As the darkest part of winter settled over France there was a monster born in Paris. A two-headed child with three arms, one attached to its chest, and hands that, it was said, resembled the claws of a lobster. It was a bad omen, a very bad omen, and the priests, monks, and bishops all called for national repentance if this work of the Devil was not to be the portent of more horrors to come.
Dread crept through the exhausted, starving kingdom of France—a pale, slow disease compounded of unreason and gathering panic. Louis de Valois could smell it, could almost see the miasma, as even his court became infected.
“I must view this creature. You, too, Brother, and tell me what it means.”
Brother Agonistes raised a tortured face. Not long returned from Brugge, he was kneeling at the foot of the dais in the Presence chamber, three shallow steps below the Chair of Estate in which the king sat. After his long journey south through the iron-cold land, he was thinner than ever, dirtier than ever, and his stench was even worse. Truly, thought Louis, he smells like a nine-day corpse.
Agonistes breathed like an old, abused mule and his hand shook as it sketched a cross in the air between Louis and himself. “Brother King, I have no special knowledge of what this thing might mean. It is a living creature. They say it sucks well from its mother’s paps and is strong. Perhaps it is God who has sent it to us, rather than Satan.”
Louis clucked his tongue impatiently. “That cannot be. Our Creator does not make monstrous children, for we are made in His sacred image. No, this is a sign. I am certain of it.”
Brother Agonistes shrugged wearily. “The king, my brother, knows more than I can possibly understand, since he is anointed by God.” The man’s fingers crept to the rosary slung through his rope belt. He closed his eyes and silently began to tell the beads, now oblivious, it seemed, to the presence of the monarch.
Louis felt no affront, for the behavior of this man was always extraordinary. For a moment the king forgot his fear of the monster in wondering what the monk saw when he prayed so intensely. “You are as devout as ever, Brother Agonistes. But also greatly changed. Are you ill?”
Without speaking, the monk shook his head, the rosary beads clicking through his fingers with relentless rhythm.
“Well then, do you fear death, perhaps, that you mortify yourself so greatly?”
The monk’s eyes flew open and he glared at the king. “Yes, I fear death. As you should also. Sin is the stinking, loathsome burden we both carry. Lust has been my downfall in the past and now, with the sight of that woman in Brugge, the memory of it has reared up once more to besmirch me. That woman you sent me to, brother.” Agonistes sounded almost reproachful. Louis was so astonished by the monk’s presumption that he forgot to speak, as the monk continued. “And yet, brother, it pleased you and the Lord to bestow this task upon me, therefore I am grateful for the privations given to me in this matter. I hope they are pleasing in the Lord’s sight, and yours also, brother King. And the woman will have been burned by now—if that was God’s will.” He crossed himself solemnly.
Automatically, Louis mimicked the action.
“And you, brother, you, too, must put away the sins of this Earth if you are to govern your kingdom for God, and in his name. Pride in this war will bring you down, for it is the vice of kings and the greatest sin of all. Pray with me now that we may both be cleansed.”
Opened to their widest extent, the monk’s eyes were bleak pools of emptiness. Louis felt consumed by the horror of eternity they contained. Suddenly, Agonistes collapsed onto his belly, hauling himself toward the king as if he were a worm or a slug, or some other loathsome crawling thing. Louis reared back, panicked, as the man arrived at the dais, where he tugged insistently at the hem of the king’s gown and seemed about to climb up his legs, hand over filthy hand.
“Grant me the solace of joint prayer on the matter of the monster, I beseech you. Only then may I be of greater use to you, and the kingdom of France, in uncovering the Lord’s intentions for this creature.” Stifled by the stench wafting upward, Louis covered his mouth and nose with one hand and waved urgently for the guard to escort Agonistes from his presence. Instantly, the monk was engulfed by a tide of armed men and half dragged, half shoved from the king’s sight. Louis shuddered with relief yet he remained convinced that the monk conveyed God’s thoughts directly to him, the Lord’s own mortal deputy on Earth. Sometimes, however, the stench of the man encouraged a certain confusion in his mind. Why must holiness equate with dirt? The Bible did not speak of the Lord being filthy. What if Agonistes were not a sanctified messenger at all, merely a madman?
The arrival of more guards interrupted the king’s musings. They had a gaunt black crow in their midst: Olivier le Dain. The escort surged away and the Presence chamber doors swung closed. Bowing, le Dain advanced toward the king cautiously until he stood at the foot of the dais.
“Well?” The king sounded testy. That was dangerous.
Le Dain gulped. “We have found it, Your Majesty.” Unnerved by a basilisk glare, le Dain sank quickly to his knees.
“And?”
“It has been brought here, to the palace. Its mother also.”
“Very well.” Louis waved a hand and le Dain took this for an instruction. On his feet again, he backed the entire length of the room at speed, bowing so deeply from time to time that the crown of his head touched the floor. An amused smile stretched the wizened muscles of the king’s face as he watched le Dain scuttle away. He rarely smiled, certainly not at le Dain.
