In the Shadow of the Enemy

by Tania Bayard

  Without her usual companions, the queen was sad and lost. Is Alips the only person she can trust? Christine asked herself. Are her other attendants not here because she suspects one of them of having evil intentions toward the king?

  Her unspoken question was answered when the queen said, ‘The person who tries to kill the king is among us here, in my chambers. I feel this.’ Isabeau had been slumped over on the day bed. Now she sat up straight. ‘I want that you discover who it is.’

  ‘How can I do that, Madame?’

  ‘I have asked you to copy a book, a wedding gift for Catherine de Fastavarin. I know it is not yet finished. I want that you spend time here until it is. And you will listen and observe all that goes on around me.’

  Christine couldn’t refuse a request from the queen. And at least she would have the money the queen paid for the copy work. She said, ‘If it is your wish, Madame.’

  ‘You have saved Alix de Clairy. Now you must do the same for the king.’

  True, I saved a young woman from burning at the stake, Christine thought. But that was different. And I had a lot of help.

  ‘I will do what I can,’ she said.

  ‘That is good. You may go now. Soon I will send for you.’

  Christine made her obeisance and left. In the hallway, Alips joined her.

  ‘Do you feel danger as the queen does?’ Christine asked the dwarf.

  ‘Yes. Someone deliberately set the men on fire. Perhaps the intended victim was the king, or perhaps all the masqueraders. Perhaps the whole palace, and everyone in it, was meant to go up in flames.’

  ‘What a horrible thought!’

  ‘Of course. There is a monster here.’

  By the time Christine left Alips, it was dusk. As she walked through the shadowy corridors and galleries of the Hôtel Saint-Pol, she thought of what the dwarf had said, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she arrived at the palace entrance.

  ‘You shouldn’t walk home alone,’ Simon the portier said. ‘Colin will go with you.’

  As usual, Colin was nearby. He started his prattle as soon as they were out in the street.

  ‘Lots of thieves and murderers around,’ he said. ‘And witches, sorcerers, and the loup-garou.’

  She thought of her mother. The loup-garou was a werewolf that was supposed to come out after dark in search of children to eat. If that didn’t satisfy him, he’d find dead men and drink their blood. Francesca believed all this.

  A strong wind propelled them down the street. Christine pulled her cloak close around her and wished Colin would stop talking. When they got to her house, her mother was waiting at the door. Christine knew the boy hoped to have a conversation about evil beings lurking in the shadows, but she told him to go back to the palace. He turned away, looking disappointed.

  ‘I have warned you about being out after dark,’ Francesca said.

  ‘I know. But I’m safely home now, so please get me something to eat.’

  Francesca took a deep breath. ‘I have a surprise for you,’ she said as she led the way into the kitchen. There Christine was astonished to see the children arguing with a girl who sat at the table holding Goblin in her lap. The little dog struggled to get away, but the stranger held him tightly.

  ‘Let him go!’ Thomas cried. ‘He doesn’t like you.’

  Christine couldn’t believe Thomas was being so rude. But she saw why when Jean and Marie walked over to the girl and tried to lift the dog out of her arms.

  ‘He likes me better than you,’ the girl said. She tightened her grip on Goblin, flounced over to the fireplace, and plunked herself down on a stool.

  Christine asked, ‘What’s going on, Mama? Who is this person?’

  Francesca coughed nervously and said, ‘This is Klara, Martin du Bois’s wife.’

  SIX

  There is nothing more unbecoming in a woman than an uncomely and ill-tempered manner.

  Christine de Pizan, Le Livre des Trois Vertus, 1405

  As Christine looked at the young stranger, any fantasies she’d had about a meek little wife sitting at her husband’s side while he wrote a book instructing her on housekeeping and proper behavior vanished. Klara was a bit chubby, with curly blond hair, pink cheeks, a dimpled chin, and a petulant expression that kept her from being pretty. Christine wondered whether she had dimples in her cheeks as well as her chin, but she suspected it would be hard to find out because the girl didn’t look as though she ever smiled.

