In the Shadow of the Enemy

by Tania Bayard

  ‘You don’t have the proper kindling,’ said Klara, who sat on a stool, holding Goblin.

  ‘Perhaps Klara learned something from her husband’s manuscript after all,’ Christine said to her mother. ‘There’s a passage where he tells her how to prepare wood for starting a fire.’ She looked around. ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘They’re outside, plotting how to get Goblin away from her.’ Francesca chuckled.

  ‘That’s not amusing, Mama. They should know better. Klara, too. She’s sixteen and married. Isn’t she at all worried about her husband?’

  Francesca shook her head. ‘It does not seem so.’

  ‘I’m sure she gives him a lot of trouble. He points out many times in his manuscript that wives should be loving and peaceful with their husbands. Do you see any signs that Klara is loving and peaceful?’

  ‘None whatsoever. The poor man.’

  ‘Some of this may be his fault, you know.’

  ‘It is the woman who must keep peace in the family.’

  ‘Men have to do their part. A wife can’t be blamed for everything that goes wrong.’

  ‘I did not say that.’ Francesca picked up a bellows and went to help Georgette with the fire.

  ‘But I know what you were thinking,’ Christine called after her.

  Francesca worked the bellows, sparks caught, and flames leapt up. She turned to Klara, handed her the bellows, and said, ‘You should learn how to use this. I am sure your husband expects you to keep his house warm.’

  ‘I don’t have to do that,’ Klara said.

  Francesca looked at Christine, who’d come over to stand beside her. ‘Did you not just tell me that her husband gives her instructions for making a fire?’

  ‘I did.’

  Francesca turned back to Klara, ‘If your husband expects you to do something, you must do it. Always obey your husband, and you will keep peace with him. That is what I did, when my husband was alive.’

  Christine started to laugh. ‘That’s not true, Mama. You didn’t keep peace with Papa.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘You argued with him all the time, especially when he was teaching me to read and write. You told him girls didn’t need to learn about such things.’

  Francesca shrugged.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t remember. You’re lucky he didn’t give in. If he had, I wouldn’t know how to do anything but keep the fire going and cook and sew. Then where would we be?’

  Francesca sat on the bench by the fireplace, drew her daughter down beside her, and put her arms around her. ‘Perhaps I was wrong. I am sorry.’

  Christine hugged her mother. ‘We shouldn’t be arguing. We should be deciding what to do about Klara.’

  ‘Perhaps her husband is dead. Will we have to keep her here forever?’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  ‘Then you had better find Martin du Bois. Have you asked Georgette if her brother has told her where he is?’

  ‘Come over here, Georgette,’ Christine called out to the girl, who was about to hang a cauldron of water on the pothook.

  ‘I know what you’re going to ask me,’ Georgette said. She set the pot on the floor, wiped her hands on her apron, and shuffled toward them. ‘But I can’t tell you anything. Colin’s never said anything about Martin du Bois. All I know is, he’s talked to Klara’s brother Willem.’

  ‘What do you know about Willem?’

  ‘Nothing more than what I’ve already told you.’

  Georgette went back to the fire, picked up the cauldron, and hoisted it onto the pothook, spilling water on the floor, and on herself, in the process. She took off her wet apron and used it to dab at her dress and wipe up the floor.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Francesca asked.

  ‘She’s the only help we can afford,’ Christine said.

  ‘I mean about Klara.’

  ‘Marion says she can help with her.’

  Francesca jumped up and shook her finger at her daughter. ‘She’s a prostitute! We will not let her anywhere near Klara!’

  ‘I thought perhaps you’d made your peace with her,’ Christine said.

  Just then there was a knock at the door, and when Christine answered it, she found Marion, who cried, ‘I have to talk to you! About the musicians.’

  ‘Come in, but don’t say anything to my mother.’

  They went into the kitchen where, at the sight of Marion with her crimson cloak, flaming red hair, and glittering beads, Klara sprang up from the stool and dropped Goblin, who landed on the floor with a thud.

