1.

The first man was Jacques de Helly, lord of Crequy and du Pas, upright on his borrowed gray. He rode beside the river, against the current, and the others followed.

He would never have chosen this inferior horse, but it was the best of the ones offered. He hadn’t complained. The Turks did not deserve the satisfaction of his complaints. Instead, he had taken his time looking at each of the five flawed animals. The Ottomans stood aside shaking their heads, patient in their impatience. At the end of the line, he turned and went back to the gray, cupped his palm on her snout, and was still. The gray was still. Sanson and the others were still. The Turks shook their heads. In his head, Sanson said Our Fathers to mark the time. Ten.

Satisfied at last, Sir Jacques placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle with ease for a man of his age. He touched the rabbit foot tied to his left arm, cleared his throat, and looked expectantly at Sanson and the others.

Each man chose the horse closest to him and tried to get on — foot in stirrup, grab the saddle, lift, but only Anthoine was able to do it easily. The Turks shook their heads and gave Sanson and the others a boost. The Turks, they were always helping, always shaking their heads.

When they were mounted, Sir Jacques, without a word, started down the western road. Sanson and the others managed to follow by imitating him — kicking back, lifting their reins, making noises like laughter.

They had left during the new moon, and again the moon was new, the nights black but much colder. Along the river road, the days were long and miserable. Mud had dried in deep tracks across the path. In the morning, they rose, loaded the horses, and spent all day on the uneven road. Sanson suffered in silence.

One night in six, they slept in a barn or stables while Sir Jacques slept in the house or inn. Those nights were comfortable, save for the bugs and rodents. On the other nights, they slept in the open, under trees and stars and horse blankets. All night the hard, cold ground punished them, though they were spared the rodents and bugs.

They followed the river on their right, against the current, on the pitted road. Sir Jacques first, then far behind him Loys, Anthoine, and Martin. Far, far behind, poor old Sanson.

The only one of the others who had ridden before was Loys, an 18-year-old blond Parisian, a farrier’s son still craving a life as a soldier, even after recent events should have helped him choose the safer career his father offered. Wide-set eyes made him look like a stupid child. Quick to anger, like a stupid child.

Anthoine was a boy. Back at Brusa, he had told them he was 18, and they had laughed and pressed him until he lost a year. When pressed further, he turned 16. On they pressed, but he was proud and stuck firm, though Sanson was sure he was no older than 15. Anthoine often muttered improvised prayers to the Virgin to protect his mother from his father, to protect his sister from boys, to protect himself from the world. Spoke often of Amiens, of a girl there whom he loved and who loved him in return, of John the Baptist’s head.

Martin was about 30, with a creased, open face and a thin-lipped mouth that spoke little, through clenched teeth that made him sound angry. It was not anger but an old injury he got at Roosebeke, when a Flemish peasant hit him in the face with a wooden club. It had not healed properly, and opening his mouth too wide was agony, so he said little. Of the others, he was the most comfortable riding.

Far, far behind them, poor old Sanson le Piquier watched them all, trying to keep his head clear. One of the reasons he rode so far behind is that he didn’t always know if he was thinking a thought or saying it out loud. He prayed it would not be his own undoing around Jacques.

Sanson was exhausted all of the time, now. He was convinced that at any moment, he was going to blink and his eyes would never open again, that his body would fall and hit the ground, while his soul would keep falling and be claimed by the devil. He wished, sometimes, that he would die anyway, that death would release him, finally, from

an endless itch in his left eye,

a right eye that worked only some of the time,

a right ear that had blinked out three years ago,

a left ear that whooshed and hummed louder than a waterfall,

a sharp pain buried under his ribs on the right side,

fear he would say something out loud that angered his lord or God,

a right leg unpredictably numb or searing with pain,

a left hip that clicked and burned,

having to do things he had never wanted to do,

a cock that hadn’t worked in six years,

headaches that dawned and lasted the night.

And Sir Jacques.

Sanson stared straight ahead, listening for his own voice, wondering how much of the time left to him in this world would be spent staring like a hunting dog at the back of Sir Jacques’ head. He didn’t fear death, but he did fear judgment. Would he go to hell or, if not, would he spend many years in the next world suffering for his sins? Were they all sins, if he had obeyed Sir Jacques in service of the king and the cross?

Far, far ahead, Jacques was turning left off the river road, into an open field. Dried berry brambles blocked their way, growing from the water’s edge, up a steep slope and toward the gleaned and harvested field. One by one, the others followed, turning in and finding a new course between the furrows, among dried, discarded tops of carrots and turnips. The field was their road, even more pitted and uneven. Sanson’s hip and leg complained.

The distance between them closed, horses walking with care. Sanson’s right eye faded, went black, without pain this time. Without panic, he sighed and, with his good eye, stared at Martin’s horse, right in front of him. The black tail. If he leaned forward in his saddle, he could see on the hair strands cascading down, hints of blue and gray in the noon sun. For a moment he forgot.

Then Martin was lifted and thrown out of his saddle by some unseen giant, up and straight forward, into the dirt. The sound of a pine bough snapping, a woman screaming. Anthoine, Loys, and Jacques all turned their heads, their bodies, their horses, to see.

Martin lounged unharmed in front of his horse, which stood lopsided, right leg in a deep hole, left leg bent against the earth, grunting, trying to lift herself out. Then she fell back in the hole and screamed, rested for a moment, panting, eyes rolling, black on black, then another try, another failure. Then pushed down hard, was out, and collapsed on her left side, chest rising and falling. Her right foreleg was wet with blood, the exposed bone white and steaming in the cold air.

Martin stood up and paced, glancing up at an impassive Jacques, then pulled his knife. But he did not put the mare out of her pain. Instead he cut free the heavy sacks of meal and lard that lay on her side and dragged them away one by one. Under the horse the ground was wet because she had burst the water skins that hung on her left side, which was fully half of the water they had been carrying. Martin shook his head, muttering curses at the horse, holding the knife, still, in one hand, but not doing what needed to be done. The horse panted, her breaths getting calmer and calmer with each moment she remained still.

Jacques cleared his throat, and all eyes were on him as his feet hit the soft ground. He walked toward a visible terrified Martin and passed him without a look. In his tarnished colors — spiky red cherry tree on a field of yellow — Jacques stood before the fallen horse, chin up, arms folded over his chest. It was times like these that Sanson was reminded of his own commonness. Mixed in with rage, fear, love, pride, he felt gratitude, and thought, no, no, no, hoping he didn’t say it out loud. Nobody paid Sanson any attention.

Loys and Anthoine dismounted and joined Martin. Sanson knew he couldn’t stay mounted, and couldn’t ask for help without interrupting Jacques’ reverie. He leaned forward, swung his leg over the horse’s rear, and lay on his belly in the saddle, grasping the leather straps and trying to lower himself to the ground, but his feet found only empty space. He would have to let go. The others were watching him, he knew, heard them sniggering.

When he dropped, the impact was like an axe blow to his legs, something he had actually felt before. Down he went, on his behind, to general laughter. Jacques had been watching, of course, and he chuckled a dignified chuckle and cleared his throat to mark the end of jollity.

His voice, as always, was coiled snakes, satin cloth, wood ash.

— My wife is a gentlelady, boys, with prodigious appetites. When I am in Picardy, and my lady is in Picardy, or when I am in Paris, and my lady is in Paris, I get no rest. Ask Sanson, there in his pitiable state — get up, Sanson — he will tell you it was the truth.

Jacques paused and rubbed the rabbit foot tied to his arm.

—I am certain that she is now in Paris, our destination, awaiting me. With every step toward Paris, we get closer, and you all know what awaits me. So Martin, well done. You have postponed my inevitable execution.

The others laughed, and Jacques pulled his dagger and squatted by the horse’s neck, his boots sinking in the wet soil. Gently he placed the knife down on her neck as on a table, held it there. With his other hand he stroked and patted her, and she settled.

With great pain, Sanson stood up, watching Jacques, who reached into his tunic — oh no — and pulled out the tiny wooden flute, as long as a child’s foot, as thick as a man’s thumb. The Turks had allowed Sir Jacques to retain his livery, his dagger, his man, his armor, even his dignity. Would that they had taken away his flute. It had been his father’s instrument, and when he died at Crécy, his mother made sure that it was held in trust for the toddler Jacques. For close to 40 years, Sanson had heard Jacques play the flute badly, though he lacked the courage to say so. He knew that if he had ever said anything, Jacques would play even more, to increase the misery, and that he, Sanson, would get a beating and a recital as he lay bleeding and broken. It was best to stay quiet and add the flute to his list of torments.

Leaving the dagger flat against the horse’s neck, Jacques lifted the flute to his lips and played the phrase he had been repeating for hours at a time since they’d left the Turks, something of Jacques’ own invention: One long note, then up, up, slowly, then plunging down and recovering, rising again and ending just before it should. This little melody was one of the reasons Sanson had been riding so far behind the others, out of earshot.

On went the playing, as the sun traveled west toward the mountains, as the air grew colder. Jacques would play, then stop and look into the distance, and the others would look at Sanson with relief. But then he began again. Once, the tune took a new, blessed turn, but it was only a mistake, quickly corrected.

Pretending to recover from his fall by pacing, Sanson wandered as far away from Jacques as he could, and looked out at the mountains. Out there, people were living their lives, people who might take him in. There was a wealthy merchant, a spice or linen dealer, who needed an axe at his side to protect him from the companies on the highway. A brothel-owner somewhere needed a man to stand guard. There were monasteries where he could become a lay brother, sweep the floor, keep the ink pots from freezing in the winter. He could join a company. On went the fluting.

It would not stop, Sanson knew. And if nobody spoke up, then Jacques would eventually beat someone for not stopping him before it got dark. If someone interrupted him, he would beat them for the interruption. What was the difference? Sanson turned and cleared his throat. He hadn’t spoken for hours.

— My lord, pardon me.

The fluting stopped right away.

— We don’t have that much daylight left. Maybe we should find a spot to sleep soon? Maybe take care of the horse and find another? I would be happy to walk to the nearest town if that’s

Jacques stood. The other horses snuffled in the dirt with their great mushroom noses, birds in the trees chattered at some imagined threat. The dagger was in Jacques’ hand, and he looked down at it as if he were surprised to find it there, then looked up at Sanson, and smiled.

If he ran, if he turned now and ran through the field, Jacques could easily chase him down and kill him, after all of these years, the length of a lifetime. Jacques wouldn’t even need to run after him. He could take his time, remount his gray, and use his sword.

Jacques stepped across the furrows toward Sanson, his smile gone.

— Why, Sanson, do you have such little regard for my meditations? I know — don’t deny it — that you have no regard for my talents as a piper. Don’t speak, I beg you. Sure, I admit it. When I play, I fumble and falter. I am not a skilled player, not like Morlian. Remember him? You could just ask me to stop playing if it offends you so much. But wait, is that it? No, that couldn’t be all. Yes, I think that you are more concerned with this creature’s welfare than my own. Yes, but that is not all. You know, one thing has always been clear to me. You think that you know better than me. You think that you deserve some sort of special treatment that I do not offer these other boys.

Sanson shook his head, weary of this game. Jacques lifted the knife, holding it between their chests. A quick ending would be best, after all of this time. But Jacques was offering Sanson the dagger.

— Take it. Since you care only about her, and you have interrupted my attempts to soothe her, you can end her pain.

Sanson took the dagger. The carved bone handle felt good in his hand, heavy. It did not occur to him until much later that he could have turned the knife on Jacques. Instead, he was receiving no beating. He was given use of this beautiful knife. He lifted his head, looked up with gratitude at Jacques’ grim face.

— You have greatly displeased me, Sanson.

He turned his back to Sanson and faced the others.

— All right, boys. The old man, as you call him, although we are almost the same age, will end this horse’s sufferings, the greatest of which he seems to think was my humble song. Sanson will butcher her for meat, then bury the carcass. Only then will we leave.

Loys kicked at the ground. — But that’ll take a whole day.

Jacques sighed. — Likely so. Let us hope that Sanson will finish by morning. None of you will help him, do you hear me? He will finish, by himself, by morning because I will not spend another day in this fucking field with nothing to do but stare at you four. The rest of you, be of use.

Anthoine coughed. — How?

— Am I the only one who can think? Perform a masquerade for the crows. Sleep. Dig for turnips. I don’t care. Just don’t help him.

Anthoine was looking around, hands out at his sides. — But the gleaners have come.

Jacques sighed and walked away, taking out his flute and playing the same tune again. The sound faded with distance.

Sanson looked down and was almost surprised to see that the horse was still there, grunting. At his side, Martin put his hand on Sanson’s shoulder. —Go on.

Sanson knelt with pain again, feeling along the mare’s neck for the place where the blood puffed under the skin. Except for Jacques, they watched him. What, they hadn’t seen enough necks cut?

He did it fast, slicing deep, an overflowing river of blood, the horse kicking out, screaming again. Blood all around him, shining, filling holes where roots once took hold. The blood soaked in, stained the earth. In a few moments, she was still. There was no sound but the flute, faint in the wind. Sanson looked up. Jacques stood a hundred yards away, watching them.

The closest tree was at least the same distance away, and even if it were closer, Sanson had no strength to hoist the carcass up to drain. So be it. The pain in his knees was too great, so he kneeled into the bloody ground. He sawed at the horse blanket, cutting the part that emerged from under the animal, and spreading it out on the ground alongside. Then he started working around the joints of the hindquarters with his knife. He worked without thinking, without a word, without pause, cutting the hide from the meat, cutting his hands again and again, his blood mingling with the horse’s.

The others searched, heads down, for vegetables the gleaners had missed. They don’t want to be here either, but they know they are alive and they are happy to be alive. Sanson might have spoken this aloud.

Sanson put his own head down and worked. The sun faded, and Martin made a fire fifty yards off. Then Martin was at his side again, lifting the leg off the blanket.

—A poor butcher you’d make, Sanson. But many thanks. You know, you may be the favorite, but it is hard to tell, sometimes.

Sanson nodded. When darkness fell, he had just gotten the front leg free. Someone brought him two pan cakes and roasted meat wrapped in a cloth. He ate a bite of the gummy cake and went back to work. Laughter and storytelling from the fire. Jacques was among them, telling the one about Flanders, where he had saved a fellow knight from certain death at the hands of revolting peasants. The one about Chiset, where he had killed six English knights. Bullshit, Sanson thought or said. He skinned the rump and carved off chunks of meat, throwing them in the general direction of the blanket.

When he looked up again, the fire was low and the others were still, dead or sleeping. He wanted to go to the fire, to die or to sleep among them, but he had to finish. He would never finish.

He worked by feel, the carcass at his left, turning his knife on the hard soil now, then standing over the hole and scooping it out behind him, like a dog, making sure not to misplace the knife in the dark. He brought his raw hands to his face, could smell, could taste the blood and dirt.

He would never finish, and Jacques would not make him finish, but he dug because he had been told to dig, because it kept him warm on this cold night, when he would never sleep. He dug because he was an old man, and had no place to go.

2.

A basket of peaches, destined for a new life as brandy. One peach he takes is all, just one, with no chance of punishment. No, plenty of peaches, enough for brandy. Full baskets, squatting in the shade along the wall next to the kitchen door. With the flat of his thumb, he presses the peach’s spotless skin.

Sanson woke without fear, did his inventory: Today his left hip and the tender spot under his ribs on the right side, the liver swollen and hard. His eyes he opened against soft light, blinked. His right eye worked once more. Maybe it was because he’d slept face down in the cold soil of the gray-brown field. Sanson held up his aching hands, ringed with torn blisters packed with gray-brown dirt.

At the sound of laughter he turned. There was the half-buried horse rising from the packed earth like an island in a gray-brown sea, legs tilted up like trees against the wind. Beyond, fog, all around.

Inside the fog, the laughter, but not at him this time. Loys cursed God, Martin reassured him, and a sharp scrape, again, again, without cease.

—God damn, his blood.

—He will be back.

—Who, God?

—He always comes back.

—This time, it’s different.

-Why is it different? Why? Tell me that.

—The horse, your horse.

—My horse. He left his own horse. Look, he left his things. What do you see?

—I see nothing. Fog. I see only fog and that he’s done with us. What does he need? He has what he needs with him, letters of introduction. You look. He’s a lord, a knight.

—We have food.

—Yes, Martin, but can we eat it? If I have to eat soaked salt fish, I swear. Hey, idiot, need me to help you?

Sanson limped forward, peered through the fog. A faint shadow play, four horses, two men standing next to a third, Anthoine, squatting, trying to light a small pile of damp twigs. In a copper bowl filled with river water soaked strips of white fish.

Loys’s head tilted back, a silent laugh. —I knew it. We knew the glorious Sir J would finally do one of us, but I couldn’t believe his only pet would be the first to go.

—Water?

Martin pointed to a flat waterskin lazing against a rock, then moved to pick it up, but Sanson waved him off, breathed deep, held his breath, grunted, cried out. He managed to lift the skin to his lips without meeting any eyes. He lived on. The water was gritty and tasted of metal, but it was cold and cleared his head. Anthoine struck the steel again, again.

—Give me that.

Loys, squatting next to Anthoine, struck again, again. Sparks leapt in wet air. He thrust the tools back on Anthoine, looked at Martin, shook his head.

Martin nodded, peered into the fog.

Loys stood next to him. —So, how do you know, for sure.

—Loys, what the fuck are you talking about?

—How do you know for sure that he’s coming?

Sanson thought, Oh, Mother of God, please make these assholes shut up, for they know nothing.

They were all three looking at him. He had spoken his thoughts aloud again, again.

Loys glared, tightened his fists. —What did you say? What did you call us?

Sanson knew how to deal with men like Loys. He shook his head, rubbed his hip: I am an old man, in pain. I am not worth your blows. Loys shook his own head, disgusted. Good. The pain was real.

Anthoine struck the steel again, managed to light some dry strips of cloth, and a small flame burned.

—Well, old man, let’s just say he never comes back. What then?

—Never?

Martin opened his mouth to speak, closed it.

Anthoine fed twigs to the fire, turned to the bowl. Using his fingers as a strainer, he poured out the water, crumbled the fish. Setting that aside, he found three large, flat rocks, arranged them around the fire, set a pan on top, put some horse fat in to render. Flour into the bowl, a little more water, then he lifted a handful, formed it into a ball, set it in the hot fat. He turned the cakes with his fingers, snatching them back, shaking them out, cursing God as if He were to blame. They sat on folded horse blankets and took the fish cakes from Anthoine on their sleeved hands, set them on their laps, ate and burned their mouths. They took turns eating and feeding the fire.

