In the Shadow of the Enemy

by Tania Bayard

  The queen just smiled and motioned to Klara that she should enter. Klara tiptoed over and knelt.

  ‘Why do you have all these misfits around you?’ the duchess raged at the queen. ‘It’s not fitting.’ Christine felt her face get hot. She hadn’t known the duchess considered her a misfit.

  ‘They are very welcome here,’ the queen said to Klara. She told her to rise, and called to one of her chambermaids. ‘Take their wet cloaks and make them dry.’

  By this time, Klara had adjusted her headdress and pushed the damp strands of her hair under it. She stood before the queen, her eyes shining.

  ‘Klara’s husband has gone away for a while,’ Christine said. ‘She’s staying with me until he comes back.’

  ‘I miss him so much,’ Klara said. She put a hand to her eye and pretended to wipe away a tear.

  Christine, astonished, stared at her and thought, She should get along very well here at the court. She looked around the room. Gracieuse wasn’t playing her lute. Loyse, who hadn’t yet noticed Klara, sat on the floor with Collette, not gesturing. Guillaume stood with Jeannine, for once not saying a word. The queen’s ladies stood in a tight little group, wordlessly scrutinizing Klara. Jeannine’s mother stood behind them, looking at the floor. Everyone is too quiet, she thought. Nothing was as it should be, without Alips.

  The queen was doing her best to made Klara feel at home. She told her to sit on one of the big cushions, and she asked questions about her husband. Klara kept up her act, talking about how good her husband was to her. If she keeps on like this, she’ll talk herself into caring for him, Christine mused.

  The Duchess of Burgundy stood with her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at Klara, who didn’t seem to notice. After a while Klara looked around and saw Loyse. She gave a little cry of delight, jumped up, rushed over, and threw her arms around her.

  The Duchess of Burgundy stamped her foot. ‘This is shameful.’ She sat down on one of the big pillows and glowered at the queen. The lady who attended her came over and reminded her that the duke was waiting for her outside. The duchess said to the queen, ‘We will discuss all the indecent things going on here later.’ Her attendant helped her up, and they marched out.

  The queen sat slumped on the day bed. She said, ‘The person who tries to kill the king must have taken Alips. He has found out she was looking for him. She may be dead.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is so,’ Christine said.

  ‘For the king, there is now more danger than before,’ the queen said. ‘And for you, too. What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re going to continue trying to find this person. I know now that he is here at the palace.’

  ‘Do you feel his shadow, as I do?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I know he’s here. I just don’t know where.’

  ‘So there is great danger.’

  ‘Yes. You must make sure that every precaution is taken to protect the king. Have him closely guarded at all times.’

  ‘That I have done. I have given orders to some of my own sergeants-at-arms that they must join those around the king.’

  ‘Now that Alips isn’t here, I’ll need someone else to help,’ Christine said, thinking of Marion.

  ‘Do whatever you can. Oh! We must save Charles,’ the queen cried.

  ‘We will, Madame,’ Christine said, trying to sound hopeful. She glanced over at Klara and saw that she was surrounded by the queen’s entourage, happy to be the center of attention. Collette and Loyse made welcoming gestures, Gracieuse smiled at her, and Guillaume and Jeannine made mock-bows. Even the monkey seemed glad; he sat at her feet and made soft babbling noises.

  The queen’s ladies stood nearby, watching. Klara, obviously considering ladies-in-waiting more important than mutes and fools, went over and tried to start a conversation with them. All of a sudden, she moved away and hurried across the room to Christine.

  ‘I want to go home now,’ she said, and she started to cry.

  FORTY-FOUR

  We have lots of beguines in their wide garments; what they do under them, I can’t tell you.

  Rutebeuf, La Chanson des ordres, thirteenth century

  Marion was pleased that Klara was getting along well with the lions. But she was still worried that the girl would want to stay with them instead of going home with her husband, if the man ever came back to get her.

