The Dream Maker (48 page)

I had left the infirmary that very morning and I went to the church for the first service, to the great astonishment of my poisoners. Judging from their furious gazes, I could tell they would not delay in preparing another attack and that this one would leave me no chance. One clue, however, showed me how I might obtain help from the outside, and this prospect restored some hope.

Brother Hugo had been stopped at the market the day before by an acquaintance who asked for news of me. The man clearly knew that the gardener-monk was on my side; he implied that he had heard about the letter I had sent thanks to Hugo. I later learned that this stranger was none other than Guillaume Gimart, a former galley captain whom Jean had enrolled in his expedition, and who had come to Beaucaire posing as a merchant. In the same conversation, he asked Brother Hugo whether he knew of any weaknesses in the city walls. The monk grew wary, and deferred his answer until the next day, until he had had time to consult with me. I urged him to give all the information he had to this man. We had nothing to fear and everything to hope for, if he was one of us.

Because of his work as a gardener, Hugo was able to go all over the town. He was in charge of keeping a few sheep belonging to the monastery. He led them to graze beneath the walls, which had the advantage of both feeding the sheep and keeping the immediate vicinity of the ramparts tidy. As he was curious about plants, Brother Hugo liked to study the little clumps of simples that grew in the cracks in the walls. He had often noticed the places where the wall's foundations in the silty ground were uneven, and the cracks were growing wider. He pointed them out to the bailiff, who did what was needed to repair the cracks. One month earlier, as he chased after a ewe who had strayed, Hugo had come upon a fairly wide breach, caused by the spring storms. The entrance was hidden by a hawthorn bush. Water had formed a channel beneath the wall and flowed through to the other side. Hugo had not yet had time to inform the town authorities of his discovery. He confessed to me that, without knowing exactly why, it had already occurred to him that this breach, though it was still too narrow for a man to squeeze through, might one day be useful to me. He described it to Gimart, who seemed very pleased to hear the news.

Now that I was aware that something was going on outside, I grew impatient for my release. I was afraid that my enemies might not leave my rescuers enough time. To further stave off any danger, I decided to sleep with the lay brothers, something that no doubt would be relayed to the abbot and arouse his anger. However, by the time he found out, I would have gained more time.

What I did not know was that someone even more impatient than I—Jean—would no longer tolerate any delay. As soon as they learned that there was a breach in the wall, Guillaume called for a scout to be sent to determine its exact location. Jean refused, arguing that they could find out on the spot. Guillaume objected that the moon was still too full; he advised waiting for a dark night, in order not to be seen. Jean completely lost his temper. There was a violent quarrel between them, and I owe my life to it. Because Jean was more stubborn, that very evening a boat carrying the twenty men of the expedition slipped through the reeds on the Provence shore and set out to cross the river.

To avoid attracting the attention of any patrols that might be posted on the king's shore, the boat was made to look like an ordinary barge. The men were hidden under canvas, like a simple load of merchandise. Fortunately, there were no soldiers about when they landed in a cove slightly to the north of the town. They left two men behind to guard the boat, and all the others set off behind Jean, walking quickly to the ramparts. They made for the breach that Hugo had described. They found it fairly easily, because a heavy rain had fallen the night before and there was a stream of water springing up under the wall. They had brought picks and shovels to enlarge the gap and, apart from a large stone they had difficulty removing, the rest of the hole was fairly easy to enlarge. They shored up the wall in a rough manner with a board and four poles. Once the way out had been cleared, they exchanged their picks for swords and squeezed one after the other through the tiny tunnel.

The night was nearly over. The feeble chapel bell rang matins. I left the dormitory closely surrounded by those brothers I could trust, Hugo in particular. The two fake monks arrived somewhat late and I wondered if it was not because they had been plotting something against me in my cell.

The gold on the altar shone in the candlelight. The monks stood in a circle at the edge of the darkness, and those who were in the last rows could hardly be seen. One of them stood up, went to the lectern and began to chant the psalm “Lord, I come unto thee.” The male voices took up the refrain, and the chant, which was supposed to vibrate with joy, echoed limply in the damp air. Who could have imagined that beneath the gentle harmonies of this drowsy orison there lurked dreadful plots and murderous passion, and that, far from transfiguring those men who claimed to find inspiration in God, the chant served as a screen for crime and vengeance?