The barber gagged back the vomit of fear. That terrible smile! Hastily he jerked one of the great doors open as if it weighed no more than a gauze curtain. “Bring them!” The barber bellowed the order and was comforted by the fear on the faces of the courtiers in the anteroom. Reflected power, like reflected light, could still sear the eyes of the unwary.
A muttering began within the crowd and the clotted mass of court functionaries parted in one smooth movement to allow passage to a small frightened girl carrying a large basket.
The courtiers closed in behind her as she walked forward among a guard of men much taller than herself. She was decently clad in a woolen high-waisted gown and her head was covered in the white linen coif of a married woman. As she was brought closer to le Dain, he saw she was not quite as young as she had seemed at a distance; rather she was sixteen or seventeen, though very small for her age. This was the mother of the monster.
“Let me see it.” Le Dain sounded as remote as the king—imitation of his master was a learned knack from his early days at court—and the girl visibly paled. With trembling hands she placed the basket on the floor and drew back the small blanket covering its contents. For a moment, le Dain was confused. These were two healthy babies that he saw, lying side by side, still somehow asleep among the racket, and breathing peacefully. But then the young mother gently drew the covering down and the full horror was exposed.
Eager courtiers pressed forward to see what lay in the basket. “Keep them back!” the barber shouted to the guards, who instantly responded, lowering their pikes.
Was it le Dain’s harsh tone, or the outraged protests from some of the greatest grandees in the kingdom, that woke the thing in the basket? It began to wail like any other hungry child, and those who caught a glimpse of the basket’s contents told how, miraculously, each of its two faces was as beautiful as an angel’s, with curling black hair and eyes bluer than a summer lake.
“Enough,” le Dain ordered. “Cover this… thing. The king is waiting.” The mother bent to the basket and tenderly replaced the covering, whispering half words, as every mother does to her child, as she raised it from the floor. Le Dain noticed dark patches had spread across the bodice of her dress. The child’s crying had caused the girl’s milk to let down. Unwanted, unexpected, le Dain experienced a rush of pity. “Here.” He held out his hand, indicating he would carry the basket. For a moment defiance flared in the girl’s blue eyes—these, at least, she had successfully bequeathed to her child—but then fear chased hopelessness across her face. Bowing her head, she surrendered the basket as her child—or children—screamed inside.
Strangely, as he took the basket from her and rocked it in his arms, the crying stopped and le Dain found himself gazed upon by four blue eyes. Were they—was it—really watching him? Perhaps this was proof of Devil-born powers, or was it just the accidental focus of the newborn? Le Dain, himself a father, was unsure. If this was a demonic creature, perhaps it was the former. But having held his own newborn children in his hands, he felt some certainty it was the latter.
Nodding to the door-wards, he motioned for the girl to follow him into the Presence chamber. “Come. The king is most interested in your monster.”
The girl winced and blushed with shame. She was not used to it yet—being the mother of a minion of darkness. Joining her hands together protectively over her breasts, an unconsciously touching gesture, the girl hurried after the great official. She longed to cross herself, but was confused. If she was the Devil’s creature, perhaps she would be turned to ash by the power of a disgusted God if she sought His comfort and protection?
The king watched the odd party approach with dread and fascination. If this girl was Satan’s own infernal Madonna, why did she not look more impressive? She was humble and small and terrified. But perhaps this was a cunning disguise, a glamour?
“Show me.”
Le Dain put the now-silent monster’s basket on the lowest step of the dais and signaled for the girl to come forward. She was so frightened it seemed entirely right that she should crawl toward the Presence throne on her knees, the rustle of her dress the loudest noise in that chilly room. Reaching into the basket, she lifted out her child, wrapping it tenderly in its woolen covering. Once the baby was in her arms, she cuddled it against her chest, without thinking, and the smell of the leaking milk started the two little mouths mewling. Both small heads turned toward her, desperately seeking to suckle. Helpless tears dripped down the mother’s face, as, ignoring the cries, she held her child away from her body so the king could inspect what she carried.
“Sit. Show me how you feed it.”
The young woman scrambled to do as she was ordered. Daring to whisper comfort to her baby, she plumped down onto the step and unlaced the front of her dress as fast as she could while both little heads wailed vigorously.
“There now, there now, not long. Here, here it is…”
Modestly, she turned away from Louis de Valois and the crying subsided into urgent snuffles when she placed the body of the baby across her lap and directed one budlike mouth to one nipple. Then, with greater difficulty, she succeeded in offering the other breast to the second head at the same time. Like most healthy babies, this one settled in to nurse vigorously, gulping the milk from the marble-white breasts, both heads suckling.
It was a sweet sight, despite the poignant oddness of the little pink “lobster claws” that crept up to rest near the mother’s nipples and the added surprise of the third arm, its claw now resting in the valley between the girl’s breasts, opening and closing in unison with each suck the two-headed child took.
Peace stole over the face of the harried girl as she watched her baby feed with all the tenderness any new mother feels. She rearranged the child’s covering carefully, making certain the strange little thing was warm.
The king beckoned le Dain forward until the man stood beside the Presence chair. He found himself whispering when he spoke. “What is it, do you think?”
Le Dain, as fascinated as the king, replied without thinking, “God alone knows.”
