The Copper Sign (29 page)

“So you can just go out and incur more debts?” Thibault laughed scornfully.

“If you take my smithy away from me, what will become of my poor children?” Michel seemed only now to realize the deep trouble he was in.

“I am moved by your distress,” Thibault said. “For this reason I will forgive it all if you do just one thing for me.” He grinned into the dark night.

“Whatever you ask,” Michel whined. He had not noticed the scorn in Thibault’s voice.

“You will kill the goldsmith she always visits.”

“Who…? What…?” In his drunken state Michel didn’t understand at first.

“He will never have her,” Thibault fumed. “You’ll kill him, or better gouge out his eyes; then you’ll take his gold and anything else of value that he has. Robbers often do terrible things!” He laughed hoarsely.

“But I can’t do that…Jocelyn is a good—”

“Be quiet! Do what I tell you, and do it tonight, or tomorrow your wife will be a penniless widow and your children will have to beg for food in the streets.”

“Could I perhaps just beat him and rob him?” Michel suggested, trembling.

“That’s not enough! It’s either his life or yours. Think about it, but don’t take too long. It must be done today.”

Michel nodded in desperate resignation. Suddenly he seemed to sober up. “And where shall I deliver the money?”

“I will come to your house tomorrow evening. If you try to deceive me…” Once again, Thibault pressed the knife to his throat: “Then you will have to suffer for it.”

“Never, sir, believe me!” Michel wailed.

Thibault pushed him away. “So go now. You know what you have to do.”

In the middle of the night Ellen awoke and sat bolt upright in bed. Something had frightened her terribly, a sound or a dream perhaps. She fell into a fitful sleep and the next morning was tired and nervous. She couldn’t concentrate on her work and could scarcely wait to go to Jocelyn’s. Even though she was hungry, she hurried to his house right after work and dashed into the smithy without knocking. “Jocelyn, it’s me,” she called out happily.

She could smell something sickly sweet, and she turned up her nose. Then she discovered Jocelyn. He lay stretched out on the floor alongside his worktable, his head lying in a pool of blood. Her heart stopped for a moment, and then she fell down on her knees beside his lifeless body, unable to believe what she was seeing. Now her heart started pounding again. “Please no, Jocelyn!” She shook him gently. “Lord, why do you punish me so?” She sobbed in bewilderment and passed her hand carefully over Jocelyn’s sunken cheeks. The burin she had made for him protruded, like a reproach, from his chest. Sobbing, she grabbed the handle and pulled on it until it came out.

Suddenly two respectable-looking women, the wives of local merchants, appeared in the doorway.

Ellen looked up, startled. She held the bloody weapon up high, almost as if she were going to stab him again.

“Help, help! She murdered the goldsmith!” the two women screamed and ran away shouting.

Ellen stared in disbelief at the tool in her hand. Jocelyn’s blood ran down it into her sleeve, and she flung it away, wiping off the blood with a rag, then rushing out the back door of the smithy. She knew that behind the garden there was a small side alley through which she could flee.

Certainly the two women would swear by all that was holy that they had seen Ellen stab Jocelyn. And who would believe the truth of what she said?

Ellen wandered aimlessly through the narrow alleyways, without knowing where she was going. She had never gone this far away in the direction of the slums. The houses were tall and crowded together, rats scurried through the little streets, and there was a strong stench of pig feces and urine. The children in this part of town were scrawny and emaciated, their faces filthy and their little bodies covered with fleabites scratched raw. It was dangerous to walk around here at any time of day, and not just at dusk, but this did not trouble Ellen at all. There wasn’t one clear thought in her head, only images of Jocelyn and endless grief. On the steps of a shabby little wooden church she finally broke down and sobbed. “Jocelyn, what shall I do now?” she whispered over and over in despair. But no one answered.

I must go back to Michel’s and fetch my things
, it suddenly occurred to her. She rubbed her soot-covered face, smearing the white lines left by the tears on her cheeks.

