In the Shadow of the Enemy

by Tania Bayard

  ‘You can’t do that. You’re a lady. When they see you coming, they’ll run like hell.’

  ‘So what should I do?’

  Marion stood up, adjusted her crimson cloak, and squared her shoulders.

  ‘Let me go and talk to them,’ she said.

  NINE

  Don’t let your maidservants lie, play unlawful games, swear foully, or speak words that suggest villainy or that are lewd or coarse, like some vulgar people who curse ‘the bloody bad fevers, the bloody bad work, the bloody bad day.’

  From a book of moral and practical advice for a young wife, Paris, 1393

  Christine walked home, rejoicing because Marion had offered to help her. Marion lived by her own rules, and her ways were unconventional, but she’d provided the key to the identity of a murderess at the palace a few weeks earlier, and Christine hoped she would work a similar miracle again.

  But her heart sank when she came to the door of her house. She heard angry voices coming from the kitchen, and when she went in, she found Klara having another battle with the children. Thomas held Goblin, Klara tried to get the dog away from him, and Lisabetta crouched on the floor, crying loudly. Marie and Jean sat at the table, their hands over their ears.

  ‘He’s our dog. You can’t have him,’ Thomas screamed at Klara.

  Georgette, who’d been stirring a pot of soup over the fire, shook her spoon at the boy. ‘Can’t you share the poor dog?’

  ‘No,’ Thomas shouted.

  ‘The Devil take you,’ Klara shouted back at him.

  Georgette said, ‘This young lady doesn’t know where her husband is. Don’t any of you feel the least bit sorry for her?’

  ‘No,’ the children cried in unison.

  ‘You’re all bloody fools,’ Georgette said.

  Just then, Francesca came into the room. ‘I have told you before, Georgette, I will have no talk like that in this house.’

  Thomas pointed at Klara. ‘She said something bad, too!’

  ‘Basta, Tommaso!’ Francesca said. Then she whispered to Christine, ‘This has been going on all morning.’

  ‘What shall we do?’ Christine whispered back.

  ‘Did you find out anything about her husband from the Duke of Berry?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t even remember him.’

  Klara had stopped trying to get Goblin away from Thomas, and she sat down at the table. Her blond hair was disheveled, and her cheeks were blotched and stained with tears. Marie and Jean turned away from her in disgust.

  ‘She’s torn the sleeve of her kirtle,’ Christine said.

  ‘She needs other clothes,’ Francesca said. ‘We should go to her house and get some.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. Let’s do it this afternoon, right after we’ve had dinner.’

  Francesca called to Georgette, ‘Get the table ready. And you can help her, Klara.’

  Klara wiped her nose on her sleeve and went to stand beside Georgette, who’d taken the pot off the fire and was ladling soup into bowls.

  The children seated themselves at the table, and Klara carried the bowls to them, plunking them down so hard that soup splashed onto the tablecloth.

  Thomas ate a spoonful, put his spoon down, and said, ‘This is terrible.’ He looked at Klara. ‘It must be one of your husband’s recipes.’

  Francesca slapped him gently. ‘This is your favorite soup, Tommaso. So be quiet and leave Klara alone.’

  After that, the children were subdued, and they ate peacefully, not looking at Klara, who hardly ate a drop. Then Francesca got up and said, ‘We are going to go to Klara’s house and get her some clothes.’

  ‘That means she’s going to be here for a while,’ Thomas whispered to Jean.

  ‘You’d better come with us, Klara,’ Christine said. ‘You can tell us what to take. And you come, too, Jean. You can help carry everything.’

  Klara made a face. ‘I’d rather not go there.’

  ‘You can’t stay here forever,’ Francesca said. ‘Once your husband comes back, you’ll go home. Don’t you want that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you will go back, and there is nothing you can do about it,’ Francesca said as she took Klara’s arm and steered her into the hall to get her cloak.

