In the Shadow of the Enemy

by Tania Bayard

  The other children came in. ‘I’ll help,’ said Jean. ‘Me, too,’ said Thomas. ‘And me,’ chimed in Lisabetta.

  Christine smiled at them all. ‘It won’t be for long. I’ll be taking her to the queen soon.’

  ‘Don’t forget, you promised to take me, too,’ Klara said.

  THIRTY

  Those who chatter incessantly are like mill clappers, never silent.

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

  Marion left Christine’s house musing about Klara. It had been a good idea to take her to see the king’s lions, but things had gone too far; Klara thought she was going to stay with them forever. She decided it was time to try again to find the girl’s missing husband.

  But how? Her trip to Martin du Bois’s house in La Courtille had yielded only the fact that Martin had borrowed clothes from one of the workers on his farm. That meant he could lose himself among all the hundreds of laborers on the streets of Paris. To make matters worse, she didn’t even know what the man looked like, except for Klara’s description of him as ‘old.’

  But Marion was never one to give up. I’ll ask the people around the water trough at the entrance to the Grand Pont, she decided. Dressed in her crimson cloak, with a gold belt hidden beneath and the beads in her hair flashing in the sunlight, she hurried to the trough and started asking whether any old men in farmer’s clothes had appeared recently.

  ‘If the clothes are ragged, there are lots of people around here who look like that,’ said a disheveled man with bandaged hands. All the other beggars looked down at their clothes and laughed.

  ‘This man is very old,’ Marion said. ‘He probably has white hair and lots of wrinkles.’

  ‘That’s not much of a description,’ said an old beggar who also had white hair and a lot of wrinkles.

  ‘Has he done something wrong?’ an old woman leaning on a crutch asked.

  ‘Perhaps the sergeants from the Châtelet are after him,’ suggested a thief with a patch over one eye. This led to much speculation about people who had recently been arrested, as well as about those who were on the run and the crimes they were said to have committed. Everyone seemed to know someone who was in the Châtelet. A beggar who wore dirty bandages over his eyes so he would appear to be blind said he had a friend who’d been taken there for nothing more than having fallen down drunk in the street. One of the thieves announced proudly that he’d just been released, and a fat prostitute with locks of black hair that looked like snakes chimed in to say she never worried about getting arrested because she had friends who could always get her out. But an old reprobate who rolled along with one leg attached to a little cart said he knew for a fact this was impossible. ‘You’ll die in there,’ he announced, and this led to a great deal of talk about the miserable conditions in the dreaded prison.

  A tall man in a shabby tunic and high, muddy boots stepped up to Marion and said, ‘I want to talk to you.’ He took her arm and led her away from the crowd, through the narrow streets around the Châtelet to the church of Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie. Against a wall of the church were many wooden booths where scribes worked. One of these booths was empty; the man led her into it and gently pushed her down onto a bench in front of a little desk.

  ‘I don’t mean to frighten you,’ he said. ‘But so much useless talk irritates me.’

  ‘It would take more than you to frighten me,’ Marion said. ‘I need to find someone who’s disappeared, and the only way to do that is to ask questions.’

  ‘You weren’t getting any helpful answers. It was a lot of useless prattle. In any case, you shouldn’t go around asking about people you don’t even know.’

  Marion bristled. ‘You have no right telling me what to do. Who are you, anyway?’

  The man laughed. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t be telling you what to do. But I’m afraid you’re going to get yourself into trouble. You and your friends, babbling about things you shouldn’t be discussing. Why are you trying to find this man?’

  ‘He suddenly disappeared, leaving his young wife. It’s time he came back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s been taken in by the family of a friend of mine, and she’s making their lives miserable.’

  ‘Is she a very unpleasant young lady?’

  ‘Not really. It’s just that she needs to grow up.’

  ‘Perhaps there is a good reason why her husband went away.’

  Marion stood up and went to the entrance of the booth to see whether anyone was standing there listening. But she saw no one. She wondered whether she should worry about being alone with this strange man. Did he know she was a prostitute? Probably. But he was treating her with respect.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the man asked.

  ‘Marion.’

  ‘Well, Marion, it seems to me this young lady is lucky to have a friend like you to watch over her until her husband gets back.’

  Marion felt herself blushing. ‘I do what I can,’ she said. ‘But the girl needs a husband to teach her how to behave. She doesn’t know how to get along with anyone. In fact, she’s made friends with the king’s lions, and she seems to get along with them better than with people.’

  The man started to laugh. ‘Indeed! The king’s lions! She must be quite an unusual young lady.’

  ‘She’s not so unusual. She’s just unhappy and confused.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Her husband is much older than she is. The way she talks about him, he’s probably at death’s door.’

  ‘Well, if that’s all you know about this man, I don’t see how you are going to find him.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  The man got up from the bench, gave Marion a little bow, and walked away. Marion sat for a moment, thinking, and then she jumped up and ran out of the booth.

  ‘Come back,’ she cried. ‘I know who you are!’

  Martin du Bois didn’t turn around. He just kept walking and was quickly swallowed up in the crowd of people on the rue Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Many young and beautiful women have loved their old, ugly husbands.

