“But if she fails, if this gets worse—by God, you will all suffer.”
That’s what you think, Lorenzo thought. If there’s one thing a Boccaccio knows, it is a contract.
Chapter Eighteen
They stripped off Montguillon’s cloak, his scapular, and his robe. Finally, they removed his hair shirt. Blood and puss had seeped from his wound and stiffened his undergarments. It scabbed to his chest hair and stained a trail all the way to his belly. His body smelled like a leprosarium. Lorenzo shuddered in revulsion.
Old scars crossed his back and shoulders, so many threads from so many self-flagellations that the underlying flesh was thick and ropy. His bones stood out on his back and ribs. Lucrezia approached with her balm, her face like wax, her eyes never dropping to the man’s body.
“Let go of me,” the prior said. “No, not her. She won’t touch me. Keep her away!”
“Damn you,” Marco said. “Hold still. You,” he said to Simon. “Help us.”
Simon stood a pace back with his hands buried in his sleeves. “I can’t. I mean, to touch him in this condition—I won’t do it.”
Lorenzo had no idea if Simon was terrified that the attack was contagious, or if it would violate the man’s vows somehow, but he had no time for foolishness.
The brothers couldn’t keep Montguillon still by themselves. Not here in the chair. His wrists were slick with sweat and he wouldn’t stop struggling. He arched his back and bucked out of the chair when Lucrezia reached out her long, delicate fingers, which she’d dipped into her balm. He kicked out and his heel connected with her midsection at the top of her bodice. She fell back with a cry.
Tullia, who had been growling from her banishment in the corner, now sprang to her feet with a snarl.
“No!” Lucrezia snapped at the dog. “Lie down.”
“Get him to the bed,” Lorenzo said. “Martin, help us.”
Martin came in and the three men hauled Montguillon to the bed. They tied his wrists and ankles with belts and girdles from Lucrezia’s wardrobe. The prior’s flesh burned with fever. His protests turned to a raving, incoherent babble, a mixture of Latin, French and Provençal. His eyes rolled back in their sockets and his tongue dangled, with drool leaking from the corners of his mouth.
He cried out at Lucrezia’s first touch. “Harlot! Touch me not!”
“Shut your mouth,” Marco said. “I’ll cut out your tongue if you insult her again, by God.”
“No,” she said, her tone surprisingly gentle. “He’s out of his mind, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“You give him too much credit, my lady,” Lorenzo said.
The prior’s struggles weakened as Lucrezia’s fingers worked the balm into his wounds. His cries turned to moans. Tears ran down his face. Lucrezia didn’t stop and Lorenzo couldn’t help staring in admiration at her nerve.
Blood and pus fouled her hands when she finished. She plunged them into the water basin on the end table and scrubbed with the stick of hard Spanish soap in a basin to one side. Midway through, Lorenzo emptied the fouled water into the chamber pot and poured fresh water from a pitcher.
“That should keep the corruption from spreading,” she said, still washing. “But those wounds will need bandaging.”
“You can do that, at least?” Marco asked Simon.
“I could summon someone, my lord.”
“Oh, could you?” Marco said in a withering tone. “How very helpful.”
Simon left.
Lucrezia returned to the bed with her tincture. Lorenzo tightened the belts at Montguillon’s wrists in anticipation of more struggling, but the fight had gone out of him. Sweat beaded and dripped off his tonsured scalp. His chest heaved and his pulse throbbed at his temples. When Lucrezia lifted the vial to his lips, he barely resisted. She spoke in soothing tones, like a nursemaid. Very gentle, considering how he had belittled, insulted, and accused her of the most atrocious sins. He coughed and sputtered, but most of it went down.
Within moments of finishing the tincture, the prior turned his head to one side, released a tremendous sigh, and fell into a deep slumber. Lucrezia changed the water in the basin again and washed her hands once more, this time scrubbing until it seemed her skin would come off. Lorenzo handed her a goblet of wine when she finished, which she took with trembling hands.