When Anthoine had cooked all of the fish, Martin cut chunks of horsemeat, dropping them into the hot pan. They listened to the sizzles and sudden pops, looked deep into the fog, each with their secret and identical questions. When Martin was finished, he sat with them and ate horsemeat. The smoke from the empty pan rose, mixed with the all-over gray. Sanson knew they were afraid, and knew nothing. He wanted to distract them, so they did as little as they knew, but that is not how men worked, in Sanson’s experience. They would not wait for long, he knew that much. He was trying to decide whether to imitate Jacques’ voice or to tell the story of a battle when Martin coughed a sharp prologue.

—Have I told you boys about the friar who wanted to fuck a certain beautiful young lady in the town?

As long as Martin spoke, they were safe.

—The friar was in love with this young creature, but she was too pure. Her father was a wealthy lord, so the friar couldn’t just ask her to jump into bed. That would never do. So he made a plan.

—The first thing he did was to wrap his finger in linen. He went around the town, moaning in pain. Oh, my finger! Oh, my finger! Word got around. People talk. Oh, my finger, oh! For days. Oh, it hurts, oh! For five days he moaned. Every time someone asked him why, he put them off.

Anthoine stood, spun in place, rubbed his hands together. —Until!

—Until the girl asked him.

Anthoine giggled and sat.

—The friar told the girl that nothing could be done for him. And she sighed, sad that this man of God had no way of getting relief from his pain. She began to walk away, but he moaned louder, and watched to see if she would turn back. He was about to despair, to give him his plan. One last moan, even louder, oh! and this time, she turned to him. There is only one way, he told her, and she hurried back.

—Tell me, she said, I beg of you. No, no, I would be too embarrassed. Tell me, she insisted, but he refused. She left him, miserable.

Loys crossed his arms. —He had her.

—Five more days he moaned and complained whenever the young woman was around. She begged him each time, Tell me the remedy. Finally, he agreed. He said, You have worn me down. I’ll tell you what the doctor told me. I must have my finger cut off. The young woman was moved to pity, and she wept for his pain and loss. She said, but you use that finger to read the word of God to help us find our eternal reward! True, he said, That’s true.

Even Sanson thought that was funny, laughed with the others.

—She said, No, there has to be another way. He said, You didn’t let me finish. The doctors said there was one thing, but I can’t tell you. He made her ask many times before finally, he turned his face away, pretending to blush. Fine, he said, I will tell you. I have to hold my finger inside a woman’s

Anthoine, eating a leftover fishcake, laughed and sprayed bits over everyone’s feet.

Loys stamped his feet. —Fucking idiot.

—inside a woman’s parts until the heat brings the sore to a head. The girl blushed deeply. He told her, My sweet girl, I am afraid I have to lose my finger. I could never ask that of any of the virtuous women in our town, especially you, who are the most virtuous.

—The young woman, despite her shock, managed to say, you have done so much for us and our eternal souls, so I will help you, help all of us. The friar said, I’m overwhelmed by your generosity and kindness, and I accept. But let’s go someplace dark. They went to his cell, and he shuttered the windows, you know, out of modesty.

—He unwrapped his finger and she dropped her drawers. Instead of his finger, he put in his cock. Soon, he announced that the abscess had burst and all the puss had come out, and he felt much, much better.

The boys laughed. The story was ending.

—The friar pulled up his breeches, opened the shutters to the light, and thanked the woman with chaste kisses for curing him. He told her that this affliction often comes back, and she agreed that the remedy was not so bad, and she would certainly help him if he found himself again in agony.

They were in a happy mood as they cleaned up, speaking not at all of Jacques. Sanson wanted this to stay but knew it wouldn’t. He knew he had to do something, but his head started to hurt, ensnaring thoughts. Their unspoken question broke through to silence, and the fog was all around. There was nothing to do but think and scheme. No games, no stories.

—He would be on foot.

Sanson had to speak. —Martin, you don’t know. Don’t think you know.

—He did leave his horse here. Why would he do that?

—Anthoine, he will surprise you. That is what he does.

Loys, of course, stamped his foot. —You’re an old fool and a coward. Jacques is not God, not King, but a man.

He stamped off, into the fog, stopped close by, a shadow.

Sanson knew there was no way to avoid what would happen. —He has been my lord for many years. I will tell you what I know, is all. What I know is that I don’t know. Don’t think you do. He will return.

Loys, from the fog. —I say he won’t. I say we go, now.

Martin spoke low. —You are too loyal, Sanson, too loyal by half.

Sanson had always been praised for his loyalty, never accused. Wasn’t he trying to help them? Maybe it was true. He didn’t know. He didn’t let himself think he knew. They were all folding blankets, hooking pans to saddles, stuffing utensils in bags. The fire crackled with great courtesy.

Martin led Jacques’ horse near the fire, handed the reins to Anthoine, began opening leather side bags, holding things up for inspection, putting them back — a magic square written on a piece of cloth, a metal spoon, another rabbit’s foot, an old biscuit wrapped in stiff paper. A small, leather-bound Romance de la Rose that Jacques often read out loud from the saddle. This Martin dropped at his feet. Sanson, uneasy, winced, the sudden pain under his ribs.

Loys paced, a shadow. —You saw Jacques up there, joking with the Thunderbolt during the whole thing. Sanson is his pet. We should leave him behind.

The pain moved down and to the center. He had to shit. If he wanted to, he could leave. His horse, a dead nobleman’s palfrey, could take him far, and then, when he needed to, he could sell it at any post, no problem. It was possible, in this fog. They were right, but he was afraid. He knew that he didn’t know.

—Let’s ride south.

—Which is south?

Loys glared at Anthoine, pointed, shrugged. —We’ll go that way for a while, then turn west and head home. He has a job to do. He has to get back. He’s in a hurry. He’ll never come for us.

Martin, Sanson could see, was annoyed. —Fine, that’s fine.

No sound but those they made. Nothing to see but gray. Sanson closed his eyes, tried to think, but his thoughts, when he tried to marshall them, disbanded, made for the woods. Martin’s voice was before him, close. —Old Sanson, come with us. If you like, for a while, we can tie you up, backward on your horse, lead you by a tether, if that will help.

Sanson opened his eyes. His right eye had stopped working again. He looked at Martin’s mouth, at the clenched teeth.

Loys, behind Martin, was looking through Jacques’ things. —What are these?

Martin turned from Sanson. —Bits of the True Cross. He thinks they’re bits of the True Cross. Put them back, now.

—Why should I?

—God’s head, put them back, Loys, and get on your horse.

A fight would stop things, for now. But Loys dropped them in the dirt, got on his horse.

Sanson walked away from Martin, farther into the fog. The world to come. His thoughts were mice that scurried when he approached. Behind him, their bickering mingled with the buzzing in his ears. After some time, he noticed the silence, turned, and saw shadows of four horses below three men. Martin on Jacques’ horse, Sanson’s tied to Loys’s.

Martin coughed. —If he does come back, at least tell him that we rode west, along the river. Do you want me to give you a knock on the head before we go? Show that you tried to stop us?

—I’ll do it.

—Shut up, Loys.

Sanson looked around for the fire.

Martin coughed again. —We left you food, some water.

—But what if he comes from that way? What if you run into him? You don’t know.

A rustle from the fog, the head of a dirty white mare, a man wearing the bright yellow livery of Crequy. The upright and dignified man.

—My lord. Martin’s coughing became a fit. All watched as they struggled to recover.

Loys broke the new silence. —My lord, we were just

But the words got stuck when Jacques, with great dignity and patience, turned to look at him. Jacques dismounted, a provocation. If these mounted peasants should ride off in all directions, he would calmly mount again, ride each of them down. They couldn’t outride him. He was one of Sire de Coucy’s men. Sanson didn’t think it ever occurred to the others to run.

Jacques handed the mare’s reins to Sanson, turned to the others. —So, you were going to leave me behind. All but my loyal Sanson?

Sanson felt gratitude, shame, righteousness. You have to know that you don’t know. That’s important, something he had come to know over time.

Jacques walked among the grove of horse’s legs, stopped short before his own gray, squatted with a grunt, lifted the small leather book from the gray-brown dirt, shook it off, flipped through the pages, nodded his head. The fog was lifting now, furrows extending to the tree line. Jacques took hold of Martin’s leg in one hand, lifted it, returned the book to its place, set the leg back down as if he were setting a rock back atop a secret hiding spot. He patted Martin’s leg, looked up with a smile.

Anthoine dismounted, easing down on his belly, keeping his eyes low. Loys did the same, stood close to Anthoine.

Martin searched, eyes wide, dismounted on the opposite side of the horse. For a moment he was hidden, then ducked under the horse’s neck, feeling his way like a blind man. —My lord, that book must have fallen out as we were readying for your return. Forgive us, we were going to water the horses. Sanson was going to stay behind, watch for you.

—But why, Martin, do you need my forgiveness? Or were you not speaking to me?

—Who else would I be speaking to?

—The Virgin? St. Martin, your namesake? Didn’t he abandon his post as well?

Jacques turned to Sanson. —If, one day, you have occasion to bury me in a field, please do a better job than that.

He waved his hand, and they all regarded the carcass, now visible yards away, coat alive with flies and birds.

Martin took a step forward. —If I can just, my lord, say, I was

Jacques put a hand up, then indicated the white mare. —I didn’t want you to walk, did I? Then again, I had no idea that my absence would be met with such a lack of faith, and so quickly. I thought my intentions were quite clear. After all, all of my things are — or were, rather — packed on that horse there, the one you were just sitting on.

Martin started to protest. —But we were only going to

—You know, this was not the first horse I found. But you, Martin, are such a good rider, and I wanted you to have a horse that matched your skills.

Sanson knew what was going to happen. Martin was accepting Jacques’ compliment with caution. —Thank you, my lord, I am

Jacques grabbed an astonished Martin by the back of the neck, stuck out his leg, forced the younger man’s face into the cold dirt. The gray, nervous at the sudden movement, high-stepped, stamped the ground, did not crush Martin’s head. Jacques stayed calm. —Anthoine, be a good boy and lead my horse away.

Jacques stood, put his right foot on Martin’s back, unsheathed his sword with the claw hilt, the nick in the blade got when his own father, the former owner of the sword, struck a rock at Poitiers, in anger at the cowardice of his own countrymen. Bajazet had let Jacques keep this, too, the two men being long acquainted.

Anthoine started crying. —We were only going to water the horses.

Sanson had seen too much of this, but he had never looked away before, and couldn’t look away now. It was his duty to witness.

—Boys, if the right hand offends you, cut it off.

Martin was speeding through a prayer of forgiveness to the Virgin, and Jacques spoke to the Father, asking for understanding. Then he spoke to Martin. —Stay still now. Up, up, on all fours, right, like that, stay still. It will be quick.

Jacques stepped back, and Martin shit himself, a muffled unburdening. Jacques lifted his sword. A sob from Anthoine. The air was clear now. Across the river, atop a hill to the north, a group of men watched them.

The sword fell, but not straight, like an axe, but around, like a scythe, and the blade landed flat, against Martin’s ass. His breeches split at the seam, splattering shit, and Jacques danced out of the way, laughing.

Martin scrambled forward, caught his chin on a small rock, started to bleed. He looked up at Jacques, who was stabbing the earth with his sword, like he was churning butter. —Martin! You are a low beast!

The men on the hill were gone. Anthoine cried out again, and Sanson turned, calm to witness. No surprises. Jacques’ knee was on Martin’s neck. His sword stuck upright in the dirt, a tall cross. The dagger Sanson had used on Martin’s horse was in Jacques’ hand, and Martin’s right arm was bent back between Jacques’ knees. Blood flowed, and Jacques jumped up and back away from Martin, who yelled and cradled his hand.

Jacques was out of breath. —There I was, out there looking for a new horse. I walked in that direction, southerly, away from the river. The Lord guided me. I walked until dawn, with a feeling that there would be a town, and there was a town. I met a man who had a horse to sell, but that horse was not good enough for you, so I walked on because I had a feeling. There would be another man with a horse. And there was another, with a better horse. And I got a good price.

He seemed to notice what he was holding, and he flung the finger toward the half-buried horse. Some crows abandoned their feast to investigate. Jacques watched them with amusement, then picked up a clod of dirt, threw it at them. The birds took off, turned in tight arcs, hopped, flapped, screeched.

Jacques looked down at his feet and motioned to Sanson. —Come, look at these sticks. Look, they are crossed, and the sun falls on them first. Come see. The cross points west. That is our direction. Sanson, is that not a miracle?

3.

Jacques wept as he spoke of the moment they would finally ride through the Porte Saint-Denis. He wept and spoke, rubbing the gray hare’s foot tied to his arm. Sanson rode alongside Jacques through open fields and on roads that froze at night and thawed in the morning sun. Jacques spoke and Sanson listened, trying to ignore the pain in his back and the glares of the others, who rode behind.

—Of course, the king will be there, insane or not. They’ll be at Saint-Pol, in the little chapel there. We’ll make right for them, without stopping to bathe. But it’s the duke, a hardy man, a stout man. The others will be there: Anjou, Berry, Orleans, the Duchess du Berry. I hope to find them all assembled and well fortified with wine. But it’s Burgundy. He’s the one to befriend. Of course, Berry, himself, I would like to know. He eats strawberries in the winter, with picks of crystal, silver, and gold. And his collection is the best: a tooth of Charlemagne’s, a scrap of Elijah’s mantle, very rare. A cup from our Savior’s last meal, a drop of the Virgin’s blood in a small glass jar. It has never dried, they say. A lock of Her hair, two of her teeth. The back tooth of a giant. Quills of a porcupine, if you can believe it. A tooth from the magical narwhal. What is it with Berry and teeth?

Jacques rocked in his saddle and spoke and Sanson listened, to the hissing in his ears, to the horses’ hooves on the rutted road, deserted for days if there were a fair or festival nearby, impossible this late in the year. For days, Jacques had spoken only to Sanson, except to issue orders.

They rode through dirty villages filled with countless Orthodox heathen, no better than Saracen, who spoke phlegmy, dancing languages. They stopped for food and supplies got by pointing and miming. Between towns, gray-brown fields, naked trees, pale rivers.

With each step, they were closer to Paris, to God. Beyond the ragged blue mountains was a world of Christians speaking Christian languages. There was safety there, even if there were two popes, which put all of their souls in danger. Never mind. Stay alive and pray for a swift resolution.

Meanwhile, they rushed slowly toward Paris, toward God. Beyond the walls is the Hotel Saint-Pol, and inside is a private chapel with marble floors with a dais and an altar. Above the altar, a carved wooden crucifix stares mournfully down on a room packed with lord and ladies and attendants all glancing at each other knowingly, convinced they’re being discreet.

Among the men, the young, and those who wish to be thought of as young, wear the latest fashion, shoes with long toes that must be suspended by a cord tied to their thighs if their owners wish to walk. Here and there, a cord has failed, and a toe flops like a dead snake while a kneeling attendant works to tie it back up. The women all wear tasteful, identical hair in the French style, long in the back and twisted at the top.

No solemn crowd, this. Even the priests and prelates gossip and twitter. Then, a gasp moves in a wave from the back of the room, silence in its wake. They don’t recognize him, seeing only a dirty, unknown noble stranger. He has not stopped at his house in the Place de Greve to wash and change. No, he knowingly faces the assembled nobility of France with hundreds of miles of mud, dust, blood, and wear on his face and livery. Another wave of gasps travels through the room, followed by mutters and whispers. Someone has recognized him from the red cherry insignia of Crequy, faded by unmistakable. It is Helly, the first nobleman to return from the east.

These men and women, some of them his friends, will not touch him. He’s filthy, and their noses can hear his stained breeches even over their screaming perfumes and oils. He walks into the chapel and up the center of the room, nodding to all gravely: Yes, yes, it’s true what you’ve heard. They part way and he walks to his king, who sits on the dais under the altar on the only chair in the room. Everyone leans in as he passes: Is it true? What we have heard? He nods but moves forward because this is his moment. Arrayed around the king is the entire house of Valois, except the king’s brother Louis, who dares not show his face. Jacques kneels before them, for money, status, fame.

—Your Majesty, I am

The king interrupts him right off. —Please, Helly, get up. We know who you are. Now, tell us

Burgundy interrupts his nephew the king. —Tell us, are the rumors true?

Jacques stands. He wasn’t going to tell them who he was. Of course they know who he is. His father was a man of great renown, one of the famous few at Poitiers who did not run and ruin his family’s name. No, he wasn’t going to introduce himself. He was going to tell the king that he was sorry to report that the day was won by the infidel, that there are many dead and wounded and kept captive, and many sold into slavery. That’s what he was going to say to the king.

Instead, Jacques speaks to Burgundy. —My lord, I have not heard the rumors, as I have just this moment arrived in Paris after my grueling journey, but I fear they are in large part true, at least the worst of them. However, most important, your son, Sir John of Nevers, knighted in the field, is alive and unharmed. Despite his great bravery and staunch leadership, the infidel won the day, and there are many dead and wounded and kept captive, and many of our soldiers sold into slavery. But your son is fine.

Burgundy shuts his eyes for a moment and, reaching out, squeezes his wife’s hand, a gesture of deep tenderness and gratitude. Perhaps of mourning, as well. The king is playing with a loose thread on his coat. Would that the Duchess of Berry not saved his worthless life at the Bal d’Ardents.

Jacques continues. —Yes, after a standoff aside the river Danube, we decided to attack at a redoubt called Nicopolis, but thanks to the treachery of the infidel and the cowardice of the Hungarians, who wanted only to tarry, we were defeated and captured.

The Duke of Anjou, the king’s cousin, a teenager with an enormous nose, is impatient. —Where in the name of Our Savior is Nicopolis? Where is this forsaken place? Is that where John is being held?

—No, my lord, he is at Brusa with the Sultan Bajazet, the king. He is quite comfortable there, along with

Anjou scoffs. —The sultan is your former employer, no?

Jacques colors, decides to risk all. This boy is forty years his junior, duke or no. —Yes, and the former employer, as well, of many of your liegemen, my lord.

Burgundy laughs, places his hand on his nephew’s arm. —Yes, yes, of course, we all know how it is for a man in your position. So, you were paroled by the sultan.

Jacques is finding the Duke of Burgundy to be agreeable and courteous. —Yes, my lord, and I must return after I have delivered this official news and arranged a ransom. I also, at the request of the Sultan, stopped in Milan to speak with Signor Visconti the duke.

Now Berry scoffs and speaks with the king, who rolls his eyes. —Ah, Charles, your brother’s father-in-law rears his head again. So, Helly, how did that conversation go?

—Not well, my lord.

—I’ll bet.

Burgundy is a paragon of sympathy and understanding. —There was no outcome there? No? Ah, well. Sir, thank you for making this journey. We know that it must have been an ordeal, to be carrying such momentous and grave news such a long way. You will dine with us, and we can thank you properly.

