In the Shadow of the Enemy

by Tania Bayard

  ‘I will compensate you well,’ Jacquemin said. ‘When you have finished, bring it to me at my shop on the rue des Rosiers; anyone there can tell you where it is.’

  Christine nodded. Gilles was smiling and rubbing his hands together. Let him think what he likes, she said to herself. She put the book in a small sack she always carried in case she needed to buy something for her mother at the market, left the library, went quickly down the spiral staircase, crossed the moat, and stepped into the street, where she nearly collided with a man in a torn brown jerkin. He turned away before she could reprimand him for not watching where he was going.

  As she walked up the street, she couldn’t help feeling that the man was following her. She arrived at the water trough at the entrance to the Grand Pont and was trying to escape from the beggars who approached her with outstretched hands when she thought she saw him again. She hurried to the church of Saint-Jacques-la-Boucherie, darted in, sank down onto a bench at the back of the empty nave, and looked around the church, breathing deeply.

  The sun had come out, and light streamed in through the colored glass windows, touching the statues adorning the pillars. They seemed to be watching her: Saint Catherine of Alexandria holding a spiked wheel, Saint Dorothy carrying a basket of roses, Saint Barbara clutching the tower in which she’d been imprisoned by her father. She winced when she looked at a figure holding pair of pincers with a tooth in them. Saint Apollonia had been tortured by having all her teeth pulled out, and this was the saint to whom Francesca prayed whenever she had a toothache. Saint Mary of Egypt, a reformed prostitute with long hair covering her naked body, was smiling; she was pleased because it seemed that Christine had finally persuaded Marion to change her profession.

  Someone slid onto the bench next to her. The man in the torn brown jerkin and muddy boots said, ‘You’ve been looking for me. Here I am. I’m Martin du Bois.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I’ve been to Flanders twice in the winter and twice in the summer, first when the king defeated the Flemish at Roosebeke … I have lots of complaints about that country. On the road I was covered with a mantle of disgusting mud. My horse and I sank into it up to our necks, and we were there for a long time, with all my baggage. When we came out of it, we were black as ashes.

  Eustache Deschamps (c. 1340–1404), Ballade 17

  Christine stared at the man. She’d pictured Klara’s husband as old and decrepit, but Martin du Bois, though certainly past middle age, was far from infirm. He was a large, robust man with a full head of dark-brown hair that showed only a trace of white, and a weathered but still handsome face. Not a man to be scorned by his wife because he was too old, he seemed more virile than many younger men she knew.

  She found her voice. ‘If you’ve known I’ve been looking for you, why have you waited to come to me?’

  ‘I need your help. I’ve learned you are someone I can trust.’

  Christine thought it should be the other way around. Could she trust him? After all, he’d disappeared the night of the fire at the palace, and he seemed to have known the king’s life was in danger. He’d left his young wife without a word, and he’d done nothing to reassure the young woman that he was still alive.

  ‘We have a lot to talk about, Martin du Bois,’ she said.

  He stood up and strode up the nave of the church, peered into each of the chapels, and walked around every column. When he had assured himself that no one was hiding in the shadows, he came back and sat on the bench again.

  Christine asked, ‘Do you know your wife is at my house?’

  ‘I do.’

  Christine couldn’t help thinking of Henri Le Picart. Had Martin been talking to him? She was exasperated with Henri; the irritating little man always left her guessing.

  ‘Klara doesn’t tell us much about you, but we know you brought her and her brother back from Courtrai.’

  ‘I was there with the Duke of Berry.’

  ‘Did you take part in the sack?’

  ‘No. But I saw everything.’

  Christine shuddered, remembering the reports she’d heard of the massacre. ‘What justification was there for the slaughter of all those innocent people?’

  ‘There’s no way to justify it. But I can understand how it happened. It was winter, there were fierce winds, blinding rains, bitter cold. When our horses weren’t sliding around on the ice, they were mired in mud, often up to their necks. After the victory at Roosebeke, the soldiers were so wretched that by the time they reached Courtrai, their lust for revenge against the Flemish was out of control.’

  ‘And so they committed unspeakable acts of brutality!’

  ‘I know. I didn’t take part in it. I was just one of the duke’s secretaries.’

  ‘How did you find Klara and Willem?’

  ‘I saw them weeping and calling for their parents. I just swept them up and carried them away.’

  ‘Did you give any thought to what you would do with them when you got back to Paris?’

  ‘I thought only of caring for two children who’d lost their parents. I was married long ago, when I was young. My wife died in childbirth, and I’d lived by myself for many years. It pleased me to think I would no longer be alone.’

  He shifted uneasily on the bench and sat for a moment with his head bowed. When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes.

  ‘It didn’t work out well; Willem hated me, and all the French, for what was done to his parents. And now Klara seems to resent me, too. I discovered she has some cousins here in France, and I thought I should take her to live with them. But after I met them, I decided they were not the kind of people who would have a good influence on her. And heaven knows, she needs some good influences. I’ve done everything I could to bring her up properly, even teaching her to read and write. But as she’s grown older, she’s become more difficult. I thought marriage would help, but it hasn’t.’

