by Tania Bayard
The king disported himself like a child, darting in and out among the guests, speaking to some, slapping others on the back, always in motion with his peculiar lurching gait. He leapt into the center of the room, where acrobats, tumblers, and jugglers performed, and clapped loudly for attention. A clown held out a large metal ring for a small black dog to jump through, and the king grabbed it. He swung it high over his head and roared with glee as the little dog tried in vain to reach it. The watching crowd laughed and applauded. The queen laughed too, but her eyes were troubled. This was long before the king’s first fit of madness, but Alips knew that even then the queen was aware that there was something amiss with her husband. The Duchess of Burgundy knew it, too. She’d touched the queen’s arm, pointed to the king, and grimaced.
No one knew more about events at the court than the ugly little poet Eustache Deschamps, who was always around, commenting on everyone’s misfortunes, including his own, and writing about the perils of life at the palace. He was bitter and disillusioned and, because of his acid tongue, heartily disliked by many people. She herself had once been the object of that sharp tongue when he’d fallen under the spell of Catherine de Fastavarin’s malicious talk. He’d sought her out so he could say, ‘I know about you dwarfs. You bring bad luck. Misshapen limbs, misshapen minds.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ she’d retorted.
The little man had looked at her with surprise, and then started to laugh. After that, they’d become friends, and she’d learned much from him. Now she decided to seek his help, because of all the people at the court, he was the most likely to know about the Duchess of Burgundy’s devious ways. She’d seen him in one of the palace orchards the day before, and since it was another warm day, she thought she might find him there again.
In the gardens, where there were a few early snowdrops and crocuses, it was almost like spring. She walked past a bare plot that would soon be fragrant with lavender, rosemary, and other sweet-smelling herbs, wandered through a rose garden where prickly stems tore at her dress, and entered an orchard. There, instead of the poet, she found the king and his brother sitting on a bench under the leafless branches of a cherry tree.
And the Duchess of Burgundy, on the other side of a hedge, watching them.
One of the gardeners had left a wheelbarrow on a path. Alips crouched behind it and stayed perfectly still, observing the scene. The king sat slumped against Louis, nervously biting his fingernails and clutching his breast as though he felt a great pain there. Louis had his arm around his brother, not speaking, but moving his lips as if in silent prayer. She felt desperately sorry for them, the monarch who feared he would at any moment suffer another attack of madness, and his brother, suffering because he believed he’d caused the deaths of four of his brother’s friends.
The duchess, who had a cruel smile on her lips, showed no such sympathy. She seemed to cast an evil shadow over the brothers. Surely this is the shadow the queen feels, Alips thought. The duchess couldn’t have hurled the flaming torch at the king herself. She smiled as she pictured the big woman trying to clamber up the steps to the musicians’ balcony in her long houppelande and voluminous hairdo. No, she wouldn’t have done it by herself. She must have bribed someone else to do it.
If only she could find out who that other person was before the shadow overtook the lives of everyone at the court.
TWENTY-FOUR
As for chambermaids and house servants, dear sister, have them chosen by Dame Agnes the beguine.
From a book of moral and practical advice for a young wife, Paris, 1393
Ever since Klara’s arrival, Christine’s children had been quarrelsome and difficult. Now Christine was shocked to find that she herself, never the most patient person in the world, was growing increasingly short-tempered. The morning after she’d worked late and found herself alone in the queen’s chambers, she decided to stay home and rest, but that was impossible because of all the squabbling going on downstairs. She went down and ordered everyone but Klara to go outside. She took the girl by the shoulders and made her sit down on a bench.
‘This can’t continue, Klara. You are a guest here. We don’t have to keep you, you know. We can just take you back to your house and let you fend for yourself. Surely there are plenty of servants there who will make sure you don’t starve, even though that’s what you deserve.’
‘I don’t care, just as long as that woman, the beguine, isn’t there.’
Georgette, who stood nearby, trying to untangle the strings of her apron, said, ‘What would she do by herself? She didn’t learn anything from the book her husband wrote for her.’
‘Maybe it’s time she did,’ Christine said. She turned to her mother. ‘Why don’t you teach her how to cook something? Georgette can learn, too. Why not show her how to make another of your onion tarts?’
‘As long as I don’t have to chop the onions,’ Georgette said.
Francesca went into the pantry and returned with flour, oil, and onions. ‘I’ll let you make the dough, Georgette. But I’ll put it into the pan and put the pan into the fire.’ She went to a shelf, got down her treasured tart pan, and set it carefully on the table.
‘I know what to do,’ Georgette said. ‘I’ve watched you often enough.’
‘Then you can show Klara,’ Francesca said.
Georgette got a bowl and started to mix the dough, while Francesca chopped the onions. When some pieces of onion fell to the floor, Georgette said, ‘You’re always mad at me when that happens.’
‘I suppose I shouldn’t be,’ Francesca said, laughing and wiping her watering eyes.
Klara wasn’t interested in the onion tart. When Goblin wandered over, smelled the onions, and turned up his nose, she picked him up and buried her nose in his white coat.