The king is impatient. —Ordeal, uncle? You think Helly is not happy to be here, in Paris, among Christian women, rather than the kept guest of some dirty animal?

The crowd behind Jacques is unhappy with his treatment at the hand of the insane king, and Burgundy is a paragon of patience. —My nephew means that you are our guest and have our gratitude for your service. Did you make any other stops besides Milan?

—No, my lord, I made haste the entire way, with almost no event. It really was nothing. I deserve no thanks.

The tiniest of bows from the duke. —Of course you do, sir. You deserve all the thanks in the world for braving the roads this late in the year.

Jacques bows lower. —I swear, it was nothing, my lord. You are the one who sacrificed his son’s welfare for

The king stands and walks off the dais, brushes past Jacques. —While you two finish, I’m going to eat.

So the audience is over, and the lords and ladies crowd in, asking after their husbands and children: Coucy? Alive but sick. De Bar? Fallen in battle. La Marche? Alive and well. Guillaume de la Trémoille, Sire de Montcavrel, the Admiral de Vienne — all dead. The Count d’Eu? Alive.

But all want to know about the famed Marshal Boucicaut. There is a hush among the crowd, then a cry of relief. He is well.

—None of them know the depths of the man’s hypocrisy, Sanson. I do not speak of the beheadings. That will come later. For now, I speak only of well-met death. We move to a hall in another building, where I continue to tell stories for hours, drinking, eating roast lamb, swans and songbirds, sweet pork with vinegar. There is white bread, clover honey, warmth from actual fireplaces with actual chimneys. I am promised gifts of lands and titles.

As Jacques stopped to consider this, a light rain threatened to become snow. The sky was white and gray as ash. For a long time, Jacques did not speak. Sanson dozed.

—Sanson, you observed the duke’s son, Nevers.

Sanson said nothing. This was not a question.

—What did you think of young John?

Sanson twisted painfully in his saddle to see if the others were listening, to see if they heard Jacques set this trap for him. They were listening. Did they still think he was Jacques’ pet? Martin was holding his hand up to his chest, staring at him. Sanson searched for an answer, found one safe and ready at hand: —I am not worthy of judging such a man, the future duke.

Jacques laughed, mocking him. —You fucking old woman. I asked you a question. John will only become the duke if he makes it home alive, and that depends in part on me, does it not? So show some balls and answer me. What was your impression of him?

At these moments, Sanson wished he were smarter, as smart as Jacques.

—Well, Sir John of Nevers seemed to me to be, well, less bold than his father.

Jacques’ laugh was genuine. —Exactly so! Well said, you fucking old woman. I knew I kept you around for a reason.

Looming ahead, the jagged blue line of mountains. It was already almost freezing in mid-autumn, and they still had to climb through the pass. Next to Sanson, Jacques sighed.

—Well, Sanson, it is a nest of snakes I walk into, and I, a poor knight, a warrior of God who fears his judgment and wrath for my sins. He knows I try to do only good in this world, in His name. I do admit that I fear this nest of snakes, their judgment, what they will do to me. Will they punish? Offer their gratitude and embrace? What on earth will they require from me if I am to get my earthly reward?

4.

At the bottom of the valley, a tiny house squatted near a clear stream. From a hole in the roof, a shaky curl of smoke stained the air.

They crested the ridge and descended toward the house.

—It’s said our King of Kings did Lazarus no favors. After Christ was safely on his heavenly throne, Lazarus spent the rest of his days terrified to die again and go through the gates of death. Can you blame him, Sanson?

But Jacques laughed at his own thought, was not interested in anyone’s opinion, let alone Sanson’s. Sanson knew he was only required to agree. —No, I can’t blame him.

In a large square along the near side of the house grew mature collards, pebbly mustard greens, wavy kale leaves on bony stalks. Along the other side, a fenced pen that had once held goats or pigs. A weedy field stretched beyond, to the foot of a tall hill.

In the front door, an old brown dog sat, not noticing them, raising no alarm. From the rear of the house, a thick-bearded old man appeared, cradling firewood. He walked toward them, eyes down, between the rows of greens. He kicked the dog out of the way, went inside. The dog slunk off a few feet, waited, returned and sat in the doorway.

They were close now. When the old man came out, he kicked the dog again, then looked up, wood chips suspended in his beard, raised his arm in greeting, yelled a word.

An old, humpbacked woman came to the door, squinted at the mounted men, sucked on her teeth, unimpressed. The dog came back, sat on her feet.

From inside the house, a ball of cloth and twine flew over her shoulder and came to rest in the dirt at the edge of the field. A girl of about 9 or 10 pushed past the old lady, stopped short, looking for the ball, oblivious to the visitors. She found the ball, lunged for it, flung it away, yelled at the dog, slumped in mock anger at his laziness. Then she followed the old man’s gaze and a sucking stone fell from her open mouth. She started moving backward toward the house.

Jacques urged his horse toward the old man, who looked up without expression and spoke over his shoulder to the girl. Sanson recognized the word for water.

The girl ran off around the side of the house. She was theirs, a child or maybe a grandchild. She shared the old man’s round cheeks, the old woman’s thick, wavy hair. All three wore tunics of rough brown cloth. Their feet were wrapped in the same material.

Sanson’s back hurt, his head hurt, his foot was as asleep as it had ever been. He had to get out of the saddle, could not wait for help from Anthoine or Loys. He swung his leg over, hung for a moment, braced for the pain, braced for falling over, and dropped. He laid in the dirt, eyes closed, listening to the others’ laughter. He heard the girl come back with a bucket of water, looked up, and when she saw him, she started laughing. The old man yelled a sharp word at her, Kata, and looked at Jacques in apology, but Jacques laughed too, and soon all was general merriment. Laughter was good and light, and Sanson didn’t mind much.

Jacques, then the others, dismounted, stretched, groaned. Anthoine, arms out, back arched, farted, startling the dog and setting the girl and the two boys laughing again. Jacques cleared his throat, and they all stopped. Loys took the bucket from the girl, and Anthoine took up a skin, kneeled, and held it open while Loys poured.

Sanson got to his feet and rubbed his legs. He watched Jacques survey the land as he wandered into the field a few yards, then turned to the old man. —A fine spot. Where are your animals? What happened here?

The old man listened, shrugged.

Jacques asked one question after another, slow and patient, and was met with empty stares. —You don’t know what happened here? What else do you eat but greens? Have you cheese? Is this your child or your grandchild? Where are your other children? Are you here all alone? Have there been others here? Other than us? What happened to you? Where are your animals? Do you understand a word?

Shrug. Sanson wanted to suggest they fill their water skins and leave, but he couldn’t manage another punishment. It was punishment enough to be in the saddle all day, to feel every step in every joint, but to be forced into some meaningless labor would be too much. He would have to give up for good.

Jacques threw his hands up, breathed deep, sighed, persisted. —Who is your lord? Whose land is this? Have you allegiance to one pope or the other? Do you know of the popes?

The old man looked at his wife, who also shrugged. Jacques laughed. —Oh, so now she gets into the game? Ah well.

The old couple exchanged a few words, then walked away, toward the tiny house. Jacques looked at Sanson, astonished, but everyone followed, without a word. Sanson limped behind, turned the corner. A table stood on splayed legs, rickety as a newborn foal. The man whistled, and Sanson expected to see the dog come running, which it didn’t. On the table sat a half-eaten three-pound loaf of brown bread.

The old man pointed at the bread, and Jacques, amused, nodded to the others to go ahead. Loys and Anthoine each tore off two large chunks, Anthoine handing one to Martin, Loys handing one to Jacques.

At the far end of the house, in the animal pen, the girl appeared, mud covering her wrapped feet, smiling at this minor feast.

Jacques talked through a full mouth, as unaware of himself as a boy opening a gift. —Look, Sanson, look at this, it’s like a throne for a giant.

A broad chair seemed to grow from the house, built as it was from the same stripped boughs. Sanson had never seen anything like it. A grown man would look like a child sitting there, legs extended, arms out. The old man saw Jacques’ excitement, and motioned to him: Sit, sit! Jacques hesitated, then climbed up, looking as undignified as he likely feared he would. He put his back against the house, arms crossed and smile pinched.

The girl approached holding a wide plank as a platter. On it, thick slices of cabbage lay like folded purple cloth. Jacques laughed out loud, leaned forward, took some. She laughed back. —This girl has brought us a meal as simple as these folk. Bread, water, and cabbage, boys. Take some. Take what is offered.

Sanson took some and chewed the sweet cabbage, though it hurt his gums. He found that the crunching silenced the buzzing in his ears, so he took an extra handful, held it at his side.

—Sanson?

—Yes, my lord.

—Have you noticed?

—Noticed what, my lord?

—Have you noticed who this girl reminds me of?

She reminded Sanson of Mira, the groomsman’s daughter, who was about the same age as this girl. Everyone loved Mira and her smile, and brought her gifts to see more of it, God’s light reflected in her face. —You mean Mira, the groomsman’s daughter?

—Mira? Are you crazy?

—No, my lord, I don’t think so.

—Doesn’t she remind you of Sandrine?

—Oh, yes, my lord. Very much so.

In fact, Sanson couldn’t imagine how anyone could compare this girl’s open beauty with Sandrine’s brittle and miserable aspect.

Jacques leaned forward. —Yes, girl, you remind me of my own daughter. She is in Paris, awaiting my return.

The girl’s mouth dropped open again, and she looked at the old couple and back at Jacques. —Paris? Paris?

Jacques sat up straight. —Yes, Paris! You know Paris? She knows Paris, Sanson. What do you know of Paris? The cathedral? Oh, a magnificent sight, you’ll never see a building that big. You won’t believe the ladies walking through the square, the destriers walking through the square! I can tell you all about the time the queen came to the city for the first time, and we were honored guests along the bridge as the mechanical swans, painted white, came alive, rose up, and flapped their wings. The things I can tell you!

The girl listened, blissful, like someone standing in a warm rain, and Sanson felt a longing in his chest, not quite sadness, that loosed a loud sob he tried to cover with a cough that drew looks from everyone. Sanson put a handful of cabbage in his mouth and listened to himself chew.

Before Jacques was finished speaking, the girl interrupted him and spoke without stopping for a long time. Sanson heard the word Paris many times, spoken with the S at the end. He thought Jacques would be offended, but he clearly was charmed by this outburst. When she was done, the girl looked around, aware of her trespass. But Jacques clapped his hands, turned to the old couple.

—She’s marvelous, just wonderful. Where are her parents? Something happened here. What was it? Why won’t you speak? Who is your lord? Whose land is this? Sanson, they stand dumb.

Loys shuffled his feet. —They don’t understand you.

Jacques got up, stepped forward, and hopped off the chair. —Yes, I know, you idiot.

He took a step, stood before the old man. —Now, you. Do you in fact understand me and pretend not to? Do you read? Do you believe in Our King of Kings? Are you a Christian man? Are you in fact an Orthodox heathen? Are you going to your reward or your punishment when the day is done? Do you believe in the Virgin?

As Jacques moved from speaking to growling to yelling, the old woman began to weep and the old man began gesturing at the bread.

Jacques stopped, shook his head, his voice bolting of a sudden. —I don’t want anything else to eat. I want you to answer me.

From the other side of the house came a solitary woof.

Jacques turned to the girl, smiled, then took her hand and walked away, out toward the field. She looked back, leaning away from him as they walked, defiant. The old woman shrieked through her hands, moved to follow, but her husband held her back, spoke to her with soft words. He looked straight at Sanson, pleading without speaking: You are the one he speaks to. You can help. You are the only one who can stop whatever is happening. He will listen to you.

Sanson looked away: There’s nothing I can do, so I will do nothing. That is what he said without speaking. Once again, to find himself here, and he trembled, allowed himself to only look down and away. He had seen so much suffering, but instead of growing cold, he was reaching his own end. He had seen many raids of towns, had taken place, had killed many men and women whose only transgression was courage or just getting in the way. Sanson looked away.

Out in the field, about fifty yards away, Jacques stood holding the girl’s arm. Sanson looked at them and might have spoken out loud. —She is too far away.

He walked toward them, about half the distance. When he could hear Jacques talking, Sanson yelled out. —My lord.

Jacques did not look up. —Yes?

—Maybe it’s time we got moving? It’s getting late. We have water, are fed. Maybe we go?

Jacques lowered his head, annoyed at the interruption. Then he nodded. —Yes, you’re right. We should be on our way.

Sanson almost cried from relief. Once in Paris, he would find his way to never entering a town or village with armed men. His infirmity would force him into a hospital, beg a small pension from Jacques. I am safe, and she is safe, and the others will see that I have action in my heart.

Jacques dropped the girl’s arm and walked back to the house. Sanson followed, the girl at his side. Jacques called back over his shoulder as they approached. —Yes, we will move on. Let these folk return to their work. Sanson, gather your things and put the girl on your horse. She will ride with you.

Sanson felt like lying down in the soft field and sleeping for a while. He would refuse to move.

Jacques walked to the old couple, the girl behind him. —What is her name, the girl?

The old man shook his head, not understanding, so Jacques sank to one knee, took the girl’s shoulders in his hands. —My name is Sir Jacques de Helly, lord of Crequy and du Pas and vassal to the Sire de Coucy. Jacques.

The girl looked at him, paused. —Katarina. Kata.

The old man spoke low, scolding and despairing.

Jacques stood, his body between the girl and the old couple. —Sanson, put the girl on your horse, now. It’s time to go before

Sanson heard Jacques, heard his words, but could not move.

—Sanson, now.

Then he was taking the girl’s arm and leading her to the horse. The old couple, arms out, palms up, stepped toward him like sleepwalkers. Sanson spoke to Kata as they walked. —I’m sorry.

She was tall and he was short, and she looked up only slightly, seeming to marvel at the kindness in his voice, then she twisted her arm away, ran back to the house, around it, and into the field. The dog barked.

Jacques had just mounted, and he rolled his eyes. —Will one of you idiots who can still run go get her?

Loys ran, his shoe coming off. Anthoine came running behind, cutting through the garden, trampling the collards. The old man stepped in front of him holding a thick length of firewood, which he swung at Anthoine’s head. The boy went down holding his face, yelling curses. The old man dropped the wood and stood in place, looking embarrassed and not sure what to do with his hands.

Martin ran to the old man and pulled his arms back, locked them in an embrace. The old man didn’t fight. Loys walked back with the girl, passed her to Sanson. —Hold her now. Got her?

Jacques watched all from above, nudging the horse forward. —The villain.

He dismounted and threw the old man to the ground, put a leather-wrapped foot on his back. Martin retreated.

The girl and the old woman were yelling at Jacques, who drew his sword. —Loys, the woman. Sanson, the girl. Now.

Sanson turned her away and walked her toward the house. Before they reached the corner, he turned his head painfully to see Loys’s dagger move across the old woman’s neck, the blood ribbon, the body dropping, her hands reaching up. The old man’s wail rose up, was suddenly muffled as he pressed his face into the soil.

Sanson placed the girl at the edge of the throne of boughs, and she kicked at him. From around the corner of the house, the sound of yelling and men breathing heavy stopped of a sudden. The girl knew well what the silence meant — she stopped struggling and sobbed into her arm. Her hair was the color of brown ale, her arm glazed with tears, highlighting hundreds of red-brown freckles. Sanson was afraid of the silence, afraid of God, who seemed to have taken leave of the world. He looked around for Him, into the distance, looked for a witness, but found that they were alone.

Someone came to the house, walked away again, and then there was the sound of a spade striking the earth. The sound went on for a long time. Sanson began digging under his ribs with his fingers, looking for the source of a dull pain.

And then Jacques’ voice, summoning. —Sanson.

Sanson tugged at Kata’s arm. Another, and another, and then she got up, went with him. A spade with a new handle was tied to the side of Loys’s horse. The old couple was gone. Their graves were there, in the garden, the collards replanted above them. If someone wasn’t looking there, they would not notice. The girl kept her head down, shuffled her feet, moved forward.

Jacques pointed at Sanson’s horse. Anthoine and Loys were there to help him mount, then to lift the girl up to sit in front of him. She slumped over the horse’s dirty mane, and he put his hand on her back, patted three times, took back his hand.

—You’re responsible for her, Sanson, until Paris. We’ll let the Lady de Helly raise her as a good Christian.

Sanson nodded. He would not fail at his task.

The others mounted. Loys spoke to nobody. —I’m ready to get the fuck out of here.

The horses walked west, and when he looked back after a long time, the old dog was there, head down, sniffing the ground. The girl hadn’t moved. He thought, or said out loud, You may find no comfort, but I will not let anything else happen to you. I swear it, child, though my word is worth nothing. Nothing, nothing will happen from here on out.

5.

They rode in a loose chain, Jacques far in the lead, then Sanson with Kata, then, in the distance, the others. How far behind, Sanson couldn’t tell. Turning to look would be too painful so he kept his eyes forward, fixed on the blurry speck that was Jacques, or at Kata, in front of him, slumped over, embracing the horse’s neck, face buried in its mane.

They rode in the open, then through a dense forest. It started to rain, and water dripped through the canopy above, only a few drops reaching the ground. They rode alone, in the dim light. All was still, and Sanson was startled by his concern for the girl, and he found himself saying useless things like —We will soon be there, you’ll see, and —The Lady de Helly is a fine woman, I am told.

The rainwater kept filtering through the leaves, but Sanson could see through a break in the trees up ahead that the sun was out and that they were coming to the first town. Jacques emerged from the forest into the sunlight, rode into town, and then out the other side and up the hill to the highway. A few people approached him, but he just rode past them. Of course, he didn’t have this child with him. As Sanson and Kata passed the first building, he feared — and partly hoped — that they would meet with trouble.

The village had come out for the sun. Old men with long beards sat on unpainted benches, drinking from small cups. A man with a handcart stopped and walked over holding up an apple. A woman on their other side held up a meat pie in each of her brown hands. The pies smelled rich and rare, and Sanson’s belly ached. Three boys came and ran alongside them, pretending to hit the old dog with sticks. The dog ignored them. Someone yelled, and two of the boys stopped short, ran the other way. The other boy kept up for another few yards, then lost interest, petted the dog, and stood watching them.

Nobody in town asked whether the despondent dark-haired girl was the one who lived with her grandparents just east of town through the forest. Nobody knew her, or seemed to care about her. Nobody was after them. Kata did not move, did not look up, or scream for help, or talk to these people with whom she shared a language.

Then they were out of town, up on the hill, and heading toward the highway. Sanson could hear the hum of the town behind them, mixing with the buzzing in his ears. Also, a pale thread of music, Jacques’ flute, the same melody, again.

Soon they passed through another village without event, and another, and then crossed a wooden bridge over a fast river. Then it was dark, and they slept out of the wind and rain in a stables. The next day they rode all day before Sanson relaxed. Nobody was after them.

