Between Two Fires (9781101611616) (54 page)

“I always ask those of Saint Francis’s order to come to me. Although I myself have fallen short of Christ’s example, I believe the cordeliers approach it quite closely. So I fill your bellies and solicit your prayers.”

“My prayers are no better than yours, though I will lend them as you ask.”

He waited. Her hands clenched gently in her lap, as though she wanted rosary beads, or a quill pen, or dice.

At length, she spoke.

“I do not want my grandson dead of this scourge.”

“I will pray for his safety.”

Silence.

“Would you like at least to know his name?”

“If you wish me to know it.”

She told him.

“His father, my son, spoke rudely to you in the tiltyard. I will inform him of my displeasure.”

“I did not find him rude, my lady.”

“Then your hearing is not as good as mine. He is not so wise or
kind as he is brave. His voice is harsh, like his father’s before him. Did you know the lord of this place? My late husband?”

That head tilt.

The friar smiled.

“Scarcely. I knew the man’s face, but little more.”

Now the lady smiled.

“You have a kind voice, Father. Were you married, before you took orders?”

“Yes.”

“And your lady wife?”

Silence.

“She has gone to her reward.”

“Ah.”

Though the eyes were blind, they kept the habit of looking down.

She spoke again.

“Did you have children?”

The old man fidgeted.

Now his hands wanted something.

“A daughter. She lives. We were farmers, and worked where we could. I planned to follow Saint Francis after I saw her wed, but she, too, wed the church. We took orders the same month.”

Silence.

“Will you stay tonight, Father? I keep a comfortable room for men of God. You may pray unmolested.”

“I am yours to command, though I am on my way to see her. My daughter. I visit her at her convent in Amiens each month, as I can, and I do not wish to be late.”

“Then go in peace. She is lucky. To have such a father, I mean.”

“Do you believe in luck, my lady?”

“The dart of the Implacable One struck your wife and my husband, and spared my son and your daughter. What divides the four?”

“God’s will.”

“And if God’s mind is unknowable, how does His will differ from luck?”

“It is a question of faith. When I pray for the boy, shall I pray for luck?”

“I am a careful woman. I will pray for luck. You, good Father, pray for God’s benevolence. Between the two of us, perhaps the boy will live.”

“We are at common purpose, if our means differ.”

Silence.

He rose.

“With your permission.”

“Of course.”

He was nearly out the door when she tapped her ring three times on the bench.

Bull.

Fox.

Lamb.

He stopped and swallowed hard.

He smiled despite himself, his eyes moistening.

He tapped his bowl on the wall three times.

And then the old Franciscan left the castle of Arpentel, and made for Amiens, where his daughter even now tended the convent garden, eyeing the sorrel she would pick for him in the morning.

I wish to extend my deepest thanks to those who helped midwife this novel: First, to Michelle Brower at Folio, whose positivity, energy, and arcane agenting alchemy never fail to astound me. Next, and posthumously, to Barbara Tuchman, without whose masterpiece
A Distant Mirror
, fourteenth-century France would be much more distant indeed. Somewhat less posthumous thanks are due to Michael J. E. Reilly, whose knowledge of things ecclesiastical proved indispensable to this effort. Paul Dubro of Legacy Forge answered questions about armor, and, if you visit YouTube, you can watch longbow experts Nick Birmingham and Martin Harvey of the Company of Holyrood show how English archers used hundred-pound war bows to punch holes in that armor; these two also read and commented usefully on the chapter concerning the battle of Crécy. Allen Hutton, who knows more about the late-medieval sword than a living man has the right to, helped choreograph the fight by the creek; and if the hunting scene seems credible, that’s because I know Bob Haeuser, who makes Eastern Louisiana unsafe for deer. Teresa DeWitt, high-school
French-class neighbor, prom date, and now CSI investigator, turned me green with descriptions of what prolonged submersion does to the human body, and Professor Sylvie Lefevre of Columbia University graciously answered a stranger’s query about medieval French names. Michael Gartner of Volgemut and Owain Phyfe (whose voice sounds as hot blown glass looks) were two of the many musicians whose work accompanied my writing, and since I am lucky enough to call them friends, it is my pleasure to acknowledge their excellence here. The Cistercian garden would have been bare dirt without another good friend, “Plant Man” Terry Hollembaek, with whom I have stained my teeth purple more than once. Medievalist Christine Axen did a difficult thing and made Avignon even more charming during my research there. On the subject of travel, although it was composed on the road, in many places, I set down a good eighth of
Between Two Fires
at Rochambo coffeehouse on East Brady Street in Milwaukee, which is a hell of a good place to write a book. Thanks again, and always, to readers Allison Williams, Jamie Haeuser, Ciara Carinci, and to listeners Ron Scot Fry, Susan Fry, Damaris Wilcox, Roxanna Wilcox-Keller, Noelle Burk, and especially Kelly Cochran Davis. Lastly, thanks and adoration to Danielle Dupont, whose self-appointed position on this project was “Advocate for Good.” Her counsel on the nature of angels seems more like firsthand knowledge than supposition, and she is, in many ways, Delphine’s mentor and close cousin.