Chapter Forty-four

 

 

DeFarge Again

 

 

Duxia’s prophetic words by the fire that night soon came to fruition as in mid-October winter flung its full fury onto the region and smothered Lyons with blizzards and ice storms. Although Fernando began to recover slowly, he was helpless in terms of leaving the camp to seek employment of any means. Duxia and Mala both were forced, then, to take to the streets as beggars.

They managed from time to time to secure meager donations, but were soon forced to sell one of the two horses from Fernando’s team, and butcher the other. It should be noted that these horses used by the Romani and most other distance travelers at the time in Europe were of the Icelandic breed. These small, coarse-haired ponies were hardy, fertile, utilitarian, and easily kept. They also, in addition to the walk, trot, canter, and gallop of regular horses, possessed a fifth gait known as the amble which allowed them to cover great distance without tiring and was also comfortable for the rider. The Romani used their ponies to pull their wagons, and also for individual transport.

“Though we dispose of Fernando’s ponies, we must keep the two from your team alive at any cost, Mala,” warned Duxia, “or we lose all hope of transport when winter is over. Once the baby arrives you can resume dancing, and with Fernando we’ll make a fresh start.”

The horseflesh sustained them during the day, and at night they huddled in their tiny wind-blown wagons buried beneath piles of blankets, clothing, and anything else they could throw over themselves to stave off the cold. And though Mala and Fernando had become accustomed to hardship over years of Romani wandering, they had never had to endure the state of helplessness caused by her pregnancy and his injuries. It was the old crow, Duxia, then, who kept the camp afloat, scraping bark from trees to boil tea, hunting down certain evergreen foliage suitable for human digestion as well as for the remaining two horses, and showing Mala and Fernando how to hack through frozen ground in search of tubers and other edible roots.

On New Year’s morning Mala came to her as she was stooped over the campfire, re-stoking it. “It’s a New Year, Duxia, I’m going into town to attend mass. Would you like to come along?”

“No,” said Duxia, blowing into the faint heat of smoking ash, “I’m done with God. I’ve nothing to be thankful for, nor do you. Go ahead, Dear, if it makes you feel better.” Then she straightened, placing a hand to her arthritic back, and gazed at the clouds. “Another three hard months of winter or more,” she said. “The baby comes in March; the snow and ice will still be with us. The worst lies ahead and the horsemeat is coming soon to bones and hide. Say a prayer for the child, Mala, since you still seem to believe your God listens. Perhaps though he’s abandoned us, He’ll have mercy at least on the infant.” Then she looked over at Fernando’s wagon. “We’ve scoured the woods these past months; the only thing left is green branches and timber. We’ll need to disassemble Fernando’s wagon soon for firewood or freeze to death.”

January was even more brutal than November and December, and the biting wind cut so deeply that the three could barely leave the wagons to set a fire for cooking. They remained in their wagons then, and because of Mala’s advancing state of pregnancy and Fernando’s immobility, Duxia insisted that she be the one to venture out into the freezing weather to hack raw, frozen flesh from the scant horse remains and scoop snow for their thirst. One morning as she was bent over working the horse carcass, she heard a slight noise behind her. Turning quickly, she raised her knife and cried, “What do you want!”

A man stood there, trembling, his head and neck wrapped in rags for warmth. A blanket was wrapped over his head and shoulders, but Duxia could see that the poor fellow was missing a hand. “Th-the m-meat there,” the man shivered, “I h-haven’t eaten in days. M-might I have a sliver of it? Th-then I’ll be on my way.”

Distrustful by nature, especially of men, Duxia waved her knife about a moment. “Yes, I’ll share, but stranger, best not get any funny ideas. I’m old, but I can still gut a weasel!”

The man approached slowly, barely able to move one frozen foot before the other. “Th-thank you, kind ma’am,” he stammered, parting the blanket pulled about his face a bit with his single hand to better see the old woman. As he peeked out at her, Duxia straightened her crooked frame and relaxed her grip on the knife. “De-DeFarge?” she gasped.

Hearing his name, the man peeled his blanket yet wider. “M-Mielikki? Duxia?” he said, equally perplexed at a face from the forgotten past. “Wh-what the hell?”

“Come sit, DeFarge, while I saw you some flesh from this thing,” Duxia clucked, squatting beside the carcass. “And pray tell, what happened to your hand? War?”

“No, Orla the Dane took it,” DeFarge, snorted. “You remember that big bastard from the Saint-Germain-en-Laye days, eh?” DeFarge then recounted the tale of enlisting in Dijon to go fight in Italy for Countess Mathilda.

“Ah, the wealthiest bitch of the continent,” said Duxia. “God starves the two of us, DeFarge, yet piles mountains of gold upon that Tuscan whore. Where’s the justice, eh?”

DeFarge nodded, watching Duxia work the horseflesh hungrily. “Uh, if I might, perhaps, I’ll take two little slivers of that fine looking meat, Duxia.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Duxia, content to have encountered DeFarge.

Years before when she had been part of Asta’s household, she had liked DeFarge. He, too, had enjoyed her company at the time, and though she was older than him, had still found her attractive back then and often imagined that it would be enjoyable to explore her bush. He stared and he marveled at how she had deteriorated. Duxia was thinking the same of him as she handed him a thin cut of frozen horse.

“Such bad luck for you to run into the Danes of all damn people,” Duxia said, “Why in the world are they going to Tuscany?”

“They fight for the Countess now in Italy, under the banner of Guillaume de Saint-Germain.”

“What? Guillaume? The baby brother of Tristan de Saint-Germain?”

“Yes, young as he is, Guillaume’s their damned commander believe it or not, and a high lord of Tuscany apparently. He and his brother were both adopted at some point by la Gran Contessa Mathilda herself, and talk among the Danes is that with her support and the backing of Cardinal Odo de Lagery, she hopes Tristan may one day don the Pope’s tiara! Such damn luck, those two boys, especially after what happened to their father.” Here his cheeks turned red, as he was the cause of Roger de Saint-Germain’s demise. “Anyway, yes, Tristan and Guillaume are both in Tuscany, I imagine, having long ago delivered arms, munitions, and men to the Countess.”

Duxia did not hear this last statement. Her mind was far aflight, suddenly grasping about for possibilities. Tristan de Saint-Germain was now related to one of the most wealthy and powerful figures of all Europe. “Are you listening to me, Duxia?” said DeFarge, giving her a nudge. “Uh, and I’ll have that other slice now, maybe a little bigger than the last, eh?”

“Yes, certainly!” said Duxia, cutting faster. “And I’ll cut off these ears for you to take on the road. Then it’s off you go, DeFarge, understand?”