The nature of their travels meant that Sanson only saw Jacques in the morning and in the evening, but it seemed to Sanson that Jacques seemed to be a changed man. He didn’t speak at all, now, to Sanson, or to the others. He spoke to strangers — farmers for directions or lodging, butchers for meat, and peddlers for dry goods. It was now Sanson’s job to stand by, listening carefully to any negotiations that required him to take action, such as setting up camp in a barn, or to get the horses taken care of. When Sanson saw Jacques stop to talk with one of these strangers, he had to rush forward in time to hear these instructions. Rushing meant kicking his horse into a trot, and that meant pain in his head, his hip, his legs, his back. But better that than face the wrath that was building. He had to protect the girl.

Kata made it easy on him. She never ran off when they stopped. When she found food in front of her, she ate. When it was time to sleep, she slept. When she had to piss or shit, she did it without shame just as Sanson and the others did.

He wanted to console her, he was surprised to find. Of course, he had felt pity before many times, for the innocent, for suddenly orphaned children, even for animals being beaten. But pity deals a glancing blow. This was different, like a burn, a pain that deepens over time. He did not expect this to pass.

He began to think that he must also comfort her, and though she could not understand him, he would speak to her, and maybe she would take comfort from his voice. He would never say the word Paris. He would allow his voice to be kind, and in this way he would protect her.

—By the time I was your age — even younger — my mother was dead. My brother was dead. My sisters were dead. All carried off in one plague year, leaving me alone with my father, who did not become bitter, but was good to me. We lived along the edge of town, and were left alone. He did not become bitter, exactly, but did reject the offers of help and friendship. He wanted only to do his work and raise me, and that is what he did. That is what we did, live together, alone.

We raised barley and beans, and kale, grapes on long wooden frames. Chickens. Two apple trees. No horse, no oxen to help us plow or pull stumps. Just the two of us, and sometimes some help. We had a yellow dog named Charlotte who disappeared every year, then came back every year and had puppies my father had to drown in a bucket.

I fed the chickens, collected the eggs, fetched water, weeded by hand, found and killed the bugs that ate the leaves and killed the plants. Those were my jobs when I was younger than you.

And that’s what I was doing, finding clumps of little white bugs behind pebbly kale leaves and smearing them to death, pretending they were Englishmen, saying, Take that, and you know. I looked up and around because my father didn’t like when I played games. But he wasn’t there. Instead, sitting on a little horse at the edge of our plot, a boy my age was looking at me.

He was stout, wore a bright yellow tunic with red markings and a floppy yellow hat. In such finery, he seemed so out of place that I laughed out loud.

Close by a grove of trees, a man sat on a big horse, a man in the same livery and hat, also staring at me. I didn’t laugh at him. He did not look like a man who appreciated laughter.

The boy walked his horse across the rows of beans. The boy looked bored as he trampled a wide path, destroying plants that I had sowed months before. Shocked, I stood up, and I became aware of my nakedness. The boy’s hose shone in the sunlight. On his tunic, made from tightly woven cloth the color of a sunflower, was sewn the red outline of a spiky cherry tree. My eyes were better then, and I could see the perfect stitchwork, the red-dyed thread that had been used. I had on only a stained brown linen cloth tied around my waist, wrapped under my bottom, and tied in the front, like a baby’s diaper. I was ashamed, suddenly.

Then the man yelled a word, a name, and the boy stopped his horse, turned around, and trampled another path out. My father was now standing next to me, and I looked up at him. This man, who had always been gentle to me, who never beat me when I was bad, did not lift his open hand and brought it down on the side of my head. I fell on some bean plants, felt the cool against my skin. I was so surprised that I didn’t cry. What would the boy think of us? Did he see? I turned to look.

Yes, the boy and the man had both seen. The man shook his head, the boy gazed blankly. They disappeared into the forest, and my father walked away. I went back to wiping away white clumps of bugs from leaves.

At dinner, my father put a bowl of pottage and a slab of bread in front of me and said, I’m sorry I hit you, Sanson, but did you know who that was? No, I said, I didn’t. He said, That was Sir Phillippe of Helly, whose brother, Sir Jacques of Crequy, was lord in the area until he died fighting the English. Now Sir Phillippe is lord here until Jacques’ son, also Jacques, gains majority. Then he will be lord. They live in the chateau, over there.

He pointed through the wall. I had no idea what he was talking about. I was only wondering about one thing, why he had hit me. So I asked him.

He said, The uncle needed to know you weren’t mocking the boy. The nobles everywhere are parasites, he told me, that feed on the poor peasants. They take, and can’t even keep us safe from the companies that roam through and kill our crops, take our animals. You don’t know, he told me. You don’t remember. So let them think that we are stupid animals. Let them expect nothing less, nothing more.

I didn’t understand what my father told me, and I didn’t believe it. The beautiful red tree, the shiny yellow hose, the russet horse with the brass tack. My father wasn’t mad at me. I knew that, so now I couldn’t think of anything else but the difference between the boy and me. I realized what I was, what my father was.

On a Sunday not long after, the boy came back. It was a Sunday, I am sure, because my father let me take the afternoon off from chores to play after dinner. I played alone. My brother and sisters were dead, and the other children in the closest village were too far away. I played with the chickens, pretending they were my friends, which I guess they were, when I looked up and there he was, alone, and standing at the edge of our plot.

In the days between visits I had looked up at this spot a hundred times or more. Now there he was, alone, uncle nowhere to be seen. The boy’s horse chewed on a barley plant, but I didn’t protest. I watched as young Jacques walked carefully between the rows toward me. I did not see my father anywhere. He must have been inside for some reason.

The boy looked sad, if you could believe that, and it was maybe the last time that he was truly kind to me. He said, Hello, and I said Hello back. Then he held out his hand, and resting on his palm was a small spoon, only a bit longer than his palm, inlay of silver in creamy white. I took it, turned it over. When I looked up, he was walking away. I said nothing as he avoided trampling our plants. He put his foot in the stirrup, bounced one two three, and tried to lift himself up. He failed. He glanced at me, embarrassed, tried again, failed again. It never occurred to me to help, that I could help him. Finally, he did it, he was up, and gone.

I stood still for a long while, and then my father was next to me. I took a step away, but he said, I’m not going to hit you, give it here. I said, It’s a spoon, and handed it over. We owned no spoons to eat with, only long wooden ones for cooking.

My father held the spoon at the ends, pretended to bend it against his thumbs in the middle. I wanted to grab it away. Bone, he said, this is made of bone. And silver. You’ve made a mighty impression on the young lord. This might mean a position in the household, someday. Who knows?

I wanted to scream, Give it back! He must have seen it in my eyes, because he did give it back, and let me keep it the rest of the day, but at supper, he asked me to hand it over again. I’ll keep it, he said. I pulled away, held the spoon behind my back, and he was patient with me. I saw he was kind and also afraid.

Sanson, he said, there is no doubt that young Jacques stole this from the kitchen. I protested, saying that he didn’t steal it, and if he did, it’s his kitchen, and he could do what he wanted with it.

No, he can’t, my father said, but even so, it’s possible that he gave it to you to have a little fun, and he will bring men here saying you stole it from him. And if they find it here, it will be very bad. You must understand.

So I gave over the spoon, though I couldn’t believe any of it. They never came. It had been a gift, only a gift.

We lived well for another year of seasons, and then my father fell off a ladder, a splinter of wood pierced his thigh, he got a fever, then died. Nobody came to see us when he was sick, nobody came when he died except the local priest. I buried my father myself, without a shroud, in the field, and lived in the house by myself for a while. In the spring, when the tax collector came, I hid.

—I was alone, younger than you. Sanson’s chest hurt, along with the rest of his body. He put his hand on Kata’s shoulder.

They descended into a valley at dusk. Sanson squinted to see up ahead, Jacques dismounting in front of a farmhouse, a man waiting to greet him. Both men were smudges in the blue-gray light. He had to get down there to hear Jacques’ instructions. Though it was going to be torture to spur his horse into a trot, Sanson had no choice. He put his hand on Kata’s shoulder to warn her, and they went down.

6.

They had slept, all save Jacques, in a wealthy clothier’s barn, warm with the breath and gas of a dozen pigs, sheep, and goats. Sanson had slept long and well, Kata’s dog as his pillow.

They were just getting up when Anthoine peeked between the slats of the barn door and saw Jacques — who had slept in the house as a guest — riding away up the flat road toward the western mountains.

Now in the stables, they tightened girth straps, fit iron bits into impatient mouths, stared up the road to keep their eyes on Jacques.

Sanson worked as fast as he could. He could not allow himself to be the last one ready because he needed help getting mounted. While he worked around her, Kata hugged the horse and ignored him, her dog asleep, curled around her ankle.

For days, for weeks, Kata had not said a word to him. Of course, who could blame her. But it wasn’t just her. Nobody spoke to Sanson. Not the others, not Jacques. He was getting desperate, had even begun to miss Jacques’ homilies on chivalry, his chaste love for the Sire de Coucy’s wife, his feats of arms. During these monologues, Sanson had been expected to supply a yes, a no, an I don’t know as needed.

Since they had left Kata’s grandparents buried in their field, Sanson had only one responsibility: When they stopped for the night at an inn or house, he had to stand by and receive his instructions, which Jacques gave not to him, but to the owner. —I am traveling with four men and this man’s niece. They will stay in the barn. You will wake them at dawn, and they will tack their own horses. You will outfit them with food they can eat on horseback, for we will ride all day without stopping. They will pack this food themselves. I will pay you in the morning. These men carry no coin. Find me and I will pay. I am on a mission for the Duke of Burgundy.

Sanson would then leave him and report to the others what he had learned. They would receive the information and then proceed to ignore him.

The night before, however, Sanson had learned something of real import as Jacques spoke to their host: They were approaching Venice, but instead of going around, Jacques intended to stop there on the way to Milan. Sanson, itching to tell the others, found them already asleep in the barn.

They worked in a panic, desperate to be mounted and catching up to Jacques, but Sanson could not resist the urge to tell them what he knew.

—I have news.

They did not look up, but kept working. It was possible he had not spoken out loud. —I have some news.

Loys didn’t look up from tying and retying a bag to his saddle. —What, you shit yourself again?

Anthoine laughed through his nose, covered his upper lip with snot, wiped with his sleeve.

There was less mirth in Martin’s voice. —Less talking. Let’s go. Move.

Sanson could not resist. —We are soon to reach Venice.

Martin gave a sharp laugh. —And we will go around. Enough. Hurry.

—No, you don’t get it. Jacques says we will go into the city.

Loys dropped his bag, cursed, stooped. —Bullshit. Have we stopped in any other city? Why now? Where did you hear this?

Sanson could see the wide eyes, the stillness. —It’s true. He told the owner as I stood there.

Martin mounted, nodded, spoke the word as fact. —Venice.

Anthoine spoke the word as prayer. —Venice.

Loys raised his arms, danced a joyful dance. —Venice! If we’re going there, we’re going to need time. We’ll need time. Will he give us time? And money? We will need time and money, but it won’t take much. What about you, O ancient one. Will you partake? Or you all set with that little girl of yours?

—You shut up.

Anthoine mounted, pointed at Loys, and laughed. Loys laughed along, then realized he was the joke — he was the last to mount aside from Sanson, and it fell to him to help the old man.

Sanson touched Kata’s shoulder, leaned over, clasped his fingers. She stepped in, was up in a moment. Loys leaned over, clasped his fingers, then pushed at Sanson’s thighs and buttocks until it was accomplished. A humiliating chore for both of them. Sanson knew the others saw him as an injured, tired animal ready to be left for dead at the side of the road. All of them knew that it was only fear of Jacques that stopped them.

Once he was in the saddle behind Kata, Sanson regretted saying anything about Venice. The revelation was poorly timed. They were working quickly, trying to leave. He had squandered his moment. And if Jacques found out that he had been talking, he would be furious.

Once they were on the road, and he could see Jacques as a yellow smudge in the distance, Sanson felt better. They hadn’t lost their way home, their patron. They needed him, for none of them carried money. They settled into their usual spread, with Sanson and Kata in the lead, then Martin, the others behind. Loys’s laugh reached Sanson’s ears, grew fainter, then mixed with the buzzing in his ears, the wind, the whisper of hooves on sand and loose rock.

Sanson ate a cold oatcake, offered one to Kata, but she shook her head no. —You have to eat, girl. Later. Instead, I will tell you more.

—Those first years at the chateau, the place I loved most was the cellar. I didn’t know if Krapp and Anatole knew or looked the other out of pity, but they never said a word when I fled Jacques’s scoldings, beatings, tricks, and labors and slunk into the kitchen, behind the hearth, to the cellar door, and went down into the darkness, down five wooden stairs, left around a corner, down seven stone stairs to the cool, bare-earth floor below.

Down in the cellar I was blind, but never afraid. I was safe. I used my fingers, slow through the dark, to feel along the walls, the racks of wine and hippocras, the crates of apples, carrots, turnips, parsnips, onions, squashes, garlic, leeks packed in dirt and sawdust.

I would take an apple, eat it carefully, quietly, and listen, between bites, to the world above. I listened and the sounds became pictures, and it was if I saw what was happening, like a magic lantern, unlit but still projecting on the walls. Krapp’s spoiled face as he told Anatole about some insult from the uncle. I saw Mariska, the kitchen maid, flirting with the visiting German stonemason, talking with him of their hometowns, so close together. I saw Anatole leaning on the sill smoking a pipe, telling Krapp about the women in Bordeaux, especially one who had a mole on her back the size of a sparrow, Krapp rolling his eyes, lifting his arms to the sky, pleading for help from the Virgin. —Please, my Lady, make him get back to work.

After months, maybe a year, I was discovered. Standing in the dark, listening to Krapp and Anatole scream at each other, I saw the silence that fell over them, saw Jacques step through the kitchen door from the garden and close the door behind him, saw Krapp roll his eyes, bark at the young lord. —Leave the door open. It’s hot in here.

Anatole was always easier on Jacques. —What is it, Master Jacques? We are busy preparing supper for you and your uncle.

I saw Jacques toeing a fallen onion peel. —Nothing. I’m looking for someone.

—You’re looking for your practice dummy. It’s a sin how you treat that boy.

Mariska reached out, ran her fingers through Jacques’ hair. —Leave the young prince alone. He’s cute, like his father was. He has suffered enough.

I saw Jacques pull away, and I saw Krapp laugh a laugh of respect and distaste. —Unkind, sister.

I saw Jacques walking, heel-toe, heel-toe, looking around as if he were hunting in a silly play.

Krapp folded his arms. —What’s on your mind, boy?

Jacques still walking toward the cellar door, ignoring Krapp. Anatole and Mariska now standing together, watching.

—I asked you a question, boy.

Calm as a crow, still walking. —Don’t call me boy, you filthy peasant.

Krapp rolling his eyes and attending to the soup, without another word.

—Is he down there?

Mariska smirking. —Down where?

—Don’t play stupid with me, woman. I’ll tell my uncle that you hit me and you’ll

—I’ll what?

—Give me some light.

Mariska, in a huff but defeated, fetching a tallow candle from the sill, picking a switch from beside the hearth, lighting its tip in the fire, touching it to the wick, handing it to Jacques.

Jacques giving a small bow: All is forgiven. Mariska giggling, Krapp once again rolling his eyes.

The door taps open, and the world below and the world above meet. Light chasing into corners, shadows wheeling. I was behind a rack of wine, watching as the candle appeared first, then Jacques’s lit yellow from below. He was afraid.

The door closed behind him and he started. General laughter from the kitchen.

I could hear, but not see, Krapp. —O my lord! Everything all right down there? Light holding out? If you need Mariska to come rescue, just holler.

Krapp was kicked out of the chateau just weeks later, Anatole to take over the kitchen in his stead.

Jacques found his voice, first a whisper, then a command. He said my name. —Sanson. Sanson.

Could he see me? No. I could go further back, into the darkness, but he would advance, he would see me. There was nothing to be done. He would always be there. —Here I am.

His eyes found me in the dark. —There you are. You didn’t answer.

—Sanson. Sanson.

Martin was riding alongside, how long he had been there Sanson didn’t know, and didn’t want to know.

—How are things with your ward?

—Jacques’ ward.

Martin nodded, laughed. —How is she, then?

Here, there once had been a bridge over a wide creek. Only a few rotten planks extended on each side over a dry river bed. The road detoured to the side, down the slope. Both men paused for a moment, braced themselves for the pain, and led their horses down the steep slope. Endure it they must, and they were soon up the other side and back on the road.

Though Martin wasn’t much older than the others, he was wearier. Sanson squinted to see his face, the pinched mouth, the long hair falling over his forehead like a bird’s tail, the white scar on his cheek. Maybe this is where he’d been hit, where they had broken his jaw. How long had he had to stay quiet? Was that when he learned to stop talking so much? Was he a happier man before? He would have to talk to Martin about it one day, if they could build a friendship. There were traces of scabs from when Jacques assaulted him, there on his nose, on his ear. Martin was not a bad one. He was no innocent. He was at Rahova and Vidin too, and though he hadn’t seen Martin, almost all had taken part. Not Sanson, not this time. Not that he himself was an innocent. Far from it. But why think of such things? What was done was done.

—Sanson.

Martin was looking at him with disbelief, frustration, and amusement. —Sanson.

Had he been thinking, or speaking? It hardly mattered. He wanted to say nothing, to let the moment pass, but he could not help a curse escape him. —Damn.

—The girl. How is she? Seems quiet.

—Right. Doesn’t talk. The same.

—Can you blame her?

Sanson shook her head. Of course he couldn’t blame her. Why would she speak to him? For one, she didn’t understand anything he said. And she had every reason to wish death upon him. Upon all of them. He deserved it as much as Jacques and the others. They had taken everything, and had not been the first, that was clear. The broken fence, the missing animals, the missing parents. She trusted them, and they took everything. Why would she speak to him? Even though she had no reason, he would keep trying. He would keep trying until they reached Paris, and somehow after she was presented to the Lady de Helly. He would keep trying and wait, watching her progress, keep talking to her. He would show patience, help her as he could. See her matched and married. Over time she would bend and would come to see him as part of the chateau, and her children would not know to hate this bent and blind grand-uncle. He would not live long enough, would probably die before they reached Paris. He would keep trying, though, and wait as long as it took to earn her trust. They would let him stay at the chateau, maybe work in the kitchen again, like at the very beginning. He could send a boy to the cellar for wine and vegetables as Krapp had once done, walk through the orchard eating fallen peaches, watch the alder trees yellow in the autumn.

—Sanson.

Martin was staring at him again. O why wouldn’t he go away? There was nothing to say. When Sanson blinked next, he couldn’t see out of his right eye. —Damn.

