In the Shadow of the Enemy

by Tania Bayard

  Where had the third torch come from?

  FOUR

  The bagpipe bewitches people. When people dance to the sounds of this bestial instrument, they seem to be out of their minds.

  Eustache Deschamps (c. 1340–1404), Ballade 923

  Since it was a spring-like day Christine decided to take a walk in the palace gardens. To reach them, she passed through cloisters and courtyards she knew well from her childhood. When she came to the royal kitchen, housed in its own building close to the palace, she peered through the open door, hoping to see the master cook, who’d become a friend. But instead of the slender well-dressed man, renowned for his culinary expertise, who’d always been glad to dip a long-handled spoon into a pot and let her taste one of his savory dishes, she saw a stout, red-faced curmudgeon threatening two sweaty kitchen boys with a chopping knife. When he saw her looking in, he brandished the knife at her, too. She moved away quickly.

  All the animals and birds that lived on the palace grounds were awake: dogs in their kennels snuffling at the enclosures, eager to go on a hunt; doves cooing in their huge outdoor cages; horses impatiently pawing the floors of their stables. She heard the king’s lions roaring on the other side of the royal enclave, and she remembered a night not long ago when they’d been out of their stockade and she’d thought they might attack her. She decided to visit them, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lion-keeper’s assistant, a strange young woman who lived with the beasts and never spoke. She walked through pleasances and orchards, came to the lions’ stockade, and looked through a space between the palings. She knew the lions were inside, watched over by their mysterious keeper, but she saw nothing and heard nothing.

  She walked slowly back through the gardens, thinking of the days when she’d played there with the king and his brother. She remembered how Charles had loved anything having to do with weapons and fighting, and how Louis had cared more for games of mental agility, such as chess. She thought of the brothers as they were now, Charles so confused and unpredictable, Louis downcast and racked by guilt. She’d had her differences with Louis recently, but that didn’t take away from her fond memories of him as a child.

  She stopped to watch a man on a tall ladder prune a grape vine, and she idly picked up a few of the branches that fell to the ground at her feet, remembering she’d once learned how to weave such things into baskets. A bird called from one of the Hôtel Saint-Pol’s famous cherry trees, and she stood for a moment, listening. Then she continued on, past gardeners trimming hedges, sweeping paths, and preparing the ground for spring planting. The scent of newly turned earth filled the air.

  She came to a low wall. A bench had been placed there, and on it sat a man, slumped over, his eyes closed. His hands were bandaged, all his hair was gone, and an ugly red gash climbed up the back of his neck. It was Jean de Nantouillet, the man who’d jumped into a vat of water to save himself from the flames at the masquerade. She knew him because he’d been a friend of her husband’s.

  Not wanting to startle him, she coughed softly. He raised his head and looked at her with red, swollen eyes protruding from a face covered with burn marks. He didn’t seem to recognize her, and she had to remind him that she was Étienne de Castel’s widow.

  ‘Those were good days with Étienne, long gone now,’ Jean moaned. He covered his face with his bandaged hands.

  ‘Étienne would have been distressed to see you like this,’ she said.

  He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. ‘Étienne would never have been as foolish as I was. I can’t believe I agreed to take part in the masquerade. I suppose it was because I got caught up in the king’s enthusiasm. I didn’t realize how weak his mind is these days.’

  A little bird pecked the ground at their feet. Christine watched one of the cats the cooks kept in the kitchen to catch mice creep toward it.

  ‘How did the masquerade come about? Can you talk about it?’ she asked.

  The man seemed surprised she’d asked, but he sat up and began to speak, hesitantly at first, then in bitter words that came pouring out.

