City of Crows

by Chris Womersley

  ‘It was you who brought me here?’ he said at last, turning back to the woman.

  ‘Yes. Of course. I have been waiting for you.’

  It was only then that Lesage noticed she was standing inside a large circle scratched into the dirt of the road. There were other patterns as well, signs and words he couldn’t decipher. A circle, symbols. A circle and a book.

  ‘You are the sorceress?’ he whispered, his voice faint with amazement. She was the woman he had been seeking? This was most strange and most fortuitous.

  The woman watched him, as if waiting for him to perform a trick. ‘Yes, monsieur. It is most fortuitous.’

  ‘But what would you want with a . . . with a low man like me, madame?’

  The woman set her jaw and gazed along the length of the road by which he had arrived. ‘I need the help of a man such as yourself to find my son. He was taken away by some men. You must help me find him and bring him back to me. Do you have a weapon of some sort?’

  Lesage touched a hand to the knife he’d taken from the boy, which was hidden beneath his clothes. ‘Yes,’ he murmured at last, although he was not really paying attention to what he was saying. ‘I have a knife.’ He cast about for a stump or rock on which he might sit and rest for a moment. Nothing. ‘Well. Yes. Of course. Of course.’

  She looked at him with disappointment, as if he were something purchased and found to be faulty or rotten. Despite himself, Lesage felt insulted, and he attempted to draw himself up once more. ‘But tell me, madame: why did they take your son away?’

  ‘There are men roaming the countryside who steal children and take them to Paris to sell. There is such a trade. But what is it? Why do you look at me like that?’

  Lesage cowered as the odd woman reached out and grabbed his forearm, although he dared not strike out for fear of further antagonising her.

  She shook him as one might a child. Her eyes were wide and wild. ‘Tell me. What is it you know? Have you seen my son?’

  He glanced down at the hand that gripped him so tightly, tendons flexed against the freckled skin of her knuckles, nub of bone at her slender wrist. Finally, he nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps. Last night I saw some children at the back of a tavern. But the tavern keeper assured me they were orphans.’ Only then did he remember he had promised the tavern keeper he wouldn’t tell anyone of the children, and silently he cursed himself.

  ‘Where is this place?’ the woman asked.

  ‘It’s called La Corne, several leagues back that way.’

  The woman stared at him for a while longer before releasing him. ‘Come. Quickly, monsieur. Take me there. You can carry my bag, for it is hard on my shoulder.’

  The day promised to be hot; already sweat was forming on Lesage’s forehead and seeping like oil into his eyes. He was exhausted and felt quite unwell after the wine and carousing of the previous evening with Scarron. He blinked, blinked again. ‘But I should get to Paris,’ he said, and was horrified at the plaintive note of misery in his voice.

  The mysterious woman laughed scornfully. ‘We have no time to waste.’

  ‘I’m not going back there, madame. Besides, I have been walking all through the night.’

  ‘Come, Monsieur Lesage. You sought me out, and now you have found me.’

  Unsure how else to respond, he spat on the ground.

  The woman glared at him. A moment passed. ‘You must do as I tell you, monsieur. I called you out from where you were with a charm so that you might walk the earth like a man. Enjoy its pleasures, eat its foods.’

  ‘Then it was indeed magic that freed me?’

  ‘Of course. What else? And, as I explained, you are bound to me until I release you. You are now my servant, monsieur.’

  Servant? Lesage attempted to smile and make light of the woman’s madness, but there was something in her tone and in the set of her mouth that forestalled such mockery. The sow was talking to him as if he were no better than an animal or child. The entire encounter was most peculiar. ‘But what if I refuse?’

  ‘Then I shall cast you back. And I wouldn’t even think of harming me – for if I die, you will also be sent back immediately. You are here by my grace alone, monsieur.’