  ‘It’s all right, Klara,’ Christine said. ‘This is my friend Marion.’

  ‘And who is this little lady?’ Marion asked.

  ‘This is Klara, whose husband has disappeared.’

  Marion stepped over to Klara. ‘I’m happy to meet you,’ she said.

  Klara backed away, almost falling over the stool.

  ‘Haven’t you ever met a prostitute before?’

  Francesca gasped and the children giggled. ‘Don’t talk to her like that, Marion,’ Christine said.

  Marion laughed. She went to Francesca, took the key ring she’d bought on the rue Saint-Martin out of her embroidered purse, and handed it to her.

  ‘I know you keep your cupboards, spice chests, and the door to your house locked at all times, so I thought this might be useful.’ Then, under her breath, ‘Of course, locking the door won’t keep out the evil spirits you’re always worried about.’

  Christine was relieved to see that her mother accepted the gift graciously. Then Marion stepped over to Klara, reached into her purse again, and brought out the bronze brooch.

  ‘This would look nice with that pretty dress you’re wearing.’

  Klara couldn’t back away any more; she was already up against the wall. She reached out for the brooch, took it gingerly, and inspected the dragon decoration.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  Marion turned to Christine. ‘I have to talk to you.’

  Francesca put her hand on Christine’s arm and squeezed it.

  ‘It’s all right, Mama,’ Christine said. She took Marion into the hall.

  ‘You can’t keep everything from her,’ Marion said.

  ‘I have to. If she finds out about what the queen has asked me to do, she’ll be beside herself with worry, and she’ll try to stop me.’

  ‘She’s got enough to do, with that little lady in there.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do about Klara. The only one who seems to get along with her is Georgette.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘I told you. She thinks her husband is too old. She doesn’t want to learn how to keep house and care for him. He hired a beguine to help her, and that seems to have made it worse; she hates her.’

  ‘I can straighten her out.’

  ‘How?’

  Marion laughed. ‘If I can help Loyse, I can help anyone.’

  ‘What are you talking about? The only Loyse I know is the lion-keeper’s helper.’

  ‘That’s who I mean.’

  Christine stared at Marion. She, like everyone else, thought Loyse was mad. The girl dressed in rags, never combed her hair, never spoke, and never left the lions’ stockade.

  ‘You think Loyse doesn’t know what goes on around here,’ Marion continued. ‘But she does.’

  ‘Does Loyse talk to you?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I’ll take you to see her, and you’ll find out how wrong everyone’s been about her. Meanwhile, let me spend some time with Klara.’

  ‘We’ll see. But you came to tell me something. What is it?’

  ‘Some of the musicians who played the night of the masquerade told me one of the vielle players, Bernart le Brun, might have seen something, so I went to his house on the rue aus Jugléeurs to talk to him.’

  Marion’s voice rose as she began to recount her terrible experience. Christine put her finger to her lips and nodded toward the kitchen,
where her mother might be listening.

  Marion lowered her voice and rushed on with her story. ‘His wife said he wasn’t home, so I went out to ask about him. I walked down the street, a horseman came by, I jumped out of the way, and I fell through the door of an empty house. I reached out in the dark, and I touched him. He was dead.’

  ‘Great God! But how did you know who it was?’

  ‘I didn’t, until the sergeants from the Châtelet came and carried him out into the street where I could get a good look at him. They said he’d been poisoned, but I suspected that already, because he was covered with vomit.’

  ‘So he must have seen the person who threw the torch! And he got himself killed because of it.’ Christine thought of Alips, who’d seen that person, too. ‘Did the sergeants from the Châtelet say anything else?’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me anything. At least they didn’t accuse me of murdering him.’

  ‘We know more about why he was poisoned than they do. But what can we do about it?’

  ‘Perhaps his wife knows something. I’m sure she won’t talk to me, though. If you go there, maybe she’ll talk to you.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. We’ll go together. Meet me first thing tomorrow morning at the corner of the rue Saint-Martin and the rue aus Jugléeurs. If I’m not there then, come the next morning.’

