by Joanne Dahme
“This is the cimetière, garçon.This is where we stop and wait for the carts,” the gravedigger replied, pushing a tangle of his matted black hair away from his sticky forehead.
“Who did this?” I asked. I realized I was trembling in my saddle.
“The lords of two châteaus that surround this forest had their soldiers round up the farmers and any other bodies that were still healthy enough to walk. Too many people were dying, and there was no room, left in the small cimetières to bury them. They burned this site to make more room, and to move the dead away from the living.” He turned to look at me, his startling blue eyes a vivid contrast to the devastation in front of us.
“What are we supposed to do now, sir?” Henry asked. He shifted in his saddle, as his horse was skittish. No living thing feels comfortable in the midst of death it seemed. Henry patted his horse on the neck and whispered something soothing in its ear.
“We wait for the bodies,” he answered, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “But now, I understand vous avez des provisions, you have provisions?” he asked, his voice tinged with the immediacy of a child’s.
“Yes. Let’s have something to eat,” I agreed. I would have done anything to take our eyes away from those burial pits. “Can we choose a spot that does not offer this view?” I asked.
“I will find one, princess,” Henry answered quickly.
He turned his horse to face into the woods. I smiled at Henry’s back. He was a young soldier of stormy humors. I wondered, What demons is he wrestling with, besides the knowledge that the Black Prince is hunting us?
“As long as I can still see early arrivals,” the gravedigger agreed, reminding me of what was immediately important.
Henry had found a small clearing, only yards away from the forest path. We walked the horses through the brush and tied them to a tree at the clearing’s edge. The sun warmed the tops of our heads as we removed the morsels that the monk had packed for us—brown bread, chunks of cheese, and two flasks of mead. He had even provided a bunch of the green grapes that we had picked just yesterday. We settled down and, for a moment, the thick foliage sheltering us and the chattering of the forest birds protected our mood from the graveyard beyond.
We ate in silence, and only when the gravedigger had taken his final swallow did he narrow his eyes at George. “Let me see that charm you are wearing, garçon.”
George was hesitant, but slowly pulled the amulet from his tunic.
“Take it off. I mean to examine it,” he urged impatiently.
“It’s mine,” George reminded him as he dropped the amulet into the gravedigger’s outstretched palm. The gravedigger rubbed it between his hands, as if warming it. He then brought it close to his weathered face, only inches from his eyes.
“I’ve seen many like this to ward off the pestilence. Most are harmless and serve no purpose beyond giving its bearer a false confiance. But this one . . . ” He shuddered. “This bears an evil imprint. I would bury this now in the woods.”
“No!” George cried, leaping up to grab the thing. “It is mine. It has protected us! Please, Nell. Make him give it back!”
I grabbed George by the arm and tried to gently pull him down beside me. “Forgive the boy,” I asked. “He has been excitable since he lost his own parents and sister to the pestilence.” I tried to give George a stern look. He turned his head away from me peevishly. “I must remind him of her.”
“Give it here, sir,” Henry offered. “And I’ll ensure it’s done.” He stood and extended his hand, as if he were accepting a small gift, but his voice was firm.
“The blacksmith gave it to me,” George muttered as he watched Henry push his way through the brush until all we saw were his movements caught by the sun that filtered through the gaps in the tree canopy.
“It doesn’t endure the mark of a blacksmith, garçon. It casts something far more powerful,” the gravedigger said, shaking his head.
“Please, George,” I said angrily. “I trust the gravedigger. There is something about that amulet that makes me dream of rats.”
We were interrupted by the blow of a horn. The gravedigger shot right up.
“What’s this? An early arrival?” he asked. He scrambled from our tiny clearing through the forest rim to the pathway. George and I quickly followed.
Standing on the edge of the valley again, we spied a line of carts, one by one cresting the horizon on the other side.The carts made their own dark silhouettes against the gnarled hulks of the blackened tree line. Their pace was slow and often two people were sharing the load. I knew they must be filled.
“What are you to do now?” I asked, suddenly afraid to lose the man.
“I will greet them and help them with their obligations. They knew these people they carry. Their coeurs, their hearts, bear a much greater burden than mine.”
“Should we help you?” George asked. His blue eyes were wide. He was obviously moved by the sight before us, enough to forget his anger with the gravedigger.
“No, garçon,” the gravedigger answered before I could. “A band of merchants should be passing this way by sundown.You are to wait for them, as they will escort you and the princess into Bordeaux. It is only a day’s ride from here.”
We watched as the gravedigger picked up his own cart and maneuvered it down the hillside, past the burned-out remnants of trees and dried mud, into the valley below. Henry soon joined us as we watched the morbid procession.
“I don’t want to watch,” George said finally. “I am going to rest back in the clearing.”
I didn’t want him to watch this gruesome sight either. I kissed the top of his hair, which smelled of dirt and sunlight. “We will be here, waiting for the merchants. Call if you need me,” I instructed.
Henry and I stood as if mesmerized as we stared at the scene below us. It was still a few hours from sundown.
