by Tania Bayard
‘You could tell him. He’d believe you, wouldn’t he? You’re a monk.’
‘He would want to know how I found out, and I would have to admit I learned it from her.’
‘Tell him you found out some other way. Do you have to always tell the truth, if you’re trying to save someone’s life?’
Michel thought for a moment, and then he slapped his hand on the table. ‘There is wisdom in what you say, Jean. Sometimes it is necessary to tell a falsehood. Yes, I will go to the provost.’
‘Does that mean the lady in the dungeon won’t burn at the stake?’ Thomas sounded disappointed.
Michel stood up, prepared to leave immediately for the Châtelet.
Francesca said, ‘You cannot go now. It is the middle of the night.’
He sat down again. ‘So it is. I will stay here by the fire until the first light of day, and then I will go.’
Goblin dozed at Michel’s feet, the candles burned low, and the children’s eyes were closing with sleep. ‘It’s too late for Gillette and Macée to be out in the street,’ Christine said to her mother. ‘They can sleep in my bed.’
The front door slammed shut. They looked around and saw only Gillette.
Francesca sighed. ‘Will you be comfortable here in the kitchen, Michel?’
The monk looked at the remaining bowl of soup. ‘Do you think you could reheat this, Francesca?’
‘Is there more?’ Christine asked.
‘I will make it ready for you,’ her mother replied.
Christine took Gillette and the children upstairs, put Gillette in her bed, and went down to a long-delayed supper. Then she and her mother left Michel yawning by the fire and settled down in Francesca’s bed for what remained of the night.
Francesca snored gently, unaware that Goblin was curled up beside her, but Christine lay awake asking herself questions. It had seemed so simple: Alix would go free because Guy de Marolles was the murderer. But was he? Why would Hugues de Précy drink from a flask given to him by the husband of a woman he’d seduced? There was more reason to suspect the queen’s brother, Ludwig, who had something to hide and who’d lied about being outside the palace the night of the murder. And what about Gilles? How had he obtained the mysterious book, and why had he hidden it in the library? She turned over and thought about Henri Le Picart, the evil-looking little man with the black beard and black cape who glared at her and followed her to the palace. She thought him capable of committing any number of murders – perhaps not for money, but certainly for a book that would give him unlimited power.
She tossed and turned so much that her mother complained in her sleep, and Goblin spent the rest of the night on the floor.
In the morning, long before daybreak, Christine rose, dressed, and went down to the kitchen to find that Michel had already left for the palace.
She built up the fire. Then, by the light of a candle, she heated water and washed the bowls they’d used the night before. After that, she found some vegetables and started to chop them to make soup. She had carrots and onions in little pieces on the table and was about to attack some parsnips, when a voice called from the doorway, ‘Cristina?’
She jumped, and the knife came down on her thumb. ‘You startled me!’ She sucked her bleeding finger.
Her mother held up a candle, examined the wound, and pronounced it not serious. ‘What did you think you were doing?’
‘I thought I’d start another soup for you.’
‘It is not good to work with knives in the dark. Especially when you do not know how to use them because you never do any cooking.’
‘I was trying to keep myself busy while I wait for Michel to return from the palace.’
The front door slammed, and Georgette and Colin burst into the kitchen. ‘They’re going to burn her this morning!’ Georgette screeched.
‘It can’t be true!’ Christine cried.
‘It is. And everyone’s afraid the king is about to lose his mind again. He says he feels arrows pricking him. The queen wants to go to him, but he won’t see her.’
The front door slammed again, and Michel appeared, his pale blue eyes blinking uncontrollably, and his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles turned white.
‘Are they really going to burn Alix this morning?’ Christine asked.
‘I’m sorry to tell you, they are.’
‘Didn’t you tell the provost about Guy de Marolles?’
‘The provost is not in Paris today. I wasn’t able to speak with him.’
There was a sound at the doorway. Gillette was standing there, and with a little cry, she slumped to the floor. Francesca ran to her, lifted her head, and slapped her cheeks gently. ‘Bring some water, Georgette,’ she said. The girl filled a pitcher from the water vat, and Francesca sprinkled a few drops onto the old woman’s face. Gillette sat up and leaned against the wall, weeping.
The children came down the stairs and into the kitchen, followed by Goblin, who turned and raced back up when he saw Colin.
‘We heard,’ Jean said. Christine looked at him and started to say something, but no words came. Marie put her arms around her. Thomas sat on the floor and studied his feet. Little Lisabetta knelt beside Gillette, and begged her not to cry.
Christine sat down on the bench by the table, and Michel stepped over to her. ‘There is still something you can do, Christine. Remember what you discovered yesterday.’
She looked at him blankly.
‘The Romance of the Rose must be right,’ he said. ‘Women have no understanding whatsoever.’
She jumped up, her face burning. Then she saw he was smiling. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t go to the Duke of Orléans in tears. You must be calm when you tell him about the book hidden in the library.’
‘Book? What book? Non capisco,’ Francesca interrupted.
‘You’re right, Michel,’ Christine said. ‘No understanding at all. How could I have forgotten?’
‘What book?’ her mother asked again.
