by Tania Bayard
Margot turned to the fireplace and began to rearrange the logs.
‘Has anyone from the palace bought wolfsbane from you recently?’ Marion asked.
The old woman looked into the fire and remained silent.
NINETEEN
The wise princess attends to her husband’s health.
Christine de Pizan,
Le Livre des Trois Vertus, 1405
The day after her disappointing conversation with Gilles Malet, Christine told her mother she had copying to do for the queen and left the house carrying her writing materials. Her real reason for going to the palace was to see the Duchess of Orléans; she’d decided to put aside her awe of the old woman and try to persuade her to write the letter to the provost.
The weather had turned cold again, but the sun was shining, and Renaut in his red jacket and cap was skipping around the fountain in the courtyard. When he saw her, he looked up at the stone lion and giggled. She still had in her purse two of the almond cakes she’d bought the day before, and she gave him one.
‘I hope you aren’t planning to go to the queen,’ Simon said. ‘I’m told she’s too distraught to receive anyone.’
‘No. I want to speak with the Duchess of Orléans. Is there someone to ask whether she’ll see me?’
‘Colin is around somewhere. I’ll go and find him.’
He didn’t have to go far; the boy was hovering just inside the palace entrance. Simon sent him off to the duchess.
While she waited, Christine stood and watched Renaut, who sat on the ground, his face covered with crumbs, spinning a small red top. The boy seemed content, but she thought it sad he never had anyone to play with. She heard the lions roaring in the distance and wondered out loud why the woman who helped care for them couldn’t help care for her own nephew.
‘From the little I know of Loyse, I don’t think I’d trust her with a child. Anyone who would live with the lions all the time must be as beset by demons as the king,’ Simon said.
‘But surely Blanche could find someone to be with the boy while she’s in the palace.’
Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘Blanche probably doesn’t know anyone here to ask. You don’t know about her, do you?’
She looked around, hoping Colin would come back soon, because she sensed that Simon was about to tell her something distressing. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest.
‘Blanche used to know people here. Her mother was a widow who sewed for the old queen and her ladies, and she always brought Blanche to the palace with her. Such a happy child, laughing and skipping around, hiding in places where no one could find her.’ He sighed. ‘Then everything changed.’
A group of courtiers came out. Simon stood tall as they passed, then leaned against the doorjamb again.
‘It was terrible.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘One night while Blanche and her mother were sleeping, robbers broke into their house. The mother woke up and accosted them. They stabbed her. The little girl slept through it all, and the next morning she went downstairs and found her mother lying in a pool of blood, dead.’
Christine shuddered.
Simon wiped his eyes again. ‘After her mother died, Blanche was left on her own. Naturally, she didn’t come to the palace anymore, and later we learned she had married and gone north, to Amiens. She had two daughters. The older one was Renaut’s mother; she died giving birth to him. The other one was Loyse.’
‘Why did Blanche come back to Paris?’
‘Her husband died. She’d become a seamstress, like her mother, and I suppose she thought there would be more work here.’
‘What about Loyse?’
‘The lion keeper needed help, and Blanche told him Loyse was good with animals.’
Colin returned. ‘The duchess will see you.’
‘Go with her,’ Simon said to the boy, and Colin led the way through all the confusing courtyards, cloisters, passageways, and corridors, talking all the while about the men who had burned, and sniffing the air as though he could still smell the smoke. When they reached the duchess’s room, Christine told him not to wait; she’d find her way back by herself. She couldn’t stand any more of his prattle.
The old woman, looking very tired, sat by her little fire, fingering her beads. She didn’t seem surprised to see Christine. ‘I suppose you have brought me the pages I asked you to copy,’ she said.
Christine knelt and said, ‘No, Madame. I am still working on them.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I have a request, Madame. The wife of the knight who was poisoned is in the Châtelet, awaiting trial, and I am worried about her.’
‘What concern is she of yours?’
