he next day was a blur.
Dolssa had become our peace, our concern, our consolation. We tasted her absence like a missing tooth.
By the docks, in the streets, we heard rumors of children and youth rounded up for questioning. With each hour we were glad they hadn’t come for us, but we couldn’t understand it. The waiting was almost worse.
No one came to the tavern.
That night, a knock at the tavern door roused me from where I sat with my s
rres in a stupor of silent fear.
I unlocked the door and opened it to find Dominus Bernard. His face was gray. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes. My stomach sank.
“You’ve come to take us in, haven’t you?”
He came inside and closed the door.
“Botille,” he said, “hear me quickly. You must leave here. You and your family. Go as far as you can, as fast as you can.”
Plazensa rose from her seat and stirred behind the bar. Mimi mewed at the priest, then rubbed herself against his ankles.
“I can’t stop this,” Dominus Bernard went on. “You’re in grave danger.”
“We can’t flee with Jobau,” I whispered. “We wouldn’t leave someone behind. You know that.” He must know who else I meant by someone.
My old friend’s mouth hardened. He took a slow breath, and spoke, no longer to the living, but the dead. “Then my coming here was wasted. Far better, had I stayed at home.”
Plazensa approached and pressed a cup of wine into our village priest’s hand. “We thank you, Dominus,” she whispered. “Is there nothing you can do for us?”
Bernard refused the wine as though it were bitter. “I came tonight to warn you.”
Without another look, he turned and left.
I roamed about in the afternoon, needing something to do. I headed out toward Na Pieret’s vineyards, thinking I might find a chance to peek in on Dolssa, but Symo, seeing me, gave a shake of his head and sent me back. Harvesters were everywhere. It wouldn’t have worked. I knew Symo was bringing her food and water, and even, at her request, some candles, parchment, and ink. What she needed most was company. I wondered what she was writing. I missed her.
I thought of visiting Sapdalina, but she wasn’t home. Her father told me she was out walking with Gui.
Well.
Nor was Astruga at home. Her father told me she was still tending the de Prato children. I headed over to see her there.
She ducked out through her open door, then frowned at the sight of me.
“What do you want?”
“Bonjọrn, Astruga,” I said, and kissed her cheek. She backed away from me.
Over her shoulder I could see the small maisoṇ had smartened up considerably under her care. A noise erupted from the children, and she ordered them to leave off whacking each other. They obeyed. Joan de Prato passed by outside, pushing a barrow of wheat sheaves. He glanced at Astruga, and she back at him, and something passed between. Not a smile. Not quite. But something near.
“What have you come for, then, Botille?” asked Astruga.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just to see how you were getting on. Shall I send someone else to relieve you from watching the children?”
“Do I look like I need relieving?” She swelled with indignation.
“Not at all.”
“There’s no one else who could just step in and manage them, anyway,” she said. “She wouldn’t know them as I do.”
I nodded. “You’ve done right by them. It’s plain.”
“Oc. Well.” She stepped back inside. “I won’t be needing your help anymore, Botille,” she said. “You shouldn’t come back here.” She closed the door.
That night I defied what Symo had told me, and I snuck out to the vineyards after dark to go sit with Dolssa. I had to know she was all right. I could make the journey in the dark.
But I didn’t get far. Halfway along the path leading to Na Pieret’s wine cellar, I heard voices. I stopped alongside the path to listen. I didn’t want to reveal my presence to anyone.
It took no time to discern that the voices belonged to Jacme and Andrio, Na Pieret’s farmhands. They weren’t quiet. They were roaring drunk.
“It’s that friar,” Jacme said. “He’s the one. The others are all talk.”
“Him with his French accent,” said Andrio’s voice. “He’s younger than we are! Who does he think he is?”
I could picture them lying in the damp grass, with their legs splayed out before them, and pitchers of stolen wine clutched in their great hammy hands.
“Do you know what he did?” asked Jacme.
“What?”
Jacme’s throat took a long drink. “He put my maire on house arrest. My blessed maire! For heresy.”
“He never!” exclaimed Andrio. Knowing this pair, I was certain Andrio had heard this outrage a dozen times already, but he would always oblige his friend.
“Because when she was a small toza, not even six years old”—Jacme slurred his s’s—“her parents brought her to be raised up by an aunt who was a bona femna.”
“My mother grew up that way too,” said Andrio. “Every toza did. Back then.”
“He’s a jackass.”
“A jackass from Fransa,” said Andrio, “which is the worst kind.”
Jacme took another swig. “They don’t know us at all.”
Andrio burped. “They’ve sentenced dozens to wearing yellow crosses for life.”
“My own maire!” cried Jacme.
“The jackass.”
They ruminated on injustice for a time. Then Jacme spoke again.
“D’you know what we should do?”
“What should we do?”
A drink. “We should drive him out of town.”
