Between Two Fires (9781101611616)

by Buehlman, Christopher

Thomas had already turned his back to walk away, and the priest now reached for Delphine’s hand. She withdrew it before he touched her and wove her limbs through the spokes of the cart’s wheel, looking at the priest like some feral St. Catherine.

  “Let’s go, child,” the priest said.

  “No!” she all but howled, and gripped the spokes tighter. “This is why we’re here! It’s here!”

  “Nothing is here, girl, but old tools and donkey bones. I know this man’s sort. Now let’s go.”

  “Perhaps you seek the vintner,” the pale little man said, his very green eyes twinkling significantly at Père Matthieu.

  “What did you say?” asked the priest.

  “There’s a vintner selling good wine from Auxerre just four stalls up the street. You want wine so badly you’re gray from it. Your upper lip is sweating.”

  Thomas turned around now.

  The priest opened his mouth to speak but closed it again because he had nothing to say. This man had seen right through him.

  “You seem lost, brother. Perhaps you need something to point the way for you. Perhaps something very dear.”

  “Like what?” Thomas said.

  “Something others think they have in holy shrines, but which is in this humble cart. In my keeping. The only one that’s real.”

  “What,” Thomas said, “the milk of the Virgin? The cocks of the magi?”

  “Better.”

  “Gabriel’s turd? God’s piss pot?”

  “Oh, much better.”

  So saying, he scrambled into his cart and tugged out a box of cedar with Greek letters on it. He passed his hands over it several times like a magician, then opened it to reveal a leaf-shaped shining spearhead worked with ivory, and also lettered in Greek.

  “You’re not saying…” the priest said.

  “I am.”

  “Why is it inscribed in Greek when a Roman soldier pierced Our Lord with it?”

  “It went to Alexandria for a time. Oliphants from the Afric continent gave their tusks for it.”

  “Why should I think this greatest of all relics should be in the care of, forgive me, a man of such…”

  “Poverty?” the little man suggested as the priest gestured impotently in search of an inoffensive word. “Humble means?”

  “Something like that.”

  Delphine spoke up from her wheel now, saying, “Did not Our Lord go humbly in His time? In sandals or on a donkey?”

  “The child is wise,” said the relic seller. “Heavenly treasures and earthly ones are not the same.”

  “It does look…quite credible,” said the priest.

  “Do you hear your own words?” said Thomas, stepping closer. “This is no more the holy spear than this man is Christ’s wet nurse. He has bewitched you! Both of you. Let’s go.”

  “Yes, perhaps you should go,” the relic seller said, shutting the box with a loud snap and fastening the latch. He looked anxiously past the priest and hastily began to pack his goods away. Thomas saw why, and then the priest turned and saw as well. A group of agitated men was bearing down on them, pointing at the relic seller.

  One of them said the word “Jew.”

  The sergent who had been arguing with the monkey seller was now being pushed along by the crowd, who seemed intent on making him do some duty or other regarding the little man and his cart.

  “We have to get out of here,” Thomas said. “Now.”

  The priest nodded, sweating now from more than want of wine, and tugged gently at the girl, who shook her head stubbornly and kept a tight grip on the wheel, shutting her eyes against the approaching group. She was frightened, too.

  Thomas wasn’t having any. He shoved the priest out of the way and unwound her limbs from the wheel even though his grip hurt her and made her cry out.

  “Goddamn it, you’ll come with me if I have to pull the whoring wheel off with you,” he said, and soon had her over his shoulder even though she cried and slapped at him. The priest had already gotten clear, and now Thomas stepped out of the way as the small mob reached the cart.

  The relic seller had packed away his things, if sloppily, and was now pulling at the spars of the cart to get it going. Three or four men stepped in front of him, one of them bearing a table leg as a club. He tried to ignore them and move past them, but one of them put his hand on the man’s face and pushed him down. It wasn’t very hard to do.

