In the Presence of Evil

by Tania Bayard

  I’d forgotten about that, Christine thought. Who would give me such a letter? Certainly not the king. Or the queen, since Georgette says she’s so angry.

  Francesca said, ‘You must stop troubling yourself about Alix de Clairy. Have you copied those pages for the duchess? You could take them to her.’

  ‘I haven’t finished them yet.’

  ‘Then go and work on them. Or read a book; you have a lot of them scattered around your room.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Christine cried, remembering that one of those books belonged to Gilles Malet, the royal librarian. ‘I’ll go to the Louvre and return the book I borrowed from Gilles. And I’ll ask him to write a letter to the provost for me.’

  ‘I am sure he will not do that.’ Francesca flung the pieces of onion into a frying pan and slammed the pan down on a trivet over the fire. ‘Gilles will tell you it is wrong for a woman to associate with murderers.’

  ‘Gilles spoke to the queen and got her to give me work. Perhaps he’ll help me again.’ Christine hurried up to her study, searched through the clutter, and found the book. She wrapped it in a large kerchief, placed it in her pouch, and went back downstairs.

  Francesca was waiting for her. ‘You have not had anything to eat!’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘It is going to rain.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ Georgette said. ‘The sun’s out now.’

  Christine put on her cloak and boots.

  Francesca threw up her hands. ‘Wait here,’ she said. She limped up the stairs and came back with a pair of old shoes. ‘Your boots will get all muddy. Put these on before you go into the library.’

  Christine didn’t want another argument, so she slid the shoes into the pouch beside the book.

  Everyone seemed to have come out to enjoy the change in the weather. At the Grève, she found throngs of day laborers seeking work and thrill-seekers hoping for an execution. The wine boats were in, and a wine crier held out a bowl, inviting her to sample his wares. But even though she knew a bit of wine might improve her spirits, she shook her head and walked on, making her way over to the muddy quay beside the Seine. The river was crowded with boats, some laden with more wine casks, others with charcoal and lumber; and as she approached the Grand Pont, the cries of the boatmen and the shouts of moneychangers on the bridge rang in her ears. She turned down a street that passed the Châtelet, taking shallow breaths to lessen the effects of decaying carcasses and putrefying hides, then stopped and stood looking up at the forbidding walls of the prison, wondering in which of its horrible cells Alix de Clairy was confined. When the provost and his mounted guards came thundering over the Grand Pont, she shook her fist at them, turned down the rue Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, and pushed her way through crowds of shoppers until she reached the narrow, winding streets that led to the Louvre, a massive structure rising behind a thick wall beside the river.

  Originally the Louvre had been a fortress, and it still resembled one, even though King Charles the Fifth had made it into a palace. But no matter what its appearance, it seemed like a second home to Christine, because her father had often taken her there, to the library the old king had established in one of the towers. The royal librarian, Gilles Malet, had always welcomed her kindly.

  A man in a black cape with a long black hood and an ermine collar walked in front of her, and she followed him across a bridge over a moat, past the guards at the entrance to the central courtyard, and up a spiral staircase to the tower room that housed the library. The man went in, but she stopped at the door to take off her cloak, remove her muddy boots, and put on the clean shoes Francesca had given her, reflecting that her mother was right about some things. Then she took the book out of her pouch and went into the library.

  Gilles Malet, wearing an elegant but rumpled fur-lined doublet, paced up and down, carrying a stack of books and muttering to himself. Tall and thin, with a lean face and bushy eyebrows that shaded his eyes like wings, he seemed to care nothing for the condition of his clothes. Christine had always imagined they were wrinkled because he carried books around all the time, hugging them close to his body, like a mother with a child.

  Gilles saw her, set the books down on his desk, and said, ‘I did not anticipate a visit from you today, Christine.’

  ‘I’m returning this.’ She handed him the book she’d brought and looked around for the man she’d followed up the stairs. Above them, on a balcony where scribes worked, a chair scraped.