  ‘It was Huguet de Guisay’s idea. Perhaps Étienne told you about Huguet, how he was always thinking up amusing things to do. Things that were clever, and cruel. When he heard the queen’s favorite lady-in-waiting was going to be married, he went around the palace mocking her because it was to be her third husband. “There’s going to be a ball to celebrate, and we should turn it into a masquerade and dress up like wild men of the forest,” he said. He couldn’t wait to get the king involved in his scheme, and the king was eager to do it because Huguet said it would be fun to terrify the guests, and also because Huguet gave him to understand that the noise of a masquerade could drive away evil spirits. “Perhaps the devils that torment you will depart and you will have some peace,” he told the king.’

  ‘Foolish superstition,’ Christine said.

  ‘I know. But once the king had agreed, the rest of us, Huguet’s chosen accomplices, couldn’t refuse to join in. As I look back on it now, it seems we were all bewitched.’

  Jean closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. The cat was about to spring at the bird. Christine still held one of the grape branches she’d picked up earlier, and she threw it. The bird flew away, and the cat looked at her accusingly, its green eyes glistening, and slunk back toward the kitchen.

  Speaking as though in a dream, Jean said, ‘The night of the ball, we gathered in a separate room to put on our costumes. Six of us, sporting like children. We’d feasted well, and there’d been no lack of wine. I remember how we laughed and called to each other as our squires slipped linen coats covered with pitch over our clothes. The king couldn’t stand still, and when the squire sewing him into his coat accidentally stuck him with a needle, he just laughed, he was so excited. The squires pulled the coats tight, and then they brought in bags of flax and pushed long strands of it into the pitch. It made us sneeze! The king laughed so much we were afraid he was having another of his attacks. But before we went into the room where the ball was held, he calmed down enough to tell Yvain de Foix to make sure no one brought lighted torches in while we were there.

  ‘Of course, I couldn’t know how I looked in my own costume, but I was shocked when I saw my companions. Huguet de Guisay, so homely to begin with, didn’t look much worse than usual, but I was astonished at the transformation in the others. They frightened me, for they really seemed to be hairy wild men.

  ‘Haincelin Coq, the king’s fool, pranced around, mocking us and making jokes, and we all laughed like fools ourselves. We raced into the ballroom, throwing our arms up in the air and shouting insults at each other and at the people watching us. Someone must have told the musicians to play the loudest, fastest music possible, and the screeching vielles, the blaring pipes and trumpets, and a shrieking bagpipe sent us into a frenzy. We danced such a wild dance, it was really indecent. The king, shouting hysterically, bounded over to the dais where the ladies sat, and shocked them with obscene gestures. Most of the ladies recoiled in disgust, but the young Duchess of Berry leaned toward him, trying to discover who was encased in the hairy costume.

  ‘And then it happened. A lighted torch came from nowhere and we were enveloped in flames.’

  He started to weep. Christine cringed as she watched the tears roll over the burn marks on his ravaged face.

  ‘I felt searing pain, and I threw myself to the floor. Then I saw a large vat of water at the side of the room. I jumped up, ran to it, and dived in. I can still feel the water surging around me, and hear the hiss of the flames as they were extinguished. When I leapt out of the vat, my clothes were burned off my body, but I was too stunned to feel any embarrassment. All I knew was that four of my friends were lying on the floor, and there were flames everywhere. The Count of Joigny was already dead. The others were still alive, tearing at their bodies and screaming. Those screams still ring in my ears. I couldn’t see the king. It was only later that I learned he’d been saved by the Duchess of Berry.’<
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  ‘I’m surprised you remember anything,’ Christine said.

  ‘Oh yes, I remember all that. And the Duke of Orléans standing at the side of the room, holding torches. It is said that one of them was what set us on fire.’

  Christine looked at the ground. The sun had been briefly hidden behind a passing cloud. Now it came out again, and as it did so, its rays struck the grape branch she’d thrown at the cat. The smooth bark glistened, and she thought of the flaming torch she’d seen on the floor in her nightmare.

  She wondered again, Where had that torch come from?

  FIVE

  Thirty-two sous parisis for having furred and trimmed two cotes-hardies for mistress Alips, the queen’s dwarf, the 12th day of August 1387.

