The Devil's Crossing

by Hana Cole

His mother pushes an imaginary strand of hair from her face and suddenly she looks very weary to Etienne, as if she has reached the top of a mountain only to realise there is another peak to climb.

  ‘My father helped you escape, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Yes he did.’

  ‘But your father didn’t escape, did he?’

  Hands pressed together in prayer, fingertips resting at her mouth, all she can do is shake her head.

  ‘I’m sorry, mama.’ Etienne puts his arm around her. ‘The evil in the hearts of some men is so strange.’ He feels his chest sag, defeated by incomprehension.

  ‘It is the Devil, I suppose. I have no other account for it.’ Agnes palms the dampness from her cheek.

  ‘Do you think so? I am not so sure.’

  His mother’s lips twitch with a smile. ‘That is what your father used to say. God is in everyone but the power to choose evil is man’s alone.’

  ‘Really?’ says Etienne, comforted by this unexpected inheritance of belief. ‘Well now Maintenon is dead, do you think Lady Yolande will help you clear your father’s name. Maybe even get back Gazeran?’

  Agnes gives a cough of laughter. ‘You know I think you must get your optimism from my father.’

  Etienne beams at this other nugget of inheritance. ‘But mama, the land is yours. Your father would want you to fight for it. If Lady Yolande will help we could appeal to the court of Champagne. Tell them what Maintenon did. They would believe her.’

  ‘Very possibly, they would...’ Agnes’s smile is soft and patient. It is the same smile she used to give him as a small child when he made a mess trying to help her, and he knows a but is coming.

  His mother continues, ‘But even if they believe that Maintenon murdered Margueritte de Coucy, the court would still have to find us of good standing and rule that we did not then kill Maintenon for the land. To them, I am still a convicted heretic who sired a child out of wedlock. You don’t understand what they are. What we would be risking. The chains of society bind us as well as any gaolers shackles.’ She takes his hand. ‘We have our lives. Our freedom. Each other. That is enough for me.’

  ‘But don’t you want to clear your father’s name?’

  His mother nods and he can feel the conflict in her heart.

  ‘Of course,’ she whispers. ‘There is nothing would please me more than to see my father’s name redeemed. He toiled his whole life to achieve what he did. To win respect from those who despised his kind as peasants. “If I can come from the salt marshes of the south to win all this, then so can anyone,” he used to say. He believed that one day any man will be free to achieve through toil what the nobility achieve by the accident of their birth.’

  Her eyes are almost translucent, glittering with icy conviction, and as she pauses Etienne fancies he can feel this unknown grandfather standing there in the silence, adding the weight of his approval to her words.

  ‘But you know what else he used to say?’ Agnes continues. ‘No matter a man’s coffers, it is all for nought if you aren’t surrounded by the love of your family. So no, now I have you back I won’t risk it. I won’t risk you. For all the land in the kingdom of France, for my father’s righteous name. For everything thing your father did to bring you back to me. I would rather die on the pyre than stand before them at Judgment and tell them I risked you for a patch of soil.’ His mother’s voice is utterly steady. ‘How I wish papà could have seen you, Etienne. He would have been so, so proud.’

  Etienne rubs his eye. ‘Very well,’ he says. Then he pats his mother’s hand. ‘I wish I could have met him too.’

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The Lady of Chartres has a very large nose. Fine boned, noble even, but still, Etienne reflects, it is a man’s nose. No matter where else his eyes wander, it is very hard to keep them from straying back to it. Lady Isabelle keeps coughing too, and the dry irritation in her throat distracts him as he stands before the court, adrift in a starched formality that is utterly unfamiliar to him.

  The court is a long, timber-framed hall, which, he imagines, is also used for feasts or similar occasions of noble delight. High above his head, birds nest on beds of straw stolen from the steep thatched roof. Now and then the beat of wings echoes in the rafters, and Etienne wonders if the venerable panel before whom he stands have ever been shat on.