  ‘A man in a black cape arrived here just before I did. Is he one of the scribes?’

  ‘Yes. Henri Le Picart,’ Gilles said in a low voice. ‘You are much indebted to him, Christine. It was the Duchess of Orléans’s wish that he do some copying. He declined, because much of it had to do with housekeeping, and he said he had no interest in that. He told her to give the work to you.’

  So that’s why, Christine thought. Not because she likes me any better than she did when I was a child. But she couldn’t help wondering how Henri Le Picart knew who she was.

  ‘What were you grumbling about just now, when I came in, Gilles?’

  Gilles sat down at the desk, moved the pile of books to one side, and held his head in his hands. ‘Murders, men burned to death, a king who has lost his mind. The world is in a grievous state.’

  ‘Surely there’s nothing amiss in the library.’

  ‘Most especially in the library. Just look around. The place is in disrepair. And what is worse, the king’s uncles have carried off a great many of the books. You must remember how numerous they were, when you were a little girl.’

  She remembered. There had been books everywhere, books of all sizes, shapes, and colors, some fat, some thin, some as large as table tops, some as tiny as belt buckles. They’d perched on desks and benches, peered out of cupboards, and reposed in stacks on the floor. Some of the largest had even hovered overhead like big birds, hung from the ceiling on chains that could be lowered when someone wanted to read them. There were still many books, but there were many empty spaces, too.

  Christine thought of everything about the library that had fascinated her as a child – the ceiling inlaid with tiny pieces of painted wood; the chandeliers that stayed lit all the time because the old king had liked to read at night; and the sound of birds – the sparrows, finches, and starlings that lived in the roofs and turrets of the palace. The chattering of the birds had been like music – to her, at least – but the windows had to be covered with wire mesh to keep them from flying in.

  Gilles broke into her reverie. ‘This library is of no importance to our unfortunate king.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘Take note of the tiles.’ She could see that many of them were chipped. He pointed up. ‘And observe the ceiling.’ She followed his gaze and saw that pieces of the inlaid wood were missing. ‘Even the windows are deteriorating,’ he moaned. ‘Some of the mesh has fallen away. Come spring, the birds will be constructing their nests withindoors.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can do, Gilles?’

  ‘Nothing. I take some consolation in the fact that the Duke of Orléans has charged me with the supervision of his own library at the Hôtel Saint-Pol. The duke respects his books and ensures they are properly cared for. His wife values them, too. Valentina Visconti is an estimable woman.’

  Christine appreciated Gilles’s regard for her countrywoman. She was widely read, fluent in four languages, and certainly not one to conspire with her husband against the king, as many people believed. But before she could echo Gilles’s praise for Valentina, he slapped his hand on his desk, and said, ‘Unfortunately, she hasn’t been able to convince the duke to rid the court of all those sorcerers and magicians. Everyone there seems to be under an evil spell. And now we learn that there has been a murderess!’

  ‘So you, like everyone else, believe Alix de Clairy is guilty?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Do you not think it possible someone else poisoned Hugues de Précy? A jealous husband, for example? There are rumors a
bout Hugues and women at the court.’

  ‘How do you have knowledge of that?’

  ‘It is impossible not to hear what our hired girl tells my mother.’ She hoped he wouldn’t think she spent her time gossiping.

  ‘There is no question the woman poisoned her husband.’

  ‘I question it, Gilles. That’s why I’m here. I want to go to the prison and speak with her. Would you write a letter to the Monseigneur le Prévôt for me?’

  ‘Surely you don’t intend to go into the prison!’

  ‘I do. I want to talk to Alix de Clairy. I can’t believe she’s a murderess.’

  Gilles looked at her in astonishment. ‘She is a murderess! Such a woman is capable of all manner of evil, and you should have nothing to do with her.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘I have seen her. She is cast in the same mold as all the other women at the court, with her fine clothes and painted face.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to paint her face, Gilles. That’s her natural complexion.’