Martin shook his head, first slowly in disappointment, then quick to clear it. He twisted in his saddle, checking to see how far the others were behind them. —I wanted to talk to you, but not about the girl. I mean, she’s a part of it, but listen. This is what I want to say: I know the others treat you like you’re stupid, but I’ve watched you. You’re not stupid. You play along, but you aren’t stupid.

Sanson wasn’t sure what Martin meant. What did he mean? How did he play along?

—You play at being Jacques’ dog, but I get it. You do what you have to do. But you’re not stupid.

Could Martin read his mind? Sanson tried to keep from thinking, but this was the first time anyone had told him he wasn’t stupid. His eyes started to tear up, so he stared straight ahead, playing at being unmoved. He was disturbed and thrilled. The dog whined somewhere below.

—Because you’re not stupid, you’re alive. And because you kept your wits, we’re still alive. So I thank you. I thank God that we were tied to you, otherwise we’d be dead as all the others, heads in one pile, bodies in another, left for the dogs and birds. And I thank you. I owe you my life.

Sanson shook his head. This he didn’t want. —You don’t. You owe your life only to God.

—God worked through you, Sanson.

—All I did was know Jacques.

—It was God’s will that you would meet him years ago, that Jacques has kept you on, that he saw you in the line, that you looked up, that he decided to talk to the Sultan, that he was granted parole. It was God’s will, but you were his instrument. For that I thank you and owe you my life. I am saved, though I am unworthy. I

Martin fell quiet and they rode in silence. Sanson knew what he meant. Seven days before they reached the stronghold of Nicopolis, they happened upon the town of Rahova, surrounded by a shallow, muddy moat. A single bridge led to the only gate, but the Rahovans, seeing tens of thousands of invading knights, pikemen, and archers, burned the bridge and sealed the gate.

Right off, the Burgundians called up to the stone tower above the gate, demanding a surrender, but the townspeople said they would only do so under one condition: nobody would be harmed. Sanson, as always, watched Jacques on a white horse that danced around the circle of commanders, all of whom would soon be prisoners held for ransom: grim Sire de Coucy, upstanding Marshal Boucicaut, lean Count d’Eu, rosy John of Nevers. They agreed: There would be no conditions for these God-less heathens. The commanders ordered their lieutenants, of which Jacques was one, to lead their companies across the moat, open the gate, and take the town.

Which they did, with no resistance. They were greeted by impatient town elders, men beyond weeping. These were sequestered, held for ransom, tied by the wrists, walked across freshly fallen tree trunks over a useless moat by a contingent led by Boucicaut and Nevers. The rest of the town was assembled in the square and the order given. It wasn’t long before every man, woman, and child was dead or dying in the street. —We all have much to confess.

Martin said nothing for a long time. Far to the north, smoke rose above an unwalled town, Orthodox or Christian Sanson could not tell. With each step, Sanson grew more and more irritated by Martin’s continued presence. He could keep it to himself no longer. —You have said all you came to say.

—Not all, Sanson. There’s more.

—Out with it, then.

Martin grunted a laugh. —Out with it. All right, there is something you should know. Those ungrateful boys back there? After they have had their fun in Venice, they plan to cut Jacques’ throat while he sleeps.

Sanson saw Jacques on a pallet somewhere, in a smoky, shuttered chamber, a wet, red cunt of a wound across his neck, brown stains on wool and wood, and he felt panic and relief in equal measure. —Why tell me? You seek my help? You want me to take part in this plan? You will not

—I don’t seek your help. You, Sanson, are as loyal as a beaten dog. I know where you stand.

—Then leave me be. I can’t

—Old Sanson, poor Sanson, I don’t want to help them kill Jacques. I told you that I owe you, so I am telling you this so that you can stop them. If God wills it, and those two boys do murder your precious lord, what will become of you? You are broken, can hardly stand up. Will you ever serve his family again? Will you be welcome? Do his young sons know you, act as your masters? You are alone in this world, Sanson, have had no trade but killing, and you are no good at that any longer. Somehow you keep going. But for how long? If you return, are not welcome, what will you do? Join one of the companies? They require young, unbroken men, not old, ruined peasants like you. I tell you this for your own good. You must act.

Unbearable. —I don’t care what happens to me. My life is worthless. Let God decide.

—All right, then. What would become of this girl, if you care about that? Without Jacques there, she will never be raised as a Helly. She will be as lost as you, and meet the same fate as you, as a beggar in the Cours de Miracles, beaten, sick, without hope.

—Why do you keep talking? Why won’t you go away?

Before Martin could answer, Kata sat up. She was slow to speak. —Go.

—What did she say?

Sanson shook his head. —What, girl?

She pointed and they understood. —Go.

They steered their horses toward a close-by grove of trees. Before they came to a stop, Kata swung her leg over and dropped. Off she ran, found a spot, squatted, dropped out of view. Martin and Sanson looked away, far up the road, toward Jacques in the distance.

—You have to know why I’m telling you all this. What I have said about you and the girl is true. But I have my own reasons. I want to get home to my wife and son, and Jacques is my best bet. I know now that I was wrong, and my penance shows, but now I have to earn back his trust. If I tell him this, he is apt to punish me again. He won’t believe me. You have to warn him, tell him that I brought this to you. If you don’t care for yourself, do it for the girl.

Martin looked over Sanson’s shoulder, and though Sanson hadn’t heard anything, he knew that Loys and Anthoine had overtaken them. Unable to turn his head, Sanson had to turn his horse in a tight circle to face them. He was proud of this modest feat of horsemanship.

Loys lifted and pulled back on his reins as they approached. —Look at this coziness. His majesty is riding away. Someone should keep after him. Piss break?

Martin cocked his head toward the trees. —The girl. Go. Don’t let him get too far ahead. Keep your distance.

Loys laughed. —Right.

The two boys rode on. Sanson turned his horse to face Martin. —So, Sanson, what will you do? It can’t be me. It has to be you.

From the trees came a scream. Martin was off his horse and halfway to Kata before Sanson could drag his leg over, drop to the ground, crumple in breathless pain, recover, lift himself by the reins, stand and collect himself. He limped after Martin, dog ambling by his side.

In the clearing, Martin was bent over Kata, who still squatted, breeches around her ankles. Even with Sanson’s eyesight, it was immediately clear what had happened. Kata had been shitting when a small green snake bit her on the bottom. There it was, still attached by its jaws. She looked up at Sanson, crying.

—Hold her hands, there, in front, and hold her steady.

Sanson did as he was told, leaning back a bit to balance her weight. He felt her cold hands grow warm inside his. In a few moments, Martin held the snake up like a caught fish, then flung it into the trees. —Snake.

Kata stood, let go of Sanson’s hands, pulled up her pants. She sniffled, wiped her nose with her sleeve. —Snake.

—Right, harmless. It’s okay.

Their horses hadn’t wandered far up the road. After they were mounted, Sanson looked down and away, pulled back on his reins as Martin snapped his.

—I see. Well, Sanson, I will leave you alone now, but think about what I said. For your own sake, for the girl’s.

Martin rode away, and Sanson waited in silence for awhile, then moved on. It was getting late, and they would soon find lodging. Someone else, not he, would get the information, which was fine. It started to drizzle, cold gnats against his face and hands. Kata was slumped again, arms wrapped around the gray’s neck, face toward the earth, but he could somehow tell that her eyes were open.

Sanson patted the horse’s flank. —Horse.

He held his hand up to the sky. —Rain.

He placed his palm on her back. —Kata.

He put his palm against his chest. She couldn’t see him, but he put his hand against his chest. —Sanson. Sanson.

7.

They turned south to avoid the passes, kept the mountains on their right, rode toward the sea and Venice. They scaled the foothills, crossed a stone bridge over a river, descended toward a plain, and were in Friuli, where they could finally understand some of what the locals said.

Jacques still rode far ahead, but Sanson and the others rode now in a close column. Loys, mostly, incessantly, spoke of Venice. All of them had heard stories, none of them had been. But that didn’t stop Loys, who spoke from deep reservoirs of ignorance, fantasy, and general bullshit. Sanson closed his eyes — only one worked anyway, and keeping them open reminded him — and listened with pleasure. He, Sanson, had brought excitement and hope to these boys, on what had been a mostly miserable journey, and that brought him a welcome distraction because with Loys chattering away, Sanson almost forgot about his blind eye, his headaches, backaches, stomachaches, worries about Kata and Jacques. He allowed himself to forget, listening to Loys and the others talk. He also remembered how he once indulged in this kind of dream monologue, walking with young legs alongside his fellow pikemen for miles to a promised encounter with Englishmen or heathens or revolting farmers, all of them vaguely afraid and trying to impress the others, always talking, talking.

Rumors and inventions and general bullshit. Women wearing only masks and nothing more; women in fine dresses, corsets that pressed their breasts together; darkly lit inns where they could drink and grope and gamble and nap; games of chance and skill; whores they could actually find in town, whores they could find that they could actually afford; walking-around money extracted easily and without taunting from a suddenly generous Jacques; sea serpents that leapt from oily canals to drag maidens to their watery deaths; Jews that leapt from dark ghetto alcoves to drag Christian children to unknown fates; free days at liberty in a free city; a rich man, in disguise in a disreputable tavern, striking up a conversation with Loys, inviting him to meet his family in a palace, where they served fish, good wine, clover honey on good white bread; the rich man’s neglected and grateful young wife; her younger, more beautiful, even more grateful sister; good music played by real musicians. —Boys, music aside from that damned melody played on that damned flute by that damned man. Any other music at all, any!

They stopped at night at pensions and inns, where Jacques presented Kata as Sanson’s mute granddaughter, to avoid any innkeeper’s wife from asking her questions in French.

At night they slept four across, Kata at the edge, then Sanson, Anthoine, and Loys. Martin always slept apart, with other travelers, and Jacques in bed with the proprietors.

Dreams came seldom to Sanson.

As a boy, living close by the commune of P————— near Amiens, and then, after his father died, at the chateau closer to Amiens, the bells ringing in the mornings were regular, beautiful, distant reminders of distant intimations of a world to come where he would not suffer, should he be good.

Now, these many years later, sleeping in these random Fruilian towns, church towers overhead, the bells at dawn attacked him awake. He opened his eyes, tried to loosen his limbs and recover from this rude interruption, listened to what the bell in that particular town, with its own distinct voice, had to say to him. Was it admonishing him, or pleading, or forgiving him? Was it just a bell?

Then there were those few mornings when they woke in a country inn, blessed mornings when he woke only to clanking pots, bickering kitchen maids.

They shared their breakfast table with other travelers: Merchants loaded or emptied of wares, off-season pilgrims returning from or heading to the Holy Land healed, unhealed, or hoping to be healed. Could Sanson be healed of what ailed him? He deserved nothing, could ask nothing of God.

In town, just after dawn, women dressed in full mourning laughed and sang themselves through the muddy road to church. If Jacques was not insisting they leave right away, Sanson and the others might have an hour or two of liberty, during which they might laze about or instead finish their ale, take their bread with them, and follow the women down the road to church, where they would stand in the back, lean against a column, stare at the local odd fish of a parish priest say his morning mass, watch the women prostrate themselves before crucifixes carved inexpertly from clear wood, examine the colorful frescoes in which Roman soldiers sliced breasts from female saints and impaled and flayed the male ones. The pictures on this side of the mountains were much more entertaining.

This morning, a full-throated bell, like an angry old man, called out the faithful, and Sanson was up in time to see the five cheerful townswomen walking the muddy road. Jacques was sleeping and Martin offered to stay with Kata, so there was nothing to do but follow Loys and Anthoine, the women, the ringing, and stand in the back waiting for something to happen.

Inside the church, the priest, a well-fed young man in somber vestments who muttered as he shuffled about the crossing, started mass with no change in volume. The women in black raised their faces, cocked their heads, stayed like that as the priest muttered. They strained to hear him like dogs waiting to hear if outside, the pigs were being fed.

Sanson’s mind had started to wander when from outside, a shriek, muffled by distance and damp, but definitely a man’s voice. The priest paused, the women cocked their heads the other way. Then another shriek, closer now, and the priest resumed, louder now.

When the shrieking was very loud and very close, he stopped mass, looked up to God, rolled his eyes, threw up his hands, cursed, turned around to face the rood screen, put his hands on his hips, dropped his head in defeat, cursed again, folded his arms, stamped his foot, turned around to face what was to come.

The only witness to the priest’s tantrum was Sanson. Loys, Anthoine, and the women in black all stared at the door, waiting for whatever it was to pass by.

It did not pass by. Instead, it appeared outside — two older men, holding up a younger man by his armpits, his dragging feet plowing two furrows in the shallow mud by the door. As the three men entered, the change in light seemed to jostle the younger man, who looked left and right at the older men, and smiled, as if he was glad to see old acquaintances. Then he looked panicked, kicked his feet, spit at the men, shrieked again.

The three men crossed the nave toward the priest, who stood shaking his head. One of the older men yelled an order, but the priest was adamant. —No.

The other man yelled the same order, and the priest threw up his hands again, cursed, reached into the man’s coat pocket, produced a yard of rope. As the older men pushed the afflicted back against the rood screen, holding each of his arms out, the priest worked: extending the rope, folding it in half, lifting his alb and taking a knife from his waistband, cutting the rope at the bend. He made a face — all right, are you happy?

They weren’t happy. They expected more. The shrieking man shrieked. Rolling his eyes again, the priest tied each of the young man’s wrists to a post of the rood screen, the right, then the left. The younger man fought them.

Their work done, they stood back. The two older men took out hand-kerchiefs, wiped their foreheads, rested, breathed heavily. Then they backed away out of the crossing, as if the shrieking one was royalty or a dangerous animal, then turned for the door, left him there, a living, monstrous crucifix.

The priest took his time returning to mass, shuffling his feet, muttering to himself, making exasperated gestures. Then he took up the host from a small table, held it aloft. They saw his mouth move. —Hoc est corpus meum.

Nobody could hear the priest above the shrieking man. He, the priest, turned and yelled, then held up the host, again intoned the Latin, but it was no use.

The priest walked over to the young man and kicked him in the stomach with surprising grace, vestments flapping like a bird’s wings. Then he turned back to the congregation and mass concluded to the sounds of subdued grunting and moaning.

By the time the young man had recovered enough to start shrieking again, mass was over. The women in mourning left, Loys and Anthoine left, the priest left.

Sanson remained, standing in the back of the church, watching the young man shriek and thrash his greasy head, piss his pants yet again. Then the afflicted peeked up and noticed that everyone was gone, and he stopped shrieking, looked behind him, sighed, then noticed Sanson in the back of the church. He nodded, cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and, still hanging there, fell asleep.

8.

Jacques approached the crossroads. They watched from atop their horses at the crest of a long, gentle hill. Some two hundred yards below, to the west, Jacques was a tiny yellow sliver on a gray horse, approaching the crossroads.

A red pole with a red flag on top marked the crossroads at its southwest corner. The flag flapped in the cold wind, pointing south, in the direction of Venice.

Jacques approached the crossroads, then paused as a two-horse cart heading north sped toward the intersection. Together, Sanson and the others drew a breath, held it. The cart’s driver, deferring, probably, to Jacques’ noble stature, stopped his horses and waited. Jacques rode straight through the crossroads, did not turn south. He rode straight, west, in the direction of Milan.

Sanson jumped at the violence of Loys’s cries. —No, stupid! Go back! No, you fuck!

Martin crossed his arms, poked Loys with bitter sarcasm. —Yes, Loys, that’s right. Tell him boldly. That is so courageous to speak from such a distance. Maybe get closer? What say you, Loys?

—I say shut the fuck up. And

Loys paused, considered. —And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there is another way to Venice. Maybe he knows something that

—Don’t fool yourself, Loys. That’s the only road.

Anthoine cursed, and Loys snapped his reins and had to pull back hard to keep his horse from bolting. He growled. —He lied. He lied through his dog.

Martin laughed. —You mean him? Old Sanson?

—Who else? Jacques lied, and he did it through Sanson, to hurt us. He wants to punish us.

Martin laughed again. —Loys, do you think Jacques thinks at all about us? Do you think he would think to play with us in that way.

Loys took his knife from a cloth tied around his thigh. He held it out toward Sanson. —What other diversion do they have? Someone will pay.

Sanson squinted up the road. If Martin was right, and Loys and Anthoine were a danger to Jacques, then maybe he shouldn’t wait. Maybe he should tell Jacques now. He didn’t trust them with Kata. He had to stay alive to protect her. Maybe he shouldn’t wait for Loys to try stabbing him or his horse. Would he?

Sanson kicked back his heels, and his horse started down the hill at a painful trot. Kata sat up to keep her balance and grab the horse’s mane. Her hair flew about, whipped Sanson in the face. The wind blew harder, he felt every stride, spoke into the wind. —You are alive. You are not dead. You will have time. You are not yet dead.

Over the whooshing and buzzing in his ears, Sanson heard the horses behind, bearing down on him. He clenched his fists and tensed his shoulders, slowed his breathing as he’d taught himself to do in battle, to anticipate but not resist the coming blow.

Then Loys passed on one side, Anthoine on the other, riding at a canter. Sanson let his arms relax, bringing the expected ache that would last hours. He slowed his horse to a walk, watched the two boys ride down the hill toward the crossroads, toward Jacques.

Loys and Anthoine passed the crossroads, looked longingly toward Venice for a moment, making Martin laugh — Martin was of a sudden at Sanson’s side.

They both watched: Jacques was at the woods, and at the sound of the oncoming horses, turned, smiled, waited for them, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Loys waved his arms in wild demand, then brought his hands into a double fist before his heart in rank supplication. Anthoine nodded his head in support. Jacques shook his head, smiled, touched his rabbit foot, again shook his head.

Now they were close enough to hear Loys talking about promises and needing to visit and Venice being like nothing else and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and please, sir, please. The look on Jacques’ face was as a parent indulging a small child asking to go for a nighttime solo walk in the forest.

—And that’s all I ask, Sir Jacques. I don’t think it’s too much to ask, sir.

—Ah, here are my other boys, and my girl, of course, come to join us. Shall we get out of the road, move over here, hear the trees? It’s fine out today, is it not? Ah, well, nobody is coming down the road anyway. Amazing how little traffic there has been isn’t it? I suppose the year is getting late, the days getting shorter. Well, here we are. What are we talking about? Fine day, today, isn’t it?

He was in the best spirits Sanson had seen him since he had been charmed by Kata.

Loys took a deep breath, let it out in what seemed dangerously close to an exasperated sigh. —We were talking about Venice, my lord, and about how

—Right! Venice. So, did you two also happen to notice that we went past the crossroads? That was the way to Venice, as I understand it.

Sanson nodded. Martin did, too. Kata was still sitting up.

—So, boys, do you agree with Loys that we should go back to the crossroads and turn toward Venice?