  Christine said, ‘I talked to your beguine. She didn’t seem sorry to be away from Klara.’

  Martin inhaled deeply. ‘I thought Agnes would be good for Klara. She’d heard I was raising two children on my own, and she came to my house and asked me to hire her so she could help.’

  ‘I went to see her, to find out whether she knew where you had gone. She was very secretive about herself.’

  ‘I don’t know much about her, either. She may have come from the north; she spoke Flemish with Willem. I had hoped she would set a good example for Klara, but Klara never liked her. After Willem ran away, things got worse.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  He got up from the bench, went to the door of the church, and looked out. Then he came back and sat next to Christine again. ‘Willem means to kill me,’ he said in a low voice.

  A cloud passed over the sun, and the church grew dark. Christine shivered. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘He left signs.’ He shifted on the bench. ‘The soldiers leaving Courtrai took the golden spurs the Flemish had hung in their church. Willem knew I had two of those spurs, and when he ran away a few years ago, he took them with him.’

  ‘One of these spurs was found at the palace, after the fire.’

  ‘I know. That was one sign.’

  Christine’s head was reeling. ‘The fire was started by someone who threw a lighted torch from the musicians’ balcony. Are you telling me it was Willem?’

  ‘Exactly. But how did you know the torch came from the balcony?’

  ‘A friend of mine saw someone throw it, though she doesn’t know who it was.’

  ‘It was Willem. He left a second spur, too.’

  ‘When my mother and I took Klara to your house to get some of her clothes, we saw one in a coffer with her jewelry. Was that it?’

  ‘Yes. Willem put it there. He knew I’d find it because I like to leave gifts for Klara in the coffer so she’ll be surprised when she opens it. And I did find it, when I left a ring for her, on the night of the fire. The golden spurs are his way of letting me know he’s still planni
ng to kill me. And the king.’

  ‘Does Klara know all this? Does she know where Willem is?’

  ‘I have no idea what Klara knows. But she’s younger than Willem and doesn’t have as much hatred in her heart as he does.’

  ‘I gather you have been aware for some time that the king’s life is in danger. Klara said she heard you mutter something about the king the night you disappeared.’

  ‘I didn’t think Klara ever paid any attention to what I say.’

  ‘Is that why you wrote a book of instructions for her?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘You lent it to the Duchess of Orléans, and she gave me the job of making a copy for the queen’s ladies.’

  ‘I didn’t know that was what she intended to do with it.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I’ve been looking for you; I want to return it to you. Also, I’d like to return your wife; she’s causing chaos in my house.’

  ‘Klara can be difficult.’

  ‘And you thought a book of instructions would be helpful. Unfortunately, Klara doesn’t seem very interested in what you wrote for her.’

  ‘I know.’ Martin shook his head sadly. ‘Perhaps I am too old and set in my ways. I tend to go on about the importance of observing all the rules.’

  ‘There certainly are a lot of rules in your manuscript. What makes you think a young woman would have the patience for all that?’

  ‘There is no reason why Klara can’t take a little time to read what I wrote for her!’

  Christine could understand now why Klara would resent this man. She herself might sympathize with him, but young Klara would merely see him as a stern father figure. As for Willem, he wasn’t a boy who would ever stop resenting a man who’d been with the army that slaughtered his parents and destroyed his city. She said, ‘Are you sure Willem is the one who’s trying to kill the king?’

  ‘I’m absolutely sure. That’s why I’ve come to you, to tell you he’s the person you’re looking for. You have to find him.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Willem is only eighteen, but he looks much older. When I first saw him, he was a fine-looking little boy, but after I brought him to Paris, he changed. His hair turned white, he stooped, and his face became lined with signs of anger and hate. Sometimes when I looked at him, I’d think I was looking at an old man. The only thing that remains of his youth are his eyes, which are blue and as cold as ice.’

  Martin took a deep breath. ‘Willem is not in his right mind. He has already tried to kill me several times.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘The first time, he told me it would be fun to have a mock duel. Only for him, it wasn’t play. He stabbed me and I nearly bled to death. I was fool enough to think it was an accident. But then he tried to poison me. He took some of the wolfsbane I use to kill mice and put it in my food. He wasn’t very careful about it; I could tell something was wrong. Then he set fire to my study while I was working there. I’d fallen asleep at my desk, and he hoped the fire would get to me before I woke up. Fortunately, I wasn’t fully asleep, and I was able to put out the flames before they could do much damage.’

  ‘My mother and I took Klara to your house to get some of her clothes. I saw blood stains on the floor of your study. And the charred floor.’

  ‘Then you know how dangerous the boy is, and why I left. Klara is safer without me around. He could have burned the house down, with her in it. I didn’t tell her I was going because it would have frightened her.’

  ‘Where do you think he is?’

  ‘At the palace. I’m sure he’s disguised himself; he was always clever at doing that. The golden spurs are his way of letting me know he’s still planning to kill the king. And me.’

  ‘Does Henri Le Picart know all this?’