  Christine de Pizan, Le Livre de la Cité des Dames, 1404–1405

  Christine knew that if Alips’s suspicions about the Duchess of Burgundy were correct, they would need help. So the day after she brought Loyse home, she went to talk to the Duchess of Berry.

  She found the duke and his wife in the same room at the Hôtel de Nesle as before, but this time in the company of a large man with a prominent nose and long grey hair. The duke sat at his desk, and the man stood before him, carefully placing on the desk, one by one, a series of playing cards. The Duke bent over them, engrossed. The duchess sat on a window seat on the other side of the room, her blond hair tinted red, green, and blue by the rays of sun passing through the stained glass behind her. She motioned to Christine, indicating that she should come to her. As Christine passed the duke and his visitor, she paused to look at the playing cards. They were like the ones she’d seen at the palace, except that instead of pictures of war implements, these had castles.

  ‘The duke heard about some playing cards the queen ordered for the king, and he had to have some for himself,’ the duchess said. She was holding the little dog, and she threw a small ball for it to chase. The dog bounced off her lap and ran after it, bumping against the legs of the duke’s guest. The man laughed. His long grey hair fell over his face as he picked up the ball and threw it across the room.

  ‘That’s the man who painted the cards,’ the duchess said. ‘He was good enough to deliver them to the duke himself.’

  ‘I saw the queen’s cards,’ Christine said. ‘Did you know they have disappeared?’

  ‘I’ve heard. I’m sure they will be found.’ The dog brought her the ball, and she lifted him onto her lap and fondled his ears. ‘Did you want to talk to the duke? If so, you may have a long wait; he needs time to admire his new treasures.’
r />   ‘Actually, it’s you I came to see.’

  ‘I remember your last visit here. You were trying to find a missing husband. Have you had any success?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Tell me more about this young woman. You said she is sixteen.’

  ‘She was fifteen when she married. Her husband is much older, and she seems to resent that,’ Christine said cautiously, remembering the duchess had been only twelve when the Duke of Berry married her.

  The duchess looked over at her husband and smiled. ‘There are worse things in life than having a husband who is old.’

  Old and not very attractive, Christine thought. Yet the duchess seemed genuinely fond of him. She pushed these thoughts away and said, ‘Actually, I came because I want to talk to you about the conversation we had the other day concerning the fire at the palace. You told me you saw a lighted torch lying on the floor, and you thought it was meant for Yvain de Foix. Do you still think that?’

  ‘I’ve since learned that the Viscount of Castelbon secured the inheritance left by the Count of Foix long before the fire. My husband has assured me there was no way the king would have transferred it to Yvain. So there would have been no need for the viscount to have tried to kill Yvain. But I know what I saw.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you everything when I was here before,’ Christine said. ‘The torch you saw lying on the floor was thrown from the musicians’ balcony. It was intended for the king, not Yvain.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t tell you how I know, but I’m sure. Whoever threw it meant for the king to go up in flames. The queen thinks so, too. She has asked me to find out who it was.’

  ‘Are you here because you think I can help?’

  ‘Yes. You know your way about the court even better than the queen, who still considers herself a stranger there.’

  ‘I can’t imagine that anyone I know would want to kill the king.’

  ‘Many people believe someone has put a spell on him. Someone might take the next step and try to kill him.’

  ‘But who? There are so many people around him. How could we ever determine which one it is?’

  ‘That is true. But there are some who might gain more than others if the king were to die.’

  The duchess looked discomfited. ‘Surely you aren’t thinking that one of the king’s uncles climbed up onto the musicians’ balcony and threw a lighted torch at him! Or ordered someone else to do it!’

  Christine blanched and looked over at the duke, who was still studying his new playing cards.

  The duchess smiled. ‘I can assure you, my husband is not interested in gaining more power; all he wants is to be left alone with his beautiful manuscripts and jewels and castles.’

  What an extraordinary young woman, Christine thought.

  ‘And anyway,’ the duchess continued, ‘the king’s uncles would have nothing to gain. The dauphin is next in line to be king.’

  Christine started to say something, but the duchess interrupted her.

  ‘As for the king’s brother, I refuse to believe he had anything to do with the fire.’

  ‘What about the Duchess of Burgundy?’

  The duchess set the little dog on the floor, took Christine’s hand, and said, ‘I realize that since the queen has asked you to do this, you must pursue it, no matter where it takes you. But I really can’t entertain the thought that any members of the court would try to kill the king. It doesn’t make sense. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘The queen feels it’s someone very close to her. It could be some unimportant person who held a grudge or acted out of spite. But it could also be someone of much higher status.’

  The duchess thought for a moment, and then she said, ‘I, too, want to know who threw the lighted torch. I know now that it was not meant for Yvain, but it killed him, nevertheless, and I want the person who did it brought to justice. I will talk to my husband discreetly about this and see if I can find out anything.’

  The white dog bounded over to the duke’s visitor, who picked him up and startled everyone by exclaiming in a loud voice, ‘The Duke of Orléans’s wife has a dog that looks just like this little fellow!’