  Just a week before, the market gardens near Christine’s house had been covered with frost, but now everything was coming to life under a late-winter sun. A few tender green shoots poked up through the barren earth, and there were even some early snowdrops and crocuses, if one looked closely. Klara marched along, looking at the ground, but not noticing the flowers. When they came to the magnificent mansion known as the King of Sicily’s palace, Jean asked her, ‘Wouldn’t you like to live there?’ She barely glanced at it.

  So far, they’d been the only people on the street, but on the other side of the old city wall, they had to press through throngs of people hurrying in and out of shops or simply ambling along enjoying the spring-like day. Mules laden with bulging sacks plodded past, horsemen in fur-lined cloaks and big beaver hats with tall peacock feathers flopping from side to side shouted warnings as they galloped toward the palace, street vendors cried their wares, and beggars pleaded with outstretched hands. Christine bought some wafers, Francesca pressed deniers into the hands of the beggars, and Jean gaped at the horsemen and their mounts. Klara paid no attention to anything.

  They made their way down the rue des Rosiers to the rue des Escouffles and found Martin du Bois’s house, a mansion several stories high with gabled windows and a large arched doorway. On one side of the house, there was a large kitchen garden, and on the other, a stable and a washhouse. The man certainly isn’t lacking for money, Christine thought.

  Klara held back as they approached the door. ‘I hope that woman is not here.’

  ‘She means the beguine,’ Francesca whispered to Christine. ‘I wonder why she dislikes her so much.’

  No one stood guard at the door, which was not locked, and they stepped into a hall with a large fireplace. There was no fire, and the place seemed deserted, until a slim maid appeared at the end of the hall. ‘Denise,’ Klara called out, and the girl approached warily. ‘Where’s the beguine?’

  ‘She left,’ the girl said.

  Klara smiled. ‘Good.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘With these people. I need clothes. Come upstairs and help us find some.’

  They all traipsed up a wide staircase and into a room full of chests and coffers. Klara dove into one of the chests and started throwing out gowns and underclothes. Francesca pushed her aside and began lifting the garments out carefully, examining them, and deciding which ones should be packed. Denise hurried to fold them and stuff them into a large sack.

  Christine snuck away so she could look around, hoping to learn something about Martin du Bois. What she found was an ordinary Parisian house, with the living and dining quarters and several bedrooms on the second floor. The furnishings were those of a man who liked things plain and neat: chests, coffers, and benches without the elaborate carvings many people prized, rush mats to cover the floor, tapestries embroidered with simple designs. She wandered to the end of a gallery and found a small study with a large desk, a chair, a fireplace, and shelves overflowing with books. Martin du Bois was well read.

  The room had an unpleasant smell, and she shuddered when she looked at the bare floorboards and realized what it was. There had been a fire. A spark from the fireplace must have fallen on a rush mat and burned through it, charring the wood underneath. The flames had been extinguished quickly, for nothing else had suffered, but she could imagine how frantic Martin du Bois had been to put them out. A house fire in the city could quickly reduce a person’s home to ashes.

  On another part of the floor a large rust-colored stain spread from one side of the room to the other. She’d seen a similar stain in her own house, one day when Georgette had come back from the market with a bowl of pig’s blood for black pudding and spilled it on the wooden floor of
the hallway. Someone had bled profusely in this room. Was it someone who’d been wounded? Or murdered? She remembered what Klara had heard her husband say about the king, just before he disappeared. Many troubling thoughts came to her mind.

  Wondering what Klara knew, she went back to her room, where she heard a cry of surprise from Jean, who’d opened a coffer and found it filled with a profusion of jeweled brooches, buckles, and rings.

  ‘I don’t know what she’s got to complain about if her husband gives her all these,’ he said. He dove into the coffer, rifled through its contents, and pulled something out. ‘What would she do with this?’

  Christine looked at what he held in his hand and asked herself the same question. The object was bent and encrusted with grime, but completely recognizable. It was a golden spur.