  Archives Nationales, Paris, KK 18, fol. 214v

  She went back to the palace, musing about the fire. Everyone believed it had been started by a spark from one of the Duke of Orléans’s torches. Was it possible another torch had been responsible? Had she just dreamed the torch lying on the floor at her feet? She decided to return to the place where she’d stood that night and try to remember.

  Finding her way back wouldn’t be easy. On the afternoon of the wedding ball, she’d been working in the little room in the queen’s chambers where she did her copying, and she’d fallen asleep. When she’d awaked, it was dark, and the queen and her ladies had gone to the festivities. She’d heard the music in the distance, and she’d followed the sounds, wandering through unfamiliar passages to a balustrade overlooking the room where the celebration was taking place. She wasn’t sure she could find the spot again, so she decided to go back to where she’d started that night and continue from there.

  She crept cautiously past the queen’s chambers and walked in what she hoped was the right direction, trying to imagine the sounds of the music that had drawn her along. The passageways were shadowy, even on a sunny day, and she sensed someone following her, but when she looked around, she saw no one.

  When she finally came to the balustrade, she looked down at the floor below and tried to remember exactly what she’d observed that night. Once again, she saw the men in their moments of agony, and the anguished people who watched them helplessly. She saw Jean de Nantouillet jump into the water vat, and the little white dog consumed by flames. Then she looked up and saw the musicians on their balcony, their mouths agape.

  ‘Did you see me up there that night?’ a voice came out of nowhere. Christine started, looked around, and saw no one. She felt a gentle tug on her skirt, and she looked down to find the queen’s dwarf.

  Astonished, she asked the little woman, ‘Were you on the balcony?’

  ‘I was.’

  Christine gazed at the dwarf. She’d seen her in the queen’s chambers, but although she’d heard her sing, she’d never heard her speak. The queen seemed to be very fond of her, even dressing her in clothes mirroring her own. That day, she wore a blue cotte and a green surcoat trimmed with embroidery at the neck and lined with miniver, everything tailored to fit her small body perfectly.

  Does she have a name? Christine wondered.

  ‘Alips,’ the dwarf said.

  Christine felt her cheeks get hot.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Alips said, reaching up to touch Christine’s hand. ‘Most people react like that. They don’t think we have names. We’re used to it.’

  ‘How did you get up there?’ Christine asked, and then felt ashamed of herself for having alluded to the little woman’s stature.

  Alips laughed. ‘I often go there at banquets and balls. The steps are steep, but I manage, holding my skirt above my knees and heaving myself over them. The musicians play as loud as they can when they see me coming, and the sounds hurt my ears. Especially the bagpipes. But I need to get away from the dancing. When there’s dancing, I get stepped on.’

  ‘What happened on the night of the masquerade?’

  ‘Someone up there threw the torch that started the fire.’

  Christine stood aghast. ‘One of the musicians?’

  ‘Oh, no. I know all those musicians, and none of them would have done it. It was someone else, someone hiding in the shadows. I didn’t realize he was there until he stepped out and threw the torch.’

  ‘Do you know who it was?’

  ‘No. He ran away before I could get a good look at him.’

  ‘Who else have you told about this?’

  ‘Only the queen. That’s why I’ve come to find you. The queen wants to see you.’

  Christine was tired, she hadn’t had dinner, and she’d been planning to go home. But her curiosity about the dwarf’s surprising revelation was overwhelming. She followed her through all the confusing passages and corridors back to the queen’s chambers, struggling to keep up because the dwarf walked faster than she did, in spite of her short legs.