Christine said, ‘We have to find your husband, Klara. Surely you must have some idea where he is.’
‘I don’t,’ Klara said.
‘Well, think. Who would know? What about the beguine, Agnes?’
‘I don’t know anything about her,’ Klara sniffed.
‘Not even her last name?’
‘I don’t even know where she came from.’
‘She lives at the beguinage on the rue de l’Ave-Maria,’ Francesca said.
‘That’s not far from here,’ Christine said. ‘I’m going to see her. Do you want to come with me, Klara?’
Klara turned away, tears in her eyes.
‘Did she treat you so badly?’ Francesca asked.
‘She liked my brother better than me. Willem and I used to be good friends, until she came. Then he would hardly talk to me anymore. And she didn’t let me have my way with the servants. She was more interested in telling me to say my prayers and think of my sins. Just like Martin.’
‘Your husband wrote about lots of other things,’ Christine said. ‘What about all those recipes?’
‘Who needs them?’ Klara said.
‘You do,’ Francesca said. ‘And you need all the other instructions your husband gives you about caring for him and his household.’
Christine knew that her mother would soon be telling Klara what a woman’s goal in life should be, and she didn’t want to hear it.
‘I’m going to find Agnes,’ she said, and she left the house.
The community where the beguines lived was not far from the Hôtel Saint-Pol; Christine had passed it many times. Such beguinages existed all over Europe, particularly in Flanders, and the women who lived in them were dedicated to lives of chastity and good works. But they were not actual nuns; they were allowed to keep private property, and they could leave their communities at any time. Christine understood how it had happened that Martin du Bois had engaged Agnes to look after his young wife, for beguines often went outside the beguinages to work, and many of them were housekeepers and teachers of children in other people’s homes.
The beguinage was enclosed by walls, and it consisted of numerous houses where individual beguines lived, a hospital, a chapel, a
nd a school for children. Christine took a deep breath when she entered because she was apprehensive about meeting the grand mistress, who laid down the rules of the community and maintained discipline. The woman was coming toward her down a long hallway, and as she looked at her, she couldn’t help wondering why the beguines wore such unattractive clothes – wide, shapeless habits that completely hid their bodies and made them the object of ridicule by people in the street. But she had little time to think about this. The grand mistress descended on her with a frown that indicated visitors were not welcome.
‘I’m looking for someone named Agnes,’ Christine said quickly.
The grand mistress looked her up and down before she said, ‘There is only one person with that name here. Come with me.’
The woman strode through a courtyard, past small cottages where some of the wealthier sisters lived and into a large communal area where the poorer beguines lived together. Four of these women sat talking together at a long table. In their shapeless habits and big white veils that nearly hid their faces, they all looked alike.
The grand mistress went up to one who seemed broader than the others and said, ‘This lady has come to see you, Agnes.’ She turned and walked away.
Christine looked around the room, which was bare except for the table at which the beguines sat, and a large fireplace. A yellow cat lying by the fireplace raised his head and looked at her, yawned, and went back to sleep.
Agnes motioned to a place on the bench beside her, and said, ‘I suppose you’re here about Klara.’ Her voice was deep and gruff.
‘Yes. My mother felt sorry for her, and she brought her to our house. Now we need to find her husband so she can go back where she belongs. Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’
‘Klara can’t stay with us. She’s upsetting my children.’
Agnes smiled slightly. ‘I can imagine.’
The three other women at the table didn’t seem to be paying attention to their conversation, but Christine leaned close to the woman before she asked in a low voice, ‘How long have you worked for Martin du Bois?’
‘Several years.’
‘Who took care of Klara and Willem before Martin du Bois hired you?’
‘My impression is that they were pretty much on their own.’
‘Martin must be a kind man to have brought them away from Courtrai and to care for them as though they were his own children.’
‘He is a kind man, that much is true.’
Christine noticed that Agnes spoke with a slight accent, and she asked, ‘Where are you from? You don’t speak like a Parisian.’
‘Paris is my home now.’
Christine waited for her to say something more, but she was silent. The three other women got up and walked away. The yellow cat followed them. A log shifted in the fireplace with a loud crackling noise that echoed in the empty room.
‘Surely you can tell me something that will help me find out whether Martin du Bois is dead or alive. And where I can find him if he still lives.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘What about the boy, Willem?’
Agnes looked away.
Christine realized she would get nowhere with the woman. ‘Thank you for your help, Agnes,’ she said, although she’d gotten no help at all. Agnes merely sat in her ugly beguine habit and stared at her impassively.
Christine walked away, more disturbed than before, because she knew the beguine was hiding something.
TWENTY-FIVE
The old lion reseth woodly on men, and only grunteth on women, and reseth seldom on children, except in great hunger.
Bartholomaeus Anglicus, thirteenth century
She left the beguinage and turned down the rue de l’Ave-Maria, where she saw Marion and Klara coming toward her.