Michel said to Christine, ‘The duke will surely want to question Gilles about the book. Perhaps he’ll convince the provost to let Alix de Clairy live until he does so.’
Christine ran into the hall, followed by Michel, and grabbed her cloak. The children crowded around her, hopping up and down in excitement. Goblin ran about in circles. Gillette clung to the doorjamb, and Georgette and Colin stood and stared. Francesca came out of the kitchen and thrust into Christine’s hand a sprig of vervain. ‘I do not know what you two are talking about, but take this. It should bring you good fortune, whatever you are about to do.’
Christine and Michel sailed out the door. Everyone else followed and stood in the street watching them rush toward the palace.
THIRTY-NINE
Because men believe women embody every abomination, they condemn them all.
Christine de Pizan,
Le Livre de la Cité des Dames, 1404–1405
It was a cold, bright morning, and the streets, wet and slippery from the rain the day before, glistened in the early sun. Christine and Michel pushed their way through feverish throngs – noblemen, street vendors, merchants, little children, housewives, beggars, all hurrying toward the pig market to see Alix de Clairy burned at the stake. A group of knights on horseback galloped through the crowd, scattering the thrill-seekers in all directions and causing a hunchbacked old crone toting a basket of eggs and a sack of squawking chickens to stumble and fall against Christine, nearly knocking her down. ‘Damnable fools,’ the woman called after the horsemen. Then she noticed Michel, crossed herself, and walked away smiling.
‘They truly believe that,’ he said.
‘Believe what?’
‘Has your mother not told you? You will have good fortune if you meet a Benedictine in his black habit in the morning. Of course, if I were a Cistercian in a white habit, that would portend misfortune, and the woman would have cursed me.’
Christine stepped over a pile of manure, slipped, and nearly fell. ‘I’m
glad I can rely on you for good fortune, Michel,’ she said, ‘because I just dropped the sprig of vervain my mother gave me.’
The courtyards of the Hôtel Saint-Pol teemed with commoners milling around and clamoring for news of the king. Christine lost Michel in the crush and made her way alone to the entrance of the king’s residence. She had hoped to find Simon there, but an unfamiliar portier blocked her way.
‘I must speak with the Duke of Orléans on a matter of great importance,’ she said. The man shook his head. Then Michel reappeared. Recognizing the monk, the guard moved aside.
In the palace, all was confusion. Knights paced back and forth, sergeants-at-arms looked around anxiously, footmen cowered in the corners. Michel disappeared a second time, and as Christine stood by herself wondering what to do, the queen came in, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, who cried out that the king wouldn’t let his wife near him. The queen’s face was distorted with pain and anger, but she walked proudly, holding her head high – until, with a little sigh, she sank to her knees, weeping.
Michel reappeared. ‘What shall I do now?’ Christine asked.
‘Wait for me here. I’ll try to find the duke.’
The ladies-in-waiting helped the queen to her feet, but she looked at them as though she had never seen them before. Christine moved away – and bumped into Ludwig. Horrified, she hurried through the gallery. When she turned to see whether Ludwig had followed her, she saw instead Henri Le Picart coming toward her. She pushed open the first door she came to and stumbled into a small, sparsely furnished room.
Guy de Marolles jumped up from a bench near a fireplace, drew his sword, and rushed at her. ‘Servant of the devil! Satan’s whore!’
She backed away. ‘What harm have I done you?’
‘You are a woman. All women are evil.’
She took another step back. Guy followed and was almost upon her when the Duke of Orléans burst into the room, followed by Michel. The duke grasped Guy’s arms, seized his sword, and forced him down onto a bench. Howling in anguish, the knight dropped his sword and tore at his hair. Louis sat beside him and stroked his hands, murmuring reassurance, as though he were talking to a child.
Nearly fainting with fright, Christine let Michel draw her out of the room and help her to a chair standing against a wall of the gallery. ‘I am sure that man is capable of murder,’ he said. ‘But I do not believe the duke is prepared to hear it.’ He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his habit and thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘Rest here a bit, and then make your request of the duke, as you planned, Christine.’
Christine leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply. After a while she looked up at Michel and said, ‘I’m ready.’
They went back into the room. The knight sat on the bench, his head in his hands, and Louis stood gazing sadly down at him.
‘Christine has something to say to you, Monseigneur,’ Michel said.
The duke turned to Christine and smiled. ‘Oh, yes, my little emissary. You never did find out about the book, did you?’
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Michel moved close and whispered into her ear, ‘Remember what The Romance of the Rose says about women, Christine. Prove you are different.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve found your book, Monseigneur. It’s in the library at the Louvre. Please let Alix de Clairy live until you ask Gilles Malet how it came to be there.’
‘Ha! You think you can save your friend, but your plan is of no use. I already have the book.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Gilles brought it to me this morning.’
‘But he hid it in the library!’
‘I am aware of that. He was not eager for me to have it, because he, like everyone else, is afraid its secrets will harm the king. But Gilles is an honorable man. He brought the book to me, along with a lecture on how not to use it. I’m certain Brother Michel would be happy to deliver a similar lecture.’