  Francesca stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. ‘What are you two talking about?’

  ‘Marion thinks she can help us with Klara,’ Christine said.

  ‘Make a prostituta out of her?’

  ‘That is not amusing,’ Christine said. She took her mother by the shoulders, turned her around, and gently pushed her back into the kitchen.

  TWELVE

  The doctor, Guillaume de Harselly, said to the king’s brother and his uncles, ‘He is better now, but his mind is still weak. Don’t tire him with affairs of state. Let him relax with amusements and sports.’

  Froissart, Chroniques, Livre IV, 1389–1400

  The next morning, Colin came and announced that Christine was wanted at the palace. Marion would not find her at the corner of the rue Saint-Martin and the rue aus Jugléeurs as they had planned. But Marion was patient; she’d be there again.

  ‘You have to finish the manuscript you’re copying,’ Colin said.

  How does he know? Christine asked herself. The boy was a snoop. She reflected that this might be a good thing; he might be able to find out where Martin du Bois had gone. She’d talk to him about it on the way to the palace.

  On the rue Saint-Antoine, Colin looked around for the pasty and wafer vendors. But they weren’t there, which was surprising on a warm day. They soon saw why. A group of people stood near the cemetery of the church of Saint-Pol, looking at the ground and talking excitedly. Colin ran over and pushed his way through the crowd. Christine followed him.

  Evergreen trees grew at one side of the cemetery, and a caretaker had discovered a woman lying unconscious under one of them. She wore only a white chemise and her face was covered with dried blood. The caretaker knelt beside her. ‘Dieu! She must have been here since last night.’ He touched her cheek. ‘But she’s still alive! It’s a miracle. If the weather hadn’t been so warm, she’d have died.’

  Several people bent down to get a closer look. ‘She’s been hit on the head,’ said an old man. To demonstrate, he lifted his cane and brought it down hard on the ground. ‘Merde!’ exclaimed the man beside him as he jumped out of the way. Then an old crone tried to pull the injured woman’s chemise down so her legs would be covered. ‘To make her decent,’ she said.

  One of the wafer vendors stepped up and shook his fist at them. ‘Don’t just stand there talking! Take her to a doctor.’ A man ran to get a large plank lying beside the road. Strong hands lifted the injured woman onto it and started to carry her away.

  ‘She might die,’ Colin said, looking worried.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Christine said. ‘I wonder who she is. Have you ever seen her before?’ The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he ran after the men carrying the litter.

  Christine wanted to call him back, but he was out of sight. She was not surprised he’d gone to find out what would happen to the woman – Colin pried into everything – but she was irritated that he’d disappeared before she’d had a chance to talk to him about Martin du Bois.

  At the palace, she stood in the doorway to the queen’s chambers and was relieved to see that Isabeau, reclining on her day bed in a blue velvet houppelande with ermine-lined sleeves, a wide pearl-studded belt, and a circlet of jewels that sparkled whenever she turned her head, was dressed like royalty again. She appeared to have recovered from her gloom, for she was playing with her greyhound and smiling at her ladies-in-waiting, who sat on big cushions by the bed, wearing gowns nearly as elegant as hers. Christine looked down at her own plain blue surcoat and sighed.

  A chambermaid brought in the little Saracen girl. The queen lifted the child onto the bed, and they laughed when the monkey scuttled over, hid behind a cushion, and reached out a paw to pat the greyhound’s head. Guillaume the fool ran to them and danced around, making comments about the dog’s cold nose. ‘Just like a maid’s knee,’ he said, looking at the chambermaid.

  The queen motioned for Christine to come to her. As she approached the bed, Guillaume made a little bow and said, ‘Welcome, fair scribe.’ He sprinted to the other side of the room, his bald head shining, and said to Gracieuse the minstrel, who sat with her lute on her lap, ‘Give us sweet sounds for the scribe.’ Gracieuse picked up her lute and started to play, whereupon Guillaume seized Jeannine the fool’s hands and swung her around in a wild dance.