  She mused about this as she walked from the house where she rented a room toward the Grand Pont, greeting acquaintances, resplendent in her crimson cloak and beaded red hair. Perhaps I’ll meet Martin du Bois, she thought. I’ll give him a piece of my mind for fooling me the way he did. No wonder Klara resents him. He’s probably one of those people who think women should do nothing but cook and sew, like Christine’s mother.

  But it wasn’t Martin du Bois she met. Instead, as she passed the house where Henri Le Picart lived, a gloomy place with carvings of dragons and serpents on the door, she saw Henri himself, standing in the street. Where’s he been all this time? she asked herself. He certainly hasn’t been helping us. She bristled as she remembered the day he’d told her and Christine they’d have to find the person who wanted to kill the king all by themselves.

  Henri was looking intently at something. At first she thought it was the corpse swinging from the gallows at the intersection of the rue Saint-Honoré and the rue de l’Arbre Sec. But then he walked past the gallows and down the rue de l’Arbre Sec toward the church of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. She followed him, ducking into doorways whenever she thought he might turn around. He went up the rue Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. Then he stopped and stared intently ahead. Near the Châtelet stood a beguine. Marion was surprised. Beguines rarely ventured into that part of the city. They were distrusted by many people, partly because no one could decide whether they were nuns or just women who wore ugly costumes so people wouldn’t bother them. Among the reprobates around the water trough they were the subject of many cruel jests. She thought of the beguine Klara disliked so much, and she wondered whether Agnes resembled this one, shapeless in her voluminous habit.

  The beguine was waiting for someone, and soon a person in a large black cloak, so covered up that Marion could hardly tell whether it was a man or a woman, appeared. The two talked. Henri crept closer and Marion snuck up behind him. The beguine and her companion spoke so softly, she couldn’t make out the words. Henri, on the other hand, seemed to hear everything. He had a self-satisfied look on his face, as though he were thinking, ‘I knew it.’ Marion crept behind a vendor’s cart and watched as the beguine and the figure in the black cloak walked away in opposite directions.

  The beguine went up the rue Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois toward the Châtelet. Henri followed her, not even trying to conceal himself. Marion, on the other hand, kept in the shadows of the tall buildings as she crept cautiously after him. Once, he seemed about to turn around, and she had to hurry into a narrow alleyway. She was sure he hadn’t seen her, but her efforts to conceal herself made her lose sight of him as she neared the Châtelet. Exasperated, she went to the water trough at the entrance to the Grand Pont. Several of her friends were there: a beggar who wrapped his arms in dirty bandages so he’d look as though he had no hands, another rascal who feigned blindness, and a boy who played on people’s sympathy by pretending to cry because his mother had drowned.

  ‘Did a beguine just go by here?’ she asked the ‘motherless’ boy.

  ‘Yes. I wonder if she had anything interesting under that big frock.’

  Not likely, Marion thought.

  ‘There was a man following her,’ the boy said.

  ‘Which way did they go?’

  ‘Let me think.’ The boy man rubbed his chin. Suddenly he shook his head as though to dispel the cobwebs and said, ‘I remember now. Over to Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie.’

  Marion hurried to the church, pushing her way through the crowds of people around the butchers’ and tanners’ shops and holding her nose because of the smell. She saw Henri hurrying up the
rue de Vannerie, and ahead of him was the beguine. She pushed aside several old women coming out of the church and went after them. They passed the place de Grève and turned up the rue Saint-Antoine. He’s following her back to the beguinage, Marion thought. What’s he going to do when they get there?

  Suddenly, a group of mounted horsemen came down the rue Saint-Antoine and passed so close to her that she stumbled and fell. She got up, shook her fist at them, and swore loudly. Henri and the beguine were gone.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Why is it that so many different men, including learned ones, say or write in their treatises such wicked and disparaging things about women?

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

  At home, Klara ran up to Francesca’s room and shut the door. She didn’t appear for dinner.

  ‘What is wrong with her?’ Francesca wanted to know.

