The Devil's Crossing

by Hana Cole

  ‘Fourteen! As many as that? I saw six.’

  He eyes her wearily. ‘And how many mass graves are you familiar with?’

  ‘De Nogent is trafficking slaves with Maintenon,’ Agnes says urgently. ‘My son was with the shepherd’s crusade. The nun who escaped, Sister Octavia, she was sent to me by Lady Yolande with some bills of sale. I think the boys were sold overseas.’

  Michel raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m glad I didn’t have to raise my hand to you for a confession. I must be getting better at this.’

  Agnes does not concede him the joke. ‘If Lady Yolande sent you to help me that night then she must trust you.’

  He looks down, body weighted with shame. ‘Lady Yolande’s neice is my wife.’

  Agnes glares in disbelief. ‘Then you know what happened to Margueritte!’ Her voice is shaking. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  He turns his face away. She comes in closer.

  ‘Look at me,’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘Would you be afraid if you were me?’

  His eyes creep back, taking her in. The slight, half-famished woman standing before him in a torn shift, with wild, matted hair and an even wilder stare.

  ‘Well, would you?!’

  ‘I’ll think of something to tell de Nogent,’ he says, pivoting for the door. ‘Stay put for now, I’ll return when I have something useful.’

  ‘What about the guards?’

  ‘They’re my kin,’ he replies. ‘They’ll do as I say.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The afternoon sun sparks the water. Seagulls bomb the wake of returning fishing boats, turning the sea to foam. Etienne leaps up onto the gunwale and points. ‘‘Look! Look! It’s the Hospitaller commandry over there. Do you see?’

  ‘I see. I see.’ Gui laughs. They have been standing on the bow of the boat all morning, competing for the first sight of the great stone landmark. The sun’s rays bathe the harbour’s promontory, making a golden palace of the fortress.

  ‘I win! I saw it first!’ Etienne is tearing around the deck like a puppy. The corners of Christophe’s mouth peel up. It isn’t quite a smile, but it is a start.

  The details of the shoreline are visible now; boats line the womb of the port, the great domes of the Cathedral rise up above a maze of wooden shacks. From astern Etienne hears a fisherman’s cry - Provençal, a cousin of his own tongue. It will never sound foreign to him again. Am I really nearly home? he asks himself, and with it finds himself caught in a concertina of time. It feels as though it were only yesterday he stood on the quayside, all full of anticipation and adventure. Stupid, stupid adventure, he chastises the former version of himself.

  His father is at his side, staring at the approaching harbour with a strange, far away stare. Etienne realises they must be thinking the same thing. He watches Gui inhale the tang of the salt air and press the heels of his hands to his eyes.

  ‘Are you crying?’ Etienne asks uncertainly. His father laughs, but the deep crease in his brow makes him looked pained.

  ‘No. I am just very relieved.’ Gui draws him in. ‘When you have had moments where you were sure that everything you ever loved was gone. When suddenly you find you have it back within your grasp but...’ he trails off.

  ‘Most of it.’ Etienne exhales deeply against his father. His father rubs his back – they are thinking the same thing.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’ Etienne asks, gripped by the need to know that wherever his mother is, she can feel them. Feel their return.

  ‘Not long now,’ his father says.

  ‘Imagine the look on her face.’ Etienne forces a grin, trying to imagine her reaction when they meet again. Rooting around inside the lip of his breeches, he offers up the little gold St Christopher. Eyes round in wonder, his father looks at it as though it is a thorn from our saviour’s crown. Gui takes it in his palm, passes a fingertip tenderly over the detail.

  ‘I stole it form mother,’ Etienne confesses. ‘For luck.’ The corner of his lip lifts at the irony. His father hands it back.

  ‘Then see you return to her when we get home,’ he says with conviction, and for the first time, Etienne begins to believe that home might actually be there after all.

  The port is brimming with merchants, sailors, port hands, pilgrims and vendors hoping to catch the passing footfall. Etienne wonders when they will be able to get something good to eat. It’s been weeks since he has tasted anything other than rock hard fruit bread and salt fish. He spots a stall selling roast pork belly.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Etienne tugs on Gui’s arm.