Louis looked at his advisor sharply. “God, you think? Not…?” He would not say the name, instead crossing himself and fervently kissing a silk bag of holy bones hanging around his neck. “Should it be killed?” the king continued.
The girl heard him and her eyes were sudden terrified saucers, the pupils so huge the blue was drowned. Simultaneously, the child opened both mouths and screamed. Had it heard the king also?
The two men looked at each other fearfully as, with shaking fingers, the girl persuaded first one head, and then the other, to reattach itself to her nipples. Four small eyes closed as the mouths suckled once more, and the mother rocked back and forth, back and forth, to comfort her baby. Or herself.
“Perhaps, Your Majesty, this… child is a symbol?” Le Dain heard his own words with surprise. He’d called it a child.
The king nodded as he gazed at the domestic scene in front of him. “The war. God has sent us a sign about the English war. I see that now.”
Le Dain smiled with relief at his master. “I am certain you are right, Your Majesty.” Nodding vigorously, always the courtier, he bowed. “I, of course, do not have the power to see. But Your Majesty, anointed by God, knows well those things that are mysteries to the common people.”
The king inclined his head with magisterial gravity, acknowledging the compliment. “It is very clear, le Dain. See, two heads: this signifies the two kings. Myself and Edward Plantagenet. Three arms: these are the armies that lie between us—the joint army of France and England; the army of Burgundy; and his army, the army of York. Two are mighty and one is smaller.” Louis waved to each of the little limbs in turn; the third, attached at the chest, was certainly smaller. “The army of York—see how powerless it is, trapped between the two others. Also these arms symbolize the three states that are at war: France, England, and Burgundy. Burgundy is the smallest arm, of course.”
Le Dain allowed a certain breathless rapture into his voice. “Of course! And the… hands?” He had nearly said “claws.”
The king frowned. This was more testing.
“They are not as mortal hands, it is true.” Each man contemplated the strange little flippers. “And yet, there is a message here also.” Unbidden, le Dain dropped to his knees and bowed his head reverently, as if to receive the host at mass.
Gently, the girl detached one little mouth from her breast. The head’s eyes were closed; it was asleep, like any normal baby after a feed. Strangely, the other small head still suckled, its eyes glancing around the room while its mouth was busy.
“Yes. The hands are as mighty weapons. See, they have the shape of claws. Claws can snap shut and crush their prey. Now see, also—one head sleeps and the other does not. It is very strange, but this is what God has told me. Behold, the true king anointed by God must never sleep, must never be lulled, or destruction awaits. I am the true king of France. Edward Plantagenet is a usurper! I must be unsleeping. And I will crush my prey, the false king, while he sleeps!”
Le Dain had never heard Louis so elated and had certainly never heard him happy before. He was awed. This was a miraculous day. He forbore to point out that the likelihood of Edward Plantagenet actually sleeping at this time of national danger to his realm was unlikely. Louis de Valois stood and pointed at the girl below him. Instinctively, she huddled herself over her child, shielding its tiny body from the gaze of the king.
“Do not fear, girl. Your child is a sign from God! It will be protected by your king, for it has much to teach us.”
Louis waved his hand over the girl’s head, which le Dain took to mean dismissal of them both. He clapped his hands and suppressed a spasm of irritation as the girl looked up at him fearfully, like a sheep about to be slaughtered but accepting of its fate. Bowing, he backed down the steps of the dais as quickly as he could and hissed, “Be quick.” Trying to oblige, the girl handed him the child as she fumbled with the lacings of her dress. This informal, human moment was an affront to the status of the advisor, but the gratitude of the girl salved his dignity. She was really very pretty, and quite plainly she saw him as her savior and the savior of her child. That might be useful. A symbol always had value and he would control access to this particular symbol. And its mother.
Le Dain meditated on this fact as he, the girl, and the child approached the door of the Presence chamber, both walking backward as fast at they could.
The king’s voice stopped them. “What is the sex?”
The girl looked at the chamberlain in mute terror. He smiled as kindly as a parent, which confused her, though hope sparked in her eyes. “It is a girl, Your Majesty,” she whispered.
The king looked puzzled. “A girl? A girl…” Then enlightenment brightened his eyes. “Ah, I see. A girl: the weaker sex. Yes! The army of God will subdue that which is weaker. An excellent omen for our cousin, Queen Margaret of England. This is very clear!”
“But, this is marvelous, Lord King. A wonder!” cried le Dain. “Perhaps I may repeat these revelations—to comfort the court, and the country?”
The king nodded in gracious assent. “Yes. Comfort my people. Let it be published throughout the realm. And guard this child and her mother well. There is much for us to ponder upon. God wishes this child to flourish as a marvel for us all. She shall be called Louisa. That is our command.”
Overwhelmed, the girl, previously Satan’s minion, fell to her knees and knocked her head on the floor with gratitude. When she finally looked up, dazed, she saw a speculative light in the advisor’s eye as he gazed down upon her swollen breasts. Tentatively, she smiled at her new protector as he picked up the basket that contained her daughter. Slow certainty replaced fear. She would live. And so would her child. And her husband would just have to get used to the situation.
Their two-headed monster might prove a blessing after all.