There was a large red welt. And much worse.
“What is that?” Emilie moved forward.
“Stay away,” Anne snapped, shrinking into her pillows.
“Please, my lady, do not turn from me. What is the bruise on your face?”
Anne took a sharp breath. She dropped her head. “It is my own prison, child. You want to see it — well, look!”
Emilie let out a gasp. She rushed over and, against Anne’s efforts, gently stroked the wound. “Stephen did that to you?”
“You should know it, child, for it is the very truth that you claim to know so well. A woman’s truth.”
Emilie recoiled in horror. The side of Anne’s face was swollen to twice its normal size.
Chapter 82
THE FIRST THING I DID WAS GO UP TO THE HILL overlooking town where my infant son, Phillipe, lay buried.
I knelt by his grave and crossed myself. “Your mother spoke of you in her last breath.” There I sat, on the hard earth. “Dear, sweet Phillipe.”
I still did not know what these sons of bitches wanted with me. What they thought I possessed, which clearly I didn’t. Why my wife and son had to die.
I dug up the objects I had brought back from the Crusade and spilled them onto the grass.
The gilded perfume box I had bought for Sophie in Constantinople . . . How sure I had been that I would bring it back to her with pride. Just thinking of all that had happened — Nico, Robert, Sophie — I felt my eyes fill up.
I looked at the inlaid scabbard with the writing I had found crossing the mountains. Then the gold cross I had taken from the church. Were these the treasures? The things that cursed me? If I gave them back, would they leave me, and the town, alone?
A wave of anger swept over me, mixed with grief and tears. “Which are you?” I screamed at the pieces. “Which is the thing that caused my wife and son to die?”
I picked up the cross and went to hurl it into the trees. Trinkets! Baubles! None of it worth the lives of my wife and son!
Then I held back, remembering Sophie’s last words: “Don’t give them what they want.”
Don’t give them what, Sophie? Don’t give them what?
I sat by my Phillipe’s grave and cried, my fingers digging into my scalp. “Don’t give them what?” I whispered over and over again.
Finally, I pulled myself up, spent and exhausted. I gathered the things and laid them in the hole, replacing the displaced earth. I took a deep breath and said good-bye.
Don’t give them what they want.
All right, Sophie. I won’t.
Because I don’t know what in God’s name it could be.
Chapter 83
SUMMER GAVE WAY TO AUTUMN, and bit by bit, I fell back into the life of the village.
Rebuilding.
I picked up the work Matthew had begun on the inn. All day, I lugged heavy logs, hoisted them into place, and notched them together in joints to form walls. At night I slept in Odo’s hut, his wife and two kids and I curled up by the hearth in a single room, until I had rebuilt my quarters behind the inn.
Piece by piece, the town came back to life. Farmers prepared for the harvest. Crumbled homes were patched together with mortar and stone. Harvest time would bring travelers to market; travelers meant money. Money bought food and clothes. People began to laugh once more, and to look forward.
And I became a bit of a hero in town. In no time at all, my stories of how I had dazzled the court at Treille and fought the knight Norcross became part of the local lore. Children clung to my side. “Show us a flip, Hugh. And how you got out of the chains.” I amused them with my tricks, removed beads or stones from their ears, told stories of the war. I felt my soul being restored by the sound of their laughter. Yes, laughter truly heals. This was the great lesson I’d learned as a jester.
And I mourned my sweet Sophie. Each day before sunset, I climbed the knoll outside town and sat at my son’s grave. I spoke to Sophie as if she rested there too. I told her of the progress on the inn. How the town had banded together around me.
And sometimes I spoke to her of Emilie. What a gift it had been to have her as a friend. How she saw something special in me as no other noble had, from that very first day. I recounted the times she had saved me. How I would have been a lifeless mound had she not come upon me after my fight with the boar.
Each time I talked of Emilie, I could not fail to notice the flame that stirred in my blood. I found myself thinking of our kiss. I did not know if it was meant to bring back my wits in a frantic moment or just as the last good-bye of a true friend. What had she seen in me to risk so much? A specialness . . . a specialness, Sophie! Sometimes I even felt myself blush.
