantern attached to a chain and then, by means of an ingenious pulley system, hoisted it until it hung out of reach above their heads. Lesage stopped here and there to ask something of a stranger in hushed tones, then pressed onwards. Despite his grumbling and unwillingness to share with her anything he discovered, it was clear the night suited him. There was a lightness to his step and he navigated the busy roads and drains and various other hindrances with ease. Following the advice of a sinister-looking fellow he encountered on a street corner, he disappeared into a tavern and came out shortly afterwards with new purpose.

  They continued north until the jumble and noise of the city fell away. Gardens and fields stretched out on each side of the road and there were fewer people to be seen. Moonlight glistening on leaves, the pungent waft of soil, here and there the bobbing lantern of a labourer making his way home. Behind them, Paris squatted on the horizon.

  Finally, they came to a wide street of houses. Humming to himself, Lesage approached a large door with a circular knocker dangling from the mouth of a brass lion. With Charlotte at his shoulder, Lesage rapped several times.

  Eventually, a sulky young maid holding a candelabrum set with three candles opened the door a crack. In the hallway behind were other candles, the glint of a mirror. ‘Yes? What? It’s late, monsieur.’