  A paunchy, middle-aged fellow with a beakish nose and ginger hair took off his straw hat and faced the sergent.

  “I am Pierre Auteuil, pardoner, and I am the licensed seller of relics in this quarter. On my oath, I affirm that this man is a known Jew. And by royal decree, there are to be no Jews in the city of Paris.”

  “I know him to be a Jew as well,” shouted an old fellow. “I have seen him at the Hot Fair in Troyes.”

  The sergent, who saw far less harm in the little man than he had in the sick monkey, sighed and said, “How do you know this? He wears no yellow circle.”

  “He was pointed out to me!”

  “That’s no proof.”

  “Ask him, then,” one said.

  “Yes, ask him his name,” said another.

  “What is your name?” said the sergent, not unkindly.

  The perhaps-Jew said nothing.

  “Tell me your name,” said the sergent, beginning to shed his benevolence.

  The man said simply, “I am a Christian.”

  Now the woodcarver and his wife had found Thomas, the priest, and the girl. They all stood transfixed by the scene developing on the rue Mont-Fetard, as did a number of others, many of whom forgot the danger of the plague and stood near one another to see.

  “Christians have names,” said the sergent. “What is yours?”

  “Look at his cock,” one said.

  Now two fellows bulled to the front of the crowd and grabbed the man’s arms. The pardoner yanked his trousers and underthings down and pointed at his foreskinless member.

  “Stop,” Delphine yelled, and was ignored.

  “What more proof do we need?” said the pardoner.

  “I’m a convert,” pleaded the man, and he began to say a Pater Noster but was shoved again to the ground. Now several kicks were aimed at him, but the sergent and his man interposed themselves.

  “This will be done right, if it’s to be done. We’ll pillory him and I’ll send to the abbot to find out what he wants done with him.”

  So saying, the lawman helped him up, pulled his pants up, and took him away, directing his man to stand guard over the cart. The crowd followed behind the Jew to where a pair of pillories stood in a little square. A spice merchant who had adulterated precious sacks of peppercorns with pellets of soot and clay stood bent over in one set, with his hands and head in the stocks and a brick on a rope around his neck. The Jew was put in the other, and a lock secured through a hasp.

  And there he stayed.

  Delphine seemed distracted all through dinner. She chewed birdy little bites of Annette’s roast pork and kept cutting her eyes toward the door.

  “What has you, child?” the woodcarver’s wife said.

  “What will they do with the Jew?”

  “If he’s lucky, flog him out of the city. If he’s unlucky, hang him,” Jehan said.

  Thomas ate wolfishly. The priest shared out his wine to the others, holding the bottle patiently while the last three drops fell into Jehan’s wooden cup.

  “That is,” Jehan went on, “if they don’t leave him out all night. God help him if they do.” He crossed himself and pulled off a piece of the bread trencher he had been eating from, thumbing a stringy bit of pork on top of it and tucking it into his mouth.

  Delphine looked at the door.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Thomas said, even as she sprang out of her seat faster than seemed possible. Her little white hand was on the bolt and drawing it as Thomas shoved back the bench he shared with the priest so he could stand, spilling Père Matthieu, who, falling backward onto
the packed dirt floor, held his cup of wine straight up and managed to save most of it.

  The girl ran barefoot, her pattens and hose left in Annette’s room, and Thomas followed behind her, yelling “Stay here!” to the rest of them. His armor was off, piled in the corner of the workshop, so he was almost light enough in his gambeson to catch her at a sprint. Almost. His fingers wisped through her bouncing hair, of which he would have grabbed a fistful to stop her, but then he began to lose speed and the gap between them grew. He growled and huffed a string of oaths behind her, causing her to call back at him, “You shouldn’t swear like that.”