The closer she got to the smithy the more afraid she was of falling into the hands of soldiers. If either of the women knew who she was, the place would be swarming with town guards. Ellen hid nearby Michel’s shop. Nothing was stirring. She watched until it was dark and then sneaked up to the smithy.

Michel was no doubt away, having dinner with his family or sitting in the tavern, but she opened the door very carefully just the same. The smithy was dark and warm, and only a few coals were still burning on the hearth.

She checked to make sure there was no one there, then slipped in. She was familiar with every inch of the room and did not need any light in order to find what she was looking for. In no time at all she had packed up her things—her tools, the apron, her bundle, and the few coins she had. On the way back to the door she stumbled over a piece of iron and cursed under her breath.

Then she heard voices. Grabbing an empty sack, she crept behind one of the large wicker baskets and covered herself as best she could with the torn linen cloth.

At that moment, the door to the shop flew open and someone entered.

“I did as you asked, sir.” Michel’s obsequious voice suggested he had a guilty conscience.

“Give me what you stole,” Ellen heard a rasping voice reply.

Thibault! Ellen felt an almost overwhelming need to throw up and was barely able to control herself.

“They suspect Ellen,” Michel said suddenly.

Why was he speaking with Thibault about her? And how did he know Thibault at all?

“Is that her bed?” Thibault asked, stepping on the straw sack on the floor. He was dangerously close to her hiding place.

Ellen could feel herself breaking out into a sweat. Paralyzed with fear, she sat motionlessly under the stuffy linen cover.

Without waiting for a reply, Thibault again demanded that Michel give him what he had stolen.

“What shall I do if she comes back? Maybe she even knows that I…” Michel hesitated.

“She won’t be so dumb as to come here.” Thibault stroked his chin. “Poor thing, you have to pity her. First her fiancé is dead, and now she is being pursued as a murderer.” His resounding laughter gave Ellen goose bumps all over her body. “Just act as you always do and you’ll have nothing to fear. Ellen is certainly long gone,” Thibault advised the smith; then his steps moved away from where Ellen was hiding.

“It really would have been a pity if you had lost the smithy and the house.” Thibault roared with laughter again, and then the door closed behind the two men.

Petrified, Ellen sat still for a moment in her hiding place. Michel had killed Jocelyn! How could he have done that? He had to be held accountable! In despair, she considered what to do. What proof did she have? If she reported it to the city guards and asked them to investigate, they wouldn’t even listen to her but would lock her up at once and condemn her. There was no justice in the world, but God would punish Michel on the Last Judgment Day, of that Ellen was sure. Like a thief, she sneaked away and fetched Nestor from the nunnery. Why did she have to flee this time, again, when she hadn’t done anything wrong?

In the first few days, Ellen felt desperate and completely without hope. Her tears dried before long, but she felt as listless and dull as an old blade.

By now, she had been on the road for a week, long enough not to have to fear being followed, but without knowing where she was going. At a road crossing she found herself at the end of a long line of people, tradesmen and merchants, magicians and prostitutes, all headed in the same direction, most of them on foot. Others rode on mules or were driving oxcarts. Suddenly she heard loud shouting coming from the wagon just ahead of her.

“Now that’s enough, you trollop! I have lost patience with you. Get out and find your own husband.” The canvas was flung aside, and a plump woman, her face red with anger, pushed a young girl out of the wagon.

Ellen just had time to grab Nestor’s reins and bring him to a halt.

The young girl fell to the ground in front of the pony and at once began to cry out for someone named Jean. She whined like a small child though she was certainly at least sixteen or seventeen years old. “Jean!” she cried out again in a long, drawn-out, piercing voice.

And shortly thereafter, a young man came up to her.

To Ellen’s amazement, he was younger than the girl who seemed to regard him as her defender. He was shorter than Ellen, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, and had not yet begun to grow a beard.

He stooped down to the girl and pulled her up with one hand. “Oh, Madeleine, what’s wrong this time?” he asked. “Tell me what happened. Problems with your Agnes again?”

Madeleine shrugged and cast an innocent look at the boy. Then she grabbed her breast. “Her husband touched me here again,” she said, clutching at her breast. “He does this a lot, but usually he’s more careful not to let her catch him. This time she saw it, and now she’s angry at me.” The girl looked at him wide-eyed.

