* * *
Sebastian spent the first few hours in the carriage torturing himself with regret. It had been four years since he had last seen his mother. Despite his repeated requests, she had never come to the Louvre, forever giving excuses, all of which he had been happy to accept, not wanting to be humiliated in front of the court. Yet in all that time, he had never once made the effort to visit her. Even his letters home had become briefer and more infrequent as he dashed them off like an inconvenience rather than the comfort they used to be. And now, after all she had done for him, he was going to leave her to die alone. The thought was near unbearable, and he became more alarmed with every passing hour. His anxiety manifested itself in little tics: his head turning from side to side as he glanced out of the window, fingers drumming, feet tapping, the occasional glance upward in silent prayer. Occasionally he tried to distract himself in a book or by staring at the view, but no more than a few minutes would pass before his eyes returned to their inward stare.
As the coach journeyed deeper into the countryside, his frustration diminished. Free of the city, the crowds and the rush, he felt the world slowing down, and as he looked at the wooded hills, there was no sense of time passing, just the odd plodding farmer, cow or horse. Skeletal trees slumped in the dead air, their branches raking empty sky. He found himself thinking back to his youth and the boy he used to be. But there was no nostalgia. In truth, he could hardly remember himself, instead the mind of an animal: primal urges for food and warmth, crouching in corners for protection, the desire for escape. All he could pick out was a vivid image of that last day – standing on the prow of the cart, watching the village shrink into the horizon and vowing never to go back. In any other circumstances, he never would have.
* * *
As they approached Camoches, Sebastian began to recognise the scenery: the cathedral at Coutances, its double steeples reminiscent of devil’s horns, the white streets of Lessay, and finally the lake of his near-demise. Bubbling with impatience, he stood up on his seat and leaned out of the window, eager for a sign of home. But all he could see were some derelict outbuildings with sunken roofs and collapsing walls, presumably stables of some kind. It was only when they passed the yew tree at the end of the village that he realised where he was. Yelling at the coachman to turn around, he looked again and this time was able to make sense of the mess. Most of the houses were unrecognisable but he was able to pick out a few, particularly the cottage of his aunt Adele. All seemed abandoned, most likely because of the plague. Scanning the water in hope of a clue, he noticed a ragged line of boats drawn up on shore. It took him a moment to work out why. Of course – the harvest – the whole village was inland, working the fields while there was good money to be made. Everything was precisely as it had ever been. It was only he who had changed.
The thought of his mother living in such squalor horrified him and he prayed she’d finally taken his advice to leave. Over the years he had sent her six hundred livres at least, more than enough to buy somewhere warm in Caen or Coutances, with enough left over for a housekeeper as well. But he knew she hadn’t, that she would regard it as an extravagance and had doubtless saved every penny for his return.
When the coach finally stopped outside the cottage, Sebastian wished the coachman a hasty farewell before grabbing his pack and rushing inside. Entering the house, he was immediately struck by the smell, a mildew reek that took him straight back to his childhood. A multitude of ghosts crowded around him: family, relatives, his father’s dying face. Disoriented, he took a moment to recover his bearings before making his way to the back room. She was lying there, bedbound and shrouded in shadow. Moving closer, he could see she was indeed dying. The body whose vastness he once used to orbit was now reduced to a shell. Its flesh was in retreat: the eyes drawing back into their sockets, the gums nearing the bone and the skin hanging in crinkled folds. Up close, he could detect the sickly sweet odour of decay. Barely conscious, she didn’t even notice him standing beside the bed, and it was only when he called her name that she turned to look.
She came alive immediately and tried to fuss over him, asking how his journey had been, whether he was cold and if he wanted a bowl of soup. Then she made a pitiful attempt to get up and even more pitifully apologised. Forcing a smile, he told her to rest and held her hand. It felt like meat – cold and stiff. Shocked, he massaged it back to warmth and continued to murmur words of comfort in her ear. After tending to her other hand and then her feet, he retrieved his belongings from the yard and gave her what food he had left, waiting for her to eat and fall asleep before turning his attention to the house.