But before she drank, she patted and comforted Tullia. The mastiff had obeyed her mistress’s command to stay in the corner, but only with what appeared to be the greatest effort, trembling and whining. She nuzzled Lucrezia’s hand.
Both brothers studied Lucrezia as she first caressed her dog, then drank the wine. Marco broke the silence first.
“That was impressive. Have you cared for the sick before, my lady?”
“I’ve spent time among the mendicants and the infirm at the Hôtel Dieu. Since my husband left me, I have turned over other ways to spend my life. Perhaps a convent, if I can find one that will let me minister to the ill and dying without surrendering my books.” A smile crossed her lips. “I could never do that.”
“A convent?” Marco said. “Surely not, my lady.”
Since her husband was gone? Lorenzo wondered about that.
Lucrezia had been declared a widow and free to remarry or take vows, so someone must have thought he was dead. But left out of her story was what had happened to Rigord Ducy after she turned him into a wolf. Not drowned, she’d admitted, but was he or wasn’t he dead?
“Will Montguillon turn?” Lorenzo asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think I arrested it, but I can’t be sure.”
“How long until we know?”
“Hard to say. Giuseppe seemed to suffer for some time in Lord Nemours’s dungeon. One night and one morning and the prior had already begun to turn.”
“Maybe it’s like the pox,” Lorenzo said. “It destroys one man, but leaves his brother with a few pustules and scabs.”
“Galen might attribute this to a man’s preexisting ratios of bodily humors. Yes?”
Marco cleared his throat. “Enough of this. I’ll send servants to carry Montguillon to his own quarters, then have this room cleaned up. Will you feel safe here when he’s gone?”
“As safe as anywhere in the castle,” she said.
Simon returned with one of the chambermaids, who carried bandages. The girl balked when she saw the prior and his wounds, but Marco solved the problem as he often did when dealing with young women, through flattery and the promise of a generous recompense. In this case, it took five silver pennies before she cheered up enough to complete the task.
Simon wore a disgusted expression as the girl rolled Montguillon onto his side to get the bandages in place.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” Lorenzo asked.
“She shouldn’t be touching him like that.”
Lorenzo spoke through clenched teeth. “Then why don’t you do it yourself?”
“Are you a virgin, child?” Simon asked the girl.
The chambermaid blushed.
“Don’t answer that,” Lucrezia said with a sharp look at the monk. “And you, go back to your chambers, you are not needed.”
“I must stay with the prior.”
“Then sit down and be quiet.” She pointed to the chair next to the hearth until he obeyed.
They waited until the girl had finished, taken her silver pennies from Marco’s coin purse with a curtsey, and left them alone.
“What now?” Lorenzo asked.
“I say we return to Paris,” Marco said. “It’s late to start, but we can make it halfway if we leave within the hour. We’ll find somewhere secure, and complete the journey in the morning.”
Lorenzo glanced at the sleeping prior. “What about him?”
“Nemours’s men can guard him. We have a contract—we’ll leave the other copy with Simon. The terms are clear. The lady is blameless.”
“I should stay with him,” Lucrezia said. “In case he needs more aide.”
“You’ve done enough,” Marco said. “More than he deserves.”
“But the wolves . . . ”
Marco took her hand in his, a gesture that brought a scowl to Lorenzo’s face that he wasn’t quick enough to disguise before Lucrezia glanced in his direction. A slight frown came over her face as she met his eyes. She did not, however, remove her hand from his brother’s grip.
“Come with me to Italy,” he said. “You’ll be safe there, I promise. My brother will dispose of your French lands and property while he hires a new agent to replace Giuseppe.”
Come with me. Not come with us. Oh, and Lorenzo would be the one to stay, while Marco guarded her along the road. For a moment Lorenzo was tempted to engage in the same contest, to stake claim to the center of the argument as if the two brothers were jostling for position on a chess board instead of talking about a woman.
“I couldn’t do that,” she said.
“You can trust us with your property,” Marco said. “But we’ll draw up a contract if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
Her eyebrow raised. “A fair contract?”
