by Tania Bayard
The Duke of Berry’s grand Parisian residence, the Hôtel de Nesle, sat on the edge of the Seine, facing an even grander palace, the Louvre, across the river. Christine had met the duke at the Hôtel Saint-Pol, but she had never been to this imposing mansion. There were no other visitors or petitioners in the reception hall, and a page led her immediately along a wide corridor to one of the duke’s apartments, a huge space with a high vaulted ceiling and stained-glass windows through which the early morning sun streamed, throwing rainbow colors onto the polished wood floor and touching crystal goblets on tall sideboards with flashes of red, green, and blue. The brightness nearly blinded her as she stepped in from the shadowy corridor.
The duke sat at a desk, turning the pages of a large illuminated manuscript, and on the other side of the room a woman whom Christine knew to be his young wife, Jeanne of Boulogne, perched on a cushioned window seat, watching him. Since the duke didn’t look up when she was announced, Christine stood in the doorway and studied the pair, marveling at how different they were. The duke, short and squat with a pug nose and small eyes set in a fat, wrinkled face, appeared to be between fifty and sixty, while his wife was only sixteen and looked even younger. Christine knew how much hilarity the duke had caused at the court four years earlier when he’d announced that he intended to marry a twelve-year-old girl. Now as she looked at the pair, she sensed the old man had met his match. To be sure, everything about him was overpowering – his magnificent bright-green houppelande with its long, flowing ermine-lined sleeves and wide ermine collar, the rubies and diamonds sparkling on his fingers, the sickly sweet odor of the cloves, nutmeg, and galingale coming from his pomaded hair. But the demeanor of his young wife was more impressive. Jeanne of Boulogne, modestly dressed in a simple blue kirtle, had a quiet reserve and a determined manner that had manifested itself the night of the tragic fire, when she’d thrown the train of her gown over the king and saved him from a horrible death.
The page had announced her, but the duke seemed not to have noticed, so Christine went in and knelt beside his desk, being careful not to step on a small lap dog sleeping on the floor. The duke looked up from his manuscript and said, ‘I remember your father. And you, when you were a little girl, at the palace.’
‘Yes, Monseigneur. A long time ago.’
The duke turned a page in his manuscript. ‘What brings you here?’
‘A man has disappeared. His name is Martin du Bois. Since he may have been in your service, I thought you might be able to tell me where he has gone.’ Her knees began to hurt, and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. The little lap dog stood up and wagged his tail.
‘Du Bois? So many people work for me. I don’t recall him. Why does he interest you?’
‘He disappeared the night of the wedding ball at the palace, Monseigneur. His young wife is left alone, and I think it’s important to find her husband.’
‘I was not at the wedding ball. My wife was.’ The duke glanced over at the young woman sitting quietly by the window. ‘Perhaps she knows something about this man.’ He went back to his manuscript, then looked down at Christine, surprised to find her still there. She was grateful when Jeanne of Boulogne called across the room, ‘Please rise and come over here.’ She stood and went to the duchess, who motioned for her to sit beside her, and as she sank down onto the soft cushions, the little dog, who’d trotted after her, jumped into her lap. He had silky fur and delicate features, and to Christine he seemed more like a toy than a real dog, not nearly as appealing as Goblin with his crooked tail and ragged ears.
The duchess reached into a sack lying on the seat beside her, took out a tiny biscuit and gave it to the dog, which ate it in one gulp. She said, ‘You must excuse the duke. He waited more than a year for the illuminators to finish that manuscript. It was delivered to him this morning, and he can’t keep his eyes off it.’
Christine nodded, wishing the duke had offered to let her have a look.
The duchess took her hand and said, ‘I know a lot about you. I was so glad when you saved Alix de Clairy. I did not know her well, but I liked her. You did a courageous thing.’
‘Thank you, Madame.’
The duchess had blond hair, small blue eyes, and a rather large nose, but her manner was so charming and gracious, she seemed beautiful. ‘What did you say was the name of the man you’re asking about?’