His priority was heat. She needed warmth to stay alive and he remembered all too well how bitter it could become at night. First plugging the stones, he set about cutting firewood, a tedious business as he was forced to use a hatchet instead of an axe. Finishing just before dusk, he cleared the hearth and piled the fire as high as he dared. But it was no use. The heat seemed to rush out faster than he could add to it. Even beside the flames, it was barely tepid. And after a further hour of chopping, he was too exhausted to continue and paid a neighbour to take them to the nearest tavern.
It was a long journey, seven miles along rutted trails, all of which Sebastian spent trying to rub life back into his mother’s limbs. Despite his efforts, she seemed to grow colder and slower by the minute, so that towards the end he felt as if he was the only thing left pumping the blood round her system, a substitute heart. Convinced she was going to die, he barely managed to restrain himself from grabbing the whip out of the driver’s hand and beating the horse into a gallop. Nevertheless, they finally reached the tavern. Helping bring her inside, the innkeeper took her legs while he hoisted her trunk over his shoulder, all the time with the disquieting sense that he was already carrying her casket.
* * *
With the aid of thick stone walls, blankets and a hot fire, Marie recovered consciousness the next day. She managed a bowl of soup at lunchtime and by evening she was well enough to chastise him for wasting his money on her. Laughing, he told her she was being ridiculous and it was he who should be sorry.
‘You came as soon as you could,’ she whispered.
‘But I should have visited. Why did you never come? What about all the letters I sent?’
She still seemed to understand and her mouth split into a feeble smile. ‘I did come once – on your twenty-third birthday. I meant it to be a surprise.’ She paused, gazing in wonder at the memory. ‘Then I saw Paris and the Louvre. And . . . I never thanked you for that. To think . . . my son working in such a place.’
‘I don’t understand. I never saw you. What happened? Did they not let you in?’
‘I never asked. I couldn’t go in there. The way they looked at me . . . It’s not my world.’ Then she smiled again. ‘I still saw you, though . . . through the railings in the gate . . . walking in the garden. You looked so happy. It was all I needed to know.’
Sebastian felt a stab of indignation, furious that she had never called out or at least told him what she had done, then guilt as he realised his hypocrisy, the succession of half-hearted invitations he’d sent, all the while hoping she would never come.
‘Well, we’re together now, at least.’ He managed a grin and nodded. ‘Actually, I thought you’d be harder to find. That’s why I sent you the money, to buy somewhere nice for yourself.’
She flinched, glancing down in momentary penance.
‘You spent it? On what?’ Incredulous, he raised his voice before checking himself. ‘Sorry, I’m not annoyed. I just want to know where it went.’
‘Well, Charles and Audrien . . .’
‘But . . . no . . . you know what they’re like. Where are they anyway?’
‘Don’t speak like that about your brothers.’
Sebastian smiled back through locked teeth, explaining that of course she was right and not to worry, while forcing down the rage. Nothing had changed. He already knew what had happened. They had
come to her with some wild plan to make their fortunes and she had believed them. He doubted there had ever been a business at all. More likely they drank it away, arguing over how many fleets of boats they were going to buy in five years’ time. He still nodded along as his mother told the rest of the story. How they had been going to repay her twice over and would have done so if some unscrupulous rival hadn’t burned down their premises the week before it was complete.
What annoyed him most, however, was his brothers’ absence. He could see the pain it caused her. Not that she mentioned it, of course, preferring instead to defend them, justifying their behaviour, more for herself than him: explaining how poor they were, their duty to their families, the length of the journey. Sebastian listened, wishing he could provide some consolation or advice, or even just fill the emptiness of the room. Instead, once she was asleep and the candles were out, he lay under a blanket on the floor, muttering furiously to himself as he stared up into the dark.
