by Tania Bayard
Christine wondered where Alips was. She needed to talk to her, to tell her what she’d learned from Martin du Bois.
The room seemed incomplete without her.
THIRTY-NINE
Cookes with theire newe conceytes, choppynge, stampynge, and gryndynge,
Many new curies alle day they ar contryvynge and fyndynge.
John Russell, Boke of Nurture, fifteenth century
Alips had decided that whomever the Duchess of Burgundy had enlisted to throw the torch from the musicians’ balcony must be someone new to the palace. She went out to ask Simon about people who’d been hired recently. The portier leaned against the side of the entrance door and tried to think.
‘There’s a new boy helping the hounds’ keeper,’ he said. Alips knew about him because she often visited the dogs – big mastiffs that looked so fierce, most people kept away. She liked to stick her arm through the bars of their kennel and stroke their noses, which made the hounds’ keeper angry. ‘Those aren’t pets,’ he always shouted at her. She’d been there recently, and she’d talked to the new boy, who seemed so mild-mannered and polite she was sure he couldn’t be a murderer.
‘Then there’s our new sergeant-at-arms,’ Simon said. ‘You wouldn’t want to tangle with him.’ Alips agreed; the man was huge, and he looked very strong. He also looked very stupid. She didn’t think he had the wits to carry out a dangerous scheme.
An extra helper had been hired to work with the chief gardener as he prepared the palace gardens for spring. Alips had seen him in the herb garden, energetically turning the soil. She went out to talk to him and learned that he was only fourteen, and so timid and shy, she couldn’t suspect him.
‘And, of course, there are all those doctors who keep coming and going, each with a different remedy to make the king better,’ Simon said when she returned.
None of their remedies have killed the king so far, Alips thought. There’s always the chance that one of them will; but even if I found out about it, there would be nothing I could do.
Simon mentioned several other people, and she sought them out, observed them carefully, and ruled them out as suspects.
She went back to Simon to see if he could think of anyone else.
‘You’re certainly inquisitive,’ he said.
Alips laughed. ‘You know I like to find out about everyone and know what they’re doing.’
‘Is that why you’re always hiding behind things?’ Renaut asked.
‘I’m not hiding, dandin. It’s just that I’m so short.’
‘That’s enough, Renaut,’ Simon said.
‘He doesn’t mean any harm,’ Alips said.
‘I just remembered, there are three new kitchen boys,’ Simon said. ‘They’re ordinary boys, but they think they’re important because they’re working at the palace. I’ve known one of them since he was a child.’
The kitchen would be the perfect place to prepare something to kill the king, she thought. She decided to go there right away.
Simon added, ‘There’s a new master cook, too. The old one has just retired.’
That makes the kitchen even more interesting, Alips thought as she hurried to it. But she was sorry to hear that the old master cook had left. He’d always let her have a taste of what he was preparing, and it was always delicious. He was well known for his talents and had even written a cookbook.
The palace kitchen was immense. It had to be, because meals were prepared there every day for the royal family and all the hundreds of people who worked at the Hôtel Saint-Pol. Within the vast space were four fireplaces, one blazing in each corner, the light reflecting fitfully on the paved floor. Even in the cold of winter, the doors were kept open to give the cooks and their helpers some relief from the heat. Nine pillars were needed to support the ceiling; they stood like sentries as the master cook and the lesser cooks and a multitude of helpers bustled around them – boys running in with pails of water to splash into vats where the dish-washers worked with their arms submerged up to their elbows; wood-choppers stumbling in with fuel for the fires; spit-turners rubbing hot fat from their faces; knife-sharpeners nursing cut fingers; floor-sweepers pushing piles of dirt and crumbs into corners. Stray dogs wandered in and out, and a cat slept before one of the fireplaces, unaware that a mouse was running across the feet of one of the cooks.
Alips looked around for the new kitchen boys. One of them was collecting ashes from the fire for the dish-washers to use as they scoured the pots and pans. He was thin and so tall he couldn’t possibly have been the torch-thrower, whom she remembered as being of average height. Another boy, who had one leg shorter than the other, hobbled around with such a limp that he couldn’t have escaped quickly down the stairs from the musicians’ balcony. The third new helper sat in a corner, pretending to sharpen a knife, but actually taking a nap. She thought he was probably the one Simon had known since he was a child. He was obviously not a murderer.
As she walked around the room, she noticed the master cook looking at her. ‘You’d better watch out; he doesn’t like people sticking their fingers into his pots,’ one of the pot-washers called out, barely making himself heard above all the noise of the cooks squabbling and the assistants shouting at each other.
‘You know I’d never do that,’ Alips said, laughing because that was exactly what the old master cook had let her do.
There were other buildings near the kitchen, places where wine was bottled, sauces prepared, butter churned, fruit made into jams, poultry killed and plucked. Alips went into each of them and asked questions. As she did so, she could see the master cook watching her through the open doors of the kitchen.
‘You’d better go. He doesn’t like people snooping around,’ the sauce-maker said.