Lorenzo glanced at Simon, but the monk seemed lost in thought, staring at his sleeping master.
“Trust isn’t the issue,” Lorenzo said. “The lady knows we won’t cheat her, and I’m sure we’re only concerned about her safety. Isn’t that right, Brother?”
“Of course,” Marco answered quickly. But as Lucrezia’s gaze drifted back to the bed, he gave Lorenzo a sharp look.
“The issue is what to do about the wolves,” Lorenzo said. “We have to destroy them.”
“Why, for revenge?” Marco said.
“In part. They took Fournier, turned Giuseppe—agents in the employ of the Boccaccio. They attacked the lady. Killed one of Nemours’s guards in the dungeon.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” his brother said.
“But it’s more than revenge. We have a responsibility to stop them. They’ll kill again. Isn’t that right, my lady?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“That doesn’t mean we have to do it,” Marco said. “We’ve proven, and we have signed documents stating, that Lucrezia is not in any way responsible for this devilry. She says she was marked, and that’s bad fortune. But if we remove her from France, she’ll be out of danger.”
“So we leave France to her fate?”
“France will survive.” Marco smiled. “She survived the English and the Burgundians. What are a few wolves?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Your brother is right, Marco,” Lucrezia said. “Last night, after the attack, the wolves fell on the village and carried off several children. They kill people every night. Someone has to stop them.”
“Well,” Marco said. “I suppose if we hired men-at-arms to guard the lady while she fled the country. Then we could stay behind and—”
“I’m not fleeing the country,” she said. “I’m fighting these wolves myself.”
“My lady, I can’t allow this,” Marco said.
“You can’t prevent it, you mean.”
“Tell her,” Marco said to Lorenzo. “If she’s marked, we have to protect her.”
But resolve was flashing in Lucrezia’s eyes, and as much as Lorenzo would like to see her out of harm’s way, he understood that she felt responsible. She wouldn’t leave the fight with the wolves in other hands while she gathered her skirts and ran for her life.
“The people who know how to defeat these wolves are in this room,” Lorenzo said carefully. “The lady can cure the wounds. She has a mastiff strong enough to fight them, who knows their scent. And these beasts know the lady, as well. They’ll return to her.” His eyes drifted back to the bed, then to Simon, who still sat without comment in his chair. “And as for the Blackfriars . . . ”
“You still want to deal with Montguillon?” Marco said. “That treacherous . . . you’ll find a knife in your back, mark my words.”
“Listen to you now. Where was this concerned brother when I was ordered to present myself at the monastery?”
“Your penance is not the issue.”
“They stripped me, chained me up, and winched me off my feet. Then an old monk beat me. It lasted hours. That’s your penance, that’s Montguillon’s character. And now you act surprised that he’s bloodthirsty.”
“What a touching story,” Marco said. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to weasel your way into the lady’s affections by gaining her sympathy.”
“You think that’s what this is about?” Lorenzo said, fuming. “You think I want people to know? You’re a fool. There’s no gaining sympathy—it’s humiliating. To walk through the streets wearing a yellow cross. To admit they hung you naked and worked you over like a common thief. And that wasn’t the first time. I’ve been stretched, burned, and even been gibbeted as part of my punishment. Naked, exposed to the elements.”
“What elements? It was June at the time.”
“You know nothing about it, so shut your mouth. People jeer, throw stones at your cage. One day, a boy about six years old jabbed me through the bars with a long stick, trying to poke it up my anus. All afternoon—the little blighter was relentless. All I could do was rage and curse.”
He remembered Lucrezia and stopped.
“I beg your pardon, my lady.”
“My friends,” Lucrezia said in a gentle tone. “We need to decide about the prior.”
“I was unaware we’d agreed about facing the wolves in the first place,” Marco grumbled.
“I believe we have,” she said. “What we haven’t decided is whether or not we’ll ally ourselves with Henri Montguillon.”
“Is that a serious suggestion?” Lorenzo asked.
“Listen,” she said. “Montguillon captured at least one man who was changing and had him gibbeted over the walls of the Cité. He has traveled up and down the Troyes road. If he shared his information, together we might bring them down. Don’t you agree?”