One such afternoon as I was heading back to town from the gravesite, Odo ran up the path toward me. “Quick, Hugh, you can’t go back there now. You have to hide!”
I gazed beyond him. Four riders were approaching over the stone bridge. One an official, colorfully robed and wearing a plumed hat. The other soldiers, wearing the purple and white of Treille.
My heart stood still.
“It’s Baldwin’s bailiff,” Odo said. “If he sees you here, we will all be dead.”
I ducked behind a copse of trees, my mind flashing through options. Odo was right; I could not go back there. But what if someone gave me up? It would not be enough just to run. The town would be held accountable.
“Bring me a sword,” I said to Odo.
“A sword? Do you see those soldiers, Hugh? You must go. Run as if a beggar had your purse.”
I crouched, hidden from sight, and headed toward the eastern woods. A few people saw me scurry away. I crossed the stream at a low point and thrashed my way into the brush.
I found a spot near the square and watched the bailiff clip-clop his way forward like Caesar on a stallion.
An anxious crowd formed around him, buzzing. A bailiff never brought good news: only higher taxes and harsh decrees.
He took out two official-looking documents. “Good citizens of Veille du Père.” He cleared his throat. “Your lord, Baldwin, sends his greetings.
“‘In compliance,’” he began, “‘with the laws of the land, in the reign of Philip Capet, king of France, Baldwin, duke of Treille, decrees all subjects known to give aid or shelter to the fugitive known as Hugh De Luc, a cowardly murderer, shall be treated as accomplices to the above-mentioned fugitive and receive the full and swift measure of the law.’ Which, for you sow-addled farmers who may not fully understand, means hanged by the neck until dead.
“‘Additionally,’” he went on, “‘all lands, property, and belongings owned or leased from the duchy by such persons shall be immediately forfeited, confiscated, and returned to the demesne, and all spouses, siblings, and descendents, free or indentured, shall be sworn into lifelong service to his liege.”
My blood almost burst through my veins. The town was being punished for my crimes. All personal property handed over, worked lands returned, families ripped apart. I waited, holding my breath, for a voice to cry out against me. A wife, at wit’s end, afraid to lose any more. An unknowing child . . .
The bailiff took a long, measuring look around. He was an obscenity. “Thoughts, townspeople . . . ? A sudden change of heart?” There was a tense, drawn-out silence. But no one spoke up. Not one of them.
Then Father Leo stepped forward. “Once again, bailiff, our lord, Baldwin, shows he is a wise and charitable liege.”
The bailiff shrugged. “Appropriate measures, Father. Word has it the scum is back in these parts.”
“So what good news have you brought in your other decree?” someone called out.
“Almost forgot . . .” He smiled and rapped his head. He unfurled the parchment and, without reading, nailed it to the church wall. “General increase in taxes. All raised ten percent.”
“What!” A gasp escaped from the crowd. “That’s not fair. It cannot be.”
“Sorry.” The bailiff shrugged. “You know the reasons . . .
Dry summer, stocks are low. . . .”
Then, all at once, the bailiff stopped talking. Something had caught his eye. He stood there, motionless. It was the inn. My heart clenched in my throat.
“Is this not the inn that only weeks ago was burned to the ground? The one belonging to the person we seek?” No one answered. “Who is rebuilding it? If my memory serves me, the last of its proprietors was, shall we say . . . torn apart by grief.”
A few eyes traveled about uneasily.
“Who rebuilds it, I say?” The bailiff picked up one of the stones.
I began to tremble. This was surely it! The end of me.
Then a voice rang out of the crowd. “The town rebuilds it, bailiff.” It was Father Leo. “The town needs an inn.”
The bailiff’s eyes lit up. “Most charitable, Father. And most assuring to hear this from you, a man whose word is above refute. So tell me, who will run this establishment?”
Another silence.
“I will,” shouted a voice. Marie, the miller’s wife. “I will tend to the inn while my husband mans the mill.”