She stared back at the master cook, who stamped his foot. She laughed, waved to him, and started back to the palace, wondering about the man. Surely a cook wouldn’t meddle with poisons, she thought. Everything the king ate or drank was tasted before it got to his table, and even at that, after he’d had his first attack of madness, the first people to be suspected were the people who’d prepared and served his food and wine.
She felt very discouraged. She’d set herself an impossible task, and she was failing. She went back to Simon. The portier said, ‘I forgot to tell you, there’s a new portier at the king’s residence. He used to work for the Duke of Berry. He might have some interesting gossip for you.’ He winked.
Alips hurried to the king’s residence. The new portier seemed to take his job very seriously, questioning at length everyone who went in or out the door. She stood watching, trying to decide how to approach him when Brother Michel appeared at her side.
‘You must stop this, Alips,’ he said, and he walked away.
She was hurt. Brother Michel had seemed so friendly. Now he was admonishing her. He’s afraid of something, she thought. She sat down on a low wall and watched the new portier for a while. After she’d seen him roar at some small boys who got too close, pelt a stray dog with stones, and shake his mace at a ragged man who’d come to beg, she decided she’d wait until another day to talk to him.
FORTY
Concerning worldly prudence, the first teaching has to do with the love and faith you owe your husband and how you should behave with him.
Christine de Pizan, Le Livre des Trois Vertus, 1405
‘When will we get to meet the queen?’ Klara asked Marion as they walked away from the palace.
‘You will, someday,’ Marion said. ‘Me? Probably never.’
As they passed the king’s residence, a stout man in a rose-pink cloak embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis bounced up to the entrance on a grey horse. Beside him on a white palfrey rode a graceful young woman in a dark-green houppelande.
‘That’s the Duke of Berry,’ Marion said.
‘The duke who married the young girl?’
‘The very one. And that’s his wife.’
‘He’s ugly!’
‘Does your husband
look like that?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you miss him, just a little bit?’
Klara bit her lip. ‘A little, perhaps.’
‘You owe him some consideration. Why do you always speak as though you dislike him?’
‘I don’t dislike him. It’s just that he’s too old.’
Klara watched the duke getting down from his horse, assisted by a handsome page. ‘How could anyone love that ugly old man?’
‘His wife does.’
They turned down the rue Saint-Antoine, where Marion in her crimson cloak looked like an exotic bird in the midst of all the women out doing their marketing in plain black or brown cloaks. An old crone stopped and stared at her. ‘Idiote,’ Marion said.
Klara giggled as she watched the woman scuttle away. She became downcast again when she realized that Marion was talking to her.
‘Your husband is far from ugly, Klara. In fact, he’s quite handsome.’
‘You don’t know anything about him!’
‘But I do. I’ve met him.’
Klara stopped short, and a man walking behind her carrying a crate of chickens bumped into her. He dropped the crate, the door flew open, and chickens fluttered out.
‘Merde,’ the man cried, shaking his fist at Klara. Marion grabbed a chicken and handed it to him. He stuffed it into the crate, slammed the door shut, and hurried off to find the others, which had flown off in all directions.
Klara seemed in a trance. Marion took her arm and shook it. ‘Don’t you want to know how I met him?’
‘Did he tell you why he went away?’
‘He’s looking for your brother.’
‘Why?’
‘I think you know, Klara.’
Klara hung her head. ‘Willem hates Martin. He talks about it all the time.’
‘Do you hate Martin, too?’
‘Not like that. Willem wants to kill him. He’s already tried.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He dressed up like a knight with a big sword and challenged Martin to a duel. Martin thought it was in fun because Willem was always putting on disguises and pretending to be someone else. But this wasn’t a game. Willem actually stuck his sword right into Martin’s neck. Martin bled a lot, but he didn’t die.’
‘Were you and your brother very close?’
‘We used to be, before the beguine came. She and Willem were always whispering together. They didn’t pay any attention to me.’
‘But you had Martin. Didn’t that make up for Willem?’
‘Not really.’ Klara stopped to look at some embroidered purses displayed in front of a shop. ‘Did you make any of these?’ she asked.
Marion picked up one of the purses and examined it. ‘I can do better. But you aren’t paying attention to what I’m saying. I’m trying to make you see how you should behave toward your husband. Once he finds your brother, he’ll come and get you. And when he does, you should tell him you missed him.’
‘I miss his house, and I’ll be glad not to sleep with Christine’s mother any more. She snores. And the children are rude.’
‘That’s beside the point. But as long as you brought it up, let me tell you something about Christine and her family. If you can stop thinking about yourself long enough to listen.’
Klara looked as though she would cry. Marion gave her a hug and asked, ‘Did you know that Christine’s father was an astrologer who was so famous that the king’s father brought him here from Italy just so he could have him as his special adviser? Or that Christine’s husband was one of the royal secretaries?’
‘Is that why Christine is welcome at the court?’
‘Of course. Everyone there has great respect for her.’
An old woman approached Marion and said, ‘You’ll be arrested for wearing that gold belt.’
Marion shook her fist at her. ‘I assure you I won’t, punaise.’ Then she asked Klara, ‘Did you know that Christine saved a woman from burning at the stake?’
‘Really? Who was the woman? Have I seen her?’
