The Devil's Crossing

by Hana Cole

  ‘Have you nothing to tell me?’ She asked of the dead.

  Margueritte still had her teeth. Good, strong teeth. But there was a fractured indent in her skull - the tell-tale sign of a blow. Some plague, thought Agnes. Help me, my friend. She wasn’t sure how she was going to do it, but she knew she had to touch the remains. A prayer came spontaneously to her lips as she fanned her hands over the earth.

  Let nothing disturb you,

  Let nothing frighten you,

  All things are passing away:

  God never changes.

  Patience obtains all things

  Straight away she saw it. Dulled by the earth and the hand of time, it had no lustre but she could tell it was a gem. Muttering an apology she slid her hand underneath Margueritte to retrieve the tiny object; an emerald encased in a silver heart. She held her palm to the torchlight above. It looked as though it had been part of a charm bracelet, or a necklace. Thank you. She crossed herself, then turned as though guided by an unseen hand towards the others.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ Gaston’s voice boomed, too earthly to make her jump.

  ‘Nothing. I was talking to myself,’ she called up. ‘I think I’ve found something.’

  ‘Be quick now. I’m getting the creeps up here.’

  ‘Just a moment more.’

  Her eyes were well adjusted to the cavern now. There were five bodies that she could see distinctly. But they did not have the robust frame of Margueritte. No, these small, bird-like bones were the remains of slighter creatures. Children, sold to a demon in a strange land with no one to protect them. How frightened they must have been so far from home. Just like her baby. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. If I cry now, she thought, I will never be able to stop. The world will crack open and I will drown. Then this task will never be done and these poor souls will never have justice.

  One of the young ones had a leather thong wound around their finger. Agnes followed the thread through the puzzle of limbs. It was too dark to see where it went, so she pulled gingerly and the mass of bones began to slide. She stifled a cry. At the end of the string there was a fragment of parchment. The edges, thin as a flake of ash, crumbled under her touch, but where the skin was better preserved a faint, foreign script could still be made out. She unwound the leather strip from the child’s finger.

  ‘You are with God now.’

  Right at that moment she could not believe their God was different to hers. God of the dispossessed and the damned. God the Redeemer and the Judge. One day the man who did this will know Your law, she thought. Then she tugged on the rope that hung down from the hatch above, and the ox-strong arms of Gaston heaved her up, up, up towards the clear night sky.

  Agnes broke the film of that winter ice with her fist and plunged her hand into the water, rubbing the little charm vigorously between her fingertips. A true cleansing. Next she polished the silver heart with a piece of leather until it gleamed as it must have done when Margueritte de Coucy first received it. A gift from her parents, Agnes was almost certain. Something her mother would recognise immediately.

  ‘Come inside before the cold gets to your chest.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  Agnes watched her breath blossom on the frozen air. It was mid winter and the muddy fields were hardened with a crust of ice. January was the month when the nobles sat before their great fires and feasted St Agnes’s day. Martyred as a child, St Agnes was the patron of virgins. And violated women. Etienne was born two days before her feast. What gift will you bring me this year, my saint? Twelve years ago you brought Gui and I our son. I cannot believe you won’t see him returned.

  Her cheeks burned as she stepped back inside the hut. The smoke and tallow were a comfort now. Inside the old lady was shifting through a sack of barley. Her sight too worn to see the blackened ears, she rubbed her thumb and forefinger against the husks, head cocked as though listening for the blighted ones.

  ‘The winter has hardened you as it does a sapling,’ she said to Agnes.

  Agnes squatted beside her, patted the rheumy hand.

  ‘Not the winter,’ she said, opening her palm to reveal the polished gem. ‘The chance to stop him.’

  ‘I wish I had the words to stop you,’ she said.

  ‘I know you do, ma petite grandmère. But these are people who can help us. Just think of it. If he is brought to justice you would be free.’

  The old woman tutted. ‘You dream as only the well born can.’