  The streets were stiller and emptier than before as they made their way to the market in the twilight; no rats ran now, and not even a dog’s bark competed with the sound of Thomas’s panting. At length he slowed his run to a loping walk; the girl, who had been peeking back at him at intervals, slowed to a walk as well. Even winded and angry, it occurred to him to be glad for the boots that saved him from feeling the filth of the Parisian muck between his toes, as she doubtless was.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “To help the Jew,” she said, peeking again to make sure he hadn’t started running.

  The light was failing, throwing the streets between the close buildings into yet more profound darkness.

  “Help yourself. Something bad goes on here at night.”

  “Go back if you’re scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I should damned well turn around and let you go.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  He didn’t.

  They kept on all the way to the rue Mont-Fetard, the small girl before, and the large man behind, even as the last of the shutters of the living closed on the sight of them.

  Thomas never noticed the smell of juniper riding over the baser scents of the gutter.

  “I know you,” the Jew said as he regarded the small girl before him. The pillories stood deserted in the square, not far from the relic cart, which had been completely picked over. The guard had stayed with it until as near dark as he dared, with no word back from the abbot and no orders from the sergent, and by the time he left for his house, nobody wanted to be burdened with the weight of the cart, which was heavier empty than it should have been full.

  “How do you know me? From today?” she said.

  “No.”

  “Then how?”

  “I just do.”

  The spice seller was oblivious to her, tossing his head horsily against the pain of the hanging brick, until he felt its weight being lifted. She threw the brick into the muck past the platform. He opened his moist eyes and looked at her, saying, “You’re not supposed to do that.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Now the Jew called her over, saying, “Girl. Look at me. In the eyes.”

  She did.

  “Is it time?” he said.

  She wasn’t sure why she said it, but she said, “Not yet,” and the Jew nodded, closing his eyes. He looked very old just then, and very tired.

  Thomas arrived.

  He was so nonplussed at how calmly she was standing there, talking to the men bent over in the stocks, that he did not scoop her over his shoulder or drag her by the arm, having weighed the merits of both actions as he stomped behind her. It was almost fully dark.

  “Well, little witch, what now?”

  “Will you break their locks?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t got a hammer.”

  She looked sad.

  Several streets away, the sound of knocking came.

  “Get her home,” the Jew said. “Now.”

  “Break my lock. Please,” whimpered the spice seller.

  Thomas reached for her, but she moved away from him, and he only grabbed the back of her shirt, which ripped, and the ribbon around her neck, which broke. The key that had been at the end of it fell onto the wooden platform with a tink. She bent to grab it as Thomas grabbed her hips.

  He hoisted her up as she held the key in her small fist, arching her body toward the locked hasp that held the Jew.

  “No!” she yelled, “Let me try it!”

  “Get her home!”

  Something knocked, closer now.

  “Please…” said the spice seller.

  “Please,” said the girl, more softly.

  “Goddamn it,” Thomas said, setting her down and taking the key from her. He was about to pitch it in the muck.

  “Please, sire. Sir Thomas,” she whispered.

  He spat, then shoved the key into the lock, “See? It doesn’t whoring fit!”

  But it did.

  He turned it.

  The lock opened and the Jew stood up.

  A man no more than two streets away yelled, “Let go! Let me go!”

  “PLEASE!” shrieked the spice seller.

  The girl took the key from Thomas, who didn’t try to keep it from her, and opened the other pillory. The dishonest merchant jerked straight and ran, tripping over the brick that had been around his neck and twisting his ankle. He limped off in the direction opposite the man’s scream, but faraway knocking came from that way, too. The night seemed to swallow him completely.

  The Jew said, “You wanted something?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But they got it…your cart.”

  “They got the one I showed you. Not this one.”

  He pulled a hemp rope from around his neck, dangling at its end a hinged wooden tube that came out of his shirt. It was about the size of a short flute case. He gave it to her. She kissed him.

  Thomas hefted her and ran, even as she put the rope around her neck.

  “When?” the Jew called after her.

  But she did not answer.

