by Tania Bayard
They came to a heavy wooden door with a peephole, guarded by a fat, red-faced man holding a cudgel. The man leaned the cudgel against the wall, selected a large key from among the many hanging on a chain around his waist, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. She hesitated, and the jailer grinned, showing all his horrible teeth. She forced herself to walk past him. The door closed behind her, and the key turned in the lock with a sickening clang.
She was in a small room with one tiny, barred, cobweb-blanketed window that let in a faint glimmer of light. The thick walls shut out the cacophony of the rest of the prison; the place was as silent as a tomb.
On the other side of the room stood Alix de Clairy, barely visible in the gloom. She remained motionless until Christine spoke her name, and then she came slowly toward her, like a specter. Her auburn hair was matted and sprinkled with bits of straw, and she had on a tattered silver-brocaded gown, obviously the one she’d worn the night of the fire. The dress was so thin it couldn’t possibly keep her warm, and a thin, ragged brown blanket thrown over her shoulders wouldn’t be of much help, either. Christine was wearing a heavy woolen cotte, a warm woolen cloak, and the red cape she had bought at the clothes market, but she still felt cold.
‘It’s Christine. Do you remember me?’
‘How did you get in here?’
‘The queen sent me.’
A faint look of hope crossed Alix’s face, but it disappeared when Christine said, ‘The mandrake is gone. The queen thinks you took it, and she asked me to come and find out where it is.’
‘The queen thinks I took the mandrake?’
‘I know you didn’t. But there was no other way I could get into the prison.’
Alix put her hands over her face. ‘They think I stole a book, too. They say Hugues was bringing it to the palace.’
That must have been the package Marion saw, Christine thought.
The sleeves of Alix’s gown had fallen back, and Christine could see there were no cuts on her arms. ‘Have they tortured you,’ she asked.
‘No. They just questioned me. The next time will be worse.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. I don’t remember anything. All I know is, I didn’t poison him. No one believes me.’
‘I believe you.’
Alix turned and Christine saw that one of her cheeks was badly bruised.
‘Did you hurt your face when you fell in the street?’
Alix put her hand on her cheek. ‘Perhaps. I don’t remember.’ She was shivering. Christine took off the red cape and draped it over her shoulders, but she didn’t seem to notice. ‘What day is it?’ she asked.
‘Candlemas.’
‘Candlemas,’ Alix repeated softly. She looked around the room as if she expected to see it illuminated by the hundreds of candles that would be blessed in churches that day.
Christine clenched and unclenched her fists to keep her fingers warm. She’s been here for four days, she thought. How much can she endure? She remembered the cheese wafers, and she took them out of her purse. Alix stared at them, then took one and ate it slowly.
‘Tell me what happened the night your husband died, Alix.’
‘I’ve told it so many times. Ai!’ Her pained cry brought a rattling of keys and the fat guard with the cudgel.
‘Please leave us,’ Christine said. He backed into the corridor and locked the door again.
‘His name is Hutin,’ Alix said. ‘He’s kind. He gave me this.’ She reached up to touch the ragged blanket over her shoulders and found the red cape instead.
‘But this is not mine.’ She started to take off the cape, but Christine pulled it back over her shoulders and fastened it with her mother’s brooch.
Alix began to shake, and Christine put her arms around her. ‘I know you didn’t kill Hugues.’
‘How do you know? No one else believes me.’
‘I know because a friend of mine saw someone else give him the poison. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see the person’s face. That’s why I’m here; we have to find out who it was. Did Hugues have any enemies?’
Alix sighed. ‘I suppose he did.’
‘But the king was very fond of him. Do you know why?’
‘Hugues was in Amiens with the king when he was married. There was a plot, you know. Hugues told the king he’d helped arrange it.’
Christine knew all about the deception that had brought about the king’s marriage, eight years earlier. Francesca had talked of nothing else for days. The king’s uncles wanted him to marry Isabeau, a young German noblewoman, but her father, Duke Stephen of Bavaria, wouldn’t allow his daughter to travel to Paris to meet the king, because he knew that when she got there she would have to show herself naked before the ladies of the court so they could decide whether she was fit to bear children.
