by Tania Bayard
Christine was alarmed. ‘You’re putting yourself in too much danger, Alips, listening to conversations you aren’t supposed to hear. Especially when the people talking are the Duke of Burgundy and his wife!’
‘I’m not worried.’ Alips stood on her toes and whispered in Christine’s ear, ‘I think the madman and the boy who threw the torch are the same person.’
Catherine de Villiers stood at the door. When the dwarf looked around and saw her, she grabbed the greyhound’s collar and led him from the room. Catherine turned and watched her go, a strange look on her face. Then she went in, placed the Life of Saint Catherine on Christine’s desk, and left without a word.
Worried that Catherine had heard what Alips had said, Christine got up and started to go after the dwarf and warn her that she must keep quiet about her suspicions. But although the greyhound sat beside the queen’s day bed, Alips was nowhere in sight.
Determined to finish copying the manuscript, Christine worked diligently for several hours, becoming so engrossed that in spite of her concerns about Alips she didn’t notice Isabeau and her ladies leaving. When she finally looked up, the queen’s chambers were deserted. There was no fire in the fireplace, the window shutters were closed, and the place was deathly quiet.
She felt a chill, and she sensed someone watching. She closed the manuscript, gathered together her writing materials, and walked quickly through the queen’s rooms, thinking as she did so that someone could be hiding behind a high-backed chair, under the day bed, or in back of the sideboard with its goblets and platters. But there was only silence.
She peered into the hallway. It was empty. She stepped out, heard rustling noises, stepped back in, and laughed at herself when she realized it was only the sound of her own skirt. Then she heard footsteps on the bare wooden floor. She looked around the door. Two chambermaids carrying soiled linens came toward her. They stopped beside a large wooden chest standing on one side of the hallway, opened the heavy lid, deposited the laundry, and continued on. She was tempted to follow them, but she told herself not to give in to her fears and waited until they were out of sight before she walked slowly through shadowy passages and corridors to the safety of the great gallery and its guards.
TWENTY-ONE
When you and Dame Agnes the beguine are in the village, she is to order Robin, the shepherd, to care for the sheep, ewes, and lambs; Josson, the herdsman, the oxen and bulls; Arnoul, the cowherd, and Jehanneton, the dairymaid, the cows, heifers, calves, sows, pigs, and piglets; Endeline, the farmer’s wife, the geese, goslings, roosters, hens, chicks, doves, and pigeons; and the farmer’s wagon man our horses, mares, and the like.
From a book of moral and practical advice for a young wife, Paris, 1393
Marion lived in a room near the place where the rue Saint-Honoré crossed the rue de l’Arbre Sec. When she left Klara, she went there, and before going to bed searched through a chest for her oldest clothes and her stoutest boots. The next morning, she rose early and went to the nearby house of a man who had horses for rent. She took a deep breath and pounded on his front door.
‘I need a horse,’ she said when the man appeared.
‘What for?’
‘That’s my business.’
The man led her to a stable beside the house. Marion looked at the horses apprehensively.
‘Do you know how to ride?’ the man asked.
‘Of course,’ she answered.
‘Of course.’ He instructed a stable boy to bring out a gentle-looking brown palfrey that eyed Marion suspiciously. Marion eyed the animal back, then took off one of the many long strands of beads she wore and slid it over his head. The little horse stamped his foot but stood still as the stable boy bridled him and placed a saddle on his back.
‘Just bring him home in one piece,’ the man said as he led the palfrey out into the street. ‘Hang on to the pommel if he goes too fast.’ He helped Marion into the saddle and gave the animal a sharp slap on the rump.
Marion turned the palfrey’s nose toward the rue Saint-Honoré and urged him through the crowds near the market at les Halles. They went up the rue des Lombards, where Italian bankers standing outside their counting houses turned to look in amazement at a horse bearing a tall woman with flaming red hair and a crimson cloak. As she trotted past the glassmakers’ shops on the rue de Verrerie, her beaded necklaces jangled in time to the clip-clop of the palfrey’s hooves, and the glass vases and pitchers on the shelves in front of the shops clinked in return. Many people knew her, and they stood gaping, poking each other in the ribs, and making crude jokes as she bounced past. Marion laughed and waved. She turned down the rue du Temple and jogged to the gate in the city wall. There the guards asked her where she was going. When she told them to La Courtille, they smirked and said she wouldn’t find much to interest her there. ‘You’d be surprised,’ she answered as she shook the reins to make the palfrey hurry by.