  Forest birds called out. Dawn was breaking. Lesage glanced around. ‘Cast me back?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  He considered her warily for a moment longer before shaking his head in disgust. Taking orders from a woman! How shameful. He recalled a bear he had seen once in a sordid village in the Pyrenees, tethered to its scruffy handler by a ring through its snout. Was he no better than a wild beast? A familiar? Perhaps it was preferable to return to the galleys? No, no, no. That was ridiculous. Anything was better than that. And, besides, this was the very woman he sought. Was it not better to attempt to take advantage of the situation in order to further his own cause? But, as she brushed dirt from her dress, she appeared to him so . . . ordinary. Her clothes were dirty and patched, her boots as cracked as his own. A peasant woman.

  ‘You are truly the Forest Queen?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But I have told you where to find your son, madame. La Corne is not so far . . .’

  She straightened her hair and adjusted her scarf. ‘It’s not enough. They are dangerous men. They already attacked me once before.’ She indicated the bloodied neckline of her dress.

  ‘What did they do to you?’

  ‘It is an arrow wound. I am fortunate to be alive, I think.’

  ‘I see. And what is your name, madame? What shall I call you?’

  ‘My name is Madame Picot.’

  ‘And would you really send me back?’

  The pock-faced witch nodded. ‘Indeed I would, monsieur. Now come. There’s no time to waste. Take my sack, please.’

  ‘What is in it, madame?’

  ‘A few things. Bread and sausage, some wine.’ Then the woman, this Madame Picot, began to walk away. Frustrated and angry and unsure what else to do, Lesage wiped his forehead on his sleeve and picked up the sack. He caught up with her and they walked on in silence.

  They encountered no one on the forest road and they barely spoke, which afforded Lesage ample time to ponder his strange new predicament from as many angles as possible. It was, he had to admit, one of his great skills: an ability to assess a situation and determine immediately where any advantages might lie. When to parry, when to thrust and when to do nothing at all. It was how he had survived – not only recently in the galleys and dungeons of Marseille, but in the filthy squares and alleyways of Paris, where he had lived on the balls of his feet. Confidence was a large part of it. Confidence and wit. Yes, yes. And he smiled at the thought of La Voisin shaking her head in wonderment as he recounted the latest trick he had perpetrated against some gullible duchess or duke. Ah, she’d say as she caressed his cheek with the back of her soft, pudgy hand. You could fool the Devil himself.

  ‘And what else can you do?’ Madame Picot asked after some time. ‘What other arts?’

  He hesitated. She appeared to be guileless – but perhaps this itself was a ruse? He perceived, deep in his bones (this intuition another of his many talents), that it was wise to make himself valuable to her, and a sense of his own importance – itself chained and cowering for so long in the dungeon of his heart – stirred in his breast. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Well, I can, ah, combine ingredients – metals and the like – in favourable combinations. Some alchemy, if you will. If called upon I am most experienced in making good marriages, so if you should need any assistance in that area – unlikely for a woman as beautiful as yourself – then I would be delighted to oblige. I have some knowledge of the stars and their movements and, as such, I can read a person’s destiny. Make a map of their life yet to come. Such a thing takes time, of course. Paper. Charts and so forth.’

  Madame Picot seemed impressed. ‘You can
see the future? And are you good at this?’

  He affected a grimace of embarrassed humility. ‘Sometimes. Yes. Many, many noble people used to visit me in Paris when I was working there.’

  ‘And did you predict your own fate, then?’

  He could not suppress a sour laugh. The little bitch. This was the very taunt they had employed when he was arrested all those years ago with Abbé Mariette. If you are so accomplished, they mocked, then why are you in the Conciergerie with the rest of us?

  ‘It is much harder to read one’s own destiny, Madame Picot. Besides, it is a fickle business at the best of times. Not perfect. There are many things to consider and it is complicated, too much to even begin to explain to someone such as yourself. If I did not see my own fate clearly enough, it was not through lack of study or expertise but, rather, because of unexplained variations in the order of the universe. The cards, however. Now. They are much more accurate.’

  As he walked, Lesage rummaged through his satchel for his tarot cards, which were bundled in an old red scarf. He slowly unwound the scarf and displayed the deck facedown in the palm of his hand. Madame Picot glanced at them but, although clearly intrigued, turned away as if he were displaying a dead rat.