“You are most enterprising, madame. A good choice, I think, since you seem to have no heirs to run your mill.”
The bailiff held her gaze. I could see he was unsure whether to believe a word. Then he tossed the stone he still held aside and made his way to his mount.
“I hope this is all true.” He sniffed and pulled the reins. “Perhaps on my next visit I will stay longer, madame. I look forward to the chance to test your hospitality for myself.”
Chapter 84
AS SOON AS THE HATED BAILIFF WAS OUT OF SIGHT, panic spread through town. I marched back out of the woods, grateful that no one had spoken against me. But I saw the mood had changed.
“What do we do now?” A frightened Martin the tailor shook his head. “You heard him; the prick suspects. How long can we keep up this ruse?”
Jean Dueux, a farmer, looked ashen. “The land we work returned to the demesne? We’d be ruined. Our entire lives lie in this land.”
People crowded around me, shouting and afraid. I was the cause of their misery. “If you want me to leave, I will.” I bowed my head.
“It’s not you,” the tailor said, looking around for support. “Everyone’s afraid. We’ve finally picked ourselves up from the ruins. If Baldwin’s men come back . . .”
“They will come back, Martin,” I said to his worried face. “They will come back again and again. Whether I stay or go.”
“We took you in,” the baker’s wife shouted. “What is it you expect us to do now?”
I went over to the inn, and I felt my wife’s soul stirring in the rubble. “Do you think I drag these rocks every day and sweat building these walls so that this inn I promised my dead wife I would rebuild can be brought down once again?”
“We all feel that way, Hugh,” the tailor said. “We’ve all rebuilt. But what can we do to stop it?”
“We can defend ourselves,” I shouted.
“Defend?” The word was whispered through the crowd.
“Yes, defend. Draw the line. Fight them. Show them they can never take away our lives again.”
“Fight? Our liege?” People looked stunned. “But we are all pledged to him, Hugh.”
“I told you before. . . . Break the pledge.”
The gravity of these words silenced the buzzing crowd. “Break it,” I said again.
“If we did, that would be treason,” the tailor objected.
I turned to the miller. “Any more treason, Georges, than the murder of your son? Or you, Marte — your husband lies not far from my son. Was it any less treason when he was struck down defending your home? Or my own boy, who did not even know the word when he was tossed into the flames.”
“Baldwin’s a ruddy prick,” the miller replied. “But these obligations you want to throw down, they are the law. Baldwin would come at us with everything he has. He would crush us like moths.”
“It can be done, Georges. I’ve seen how a small, able detachment can defend themselves for months against a greater force. I’m not trying to stoke up fire like the little hermit, then have you follow me to ruin. But we can beat him if we stand up.”
“The duke has trained men.” Odo stepped forward. “Weapons. We are just farmers and smiths. One town. Fifty men.”
“Yes, and in each town between here and Treille there are another fifty men who hate Baldwin just as you do. Hundreds who have suffered the same misery and oppression. We beat them back just once, these men will join us. What can Baldwin do, fight us all?”
Some were nodding in agreement; for others, the thought of standing up against the liege was almost impossible to conceive.
“Hugh’s right,” Marie, the miller’s wife, said. “We have all lost husbands and children. Our homes have been ruined. I’m tired of quaking in my bed every time we hear the sound of riders.”
“I too,” Odo shouted out. “We’ve pandered to that bastard our whole lives. What comes of it? A load of shit and death.” He stepped over to me and shrugged. “I’m a smith. I know smelting, not soldiering. But if you need me, I can wield a hell of a fucking hammer. Count me in!”
One by one, other voices were raised in agreement. Farmers, carters, shoemakers . . . people who had simply reached the end of their tether.
“What say you, priest?” the tailor begged, hoping for an ally. “Even if we beat Baldwin back, will we survive one hell only to be damned to another?”
“I cannot say.” Father Leo shrugged. “What I can promise, though, is that the next time Baldwin’s riders come to town, you can count on me to throw a stone or two.”