‘I’m not convinced she poisoned her husband.’
‘How could one doubt it? At first I thought her worthy of the queen’s regard. I was deceived.’
Christine knew this was the moment to say she had information that could prove Alix’s innocence. But she didn’t want to tell the duchess she’d obtained the information from a prostitute, so she said simply, ‘I know Alix de Clairy, Madame, and I don’t think you were deceived. She has no friends here in Paris, and I would like to visit her in the Châtelet. Will you write a letter to Monseigneur le Prévôt asking him to admit me?’
The duchess stared at her. After a long silence, interrupted only by the sharp crackling of a log falling in the fireplace, she said, ‘You always were a willful child. I thought you had learned some sense. Of course I will not write a letter asking that you be allowed to visit a murderess.’ She picked up her crutch and banged it on the floor. ‘Affairs at the court are not your business.’
Christine felt her face burning, yet she persisted. ‘But Madame, she might tell me something that would prove she is innocent.’
The duchess bent over her rosary. ‘You may go now.’
Humiliated and at the same time angry with herself for having failed so miserably, Christine rose from the bench, curtsied, and hurried from the room.
In spite of what she had told him, Colin was waiting just outside the door. She wondered how much of the conversation he’d heard, but he accompanied her back to the entrance courtyard without uttering a word.
Renaut was still there, playing with his little red top. ‘Why do you look so sad?’
Too disheartened to answer, she just smiled and gave him the second almond cake from her purse.
‘The queen has summoned you,’ Simon said.
She was in no mood for the queen, but of course she could not refuse her summons. At least she knew the way and could go without Colin. She walked slowly. She needed time to collect her thoughts.
When she came to the door of the queen’s chambers, she saw Isabeau lying on her ceremonial bed, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. The queen’s eyes were closed, and she lay so still, she seemed to have fainted. But Catherine de Fastavarin, who sat beside her, whispered something to her, and she moaned.
Beside the fireplace sat a man – the queen’s brother, Ludwig. He looked toward the door, shifted uneasily in his seat, and ran his fingers through his two-pointed beard. Wondering what he’d seen, Christine turned and found Blanche standing beside her, holding a torn brocaded dress – a casualty of the disastrous masquerade, she supposed. The seamstress handed the dress to a chambermaid and stood staring at Ludwig. He rose from his seat, crossed the room, and brushed past her, out the door. Blanche turned to watch him go, and Christine caught the faint smell of cloves on her breath.
The queen lifted her head, looked around, and beckoned. Christine went in and knelt beside the bed. ‘You sent for me, Madame?’
The queen, her face wet with tears, said, ‘Alix de Clairy gave to me a mandrake with which to make my husband well. It is gone. Catherine has told me that Alix de Clairy took it back.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Christine asked in amazement.
‘She needed it to poison her own husband,’ Catherine said.
‘Hugues de Précy was poisoned with wolfsbane!�
� Christine cried.
The queen said, ‘Catherine has told me it was the mandrake.’
Christine looked at Catherine. ‘I heard you tell the queen that the little spirit in the mandrake would heal the king.’
Catherine said, ‘It could. But it can also do bad things.’ She stroked the queen’s forehead. ‘I know you liked Alix de Clairy, Liebling, but she is evil, and you must forget her.’
The queen sat up and said to Christine, ‘Please go to the prison and ask Alix de Clairy where is the mandrake. You can get it and bring it back to me.’
Madame de Malicorne stepped up to the bed. ‘If the witch has the mandrake, Madame, let her keep it. We will get another one for you.’ The other ladies-in-waiting nodded in agreement.
‘No, no! That is the mandrake I must have!’ the queen cried. ‘I know the little spirit in it; that is the spirit that will make Charles well.’
Christine realized that in her distress the queen was willing to believe in anything she thought might help her husband. She could hear her mother warning her that she was walking into danger, but she couldn’t help herself; this was the opportunity to obtain what she needed. She asked innocently, ‘How could I gain admittance to the Châtelet, Madame?’