  Queen Isabeau sat on her day bed with her head in her hands. She wore a loose blue chemise, and her long black hair flowed unbound over her shoulders. Christine was shocked; she’d never expected to see her in anything other than a gown of the finest velvet or silk, her hair arranged in elaborate cornes over her ears and topped by a jeweled circlet. Her ladies-in-waiting were not with her, and she was alone except for her animals and birds, which seemed as dejected as she did; five little goldfinches quiet in their green and white cage, a squirrel with a pearl-studded collar hiding behind one of the big cushions on which the queen’s ladies usually sat, and a monkey in a fur-lined robe, squatting on a seat in front of the closed shutters of a window, his head down and his paws folded over his stomach. Isabeau’s sleek white greyhound, usually alert and ready to spring at anyone who approached his mistress, sat quietly with his head in her lap, every now and then showing the whites of his eyes as he raised them to look at her questioningly.

  Alips said, ‘Here is Christine, Madame.’ She crossed the room and clambered onto the seat in front of the window. The monkey moved close to her and put a paw on her shoulder, seeming to understand that all was not well.

  The queen was short, a little plump, and she had dimpled red cheeks that were at that moment covered with tears. She looked like a child, though Christine knew it would be a mistake to think this denoted innocence. She felt a surge of sympathy. Isabeau had been brought to France from her native Bavaria to be married to the king when she was fifteen, and now, at twenty-two, she’d borne five children, two of whom had died, and her husband was not in his right mind. She had few friends in France. She must be very lonely, Christine thought. People were always criticizing her, especially for her difficulty with the language. Christine had discovered that although she still made mistakes, she actually knew French fairly well; she simply had trouble with the pronunciation and spoke with such a thick German accent, people had a hard time understanding her.

  She started to kneel, but the queen motioned for her to rise. ‘I must speak with you,’ she said.

  She stood and waited. There was no fire in the large fireplace that usually kept the room too warm. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her, glad no chambermaid had come to take it.

  The queen said, ‘The king has great danger.’

  ‘What danger?’

  ‘Someone tries to kill him.’

  Christine shuddered. ‘Why do you think that, Madame?’

  ‘The fire at the wedding ball. It was the king who was meant to die.’

  ‘What proof do you have of this?’

  ‘What I feel in my bones. So many bad happenings. Someone causes them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I know not. The doctors’ medicines are bad; the sorcerers and magicians make him worse. But they are not the ones. Someone is here among us, putting an evil shadow over us. I have felt it since the night of the unwise masquerade.’

  ‘Surely you must suspect someone,’ Christine said.

  ‘I know not all that goes on here. People hide things from me. When they speak, they are not honest. Alips only is my eyes and ears.’

  The dwarf climbed down from t
he window seat and came over to the day bed. The queen reached down and put her arm around her.

  Christine wondered why Isabeau’s ladies-in-waiting weren’t there. She’d never seen her without them, babbling to each other and eager to please her.

  ‘What has Alips told you?’

  ‘About the musicians’ balcony. The torch. The Duke of Orléans is not to blame.’

  ‘Perhaps Alips only thought she saw someone throw a torch from the musicians’ balcony.’

  The dwarf started to say something, but the queen interrupted. ‘Alips sees things clearly,’ she said.

  Christine looked around the room. In spite of all the lavish furnishings – the red and gold coverlet on the queen’s day bed, the gold-trimmed chairs, the tapestries embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis, the crystal goblets glittering on a sideboard, the carpets so soft and thick one’s feet sank into them as into the moss of a forest floor – it seemed a desolate place without the queen’s ladies and all the curious people who were usually there to entertain her. She missed the Spanish minstrel named Gracieuse Allegre who sat in a corner, composing a song and accompanying herself on her lute, and the queen’s fools, Jeannine and Guillaume, who struck exaggerated poses and made mimicking gestures. Jeannine rarely spoke, but Guillaume, who didn’t seem to mind being the only male in a group of women, never stopped chattering. He wore a cap and liked to watch people’s expressions when he removed it, for he was completely bald. Christine imagined he’d been added to the queen’s entourage to make up for Jeannine’s silence, as well as for the silence of a mute named Collette, who was always smiling in spite of her affliction. Sometimes the queen had in her company a goddaughter, a little dark-skinned Saracen girl who was cared for by the nuns at a nearby priory, and the pretty young daughters of two of her favorite huissiers.