  ‘Etienne, stop that for a minute.’

  ‘But food!’ Etienne hangs his head, accusingly. Gui looks at his feet, with a look that tells Etienne he is trying to be patient. ‘Let me think for a moment. We are going nowhere until I am sure it is safe.’

  Etienne casts around. ‘What do you mean safe? We are in Provence!’

  ‘We are in the port of Marseille, which is a long way from home if you remember.’

  ‘Of course I remember,’ Etienne mumbles. Why wouldn’t I remember, he thinks, anyone would remember. He rolls his eyes at Christophe who is swivelling his head back and forth, blinking like one of the birds from the governor’s aviary.

  ‘What?’ asks Etienne.

  ‘It’s him! It’s him!’ the boy cries.

  ‘Who?’ Gui scans the scene. He stops dead in his tracks. Despite the warm weather, the man they are staring at is dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak, gliding through the crowd, a silk scarf around his neck.

  ‘The man with the fur cloak,’ Christophe says, wringing his hands. ‘He was at the port when they took me. Let’s go, please, now. We have to go.’

  ‘Stay here. I’ll be a moment.’

  ‘Don’t leave us! Please!’ Christophe’s voice cracks and he lunges at Gui’s tunic.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.’

  Gui gives Etienne a grimace, entreating him to help Christophe. ‘Keep him safe behind these barrels. I recognise the man too. I just want to see where he is going.’

  ‘Let’s sit here and try to guess at what all these people are up to,’ Etienne suggests brightly.

  Christophe manages a wary smile. He allows Etienne to pull him towards a row tavern empties stacked against the wall, but his eyes keep darting off in different directions, like he is expecting the governor’s men to appear and grab them back. Besides, Etienne knows the game isn’t all that good - there are only so many maidens trying to escape evil lords or adventurers in search of the true cross that you can make up.

  Etienne finds himself looking over to the Hospitaller commandry at the mouth of the harbour. It would only take them a few moments to go and see if any of the knights there can help them. No doubt they would be impressed with the tale of their escape. Etienne looks at Christophe. There is no way he is going to be able to convince him to leave their hiding place. He flops down on the ground and decides that if Gui isn’t back by the time the sun has made the other side of the harbourmaster’s tower, he is going to go to the Hospital by himself.

  ‘It’s Father Gui, over there. He’s coming back!’ Christophe is flinging his arms about like he has just witnessed the Madonna weep blood.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘By that bank of food stalls.’

  Christophe swivels Etienne’s head round. Gui is nodding thanks to a group of sailors as he sculls his way back through the crowds, a bag of roasted nuts and some clothes bundled under his arm.

  ‘Now then,’ Gui says, sounding like he is about to perform a magic trick for small children. ‘Who wants to come to the Hospital with me?’

  ‘Yes!’ cheers Etienne.

  ‘Who were those men?’ Christophe asks.

  ‘Just some sailors. Come on.’

  ‘And that merchant? The one I saw at the dock? Where did he go?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about him.’ Gui smiles and Etienne thinks he looks very pleased with himself.

  *

  Gui waits in
the shadows outside the tavern. The sailors are drinking inside. Earlier in the day he had watched as they exchanged Zonta’s pouches of coin for smiles and pats on the back. They hadn’t even blinked at Gui’s story – a bankrupted merchant with servant boys he could no longer afford to keep. Come with your cargo after dusk they told him. We have the connections you seek, middlemen to some of the richest in the kingdom. Well there’s no point in suffering it, they all joined in the joke, there’s a shipment due to sail. Bring them along and you’ll be paid fair.

  Bide your time, Gui thinks, pacing the quay. Get them properly in their cups. The evening is just beginning and there are still messenger boys scurrying back and forth, crewmen sluicing down decks, baggage handlers heaving bundles of canvas over the dirt. He strolls among them, trying not to scratch at the itch of his anxiety, trying not to look over at the fortress of the knights of the Hospital.