  The queen watched him and smiled. ‘So much dancing. He will again have holes in his shoes, and I will again have to buy him new ones.’

  Christine knelt. Isabeau looked at her hopefully. ‘Are you here to do what I ask?’

  ‘I will try, Madame.’

  Isabeau motioned for her to rise. ‘At least you will accomplish something for Catherine. She is distressed. The book will cheer her.’

  I wonder, Christine said to herself as she went to the room where she did her work. The book she was copying was a Life of Saint Catherine of Alexandria, a martyr who’d suffered a horrible death, and she didn’t think Catherine de Fastavarin, still tormented by thoughts of the tragic fire, would be in a hurry to read it.

  Through the open door she could see into the room where the queen and her ladies sat, and as she waited for the manuscript to be brought to her, she watched a page come in, kneel before the queen, and present her with a leather pouch resting on a little red velvet pillow. The ladies-in-waiting crowded around as she opened the pouch and removed something that Christine, whose view was blocked by voluminous gowns and massive jeweled circlets, couldn’t see. When Guillaume and Jeannine ran over to find out what all the excitement was about, curiosity got the better of her, and she joined them.

  The queen had in her hands a set of playing cards. First she showed them to the little girl sitting beside her on the bed, and then she held them up, one by one, so her ladies could admire them. Each card had a picture of an implement of war, set against a gold background. Battle axes, swords, shields, spurs, and helmets appeared, and finally one that was different; a deer with a gilded collar shaped like a crown.

  Christine felt a tug on her sleeve and looked down to find Alips, who said, ‘She had them made as a present for the king.’

  ‘I’m sure the king will like them,’ Christine said. ‘He loves anything having to do with battles. But I’m puzzled about the deer.’

  ‘The king has special affection for deer. Someone told him that in the forest of Senlis they’d found a deer that had been there since ancient times. They said words proving this were inscribed on a collar around its neck. The king thinks this has special meaning for his own reign.’

  ‘And they call us fools,’ Guillaume said. He bounded to the other side of the room and did a few somersaults.

  ‘Whose idea w
as it to give the king playing cards?’ Christine asked Alips.

  ‘The doctor. He says the king should have things to amuse him.’

  Better than dressing up like a savage and disgracing himself, Christine thought.

  ‘Playing cards are an innocent amusement,’ Alips said.

  Christine went back to the room where she did her work, musing about the dwarf and wondering how she always knew what she was thinking. As she waited for the manuscript, Alips came to her side again. ‘Just look at them,’ she said, gesturing toward the ladies-in-waiting, who were bending down to see the cards. ‘Their big hairdos are bumping into each other.’

  Christine had to laugh. The hairdos really were ridiculous. To construct them, chambermaids twisted long strands of their mistresses’ hair around balls of cloth, fastened them with jeweled pins, arranged them over their ears like horns, and topped them with padded circlets studded with jewels. The results were so large and so ungainly that Francesca, who took note of everything that went on at the court, wondered how the ladies could get through the palace doorways.

  Suddenly the ladies drew back and made hurried curtseys as a large woman in a dark red houppelande trimmed with miniver strode into the room with a jangle of gold bracelets and necklaces. It was the Duchess of Burgundy, the wife of one of the king’s uncles, the Duke of Burgundy. She made a brief show of kneeling before the queen, then rose to her full height and glared down her long nose at the playing cards. ‘What are those?’ she demanded to know.

  The queen clutched the cards to her breast and glared back at her. ‘For the king.’

  ‘She will try to get the cards away from her,’ Alips whispered to Christine.

  ‘Those things are evil. The king must not have them.’ The duchess reached out for the cards. The queen tightened her grip on them, and her godchild started to cry.

  ‘I will talk to my husband about this,’ the duchess declared.

  ‘It is on the duke’s order that these have been made for my husband,’ Isabeau said. ‘The doctor has told Charles’s uncles that they must provide him with amusements, to calm him and steady his mind.’