‘Martin du Bois.’
‘Was he at the wedding ball?’
Christine thought about what Klara had told her, that her husband had muttered something about the king being in danger, the night he’d disappeared. But that didn’t prove he’d been at the ball. She said, ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Of course you know all about what happened that night,’ Jeanne said.
‘Yes. I know you saved the king.’
‘If only I could have saved the others.’ Tears formed in Jeanne’s eyes. ‘Especially Yvain de Foix.’
Christine knew something of Jeanne of Boulogne’s history. From the age of three she’d been raised in the household of a powerful count, Gaston de Foix. Yvain, the count’s bastard son, had probably been like a big brother to her, and it must have been unbearable to see him burning to death. And yet, she’d had the presence of mind to save the king.
Christine said, ‘I am so sorry about Yvain, and the others who died.’
Jeanne wiped away her tears. ‘The tragedy affects us all.’
‘The king’s brother thinks the fire was his fault,’ Christine said.
‘I don’t think it was,’ Jeanne said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I saw the Duke of Orléans holding two torches, and yet there was a third torch lying on the floor. That must have been the one that set the men on fire.’
So there really had been a third torch! It wasn’t just something she’d seen in her nightmare. Christine looked over at the duke, to see whether he’d heard. He was engrossed in his new plaything. She was certain the young woman hadn’t told her husband what she’d just told her.
‘I’ve tried and tried to think whose the other torch could have been,’ the duchess continued. ‘Someone wanted those men to die. Or perhaps just Yvain.’ There were tears in her eyes again.
‘I’m sure you were close to Yvain,’ Christine said.
‘He was kind to me, when I lived in his father’s house. The count died recently, as I’m sure you know, and Yvain had been here in Paris ever since because the king had taken a liking to him.’
Christine had seen Yvain at the palace, a handsome young man with an open, pleasant manner that had won him many friends. It was no wonder the king had been reluctant to let him leave.
‘Yvain was a bastard,’ the duchess said. ‘But his father loved him and wanted to leave his estates to him.’
Christine knew that because Yvain had been illegitimate, a cousin, the Viscount of Castelbon, claimed everything should go to him. She’d heard the viscount had come to Paris to make sure the king didn’t decide to give it to Yvain instead. He won’t have to worry about that now, she mused, and she wondered whether the duchess had the same idea.
The duchess was looking over at her husband. He hadn’t raised his plump face from the manuscript. ‘Someone threw that torch at the dancers,’ she said, in such a low voice that Christine could hardly hear.
It could have been meant for Yvain de Foix, Christine thought. But the queen was convinced it was intended for the king. And what Klara had heard her husband say indicated that he thought so, too. Or perhaps he didn’t just think so. Perhaps Martin du Bois knew the torch was going to be thrown at the king because he was the one who was going to throw it. She was about to share this thought with the duchess, but she changed her mind. All she said was, ‘You’re right. There was a third torch. Other people saw it.’
The duchess clapped her hands. ‘You see! The Duke of Orléans is innocent. It pains me to see him going around the court suffering with remorse for something he didn’t do.’ She glanced over
at her husband again and lowered her voice. ‘If only we could find out who threw that torch!’
Before Christine could say anything, the duke looked up and asked, ‘What are you two whispering about over there?’
The duchess said, ‘We’re talking about Martin du Bois, the man who disappeared the night of the marriage ball. You told Christine you don’t remember him. Has some recollection of him come to your mind now?’
‘No, it hasn’t.’ The duke went back to his manuscript.
The duchess turned to Christine again and asked, ‘Why are you so anxious to find this man?’
‘My mother felt sorry for his young wife and brought her home to stay with us. I’d like to find her husband so she can go back to her own home.’
‘Do you think this man had anything to do with the fire?’