  It would be easier to have ice in your veins, he thinks. Complete indifference to the suffering of another. He has known enough men like that. How easily they pick life’s fruit. He feigns a sip at his flask, glances over to where the men are drinking, eating, laughing. It is not indifference staying his hand. No, it is satisfaction at the thought of their suffering. He tucks the empty flask away. He waits.

  When the appointed hour arrives, he eases himself into the tavern with a crowd of revellers. Zonta’s back is to the door. He curls his fingers around his dagger and all the pain of the past year courses down into his fingertips. His blood is molten iron, the knife is lodestone. The sailors recognise him, throw up their arms in drunken greeting. Before the spy has a chance to turn his head, Gui’s knife is out.

  ‘Do you want your crew to see you die?’

  Zonta places his palms down on the table in surrender. The sailors’ mouths shape their surprise, but before any words are spoken Gui raises his finger to his lips and says softly, ‘One word and I announce to this pissed-soaked den that you trade in the souls of Christian children. I would like that.’ He finds a grin. ‘Now, this boat they were telling me about?’

  ‘The people I work for will kill you. You think they care if I am dead or alive?’ The merchant’s voice is smooth as velvet but Gui can see his breath, high in his chest.

  ‘I’m touched for your concern. Now get up.’

  The man who calls himself Enrico Zonta rises, gives a little bow to the dumbstruck sailors and, scraping the sticky sawdust from his shoes, steps out into the street.

  Outside, the cool night air is a welcome contrast to the foul breath of the tavern.

  ‘What do you think is going to happen when we get there, eh?’ Zonta says jauntily.

  ‘Walk. Don’t talk.’

  The merchant leads them to the warehouses on the far side of the harbour. It is the maze of buildings where Gui first learned of Etienne’s fate. He feels the spectre of calamity throb in his belly as Zonta draws him into the warren of streets, silent but for their footsteps and the scratch of night scavengers. The stink of rotting fish and effluent mingle with the smoky sweetness of cedar, myrrh, and cinnamon bark.

  ‘State your business?’ The voice is gruff.

  Gui pivots and blinks into the glare of torches. ‘Gui of Courville.’

  ‘Then it’s you.’ A barrel-chested man armed with a light sword sits at the front of four mounted men.

  ‘I am the city provost. The commander of the Hospital raised the night watch for you. Said you told them there was trafficking in Christian souls here?’

  ‘That is correct.’ Gui elbows Zonta forward. ‘This man is a slave dealer. I met him overseas when he tried to rob me.’

  ‘A slanderous lie! I am an Italian merchant. An honest business man. I trade only in glass and perfumes.’

  ‘We’ve seen nothing irregular tonight. I hope we do not waste our time here. There would be a penalty for that.’ The provost’s horse snorts in response to his rider’s irritation.

  ‘A dozen men can bear witness that I returned today on The Lady Isobel from Egypt. I don’t know where they are keeping them, but I learned from this man’s crew that they have a shipment of children planned to sail tonight.’

  The provost dismounts, eases one finger between his belt and his belly. He nods for Gui to retract his dagger. ‘We’ll take your man in. See what he has to say.’

  ‘This is scandalous. I refuse to assist you with this falsehood.’ Zonta waves a haughty hand.

  The provost taps at the hilt of his sword. ‘You’ll help us if you wish to wipe your own arse for the rest of your days.’

  Zonta’s body is unflinching, but Gui sees the bulging eyes chase down towards the quay at the end of the street. It dawns on him.

  ‘He’s coming tonight, isn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The merchant purses his lips. Gui can feel the other man’s anger radiating towards him. Now he knows he is right.

  ‘He’s come to collect his money, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’ The provost shoulders forward. For sure he wouldn’t be as quick as he was in his prime, thinks Gui, but no one would relish a well-landed punch from him.

  ‘His paymaster.’

  Torches arrive on the docks, casting the mouth of the alley in a Devilish glow. The provost raises a warning hand to his retinue. Voices float across the water. From a nearby street they hear the screech of metal on stone. Orders hiss through the night like arrows in flight. Suppressed whispers break into cries. Children. Gui feels a hot fist bunch in his stomach. The provost prods Zonta on.

  ‘Go to your business. Give them a clue and we’ll run you through.’