  ‘Who cares?’ Thomas asked.

  Georgette went up to talk to her, then came back down and said the girl wouldn’t tell her anything.

  ‘Perhaps meeting the queen was too much for her,’ Christine said. ‘Or perhaps one of the queen’s ladies said something that upset her. I’m going back to the palace to find out what happened.’

  It was raining again, and she hurried down the street, hoping to reach the palace before she was completely soaked. As she turned the corner onto the rue Saint-Antoine, she was startled to see Henri Le Picart coming toward her.

  ‘Ah, Christine. I’m glad you’re here.’

  She clenched her fists. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been finding out about Agnes the beguine.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you’ve discovered much. I went to see her at her beguinage and discovered nothing. She would hardly talk to me.’

  She tried to step past Henri so she could continue on, but he blocked her way and said, ‘I, on the other hand, have discovered everything. Come with me.’ He took her hand and dragged her up the street.

  He walked so fast, and the street was so slippery, she could hardly stay on her feet. She couldn’t imagine where he was taking her, and she was frightened. Since they were still on the rue Saint-Antoine, she thought, with relief, that perhaps they were going to the palace. But all of a sudden, he pulled her into the courtyard of a large mansion. She tried to hold back, but his grip was strong. The rain was coming down hard, and no one was about.

  ‘The owners have gone away,’ Henri said as he drew her along a muddy path to a deserted garden where rivulets of rain water streamed through the empty plots. The air was heavy with the dank odor of wet soil, and somewhere a lone bird chirruped a mournful song. Henri sloshed through the muck, pulling her behind him, until they came to a dilapidated wattle fence surrounding a group of overgrown apple trees. There was an opening in the fence, and Henri pulled her through it. Then he let go of her hand so quickly, she almost fell.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing to the ground.

  Breathing hard and trying to catch her breath, Christine looked down and saw a heap of sodden dark cloth.

  ‘I’m afraid I hit her too hard,’ Henri said.

  It was Agnes. Her face was covered with blood and she seemed to be scarcely breathing.

  Speechless, Christine gazed at the woman.

  ‘I saw her near the Châtelet,’ Henri said. ‘She met someone there and gave him something. I wanted to find out what it was, so I followed her. She realized I was behind her, and she ducked in here, thinking she could hide.’

  ‘What did you do to her?’

  ‘There are ways of making someone reveal what you want to know.’

  Christine knew he would never tell her what those ways were. ‘Did you find out what she gave the other person?’

  ‘No. Unfortunately, I was too rough with her, and now she can’t talk. But before that, she told me a lot. When you went to see her at the beguinage, did you ask where she came from?’

  ‘I did, but all she’d say was that she lives in Paris now.’

  ‘She came from Courtrai. She was a member of the beguinage there.’

  Agnes moaned and tried to sit up. Henri pushed her back down.

  ‘After we destroyed her beguinage and her city, she vowed revenge. Her plan was to come here, insinuate herself into the house of a Frenchman, and kill him as well as the king.’

  ‘But why Martin du Bois?’

  ‘She’d known Klara and Willem’s family in Courtrai.’

  ‘Vowing revenge and killing people doesn’t seem like something a member of a religious community would do.’

  ‘The beguines are not your ordinary sisters. They come and go as they please, and they don’t take the same kinds of vows regular nuns do. Most of them are as devout as the members of any religious order, but not all. Agnes had been an illuminator’s apprentice. It was only after her husband died that she went to live with the beguines. She may have been devout to begin with, but the massacre in her city caused her to take leave of her senses.’

  Agnes moaned again. ‘Shouldn’t we call for the sergeants from the Châtelet?’ Christine asked. ‘We can’t leave her here!’

  ‘It’s what she deserves. She’s the one who’s been plotting with Willem to kill the king. But the sergeants wouldn’t believe that. There’s no proof. People dislike the beguines, but not many would think they are capable of that kind of evil.’