‘He disappeared that night without telling his wife where he was going.’ She had another thought. Perhaps there was some connection between Martin du Bois, the Viscount of Castelbon, and a plot to kill the king.
‘Tell me about his wife,’ the duchess said.
‘She’s sixteen, an orphan Martin du Bois rescued when the city of Courtrai was sacked.’ She remembered that Jeanne herself was sixteen, and thought how different she was from Klara.
‘My husband was in Courtrai with the king,’ the duchess said.
‘Martin du Bois may have been there with him.’
‘Then the duke should certainly have some memory of him. He’s engrossed in his new manuscript now, but later he may be persuaded to think more seriously about this.’
Christine had the feeling this young woman would be able to persuade her husband to do almost anything. ‘Thank you, Madame,’ she said. ‘If the duke remembers something, please send word to me. I live just outside the old city wall, on the street that goes past the King of Sicily’s palace. A messenger will easily find me; tell him to look for the house just beyond the first three market gardens.’
Christine rose, curtsied to the young duchess, and started to do so to the duke, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Out in the street, she had sobering thoughts. She was no closer to finding Martin du Bois than before. And what would she do if she discovered that the Viscount of Castelbon had been trying to kill the king? How would she, a commoner, go about accusing a nobleman of such a thing? It seemed she’d taken on an impossible task. But she thought of the queen’s distress, Alips’s suspicions, the shadow they felt over everything at the palace, and she knew she had to accomplish it.
EIGHT
Even Jesus Christ was willing to associate with prostitutes while turning them away from sin.
Christine de Pizan, Le Livre des Trois Vertus, 1405
Christine walked slowly up the bank of the Seine, and crossed the river on the Grand Pont, where the sounds of hammering in goldsmiths’ shops and the shouts of early travelers hurrying into money-changers’ establishments rang in her ears. She was so lost in thought she paid no attention to anything until a man carrying a basket covered with a white cloth approached. She bought one of his pork pasties, then nearly dropped it as she was jostled by a procession of weeping men and women who swept past, trailing after two barefoot priests carrying a large wax effigy of the king. She knew the grotesque figure would be stationed in front of a statue of the Virgin in one of the city’s churches, and the priests would throw themselves onto the cold stone floor and beseech the Blessed Mother to deliver the real king from his terrible affliction. The mock king bobbed up and down over the heads of the people in the crowd, a hideous imitation of the beloved monarch who’d lost his reason.
On the other side of the river, as she walked with her head down, she bumped into a tall woman with flaming red hair who wore a crimson cloak and carried a large emerald-green purse decorated with embroidered dragons and lizards.
‘Pay attention to where you’re going, Lady Christine,’ the woman said, laughing. ‘If you keep looking at the ground, you’ll walk into the river.’
Christine sat down on the edge of a water trough near the Châtelet, the fortress-like prison that cast a pall over that part of the city. ‘You’re right, Marion,’ she said.
The beggars and other vagrants who loitered around the trough looked on, dumbfounded to see a short, proper-looking lady in a plain blue cotte and simple white headdress talking to a tall prostitute in her extravagant clothes. Some of them edged closer, all ears to find out what these two women could have to say to each other. Christine was used to people wondering about her friendship with Marion. Her mother, especially, took a dim view of the association. She’d promised Francesca that since Marion was an expert embroiderer she would try to get her to take up that profession instead of prostitution, but lately she’d given up worrying about it. She liked Marion, who’d helped her save Alix de Clairy.
‘Why do you look so downcast on such a beautiful day?’ Marion asked, sitting beside her and looking up at the people who surrounded them. One man put out his hand, hoping for a coin, while others merely stood with their mouths open. One particularly ragged fellow in a torn brown jerkin and muddy boots snuck away when he saw Christine frowning at him.
Marion stood up and went to the back of the crowd where a woman in a red, green, and yellow skirt and a huge turban stood staring at Christine.
‘That’s my friend,’ Marion said. ‘Do you want to meet her?’
