In the Shadow of the Enemy

by Tania Bayard

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Tania Bayard

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Tania Bayard

  The Christine de Pizan Mysteries

  IN THE PRESENCE OF EVIL *

  IN THE SHADOW OF THE ENEMY *

  Non-fiction

  A MEDIEVAL HOME COMPANION

  SWEET HERBS AND SUNDRY FLOWERS

  * available from Severn House

  IN THE SHADOW OF THE ENEMY

  Tania Bayard

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  First published in the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2018 by Tania Bayard.

  The right of Tania Bayard to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8843-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-967-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0177-5 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to R. C. Famiglietti for advice concerning the court of Charles the Sixth; Sara Porter at Severn House for editorial assistance; Josh Getzler, my agent, for constant support; and my husband, Robert M. Cammarota, for loving encouragement, invaluable suggestions, and skillful editing.

  PROLOGUE

  When the stench of dead bodies became too strong, the king left Roosebeke and went to Courtrai to refresh himself. The town made no defense. The burgers, their wives, and all the other men, women, and children fled to the cellars and churches. There was widespread pillage, and when the king himself entered on the first of December, all those who had hidden were found and slain.

  The French hated the Flemish in Courtrai because in the year one thousand three hundred and two there had been a great battle in which Count Robert Artois and all the flower of France had been killed. When the king learned about a chapel in the church of Notre Dame where were displayed five hundred pairs of golden spurs taken from the Frenchmen who had fallen in that battle, he announced that the townspeople would pay dearly, and when he left, he set the town on fire, so it would ever after be known that the King of France had been there.

  Froissart, Chroniques, Livre II, 1376–1385

  Courtrai, Flanders, 1 December 1382

  As soon as the terrified citizens heard the French breaking down the gates of the city, they made haste to hide. Some fled to cellars and attics, others barricaded themselves behind the closed shutters of their shops, many sought refuge in churches and monasteries. A few even tried to conceal themselves in large chests and barrels.

  Then came the pillage. The soldiers hacked their way into the houses and carted off gold coins, silver spoons, diamond rings, emerald necklaces, crystal beakers, enameled pitchers, porcelain bowls, fine linen tablecloths, priceless tapestries. They stormed into the churches and despoiled the golden chalices, silver patens, and ivory crosses. They toppled statues of the saints, smashed the altarpieces, trod on the priests’ embroidered vestments. The streets were littered with broken crockery, shards of glass, and remnants of bedding and clothes. All the wealth of the city and its citizens was plundered or destroyed.

  At last, King Charles the Sixth entered, sitting tall on a big white stallion. He was only fourteen, but, at that time, strong, confident, and seemingly invincible. In a few years he would be known throughout Europe as the king who had lost his reason, but there was no sign of his madness then; all anyone could see was a proud youth exulting because his troops had won a great victory over the Flemish.

  The king stayed in the city for several days. Some said he told his troops not to harm the citizens, but it makes no difference whether this is true, for as soon as he left, the killing began. The soldiers hunted out the people in their hiding places, dragged them into the streets, slit their throats, cut off their heads, impaled them on swords and spears. Those who tried to run away found themselves trapped in narrow alleyways or cul-de-sacs where they were mercilessly slaughtered. No one was spared, not even the little children, the sick and infirm, the old, the pregnant, the feeble. The air swelled in a cacophony of screaming and wailing. Women cried out for mercy as they were raped. Dogs howled as they were crushed under the feet of the soldiers. Horses reared and plunged, trampling soldiers and victims alike. The city was awash in blood and dismembered bodies.

  Finally, the soldiers lit torches and set fires that would reduce the city to rubble. But before they left, they carried out one more shocking act; they ransacked the church of
Notre Dame and stole what the citizens of Courtrai prized most: five hundred pairs of golden spurs stripped from the feet of dead French knights at the Battle of Courtrai eighty years earlier, treasured symbols of a great Flemish victory over the French that had been hung in the vaults of a chapel where they were celebrated every year with a magnificent ceremony.

  A Frenchman who had not taken part in the massacre stood at the portal of the church and watched as a group of soldiers climbed up to the vaults, tore down the golden spurs, and flung them into the eager hands of their comrades waiting below. Two of the spurs fell close to this man. He picked them up and hurried away. As he was about to mount his horse, he noticed two children, a boy and a girl, huddled together near a burning house. The children were beautiful, and he knew the marauding soldiers would take them to be raped or sold into slavery. He lifted the boy and threw him onto the horse’s back. Then he took the little girl in his arms, swung her up into the saddle, and galloped off.