  ‘Henri knows everything.’ He smiled. ‘He’s told me all about you.’

  ‘I thought so.’ Christine was full of rage at Henri. ‘If he knows so much, why isn’t he helping us find Willem?’

  ‘He is helping. You just don’t understand his methods.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  To make a green color for writing, mix good vinegar with sour honey. Put the mixture in a vessel, and set the vessel in very warm dung. Leave it there for twelve days, and it will make a good green.

  Jehan le Begue, Experimenta de Coloribus, 1431

  When Christine got home, she avoided her mother, dashed up the stairs to her room, sat at her desk, and tried to regain her composure.

  Martin du Bois had finally revealed himself, but there was no way she could return Klara to a man who was hiding to save his life. He hadn’t even told her where she could find him again. And the one person who could help her, Henri Le Picart, seemed to have abandoned her.

  The situation was becoming increasingly disquieting. Not only did she have to fear danger at the court, now she had to worry about what Klara might do. Did the girl know where her brother was? Was she somehow in contact with him? She thought of the prowler her mother and the children sensed near their house. Was her family in danger? She went back downstairs, determined to confront the girl. But she wasn’t there.

  ‘Where’s Klara?’ she asked her mother.

  ‘I let Georgette take her and Loyse to see the lions.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘I do not see any harm in it. Klara has been begging to be allowed to go and help the lion-keeper. She’ll be all right, especially since Loyse is with her.’

  Christine went back to her room and sat at her desk. After a while, she picked up the book of instructions for painters that Gilles Malet’s friend Jacquemin had given her to copy. She leafed through it and slowly became engrossed. She’d always wondered how manuscript illuminators achieved their vibrant colors, and here was a book that told them what to do. When Jean appeared at the door, she beckoned for him to come over and look at the book with her. Soon he, too, was lost in the intricate recipes. Some of the colors were made from everyday substances such as rue, parsley, egg yolk, ground-up stones, even urine and dung, which made Jean laugh. Some recipes were outlandish, such as the one stating that if you put bulls’ brains in a vase and left them there for three weeks, they would turn into gold worms that could be used for gilding. ‘Don’t believe that one,’ she told her son.

  They studied recipes that used mysterious chemical substances with strange names to achieve lustrous colors. Jean was fascinated with gold, a color that could be made with real gold, or with an imitation gold obtained from a poisonous stone. ‘That sounds dangerous,’ he exclaimed.

  After a while, Christine’s worries took over again. She looked at her son. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jean, what have you observed about Klara?’

  ‘I don’t like her.’

  ‘I know that. But don’t you think she’s become more agreeable lately? Especially since Loyse has been here?’

  ‘Perhaps. But she’s still awful.’

  ‘Do you ever really talk to her?’

  ‘Once I did. I asked her about her family in Courtrai, and she started to cry. Then I asked about her brother, and she became very quiet.’

  ‘Do you think she knows where her brother is?’

  ‘I don’t know. She might.’

  ‘Do you think it’s her brother prowling around the house?’

  Jean pushed a lock of his brown hair away from his eyes. ‘Whoever it is hides in the shadows whenever we come out. We’re all frightened, but we didn’t want to tell you, you have so much on your mind.’

  Christine reached over and hugged her son. ‘I’m so sorry, Jean. You shouldn’t have to feel like that. In the future, don’t keep anything from me, especially anything that frightens you.’

  ‘But what are you going to do about Klara? She can’t stay here forever. She’s making us unhappy.’

  Christine thought of what she’d learned from Martin du Bois. Jean didn’t know about Willem’s threat to kill the king, and she wasn’t about to
tell him. But she knew she had to find Willem and stop his evil plan, for her family as well as for the queen. She needed Martin to be safe so he could go back to his house and she could return Klara to him and bring peace to her own family.

  Marie and Thomas and Lisabetta appeared at the door. Christine motioned to them, and they gathered around her.

  ‘I know you’re frightened. I don’t think you have to worry; the prowler is not here for you. But you mustn’t go out unless I’m with you. Or your grandmother, or Georgette.’

  ‘Georgette,’ Thomas scoffed. ‘What could she do to protect us?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed how Georgette has changed? Your grandmother and I have begun to rely on her.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Marie said. ‘She knows how to deal with Klara.’

  ‘So maybe she’ll get Klara to let us have Goblin back,’ Thomas said.

  Christine smiled at her younger son. But she couldn’t let his comment pass. She said, ‘Try to be more understanding of Klara. She’s had a hard life.’

  ‘I don’t think her life is so hard,’ Marie said. ‘She has a husband who cares about her and wrote a book for her. He even got a beguine to help her. She doesn’t have to do much work.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to do any work at all,’ Thomas snickered.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Christine said. ‘This isn’t helping us solve our problem.’ Fortunately, she thought, they don’t know what the real problem is.

  They heard Francesca talking to someone at the door, and suddenly Marion ran up the stairs and into the room. She went to Christine and whispered in her ear, ‘I’ve seen him.’

  ‘Go downstairs and play,’ Christine said to the children. ‘Don’t go outside unless your grandmother is with you.’