The woman pranced away, and Marion laughed.
‘We have to speak quietly,’ Christine said as Marion sat down beside her again.
Marion tossed her head. ‘What’s the big secret?’
‘To begin with, my mother brought home a disagreeable young woman whose husband has disappeared. She seems destined to stay with us forever unless I can find him.’
‘Lost husbands aren’t easy to find.’
‘I’m not sure his wife wants him to be found. She’s very discontented with him. I think it’s because he’s much older than she is.’
Some of the beggars moved closer. Christine waved them away.
‘Lots of young women are married to older men.’
‘I know. I’ve just been to see the Duchess of Berry, and if anyone should be unhappy with her husband, it’s that young lady. But she doesn’t complain. In the case of the young woman my mother brought home, it’s the husband who should be discontented with her.’
‘Why?’
‘I told you, she’s very disagreeable. But that’s not the point. I have to find her husband.’
‘So you can get rid of her.’
‘It’s more than that.’ She leaned over and said in a low voice, ‘Just before he vanished, his wife heard him mutter something about the king’s life being in danger.’
‘Who is this man?’
‘His name is Martin du Bois.’ Christine pulled Marion closer. ‘There’s more. The queen thinks someone is trying to kill the king.’
‘God’s teeth,’ Marion cried.
‘Keep your voice down, or I won’t tell you anything more.’
‘What makes her think that?’ Marion asked in a whisper.
‘Remember the fire at the palace and the four men who burned to death?’
‘How could anyone forget?’
‘Everyone thinks the fire was started by the Duke of Orléans. Some say it was a spark from a torch he was holding. Others say he threw the torch at the dancers. But the duke swears he didn’t do it, and I believe him. He’s ambitious, but I don’t think he’s capable of such evil.’
‘I don’t either. I know he’d like to be king, but to kill his own brother? And in such a horrible way? Not possible.’
‘In any case, when I thought about it, I realized he was holding two torches while the men were burning. If he came in with two and he was still holding them both, he can’t have thrown one at the dancers. And besides, I saw a third torch on the floor.’
Marion jumped up and pommeled the air with her fists. ‘I knew it! I knew you were there!’
Christine grabbed
Marion’s hand and pulled her back down on the edge of the trough. ‘I’m sorry I never told you. It was just by accident that I saw those men burning. I’ve been too upset to talk about it.’
Marion looked at Christine with pity in her eyes. ‘I understand. It must have been horrible!’
‘It was. I have nightmares.’
‘So if there was a third torch, where did it come from?’
‘That’s what we have to find out.’ Christine looked at the people standing around and whispered, ‘There’s more.’
Marion leaned closer. Several beggars moved closer, too. Marion stood up, and they scurried away.
‘Someone told me she saw a lighted torch flung from the musicians’ balcony.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘The queen’s dwarf. She was up on the balcony. She told the queen about it, and the queen thinks the torch was meant for the king. She’s convinced the person who threw it is still at the palace, and he’s determined to kill the king. She’s asked me to find out who it is.’
Marion let out a whistle of surprise. Then she said, ‘I suppose you’re the right person to ask since you’ve already found one murderer. But I think if anyone threw a torch, he meant it for Huguet de Guisay. Lots of people wanted to kill Huguet. He had no respect for anyone. He called commoners dogs, and he was really cruel to his servants. He used to stand on their backs, dig into them with his spurs, and cry “Bark, dog!” Huguet de Guisay was the perfect target for a flaming torch.’
‘The Duchess of Berry thinks it was meant for Yvain de Foix.’
‘She told you that?’
‘Not exactly. But she implied that the Viscount of Castelbon was lucky Yvain died when he did. Nevertheless, the queen believes it’s the king who was supposed to die, and I think she’s right, because of what the abandoned wife heard her husband say.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘The dwarf told me she’s sure it wasn’t one of the musicians. But perhaps they saw something. I’m going to go and speak to them.’