‘You know her sister. And you’ve just seen her nephew.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That boy with the portier is her nephew. Loyse is her sister.’
Klara stared at Marion, who said, ‘The woman who was condemned to die at the stake was Loyse’s twin sister.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She’s gone away. She’s a fine lady.’
‘How can that be? Loyse isn’t a fine lady.’
‘No, she isn’t. Do you know about the old superstition that if a woman has twins, she must have lain with two different men?’
Klara started to laugh.
‘It’s funny, until it causes a tragedy. Loyse had a twin, and because her mother was terrified her husband would think she’d slept with another man, she gave the twin away. That twin got to live with a wealthy lord and his wife. The other baby – that’s Loyse – didn’t fare so well. Her mother resented her because she wasn’t like other children. Everyone thought she was demented.’
‘Did her mother believe that, too?’
‘I don’t think she did. But she was an ignorant woman, and she didn’t know how to care for her.’
‘What has this to do with Christine?’
‘No one knew all this, until Christine found out. She almost got killed because of what she’d learned.’
‘I don’t know much of anything, do I?’ Klara said sadly. A pasty-seller approached and held out his basket, but she shook her head.
‘Not hungry?’ Marion asked. ‘I am.’ She bought two of the vendor’s wares. ‘I’ll save one, in case you want it later.’
Klara asked, ‘Is Loyse’s sister coming back?’
‘I don’t think so. Loyse doesn’t know anything about her.’
‘That’s sad. They could have grown up together.’
‘Like you and Willem?’
‘Yes. Before the beguine came.’
‘Do you know where Willem is now, Klara?’
Klara met Marion’s gaze and shouted, ‘No. I don’t. And I don’t care. I hate him!’
FORTY-ONE
I know a learned woman named Anastasia who paints the borders of manuscripts and the backgrounds of miniatures so skillfully that she has no equal in all of Paris.
Christine de Pizan, Le Livre de la Cité des Dames, 1404–1405
Once she saw that Loyse was comfortable with the queen, Christine decided to go home. As she left the palace, she asked Simon if he knew where Alips was.
‘She’s roaming around outside somewhere,’ the portier said. ‘She wants to meet anyone who’s new here. You know how she is, always curious about people.’
Christine was worried. She hadn’t had a chance to tell Alips that she’d learned who the murderer was and that he’d disguised himself. She went out to the gardens, but she knew the chances of finding the dwarf were slim; the palace grounds were extensive, and Alips could be anywhere. After she’d walked by the kitchens and didn’t see her, she decided to leave and come back first thing the next day. As long as she doesn’t know what she’s looking for, she’s probably safe, she reasoned. Nevertheless, she asked Simon to tell her not to ask so many questions.
Outside the king’s residence, she encountered the Duke of Berry and his wife, accompanied by a large group of retainers. When the duke saw her, he stopped and leaned down from his horse. Christine smothered a smile as his rose-pink cloak flew open to show his pudgy body in a richly embroidered tunic much too tight for him.
‘I have something to tell you,’ the duke said. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I got down.’ He signaled to a page, who helped him as he slowly descended. Long before he reached the ground, the young duchess had dismounted gracefully and approached Christine.
‘Have you found out who threw the lighted torch at the dancers?’
Christine shook her head. ‘No, Madame.’
‘I’ve talked to my husband about it. He’s convinced the
Duke of Orléans did it, but accidentally. He tries to convince his nephew to stop blaming himself.’
‘I believe that one day soon the duke’s conscience will be clear,’ Christine said.
‘And what about the missing husband you’ve been looking for?’
The duke was now standing on the ground beside his wife, adjusting his cloak. ‘That is what I wanted to talk to you about, Christine. I remembered something that may be of help.’
She looked at him expectantly.
‘When you came to the Hôtel de Nesle the other day, there was a man there who brought me playing cards.’
‘I remember, Monseigneur. I met him later at the royal library. He gave me a book of illuminator’s instructions to copy.’
‘Well, I have known Jacquemin for years. He told me recently that he had an assistant, a young boy, a sort of apprentice, who disappeared. This put me in mind of someone else who disappeared, the man you were asking about, Martin du Bois, and I remembered then that Martin had worked as one of my secretaries. I once asked him to accompany Jacquemin on a trip to my château in Lusignan, to deliver some valuable manuscripts.’
‘Do you think there is any connection between Martin du Bois and this assistant?’ Christine asked.
‘I have no idea, other than the fact that they have both disappeared. I do know that Jacquemin is very anxious to find the boy. He stole some valuable paints.’
‘Perhaps I should visit Jacquemin,’ Christine said, thinking it unlikely the missing assistant would really be Willem. But I can’t overlook anything, she said to herself.
The duke suddenly seemed to lose interest. He was staring at a young page who had just come out of the palace. The boy wore tight hose, and his buttocks swayed as he walked down the street.
‘Monseigneur?’
‘Oh, yes. You said you should visit Jacquemin. Why not do so? His shop is on the rue des Rosiers.’
‘Thank you, Monseigneur.’ Christine made her obeisance quickly and turned to go. The young duchess caught her arm.