‘That duke is smart,’ Francesca had said. ‘What if the ladies reject her? No one else will marry her.’
The uncles wouldn’t give up. The king had moved his court to Amiens, and a plot was devised so that Isabeau would be brought there to meet him. Everyone hoped the king would fall in love with her as soon as he saw her, and he did. Three days later, they were married in the cathedral.
‘What did Hugues have to do with the conspiracy?’ Christine asked.
‘Nothing. He lied.’ Alix buried her face in her hands. ‘If only he hadn’t gone to Amiens with the king.’
‘Was that when your marriage was arranged?’
‘Yes. Do you remember, I told you about the banquet where I sang for the king? Well, Hugues saw me there with my father and he asked whether he could marry me. I was only eight, but Father agreed that he could, when I was sixteen.’ Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Father was at my wedding, but he is dead now,’ she said.
Her father probably had a great deal of property, and Hugues knew she would inherit it, Christine thought. That was all he cared about. It must have been different for Alix. She remembered the look of sadness on her face as she watched her husband saunter away from her that day in the queen’s residence. ‘You cared for Hugues, didn’t you, Alix,’ she said.
Alix sighed. ‘I wanted him to love me.’
Christine thought about her own marriage. She thought she saw Étienne smiling at her from the shadows in a corner of the room, reminding her that, so far, she’d learned nothing to help her discover who the murderer was. But before she could ask Alix any more questions, Hutin returned. ‘They’ve ordered me to take her back now,’ he said.
‘Just one moment more,’ Christine said. Holding the young woman close, she whispered to her, ‘You must think. Who hated Hugues enough to kill him? No matter what they do to you, try to answer that question. Then perhaps I can help you.’ She pulled the sprig of rue out of her sleeve and thrust it into her hand. ‘I know it has a bad odor, but it might keep you safe from disease.’
Alix clutched the rue, and Hutin drew her away. As she went out the door, Christine noticed that the matted hair on the back of her head was covered with blood.
TWENTY-ONE
Think of the Blessed Mary of Egypt. She gave up her sinful life and turned to God. Now she is a glorious saint in Paradise.
Christine de Pizan,
Le Livre des Trois Vertus, 1405
After Alix had gone, Christine stood at the window of the dark room and peered out through the cobwebs. Lost in thought, she was startled when the jailer with the decaying teeth came in.
‘What have you done with your little red cape, Madame?’
‘Please let her keep it. She’ll die of the cold.’
‘She will die regardless. But if you wish to part with your clothes, that’s your concern.’
She followed him down the dark, foul-smelling hallway to the prison entrance, longing for a cudgel like Hutin’s so she could strike his bald head with it. The two guards were still at the door, and they grinned at her as she stepped into the street. The jailer called after her, ‘Hurry home, petit chou.’
Before she could think of a su
itable retort, he’d gone back inside. The two guards laughed. She was so upset by their loathsome behavior and the jailer’s mocking words, and so troubled by the thought of the blood on the back of Alix’s head, she turned the wrong way down the vaulted passageway, emerged at the entrance to the Grand Pont, and didn’t realize where she was until she heard the rumble of the mill wheels under the bridge. She started to go back, but she could hardly move. Hands clawed at her from all sides – touching her face, pulling on her arms, tugging at her cloak. She tried to brush them away, but it was no use; she had strayed into a crowd of beggars gathered at a water trough near the river.
A voice rasped, ‘You’ll dirty your clothes out here, lady.’ Someone held up an arm wrapped in a bloody bandage, and when she tried to step around him, she collided with a ragged man on crutches. Then she nearly fell over a dwarf-like creature, apparently legless, pulling himself along on wooden sticks tied to his hands. ‘Spare a coin. A little bread,’ he pleaded in a pitiful, whining voice.