‘You can be sure of that, Monseigneur,’ Michel said. ‘I’d take that book and burn it if I could.’
Christine was aghast. Surely the monk had gone too far. But the duke merely laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Will you never leave off admonishing me, my friend?’
‘Not while evil is present, Monseigneur. But tell me, how did Gilles obtain the book?’
‘He found it in a shop on the rue de la Harpe. Someone had sold it to a bookseller there.’
‘That was the person who murdered Hugues de Précy!’ Christine cried. ‘Alix de Clairy couldn’t have sold it. She was in prison.’
Michel touched her arm. ‘Be careful, Christine,’ he whispered.
The duke sneered. ‘You told me, Christine, the prostitute Marion saw someone else outside the palace on the night of the murder. That person must have taken the book. Not knowing its worth, the fool sold it for a pittance. I will concede, your friend is not the thief. But she is a murderess. She will die at the stake this morning.’
She started to protest, but the duke raised his hand. ‘Why do you persist in your efforts to save Alix de Clairy?’ He narrowed his eyes and looked at her suspiciously.
Michel tightened his grip on Christine’s arm and hurried her from the room. ‘You cannot change his mind, Christine. I know his nature. To persist now would be to put your own life in danger. Think of your children, your mother. They would be in danger, too.’
‘And Alix de Clairy will burn at the stake for a murder she didn’t commit!’
‘There is no way to help her now. But there is still something you can do.’
‘What are you saying? There is nothing more, once she is dead.’
‘But there is. To honor her memory, you can still try to discover the identity of the real murderer. As a start, you can go to the bookseller on the rue de la Harpe and ask who sold him the book.’
The monk’s words had no effect. Nothing could have made an impression on her at that moment. She didn’t even notice Henri Le Picart standing nearby. She merely bowed her head and wept.
Michel led Christine out of the palace, and they stumbled down the street, pushing their way through the mob rushing to see Alix de Clairy’s execution. Christine pulled her cloak over her ears to block out the bloodthirsty cries of the crowd. But as they drew closer to her house, she and the monk were alone, except for a flock of crows croaking overhead and a few dry leaves tumbling along ahead of the wind, like small wounded animals. It seemed as though everyone in Paris had gone to watch the spectacle Christine had tried so hard to prevent.
Everyone except her mother. Francesca had sent the older children off to school with Georgette, and she was waiting by the door. One look at her daughter’s face told her what had happened. She said, ‘You did all you could to save her. Now you must rest.’ She removed Christine’s cloak, led her to her room, where she’d built up the fire and turned down the bed, and made her lie down. Then she went to the kitchen, where she found Michel standing by the fireplace, his head bowed and his lips moving in prayer. She prepared one of her herbal drinks and took it up to Christine.
‘Where’s Gillette?’ Christine asked.
‘In my bed. I gave the poor soul a strong dose of valerian so she would sleep.’ She handed her daughter a beaker. ‘This contains valerian, too. Drink all of it.’ Christine did as she was told, and then lay back against her pillows.
She closed her eyes, and she saw everything. She watched as Alix de Clairy, tied to a wooden lattice and dragged through the streets behind a horse, was brought to the pig market. She watched as she was placed against the stake and bound to it with chains. She saw the pyre – straw and sticks at first, then logs to keep the fire going. She heard the words of the priest; they offered no comfort. She watched men approach with torches and touch them to the straw, and she shuddered as the flames caught and snaked through the sticks and logs, snarling and snapping as they caught at Alix’s once beautiful dress with its silver brocade. She watch
ed frenzied men throw log after log onto the fire, and she could feel the dress falling away from Alix’s body as the flames devoured it. She smelled Alix’s burning flesh and hair. She screamed.
‘Cristina!’ Her mother stood over her.
‘I saw it! I saw Alix burning!’
Francesca sat on the bed and stroked her daughter’s feverish forehead. Then the valerian did its work, and Christine slept.
When she awoke, her mother sat by the fire, watching her.
‘How long have I slept? What time of day is it? Where’s Michel?’
‘It is mid-afternoon, long past dinnertime. Michel went back to the palace some time ago.’
A loud knock sounded on the front door, and Francesca hurried down to answer it. She didn’t return, and Christine nearly went back to sleep again. But when she heard voices downstairs, she sat up and listened. Francesca was talking to Michel. At first she sounded happy, then she became angry, and Christine heard her say, ‘Not in my house!’ She couldn’t make out any more of their words, but she could hear her mother grumbling and Michel remonstrating. Suddenly there was silence. She thought the monk had left. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs, and Marion, her unbound hair streaming around her shoulders, appeared. She ran to the bed, fell to her knees, and buried her face in the covers, shaking as though she were sobbing.
‘I’m so sorry, Marion,’ Christine moaned. ‘I tried to save her, but I couldn’t.’
Marion looked up, her eyes shining. She wasn’t sobbing. She was laughing. ‘She isn’t dead, Lady Christine.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Alix de Clairy isn’t dead. They didn’t burn her.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Everyone in Paris knows it. There wasn’t any burning. Alix de Clairy disappeared.’