“Oc,” cried Andrio. “Teach him a lesson.”
“I have a few questions,” said the other, “that I’d like to ask him.”
I knew what the rising pitch of those voices meant. One didn’t run a tavern for years without learning to recognize when ne’er-do-wells were whipping themselves up for a brawl.
“We’ll be heroes,” said Jacme. “Na Pieret and Senhor Guilhem will thank us.”
“Heroes. Oc.”
The stupid, stupid tozẹts! What could be more dangerous than such stupidity?
“He walks by the water in the evenings,” said Jacme. “We could surprise him right now.”
“Oc. Send him packing from Bajas.”
Jacme’s voice dropped dangerously. “Or maybe not.”
Andrio considered this. So did I. But they mustn’t. If they threatened or wounded the inquisitor, their deeds would be trumpeted all the way to Roma. If they thought we were seeing the Church’s full wrath now, they were mistaken. Those two must be stopped.
“They’re murderers, you know,” Jacme said.
“That’s true,” replied Andrio.
“Making the bayles burn innocent people,” said Jacme. “They’ll burn us all before they’re through. Come on. Let’s go.”
They climbed to their feet and lumbered off.
I waited for their sounds to fade. Jacme and Andrio wouldn’t listen to me even if they were sober. Dolssa, my poor bird, would have to wait alone in the dark a little longer. I had to find Symo before those drunken fools found the friar.
I raced blindly down the lanes of the vineyard, not daring to take the traveled path, lest I overtake Jacme and Andrio alone. Tall grasses tugged at my shoes, and the uneven ground made me stumble. Finally my feet found a small footpath, and I flew along it until I’d reached the road that passed by the tavern. I ran inside.
“Symo?”
My srres looked at me blankly. He wasn’t there.
I turned and pressed up the hill toward town. Most of the village was tucked in for the evening, digesting their suppers. I encountered no one, worse luck.
I knocked at Na Pieret’s house.
She answered the door herself. “Yes, Botille?”
“Is Symo here?” I gasped.
I couldn’t bear the disapproval in my old friend’s eyes.
“Haven’t you seen plenty of him lately?”
Now she resented his time with us. Or feared what it might do. Oh, Na Pieret, ma maire, why have you rejected me?
“I need his help,” I said. “Jacme and Andrio are drunk. They plan to go beat up the inquisitor, Lucien de Saint-Honore. To repay him for the punishments.”
“Jacme and Andrio often do the things the rest of us wish we could do,” she observed.
“Na Pieret!” I cried. “Surely, you can see what the outcome would be. They’ll kill him!”
“Not Jacme,” she said. “He’s all bluster. He’s no murderer.”
“Whether they kill him or no,” I cried, “if they assault him, the Church will crush Bajas. They’ll bring down armies upon us. The Crusades started over just such an offense. While we stand talking, the chance to stop them dwindles.” I filled my lungs and cried out, in case her nephew was inside the house. “Symo!”
He appeared beside me. He’d been somewhere on the street. “I’m here, Botille,” he said quietly. “What do you want?”
His expression was grim, and so was Na Pieret’s, watching us. They’d quarreled over me. Over Dolssa. I could taste the bitterness.
I quickly told Symo what I’d heard. He turned and ran to the waterfront. Na Pieret called after him. His only reaction was to stop at someone’s shed along the way and commandeer a sturdy rake.
We reached the row of trees. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere. Perhaps the friar had not chosen to walk tonight. Or perhaps we were too late. I prayed that the two ruffians had not gone to find their victim elsewhere.
A slim crescent moon shone over the lagoon. It would have been a lovely night, but for this.
“I should go looking for them,” I whispered.
“Ssh.” Symo placed a finger over his mouth, then pointed.
A figure descended the grassy slope toward the water. It was the friar, Lucien. He looked around, apparently to see if he was alone, then knelt and scooped up a handful of ashes. He rose and let them trail through his fingers onto the sea breezes.
Once more he knelt to scoop the feathery ash. Almost, I thought, like a mourner. What could he be thinking?
There was no time to wonder. Jacme and Andrio ran out from behind a hillock and struck his bare head with their wine pitchers.
He toppled face first into the fire pit.
His assailants were upon him in an instant. Symo burst from his hiding place and cleared the beach. He dealt ferocious blows to Jacme and Andrio’s tailbones with the handle of the rake before they could even turn around to see who was there. They rolled over, cursing and yelping, then staggered to their feet.
“Time to go home, lads,” said Symo.
But Jacme and Andrio, rubbing their sore azes and shouting insults at Symo, apparently did not agree.
I ran to the friar to see what was left of him. Please, Dieu in heaven above, let our enemy live, or we are standing corpses.
He was alive and breathing, but only just. I rolled him out of the ashes and onto the sand. Then I turned to see what had become of the others, and my own heart nearly stopped.