  She drew her mother back into the hall and asked, ‘What have you done?’

  Francesca fiddled with the strings of her apron. ‘I felt sorry for the poor little wife, all alone.’

  ‘So you went to Martin du Bois’s house and took her away. Wasn’t there anyone there to stop you?’

  ‘There was a woman with her, a beguine named Agnes. I’ve seen her before. She lives at the beguinage on the rue de l’Ave-Maria. Martin must have hired her to look after his wife.’

  ‘What did the beguine say when you showed up?’

  Francesca looked at the floor and said in a small voice, ‘She said she’d had enough of the girl.’

  ‘Did she tell you why?’

  ‘Only that the girl is unhappy. She hates Paris. Martin brought her and her brother back from Courtrai after the city was destroyed. They miss their home.’

  ‘The sack of Courtrai! That was eleven years ago!’

  ‘I know. Martin was there. The king’s soldiers were taking Flemish children away to be raped or sold as slaves. He saw these two standing alone, crying for their parents, and he felt sorry for them, so he brought them to Paris. Klara was five, and her brother Willem was eight. Martin raised them, and last year he married Klara, when she was fifteen.’

  ‘Where is the brother?’

  ‘Agnes says he ran away several years ago. According to her, Willem raged all the time about how the French had killed his family and burned down his city. Klara was too young to remember much about what had happened, but her brother talked about it constantly.’

  Christine put her hands on her hips and glared at her mother. ‘What did Klara say to you? Did she just meekly follow you out of her house?’

  ‘She did not seem to care. I had the feeling she was glad to go.’

  ‘What are we going to do with her? Surely we can’t keep her here.’

  ‘You are going to find Martin du Bois, are you not? As soon as you do that, we can take her back.’ Francesca untied and then retied the strings of her apron. Then she patted them into place, as if to say, ‘That settles that.’

  One by one, the children crept into the hall. ‘Is she going to stay here?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘She’ll have to learn some manners,’ Christine said.

  Then Klara appeared, still holding Goblin, who was licking her face. ‘You see? He likes me.’

  ‘Apparently,’ Christine said. ‘But he belongs to my children, so why don’t you give him back now?’

  Thomas stepped forward and Klara, pouting, handed him the dog.

  ‘Is supper ready, Mama?’ Christine asked. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat all day.’

  ‘It was ready a long time ago,’ Francesca said. They all went into the kitchen, where Georgette was stirring a pot of soup over the fire. The trestle table had been prepared, and Marie hurried to set out bowls and spoons. Thomas, still holding Goblin, stood in the doorway, making faces at Klara.

  ‘Enough, Thomas,’ Christine said. She took the boy’s arm and pushed him down on the bench by the table. Then the other children sat, too, without leaving a place for Klara. Christine frowned at them.

  ‘Does she really have to eat with us?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Of course she does,’ Christine said. ‘She’s our guest.’

  ‘Don’t guests have to be polite?’ Marie asked.

  ‘They do. And I’m sure Klara will be polite if you are.’

  They all moved around and made a place for the girl, who stomped over and sat down. Georgette brought the pot and ladled soup into the b
owls, spilling some onto the table. She looked at Francesca to see whether she’d noticed and tried to wipe it up with her apron. Francesca groaned.

  Christine said, ‘You’re welcome here, Klara.’

  ‘Are these your children?’ the girl asked.

  ‘And my niece, Lisabetta, who lives with us because her father is in Italy,’ Christine replied, putting her arm around the little girl.

  ‘What’s he doing in Italy?’ Klara asked.

  ‘He’s gone there to take care of some business. Italy was our home once, before we moved here so my father could work for the king’s father.’

  ‘Your king came and destroyed my city!’

  Christine was taken aback by Klara’s outburst. How much did the girl remember? She said, ‘The king was only fourteen then, so he may not have been entirely responsible for what happened.’

  ‘He was. My brother told me how he came riding in on a big white horse and let his soldiers kill everyone. That’s when my mother and father died.’