There were shouts of acquiescence all around. But the town was still divided. The tailor, the tanner, and some farmers who were petrified to lose their lands.
I went up to the tailor. “One thing I can promise . . . Baldwin’s men will come. You’ll rebuild your homes and pay to the bone every year until your hands blister or your will dies. But they will always come. Until we tell them they cannot.”
The tailor shook his head. “You wear a patchwork skirt and a bell upon your cap, and you’re going to show us how to fight?”
“I will.” I looked him in the eye.
The tailor seemed to measure me up and down. He fingered the hem of my tunic. “Whoever did this, it’s a nice job.” Then he took my hand and clasped it wearily. “God help us,” he declared.
Chapter 85
“MOVE IT HERE!” I CALLED TO JEAN DUEUX, on his perch atop a tree. “A little to the right. Where the road narrows.”
High above the road, Jean hoisted a heavy wheat sack bulging with rocks and gravel. He tied off the sack with a long rope and double knotted the other end to a sturdy branch.
“I’ll send the horse,” I said to him. “When it reaches my position, let the rocks go.”
Since the bailiff’s visit, we had begun the task of fitting the town for its defenses. Woodsmen sheared off wooden barriers to be placed in rows along the town’s western edge. Stakes were sharpened and driven into the ground at jutting angles that even the bravest warhorse would not advance upon. Large stones were half buried in the road.
And we began to make weapons. A few old-timers brought out their swords, rusty things. Odo polished and sharpened them on his lathe. The rest of our arsenal consisted of clubs and mallets, a few spears and billhooks, iron tools. From these we made arrows that could pierce armor. We were a town of Davids preparing for Goliath.
I backed off and signaled down the road. Apples, the baker’s son, slapped the horse and sent him coming. Jean braced himself on his perch, tipping the weighted sack to the edge. When the horse passed my spot, I shouted, “Release!”
Jean let it go. In a sweeping arc, it hurtled out of the sky like a boulder, picking up speed. As the horse passed, it swung across the road with a loud whoosh, at exactly the height of a man atop his mount. It might as well have been hurled by a catapult. Even the staunchest rider would not withstand its force.
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Jean and Apples cheered.
“Now it’s your turn, Alphonse.” I turned to the tanner’s oldest boy, who had a slight stutter. He was a strapping fifteen, muscles beginning to bulge. I placed a club in his hands. “The fallen knight will be stunned. For a few moments, he’ll be pinned to the earth by his armor. You cannot hesitate.” I looked him in the eye and swung the club hard into an imaginary shape on the ground. “You have to be prepared to do the deed.”
“I w-will.” The boy nodded. He was big and strong but had never been in as much as a tussle. Yet he had seen his brother sliced in half by Baldwin’s men. He took the club and sent it crashing down. “D-don’t worry about m-me,” he said.
I nodded approvingly.
It felt so good to see the town come together. Everyone could do something useful. Woodsmen could shoot; children could throw stones; the elderly could sew leather armor and sharpen arrows.
But when it came down to it, it would take more than high spirits and eagerness to ward off Baldwin’s raiders. The townspeople would have to fight. I prayed to God we were up to this. That I was not, like Peter the Hermit, leading them into a murderous rout.
“Hugh!” I heard an urgent voice call from the direction of town. Pipo, Odo’s little son, was running toward me. His face was ruddy with importance. I felt a shudder of alarm.
“Someone’s here,” he gasped, out of breath.
“Who?” For a moment, my heart clenched. Who knew I was here?
“A visitor,” the boy said. “And a pretty one.” He nodded. “She says she came all the way from Borée.”
Chapter 86
EMILIE!
I ran the dusty road back to the village, my heart bounding with excitement and surprise. I had thought of her so much, yet I always felt it was just another stupid dream to actually believe that I would ever see Emilie again!
I took a shortcut through the stables and blacksmith stalls, and saw her in the square — with her maid. She wore a simple linen dress, her hair pinned up under a cap, and a plain brown riding cloak about her shoulders. And yet she was lovely, so beautiful. I had to tell myself this was no dream. She was here!