  The Count of Blois has a leprosy so hideous it keeps him confined to his castle, so it is his niece, Lady Isabelle who presides from a long trestle on the dais, flanked by long-faced advisors and a scribe who looks too ancient to see, let alone write. At Etienne’s back a congregation of plaintiffs and vassals fill the hall with fidgets and whispers. It reminds him of being in church – a room full of people gossiping their way through a boring lot of lecturing that still manages to give you the uneasy feeling you have done something wrong. On the witness bench beside him sits Christophe, who upon sight of the crowd and the pinch-faced scrutiny of the judges, blanched a shade of white Etienne had never seen before, even when they were in captivity.

  Lady Isabelle peers down the length of the bench at the men still shuffling the parchments he pilfered from his mother to make their case. When the rustling has ceased, she raises her voice above the hum of the crowd and says, ‘Etienne of Courville, what is your age?’

  Etienne lifts his chest. ‘Sixteen, my lady.’

  The Count of Blois’ niece lifts her brow into the dome of her forehead and turns to her advisors who offer dour nods.

  ‘Very well. These documents you present are the title deeds to land in the name of Agnes Le Coudray. She is your kin?’

  ‘My mother, my lady.’

  ‘And she is not here?’

  ‘No, my lady. She suffers ill health such as she is unable to attend.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘Is deceased.’ Etienne clasps his hand before him and lowers his head in the same way Gui use to when he was trying to get rid of troublesome local officials.

  ‘And you have a witness of good standing to vouch for this?’

  ‘I do, my lady. Christophe of Saintes, son of Count Roger of Saintes.’

  The Lady of Chartres’s thin lips round in surprise as Etienne turns to his pallid friend.

  Christophe manages to stammer out the testimony they have rehearsed before collapsing back down onto his seat. It is hardly convincing and Etienne knows it. The members of the court exchange grave-sounding whispers, and Etienne can feel the prickle of sweat at his collar. Lady Isabelle flexes a finger and a page boy scuttles forward. Eyes narrowed on Etienne, she issues an order and flicks the boy away. The urge to wipe his hands down his tunic is almost as strong as the desire to close his eyes and remove himself from this committee of noble vultures about to peck out his birthright.

  One of the hunched-shouldered, black robes speaks.

  ‘According to the documents, these lands to which you claim title on behalf of your mother come from her uncle, Hugues, Chatelaine of Gazeran, held jure uxoris by her father, whom we find to be Estève Le Coudray, a deceased heretic.’

  Etienne’s breath tightens as he fights to keep his concentration against the flood of panic swamping his thoughts. Of course, they would have records of what happened to Estève, he scolds himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that? The long-faces shuffle the parchments and utter low coughs. Etienne folds his fingers into his palms and squeezes, trying to imagine his father’s steadying hand on his shoulder. Just keep your countenance.

  ‘That is correct.’ To his surprise he sounds remarkably composed. ‘When my grandfather refused…’

  ‘You will refrain from speaking unless requested to do so,’ snaps Lady Isabelle.

  ‘Yes my lady. Sorry.’ Etienne attempts to shift his weight, but his feet feel as if they are encased in lead boots.

  The black-robe continues. ‘Land which now belongs, at the reckoning of our tithe collectors, to Lord Amaury of Maintenon.’

  Etienne tries to swallow but his mouth is completely dry. Beside him Christo
phe makes a strange choking noise, as though he is about to expire. Please don’t, thinks Etienne. With all the strength he can muster, he steadies his voice.

  ‘If you will permit me to explain, my lady?’

  Lady Isabelle arches an imperious brow. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Lord Amaury of Maintenon made an offer for my mother’s hand, and when her father refused, they were falsely arrested for heresy and the land was stolen. The deed you have in your hands shows it to be true. I believe under the circumstances the land should be released to my mother and I as proven heirs and good Christians.’

  ‘All land belonging to heretics in this county is handed over to Count of Blois’s fisc for safe keeping until such a time as they are exonerated or condemned by fair trial. We have no record of such a transfer.’

  ‘It is usual in cases of contested land for the other party to present themselves when summoned,’ another advisor intervenes, his voice cracking with age.

  Lady Isabelle blinks at the interruption like a raven eyeing carrion. ‘Indeed. But as you can see, Lord Amaury of Maintenon is not here.’ Her eyes ping wide open. ‘And neither can he be found.’