  Lisabetta gave a little cry, and Christine pulled her close. ‘It’s all right. Your father will be coming back to us soon.’

  ‘My mother and father are never coming back,’ Klara said.

  ‘Do you remember them well?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Not very. I was only five when your king came and destroyed my city. My brother Willem remembers them. He saw them die. He says the soldiers cut their heads off.’

  Jean and Marie gasped. Thomas, who usually loved to hear about gore and slaughter, choked on his soup. Lisabetta started to weep.

  Christine decided it was time to change the subject. ‘Do you know, Klara, my mother found the recipe for the soup we’re eating in the housekeeping manual your husband wrote for you?’ It wasn’t true, and she hoped Francesca wouldn’t contradict her.

  ‘How do you know about the book?’

  ‘I have it upstairs on my desk. The Duchess of Orléans asked me to make a copy.’

  ‘You can keep it if you like.’

  ‘Your husband wrote that you asked him to write it. He wrote that you told him you wanted to learn how to please him.’

  ‘He likes to think that. But I don’t want to be a housekeeper. That’s what servants are for.’

  ‘But you should be able to tell them what to do!’ Francesca exclaimed.

  ‘Well, I don’t have to worry about that now,’ Klara said. ‘Martin’s not there, and most of the servants have left.’

  ‘I don’t blame them,’ Thomas said under his breath. Christine gave him a kick.

  ‘Do you know where your husband is?’ Christine asked.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘And I’ll bet she doesn’t care, either,’ Thomas said.

  Francesca went to Klara and put her arms around her. The girl tried to pull away, and then she leaned against Francesca and started to cry. Christine got up and gently pulled Klara to her feet. ‘Come with me,’ she said. She lit a taper and took the girl upstairs to Francesca’s room. ‘You can sleep here tonight, with my mother.’

  A shutter had blown open, and Klara went over and tried to peer out into the night through the oiled cloth covering the window. Christine had the feeling she’d climb out and escape if she could. She marveled at how childish she was. Many young women her age were married and perfectly capable of caring for a husband and his household. She herself had been married at sixteen, and she’d never acted as Klara did.

  By the light from the fireplace she could see that the girl was very tired, and she drew her over to the bed and made her sit down. ‘You can sleep soon,’ she said. ‘But first we have to talk.’

  Klara turned away, but Christine put her hand under her chin and turned her head so she was facing her. A log shifted in the fireplace, and shadows leapt around the room.

  ‘Your husband left, Klara. Did he tell you where he was going?’

  ‘Martin never tells me anything.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you why he left?’

  Klara gazed at the floor. Just as Christine had resigned herself to the fact that there was no use in questioning her further, she said, ‘He said something about the king.’

  ‘Exactly what did he say?’

  ‘Just something about the king being in danger. He said it under his breath. He didn’t mean for me to hear.’

  Christine thought about what she’d learned from the dwarf. Someone at the palace wanted to kill the king. Was it possible that Martin du Bois knew who it was? Or could it be Martin du Bois himself?

  ‘When did you hear your husband say this, Klara?’

  Klara lay down on the bed and turned her back to Christine. ‘The night he left.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘The night those men burned up at the palace.’

  SEVEN

  The Duke of Berry, whose first wife had died, wanted to marry the daughter of the Count of Boulogne. The king had a good laugh about this, because the Duke of Berry was quite old. He said, ‘Uncle, what will you do with such a young girl? She is only twelve, and you are sixty.’ To this his uncle replied, ‘Then I will spare her for three or four years, until she is full grown.’ To which the king replied, ‘Actually, it is she who will not spare you.’

  Froissart, Chroniques, Livre III, 1386–1388

  First thing the next morning, Christine looked through Martin du Bois’s manuscript. The old man had enlivened his practical advice with references to people he knew, and she thought perhaps one of those people might be able to tell her where he’d gone.

  The Duke of Berry was mentioned several times, so she decided to ask Klara about him.

  She found the girl in the kitchen, sitting on a stool in front of the fire, watching Georgette sweep.