  The terrified girl struggled and nearly slipped from his arms. The man whispered, ‘Do not be afraid. I am a friend.’ The child looked into his face and relaxed.

  But the boy, seated behind the man, lashed out with his fists and shouted, ‘Damn you and your king to Hell!’

  ONE

  On the twenty-ninth of January they assembled at the royal Hôtel Saint-Pol for the marriage celebration … There were various masquerades, and they danced to the sound of musical instruments until the middle of the night … Then, while the young lords thought only of amusing themselves, someone threw a spark at those taking part in the masquerade. Immediately, the clothes of the dancers went up in flames.

  The Monk of Saint-Denis,

  Chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denis,

  contenant le règne de Charles VI de 1380 à 1422

  Paris, late February 1393

  She was surrounded by burning men, hairy savages who shrieked and writhed and tore at their blazing costumes. Naked flesh peeled away. Twisted bodies fell to the floor and curled up in agony. Friends rushed to help them; the flames seared their hands, and they recoiled, crying in pain. A little white dog howled as sparks reached out and transformed him into a glowing ember.

  Musicians high in the air dropped vielles, trumpets, pipes, and a bagpipe that squealed as it fell. The king’s brother stood at the door holding lighted torches. Another torch flew through the air, landed at her feet, and threw off sparks that ignited her gown. She plunged into a large vat of water. The water turned to blood, churned, and spewed her out, along with a naked man who hurled bloody platters and goblets. Flaming knives and spoons spun around her head, setting her hair on fire. The burning men, now reduced to red-hot skeletons, lurched toward her, and she ran to a woman dressed in silver and crawled under the train of her gown, only to be pushed out by a madman wearing a large jeweled crown. She tried to pull the train back over her head, but it slithered away. The fiery skeletons pounced. She screamed.

  ‘Cristina!’

  She sat up, trembling.

  ‘You had a nightmare.’ Francesca bent down and picked up the twisted bedcovers lying on the floor. ‘Tell me about it.’

  She shook her head. She’d never told her mother, or anyone else, that she’d seen the masquerade, and she wasn’t about to do so now. But in the nightmare, it had all come back. The king and his friends, dressed as hairy savages, mocking the bride, set on fire by sparks from a lighted torch; the man who jumped into a vat of water; the little white dog that got too close; the musicians looking down from their balcony; the king cowering under the train of the Duchess of Berry’s gown. Only one thing was different – the lighted torch lying on the floor; the only torches she remembered seeing that night were those in the hands of the king’s brother, the Duke of Orléans.

  The burning men were gone, and she could speak calmly. But her mother was shaking.

  ‘I’m sorry I frightened you, Mama.’

  ‘It wasn’t you. I’ve just come from a procession. Everyone walked so fast, it was hard to keep up.’

  Christine knew all about the processions, and she despised them. The king had gone mad, and day after day people marched through the city, crying and wailing and tearing their hair, praying for a miracle that would deliver him from the evil spirits that had taken his mind away. To her, it seemed absurd.

  ‘Do you have to join every procession you see?’

  ‘How else can we dispel the demons?’

  Francesca saw malevolent beings everywhere, and she blamed them for the king’s illness. Christine didn’t believe in such things, but as she sat on her bed, still under the influence of her terrible nightmare, she couldn’t help being affected by her mother’s apprehensions. The shadows that moved around the room seemed ominous, the sudden gusts of wind that beat against the windows threated to tear away the oiled cloth that covered them, the burning logs in the fireplace sent off sparks that crackled and spit menacingly as they shot up the chimney. She smelled something burning and shuddered.

  Francesca went to a chest, took out a little sack filled with rose petals, lavender, and rue she’d laid away with the clothes to discourage moths, and handed it to her. Christine disliked the smell of the rue, but it was better than the stench in the air, and she held it to her nose and breathed deeply.

  ‘Georgette tripped on the hearth and nearly fell into the fire,’ Francesca said. ‘The towel she was holding went up in flames, but she did not get hurt. It will take more than that to deliver us from her.’ She smoothed her black dress over her ample hips.