  The thrum of the court falls silent. Etienne feels the heat surge up from his gut. His heart is beating so loudly he is certain it is audible. What have you done? he thinks as the sweat runs down his tunic. Everything seems to be moving very slowly and he wonders what his mother is going to say when she learns that he has hazarded his freedom with her parchments.

  He draws in a deep breath. The moment has arrived when he must flip the coin of Fate. If he tells the truth then he will likely be condemning himself, and possibly his mother, to prison. If he lies and his lies are uncovered, then death is almost certain. He feels as though he is falling.

  ‘Lord Amaury of Maintenon is dead, my lady.’

  The court gasps. Christophe lets out a ghostly moan.

  ‘Dead? How do you know this?’

  Etienne does not know what he is going to say, he has no time to think, but when he opens his mouth, he finds an unexpected jumble of the truth pours out.

  ‘This lord was engaged in the traffic of children. Of Christians to the Mohammedans and visa versa… as slaves…of boys that are not his chattel. And some girls. But mainly boys.’ To howls of outrage he continues, ‘It is true, my lady. I swear it. Christophe and I were among the stolen. We were planning to go to the Holy Land to persuade the Mohammedans to relinquish the City of God...’

  A ripple of mocking laughter rings out. Etienne frowns.

  ‘What nonsense is this!’ Lady Isabelle interrupts shrilly, her head craned forward like a marsh bird.

  ‘We did believe such a thing was God’s will,’ he says to the astonished faces. But even as he speaks he can tell that no one believes him. The Lady of Chartres is casting her attention elsewhere, scanning the hall for vassals of importance who might be offended by the spectacle. Her eyes alight on the quivering Christophe.

  ‘What say you, Christophe of Saintes?’

  The question is met with silence. Etienne feels his insides flip over. He gives Christophe a gentle poke but, stare fixed on the back of the hall, Christophe stays mute.

  ‘Even if this unlikely tale is true, none of it explains how Maintenon died,’ Lady Isabelle prompts.

  Courtiers are twitching in their seats. The lady of Chartres perches forward. Etienne can tell she has had enough. He presses his lips together and braces himself for the certainty she is going to have him arrested.

  ‘This accusation is of the utmost gravity and you bring nothing against the Lord of Maintenon but this jabbering boy, whose identity we cannot yet verify. Can you tell the court how Maintenon died? Was he killed?’

  Etienne’s whole body feels like it has been taken over by a demon, tossed high up into the air and is now plummeting back down to earth. You don’t understand what they are. His mother’s words come back to him. The chains of society bind us as well as any gaoler’s shackles. He digs his heels into the floor and blinks away the watery film he can feel threatening his eyes. I am so sorry, mama.

  Suddenly, Christophe raises up his arm and points to the back of the court like the ferryman on the river Styx. Etienne feels his blood run cold.

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  All heads turn to the gravelly voice. Standing at the back of the hall flanked by four retainers, is a broad, full-bearded man with a look to pierce armour.

  ‘Father,’ Christophe mouths, staring at Etienne with a mixture of apprehension and disbelief. Etienne’s body heaves with relief. ‘I told you he would come when he got our letter,’ he whispers, stifling a grin at the memory of how he had coerced poor Christophe into writing to his father weeks before.

  ‘What is the meaning of this? State your name.’ Lady Isabelle snaps her fingers at the court guards who stiffen their grip around their hilts.

  ‘I am Count Roger of Saintes and I killed Amaury of Maintenon to save my son.’

  Christophe’s eyes look like they are about to pop out of his head as his father shoulders his way through the hall towards them. He has the same red hair as Christophe, but his eyes are green, feline almost, and they narrow with a predatory playfulness as he approaches the open-mouthed Isabelle of Chartres. For all the intimidating stories he has heard Christophe tell, it’s all Etienne can do to stop himself from running up to embrace the battle-scarred man striding towards them.

  ‘Over a year ago, I took my son to La Rochelle on household business. While I was occupied he strayed.’ A devilish flash of green flicks towards Christophe, who does not lift his gaze from his feet. ‘We searched for near on a year, but heard nothing until a letter arrived.’ Roger of Saintes beckons his son with a click of his teeth, as though he is coaxing a horse. ‘Tell the court what happened.’

  Christophe looks as though he is going to vomit.

  ‘That’s when they took us, my lady. At the docks,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Speak up, boy,’ bellows the count.