Klara stepped back, but Marion pulled her forward. ‘I hoped we’d find you here,’ she said. ‘I went to your house, and your mother told me where you were. She didn’t object when I said I wanted to take Klara out for a while. In fact, she seemed pleased.’
‘I can imagine.’ Christine couldn’t help smiling. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To visit Loyse and the lions.’
‘I suppose you think I should be watching your mother make tarts,’ Klara said to Christine.
‘It wouldn’t hurt you to learn something from my mother,’ Christine said.
‘Enough of this,’ Marion said. She took Christine’s hand on one side and Klara’s on the other and pulled them down the street toward the palace gardens. A group of richly dressed courtiers, out enjoying the sunshine, stared at them as they passed. The feathers in their beaver hats bobbed up and down as they put their heads together and made rude comments.
Klara heard what they said, and she looked at the ground, embarrassed. Marion stood tall and told Klara to do the same. ‘You’re just as good as they are,’ she said. ‘Don’t pay any attention.’
Christine had to laugh. She’d been depressed about her meeting with Agnes, but Marion made her feel better. She said to Klara, ‘I’ve been to see your beguine. I can understand why you aren’t happy with her.’
Klara looked at her in surprise. ‘What did she tell you?’
‘Nothing. That’s just the problem.’
‘She doesn’t know where Martin is?’
‘That’s what she says.’
They’d entered the cherry orchard, and Klara walked through it quickly, hurried to the lions’ stockade, and peered through the palings. Loyse appeared and opened the gate. Christine stood aghast. ‘What’s going on, Marion?’
‘You don’t have to be afraid. Those lions won’t hurt anyone. Not unless they’re provoked.’
Christine was astonished to see Klara walk right into the stockade with Loyse. ‘You don’t need to go in if you don’t want to,’ Marion said.
‘I don’t,’ Christine said.
‘That’s all right. We’ll stay out here. I have something to tell you.’ Loyse had left the gate to the lions’ stockade open, and she stepped over and closed it.
Christine laughed. ‘Surely you’re not afraid those old lions will get out. You assured me a while ago that they’re so fat and lazy they can hardly move. I think you told me they’ve lost all their teeth.’
‘They have their teeth, most of them, anyway. But you don’t have to worry; they won’t eat you unless you provoke them.’
‘I suppose that’s reassuring.’ Christine went to the gate and checked to make sure it was firmly closed. ‘What were you going to tell me? Have you found out where Martin du Bois is?’
‘Not exactly. But I know where he isn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you know he has a house in the country? Klara told me. It’s near La Courtille. I went there to see if I could find him.’
‘You went there? It’s a long walk!’
‘I didn’t walk. I borrowed a horse.’
Christine put her hand over her mouth so Marion wouldn’t see her laughing. Marion did see, of course.
‘What’s so funny? Riding’s not difficult, you know.’
‘I’m not laughing at you. I’m picturing the expressions on the faces of the people in the street.’
‘I have to admit, everyone looked surprised.’
‘I see you got back in one piece. Did you learn anything?’
‘Not much. He wasn’t there, of course, and no one could tell me where he was. But I found out that he’d borrowed some clothes from one of his workers. Which means …’
‘He’s disguised himself. If he’s still alive, that is.’
‘The other interesting thing I learned is that Henri Le Picart got there to ask about him before I did.’
‘The swine!’
‘That’s what I said, too. But he didn’t get any more information than I did.’
They heard crunching and chewing sounds coming from inside the stockade, and they looked through the palings. Klara and Loyse were feeding the lions. ‘Unbelievable,
’ Christine said.
‘Not really. Klara likes your little dog. Why not lions?’
‘Does Loyse talk to Klara?’ Christine asked.
‘Have you ever heard Loyse talk?’
‘No.’
‘Not even the night you and Michel thought you were going to be eaten by those lions?’
‘She drove them back, but I didn’t hear her say anything.’
‘Of course she didn’t say anything.’ Marion stamped her foot. ‘Don’t you see, Lady Christine? Loyse doesn’t know how to speak. She’s deaf!’
Christine stepped back and put her hand to her head. ‘I should have guessed! That’s why her mother mistreated her. She thought that because she couldn’t hear and didn’t speak, she was possessed by demons.’
‘Loyse isn’t possessed by demons. She isn’t stupid, either. In fact, she’s very intelligent. But who would know? Everyone treats her as though she were a monster.’
‘How did you find this out?’
‘I have friends who work near here, on the rue de Pute-y-Muce. I used to see Loyse’s mother, Blanche, coming to visit her. She wasn’t as cruel to Loyse as you think. She just didn’t know what to do with her.’
‘Does Loyse know her mother is dead?’
‘How could she? But I know she wonders where she is.’
‘How do you know that since she can’t speak?’
‘She used a stick to draw something in the sand. It looked like a tall woman. Then she pointed to the picture and back to herself. I knew she meant herself and her mother. She wanted to know why her mother hadn’t come to see her.’
‘And you had no way of telling her what happened to Blanche.’
‘No. And I don’t think I want to tell her.’
‘She has to find out sometime.’