Despite her brief recovery, Marie’s condition worsened the following day. Even moving her atrophied limbs became a struggle. She managed two mouthfuls of breakfast and a few sips of beer but could hardly lift her head from the pillow, forcing Sebastian to tip the liquid into her mouth. Then he told her to sleep some more while he attended to a few chores, intending to ride out to his brothers in Avranches, if only to let them know the suffering they had caused. But his anger was clear to see and Marie promptly called him back to the bed.
‘Don’t blame Charles and Audrien. They’re good boys.’ She spoke with that same voice he remembered as a child, the soothing hush of the sea. He didn’t know if she believed what she was saying or was simply trying to protect him, still trying to keep him safe from the outside world. Either way, he was in no position to refuse. His place was at her side. So he returned to his seat and amused her with reminiscences and half-truths until she dropped back to sleep. Afterwards he took a short walk to occupy himself then reworked two scenes from his play before she woke again.
And so it went on, Sebastian’s life following a clock whose hours were perpetually unwinding, the periods of consciousness growing farther apart. She didn’t seem in pain, at least, or else was hiding it well, though her mind became increasingly febrile and he often had to repeat simple sentences four or five times to obtain a response. Even so, he didn’t mind. She seemed happy and his days passed bearably enough. Quiet and straightforward, mostly filled with writing or reading Boccaccio (in his hurry he had forgotten to bring any other books) along with whatever pamphlets he could find in the local market. Occasionally his thoughts would wander back to the cardinal. Richelieu must have noticed his absence, though whether he cared was a different matter. After all, how significant could a single person be to someone who had an entire country to worry about?
* * *
It began with rumours of the gabelle – the salt tax. Sebastian overheard a huddle of locals discussing it by the bar while he sat in the corner, hidden in the shadow of the open door, safe from impertinent eyes. The voices were angry and the people clearly had nothing left to give. He could hear whispers of revolt and treason: that the money would only go to fund the war that had killed their children; that it would be better to make peace with Spain than go on like this; that if only the King could hear his subjects then he would change his mind. Richelieu as ever was the source of all their problems – the bane of France, sucking the country dry with his thirst for war.
The murmur grew over the following week, and the inn became busier as people gathered to talk. Self-appointed leaders stood up and made red-faced speeches. Words became stronger and by the Thursday, the murmur had escalated to a roar. There were reports of an uprising and a tax-officer being beaten to death. Nobody knew exactly what had happened and the meetings were thick with rumours of the cardinal’s spies, of armies on the march and a great meeting near Rouen. By the weekend, people were gathering in packs and searching for enemies, culminating in the destruction of a local nobleman’s house.
In spite of all the discord, the deaths were few and the violence sporadic, loose sparks that had yet to ignite. Nobody wanted war and after a few nights wandering aimlessly round the countryside, people lost interest and returned to their work, hoping the threatened tax would never come. It wasn’t until the following week that Sebastian heard a hubbub from downstairs. It sounded like some form of altercation, so, after excusing himself, he ventured below for a look. All he could see from the stairwell was a field of heads. A voice was bellowing hatred and rousing the crowd. Unable to make sense of the situation, he waited for a quieter moment before enquiring what was going on. Apparently the salt-workers had revolted the week before and begun the long march to Paris. They were due to arrive in a matter of hours and the townspeople were deciding whether to join them. His curiosity satisfied, Sebastian returned upstairs to tell his mother what had happened. Semi-conscious, she gave no appearance of comprehending, and he paced the room, thinking aloud. The revolt struck him as futile, bordering on suicidal. The gabelle was a local issue. It had no appeal beyond the coast. The moment they marched inland they would be without support, and with no supplies or reinforcements they didn’t have a chance. They were all going to die.