Normally Sanson would keep his mouth shut, but he felt a compulsion to annoy Loys. —As you wish, my Lord. What do you think?

Jacques smiled. —Well said as always, Sanson. I have a question for you, actually. It seems that you told Loys and the others that you had it from me we were definitely, absolutely, no question going to Venice for some well-needed and, as Loys argues, well-deserved recreation. Did you communicate such an idea to these boys?

—Whether or not we are deserving is for you to judge, my lord, but yes, I did tell them.

—And now why would you do such a thing, Sanson?

Jacques was enjoying himself. In these circumstances, it was best to say nothing, to play at being stupid. I do this all the time. This is what I do. I have survived in this way.

Jacques shrugged. —Well, you have cruelly and insensitively played with the hopes of these boys, and in my name, no less. For shame. Martin, were your hopes raised as well?

Martin started, then recovered. —I got to admit, my lord, that I did, and still do want to go. But I’m sure there are reasons why we’re not. I’m sure you have reasons.

Jacques chuckled and smiled at Martin, who seemed to blush, but then again, there was a cold wind. —Indeed I do, Martin. You see, boys, there are reasons that are beyond your understanding, workings of crown and country, dealings, exchanges. Have there been dealings, exchanges I don’t know about? Likely. Most certainly. You see, I do know that Venice helped pay for our ill-fated expedition. Do they know what happened? Sure, rumors, stragglers’ accounts. But they want to hear an official account. I carry the official papers. I am, in my person, the paroled representative of the Burgundian leadership. The Venetians would love to detain me, to hear me explain, in an official way, what happened. Do you understand?

An ox-drawn cart rattled up from the west, an old couple atop a wooden box. The cart was empty except for a single goat, balancing in the center of the flatbed. The old man nodded. Jacques stared and waited. Kata watched them go past. Did they remind her of her grandparents? Her dog, somewhere underfoot, barked once at the cart.

—So you see, boys, if we rode into Venice, I would be detained, which means that you would have to wait there for me. Yes, they would treat me like royalty, and perhaps you too, in your own way. I would be the guest of Signor Venier, the Duke, and his friends, and they would ask me questions for days. I would be duty-bound to answer their questions, which might cause trouble for me later.

Sanson knew that Jacques knew he was torturing Loys and the others.

—Yes, and we would leave Venice fat and lazy and soft. And we would not get to Paris before our goal of Christmas Day. You wouldn’t want that, would you?

There was silence, but Jacques was not going to let this go. —You wouldn’t, would you?

There was a desultory No from Loys and Anthoine.

—Sir?

—Yes, Martin?

—Sir, are we stopping in Milan, as has been our plan? Will we not be detained there?

—What a marvelous question, Martin. It shows you have been paying attention. Yes, we are stopping in Milan, and we will be detained, but only momentarily. You see, I am required only to deliver a message to Signor Visconti. The Duke does not want his investment back, nor does he want an accounting, God knows. Ah, but all of this is beyond you. Just know: God wills it. That is all.

Then, without another word, Jacques turned his horse, walked away. As soon as he was a short distance down the road, Loys, who had been wearing a blank countenance of indifference, squeezed his hands into fists and glared at Sanson.

Sanson turned up his hands, played stupid again. Because they were all on horseback, and none beside Jacques had a weapon long enough to strike with, Sanson was safe for now. Loys glared, then rode away, followed by Anthoine.

Martin whispered like a Jew in a play. —You must act, Sanson. Venice is behind us now. They will move against Jacques when they get a chance, but when will that be? Tonight? After Milan? Who can say?

Martin laughed and urged his horse forward. —Remember, God wills it.

9.

Jacques led them into the flow of people and animals passing under the tall right arch of the city’s eastern gate.

Before they could enter the city, two sentries, one old, one young, came out from the gatehouse and stood in their way. They wore plain steel cuirasses, leather doublets, shallow pointy helmets. The elder had some broken French. —You, you’re a knight.

Jacques straightened in his saddle.

—You are the knight from France.

—Burgundy. What do you mean, the knight? Which knight?

The sentry searched for the word, ventured to speak them deadpan. —Are you here to invade our fair town with this, your tiny army?

Jacques turned to Sanson and the others, a little offended, a little amused. Sanson squinted up, past him. Centered above the double arches was a white marble frieze, the Holy Family, the Wise Men, the Nativity, a tender scene. Above, atop the wall, a choir of rotting heads on spikes, and the inevitable birds.

—Yes, we are here to invade. Yield. Let us at your women.

The elder sentry understood, and smiled at the younger sentry, who looked confused. —You are the men come from the crusade, in the east.

Jacques, impatient, touched the rabbit’s foot on his arm. Not yet time for demands. —We are here to see Galeazzo.

—You are the men who fought the infidel and many were dead or captured. It was a disgrace, is what they say.

Jacques glanced back again, but was not amused, now. —Who says this? The layabouts of Lombardy? Godless ingrates destined, someday, for the Saracen’s sword but for our disgrace?

—Signore, it is not me who says so.

—Impudence. Do you know who I am?

—No, Signore, who are you?

Jacques rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, cursed under his breath. The elder sentry, alarmed, said something to the younger sentry, who hurried away.

Now alone with five mounted men, the elder sentry was not so bold. —It’s a long way, your trip?

Jacques ignored him. Loys and Anthoine smirked. The sentry coughed to cover his embarrassment. —Might as well wait inside the gate, get out of the road.

He tried to take Jacques’ reins, but Jacques kicked his horse forward and the sentry had to jump out of the way. Sanson and the others followed, through the arch and off to the right, near the gatehouse.

The sentry paced, folded his arms, unfolded them. —That your dog?

Loys was eager. —That dog? Oh, he’s the

Jacques cut him off. —That dog has been following us for weeks because these idiots keep feeding him. We don’t want him anymore. He’ll try to follow us when we go in, but you hold him. Do what you like with him, but he is yours.

Why take away her dog? Why, after all? Sanson sighed loudly.

Jacques turned to face him. —Is there a problem?

—No my lord, no problem.

—I should think there is no

The elder sentry raised his hand. —I have a problem. I don’t want a dog.

—The dog is yours.

The sentry, sighed, said nothing, regarded the crowd that had formed: idle peddlers, women in market clothes, servants in hoods, rowdy boys, all staring at Jacques. Dogs skulked around the edges, looking for food. Some of the older boys, who had been heading to work when they’d stopped to see, started shoving, threatening to hit each other with the iron tools they carried. The crowd turned toward the scuffle, pressing in, cheering, crashing like heavy sunflowers in the wind. Then it was over, a boy was carried off bleeding, and the crowd turned back.

Anthoine was unnerved. —Why do they stare?

The sentry smiled. He held a length of rope he’d fetched from the gatehouse. —They’re bored. It’s been a quiet week for hangings.

Martin dismounted. —If they don’t stop staring, it’ll be a lot less quiet around here.

The sentry laughed, started tying the rope into either a noose or a leash. —As you wish. So, friend, what happened to your hand?

A disturbance moved through the crowd toward them, like a finger drawn through mud.

Loys and Anthoine dismounted, on alert. Loys helped Sanson down, leaving Kata on the horse. Jacques sat, unmoved, on his horse.

Four unsmiling men emerged from the crowd, trailed by the younger sentry, stood before Jacques’ horse. So the Duke had sent merchants to meet Jacques. Not nobles, with attendants and horses. Merchants.

One of the four men, gaunt and pale, wore a striped tunic of yellow and gold. One, fat and sad, wore green and yellow squares. The other two, in sky blue, had the same face separated by decades.

Jacques dismounted, handed his reins to Loys. The merchant in green and yellow stepped forward, held out his hand. —Emilio Taccola, banker.

Jacques shook his hand, then the others’ as Taccola introduced them. —This is Signor Arcuri, banker. And Signor Sturchio and his son, Guiseppe, banks. We welcome you to Milan, Signore.

—Sir Jacques de Helly, lord of Crequy and du Pas, liege to the Sire de Coucy.

—And these men

—Soldiers, merely.

The elder Sturchio nodded, almost a bow. —We have heard about the unpleasantness you encountered in the east, with the Turks.

Loys was eager. —Who told you about

Jacques spun on his heel, held up a finger to Loys. —You are not to speak. Do you understand?

Loys nodded. Young Guiseppe delighted at this, and fixed a stare on Jacques, then spoke directly to Loys. —A week ago, men returning from the east to France spoke of escaping a terrible battle after discipline was lost. They swam across the river to safety, but we heard that

The elder Sturchio interrupted his son. —The rumormongers have been imprisoned, awaiting official word. They have been punished.

—You can release them. They speak the truth. I am the official word.

—Oh, thank you, sir. So what is it that happened out there, among the Ottomans?

Sanson had seen it before, Jacques losing his patience. The Duke hadn’t sent nobles. He’d sent bankers. —Well, let’s see. I left Dijon months ago. There was a battle, which was lost. Many were killed, many kept prisoner. I was paroled by the infidel’s king, then traveled for weeks, suffered the indignities of the highway. And now, I, a Knight of the Garter, stand here in the street while you, men of no stature, interrogate me.

The older bankers looked, nervously, at Taccola, who seemed to awaken from sleep. But young Guiseppe was incensed. —Men of no stature? You should know that

The elder Sturchio interrupted his son. —How rude of us, Signore.

—I should say. Do my deprivations and sacrifices not at least earn me a hot meal, a cup of wine, a place to put up my feet for a few moments before I continue my journey?

Arcuri nodded, almost a bow. —Of course, how lacking in courtesy are we.

The bankers made way for Jacques, then closed ranks behind me, set off through the thinning crowd.

As they left the arches, Kata sat up, turned, watched the elder sentry slipping the leash onto the dog, who, staring at Kata, walked to the end of his tether, barked once, sat. The younger sentry bent down, scratched behind his ear, so he laid down and enjoyed it. He closed his eyes, forgetting, and went to sleep.

Kata put her head back down on her horse’s mane, wrapped her arms around its neck, closed her eyes.

As they walked, Guiseppe kept turning, looking back at Kata. Finally, he spoke. —Might I ask a question, Signore?

—The girl.

—Yes! She isn’t one of your mere soldiers, but rather a, well, a peasant, if you don’t mind me saying so. Where did she come from? Why does she travel with you?

Jacques stopped short, turned to the young man. A crowd of Milanese workers stopped to watch, the crowd growing like a shell around them.

—I found this creature, hungry, abandoned by fate to the elements, shivering against the cold, begging for food by the side of the road. Her parents were brutally murdered by one of the companies of brigands that ravish the Slavic countryside. I saw her and decided, in the name of the Holy Mother, that I would adopt her as my own, to raise her as a proper Christian lady.

Arcuri smiled, nodded, almost a bow. —So, she speaks some French?

—No.

—Then you have learned her tongue?

The elder Sturchio raised a finger. —Or knew it already from one of your earlier adventures?

Jacques, bored, showed his profile to the men. —No.

The bankers all exchanged a glance unseen, agreed silently to not pursue. Arcuri smiled again, nodded again, deeper this time. —Thank you, Signore.

Guiseppe couldn’t contain himself. —So how, Signore, do you know what happened to her parents? Can one of your men speak to her?

Jacques looked down at Giuseppe. He was more than a head taller. —No. You aren’t listening, boy. This girl will be raised as a lady in one of the most prominent households in all of Burgundy and France.

Guiseppe opened his mouth to speak, but his father would not allow it. —Signore, you are truly benevolent. Let us go.

Jacques accepted the elder Sturchio’s assessment with grace and set off again, through the narrow streets, turning sharp corners, launching into wide piazzas.

Sanson hobbled behind, squinting into the shadows at his feet, looking for holes to trip over. He hadn’t walked this much in months and was enthralled by the new pains in his legs, his feet, his side. He pressed his free hand against his temple, against his good eye, his forehead to calm the ache that pounded within. He held the reins tight, knowing that if he fell, he could catch himself. He was curious what agonies might come next.

Jacques led the bankers through their own city. He knew where he was going. Had he been here before? Sanson didn’t know when. Was there a time before that he couldn’t remember? Was he here with him? It seems it was possible that there were years, empty, when he might have spent time walking these streets.

They stood now before barn doors, open to darkness, stamping horses standing in dim stalls, the smells of shit and hay warming Sanson by memory. A groom, stout and bold, stood arms crossed, grinning at the bankers, at Jacques. Around the doorframe behind him peeked three girls, one about the age of Kata.

Taccola presented. —This is Antonio, the Duke’s stableman, who will water, feed, and brush your horses at no charge to you.

Jacques approved. —And the girl?

—As she is your ward, she is welcome to come with us to the Duke’s palace. The Duchess’s maid will attend to her.

Jacques considered. —She will stay here. What is one more girl, it seems.

Sturchio spoke in a gallop to Antonio, who stepped forward, lifted his hand to Kata.

Sanson patted Kata’s leg, and she dismounted without taking the banker’s hand, landing on her feet, impressing Taccola.

A wide, dour woman in aprons and skirts came out from the darkness, took Kata’s hand, led her inside. The other girls followed with dour faces. Kata looked over her shoulder at Sanson — asking permission, betraying worry, recording the moment, piercing him with disdain.

Jacques was already walking away, and Sanson followed, turn after turn until they came to a street that lined up with the sun. He held up his hand to see as he walked forward, slowly, blind. Above the rooftops, against the yellow light, Sanson could barely see the blue silhouettes of the pale stone spires of the cathedral, like outlines of saints in prayer. He stared into the sun for as long as he could, hoping it would burn away the disease in his bad eye. But after a few moments, he had to close his eyes, stand, and rest. All was silence.

When he was able to see again, Sanson saw he was alone. The world returned. Sounds of a gurgling fountain, children laughing, a wet cough, the sound of women yelling. Then he saw balls arcing through the air, two old men walking arm in arm, the faces of annoyed women. He panicked, wheeling around looking for the right exit from the piazza. But there were six streets heading in different directions. Which was the right one? Where did they go?

One street seemed right, more than the others. Down that street he went, then left at an intersection, and a right at the next, and there they were, seemingly unaware that he, Sanson had returned. Sturchio restrained his son, who was desperate to speak, and Taccola tried to be genial. —Of course, Signore, it is the Antichrist in Rome who persists in calling himself Pope, but we should all be ready for our time, for we might be right, and you might be right. Either way, we should not needlessly prolong the agonies that await all of us in the next life. I am happy to provide you with a private confessor, if you should like, as a courtesy.

Young Guiseppe had been chewing on his lip. —Don’t all French nobles just pay the pardoner and fool God?

Sturchio threw up his hands, turned all the way around in exasperation. —You, stupid, you shut up and go home, now!

Guiseppe slunk away, muttering curses.

Jacques set off, and they followed down a street, and soon came to the widest piazza Sanson had ever seen. At its far end, framed by two wide boulevards, was the Duomo, a vast arched mountain of stone, and at the top, there were the spires, like fingers flat against the gray sky. Sanson blinked, desperate to see the cathedral as it was, with both eyes, then it occurred to him might lose sight in his other eye, and stopped, noticed that the others were gathered on the corner before a tall building balanced on dozens of delicate columns outlining a dark arcade.

Between the columns stood guards with planted halberds. Taccola said something to the closest guard. He repeated it, and the guard seemed to wake up. —What?

Taccola upbraided the bored guard, then pointed at the upper floors of the building. The sentry nodded, almost a bow, and faced Jacques, waited.

Sturchio stepped forward, shook Jacques’ hand. —I am truly sorry about my son and his ideas.

Arcuri stepped forward, shook Jacques’ hand. —I offer you my private confessor, if you should wish it.

Taccola stepped forward, shook Jacques’ hand. —You, Signore, are an honorable man. I wish you much good luck.

The three bankers walked through the sunlit piazza toward the Duomo.

Sanson hurried to catch up to Jacques and the others, who were already deep in the darkness. They walked under the arcade to a courtyard, up a flight of stairs, into a hall stinking of smoke and fish.

A stone-topped table was pushed to the wall. On the table, dried flowers lay in a carved wood bowl. A man, short and well-built, stood in the center of the room. He was young, at least twenty years younger than Jacques and Sanson, and wore green robes and a floppy green felt hat. He raised a hand in welcome, offered a comfortable smile.

Jacques crossed his arms. —You are not the Duke. The Duke did not come to greet me himself.

The man’s smile became even more comfortable. —No, that’s true, that’s true. I am not the Duke. He had some urgent business, but you’ve got Stefan Bombello. I run this place. It’s true! The Duke is eager to see you, believe me. Who do I have the honor of greeting in his stead?

—Sir Jacques de Helly, lord of Crequy and du Pas, liege and chamberlain to the Sire de Coucy and counsel to Philip the Bold, the Duke of Burgundy.

Bombello showed Jacques he was impressed. —So many titles. Well, Sir Jacques de Helly, lord of Crequy, if you would be so kind as to deposit your weapon on that table there, we can go see the Duke.

—I do not part with my weapon, especially in a foreign land.

—You are among friends here. And Berto here will personally stand next to your weapon and make sure it is not touched nor manipulated by any foreign elements. Come now, Signore, you have traveled far and must be hungry.

Jacques hesitated, then unbuckled his belt and placed the sword and scabbard on the table. Slow, dignified.

Bombello led them out and through a room hung with bright tapestries of battles, springtime, a hunt, then out and down a long hallway. —Sir Jacques de Helly, lord of Crequy, I do not intend to be crude, but I have not before heard of you. Is your estate very large?

—I am lord of Crequy and du Pas, and I am chamberlain to the Sire de Coucy, an important honorific. You know of the Sire de Coucy?

Bombello lost a step, smiled. —Well, Signore, of course I know of Coucy. I know that he owns one of the largest estates in all of France. I know that he is currently being held for ransom by the Sultan Bajazet as a result of the ill-fated expedition you return from. Let me finish, Signore, and let’s see how much I know about Coucy. I know that he is likely too old to endure such a trial, and that perhaps we should fear his death. I know also that if he should die soon, his daughter Marie would inherit his vast estate. And I further know that her husband, Henry de Bar, also sits captive by the Turks alongside his father-in-law. I know that if Coucy dies, then you will be liege — but not necessarily chamberlain — to de Bar, who will in effect own one of the largest estates in all of France. I know that you, Signore, were not held for ransom, but were released on parole by the Sultan. You have been sent to deliver messages. I know many things, and I think I might have answered my own question. No matter, here we are! The Duke awaits.

The person who would later pay for this was Sanson. He avoided looking at Jacques so as not to see the placid surface.

They stood before a door. Bombello took hold of its handle and he and his smile swung away into a tiny room. Rough wooden benches were pushed against the wall. A single dirty window barely let in light. On a small table, a four-wick candle dripped tallow and raised a stink. Smoke hung in a blanket at eye level, started to drift into the hall.