  ‘But if we find Willem and uncover their plot, won’t they believe us then?’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you’re right to say that we can’t leave her here. We’ll have to get her back to the beguinage.’

  Henri pulled Agnes to her feet. She slumped against him, but he made her stand upright. Christine supported her on the other side, and they practically carried her out of the garden. It was raining hard, and no one was on the rue Saint-Antoine or the rue de l’Ave Maria. Together, they got the woman to the door of the beguinage.

  ‘We found her in the street,’ Henri said when the grand mistress appeared. ‘Someone must have knocked her down.’ The woman looked at them suspiciously, but she didn’t ask any questions; she just put her arms around Agnes and took her away.

  Then Henri said, ‘We have to find the boy and stop him.’

  ‘But even if we do, won’t Agnes start some other plot to kill the king, as soon as she recovers?’

  ‘I’ve made sure she won’t do that,’ Henri said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have my ways. She knows what they are.’

  They hurried up the rue Saint-Antoine to the palace. In the courtyard of the queen’s residence, Renaut ran to them and laughed when he saw how wet their clothes were. Henri tousled the boy’s tawny hair. ‘You’re just as wet as we are,’ he said, as he took the boy’s hand and led him back to Simon.

  In the great gallery, which was deserted, they sat on a bench. Christine took off her cloak, and Henri removed his black cape. They sat in silence for a while. Almost as though we’re friends, Christine thought.

  But then Henri said, ‘I’ve heard Alips has disappeared. If you women can’t do anything right, you shouldn’t go running around looking for murderers.’

  No. We’re not friends. Christine clenched her hands to prevent herself from reaching out and hitting the man. Then he added, ‘I’m surprised it’s the dwarf who’s disappeared. She’s more intelligent than the rest of you.’

  Christine put her hands behind her back. ‘Why do you always insult us?’

  ‘I don’t say anything that hasn’t been said many times before.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it true.’

  She remembered Michel telling her that Henri had been brought up in a monastery. Perhaps that’s why he can’t get along with women, she thought.

  Henri was looking at her strangely.

  ‘Of course, there may be some exceptions,’ he said, adding quickly, ‘I’ve read about them.’

  Christine almost laughed. Michel had told her that Henri had hated the monastery and that he’d spent most of his time
in the library, learning to be a scribe, and reading. The books had no doubt contained many examples of worthy women.

  ‘Haven’t you ever met an intelligent woman?’

  Henri looked at her intently. ‘I knew your father, a long time ago, when you were still a girl.’

  She knew he’d been a friend of her father’s, though she’d never seen him when she was young because her mother had taken a dislike to him, and she’d made it clear to her husband that the man would not be welcome at their house.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ Henri asked.

  ‘All I know is, you helped my father make those tin figures of the Englishmen. Did you really think burying them all around the country would make the English leave France?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Christine knew he was an astrologer as well as an alchemist – it was even said he’d discovered the secret of turning base metals into gold. He also knew a great deal about magic. Perhaps he really did believe tin figures had mysterious powers to drive the enemy away. But she couldn’t help saying, ‘It was a ridiculous idea.’

  ‘No more ridiculous than all those superstitions you women have.’

  ‘Not all women. Don’t you think that if more women were educated, they’d learn not to believe in superstitions?’

  ‘Learning is wasted on women.’

  ‘Do you think it was wasted on me?’

  ‘You didn’t need it. You had a husband to support you.’

  ‘And now I have no husband, and I need that learning. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m a scribe. A good one, too. Perhaps better than you.’

  He was looking at her with that peculiar expression again. He said, ‘Do you know why I was so anxious to help your father?’

  ‘How would I know? I was just a little girl then.’

  ‘Old enough to be married. Your father was looking for a husband who would be suitable for you.’

  ‘Surely you don’t mean …’

  Henri got up and walked away.

  Christine was not as shocked as she might have been. She was getting used to Henri’s surprises. Her daughter Marie had once remarked that he was an interesting man. She hated to admit it, but she thought her daughter was right.