  TWELVE

  Of the Ones Who Knock by Night

  When they got to the door of the woodcarver’s house, Thomas had the good sense not to knock; he said, “Priest!” and then the girl said, “Annette! It’s me.” The bolt slid back and the door opened, the woodcarver motioning them in. The married couple and the priest were all pale with fear.

  Jehan whispered into Thomas’s ear, “They’re here. In the quarter.”

  “I know,” Thomas said.

  “They’re close.”

  The husband and wife stared at the shuttered windows and bolted doors, listening to the sounds of knocking, which were unmistakably drawing nearer. Thomas picked up his chain mail hauberk and began slithering into it. He put on his mail gloves as well. Annette said an Ave Maria, which her husband and the priest joined in, though the priest was watching the girl.

  Delphine inclined near the wick in tallow, which was now a soupy graveyard for moths; moths lighted in her hair and flitted about her as she opened the tube the Jew had given her. Its hinges were tiny and delicate, but her small hands were made to open such things. The inside of the tube was cushioned with brown leather, upon which the mud-colored shaft of pitted iron was hardly visible. She took it in her hand. It was not what she expected; not leaf-bladed or triangular like a boar spear; rather, it was a thin rod that flared gently to a point at the end; more of a fire poker than a proper spear. She tested the point with her thumb and found it still sharp enough to make her gasp in a hitch of air. Had this piece of metal really been driven under one of His ribs? It seemed impossible that anything or anyone still in the world had actually touched Him. But it had. This was it. She kissed the spearhead and sealed it back in its case. The word pilum occurred to her, and she wondered if she had read it in her father’s books, or if it simply came to her as so many words had lately.

  “What is that?” Père Matthieu said.

  “You know what it is.”

  None of them slept.

  They stood around the table or sat against the wall.

  Near dawn, something heavy brushed against the front of the building. Delphine held her breath, then nearly peed herself when the mule brayed next to he
r.

  Now something scratched at the shuttered window.

  “Please God, please angels, do not leave me alone,” she prayed.

  The priest stood in front of her and put his hand on her chest. She grabbed his little finger, and felt that he was shaking. Thomas and Jehan had moved near the door, the knight with his sword behind him, ready to strike, the woodcarver holding a mallet. “Get back,” Jehan whispered to his wife, but she kept her place just behind him.

  Whatever was outside tapped at the window. Delphine grabbed the priest’s finger so hard she would have hurt him if he had not been too agitated to feel it. It tapped again, more urgently. Everyone but Thomas and the girl made the sign of the cross.

  “Come Saint Michael, come Saint Sebastian, do not leave us alone,” Delphine whispered, but she felt abandoned; they were going to be killed now by some wicked thing, and God would not or could not interfere.

  The thing outside took two heavy steps and now banged on the door. Hard. Delphine squealed. Jehan put his free hand over his wife’s mouth to stop her from whimpering, but then he whimpered. Delphine heard Thomas breathing in and out like a bellows, preparing to fight; she knew that for all his faults, he would die before he let harm come to her. She felt safer.

  Then it banged again so hard that a flake of daub fell off the wall and the building shook, rocking the several long-headed wooden saints and Virgins in the workshop. The mule brayed madly and shuffled from side to side, restless for room to move or kick. It knocked over its water bucket, and Delphine felt the water between her toes.

  The banging continued, faster and faster. It was maddening. Thomas began to reach for the door, ready to have done with it, but Jehan pushed his arm down and shook his head, wide-eyed with fear and warning.

  Now everything became quiet.

  It stayed quiet for some time, but Delphine knew it wasn’t over. The grown-ups in the room were frozen like clockwork figures, and soon they would move again, urgently, as Hell came into the room. Waiting was so hard. The priest stroked her hair once, as he might have done to calm a dog. She heard his fast breathing and kissed his hand. His breathing slowed.

  That was when they heard it.

  A baby’s cry.

  In the street just outside the door.