  ‘Put it back, Jean, before Klara sees,’ she said.

  But Klara had seen. She ran over and grabbed the spur. ‘That’s mine. Leave it alone.’ She thrust it into the sack with her clothes.

  Francesca was still examining the contents of the chest and handing things to Denise to pack, so Christine went to help her. As she sorted through kirtles, chemises, surcoats, and undergarments, she thought about the spur and wondered why Klara had hidden it in a coffer with her jewelry. But she was more concerned with what she’d seen in the husband’s study, and she asked herself, Who is Martin du Bois, and what terrible things have gone on in his house?

  TEN

  When a puffer starts to blow and the bagpipe begins to whine, a large crowd gathers round. There’s more to this than joy; they leap about as though demented, flinging their hands and legs and feet about with no sense or reason or restraint.

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

  Marion, her hair bound with glittering beads and carrying her emerald-green purse with its embroidered dragons and lizards, strode down the rue Saint-Martin toward the rue aus Jugléeurs, the street where many of the musicians and instrument-makers of Paris lived and worked. Her brothel was in another part of the city, but she lived in a rented room not far from the rue Saint-Martin, and she was well known in the neighborhood.

  She pushed her way through the crowds, stopping every now and then to gaze at the jewelry, goblets, candlesticks, knives, hats, belts, shoes, and linens displayed on counters in front of shop windows. When she came to a bronze-worker’s establishment, she couldn’t resist going in to ask about a brooch she saw outside. The proprietor took the brooch from the window and held it up so she could see its decoration – two dragons with their long necks entwined. She dug into her embroidered purse, brought out some coins, and was about to hand them to the man when she noticed on the counter a bronze key ring decorated with a little sculpted figure of a jester. She thought of Francesca. She knew Christine’s mother didn’t like her, though she’d become less hostile lately, and she thought she’d give her the key ring as a way to make peace with her. She bought it and the brooch and stuffed them into her purse.

  Then she continued down the rue Saint-Martin, looking about carefully. She came to a tavern, hesitated, entered, and surveyed the customers seated at long wooden tables with beakers of wine before them. A tall, thin man with a hooked nose sat with two companions at the back of the room, and when he saw her, he called out, ‘Come join us, Marion.’

  She wound her way over, her crimson cloak brushing against the tables, nearly sweeping several beakers to the floor, and sat down beside him.

  ‘Hello, Denisot. Introduce me to your friends.’

  ‘So nice of you to join us musicians, Marion. This is Thibaut, who plays the pipes, and Philippot, who drives people mad with his bagpipes.’

  Philippot, large and red-faced, laughed and clapped Denisot on the back. ‘I don’t suppose you drive anyone mad, blasting away on your trumpet?’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ Denisot said.

  Marion took a sip of Denisot’s wine. ‘Of course, if you play like that, anyone standing nearby might find the music a bit loud, no matter which instrument it is,’ she mused.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Denisot admitted. ‘But most of the time we have to play loud, so we can be heard above the noise of the crowds.’

  ‘Even when you’re up on the musicians’ balcony at the palace?’

  Denisot clapped his hands and called for more wine. ‘Up there, no one’s close enough to be bothered. It’s just us, so we play however we want.’

  ‘But what if someone else was up there with you? Would you all be concentrating on your playing so much that you wouldn’t notice?’ She took another drink of Denisot’s wine.

  Thibaut, a skinny man who looked like a frightened rabbit, shifted uneasily on the bench. Philippot rubbed his hands on his ample thighs.

  ‘What’s this got to do with anything?’ Denisot asked.

  ‘One thinks about such things, you know.’

  ‘Think about something else, Marion.’

  ‘Actually, I’m thinking about the night of the masquerade ball. I suppose you were all there?’

  ‘So what if we were?’ Philippot asked.

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me something about what happened that night.’

  The three men looked at each other.

  ‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ Marion said. ‘I know you didn’t do it. But there were other people besides you musicians on the balcony. One of those people threw a lighted torch at the masqueraders.’