The boy sighed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he mumbled when he noticed she was standing in Ellen’s way and pulled the girl off to the side of the road.

She was limping and grimaced with pain.

“Is she all right?” Ellen asked and dismounted.

“My foot! It hurts so much!” the girl wailed.

“Go over and sit on the grass and I’ll have a look at it.” For a short moment Ellen forgot her own grief and her usual distrust of strangers. Taking the girl’s dirty foot in her hand, she examined it carefully.

The girl held still and calmed down.

“It looks like it’s not broken. Do you still have a long way to go?”

“We’re going to the next jousting tournament, like all the others.” The boy pointed to the long procession of people moving by. “We’ve been with the merchants for some time, but there is always trouble because of her,” he explained, pointing to the girl.

Ellen raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“It’s a long story,” the boy said. “I keep an eye on her as best I can, but sometimes I’m not here and then there’s almost always trouble. Now it looks like we’ll have to go ahead on our own for a while.”

“But I can’t walk!” Madeleine whimpered, shedding a few tears for emphasis.

“So you’re going to a tournament?” Ellen’s curiosity was awakened.

“That’s how we make a living. Madeleine dances or works as a maid. She’s pretty and almost always finds work. And I do all sorts of things. I polish boots, deliver messages, care for animals and clean out their stables, serve beer, and fetch water. Hard workers are always in demand at the tournaments.”

“Are there blacksmiths there, too?”

“Sure, every kind of smith, except for perhaps silversmiths and goldsmiths. There are a lot of farriers, because the horses are always losing their shoes, then there are wire drawers and nailers, coppersmiths selling their pots and pans, and blacksmiths who make tent pegs, tongs, hooks, and all kinds of tools. And then there are the armorers, who have plenty of work to do.”

Ellen’s face brightened. “Well, if that’s the case, I’ll come along with you! Let’s get moving,” she urged them in a cheerful voice.

“But I can’t walk!” Madeleine whined again.

“Help her up onto the pony and the two of us can walk,” Ellen suggested, guiding the girl over to her horse.

“Who are you, anyway?” the boy asked suspiciously.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my name is Ellenweore. I’m a swordsmith, and a really good one!” she said confidently, holding out her hand.

“A woman who is a smith,” the boy mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. “One who makes swords? That’s amazing! My name is Jean, by the way.” He wiped his hand off on his shirt before extending it to Ellen.

“I know, I heard her calling you, and her name is Madeleine, isn’t it?”

Jean nodded.

“I used to know someone named Jean, but he was way older than you.” She thought for a moment, then added, “How about if I call you Jeannot? Do you mind?”

“No, no, I’ve had worse nicknames. Scallywag, Snotnose, or Rat—they bothered me a lot more.” Jean grinned at Ellen mischievously.

“Well, then we’ve got a deal, Jeannot. So come on, Madeleine, up you go onto the nag. Sorry, Nestor, I didn’t mean to offend you.” She stroked the pony’s nose affectionately. Taking the reins, she guided him while Madeleine sat upright, as if she had been riding horses all her life, rocking back and forth as he walked along. Ellen looked at her admiringly. She herself always felt like a sack of flour when riding and felt a lot more secure walking.

“She looks like she grew up riding a horse!”

“We both ride pretty well even though neither of us has ever had a horse of our own.” The boy bit his lip and clearly didn’t want to say anything more about it.

When it got dark, they looked around in the forest for a place to spend the night. They had caught up with the other travelers but decided to set up their tent some distance away in order to avoid trouble with the merchant’s wife. Ellen tied Nestor to a tree with plenty of grass and soft moss around it so he would have plenty to eat.

Without being asked, Madeleine set out to gather wood and soon returned with an armful of dry branches. She seemed to have completely forgotten her painful foot.

Ellen took her flint, fire steel, and a little bit of tinder and was about to light a bunch of dry grass when Jean suddenly arrived carrying a dead rabbit in his hand. Ellen looked up at him in surprise.