  The Duchess of Berry laughed and called out to the man, ‘Now my husband won’t rest until he sees that dog. He thinks there are no other dogs in the world that can compare with his.’

  ‘Perhaps he should compare playing cards, too,’ the man said, looking at the duke, who was too engrossed in studying the pictures on his new playthings to pay attention to the conversation. The duke looked up, however, when the man said, ‘The Duchess of Orléans wants a set of playing cards like yours. Only, on hers, she wants a picture of a viper devouring a human.’ He laughed, and the booming sound reverberated around the room. ‘That’s the Visconti coat of arms, fitting for the “vipers of Milan.”’

  ‘I have never understood how Valentina could come from such a family,’ Christine said to the duchess.

  The duchess laughed. ‘The Duchess of Burgundy says she’s a sorceress.’

  The duke was engrossed in his cards again, and the illuminator stepped closer to Christine and the duchess and said, ‘Just like her father, the murderous Lord of Milan! Actually, I’ve heard he’s the one who’s bewitching the king.’

  ‘How could he do that?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Easy. He makes a wax figure of the king and sticks pins into it.’ He laughed and went back to the duke.

  ‘What nonsense,’ Christine said.

  ‘I think so, too,’ the duchess said. ‘But when I was at the palace the other day, I heard the Duchess of Burgundy telling people a malicious story about Valentina. She said she has a magic mirror, and when she looks into it, the spirits of the dead appear and reveal terrible secrets, like how to make the most deadly poisons. The duchess says she will use these poisons to kill the king.’

  The illuminator was beside them again. ‘There’s a rumor, you know, that on the day Valentina left Italy, her father’s parting words were, “The next time I see you, you’ll be the Queen of France.”’

  Christine wondered. The rumors were absurd, but what if there really was something to them? Valentina was slender and lithe, and, in the right clothes, could pass for a boy. Like Symonne du Mesnil, she would have had no trouble climbing up to the musicians’ balcony.

  She turned to the duchess and asked, ‘Was Valentina with you on the dais the night of the marriage ball?’

  ‘I didn’t see her there,’ the duchess replied.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Because I have tender and loving compassion for you, who were torn away from your relations and the country where you were born and who for a long time have had neither father nor mother nor any other of your relatives near you to whom you could turn for advice and help in your private needs, except for myself alone, I have many times imagined that I might myself come across some easy general course of study … and it seems to me that this can be accomplished by a general instruction that I will write for you.

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

  Christine left the Hôtel de Nesle deep in thought. She walked slowly toward home, ignoring the cries of the vendors on the Grand Pont and the pleas of the beggars around the water trough near the Châtelet. All through the streets the noises of the city rang in her ears, and at the place de Grève they became unbearable. Two wine criers vied for attention, their faces red from exertion as they tried to out-shout each other. Crowds of laborers hoping to find work proclaimed their individual merits. A group of laughing, whooping boys pushed their way through the crowd, bumping into women out doing their marketing and overturning their baskets. Onions and cabbages rolled on the ground, and the air rang with curses as the women chased after them. Stray dogs ran around barking. Christine put her hands over her ears and hurried up the rue Saint-Antoine to her quiet street.

  Things were not quiet at her house. As soon as she got there, she was met by Francesca, who hu
rried out of the kitchen and announced, ‘Your friend Marion was here. She was very excited about something, but she would not tell me what it was.’

  ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

  ‘No. She just rushed off.’ Francesca ran back into the kitchen, where things were in an uproar. Georgette had let a pot hang too close to the logs in the fireplace, and the soup had started to burn. In her haste to remove the pot, she’d spilled soup onto the floor. Marie was trying to mop it up, but Goblin, smelling something good to eat, kept getting in the way.

  ‘Set the table, Klara,’ Georgette ordered.

  ‘Bet she can’t do it,’ Thomas cried. Klara went to get some spoons, but instead of carrying them to the table, she waved them at the boy, and dropped them.

  ‘You’d better read that book your husband wrote,’ Thomas taunted. ‘Maybe you’ll learn how to do things right.’

  ‘I don’t need his instructions. You made me drop them, enfant pourri.’

  Jean laughed, picked up the spoons, and threw them onto the table. Klara looked as though she were about to cry.

  Francesca stamped her foot and ordered everyone to be quiet.

  Loyse, her hair arranged in long braids into which Francesca had woven bright red and blue ribbons, sat before the fire, watching everything. She didn’t seem to mind that she couldn’t hear the conversation. Francesca went to her, smoothed her forehead, and said to Christine, ‘She wasn’t brought up to live in a lions’ den. At some point in her life, she must have lived in a proper household where she was treated with respect.’

  ‘She’s actually more at home here than Klara, who was brought up in a well-to-do man’s home,’ Christine said. She looked at Klara and added, ‘A man who had the foresight to write a book of instructions for her, so she would know how to care for him and for his household.’

  Goblin bounded over to Loyse, who picked him up and hugged him. Klara made no move to take the dog away. ‘Perhaps she’s learned something about sharing, at least,’ Christine said.