Outside the wall, Marion entered a different world. All the bustle of Paris’s crowded streets was gone, and she rode past open fields, vineyards, and trim cottages. The silence was strange to her, and she felt very alone. She patted the palfrey’s neck for reassurance. The little animal seemed to understand, and he neighed softly in return.
Klara had said her husband’s farm was past the village of La Courtille. Marion needn’t have worried about missing the house, for it was the largest and most impressive one on the road, a stone manor surrounded by neat fields and gardens. Men in rolled-up breeches and broad-brimmed hats were out ploughing the fields, a shepherd watched a large flock of sheep, and women in simple cottes and kerchiefs turned the soil of bare gardens. They all turned to look at her. She tossed her head, rode up to the door of the house, and slipped off the horse’s back. A stout woman in a green woolen chemise and a long white apron appeared. Chickens and geese that had been scratching the ground around the house ran up to her. She shooed them away and stood in front of Marion, her hands on her hips.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not here to rob you,’ Marion said.
‘I didn’t think you were. Who are you and what do you want?’
‘I’m a friend of Martin du Bois, or of his wife, at least. Is he here?’
‘We haven’t seen him for a while. His steward came looking for him. He said the master has disappeared.’
‘I’m looking for him, too.’
‘Why?’
‘Because his wife doesn’t know where he is.’
‘How are you acquainted with such an innocent young lady?’
‘That’s a long story. And the innocent young lady, as you call her, isn’t as innocent as you think.’
‘Maybe not. Insolent might be a better word.’
While they talked, a crowd of the farm’s workers gathered around. ‘This woman is trying to find the master,’ the woman in the green chemise said. ‘It seems his little wife wants him back.’ They all laughed.
Marion’s palfrey had wandered over to the stables and was making friends with four large, well-groomed work horses standing patiently outside. A stable boy brought some hay and water and stood running his hands over the palfrey’s flanks. ‘This is a fine animal,’ he called out. ‘Is he yours?’
‘Belongs to someone I know,’ Marion called back. ‘I hope he didn’t get his feet too muddy on the way here.’
‘City folk always worry about that,’ the stable boy said. ‘Like the man in a black cape who rode out here the other day. He was looking for the master, too.’
Marion’s mouth flew open in astonishment. She turned to the woman in the green chemise. ‘Do you know who the man was?’
‘He said his name was Henri Le Picart.’
‘The swine!’ Marion said. ‘He didn’t find him, did he?’
‘No more than you will.’
Marion turned to the others. ‘Do any of you know where the master might be?’
‘No, we don’t,’ several of them said together.
‘But the last time he was here, he borrowed some of my c
lothes,’ said a young man who had just come in from the fields. ‘I’ve no idea what he wanted them for.’
The woman in the green chemise had disappeared into the house, and now she reappeared, bringing a slice of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a beaker of wine. ‘You’ll be hungry on your way back,’ she said.
Marion munched on the bread, drank the wine, and looked around, wondering whether Martin du Bois might be hiding somewhere. It didn’t seem likely. But why had he borrowed a workman’s clothes? Did Henri know? Were they friends? She got back on the palfrey, aided by two of the farmhands, who were only too glad to put their arms around her and hoist her into the saddle, and headed back to the city.
TWENTY-TWO
The duke said: Listen to me, anyone who can hear. It is all my fault. Don’t accuse anyone else. It grieves me terribly, and if I had known what was going to happen, nothing on earth would have made me do what I did.