  Agnes took the linen pocket she had stitched and dropped the gem inside. The note she would include in the parcel was already written in her head. Although there were feathers aplenty with which fashion into a quill, she had no way to get the ink and parchment. A local priest came for odd Offices in the nearby village, but peasants could not approach him for writing tools, and Agnes knew better than to trust an unknown clergyman.

  In order to procure what she needed she would have go to the town of Maintenon itself. There she would write to Margueritte’s mother in the hope that the bond of motherhood would ignite the fellowship she needed – and with it the weight of a noble house powerful enough to fall upon Amuary de Maintenon. She would offer Lady Yolande a rendezvous near Chartres. In the town, she had a better chance of being anonymous. It was also nearer to the safety of her godmother’s cottage, where she would then go and wait. Wait to see if St Agnes would bless her with the only gift that mattered.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  ‘Etienne.’

  Etienne opens one eye. A hexagon of sunlight twinkles through the shutters on the floor before him. Drifting through the corridors of half-sleep, he considers the honeycomb of light. Yossef once told him the Mohammedans use the hexagon to represent Heaven.

  ‘Etienne!’

  He shuts his eye.

  ‘Come on. We have to collect the water.’

  Etienne can tell from the singsong in the voice that it belongs to Alberto.

  ‘Not yet,’ he mumbles. ‘They haven’t called dawn prayers yet.’

  ‘Any minute,’ Alberto insists. ‘Anyway, it’s Thursday.’

  Etienne sits up and rubs his head with both hands, scuffing off the fog of sleep as the first notes of the Adhan break open the morning.

  ‘So it is,’ he beams.

  Thursday is his favourite day. On Thursday it is his turn to go to the markets with the men from the kitchens. Friday is a day of prayer for the Mohammedans, so the streets are always brimming with activity the day before as people prepare for their Holy day. It is the only time when Etienne is allowed outside the palace grounds, under the eye of the governor’s entourage, to view the many sights of this strange land. The city is vast. Its streets are so busy that it isn’t possible to move without bumping the shoulder of another man.

  Etienne is certain that in the bazaars of Cairo it is possible to buy anything you want on this earth. There is the tentmakers’ street where walnut-skinned men sit cross legged, half hidden behind bold geometries of fabric, then the shaded rows of spice merchants with warming dusts of cinnamon that tickle his nose. Next they pass the chandeliers, whose brass lamps and braziers give a cozy glow to the tight, dark thoroughfares. Weaving through it all, like a unifying thread of the finest silk, are the sweet vendors, carrying trays of sugar-spun pastries, little balls of almond paste, pastel squares of softest marzipan. The sight of them makes Etienne’s fingers itch, and his soul longs to be free of the hawk eye of Abubakr who would most certainly notice if he stole one, even if the vendor didn’t.

  They buy flour, beans, oil and chickens tied together by the legs that squawk and peck and shit everywhere. By midday the carts are fully laden and the gang heads back to the main souq for their final errands before the long walk back to the palace for the next part of the day. The afternoon is better even than the dizzying temptations of the market, for is also the day the maidservants go to launder the robes. After lunch Etienne has to polish the silver plates, and if he lingers on that job long enough, but not so
long as to make Abubakr suspicious, he can catch the girls returning through the portcullis opposite which he sits, shining the plates, bowls, trays and goblets until he can see his face in them.

  The beautiful Greek girls always come through the gates last. He has often watched them as they approach, crisp piles of laundry on their heads, talking and laughing until they get to the gate. Then they put a couple of paces between themselves and their faces falls into their usual, hard-to-read expressions. Etienne thinks the one called Adamadia is prettiest. He is sure that if he can get to meet her outside the gates, then he will be able to make her laugh just like she does with her friend.

  He is fantasising about what he will say to Adamadia when his attention is turned by a face in the crowd. A young man, a European slave, arrives at the tailor’s. Although Etienne recognises the chestnut curls and the square shoulders, he can’t quite believe it. He stands staring, just to make sure his eyes are not deceiving him, even though he knows from the excited leaps of his heart that they are not. It is Daniel.