  He leapt up from his desk, shaking with anger, his bushy eyebrows jumping up and down like hairy little animals. ‘I have been well disposed to help you find work, Christine. But you are a woman. Prisoners in the Châtelet are not your concern.’ He picked up a large book and clasped it to his chest, like a shield.

  ‘She is my concern, Gilles. I’m going to learn the truth.’ Her voice trembled – Gilles was frightening her. He slammed the book down on the top of his desk, and at the same moment, Henri Le Picart came stomping down the staircase from the balcony. He frowned at Gilles, glared at Christine, and stomped back up the stairs.

  Christine ran out of the room, grabbed her boots and cloak from the bench where she’d left them, and fled, stuffing the muddy boots into her pouch as she went.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Highest Judge is the One who will examine and try us in the end.

  From a book of moral and practical advice

  for a young wife, Paris, 1393

  With Gilles’s angry words ringing in her ears, Christine marched up the street away from the Louvre, sloshing through the mud and ruining the shoes her mother had given her. As she crossed the rue Saint-Martin, her head down, she bumped into a large woman who was unsteady on her feet. ‘Accidenti!’ the woman cried, and she made an angry gesture with her hand. Then she laughed. ‘Oh! It is you, Cristina. Why do you not look where you are going?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama. I was thinking.’

  ‘You think too much.’

  Christine looked at her mother’s flushed face. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I have just seen a miracle, Cristina. At the church of Saint-Martin. You must come and see it, too.’ Francesca grabbed Christine’s arm and tried to pull her back along the way she’d just come.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Christine pulled her arm away.

  Francesca said, ‘There is a baby lying on the altar. It’s mother smothered it and buried it in a dump. Someone found it and brought it to the church, and the Holy Mother brought it back to life so it could be baptized. Then it died again.’

  ‘Then it probably hadn’t really died in the first place.’

  ‘Madonna! You are a foolish girl. I have seen this baby with my own eyes. I do not expect you to believe me. You never do. But if you will not go with me to Saint-Martin, at least come with me to the cathedral. We can give thanks to God for this miracle.’

  The cathedral was not far from where they stood, so Christine didn’t object. If Francesca believed there had been a miracle, it might drive from her mind thoughts of the evil eye. They crossed the Planche-Mibray, the wooden footbridge leading across the Seine to the Île and hurried up the rue Neuve. Francesca, who had tired herself in all her excitement about the dead baby, was more unsteady on her feet than usual, and Christine took her arm. ‘You are a good daughter,’ Francesca said. ‘But I wish you would believe in the miracle.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what happened with Gilles, Mama?’

  ‘I had forgotten all about that. What did he say?’

  ‘He won’t help me.’

  ‘I told you he would not.’

  ‘He’s convinced Alix de Clairy is guilty, and he says it is none of my business, because I’m only a woman.’

  Hearing the bitterness in Christine’s voice, Francesca stopped and looked at her.

  ‘I am sorry Gilles spoke to you like that,’ she said. ‘But you should know better than to involve yourself in affairs at the court. How many times have I warned you about that?’

  Christine walked on quickly, so her mother wouldn’t see she was fighting back tears.

  They passed down the narrow street, which was hemmed in by tall, gabled houses, and then they were under the stern gaze of Christ presiding over the Last Judgment in the central portal of the cathedral. Christine looked up at Him, the happy saved on His right and the despairing damned on His left, and thought of the provost and his officials at the Châtelet, deciding Alix de Clairy’s fate, forgetting who the real Judge is.

  She turned to her mother. ‘I don’t care what you or Gilles or anyone else says. I may be only a woman, but I’m not afraid, and I’m going to discover the truth.’

  Francesca looked up at the figure of Christ and silently begged Him to change her daughter’s mind.

  They went into the cathedral and knelt before one of the altars, where Francesca thanked God for the miracle she had just seen, and Christine asked God to be merciful to the souls of the burned men. Then they turned down an aisle to a statue of Saint Thomas, lit candles, and said a prayer for Thomas de Pizan. ‘I will say a prayer for you, too, Cristina, because you are going to put yourself in great danger,’ Francesca said.