  ‘You forgot that,’ Klara said, pointing to a piece of onion under the table. ‘And those,’ inclining her foot toward some crumbs. Georgette laughed and swept everything in her direction.

  Christine went to the girl, took her arm, and lifted her off the stool.

  ‘This is not your house, Klara, and Georgette is not your servant. It’s no wonder your husband thought you should have a book on how to behave.’

  ‘Oh, leave her alone,’ Georgette said. ‘She isn’t bothering me. Not much anyway.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you, Georgette,’ Christine said. ‘You shouldn’t let yourself be treated like that.’

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t really mean it. She’s just frightened.’

  Georgette has more patience than I do, Christine thought. She looked at Klara, who seemed about to cry, and regretted her harsh words. She eased the girl back down onto the stool.

  ‘Listen, Klara. I have to find your husband. Perhaps you can help. Do you know why he mentions the Duke of Berry in the manuscript he wrote for you?’

  ‘No. Martin never talks to me about his friends.’

  Christine sighed. The girl didn’t seem to know anything. Or want to know.

  Francesca appeared, and Christine suddenly realized she hadn’t seen the children. ‘Where’s everyone?’ she asked.

  ‘Outside. I asked them to stay here and keep Klara company, but they ran out.’ Francesca went to Klara and put her arms around her.

  ‘I have to go and see the Duke of Berry,’ Christine said. ‘He’s mentioned a number of times in her husband’s manuscript. Perhaps he’ll be able to tell me where the man is, and then we can take her home.’ And find out whether Martin du Bois had anything to do with the fire at the palace, she thought.

  ‘Poor child,’ Francesca said. ‘I can’t imagine how she was raised, without a mother or father or any other relatives besides her brother.’

  Klara looked up and said, ‘Martin has always been kind to me. But I don’t want to be married to him.’

  Christine and her mother looked at each other. What were they going to do with this young woman who seemed so confused about who she was and what she was supposed to do?

  ‘My mother says there was someone with you, Klara. A beguine.’

 
; ‘I don’t like her.’

  Christine whispered to Francesca, ‘This isn’t helping me find her husband. I’m going to talk to the duke.’

  ‘I am going to early mass at the cathedral. You can walk with me part of the way.’

  ‘The children will be at school, and someone has to stay with Klara,’ Christine said.

  ‘Do you think we can leave her here with Georgette?’

  ‘Georgette has enough to do without having to worry about her. You brought her here. You figure out what to do with her.’

  ‘I could take her with me to the cathedral.’

  ‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ Christine said as she watched Klara playing with Goblin. She knew from reading Martin du Bois’s manuscript that he’d instructed Klara about the importance of prayer and what to do at mass, but she didn’t think Klara had paid much attention. She said to her mother, ‘She might get bored and run away.’

  Klara solved the problem for them. ‘You got me up too early. I’m going back to bed, and I’m going to stay there all morning.’ She marched up the stairs.

  ‘Good,’ Christine said, and she accompanied her mother out the door.

  The weather was warm and sunny, and puffy white clouds sailed across a blue sky as they walked to the place de Grève, the open space beside the Seine where wine boats docked. Christine slowed her steps to accommodate her mother, who walked with a limp she’d acquired when she’d fallen from a horse in an Alpine pass on the way from Italy to Paris. By the time they got to the Grève, the first wine boats of the morning were in. A wine crier approached, holding out a bowl and inviting them to taste. They ignored him and continued on to the Planche-Mibray, the footbridge over the Seine to the Ȋle. There Christine left Francesca on the rue de la Juiverie, crossed over the Petit Pont, and walked down the other bank of the river, watching the swells on the water sparkle in the sun and listening to linnets and sparrows welcoming the possibility of spring from the tops of willow trees. Beside her, horses towing river barges trudged along a path, and the cries of the men leading the horses and the shouts of the bargemen rang in her ears. Beyond, she saw fishermen sitting silently on the river bank, gazing hopefully into the water.