Froissart, Chroniques, Livre IV, 1389–1400
The Duke of Orléans had come to the Hôtel de Nesle to see his uncle, the Duke of Berry. He did that regularly in the days after the fire at the palace, and he often visited his other uncle, the Duke of Burgundy, as well. He needed to assuage his guilt, for he really believed he had caused four men to die a horrible death. The Duke of Burgundy advised him to spend more time in prayer at the church of the Celestines. The Duke of Berry told him just to forget the incident, for there was nothing to be done about it now. They’d all made a procession of repentance to the cathedral the day after the fire, walking barefoot behind the king, who rode a black stallion. After that, it was obvious the uncles thought no more about the burned men, considering them beneath their concern. They told Louis he should be thankful the king had not been killed, for then the people of Paris would have turned on them and murdered them all.
The king’s brother, however, wouldn’t be comforted. When a page ushered him into the room where his uncle sat, he fell to his knees, weeping. The old duke, who was looking at a manuscript he had just acquired, told him to get up and stop acting like a child. ‘You know better than this,’ he said. ‘Go away and let me be. Or else, take a look at what I’ve just received.’ He turned the manuscript toward his nephew so he could see an illustration of one of his many castles.
‘That’s fine, uncle,’ said Louis, who had his own magnificent collection of manuscripts, ‘but I’m not interested in that now. What use do I have for these things when four men are dead, and it’s my fault?
‘Then go to the Celestines and pray, nephew. I’m tired of hearing about your guilty feelings.’
Louis turned away sadly, and noticed his uncle’s young wife sitting on a seat by the window, leaning against richly embroidered pillows and looking at him with pity in her eyes. ‘Come here,’ she said.
The young man crossed the room and sat down beside her. She took his hand. ‘I understand what you’re feeling. If it will help, I’ll tell you something. I don’t believe the fire was your fault.’
‘How could you know anything about it?’
‘Because I saw you holding two torches, and there was a third torch on the floor.’
‘Do you mean you think someone else’s torch caused the fire?’
‘I don’t know, but I think the Viscount of Castelbon is feeling more secure, now that Yvain is dead.’
Louis looked at the young duchess, wondering at the implications of what she’d said.
The old duke glanced over at the couple on the window seat. ‘What are you two talking about?’
‘Nothing, husband. Go back to your manuscript.’
Sun streamed through the colored glass in the windows, setting the young duchess’s hair alight with a myriad of hues. To Louis, at that moment, she was beautiful.
‘That’s all I can tell you,’ she said. ‘There is no way to prove anything, and you mustn’t try. It would only make people think worse of you than they do now.’
‘I understand,’ Louis said. Then, with tears in his eyes, he took his leave of her. On the way out, he bowed to his uncle, who was so engrossed in his manuscript he hardly noticed.
TWENTY-THREE
Age of lies, fraught with pride and envy.
Eustache Deschamps (c. 1340–1404), Ballade 31
Alips knew that Brother Michel’s warning was meant to show how dangerous it was to suspect any member of the royal family other than the king’s brother of causing the fire. Nevertheless, she was convinced the Duchess of Burgundy was behind the tragedy. The duke himself would have little to gain if the king died, he had so much power already, but the duchess would have other reasons. The woman showed nothing but contempt for the king now that he was ill. It was obvious she considered the demented monarch and his suffering an affront to her dignity. Alips thought the duchess’s treatment of the queen proved that the evil-intentioned woman knew the king was doomed, and she would soon have the upper hand at the court.
She discounted the king’s other uncle, the Duke of Berry. He was interested in nothing but money and possessions. And young men. It was no secret that the pudgy duke had several male lovers on whom he lavished money and jewels. She had to laugh. No wonder he hadn’t bothered to warn the king that his constable was about to be attacked; he had too many other things on his mind.
The only other possibility was Louis’s wife, Valentina Visconti. But she admired Valentina, who was kind and gentle, despite all the horrible things the Duchess of Burgundy said about her. She knew Valentina came from a family of tyrants. Her father was a murderer and a despot. Nevertheless, his court in Milan was a center of learning and respect for the arts. Valentina was a woman of culture and refinement, and Alips just couldn’t suspect her of wanting to harm anyone.
No. It had to be the Duchess of Burgundy.