  Thibaut started to shake, and Philippot put his arms around him to quiet him.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ Denisot said. ‘Is anyone accusing us?’

  ‘No one thinks you had anything to do with the fire,’ Marion said. ‘But someone wants to know if any of you saw a stranger up there.’

  ‘This is none of your business,’ Denisot said.

  ‘I’m making it my business,’ Marion said. ‘Four men burned to death, and the king could have died, too.’

  Philippot and Thibault got up from the table. ‘Time for us to go,’ Philippot said, and they scurried away.

  ‘They didn’t see anything,’ Denisot said.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. And even if we did see something, we wouldn’t talk about it.’

  ‘And no one else will, either? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Look, Marion. I don’t know who has put you up to asking these questions, but you’d better be careful. People have died.’

  ‘And more people may die. Even the king.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s true, Denisot. And I need to know what you saw.’

  Denisot took a drink of wine and looked at Marion for a long time. Finally, he said, ‘There were several men playing vielles. One of them, Bernart le Brun, stood behind us for a moment fixing a broken string on his instrument. He might have seen something.’

  ‘Where can I find Bernart le Brun?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a while. I know he lives on the rue aus Jugléeurs. But be careful, Marion. This could be a dangerous business.’

  Marion made her way back through the room, ignoring the drinkers saluting her with raised beakers, left the tavern, and made her way slowly down to the rue aus Jugléeurs. Tall buildings leaned precariously over the narrow street, children ran in and out of the houses, and through open doors she could see steep staircases and dark interiors. Many instrument-makers lived there, and she heard the sounds of trumpets, pipes, shawms, even a bagpipe. But other people had shops there, too – an apothecary, a shield-maker, a dressmaker, and a garlic-seller. A woman sitting in front of the dressmaker’s shop looked her up and down and motioned for her to come over so she could talk to her.

  ‘That’s a beautiful purse you have. Who did the embroidery?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You could make a good living from work like that.’

  Marion laughed. ‘So a friend of mine is always telling me.’

  ‘Will you sell it to me?’

  ‘Not today.’

  The woman s
hrugged and went back to her sewing.

  Next to the garlic-seller’s shop stood an empty house with a door that swung back and forth, creaking on rusty hinges. She hurried past. A man holding a trumpet came toward her, and she asked him, ‘Do you know where Bernart le Brun lives?’

  ‘At the end of the street.’

  She walked to the last house and knocked on the door. A woman in a short-sleeved cotte and a dirty apron opened it. Marion said, ‘I’m looking for Bernart le Brun.’

  ‘He’s not here.’ The woman started to close the door. Marion put her foot out and held it open.

  ‘Please, can you tell me where he is?’

  The woman kicked her foot aside and slammed the door.

  Marion turned and started back down the narrow street, hoping to find someone who could tell her where Bernart le Brun might be. As she passed the empty house, a horseman charged by on a black stallion, coming so close she jumped back and fell against the creaky door. It swung open and she tumbled into a dark hallway, landing on her hands and knees. Stunned, she remained there for a moment, feeling pain where her hands had scraped against the rough floorboards, and listening to the rasping of her breath. She reached out blindly for something to hold on to so she could pull herself to her feet. But instead of a wall or a banister or a piece of furniture, she touched rough cloth, and then cold flesh. There was someone beside her, someone who was not moving.

  She jumped up and ran out into the street, screaming.

  ELEVEN

  Dear Sister, I beg you, in order to preserve your husband’s love and good will, be loving, amiable, and sweet with him. Keep peace with him, and remember the country proverb that says there are three things that drive a good man from his home: a house with a bad roof, a smoking chimney, and a quarrelsome woman.

  From a book of moral and practical advice for a young wife, Paris, 1393

  When Christine went into the kitchen the next morning, she found Georgette kneeling on the hearth, grumbling to herself as she tried to light the fire.