Suddenly, as if the Lord to whom we were calling so plaintively had decided to appear before us, the door to the chapel swung open. A dozen or more men hurried down the nave, brandishing their swords. The candlelight flickered, but almost at once, taking the flame from a lantern, the intruders lit two torches. The monks recoiled and cried out with more conviction than they had shown mumbling their psalms.

In the red light of the flames, a man stepped forward and called out to me. I recognized Jean de Villages. I took two steps toward him and was about to embrace him when a shadow leapt forward and I felt a blow on my shoulder. Seeing that I was on the verge of being freed, one of the false monks had hurled himself at me with a dagger. Fortunately, Brother Hugo had had the presence of mind to step in his way, so the killer missed his target. The tip of his blade tore my habit and scraped my skin. Jean and his men, surprised by the attack, quickly regained their wits and surrounded the assassin as he tried to escape. His associate, who was right by his side, was captured at the same time. There was a brief scuffle, and both men were killed.

The monks, whether they were accomplices or not, watched in horror as the scene unfolded. Jean raised his sword and spoke to them in a loud voice. He informed them that two of his men would be posted outside the monastery for the time it would take us to get away, and if anyone tried to raise the alarm they must expect no pity.

We left in a scramble. I found it awkward to run in my homespun habit. Fortunately, the streets of the town were dark and deserted, and there was not far to go to reach the hole in the wall.

Breathless and exultant, we made it to the boat, shivering in the wind that was cold and damp from the river. During the crossing, Jean took my hands and I embraced him for a long time, weeping. Horses were waiting for us on the other side. Guillaume had thought of everything, and had brought some travel clothing for me. I changed and climbed in the saddle. The sun rose in a cloudless sky. A straight, well-paved road ran between a sea of pale green olive trees. I had an inexpressible feeling of rebirth, but it was not the birth of an ignorant and vulnerable infant but rather of one of those Greek gods who come to earth as adults in the prime of life, rich with experience and pleased to share the pleasures of human beings, about whom they know everything. We rode for two days until we reached Aix, the home of King René.

 

*

 

I stayed in Aix for less than a week, but it seemed like a month. I was reunited with all my friends—Jean, Guillaume, the galley captains, and my agents, several of whom had found refuge in Provence to escape lawsuits in the kingdom of France.

I learned everything that had happened in the world during almost three dark years spent in the secrecy of prisons. Coming from their lips, some of the news, which had only reached me in faint echoes, was striking. They informed me that Constantinople had fallen to the Turks, and they described the huge consequences: the exodus of artists and scholars, and an even closer rapprochement with the Sultan of Egypt, who watched with terror as the Turks increased their dominance. They confirmed a lasting peace with the English. This was indeed the birth of a new world. They continued to exploit every possibility that new world offered, and told me they had saved as many assets as possible from Dauvet's inventory. As I had suspected, Dauvet had merely been cutting off dead branches. But the plant was alive and would grow in other directions. Guillaume now had the galleys flying other flags than that of the king of France: Provence, Aragon, and Genoa. The ships continued on their ceaseless voyages. He had placed much of my property under other names, and had used banking transactions to make funds disappear. Dauvet might be able to get his hands on my houses and castles, but that was not the active part of our business.

I even had some news that not only reassured me but restored some of my optimism: while keeping it secret from his prosecutor, the king had authorized certain transactions that Guillaume had undertaken on behalf of our business. In other words, he seemed to have understood that apart from vengeance, the cupidity of the great barons, and his own desire to appropriate my fortune, it was in his interest to let us go on doing business. Thus, although he had not pardoned me, he showed that he intended to preserve our activity and let it live.

While everyone, or almost everyone, in his entourage still thought they lived in the era of chivalry, he at least, with greater clairvoyance, understood that he could no longer reign over a fixed order; and if he were to be powerful, this could only be attained through movement and trade, an activity that he could never fully control short of killing it altogether. This gave me some satisfaction, and even, I confess, a burst of pride.