She wasn’t deceived. The bandages, crutches, and sticks would disappear that night in one of the muddy courtyards not far from les Halles where the beggars of Paris gathered after dark to throw off their disguises. But when she remembered her fear that her children and her mother might be reduced to a similar condition, she reached into her purse, drew out a few deniers, and pressed them into the outstretched hands. The wretches grinned and bobbed their heads. One held his coin in front of his face like a prize and said to the others, ‘Here’s to strong drink, comrades.’
‘You would be wise to spend it at the bathhouse rather than the tavern,’ she said, backing up against the side of the water trough as she tried to escape from the smell of sweat and urine.
Two toothless old men in tattered jackets and greasy leggings sat on the edge of the trough. One stuck out a foot to trip her, and as she turned away to keep from falling, she bumped into a woman who reached out and clutched her arm.
‘Praise God I’ve found you, Lady Christine.’
‘What are you doing here, Marion?’
‘I saw you at the old-clothes market, and I followed you. Where’s the little red cape you bought?’
‘I gave it to Alix de Clairy. If you saw me, why didn’t you say something?’
‘I knew you were going to the prison, and I didn’t want the guards to think I was with you. They might not have let you in.’
Christine looked at Marion’s purple cloak, which was lined with fur. ‘It’s more likely they’d have arrested you.’
Marion pulled the cloak around her. ‘Did you see Alix de Clairy in there? Has she been tortured?’
‘Not yet. But when she is, she won’t be able to help herself. She doesn’t remember anything. You know more about what happened than she does. But there’s something strange. Tell me how Alix fell.’
‘On her face. It must have hurt.’
‘I’m sure it did. She has a big bruise on her cheek.’
Marion winced and put her hand on her own cheek. ‘I hope it doesn’t leave a big scar. She’s so pretty.’
‘Are you sure you’ve told me everything you remember about that night, Marion?’
The girl looked hurt. ‘Of course I have. Why would I leave anything out?’
‘Because Alix has blood on the back of her head.’
‘I told you, she fell on her face.’
‘Did you actually see her fall?’
‘No. There were too many people around. But after they’d gone, I saw her, face down. How could she have gotten blood on the back of her head?’
‘I think it’s because someone hit her there.’
‘Who?’
‘The person in the black cloak.’
Marion clapped her hand to her forehead. ‘I know! To knock her out, so she wouldn’t be able to get up and run away.’ She did a little dance around the water trough. ‘The provost wouldn’t believe anything I say. But he’ll believe that, when you tell him!’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Christine said, imagining the conversation. What if the provost didn’t believe her? Would he throw her into the Châtelet with Alix?
‘I have something to tell you that may help,’ Marion said.
The old men sitting on the edge of the trough, amused at the sight of a short, proper-looking woman in a plain brown cloak talking to a tall prostitute swathed in purple, laughed and slapped their thighs. A woman in a shimmery red skirt slipped out of the crowd and pranced around making obscene gestures.
Marion said, ‘We need a better place to talk.’ She took Christine’s hand and dragged her back through the vaulted passageway and up the street in such a hurry they were soon out of breath. Christine pointed to the church of Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie and said, ‘We can go in there and sit.’
Reluctantly, Marion followed her into the church. It smelled pleasantly of incense and beeswax and was empty except for an elderly woman lighting a candle before an altar. Sitting in the shadows on a bench at the back of the nave, trying to catch her breath, Christine watched a ray of light filter through a stained glass window and fall on a statue in one of the bays, the figure of a haggard woman with a mass of long tangled hair barely covering her naked, emaciated body. When she saw Marion looking at the statue, she was tempted to remind her that Mary of Egypt had been a prostitute, too, and that she had changed; but she held her tongue.
‘Wait until the old sacristy bug leaves,’ Marion said, watching as the woman finished lighting her candle and left without glancing in their direction. Then she announced, without bothering to lower her deep voice, ‘An old woman named Margot lives in a hut behind my brothel. She grows herbs for medicines and love potions. And poisons. Men from the palace go to her. I think one of them may have bought the wolfsbane that killed Hugues de Précy.’