  Zonta flicks a glance back towards the night watch. One of the soldiers raises a crossbow and a wink. The levy advances behind the broker, as silent as the dead.

  A vessel bobs in the water, anchored to the jetty. It doesn’t look sure enough to make it to Nice, let alone North Africa. There are three figures on deck, their shiny, sun-flayed skin reflecting the torchlight.

  ‘Hold until the children get here,’ the provost murmurs to his retinue.

  From behind the soldiers Gui sees Zonta nod his head in a fleeting courtesy. An instinct of precognition hums deep within Gui. He empties his lungs with a hissing breath.

  The provost fingers for three of the men to approach from the flank. They inch forward. Now Gui can see him - a figure in a long, black cloak. A visceral hatred stirs in his soul, like some ancient beast uncoiling from sleep.

  ‘You know him?’ The provost turns to Gui.

  ‘I know him.’

  The horses of the night watch stamp in anticipation.

  ‘Halt in the name of the Count of Provence!’ the provost bellows. The soldiers surge forward with a cry, blades unsheathed.

  Gui’s body shakes with fury at the sight of the vulture robed in holy garb - Bernard de Nogent. There is no time for thought as the night watch canter in from each side. The air fills with panic, sobbing children pull frantically at their ropes.

  ‘We’re the night watch. You’re safe now.’ Gui surges forward, trying to scoop up the score of hands extended to him. Two of the watch ride in between the children and the slavers while the others flee to the vessel.

  ‘Look! He’s getting away!’ Zonta yells out, inching away from the provost’s stallion. Gui looks up to see the inquisitor fleeing. He runs him down before the provost is able to pick a path through the chaos of bodies. He has a swath of the other man’s cloak bunched in one fist and his dagger in the other. Momentarily he is paralysed by his own rage. If he moves a muscle he knows he will stab de Nogent in an ecstasy of violence that every fibre of his being longs to submit to.

  ‘You think this will save your whore?’ de Nogent whispers.

  ‘My soul is likely bound for Hell, what harm would your blood do me now?’

  Gui launches at the inquisitor. A searing pain shoots through his flank and he buckles. Next thing he knows he is wrestling with the provost, trying to fight his way back to the man in the cloak.

  ‘Who
is your master?’ Gui kicks out towards de Nogent from behind the provost’s restraining arm.

  ‘The Vicar of Christ.’

  Gui roars, ‘You don’t have the means for this trade. There is someone else. He was seen at La Rochelle. Who is he?’

  ‘How do account for yourself?’ The provost says to the inquisitor, measuring out a length of rope.

  ‘I was making payment to the Italian for ornaments on behalf of the Church. I have never seen these others before in my life.’ De Nogent, lips pressed white, stares unblinking at Gui as the provost binds his hands. ‘This is an outrage. I have nothing to do with those men. I am a man of God!’

  ‘You’ll talk,’ Gui hurls after him. ‘You’ll talk when someone gives you a taste of blood punishment.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ says the provost. ‘We’ll take him in.’

  Gui slumps to the ground, hollowed, as the prelate is lead away. His lungs feel too tight to draw breath.

  ‘He’ll talk,’ he mutters to himself. ‘Bastard.’

  Gui wipes the sweat from his brow. It won’t be long before de Nogent’s co-conspirators find out about his arrest. The idea of standing feels almost too exhausting to contemplate, but he knows he has to get back to the boys before anyone else does. He swings his legs to kneel. Pain shoots through his side. He fingers his flank. It is wet and bloodied. De Nogent has put a blade to him.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The bird is soaring beyond the sight of man. Every now and then a speck flashes on the floor of the heavens. Only briefly is he able to track it, squinting into the sun. He blinks and it is gone again. Amaury de Maintenon closes his eyes and lets the sun’s rays bathe his face. It allows him to imagine himself back at Acre under a baking sky, where first he learned this sport of Mohammedan royalty. Patience - then, as now. His bird will come. Although it has the vast canopy of freedom before it, Maintenon knows the falcon will return to his arm. Freedom is but a terror for those who have known only slavery.