“Henry, do you think this is the end of the world?” I asked as we watched cart after cart empty their contents into the pits. I couldn’t call them people, the things in the carts, or I would have to cry out in despair. My parents had suffered the same horrific end. It was a blessing perhaps that from here they looked like bolts of dirty cloth.There was nothing to define these forms as man, woman, or child.
“No, Nell.” Henry stood close to me. I could almost feel his shoulder touching mine. “This is another cleansing, although I can’t imagine that it’s one from God, as the priests like to tell us. I don’t want to believe that God would have such loathing for us.”
I wanted to question him further. I wanted to know what he thought the future would hold for us, as my spirit was dark, but George came crashing through the brush to reach us. He pointed toward the road as he ran, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“Nell! It’s one of Gracias’s soldiers, coming down the path!”
We whirled around. Sure enough, the larger, burly-shouldered soldier was coming at a brisk trot toward us. One hand gripped his reins and the other his sword.
We were frozen to the spot as his black horse came within yards of us before he stopped. Henry pulled out his sword. I pushed George behind me.
The soldier’s face was drenched with sweat. It poured from beneath his helmet, plastering the stray ends of his black hair against his forehead and cheeks. His long, black beard looked oiled. He was gasping for breath.
“You must go,” he croaked in a harsh English. “You cannot wait!”
Henry approached him cautiously. “Why, what is Gracias up to?” he asked suspiciously.
Yet the soldier said nothing as he grimaced, as if a sharp pain suddenly wracked his body. Before Henry took another step closer, the soldier tumbled from his saddle and fell to the ground. His body hit the dirt with a heavy thud. An arrow stood straight from his back, piercing him between his armored vest and shoulder.
“Oh no!” I cried, stepping back.
George scampered around me to touch the soldier’s back. “I can’t help him,” he said sadly.
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Henry was already running for the horses. “Come on, princess! Grab your pack. Come on, George!”
Henry crashed through the brush from the clearing, pulling our horses by their reins. Their eyes bulged with terror. Did they sense the rats, I wondered, pushing down my own rising panic? Henry lifted George onto my horse, and then heaved me onto the saddle.We were soon galloping along the rim of the valley, trusting that we would find the road to Bordeaux.
From the periphery of my eye, I could see the gravedigger in the valley below us, waving his arms frantically as empty carts stood behind him like sentinels next to the burying pits that checkered the valley’s landscape.
I focused on the narrow road ahead that would take us back into the woods. I thought I heard the gravedigger’s cry echo in the air behind us.
“Attendez! Wait! You cannot go without the merchants!”
the merchants
THE HOOVES OF OUR HORSES pounded many miles of forest path. Neither of us dared to look back. We held our reins tightly and kept our faces close to our horses’ thick necks; the smell of their sweat stung our nostrils. George’s thin, dirty arms were wrapped around my waist. His head bumped into my back each time our horse touched the ground.
The forest course was narrow on this side of the valley, and we had to flee in single file. It was darker here, as the early evening sun did not have the power to penetrate the forest’s thick green awning, and the branches of the lower trees reached across our path. Soon we were forced to slow down, and Henry finally stopped, turning his horse around with difficulty. Fresh welts marked his face.
“We don’t know these woods, nor this trail, which doesn’t appear well traveled,” Henry panted. “I’m not sure that I trust us to find Bordeaux.” I heard the lonely hoot of an owl in the distance, the only sound other than the chatterings of the winged creatures that were all around us. But no bird was visible through the matrix of trees that walled us in on both sides. At least it was cool, pausing in this place.
“Perhaps, in a little while, when we feel it is safe, we can trace our way back to the graveyard and wait for the merchants,” I suggested. I agreed with Henry. This trail could just as well take us to the opposite coast of France. The princess had shown me a map before we left and I remembered my surprise at seeing that it touched two seas.
“I like that idea!” George piped in. “These woods are a little scary,” he added as a shiver rode through his body. I looked down at his arms again, as he still clung to my waist. How did he get so dirty? Had he fallen?
“No, I think that would be too dangerous,” Henry said, slipping out of his saddle. He began to pace from his horse to mine and back again. “Perhaps we can wait here for the merchants. Let them catch up to us. We are on their path, are we not?” He sounded as if he were speaking to himself.
“Or we simply can head west,” I said. “Find our way to the coast and proceed north to Bordeaux. The gravedigger said we were only a day away.”
Henry stopped pacing and looked at me as if I were daft. His eyebrows arched as he replied, “And stumble into the Black Prince’s army?”
I sat straight up in my saddle, insulted. “Well then, we must wait right here. The gravedigger will point the merchants our way,” I sniffed. Did he think he was the only one who had ideas, I wondered. George whimpered behind me.
“We will wait, then,” Henry agreed. “But let’s take our horses into the woods, away from the open trail.”
We found a small clearing, a few hundred yards up the road, large enough to tie our horses so that they would be invisible to other travelers. I removed my sack from the saddle and placed it on the ground, making a pillow for George that was softer than the thick carpet of pine needles that would serve as our bedding. I lay next to George, while Henry crept closer to the road to keep watch for the merchants.