  Christine had to smile. She imagined the ways her mother thought they might be delivered from their clumsy hired girl; perhaps she’d be transformed into a sprite and blown away by the wind, still wearing her rumpled dress and grimy apron. Or lifted up through the chimney by a helpful hand from heaven.

  The children pounded up the stairs and burst into the room. Their little white dog, Goblin, pushed through their legs and raced to Christine, who picked him up and buried her face in his soft coat, remembering the white dog that had perished at the masquerade.

  ‘Georgette burned a towel,’ twelve-year-old Marie said.

  ‘We know. It is not the first time,’ Francesca said.

  ‘Were you afraid, grand’maman?’ asked Jean, who was nine.

  ‘After what happened at the palace …’ Francesca hesitated and glanced at her daughter. Christine wondered whether her mother had guessed what her nightmare had been about.

  ‘I know what happened at the palace,’ eight-year-old Thomas said. ‘All those men burned up.’

  ‘Why was the king there?’ Marie asked. ‘Isn’t he supposed to conduct himself properly and run the country?’

  Christine looked at her daughter and smiled. ‘I’m sure if you were in charge, Marie, there wouldn’t be any masquerades.’

  Five-year-old Lisabetta, Christine’s niece, tiptoed over and touched Christine’s hand to get her attention. ‘There won’t be any more fires, will there?’ She pushed out her lower lip and seemed about to cry.

  ‘Of course not,’ Jean said. A lock of brown hair fell over his eyes and Christine felt a pang of sadness. Tall, thin, and serious, he looked exactly like his father, who’d been dead for several years.

  ‘It happened because of the evil spirits at the palace,’ Francesca said. ‘You must not go there any more, Christine.’

  ‘Don’t start that again, Mama. You know I need the work.’ She looked around the room. ‘Only now I don’t have any work.’

  ‘Were you not copying a book about a saint for the queen?’

  ‘The queen wanted to give it to the bride, her favorite lady-in-waiting. I don’t think Catherine de Fastavarin will care to have it now, after the tragedy at her wedding ball. And the queen has probably forgotten about it.’

  ‘Then what about those?’ Francesca said, pointing to a stack of manuscript pages on Christine’s desk.

  ‘Why would anyone be interested in a book of instructions on housekeeping and morals?’ Christine
asked. ‘It was only a whim that prompted the old Duchess of Orléans to ask me to make a copy for the queen’s ladies. They certainly won’t bother to read it now that the duchess is dead,’ she sighed. ‘She promised to pay me well. After what’s happened, there won’t be any payment, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You told me there are recipes there,’ Francesca said. ‘Now you can keep them, and we can try some.’

  Christine had to laugh. ‘Most of them are complicated. Not like your simple Italian cooking.’

  ‘Nothing is too complicated for me,’ Francesca sniffed. ‘But the French use too many sauces.’ She pointed her finger at her daughter and announced, ‘I will try one, Cristina. Pick out something.’

  ‘I prefer your Italian recipes, grand’maman,’ Thomas said. ‘And you can teach me all the Italian names. Then when you take me back to Italy I’ll be able to talk to everybody.’

  ‘Nobody’s going back to Italy,’ Christine said. ‘But I’ll try to find a recipe for you, Mama.’

  ‘Good. Now we will go down and see if Georgette has recovered from her fright.’

  They trooped out of the room. Christine set Goblin on the floor and laughed as she watched him run to catch up with them, his crooked tail waving and his ears flopping like little rags.

  When they’d gone, she got up, dressed, and pondered her situation. For many years she and her family had been safe from any kind of want, for her father, the renowned Italian physician and astrologer Thomas de Pizan, had been an adviser to the present monarch’s father, King Charles the Fifth. As a child, after her family had moved from Italy to Paris, she’d even lived at the palace. But then the old king died, and everything changed. The present king, Charles the Sixth, was only twelve at the time, too young to govern, and his uncles took over. These men, greedy and power-hungry, had little use for learned men like Thomas de Pizan, who lost much of his influence at the court and died several years later. Christine and her family were secure for a while, because her husband, Étienne, was well established as one of the royal secretaries. But then he died, and it was left to Christine to support her family. Using what she’d learned from her husband, she’d become a scribe. Francesca had objected, telling her that a woman should attend to her cooking and sewing, but she’d ignored this useless advice and found enough work to provide for their needs. Until now. She’d been counting on the money the Duchess of Orléans had promised to pay her for copying the manuscript on her desk.