  ‘And what exactly can these . . . cards do, monsieur? Are they themselves magic?’

  ‘No. It’s not really like that. It’s all in the interpretation, if you understand what I mean.’ He gestured helplessly, as if attempting to conjure an explanation from the surrounding forest. ‘Like a song!’ he offered with sudden and unexpected perception. ‘A song might well be pleasing and melodious, but if the singer himself is terrible, then it will not be so enjoyable.’

  ‘Then you are a good singer?’

  Lesage leaned in and assumed a more intimate tone, as if revealing a mystery to her alone; women loved that kind of thing. ‘This is the tarot, madame. The future, the past. Everything you need to know is contained in this deck. These cards were given to me a long, long time ago in Toledo by a very old and wise Arabic scholar who entrusted me with the great learning needed to use them.’

  This was not strictly true, but a good story never did any harm. In fact, the cards were given to Lesage years ago by a slutty Parisian fish merchant called Alexandra in exchange for facilitating an introduction to a woman who might help her daughter with an inconvenient pregnancy. Stolen, most likely. The cards were more than beautiful. He had studied them in great detail over the years and come to love them more than anything he had ever possessed: the intricate batons; the red and gold cups; the King of Coins with his broad hat; the poor Hanged Man dangling upside down in his sling. How many days had he spent poring over the battered cards, marvelling at their colours and designs, unravelling their symbols and codes – those snakes, wolves, towers, queens, moons and lobsters? The permutations were fascinating and endless and they comforted him somehow.

  ‘And where did you learn such things, monsieur?’

  Lesage looked at her as he walked. He was wary. How far did her skills extend? Could she see directly into a man’s heart? ‘Even when I was a child I was fascinated by the world beneath. The hidden world, if you like. The darkest part of the forest, the deepest bend in the river. I don’t know why. I loved it when the peddlers and merchants passed through our village with their stories of distant places. Venice, London, Jerusalem. I became a wool trader and travelled to some of these places and met all sorts of people along the roads. Conjurers and magicians who claimed to have access to the secret parts of the world, to its hidden design. Like a . . . like the mechanism beneath everything, if you understand my meaning, madame. The bones beneath the skin. Then, in Paris, I met people who knew all sorts of magic and had all manner of powerful books and I was able to refine my skills. I hoped they might be able to help me with something in particular. Learning, that’s what it is. Learning. It’s science, madame, as much as a magic. One needs to learn the rules and systems. Such knowledge doesn’t come from nowhere. Oh no. Study and diligence. How I pored over those great books written by Arab scholars. And I am still learning, even after all these years. My skills in some areas are still quite rudimentary, I’m afraid.’

  It felt oddly satisfying to tell the truth for a change – to be relieved of his characteristic bravado – but he was overcome by a blush of embarrassment, as if she had somehow hoodwinked him into revealing too much. How had she drawn such an admission from him? He gestured towards the stack of tarot cards still resting on the scarf in his hand.

  ‘Perhaps I could do a reading for you now?’

  She paused walking to stare at the cards for a long while, but eventually shook her head and continued on. Lesage was amazed and disappointed that anyone could resist their dark allure.

  ‘Are you quite sure, madame? It might give us some indication of your son’s whereabouts?’

  This seemed to have the desired effect. Again she hesitated for some time, apparently deep in thought, before waving for him to take them from her sight. ‘No. Put them away, monsieur. I fear enough for my soul as it is.’

  Reluctantly, Lesage rewrapped the cards in the scarf and slipped them back into his satchel before scurrying after her. He heard a rattle of planks. A donkey cart approached them from behind. The cart was being driven by an elderly man with a long, straggly beard. Madame Picot hailed this ancient creature and asked if he might take them to the tavern called La Corne, a request to which the man acquiesced with no discernible enthusiasm.

  Madame Picot climbed aboard the low cart. ‘Come, Monsieur Lesage,’ she said.