‘I will give to you a letter for Monseigneur le Prévôt.’
The queen rose from the bed, went into the other room, and sat at the desk. She beckoned to Christine. ‘Give me something with which to write.’
Thankful she’d brought her writing materials, Christine placed a piece of parchment, a quill, and an inkhorn on the desk. The ladies-in-waiting standing behind her protested, but only among themselves, in whispers.
Christine heard them. She turned and asked, ‘Why shouldn’t I go? It can’t do any harm.’ They all glared at her, and she felt chilled.
The queen dipped the quill into the inkhorn and laboriously scratched out a short letter. Reading over her shoulder, Christine could see that although the French was awkward, it would serve its purpose. Out of the corner of her eye, she also saw that Blanche had crept into the room.
The queen folded the letter, wrote the provost’s name on it, and handed it to her. ‘Seal it.’
Christine took her knife and a ribbon out of her scrip. With the knife, she made two holes in the parchment, and through these she passed the ribbon. She found a wafer of wax, warmed it in her hands, and flattened it against the two ends of the ribbon. The queen took the letter and pressed her ring with her official seal into the wax. Then she handed the letter back to Christine. ‘Go to the Châtelet tomorrow. Find out where is the mandrake and get it for me.’ Tears flowed down her cheeks as she added softly, ‘Please.’
TWENTY
In France, it is the custom that any prospective bride for the king, no matter how eminent her family, must be seen completely nude and examined by ladies so they can know if she is in good condition and correctly formed to bear children.
Froissart,
Chroniques, Livre II, 1376–1385
The next morning, Christine told her mother she was going to the Châtelet. ‘The queen has written a letter to the provost,’ was all she said. Her mother didn’t need to know the queen had written the letter because she expected her to retrieve the mandrake.
The fire had burned low, and Francesca knelt on the hearth, furiously working the bellows. She looked up and said, ‘It is Candlemas. I had hoped you would go to the cathedral with me.’
‘That won’t be possible,’ Christine said, and to avoid an argument she hurried into the pantry. She found some cheese wafers, ate one, and stuffed a few more into her purse, hoping she would be allowed to give them to Alix. When she returned to the kitchen, she found her mother pacing around the room, toying with any object that came within her reach. She overturned the saltcellar, upset the pepper mill, and pushed a carving knife to the floor. She picked up spoons and dropped them back onto the table. Then she went to the corner where she hung herbs from her garden to dry, reached up, yanked down a sprig, and handed it to her daughter. ‘If you must go into the prison, at least hold this to your nose while you are there.’
‘What is it?’
‘Rue. Perhaps it will protect you from disease in that horrible place.’
Christine took the rue. It had a disagreeable odor, but if it appeased her mother, she didn’t mind. Francesca watched as she tucked it into her sleeve, and then followed her into the front hall and said nothing more until she reached for her fur-lined cloak.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Cristina? That cloak is old, and I have mended it several times, but it is the best you have. You cannot wear it into the prison!’ She grabbed an old, plain woolen cloak, threw it over Christine’s shoulders, and fastened it with a large bronze brooch, all the while muttering to herself, ‘My daughter has not got the wits she was born with.’ Then, while Christine was putting on her boots, she disappeared into the pantry and came back with a handful of the cheese wafers. ‘Alix de Clairy will be hungry,’ she said.
Christine took the wafers, hugged her mother, and left quickly. But once she was out of the house, her steps faltered. She dreaded the thought of going into the infamous prison, and she feared that even if she did see Alix, the young woman would be in no condition to talk to her. Moreover, she didn’t for a moment believe Alix knew anything about the mandrake, and she feared what would happen when she returned to the queen without it. She thought perhaps her mother was right to say she’d taken leave of her senses.