Jacme and Andrio weren’t good thinkers at the best of times, but one thought had made its way through their wine-soaked heads. There were two of them, and only one of Symo.
They each took a step closer.
“Get back,” Symo yelled. He brandished his rake. “If there’s to be murder tonight, it’ll be by my hands, not yours.”
And still they came closer.
“Jacme, you fool!” I screamed. “Go home! You’ll see all Bajas burn for what you’ve done, you stupid swine!”
“You’re next, Botille,” Jacme called. “After I deal with this son of a jackass who thinks he’s lord over us.”
They fell into crouch positions. Symo was strong, I knew, and brave enough, but the other two passed their time, when they weren’t lazing or singing, by wrestling each other and all challengers. They could slaughter him. And they’d found the deadly shards of their broken pitchers.
Andrio circled around behind his prey, and now they had him surrounded.
“Symo!” I cried. “Watch out!”
I heard voices from the direction of the vila, so I cried out for help. The friar’s eyes were fluttering. But I didn’t dare take my eyes off the men.
It might have been a dance. They circled around Symo, while he twisted and turned to keep them both in his sights. Jacme would feint for his front, then skip back while Andrio lunged for the backs of Symo’s knees. Jacme’s pains were rewarded with the butt of the rake handle punched into his gut, and Andrio got a rake head crashing over his skull.
But these blows didn’t stop the pair. They only made them angrier. Their broken weapons forgotten, both charged Symo, but he shoved the rake handle under Andrio’s armpit and used it to swing him around bodily, levering him straight at his friend. They collided like battering goats, their force striking each other instead of Symo.
“Go home,” Symo said, “or I’ll feed your feet to the sharks.”
Behind me, the friar moaned. A trickle of blood from his sooty scalp dribbled down into his eye. Before me, Jacme and Andrio rose to their feet, snarling like wounded bears.
Two women appeared from up the road. Praise the bon Dieu. It was my srres.
“Find help,” I called to them across the beach. “They’ll kill him!”
Sazia hitched her skirts and ran up the hill, while Plazensa ran across the sand to me.
She took one look at the friar. “Is he alive?”
“Let’s pray he is.”
I heard wood crack on bone, and a shout of pain. Jacme fell on his aze in the sand, but Andrio saw an opening and tackled Symo to the ground. In no time he’d pinned him. Symo’s legs thrashed but found no hold. Andrio looked like a rabid dog ready to bite Symo’s throat out.
Plazensa’s eyes flashed. “Come on, Botille,” she said. “What I’d give now for my rolling pin.”
She seized a sturdy limb of unburnt wood from the rim of the pyre, and I followed her lead. She swung her beam wide and brought it crashing down onto Andrio’s head. He fell limply onto Symo’s neck like a drowsy lover. I saw that Jacme was beginning to rouse, so with a well-aimed blow, I sent him back to sleep.
Running footsteps and shouts came down the slope. Sazia had dragged out Martin de Boroc. Seconds later Gui ran into view. He halted at the sight of his brother, bent double and heaving gasps of air; he took in the sight of three bodies on the beach.
“What’ve you done now, brother?”
“It wasn’t me,” croaked Symo. “It was those crazy femnas who finished the business.”
“Carry the friar to the tavern,” ordered Plazensa, “then get these two back home to their mistress. Lock them up and dump cold water on them if they give you any trouble.”
Gui and Plazensa carried the friar back to the Three Pigeons along with Sazia, leaving Symo and me to recuperate and supervise the farmhands with Symo’s rake. Sazia and Plazensa stayed to tend the friar. Gui returned to the beach and heaved Jacme and Andrio into Na Pieret’s cart with Martin’s help, then let her mule carry them home.
Symo and I returned to the tavern in silence.
We’d failed. We’d stopped them from killing him, but we hadn’t kept him safe, and now hell itself would swallow us. I had tried to do right, but once again my best efforts had led to disaster.
Symo limped.
“Are you badly hurt?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer.
“You’ll be bruised in the morning,” I said.
Still nothing.
We were nearly home. Since my conversation was so odious to him, I debated saying anything at all, but even as dejected as I was with the outcome, it had to be done.
“Grácia.”
We were at the door. Instead of opening it, he stopped and looked at me so intently that it made my skin crawl. Was he ever anything but angry? Was my grácia so trifling as to insult him, after the price he’d paid?
It grew awkward to wait for him to stop glaring, so I pushed past him and opened the door.
I didn’t get far. Plazensa and Sazia stood over a bed they’d formed from two tables, whereon the pale, still form of Lucien de Saint-Honore was spread.
Sazia’s eyes met mine. “He’s fading, Botille.”
Dieu in heaven, help us.
I turned to Symo. “You know what I must do.”
Symo dragged a hand down over his face. “I’ll help you bring her.”