She sat in the room where she slept, near the queen’s chambers, and tried to remember when she’d first encountered the treacherous woman. It must have been eight years earlier, when she’d first come to the Hôtel Saint-Pol. She remembered that time vividly. The queen’s residence had been overwhelming, with many huge rooms, each more lavishly decorated than the next. There were elaborately embroidered tapestries that completely covered the walls, colorful carpets so thick she could hardly stand upright on them, ceilings decorated with inlaid scrolls and leaves and golden fleurs-de-lis, windows filtering light through glittering red, blue, and green glass. When she set out to explore, she walked and walked until she came to the entrance courtyard, where a stone lion glared at her from the top of a pillar in the center of a fountain. The tall portier who stood at the door saw her looking up. He smiled and said, ‘You should go and see the real lions.’
She shuddered. She knew the king and queen kept many animals, but she hadn’t heard anything about lions.
‘They won’t hurt you unless you frighten them. They’re old and fat. Their stockade is on the other side of the orchards. Don’t mind the lion-keeper’s assistant. She’s a bit odd, but she won’t hurt you.’
He seemed a strange sort of guard, prattling on like that.
‘I know who you are,’ he said, and she was immediately suspicious. Perhaps Catherine de Fastavarin had been talking to him, and they’d decided to feed her to the lions. She started to back away.
‘Are you afraid?’ he asked.
‘Should I be?’
‘Of course not. Let me take you back to the queen.’
He picked her up and carried her through the maze of corridors and passageways to the queen’s chambers. ‘My name is Simon,’ he said. ‘I’m always out there if you need me.’
After that, she’d often sought Simon out, and from him she’d learned about everyone at the court: the king and his family, the courtiers, and the people who worked there: the officials who managed the queen’s money, the secretaries, physicians, apothecaries, herbalists, astrologers, priests, sergeants-at-arms, huissiers, stewards, valets, butlers, footmen, doorkeepers, housekeepers, porters, cupbearers, seamstresses, washerwomen, candle-makers, gardeners, and barbers.
And the grand maître d’Hôtel, who was in charge of them all. Simon told her which ones to befriend and which ones to avoid. One of the people he took special care to warn her about was the Duchess of Burgundy. She soon saw why.
Shortly after her arrival, the king arranged a grand fête, a magnificent affair that included a sumptuous banquet. At first she’d been reluctant to go, because she’d learned that the cooks had prepared a giant pie shell stuffed with live doves that would fly out when the crust was cut open, and she knew there’d been talk of using her rather than doves for this purpose. Simon said this was often done with court dwarfs, and he intimated that Catherine de Fastavarin had put the cooks up to it. Fortunately, the scheme came to nothing when the queen found out about it.
After the banquet, she’d clambered up the steep steps to the musicians’ balcony and peered down at the floor below. Now that the feast was over, the tables were covered with overturned goblets, puddles of wine, and globs of gravy; and under the tables, scrawny dogs gnawed on bones and snarled at grimy children who’d wandered in from the street. The nobility milled about in multicolored gowns and robes, wearing jewels that sparkled like a thousand suns, while commoners stood in shadowy corners and gaped at them. The queen, in a gown of vermilion silk embroidered with gold, her hair arranged under a diamond-studded circlet that threw off flashes of light whenever she turned her head, stood with the king’s uncles, their wives, and several noblemen. The Duke and Duchess of Burgundy, wearing robes covered with rubies and diamonds, towered over her, keeping their eyes on the king. Then a small boy approached. He held out a gift for the king: a little horse made of sticks that he’d made himself. The duchess stepped up to him, took the horse, and waved him away. A short while later, Alips saw her toss the horse into a corner to be swept up with the trash left from the banquet.
The rotund Duke of Berry, homely in spite of a scarlet robe even more lavishly bejeweled than his brother’s, paid little attention to either the king or the queen. Instead, he stroked the buttocks of a coarse-looking man beside him. He obviously didn’t think anyone noticed, but the Duchess of Burgundy did, and she made signs to the king’s brother, who was standing nearby, so he would be sure to see.