The day was warm, and it was difficult to walk. Her unpaved street flowed with mud that sucked at her boots and glued them to the ground. On the other side of the old wall, the streets were cleaner, but her steps were heavy nevertheless. She walked slowly, her head down, hardly noticing when a housewife hurrying to the market or a peddler crying his wares jostled her. Shopkeepers had set up their stalls in the windows in front of their houses, and the smell of fresh baked bread, spices, fish, and candle wax mingled with the stench of dung and garbage. On the rue des Lombards, stray dogs darted in and out of the gloomy alleyways, and the tall houses seemed to close in on her. She turned down the broader rue Saint-Denis, and put her hands over her ears to block out the racket of chickens and geese tied outside the poulterers’ stalls and the din of hammers from the shops of helmet makers and armorers. When she finally reached the square in front of the Châtelet, she looked at the ugly building with its mismatched towers and considered turning back.
Two little girls dressed in rags stood near her, gazing up at the prison, weeping and calling for their mother. She pulled them out of the way as a group of mounted sergeants rode by, oblivious to everything but the shackled prisoners they herded before them. The sudden activity revived her courage. She held her head high and walked to a vaulted public passageway that cut through the center of the building. The provost’s headquarters were to the right of the passageway, and on the left was a small door, the entrance to the prison itself. She approached two guards standing at this entrance and held out the queen’s letter. One of the men, a giant with a wart-covered nose, took it and disappeared into the provost’s side of the building. She waited. The other guard, a bald man with a harelip that gave him a constant sneer, leaned against the side of the building and glared at her. For something to do, she removed the sprig of rue from her sleeve and sniffed it. The acrid smell stung her nostrils.
The guard with the warty nose returned. ‘You must come back later,’ he said with a smirk.
She walked back through the vaulted passageway and wandered over to the street where scribes worked in tiny wooden booths against a wall of the church of Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie. Thinking that one day she might have to work there herself, she glanced into several of the booths to see what they were like. Most of them were empty at that hour of the morning, but in one she found a scribe with a black beard who wore a black cape with a long black hood and an ermine collar. It was Henri Le Picart, the man who had glared at her in the library at the Louvre. He looked up from his wo
rk and scowled. She hurried away.
Disturbed by thoughts of the disagreeable little man, she wandered aimlessly around the streets near the church and stumbled into one of the neighborhood’s infamous culs-de-sac, surprising the prostitutes, beggars, and derelicts who loitered there. After she’d been stared at, commented upon, and approached by the beggars, she decided to walk down to les Halles, to the better company of shopkeepers and their customers.
As she passed the secondhand clothes market Marion was so fond of, near the cemetery of the Innocents, she looked into one of the stalls and saw a short red wool cape with a high fur collar. The shopkeeper took it down from the rack and handed it to her. There was a tear in the lining – something her mother could easily fix – but since the man was asking for only a few sous, she bought it, thinking she could wear it when she went to the market. She didn’t want to go into the prison carrying it, so she threw it over her shoulders, hoping the guards wouldn’t notice she wore a cape over her cloak.
She walked back toward the Châtelet, deliberately passing Henri Le Picart’s booth at Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie so she could look in and show he didn’t intimidate her. But he was no longer there.
The same guards stood at the prison door. ‘Wait here,’ the one with the wart-covered nose said, and he disappeared inside. His companion whispered, ‘Better take out your herbs, Madame. You never know what might sicken you in there.’ He threw back his head and roared with laughter, then snapped to attention when the warty guard reappeared, followed by a jailer who stared at her for a moment and then indicated that she should follow him. He led her through a turnstile and along a narrow corridor. It smelled of moldy straw and excrement and echoed with moans and cries from deep within the prison. She stumbled after him, wondering where he was taking her, until he turned, smiled, and said in a nasty voice, ‘We’ve brought your friend to a lovely room reserved for visitors like yourself.’ He was short and bald, and when he smiled, he displayed a mouth full of black, rotting teeth.