“I say no,” Marco said.
Lorenzo was still angry with Marco, but he put aside emotion. “Whatever else, I agree with my brother on this much. He’ll turn on us.”
“We have a contract,” she said.
“Until we give him an opening. Then he will try, at least.”
Lucrezia took a sip of wine. Then, as if she hadn’t heard the other two negate her idea, she turned to Simon. “What do you think? Would the prior help us hunt down and kill these wolves?”
Simon looked thoughtful. He rubbed at the fringe of hair running around the edge of his tonsured scalp.
“He will most certainly continue his pursuit,” he said. “He’s relentless. But to deal with a known witch—I mean, someone accused of witchcraft. That I doubt.”
“She’s not accused of witchcraft anymore,” Lorenzo said.
“Perhaps not legally,” Simon said. “But once thought, such things cannot be unthought.”
Lorenzo allowed a humorless smile. “That sounds like heresy. If you can’t change a man’s thoughts, why torture him until he recants?”
“We are only reminding people what they already knew, before the devil deceived them. And we do not torture.”
“You see?” Lorenzo asked his brother. “This is how they think.”
Marco looked troubled.
“Anyway,” Marco said to Lucrezia after a long pause. “You heard the monk—Montguillon wouldn’t help us.”
“We can try,” she said. “And if he refuses, we’ll do it alone.”
“And you’re determined to confront these things?” Marco said.
Lucrezia nodded. “Yes. We must try.”
“If we don’t, more people will die,” Lorenzo added.
His brother let out a long sigh. He stared into the fire. When he looked up, fresh resolve glowed in his eyes, a determination like the day they’d crossed the Alpine pass in the middle of a snowstorm.
“Then I’ll stand by your side.”
Chapter Nineteen
L
ucrezia sat on the opposite side of the banquet table from Montguillon. The prior wouldn’t look at her. Instead, he pushed aside the venison on his plate in its rich gravy, and picked at the vegetables with his fingers. There was a two-tine fork and a napkin, but he either didn’t know how to use them or dismissed them as effete Italian imports.
She’d dressed modestly, in a slate gown lined with velvet, with a russet dress and a white chemisette. A garland adorned with winter berries rested on her head, made for her by a woman from the village. She’d worn the most modest clothing in her wardrobe—the gown with the tighter bodice and the dress with the heart-shaped decolletage remained upstairs—but she imagined she still looked too feminine for the prior’s comfort. But Lord Nemours’s steward had set the placements and put them across from each other.
Marco and Lorenzo sat on either side of her. The older brother ate with gusto, and Lorenzo seemed even more ravenous. He cut off enormous chunks of dripping venison, then mopped the sauce with hunks torn from a loaf of bread. A mountain of turnips and onions disappeared in giant forkfuls. It wasn’t the most elegant way of eating, but the sight cheered her. He must be feeling better.
Montguillon didn’t have such an appetite. But at least he was no longer raving. He’d shed the black hairs while he slept away the afternoon, and when she peeled back his bandages (over his objections, of course), she was pleased to see the wound healing over.
Such a quick recovery was more than he deserved. It was an uncharitable thought, but she struggled to dismiss it.
“We should have left this morning,” Montguillon said. “But I suppose there was no choice. I was in no condition for the road.”
The brothers looked up from their food, scowling. Lorenzo was visibly biting back a retort. If the prior hadn’t been so stubborn, they would be long gone.
“It was warm today,” Lucrezia said to break the tension. “But now it has frozen up again. I don’t think the sleigh will carry us back. The ruts in the road will be hard as stone.”
“That rules out wheeled carriages, too,” Lorenzo said. “We’ll have to ride.”
“And the woman comes with us?” Montguillon asked.
He’d hesitated when saying woman, as if he’d started to say witch instead. She was willing to let the insult go, but both brothers stiffened in their chairs on either side of her. It was the second time in as many minutes that they’d shown their anger without speaking. The situation was altogether too volatile.
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