Jean and Guillaume had also preserved ties with my family. They did not know much about Macé's death, because, as I said, she ended her life withdrawn from the world. But the news from my children was good. My son Jean, in his position as archbishop, was untouchable, and he protected his brothers and sisters. Only my youngest son, Ravand, had gone through difficult times. He had endeavored to plead with Dauvet, who refused to give him any help. I was sorry that he had lowered himself in this effort, which was as pointless as it was humiliating. Since then, he had received help from my friends in Provence and he was living well.

What touched me most was to see that Jean and Guillaume and all the others had continued to look after our trading house without ever thinking of taking it over for themselves. They considered that it belonged to me, and they very honestly, and in great detail, provided me with an account of the fortune I had at my disposal. In actual fact, they were also motivated by optimism: they knew our business too well to believe that it belonged to anyone in particular. It lived from, and for, everyone. They acknowledged that I had a particular role, but it was complementary to their own.

In any case, despite the predatory behavior of the people at court and Dauvet's persnickety inventories, I was pleased to see that our web was still just as solid, and that we had considerable means. Stimulated by King René's appreciation for fine things, I took great delight in having elegant clothing made up, in sharing good meals, and in visiting palaces. I had had my fill of rough cloth, hard beds, and prisoners' meals. My gaze was weary of peeling walls. I'd had enough of peering at patches of gray sky through tiny, barred windows. I grew intoxicated with elegance, bright sunshine, music, and pretty women.

Alas, my stay in Provence was not meant to last. My companions informed me that suspicious individuals had been sighted coming and going. In spite of King René's autonomy with regard to the king of France, he remained his vassal, and his lands were open to Charles's subjects. Clearly there were agents among them who were trailing me. René very magnanimously refused to hand me over to Charles VII. But I quickly understood that his resistance did not guarantee my safety. I decided to continue on to Florence.

I went through Marseille, where my house was nearly finished. I only stayed two days. Jean had to wait for the arrival of a galley. He provided me with a comfortable escort and I left by the coast. The gardens by the seaside were bursting with color. It was warm, and the sound of the cicadas could drive one mad. We stopped at shady properties perched on outcrops; I could not get enough of looking at the horizon.

Something had changed, which made this journey very different from those I had made in the old days. With my freedom regained, and perhaps captivity, I had acquired an astonishing aptitude for nonchalance. I was once again involved in the business; Guillaume had brought me up to date on everything, and no one disputed my authority. And yet I no longer had—and I now know that I will never again have—the appetite, the concern, or the impatience that once propelled me into the next moment and prevented me from living fully in the present. That agitation had left me for good. I was wholly there, on that dusty road, at the top of that rocky spur overlooking the sea, or in that garden next to a clear fountain. My mind and body were so altered by freedom that I grew drunk on it. I gulped down the beauties of the world like a thirsty man pressing his lips to a cool spring. This was pure happiness.

Jean had found me a new valet. He was only the third servant to accompany me in life, after Gautier in the Levant, and Marc, until his sacrifice.

I only ever had those three, and now, perched high up in my sheepfold in Chios, I doubt that the future will provide me with any others. Three valets, three personalities, three very different periods of my existence. The last one was called Étienne. Naturally, he came from Bourges. Jean and Guillaume had always surrounded themselves with men from their native town. Some of them had even been appointed ships' captains, although they were born as far from the sea as one can possibly be. Their shared origins gave them an instinctive understanding, on which the basic quality of any enterprise is founded: mutual trust. Étienne was a little peasant whose father had been killed by one of the last gangs of
écorcheurs
as they were leaving the region. This loss caused a strange reaction in the child: he could no longer sleep. It was not an illness, nor grounds for complaint or suffering. He simply did not sleep. Perhaps from time to time he would drop off for a moment, but in all the time that he was in my service, whenever I called to him, no matter the time, he was awake. He had no other qualities in particular, he was neither very clever nor very brave, nor particularly talkative or penetrating in his understanding of others, as Marc had been. But at a time when I might still be under threat, Étienne's infirmity (for I could not imagine that being deprived of sleep was not an infirmity) was supremely useful.