Inside, the cold hurt Sanson’s bones. Bombello shut the door. —Signore, your men will stay here while you meet with the Duke.

Jacques looked around the room, as if deciding whether it met with his approval. If Bombello was annoyed it didn’t show. His smile never faltered. Jacques nodded, pointed at Sanson.

—This man stays with me. I must insist.

Bombello’s smile faltered. He showed all of his disdain and scrutiny. —Sincerely? But why? You have nothing to fear from Galeazzo, certainly, nor from myself. Also, this man, if I can be honest, does not seem to have strength left in him to lift a dagger, nor the sense to if the situation presented.

—Think of him as a charm I carry.

Bombello sighed. —Very well. You can explain this to Galeazzo. He awaits in the dining room.

The dining room, only a few doors down from the cold cell, was warmed by a fire in an actual fireplace. Above the mantel, a circular bronze frieze showed a screaming man being devoured by a twisting serpent.

At the head of a carved wooden table in the middle of the room, a man sat, writing with a long pen from a glass inkpot.

They waited, silent, standing, looking at the top of the man’s head, at his thick red hair, until he made a show of finishing his writing, standing up and opening his arms wide in welcome.

—Gentlemen!

Bombello held up a corrective finger, stepped forward to take up the Duke’s writing. —Ah no, it is gentleman. One gentleman. The other is not.

The Duke nodded at Jacques, almost a bow. —You are the French knight come lately from the east. I am Gian Galeazzo Visconti.

—Sir Jacques de Helly, lord of Crequy and du Pas, chamberlain to the Sire de Coucy, and liege to Philip, the Duke of Burgundy.

Galeazzo gestured that Jacques should sit at the table, wherever he liked. —Indeed. Coucy is being held captive, right? And the Duke’s son John?

Jacques didn’t move to sit. —Captive. He was knighted on the field of battle.

Galeazzo yawned. —De Bar is a good man. And who is this with you?

—This is one of my men.

Galeazzo sat again, and now Jacques sat, at his left hand. Sanson sat next to Jacques.

—One of your men. Does he have a name? Do you have a name?

—His name is Jacques le Piquier.

Galeazzo looked at the ceiling. —Sanson. I remember a Sanson working in my father’s stables when I was a boy. He was kind and generous. Well, let us eat. Bombello?

Bombello went out.

The Duke continued. —I am not often in Milan. And though I have pressing business elsewhere, I stayed in town to meet with you. I knew you were coming, you see. I have eyes along the highway.

—Here I am.

—So I’m assuming you aren’t visiting me on behalf of Coucy or de Bar.

—No. It was a condition of my parole. I promised the King that I would convey a message to you, and so I am bound by duty.

—Wonderful. I await your message. But, Sir Jacques, you don’t seem very eager to deliver that message.

—You are perceptive. I confess I do not like the message.

Bombello came back in, and paused, acknowledging some tension, but Galeazzo smiled and shook his head: “All is well.” —All right, then, signore, allow me to guess your message. Will that work for you?

—Yes, feel free.

—The Sultan Bajazet wants to thank me for my financial support, and couldn’t have defeated the invading army without my help. Close?

Jacques, as always, was the picture of impassive dignity. —Yes, that’s very close.

—And for my investment, he wishes to know if and how he can repay my kindness. Sir Jacques, you look fairly stricken, but you should not be so delicate. My involvement in these matters is not a secret. I have also provided funding to your liege lord, and he is well aware of how these things work. You do understand?

Jacques looked down at the table. —Of course.

Galeazzo invited Bombello to join them at the table. The factotum accepted a chair at his boss’s right hand. —So I see you have been talking without me.

—Yes, the good knight has been telling me about the conditions of his parole.

Bombello stroked his chin. —Which are?

—I must also go to Paris to confirm the news of our defeat and begin the arrangements for the ransom for the noble captured.

Galeazzo sat back and nodded, gravely. —Is Nevers among them?

—Yes, but he is now Sir John of Nevers.

Galeazzo raised his eyebrows. —Indeed? So young. He fought bravely?

—Of course.

There was only glee in Bombello’s eyes. —And then, Sir Jacques de Helly, lord of Crequy and du Pas, what shall you do?

—Then I must go to Brusa to see the prisoners and be released from my parole.

—With your trusted Sanson at your side?

—Yes, with Sanson.

With Sanson? He had been following along as best as he could, and was wondering if he had heard right. Did Jacques say that he was to travel all the way back to the Ottomans, and planned on bringing Sanson? His ears started buzzing loudly, his head started pounding. He was intensely aware of the blindness in his left eye. He was sure he was going to die sitting at the table.

The door opened, and two men in livery and hose came in holding trays of roasted meats, cooked vegetables, wide trenchers of white bread. The servants placed a trencher before each man and then went away.

Galeazzo pressed a hand flat on either side of his trencher and leaned forward. —Let’s eat. And while we do, Sir Jacques, you can tell me exactly what happened out there.

10.

Galeazzo and Bombello ate their dinner, and Sanson, who had no appetite, watched and listened.

Jacques spoke:

of the challenge of floating material, horses, and men down the Danube on barges as far as the Iron Gates at Orsova,

of the townspeople of Rahova, unrepentant in their support of the Sultan,

of circling Rahova, the unreasonable resistance,

the subsequent punishment of men, women, and children, (Galeazzo, mouth full, gave a nod of understanding)

of Vidin, where the Burgundians, perhaps after Rahova, were too forgiving of the same kind of resistance, leaving many survivors,

of the mustering on the banks of the Danube just downriver, tens of thousands of men clamoring for the blood of the infidel, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord,

of the brave Burgundian scouts who rode out beyond the stronghold of Nicopolis with a mind toward forcing a confrontation,

of the nighttime conclave with the cowardly Hungarians, who refused to attack the enemy head on, even though they were few in number,

of Nevers and de Bar and Boucicault making the honorable decision to attack at dawn,

of the first wave and the enemy’s cowardly tactic of hiding behind the second hill and emerging only when the Burgundians were between the first and second hill, and therefore trapped,

of the Burgundian’s valiant fight for high ground,

of the eventually laying down of arms and flags,

of the brutal, cowardly, and dishonorable daylong massacre of Burgundian prisoners,

of Jacques’ parole by Bajazet and its instructions, to convey the official word to Paris, by way of an audience with Galeazzo,

of the journey west, of their prudential avoidance of Venice,

of their ignoble welcome into the city, which seemed more ignoble since Galeazzo knew they were coming.

Galeazzo ate without looking up. He nodded the one time, never smiled, never grunted in sympathy or camaraderie. He ate a half of a capon and a large trencher of bread, drank a cup of wine and another of water and finished eating almost at the same time that Jacques finished talking. He leaned back, whistled, put his hands on his belly, looked straight at Jacques.

—Signore. You know, it doesn’t feel like it was that long ago that I sent my man Spignoli from Paris to Coucy’s ridiculous castle and told him I wouldn’t finance his ridiculous project, which was destined to end in disaster. So I feel vindicated somehow. Not entirely, as I ended up giving him money. It wasn’t that Bajazet was unbeatable. It’s possible to beat him, I’m sure of it. He is a tough fighter, you did have as many men, no? It is because I know you Burgundians, rushing in, never thinking. It is not a virtue you possess, thinking. Is Coucy truly concerned, as he told Spignoli, about the spread of the Musulman? Is he trying to defend us all? I know what you said to the guards at the city walls. Nonsense. But at the time, I had my charts read, and I learned that Jupiter was rising and my sun was in Taurus, so even if you lose I win, and so it was, and so it is. With each defeat, your liege becomes more beholden to me. Just you wait. You will visit Paris, you will kneel before your king, and before you can stand up, the king’s uncles will have organized a visit to Galeazzo to help with the ransom.

So there was silence while Galeazzo stared into the fire. Sanson looked too. It was only a yellow glowing blur, but he listened to it, crackling, snapping, and the sound seemed to get louder until he felt like he was in the flames, and the room disappeared along with his pain. There was silence and numbness and he wondered if he was dead. Why was there no pain? Maybe there is no pain. Sanson thought of Kata and the stableman’s family.

Galeazzo spoke and he was in the room again, hands flat on the table, and the blur of the fire was in his eyes. —Signore, you have fulfilled your agreement with Bajazet. You must go back after Paris?

—Yes, to be released from my parole.

Galeazzo nodded. —Why do you think he sent you through Milan? Why bother?

—I don’t think I understand your meaning.

—Have you asked yourself, Signore?

Jacques was silent, but Sanson was curious, risked the pain of his neck to turn his head and look at his master, who betrayed no doubt.

Galeazzo smiled. He looked at Bombello. —Do you know?

Bombello shrugged.

—Well, think about it. It’s all right if you haven’t, Signore. I probably wouldn’t want to, if I were in your shoes. Let’s see. It wasn’t to negotiate with me. You have no standing here. It wasn’t to deliver the news of your defeat. I knew about it before almost anybody. I can see by your face that you are starting to understand. Bajazet had only one aim: to further humiliate you and your liege lords. I am sorry you had to bear this burden for your countrymen, but I know the Sultan, and he knows me. He knew that you would come here, sit with me, and suffer me to condescend, to speak to you of things you know nothing about. You are nothing in this story, Signore. Would you like to hear some of it?

Jacques was silent.

—Do you have daughters, Signore?

—Sons.

—Do you have daughters, old Sanson?

Sanson looked up, shook his head.

—So neither of you can understand how I feel. My daughter is in Paris now. Did you know that my daughter is the Duchess of Orleans? Of course you knew that. Her husband the Duke is a terrible man, but he is kind to her because she has sway with the mad king. Orleans and Anjou are rivals and both resent Burgundy. The king is essentially Burgundy’s ward, and Burgundy has a soft spot for Anjou. So I gave money to Burgundy so he will break off with the Florentines and let me deal with Anjou, knowing that doing so will anger Orleans, who can do nothing because his wife, my daughter, has the king’s ear, and thus Burgundy’s. Anjou is undisciplined. He will never be more than a small local lord, very rich but more annoying than a real threat. Do you know of his collections? Of course you do, they’re famous. Burgundy wants my influence because he knew that if his expedition failed, I could get better terms with Bajazet, seeing as I have a history with the Sultan. And now Nevers, his son and the future Duke of Burgundy, is a hostage, and who can get him out faster than I? So you begin to see? Why am I telling you these things? You have no standing at court, no influence. I suppose, Signore, you are easy to talk to.

—I do have a certain level of influence. I am the chamberlain to the Sire de Coucy.

Galeazzo threw up his hands, made a show of being impressed. —Oh, well, Bombello, our guest is the chamberlain to the Sire de Coucy.

Bombello’s smile widened. —He told me.

—Did we put out the good wine?

—Of course, for such an honored guest?

Again, Sanson risked pain and punishment looking at Jacques. He had never seen anyone talk to him like this. Jacques’ face never changed, but he did slowly lean back in his seat until his back touched the chair.

For a long time, Galeazzo stared at Jacques without saying anything, and Jacques stared back, his ears visibly red even in the dimness of the late afternoon. Sanson caught himself, looked away.

Galeazzo lifted his cup, drained it of wine, leaned forward, put his head in his arms. He was quiet for a long time. Sanson felt he might fall over. Maybe he was hungry, but he couldn’t eat. Not when Jacques had not touched his food, out of pride and spite. Even if Jacques was as hungry as he, he couldn’t possibly start now. The sound alone would have been a terrible indignity.

Bombello’s smile faltered. —Gian?

Galeazzo sat up. —I have very little but contempt for you and Burgundy and Coucy and all of them. Your sense of honor is outdated. How many boys have been killed? How many sold off in lots to Eastern kings to be worked to death? How many to be castrated and kept like barrows? And you people come to me for money and

Bombello stood, palms up, pleading. —Gian.

—And you come here expecting a warm welcome, a hot meal, a place to put up your feet? Signore, you have fulfilled the conditions of your parole. I have eaten my dinner and heard a story. Old Sanson, did I hear a Romance or a true chronicle of events?

Galeazzo paused just long enough for Sanson to be terrified that he expected an answer.

—Either way, stay in the palace overnight and leave in the morning. Bombello, a word.

He pushed his chair back with a screech, stood up and stepped to the fire, weaving slightly with wine and anger. Bombello smiled at Jacques and joined Galeazzo, and they muttered to each other for a few moments. Sanson looked down at his food. The stew had bled through the bread, and some had dripped in his lap.

Galeazzo’s voice cracked the silence. —Did you know that Bombello here, despite his gentle bearing, is a killer? Once, the king of Genoa sent a team of assassins dressed as drovers to dispatch me. Bombello was set upon in the street. He is here, they are not. You, old Sanson, you are — or were — a soldier. What did you fight with?

—A pike, sir.

—A pike sir! A fine weapon for the field, but easy to lose control at close quarters. Do you think you could handle six drovers at close quarters?

Sanson sighed, thought about it. He was thinking that he wasn’t feeling very well. —I’d rather not find out at the moment, sir, if you don’t mind.

Galeazzo and Bombello laughed. —Jacques! Laugh! Your man here displays more wit than you.

Sanson could almost hear Jacques’ silent rage, like angry wasps beneath the bark of a tree. Galeazzo, who certainly didn’t realize he was dooming Sanson to bitter punishment, left and closed the door, leaving Bombello standing and smiling.

—Well, Sir Jacques, it seems you haven’t touched your food. If you aren’t going to eat, I can show you to your room. My God, I ate too much. I have such gas. I must go to the Duomo tomorrow and pray to the Virgin for deflation. Oh, come now, Sir Jacques, you must laugh. It is good for you.

Jacques stood, dignified, upright. —When I hear such a thing that amuses me, I will laugh.

Bombello’s smile didn’t waver. —I see.

They went out into the hall. The light was fading quickly and the air was cold. Through the stone archways on one side, Sanson could see the top of the Duomo and hear the vendors in the piazza calling out their last-chance prices for buttons and greens.

They walked in silence. Even Bombello seemed pensive. When they stopped in front of a room, Bombello and Jacques stared at each other. Then Bombello opened the door for Jacques, who went in without a word, turned around, and looked hard at Sanson until Bombello closed the door.

—Your master wasn’t pleased with the dinner we provided. He is welcome to put his feet up in his room. He should be grateful that he doesn’t have to share with some merchant king from Napoli.

Sanson followed Bombello down a flight of stairs and through a courtyard. A fountain shaped like a fish of some kind bubbled into a green tiled basin. They walked past a storeroom where men were hanging tools on wall racks. Sanson wondered about Kata. Was she frightened? He didn’t like that she was out of his sight. If Jacques lashed out at Sanson and killed him, or made it impossible for him to ride, what then would come of her?

—You don’t speak much, old Sanson, do you know that? You can barely walk. Can you see? Can you lift that bag of yours? You should probably be in a bed somewhere, nursed by your family. Do you have a family? A wife somewhere?

A wife. It seems he had a wife once, long ago, and that she was probably dead. Children he was sure never happened.

There was a door before them, and then Bombello was gone. The door opened, someone came out, and Sanson went in. It was a long, dark, narrow room, noisy and stinking like shit and sweat. On one side was a stone wall, on the other, wood, as if the room was built against the side of the palace. A window set in the wood wall was open for light and let in the cold. It occurred to Sanson that they might have stored meat here once.

Along the stone wall was a line of about twenty thin, straw mats that covered about half of the width of the room. Squinting, Sanson could see that there was a man sitting or laying on about half of the mats. The other half of the room was a mess of bags and belongings.

Sanson shuffled toward the back of the room, squinting at his feet, trying not to trip. He wanted only to sleep and see tomorrow, when they could find Kata and leave this place.

—Sanson! Here he is, back from the halls of power and influence!

Loys was right in front of him, arms folded. There was something that Martin had told him about Loys, but he couldn’t remember right now. He was too tired. Someone — Martin? — led him a few feet to an empty mat, and he lay himself down, thanking the Virgin for the relief. He closed his eyes and the pain in his temples ceased. He was loath to ever open them again.

—So, old man, do we stay here for a few days? Can we enjoy ourselves?

No. We leave in the morning.

—So what do you say? Do we stay? Do we leave?

It is decided.

—Sanson, Sanson!

11.

The cold woke him. The dark woke him. He tried to go back to sleep but could feel the lice crawling between the thin mat and his skin. He was thankful for the sensation. It was not pain but he felt something and that gave him a chance to think. He had forgotten Kata in the night but she was taken care of by the stableman’s wife. She looked sturdy enough to handle another girl. He tried to let go and fall asleep but he was too eager to retrieve Kata. This foundling was to be saved and elevated beyond a Milanese stable, saved and elevated to nobility, taught the rules of that world.

His body ached. He worried most about the pain in his side, deep under the ribs on the right side. He lifted his arm, slowly, not to elbow anyone in the dark, and pushed his fingers into the pain, digging for the growth he knew was there. He knew he would never make it back to France. He would try, of course, from a sense of duty, but he would not survive. His body was broken, old, festering, conspiring against him. He lived for one reason now, penance, not given by any priest, but penance he knew in his heart would allow him to rest. He’d fought, killed men, women, and children. HIs duty required it. He had rarely killed with pleasure, but he had almost always done so willingly. He would deliver his charge if he was able. If he did so, then he would attend to his soul and then allow himself to die. He would pay for the things he had done, but maybe she could buy him some peace.

He felt again for the spot in his side where he was sure he had felt a growth. The guards came clanging through the door, sword against sword, sword against stone, sword against cold sconce. A haze of dawn eased around their blurry forms. —Wake up, you! Up and out! Your masters are eager to see you. All of you, now.

One of the guards lifted a burning bundle of sticks and lit the sconces by the door. The long room was lit up in a yellow fog. Someone — Martin — held under his arms, lifted him to his feet. Sanson was eager to get going, but he couldn’t bend down to gather his pallet, so Martin rolled it up for him, tied it up with a leather strap, and led him out into the cold. Sanson tested his eyes, his ears, his side, his knees, as he did every morning, and they waited for the others. He croaked something, a thanks to and blessing upon God, upon Martin.

—What?

Sanson shook his head in response, scowled in frustration.

—Old Sanson.

Sanson said nothing, just nodded his head in response.

—You can’t go on. You’re not able.

I am not able, but I must see this through. It was possible that Jacques’ anger might have cooled in the night, and that he would not kill Sanson. Something might have cheered him. There was no way of knowing. God willing.

They knew the way to the palace, and Martin inquired with the smiling guard there about Jacques, and learned he would be waiting for them at the Porta Ticinese at the west end of the city. They could find him there with their horses but they must be quick or else he was going to leave them there. What of Kata, Sanson demanded through Martin, but the guard knew nothing about a girl joining them. Where was the Porta Ticinese? The guard pointed in a vague arc, but they begged for a guide. The guard yelled out in his language, and a boy with dirty woolen clothes appeared and set off running toward the west.