“Nell, do you think the merchants will find us?” he whispered nervously into my ear.
“I am sure they will,” I said. “The gravedigger will instruct them to catch up to us. Now close your eyes,” I proposed, “and just listen to the forest. It has its own lullaby.” George nuzzled closer to me.
I could only see a few feet in front of me, now that the shadows of the forest had merged with the early evening darkness. I could not discern Henry, so I needed to just trust that he was by the road, safe and watchful.
I closed my eyes and took my own advice, and allowed the night sounds of the forest to fill my ears—the peeps of the tree frogs and the murmurs of the crickets—a sound that always reminded me of softly tearing cloth. I listened as the noises seemed to magnify, blocking out the rest of the world.
I sat straight up when a new din suddenly clamored in the background. I strained to make out the cacophony—the clanging sound of pots, the tinkle of bells, and the laughing voices of men. Bells? Could it be Gracias, I wondered, angry over the death of his soldier? But there was laughter and other noises that did not belong to Gracias.
“George,” I whispered. “I’m going to join Henry to see what all the commotion is about.”
“Me, too,” he said quickly. He obviously had not slept.
The two of us made our way through the brush to crouch beside Henry, who was on his knees, pressed against the trunk of a tree. He did not turn to look at us.
“They’re getting close,” he said. “And they don’t care if the entire forest knows they’re coming.” He shook his head as if in disbelief. Whoever led their pack was carrying a torch. We watched its light bob with its bearer’s footsteps. No soldier would enter an unknown territory in this way.
Soon we spied the shadowy forms of men and what appeared to be some animals in their wake—a few cows, some sheep or goats, and a cart laden with goods—most likely the source of the clanging sounds.
When they were just one hundred feet from us, I saw that the man carrying the torch used a walking stick. He used it to tap the cow beside him to keep the cow moving. He wore a multicolored tunic, good stockings, and fine leather boots. He had a generous stomach, which tipped over his belt, round cheeks, and a nose that looked red from the torchlight. His hair and beard blazed red, too. He appeared much too bright for this forest.
“Princess,” the large red man suddenly yelled in a mock whisper. “The gravedigger told us that we would find you here.”
“The merchants!” George yelped before I could cover his mouth.
“The gravedigger sent them,” I barely whispered to Henry.
“But how do they know we are right here?” he said softly.
“Because I have a keen ear!” the man bellowed back to us. He stopped walking to adjust his belt. “And I have potions in my cart that can make your ears better than a dog’s,” he promised gleefully.
George began to stand. His eyes shone in the torchlight.
But Henry stood first and stepped into the road. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “Are you the merchants who are to guide us to Bordeaux?” Henry was squinting past the big man, as if trying to see what the rest of the merry band looked like.
“The very ones!” the colorful leader boasted. “Allow me to introduce myself and my four brothers. I am Albert the Round,” he said, bowing. He rose and motioned for his brothers. They jockeyed around him, pushing aside Albert’s cow. “Actually, we are all known as Albert, as it’s less confusing for our customers,” he said with a convincing smile, which exposed a few missing teeth. His brothers did look like variations of him—some taller, some thinner, and all in fine clothes, with hair the color of a snapping wood fire. “We feared we would not catch up to you, but now that we have, it is time to camp and eat.We will leave for Bordeaux at dawn,” he added agreeably.
“And how are the other Alberts called?” George asked eagerly.
Henry cut him off. “You know that this is the princess and that she must be protected by you until we reach the city,” Henry stated, without it even nearing the lilt of a question.
“Of course, my dear soldier. We were instru
cted by the gravedigger.” Albert nodded. His brothers bobbed their heads in agreement on cue.
Henry sighed, unsure if he should be relieved by our new comrades. “We should try to be quiet, then, as we are being pursued,” he added gravely.
“Indeed,” Albert agreed. For a moment, the smile disappeared from his face.
“May I pet your cows and goats?” George interrupted eagerly, obviously thrilled with our new company.
Albert lifted his torch high above his head to get a good look at George. “Of course you may,” he said. “After you help us set up our tent.”
Albert kept his promise and had us up by dawn, although in the forest the morning light was a dusky rust, so that the trees, leaves, and human forms that moved about us all looked blurred around their edges. He handed George and me a mug of goat’s milk as one of his brothers kicked at the campfire that they had built in our clearing. Henry was helping one brother pull the tent down, as the other brothers, their thick red hair and beards all in various states of dishevelment, made clicking sounds at their animals to gather them together. George and I sat on my sack of clothes as we sipped the warm, sweet milk.
Albert approached us, his full face still pressed with the lines of sleep. “We will be getting on now, princess. We should reach Bordeaux by sundown.” He then took our empty mugs and placed them in a bucket of water on the cart.
“Of course,” I said. “We are ready.” George and I followed Albert to the cart that had been left on the edge of our clearing, only yards from the road. We did not have the opportunity to discover its contents last night.