Chapter Forty-five

 

 

From Hell’s Grasp

 

 

The moment DeFarge departed, Duxia delivered several scant shavings of meat to Fernando, then scuttled quickly into the other wagon with Mala.

“Oh, dear,” she cried, “startling news has fallen into my lap. We are delivered!” She then anxiously shared what she had found out about by the horse carcass.

“The great Countess Mathilda is Tristan’s aunt?” said Mala, puzzled. “He never mentioned such a thing.”

“Of course not. It’s more proof of his deceit and trickery.”

“Even so, Duxia, what does any of this have to do with us?”

“Oh, my Sweet, don’t you see? We shall make our way immediately to Tuscany and present you to the Countess and show her your belly! If she cares a single measure for the lad, she will then quietly pay us off to avoid scandal. My God, the woman has befriended popes and high clerics all over Europe and is in league with Cardinal Odo de Lagery himself to advance your lad Tristan up the Church ladder, to the very, very top! They’ll never allow him to fall, by God!”

Mala cast her eyes to her lap and slowly shook her head with uncertainty. “No, Duxia, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I wouldn’t do such a thing to Tristan.”

“Mala!” Duxia cried. “Do you not understand that we are on death’s doorstep? And your child? What about your child?”

Again Mala shook her head. “No. I don’t like the idea of...”

“My God, Girl!” Duxia exclaimed with utter exasper-ation. “You’ve got Fernando dying of wounds and starving to death in the wagon next to us after all he’s done for you, you and I are hanging on by a thread with months of hard winter staring us in the face, and we shall have an infant to feed in several months, if we survive that long! There is no choice here. Tristan de Saint-Germain has caused our downfall so it’s foolishness to worry about him at this point. And dammit, even if you do still love him, it’s not about you any more either.” Then she pointed to Mala’s stomach. “It’s about that!”

They argued a while longer, and despite Mala’s reluctance, she eventually knew that Duxia was right. “Very well, but how will we ever make it to Tuscany, Duxia? Do we wait for Spring?”

“No. We won’t last that long, so we leave imme-diately.”

“What? But the snow and ice, and Fernando, and the Alps.”

“Look, nothing can be worse than this hell we’re enduring right here. Nothing. Besides, we’ve got two stout ponies. We’ll load Fernando in here with the remains of the horse carcass and firewood we scrap from the other wagon and off we go. With your help, I’ll get us across the Alps to Tuscany, Mala, I swear it!”

From the jaws of disaster springs hope. And as Duxia’s mind began to race forward into a future graced with the mercy and coin of the renowned Countess Mathilda, she devised a resolute strategy to save the three of themselves from the certain death awaiting them as a result of the sudden lack of options hurled at them by the robbery and the harsh winter. In the face of such hardship, Duxia’s hope also cultivated great risk. She knew well that crossing the Alps in winter would be no easy proposition, but the reward awaiting them at the end of that trek should they survive could undoubtedly transform their bleak future.

So it was that this unlikely community of three castaways, bound by circumstance and misfortune, set about for Tuscany in the midst of winter. And it was Duxia who, though decrepit and stooped, though shaved to the nubs by life’s rasp, took the reins of leadership in advancing their tiny wagon eastward toward the Alps. Staving off discouragement, ignoring the hardships brought on by icy roads, scything wind, and the biting cold, she drove the small ponies forward day after day until finally they caught sight of the mountains towering ahead.

She stopped the wagon, then, and called to Mala and Fernando who were huddled together within the wagon trying to keep warm. “Come stick your heads out and behold the Alps!” she cried.

Shivering, Mala cracked the tiny window shutter located behind Duxia’s driver position and peered out at the terrible frozen beauty of the formidable peaks standing before them. “Oh my God!” she whispered, having never seen the Alps. “How will we ever overcome such a hurdle?”

“The only way over the Alps is the Via Francigena, which you see opening before you,” said Duxia. Then she spat in the snow, some of the dribble immediately freezing to her cracked lower lip. “And though few travel this road in winter, we’ll traverse the Via Fracigena by fighting God, my Dear,” she continued, drawing out her syllables with undeniable bitterness. “Yes, put away your prayer beads, Girl, for they’ll do us no good. God long ago turned his back to us. Rather, let us summon Lucifer himself from the crags and crannies of darkness, for he is infinitely more merciful…”

Then she flicked the reins and began the ascent…