  Christophe wheezes and Etienne wishes he could speak for him to spare his friend’s suffering.

  ‘That man, the Lord of Maintenon, he was there.’ Christophe casts a desperate glance to Etienne.

  ‘It’s true,’ Etienne chirrups, ‘he was working with an inquisitor, caught red-handed with a cargo of Christian children to be sold.’ He halts abruptly as he catches himself about to blurt something about his father. He coughs. ‘By the provost of Marseille, my lady.’

  The Lady of Chartres massages her sharp chin with her index finger.

  ‘If my boy says that is what happened then that is what happened!’ roars the Count of Saintes.

  ‘No one voices doubt, my lord Count.’ Isabelle of Chartres blinks furiously.

  Etienne rocks forward on the balls of his feet, fighting back a smile. He, Etienne, illegitimate son of a priest, might just be about to turn this game.

  ‘If you permit me to continue?’ Etienne dare not leave the narration of this tale to Christophe.

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘We were taken to the palace of the governor of Cairo as slaves, but by the will of God were able to escape on a boat bound for Marseille. From there we wrote to Christophe’s father who came to our rescue even as we were being chased down by the Lord Amaury of Maintenon, who wished nothing greater than to silence us forever.’ He embellishes his speech with a hiss that draws the breath of the bench as the hall erupts.

  ‘Silence in the court!’ Lady Isabelle throws her voice above the din.

  ‘I also have a testimony with your permission.’ The voice is barely audible above the chatter. Christophe’s father has such magnetism that it is only now she speaks that Etienne notices the small, neat woman standing with the count’s retainers. He recognises her at once.

  Isabelle of Chartres wrinkles her forehead. ‘Lady Yolande de Coucy?’

  Lady Yolande bobs. ‘As you know, my lady, my daughter Margueritte was married to Amaury of Maintenon. And died soon thereafter.’ Her white-knuckled hands agitate t
ogether as she continues. ‘One day, this arrived by mail.’ Lady Yolande opens her palm to reveal a jewel. ‘This is Margueritte’s earring and it was sent to me by Agnes Le Coudray, the mother of Etienne here. She claimed that my daughter had been murdered by Maintenon. She told me the same fate had nearly befallen her. And that she knew where my daughter’s body was.’

  ‘Lord in Heaven,’ whispers Isabelle of Chartres and Etienne notices she makes the sign of the cross.

  ‘At length, I persuaded my husband to accompany me to this place, situated on the estate of Maintenon, where we found a hidden catacomb. There we were able to identify Margueritte from the gold thread that remained on the scraps of her skirt. ’ Lady de Coucy clutches her hand to her mouth. ‘She lay there with several other children. The side of her head bludgeoned. It was such a terrible sight, it will never leave my eyes. The bodies have been exhumed by the Church, my lady, pending investigation by your uncle’s constable I believe.’

  Christophe’s father glares viciously at the judges and he ushers the sobbing Lady de Coucy to sit. His face turns puce, and, veins bulging in his neck, he turns to address the assembly.

  ‘By God’s will I came upon this scoundrel about to take his revenge on my boy. I felled him where he stood and I challenge any good Christian to condemn me for it!’

  A murmur of admiration ripples through the spectators. The Count of Saintes extends a vice-like grip and shakes Etienne by the forearm. ‘When this fine young man told me of Maintenon’s other crimes I contacted the good Lady de Coucy, who was brave enough to come and accuse him as you hear today.’ Count Roger gives Etienne a crafty wink and takes up a stance of wide-legged defiance.

  Etienne’s head is spinning at the audacity of such an accomplished lie. His body feels almost weightless with exhilaration. Poor mild-mannered Christophe, he thinks, it must be nerve-wracking for him to labour in the shadow of such a relentless force. From the way his friend’s gaze is fixed determinedly on the ground, Etienne half wonders if he would prefer prison to another one of his father’s jousts.

  There pass a few moments of total silence. It appears Lady Isabelle of Chartres is at a loss for words. Etienne prays silently, his lungs ready to burst with anticipation. He is almost certain that the leper count’s niece is not going to take on the Count of Saintes over the killing of a vassal accused of multiple murders and the slavery of Christians to boot.