* * *
The march arrived with a distant rumble. Sebastian could hear the sound from his room, a steady beat of feet on earth. Walking outside, he could see it approaching, the cloud of dust lifting from the dirt track. Unlike most armies, it grew less impressive the closer it came. To begin with, he had the sense of an unstoppable wave of humanity, glinting iron and steel. But soon the crowd began to fragment, replaced instead by broken forms, desperate-looking men holding farm tools or rusting swords. All were starving and their clothes hung from sunken frames. Coated in dust, they were indistinguishable one from another – grey-bodied and grey-haired. Most didn’t even have shoes, their feet shrivelled to leather after so many years treading the salt. Nevertheless, despite their poverty, they carried themselves as soldiers, marching straight-backed and in formation.
He watched them stride past with a mixture of respect and pity, admiring their bravery while despairing of the life that had forced them into it. They didn’t speak or sing as they walked, and their eyes were empty. As if they weren’t marching to battle but returning from defeat after a long campaign, beaten soldiers with gaunt cheeks and limp beards, their weapons blunted, their uniforms worn to rags. One in particular stuck out; something about the man’s walk seemed familiar, though he didn’t know why. The face didn’t look like anyone he knew, but the peg nose and the mole by the right ear reminded him of Audrien. God almighty, it was Audrien. The fool was going to get himself killed. He had to stop him. Thoughtlessly, he yelled his name and rushed into the crowd.
He did his best to battle the current of bodies but it was impossible, a pebble fighting a stream. Even so he continued elbowing forward as best he could until he was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.
‘Is that you, Sebastian?’
Sebastian’s reply was short and urgent. Yes, it bloody well was him, and yes, he bloody well did need to get out. Amused by his brother’s candour, Audrien let out a snort of laughter before pulling him from the crowd and accompanying him back to the inn.
Sebastian wanted to take Audrien straight up to their mother, but the man looked like he hadn’t eaten in days – so first he bought him some food, a whole chicken with beans and ragout, and spent the following ten minutes watching him consume it right down to the bone. Afterwards they had a brief but unsatisfying conversation. There was so much to say that they ended up barely speaking at all, each summarising eight years in a few sentences.
Looking at the gnawed face opposite, Sebastian found it impossible to be angry at Audrien. His last memory of his brother was of a bearish man with a bushy beard, squashed nose and peephole eyes, but starvation had reversed his features. The beard had thinned, the nose sharpened into protruding bone and the eyes expanded as the face around them diminished. Even
the person beneath seemed different. The arrogance had disappeared, silenced by repeated failure, and there was a wisdom to his voice that Sebastian had never detected before. Somehow it made the situation all the more painful – watching a seemingly decent man marching to lonely death. And it wasn’t long before Sebastian leapt to the point.
‘Audrien, you can’t do this. It’s suicide. You don’t have a chance.’
Audrien’s face tightened a fraction, though starvation had restricted his range of expressions and his pinched features strained to look anything other than austere.
‘I’ve made a vow. I’m going to honour it.’
‘What about me? I’m your brother. What about your family?’
‘I said no. That’s it.’ The reply was firm, his accent thick as soil. ‘Where’s maman? I went to see her on the way over. The neighbour said she was here.’
Knowing there was no time to waste and how much it meant to his mother, Sebastian resisted arguing and led him straight up to the room. But it was too late. Audrien tried his best to elicit some reaction, holding her slack hand and wiping her forehead with a cloth, apologising for not arriving before. If she recognised him, she gave no sign of it. Dumbed by fever, she simply stared up in silence, her pupils motionless – lilies on still water.
Afterwards, Sebastian allowed Audrien time to grieve alone and went downstairs to finish the rest of his mead. But he’d never been good at holding his drink, and the alcohol only seemed to exacerbate his mood. So, after twenty minutes or so, he left his half-finished glass and returned upstairs to find Audrien gazing out of the window with an expression somewhere between boredom and exasperation. Eager to escape, he excused himself the moment Sebastian entered the room, explaining that he had to join his comrades before they marched too far ahead.
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