  Christine took her mother’s arm and led her toward home.

  When they arrived at their street, they found it nearly deserted. The sun was out, and its rays illuminated fat white clouds. Christine remembered the billowy clouds over the garden painted on the wall at the palace, and she remembered Alix de Clairy standing with her arms outstretched as if she would embrace all the happy children.

  ‘Where are all the people?’ Francesca asked, then looked at Christine when she didn’t respond. ‘You are so silent.’

  ‘I was thinking about Alix de Clairy. You have never met her. She isn’t like the other ladies at the court. You’d understand if you could see her.’

  ‘I have heard she sings and plays the harp. That does not mean she could not have murdered her husband.’

  ‘But even if she had wanted to poison her husband, why would she have done it in the street? She could just as well have done it at home.’

  ‘You are very stubborn, Cristina. Just like your father.’

  ‘You want me to believe you have seen a miracle, Mama. So I’m asking you to believe someone other than Alix de Clairy could have murdered Hugues de Précy.’

  Suddenly, the sound of the cathedral bells chiming nones pierced the silence. The bells of all the other churches in the city joined in, and a flock of startled birds rose from the ground. Francesca stood looking up at them as they soared over their heads.

  ‘If I look deeply into my mind,’ she said softly, ‘I have to admit it is possible that Alix de Clairy is innocent.’

  EIGHTEEN

  If rats are spoiling your grain, bacon, cheese, and other supplies, you can kill them by making cakes of fried cheese and powdered wolfsbane and putting these in their holes.

  From a book of moral and practical advice

  for a young wife, Paris, 1393

  When Marion arrived at the brothel, she found that most of the other girls were entertaining customers in the curtained-off rooms. Agnes, however, sat morosely in front of the fireplace. She’d forgotten the fight they’d had a few days earlier, and she held up something for Marion to see. It was a book, and most of its leaves were in shreds, though it had once had many pictures, brightly colored and tinged with gold. Marion couldn’t read, but she knew the book had been va
luable, if for nothing else than the gold.

  Agnes said, ‘This was in the loft. We have to do something about the rats.’

  ‘Someone put poison up there last week. I guess it didn’t help.’

  ‘I’ve asked Margot to prepare something stronger.’

  ‘I’ll go and get it,’ Marion said.

  Margot was an old woman who lived in a hut behind the brothel. Once she had been a prostitute, but now that she could no longer practice her profession, she grew herbs in a small garden just outside her door and sold them. Marion liked to visit her because she could learn about magic, love potions, and secret recipes thought to be useful to prostitutes. Margot also dealt in poisons, but the old woman didn’t discuss those, or the people who came to buy them.

  The hut was barely warmed by the few flames licking feebly at logs in a small fireplace. Margot leaned on a crutch, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. ‘One of these days, Agnes will be arrested for stealing from her customers,’ she said as she removed powder from the mortar with a long-handled spoon and mixed it with something she’d heated over the fire. ‘Last month she took a gold chain and a ring. Now it’s a valuable book. I suppose she showed you what happened to it.’

  ‘She did. Most of its pages are ruined,’ Marion said. ‘What was she going to do with it?’

  ‘If the rats hadn’t gotten it, she’d have sold it to a shopkeeper on the rue de la Harpe who doesn’t ask questions. He trades in books, though he’ll sell anything he can lay his hands on in that filthy shop of his.’

  ‘If you mean the big man with the ugly red scar on his cheek, he’s a thief, too. Last week I saw him take something from a stall on the Grand Pont.’

  ‘That’s the one.’ Margot finished preparing the rattraps and put them into a basket for Marion to carry back to the brothel. ‘Take care you don’t get any of what’s in there on your hands,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Wolfsbane.’

  ‘That’s the poison that killed the knight at the palace!’