‘Do you know who her customers are?’
‘No. But she might tell you, if you are willing to go and talk to her.’
‘Certainly I’m willing. Find out if she’ll see me.’
‘I’ll ask her today.’ Marion grabbed Christine’s arm and pulled her off the bench and out of the church in such a rush they nearly collided with a man standing near the door. He walked away, but Christine recognized the black cape with the long black hood and the ermine collar. She was surprised to see Marion staring after him. ‘Do you know Henri Le Picart?’
‘He owns the lodging house where I live,’ Marion said. ‘I wonder what he’s doing here.’
‘He’s a scribe. He works in one of the booths beside the church.’
‘He seems to have many talents.’
The bright day had turned gloomy, and huge clouds rolled across the sky, promising a winter thunderstorm. Marion shivered. ‘I don’t want to be out in this.’ She hurried away, and Christine had to run to keep up with her. On the darkening streets, merchants bustled about, gathering up their wares and slamming down the shutters of their booths. Peddlers prodded stubborn mules to a trot, and old women with heavy market baskets scuttled toward home. When Christine and Marion reached the rue Tiron, thunder crashed, lightening flared around them, and the rain came pounding down.
‘I’d better leave you now, Lady Christine,’ Marion said. ‘I’m sure you don’t want your mother to see you walking with me.’
‘Have some sense, Marion! We’re not near my house.’
Marion laughed. ‘Of course I know that.’ Water dripped from her nose and puddles formed at her feet, but she didn’t seem to notice. ‘You’ve found proof that Alix de Clairy is innocent. Now all you have to do is find out who the real murderer is. Perhaps Margot can tell you. I’m going to talk to her right away.’ She made a little curtsy and splashed up the street to the Tiron brothel.
As soon as Christine reached to the door of her house, her mother opened it. She hurried in and slipped off her cloak, hoping Francesca wouldn’t notice something was missing.
But of course she did. ‘Where is the brooch I gave you?’
Christine knew there was no way to conceal what she’d
done. ‘I found a cape in the old-clothes market. It was cold in the prison, so I gave it to Alix de Clairy. She had to have something to fasten it with.’ She expected an outburst of anger, but it didn’t come. Francesca was too relieved her daughter had made it home safely. The streets were dark and deserted because of the thunderstorm, and as far as she knew, Christine had been alone, making her easy prey for any of the phantoms she worried about – thieves, murderers, the loup-garou, and, worst of all, a bestial monk who roamed around Paris looking for people to strangle.
At supper, the children were awestruck when they learned their mother had been inside the prison. Jean put down his spoon and announced, ‘You should have taken someone with you.’
‘No one else had a letter from the queen.’
Marie asked, ‘How could you talk to a murderess?’
‘I don’t believe she’s a murderess.’
Thomas wanted to know all about the prison: how thick the walls were, what the guards wore, how many cells were in the dungeon, how many prisoners, whether everyone slept on the floor.
‘It’s dark and cold and not as interesting as you think,’ was all Christine would say.
‘Jean would have been scared,’ Thomas said, and he stuck his tongue out at his brother.
‘Basta, Tommaso,’ Francesca said.
He went on with his questions. ‘Where have they put the lady? In the Butcher Shop?’ He drew his finger across his throat. ‘The Pit? The Well?’ He made gurgling sounds. Lisabetta giggled, Jean laughed, and even Marie couldn’t help smiling. Christine sent them all upstairs to bed.
Francesca’s curiosity was not so easily turned aside. She put her elbows on the table, leaned on them, and waited.
‘She was very weak, and her clothes were tattered,’ Christine said. ‘But she hasn’t been tortured yet.’
‘Did she eat the cheese wafers?’ She smiled when Christine said she had.
‘There was someone other than Alix de Clairy outside the palace with Hugues de Précy the night he was murdered,’ Christine said, letting her mother assume Alix had told her this. ‘That person gave him the poison, and I must find out who it was.’