  From behind his pile of newly darned clothing, Etienne peeps his head out to make sure Abubakr isn’t around. He looks briefly skywards in a silent prayer. He isn’t totally certain one of the others won’t see turn him in for talking to a stranger but what he does know for sure, is that God doesn’t make accidents like this for no reason.

  ‘Hey! Daniel!’ he hollers.

  The young man turns.

  ‘How are you?’ says Etienne, throwing a glance behind.

  Daniel’s eyes are wide with surprise – or is it suspicion? ‘Etienne,’ he says a little too flatly.

  Etienne pauses, thrown by the other boy’s lack of enthusiasm. Although only a couple of months have passed, he looks older. His back is straight and he moves with the same languid grace of the youth who left the Fairs at Lendit. Once he is up close though, Etienne can see there is something far away looking about him, as though he has decided that it is better to stare at the horizon.

  ‘I feared for you,’ Etienne says, hoping Daniel isn’t still angry with him for leaving him lying there in the slave market dirt. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help.’

  Daniel dismisses his apology with a shake of his head.

  ‘You are one boy, what could you do?’ He smiles his wide, familiar smile. ‘And besides, I have been blessed. Allah is merciful.’

  ‘Allah?’

  Daniel nods vigorously and Etienne realises that the distant look in his eyes is the sheen that separates Mohammedan and false believer.

  ‘Allah sent my master to the slave market that day. A Mamluk warrior in need of a manservant. He saw me fight and took me away with him. I realised then that the Christian God had enslaved me and I converted to my master’s faith that evening.’

  ‘I see.’ Etienne scuffs his sandal in the dirt as the giddy joy evaporates. He was so pleased to see his friend alive, he was sure it was a sign – whatever mistakes they made had been forgiven. One by one, God would reunite them and they would find a way out together. Now his shoulders sink with disappointment. His friend after all, is still lost.

  ‘Have you heard news of the others?’ Etienne asks.

  ‘I saw Jocelyn and Marc after the market…’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Daniel shakes his head. ‘The men who took the boys did not look like good men.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My master said they were heading south, where they take the cheaper slaves to sell again. For hard labour.’

  A shock of panic surges through Etienne. ‘South? Where?’

  ‘We can do nothing.’

  Etienne furrows his brow, trying to understand who this version of Daniel is.

  ‘But if we know where they have gone we must try and help them,’ he says, agitated.

  The young man before him just shrugs. ‘There was another,’ he says with a sigh, almost as if he is offering Etienne a consolation prize. ‘The other day, as I took my master’s blades to the Smithy I saw a white boy. He was standing outside the Church of the Copts. I had no time to linger but he was shouting out.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’ Etienne rises up onto his tiptoes in excitement, craning for a flicker of his old friend in the gentle, brown eyes.

  ‘You know there has been a Christian preacher here. A famous monk come from Rome to convert the Sultan?’

  Etienne is bursting to interrupt Daniel’s diversion, but there is something about the stature of this slave-soldier in training that stops him.

  ‘I think the boy was speaking of this monk. Anyway,’ says Daniel, ‘he looked an awful lot like your friend Jean.’

  Etienne’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest. ‘Jean? But he…I saw him go under the water.’

  ‘It looked just like him,’ Daniel repeats, casting an eye to the street. ‘Look, I have to go now but I come to this tailor once a week on a Thursday.’

  ‘Where is the Church of the Copts?’ Etienne shouts as Daniel strides away, but his old companion’s reply is lost to the call to prayer.

  Etienne, realising how he has tarried, races back to where the others are waiting. As he flies past the stalls, his mind is a flurry of questions. Is there any chance that the reason God put him in Daniel’s path today is because the preacher boy he saw really is Jean? How he is going to find out? And, perhaps most pressingly of all, if it is Jean, how will he be able to persuade Daniel that they have to try and find all their other friends as well?

  *

  Alberto is slouched in the shade of the wall of their hut. He is on his own, but Etienne can tell he is biting his tongue. The rest of the household is silent in the warmth of the mid afternoon sun, their lunch consumed and their prayers said.

  ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Etienne grunts.

  Alberto pats the ground beside him. ‘Take a few moments. In my country this is the time for rest.’

  ‘Not in mine,’ Etienne says grumpily.

  ‘Ah but we are closer to mine. Besides, it is getting hot now. You wait, soon the spring will arrive and it will be even hotter than you can imagine…Mama!’ He flicks his wrist as though he is pulling it back from a scalding pot.

  Etienne sits down. Alberto rattles on about his country - the afternoon sleep, the fish in the market in the morning, the lush fruit lying in the road just waiting to be eaten. Etienne knows what is coming next.

  ‘And the girls. Aiy!’ He flicks his hand again, pauses and lets Etienne’s silence fill the space between them before he says, ‘So, why you not talk to that Greek girl this afternoon, eh? You know she likes you. Maybe you don’t like girls?’

  Etienne knows the goading won’t stop until he reacts. If that is what he wants, so be it. He jumps up, ensuring Alberto’s foot is under his heel, and pushes with all his weight.

  Alberto shoves Etienne’s foot aside. Etienne responds with a kick. Alberto grabs his leg and next thing he knows they are rolling in the dust, trying to get enough distance to throw a fist.

  ‘Hey, hey.’ Yossef pulls them apart. ‘What’s going on, you idiots? They’ll beat you if they see you fighting.’

  Etienne spits the dirt out of his mouth. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Giacopo arrives.

  Alberto scrabbles to his feet. ‘Etienne likes boys, that is what is going on.’

  Etienne breaks free of Yossef’s grip and plunges towards Alberto. Giacopo and Yossef try to wedge themselves between the battling pair while the perpetually teary Christophe wrings his hands, entreating them to stop.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s going on,’ Etienne fumes. ‘He is jealous because the most beautiful girl smiled at me and now he wants her for himself.’

  ‘Eh, you didn’t take her…’ Alberto jeers.

  ‘Because I have more important plans,’ Etienne blurts, heart still pouding in outrage.

  Alberto rocks with mock laughter. ‘Like what?’

  Etienne knows he shouldn’t re
ally say, telling anyone will just make it go wrong. But he can’t help it, he is so cross with Alberto.

  ‘Like sneaking out of here. That’s what.’

  Head cocked to one side Alberto frowns . ‘Maybe you don’t remember what we told you about how they treat run away slaves?’

  ‘Back home I was a shepherd. We all heard stories about the lands overseas. How people made their fortunes, became someone important. I thought it was God’s plan. I couldn’t believe He meant for people to live like we do. Some born to be rich, some destined to die in the dirt, farming a few miserable fields for a fat nobleman. Maybe I was wrong, I don’t know. But I do know this. I didn’t come all this way just to become a slave for someone else. Maybe I have been lucky coming to the governor’s palace, but this is not how I am supposed to spend the rest of my days.’ He shrugs. ‘I just know it.’

  All four boys stare at him. No one says a word.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Gui woke to a cool cloth on his forehead and the heady scent of jasmine oil. His chest was bound with a strip of linen.

  ‘You?’ he said to the green-eyed prostitute who was tending to his head.

  ‘Who stuck your assassin? Yes.’ Yalda pulled her hair free from its pin and showed the long, thin blade to Gui. ‘In my profession, you must always be prepared.’

  He shook his throbbing head, trying to wake from this strange dream.

  ‘You thought I cared too much my own safety?’ She pouted her generous lips. ‘Of course I care. But that little blond hair boy you sent to my door told me you were going to the Fondaco. What am I to do?’ She turned her face away from Gui, chest rising with agitated breath.

  Gui forced himself up on the day bed, teeth grinding against the pain. Yalda wound a strand of hair around her finger, mouth twitching as though she were resisting the desire to speak. Suddenly she turned her head, eyes lit with conviction.

  ‘I know the wicked souls of those who profit from the misery of children. I was very lucky that someone freed me. I can never forget that. Who am I if I cannot help another up from the same fate?’ Her brow arched. ‘Even if they are believers of a different book.’