  He looked around helplessly. No one in sight, of course. Only trees, rocks, sky. The terrible forest. The thought of running away into the woods crossed his mind, but this Madame Picot – as if reading his thoughts – shook her head at him. A sort of futile anger coursed through his bones. How could this be? Had he merely exchanged one form of slavery for another? It was worse than cruel. He felt like weeping as he eased himself onto the back of the cart. So, he thought with a chilly stab of despair, this is the pattern of the world revealing itself.

  13

  Madame Rolland had been right; Charlotte knew as soon as she spied him on the road that he was the one she had summoned. He was awkward and slump-shouldered, ruddy of cheek and almost as ugly as she had imagined such a creature might be. He was like a man, but ill-made, as if he had once been pulled apart and reassembled in haste. He smelled powerfully of stale wine and old sweat, and his cheek twitched as if at the behest of a puppeteer’s invisible thread. When he had materialised, she had felt very afraid – despite Madame Rolland’s assurances about the consecrated safety of the circle she had scratched in the road – and had to resist a powerful urge to flee into the forest at his approach.

  The old woman had been right, too, about his surly and querulous demeanour. The fellow – who called himself Lesage – was stubborn and uncooperative. He complained that he was too tired – too tired! – to walk back to the tavern where he had seen Nicolas, and she’d been forced to threaten him with return whence he came to make him do as she asked.

  The two of them sat in the back of the ambling cart. Lesage sighed loudly at regular intervals and muttered intermittently to himself, rather like a perplexed hog grumbling in its stall. The wound in Charlotte’s shoulder still troubled her greatly, especially if she twisted her torso, and at times it was painful merely to draw breath. She feared her skin would tear apart if she weren’t careful and open her heart afresh to the elements.

  From her sack, Charlotte withdrew a lump of bread and some sausage that Madame Rolland had supplied her with. She held it out to Lesage. ‘Do . . . men such as yourself eat, monsieur?’

  He looked at her with something like disgust, although it was hard to tell, for it might have been the natural cast of his unlovely features. ‘Of course I do.’

  She tore off a portion of each and handed them to him.

  ‘I’m still not sure wh
at you expect me to do,’ he muttered in a low voice, his mouth stuffed with food.

  Charlotte glanced at the old cart driver, who displayed no interest in their conversation and most likely could not even hear them above the clatter of his cart and clop of his donkey. ‘Take me to where my son is. Help me to free him.’

  ‘But the boy is chained up. I told you this. What do you think I can do for him?’

  ‘Do you not have some special talents in that area? Some way to free him?’

  The fellow wiped breadcrumbs from his greasy lips. ‘And are you not a sorceress, madame? Can you not do something?’

  She hushed the rude fellow with a wave of her hand and looked away. After some time, the cart driver called to his donkey and the cart halted with a jerk. The driver turned around on his seat to face them, then pointed further along the road. In the distance she saw a squat building with a thatched roof. Smoke trickled from its chimney and a few chickens strutted about in the yard. She could smell the hot iron and cold sparks of a blacksmith’s forge somewhere nearby. The old driver said he was leaving the road to get to his own farm, but that they might easily walk the rest of the way to the tavern, if it were all the same with them. She thanked him and lowered herself gingerly to the ground, indicating for Lesage to follow – which he did, though only after a small but pointed display of reluctance.

  Charlotte brushed straw and dust from her dress and watched the cart disappear into the forest along a narrow track. She turned to Lesage. ‘This is the place?’

  With a throw of his chin, Lesage indicated the building she had seen. ‘There. He’s at the back of that tavern.’

  She looked around. On one side were fields of barley and, further on, a dense copse of elm and oak trees, probably clustered along a river or creek. On the other side of the road the forest loomed. The breeze that drifted from between its trunks was cool and thick with the scent of night-damp foliage.

  ‘So,’ Lesage said, squaring his shoulders and stretching as if they had come to an agreement after protracted negotiation, ‘now that you know where your son is, I think I’ll wait here while you make your way. I assured the tavern keeper I wouldn’t reveal anything about the children . . .’