Sanson couldn’t keep up, and they kept losing the boy around corners. Loys kept yelling at him, and the boy would run back and walk only a few paces ahead, but then he would forget himself and set off at a run. This time Martin yelled the boy back, held him by the arm, looked around for a solution.

—What are we going to do? We’re never going to make it this way.

Sanson could not see. His body hurt and he only wanted to go to sleep. He thought that if only they could put him in a cart and drag him along by a rope. —A rope.

Martin clapped his hands and, pointing at a short rope hanging off a metal ring, he instructed the boy to go find a long lead and to hurry. They stood in place, while the boy rushed off and within moments was back with a long, thin rope. He handed one end to the boy and then waved him on. The boy grinned. He liked this game. He ran ahead, pulling on the rope, but stayed tethered to them. He looked back, grinning, then ran on.

Loys wanted to go faster, but Martin refused. —We will not leave Sanson behind. He will wait for us.

—I’m going to tell him you said that.

—Do tell him. We will see if he has patience for your unending complaints.

Loys scoffed. —We’ll see if you have any fingers left by the end of the trip.

Sanson only wanted to know if Kata was safe. He could think of nothing else. He rushed along with the others. He tripped and fell and Martin helped him up, held him under his arm. Why was Martin being so kind? The question was unimportant. What was important was Kata and whether he could fulfill his promise. He fell again, face down in a patch of cold dust. Must have been in the shade, that bit of dirt. He was up on his feet again and somehow moving.

Anthoine called out to announce the gate was in sight. Sanson lifted his head, or opened his eyes, but he could see nothing but a blur as they kept moving. The shape of the boy holding the rope, like an upright, eager donkey. —Martin, Martin, do you see her?

Martin was not listening, or he hadn’t spoken out loud. He tried again, but nothing. He tried thinking it, not trying to speak, but there was no reply. Or Martin was speaking and he could not tell. They plodded forward, Martin’s hand on his arm. Martin would have said something, had she been there. When they came to a stop, Sanson lifted his head or opened his eyes and tried crying out, but they were all either ignoring him or could not hear him.

Jacques was there, framed in the archway of the gate, mounted already on his gray. The other horses were there. If the horses were there and Kata was not there, something must have happened. Jacques turned his horse away from them, toward the gate. —We will leave this miserable town immediately. Mount, and let’s go.

It came out like a whisper, a resignation so deep it meant the end of him. —She is not here. She is not coming.

Martin shook his head. He had heard. —No, old Sanson, she’s not here.

—Where is the girl? Where is Kata, who you will raise as your own daughter, into a noble lady? Where is she?

Jacques turned his horse back. —Leave it. I will send for her. You, however, will come now. I release you from your obligation to her. You have no obligation to deliver her. I have given other men that responsibility. Now. Martin, you will help Sanson mount or you will both pay.

Sanson could feel Martin try to herd him, to nudge him like a sheepdog against the side of a ewe, but he would not be moved. Jacques sighed loud enough for Sanson to hear. This was it, the moment when Jacques’s patience ended, which meant death. Sanson lost time. Jacques was standing in the mud before him, holding his dagger in his hand.

Sanson did not wish to save his own life. He only wanted to tell Jacques his condition for continuing to live. If he died, he died. He could not control that now. Tears came to his eyes. He wanted to lay down, to rest. If he knew that death meant true rest, he would have wished it among all else. —Sir, I must get her. I can’t leave without her.

Martin, who had stepped away, spoke softly. —I will go with him. Sir.

Jacques sighed again. —You don’t have much time. We will leave without you. Go.

Then he was running, if he could call it that. And Martin was there, his hand under his arm. Where were they going? Did Martin know? Sanson moved forward. After each agonizing step was another, and another. —Why do I follow you, old Sanson? Why does he not just discard you?

Jacques might, once he had the girl, discard all of them. It would be a swift death should Jacques kill Sanson. He was fond enough of his pet, and Sanson could see through to an end to the agony. He only wanted the promise kept to the child. He wanted Martin to promise to make sure, but he couldn’t ask. He couldn’t talk. He could only keep moving. They were too slow. He wanted to tell Martin to leave him here, to keep moving, but he couldn’t speak. The city was dirt and air and piss and shit. The city was people and animals who stunk. He always felt right to be in the city. He wanted to lay down and become part of the city, part of the years the city was built on. They were stopped, and he lay in the dirt on his side. Martin banged on a door, and then he was up again and there was the market stand, a woman in finery stepped out of the way, and he stumbled and fell, but then he saw her. She was looking at him. He felt a hand under each arm. He did the work he could do. Then they were moving. Then he was released and fell before familiar boots. —Up.

Sanson tried to obey. There was so much misery that he could not get up. He could die, could feel himself slipping away. —Get him up.

He could smell Loys and Anthoine, the smell of boys. Their brutal innocence gave him a sense that everything was going to be fine, no matter what. They would come to their senses, if they didn’t die first. Anthoine, especially. Their arms were under his and he was up. He managed to lock his knees and balance upright.

—Open your eyes.

Sanson thought his eyes were open already, but he widened them and saw that his left eye was almost clear. Was that the same eye as before? He didn’t remember, and it didn’t matter. Jacques stood before him. Loys and Anthoine were still at his sides. Where was Kata? He must speak to Martin before it ended. Jacques stood holding a bough of yew about the thickness of his forearm. Up it went, down it came, and Jacques was standing over him.

—Get him up.

Sanson tried to get up himself, but the pain was too great. He had endured much misery in his years. Loneliness, torture, battle, but this weariness outpaced them all. Martin would take up this task. He only had to speak with him, alone. If he could rest for one moment, before Jacques did him in.

He was somehow standing. He must have been lifted to his feet. Yes, he was standing, with help. Loys and Anthoine. The sour smell of boys, their anger and judgment. They would come to their senses, if they should survive that long, as long as he had.

—Open your eyes.

He had thought his eyes were open. He did as he was told, and saw that he could see from his left eye, as through a rolled length of paper. He couldn’t see the boys at his sides, but he could see Jacques standing before him. Sanson looked down and saw that Jacques held a bough of yew stripped of bark and needles. No switch, this. It was the width of Jacques’ forearm. Up it went out of view. This was it. He was sure that Jacques would not take her. He could not assure it. She would be married off to a stable boy and be as poor as he. Then he felt the bough come down at his temple.

When Sanson opened his eyes again, or when he was able to see again, Jacques’ boots were before his eyes.

—Get him up.

And again, he was on his feet, and then he felt another blow in the same spot.

When he opened his eyes again, the light was different. He was lifted up again, off the ground, and thought he might be lifted to heaven, but instead, he felt horseflesh beneath him, and the girl behind him, and he closed his eyes.

He was on his horse, and the girl was sitting behind him, and his head hurt. His other eye was clear, but the left one was blind. The sun was low and they rode toward it. It was cold but not damp, so he guessed it was the evening and they rode west.

We are riding to Paris. He looked around for confirmation, dreading that he might have spoken. The others rode, hunched, in silence. Did they ignore him? It didn’t matter.

The girl’s arms were around his middle, and her head lay against his back. They were riding to Paris. Why was he not dead? He and Kata were on a horse riding down into a valley, toward a village like all other villages. That was enough.

12.

At midday, they had reached a low point, a depression between two steep hills, for a rest, when the voices came from behind them and above. Voices, the yelling of men, and the sound of horses’ hooves on dirt, and clanking of arms. On each side of the road, a thick forest of maple and alder, with low branches crisscrossing any path through. The road itself was slow, a pocked ribbon of mud hills and rusty puddles reflecting the treetops.

Jacques turned his horse and looked at Sanson, lifting his chin and glancing up the road, then back. A wordless order: No way to run, so turn to face the possible threat, assess the situation, and tell the others to do the same. Then get ready to follow my lead. Sanson blinked and both eyes worked. He spoke as Jacques’ lieutenant.

—Turn to face them, and wait. Hold your ground. If they attack, we fight.

They all turned. Loys sat up straighter in his saddle, staring up the hill. Anthoine noticed this and put on a show of bravery as he stared in terror up the hill, gripping his horse’s mane. Martin, calm, kept his eyes on Jacques. Kata was quiet behind him. Perhaps given a weapon she could at least defend herself.

They appeared, the companymen, three gray smudges silhouetted against the steel sky, but there were more they couldn’t see. Even with his poor eyesight, Sanson could identify the leader by his total ease and confidence.

Kata held him tighter around the waist, pressed her nose against his back. I will not let them hurt you. If I can help it, I will not let them hurt you. I made a promise that I will keep.

Behind them now, the sound of horses and Sanson saw one of the horsemen raise his hand. Painfully, Sanson turned his body to see two men emerging from the forest onto the road.

The leader raised his hand, but it was to their group. He spoke in French. —Travelers! Where are you headed on this fine day?

His voice was strong, resonant, and even with his hearing, Sanson could tell that the accent was Picard.

Jacques raised his hand in greeting, pointing behind him, to the west, where they’d been headed. —Paris. And you and your men? What is your business today?

—We are out for a ride!

—But you are not from this place.

The leader laughed. —No, that is true. We are all far from home. And where are you from?

Jacques was silent for a long while, then he threw out both arms to clear the wool cloak from his shoulders, revealing the yellow field and red cherry trees of his livery.

The leader laughed again, but this time there was real amusement, joy even. —Jacques? Jacques de Helly of Crequy! Jackie!

Jacques’ lower jaw went slack. He looked at Sanson, then back up the hill. The man, well built, yelling Jackie! as he rode down the hill as two of his followers, caught unaware, chased him. Jacques’ hand rested on the hilt of his sword, then moved to the handle of his dagger. Then his hand dropped to his side. Then he stroked his chin. —Bertie?

Sanson knew then who this was: now Sir Bertrand du Rue, third son and veteran of the wars against the English, years ago known as Bertie, a fat boy with bushy eyebrows and an angry gaze. So far from home. They all were far from home. He had been a fat but energetic boy whose own father had been killed as well, so he was brought to the Crequy estate over two summers to squire his uncle and learn falconry and swordplay. The boys got along well. Both were mean in equal measure, and they used Sanson as the enemy during their games of Christians and Saracens, Burgundians and Englishmen. Sanson had gotten bloodied many times before Jacques’ uncle took pity on him and relegated him to kitchen duty full-time. Sanson scrubbed pots, salted meat, ran up and down the stairs to the cellar, listening to the laughter and shouts of mock battles. They would come look for him and Sanson would hide in the basement. When Bertie left in the fall to squire another knight, Sanson again became Jacques’ playmate. As he watched Bertie, now Sir Bertrand, ride his white horse down the hill toward them, Sanson wished the company had been hostile instead.

Jacques waited on his horse, shaking his head, a huge grin showing off his rotten teeth, muttering to himself. —It’s him. Ages, it’s been ages.

The others dismounted, stretched their legs, put their horses between themselves and the knights. Sanson did not want to dismount, but Martin was there, patting Sanson’s leg, helping Kata down, then turning to give Sanson a hand. Dismounting meant landing on his feet, which was excruciating. But pain was no matter, not really. He stood, catching his breath. Kata stood next to him, put her hand on his arm.

—Jackie! You look so old!

—You know you’re older than I am?

—Yes, by two weeks. But I said you look old. I, on the other hand, have not changed since the day we last saw each other.

—Which was what, twenty years?

—Likely. Jackie, excuse me for a moment.

Bertrand waved to the two men on the road. —You, two. Ride up to Michel and the others and tell them to ride back. I will be there shortly.

The two men nodded, rode back into the woods and were gone.

Jacques still had the grin on his face, shook his head. —I’d heard that you were a brigand, young man, but I couldn’t believe it.

Bertrand laughed, a high-pitched giggle. —I don’t like that word, brigand. I’d rather consider myself a free-lance, someone who has figured out how to make things work in a difficult time for people like us. The good Lord wills it. By the way, around these parts, I go by The Tarnished Knight. You can spread the word.

—Tarnished because of the rust on your

—My armor. And the rust on my soul, don’t you know.

They laughed and Bertrand clapped Jacques on the shoulder. —Yes, I’ve become wildly successful, it turns out. There is no local power structure. Some minor lords along the rivers, but nobody who wishes to get their hands dirty protecting the highways.

Jacques spoke softly, with reverence or sadness Sanson couldn’t tell. —It’s been years, now.

—Yes, it has added rust to my soul, no doubt. But nothing that I can’t

They were silent for a long while, looking down the road. The horses were getting restless, stamping their feet. Then Bertrand laughed and opened his arms wide in supplication to the moment.

—And you?

—Since we last met? Too much to relate. When the war ended, I went east, fought for the Ottoman, for the Hungarian, for the Lombard. I went where my sword was needed. I took Sanson wherever I went.

—Sanson. Isn’t he dead yet?

—My man, Sanson. He is indestructible. My good luck charm. He lives. He stands right there, behind the horse. Sanson, come out.

Bertrand put his hand against his forehead. —I hardly believe my eyes. Sanson. So after the Lombards?

—Home. Fought for Coucy and Philip, put down uprisings. Then the opportunity came to go back east, this time against the Thunderbolt. And, well, that did not go as planned.

—So I have heard.

—Have you?

—Oh, yes, the news traveled instantly.

—The Thunderbolt himself deputized me. I’m on parole now, on my way back to Paris to confirm the news to the mad king.

—You can’t be serious.

—I was roped up like a common criminal to these idiots, preparing myself for the end, when the man himself pulled me out of line

—With them?

—It was faster that way. Our line of five men, tied by the necks.

—Amazing how he noticed you, with you screaming and yelling at him and waving your arms in his direction with great dignity.

Jacques laughed and dismissed the image with a wave. —Right. And here we are.

—Why not join us?

—Well, I must do my duty, upon my honor.

Bertrand scoffed at the word. —Honor.

—I still believe in that word, I’m not ashamed to say.

—You should be. You can be free, like me.

Jacques shook his head. —Free.

The two men were quiet for a few moments, and then Bertrand lifted his head, looked at the gray sky, held his hand out as if he were feeling drops of rain. —What about your brother, Jackie? Have you seen him?

Jacques waved away the possibility. —Why would I?.

—You must see him. After all these years? You were close once.

—We were never close. He has always hated me. We have always hated each other.

—But so much time has passed. What has it been, 40 years?

—38 since I saw him last.

—You were children. You must go. It’s on your way. He is your blood. Your wife doesn’t know him, your children don’t know him. Do it for me, if you won’t for yourself.

Jacques laughed a bitter laugh. —For you?

But Bertrand was serious. —Yes, for me. I loved you both. I was between you in age. I looked up to you, and Daniel to me. I cared for him as a brother.

—Then why don’t you visit him?

—Maybe I will.

—Where is he now? Still at Cluny?

—No, he’s at Corbie.

Bertrand was impressed. —So closer to home, huh?

—Yes, closer to home.

They were both silent, toeing the mud at their feet. Then Jacques looked up. —What about your sisters? When is the last you saw of them?

—I was going to ask you, in fact, to ask after her, the next time you are back at your estate. They are still at Torcy, as far as I know. I haven’t written them for some time. They think I am still in the east, and I have not disabused them of that notion. They cannot know my current occupation.

—Of course, but even if I do see them, how am I to get word to you?

Bertrand looked up, away, at the tops of the trees. —Yes, that is not an easy proposition. But there are places to send word. I wonder if you could also

Bertrand stopped and stared into the dirt.

—What? What is it?

—My wife and children. I would like you to inquire after them, to find out how they are. I have not, well, I just have not. And our meeting is a sign from Providence that I must take this chance. Please, do you have anything with which to write? I must tell you where to send word, if you can do this kindness for an old friend.

—Of course.

Jacques retrieved a stub of pencil from a pocket in his saddlebag. He chewed on it with a good tooth.

—It is the parish church in Azincourt. Anything sent there for a Paul du Rue will be held for me. I know where to find you.

—Yes, though I do not know how long I will be in France, is the truth.

—That is fine. I am a man of great patience.

—Are you.

—Now don’t sulk, Jackie.

—Don’t call me that.

Bertrand moved closer to Jacques and put his arm around his shoulder. —Oh, the men? Ah, well, the cow is out of that particular barn, Jackie. I’m sorry, my old friend. We are still friends, are we not?

Jacques started to take a step away, but Bertrand held him fast. —We are.

—Good! It is something, Jacques. You do not know how long you will be in France. I know that I will never return, at least never to Paris, never to Picardy. I am free now, Jacques. I have no liege master. I am free.

Jacques nodded, solemn. —We need to make the next village by nightfall.

Betrand let go of Jacques and pointed down the road. —That way. Only a half-day’s ride. There’s a comfortable inn, big barn for the horses and men, ugly but cheerful maid. I would not say I sent you.

They both laughed at this and parted after embracing and one reminding the other to send word if possible. They watched as Bertrand rode up to the top of the hill and without looking back, raised his hand in farewell. Jacques repeated the gesture until Bertrand’s hand fell out of sight, then he shook his head and spit. —I hate that fucker.

Martin helped Sanson and Kata mount. They all rode to the next town. Sanson agreed with Bertrand’s assessment of the maid.

13.

When they were riding, Kata would lean up against Sanson’s back, warm under her horse blanket. When she sobbed, his heart hurt, compressing and competing with his other pains. She leaned against him, convulsing, tiny hiccups, for hours. She shivered with the cold, and he wanted to cover her, to pat her shoulder and tell her that soon, soon they would be home, and she would have goose down, fires in real fireplaces, music, girls to play with, time to forget all.

When, once in a long while, she put her arms around his middle, he thought, she trusts me to keep her safe.

They were days from Paris. The sun fell out of sight, and he dozed, let his horse follow the leader, always Jacques. After Martin warned him of Anthoine’s treachery, Sanson had made sure he was always between the boy and Jacques. Though he wished Anthoine would just attack, and that he could let happen what God willed, he knew he couldn’t. He wanted to protect the world from Jacques, but Kata was his first priority, so he must protect the demon leading them.

Sir Jacques was a dark smudge against the shadows. Sanson turned to check on Anthoine. He hadn’t heard them, but he and Loys were right behind him. Anthoine threw up his hands. —What? What are you looking at, dummy?

Sanson turned back around, his head pounding, a river in his hot ears.

Loys jumped in. —Yeah, idiot, what’s your problem? What’s with you? Keep your eyes forward.

Against his better judgment and with pain, Sanson turned. He knew he would wake up Kata, but control was beyond him. —Or what?

—Oh, ho! It speaks. Or else we’ll tell Jacques you’ve been fucking that little girl of his, and she’s no longer daughter material.

Kata flipped her horse blanket back, turned, and hissed at the boys.

Anthoine and Loys started laughing. Anthoine had a coughing fit. —I don’t think she likes us!

Martin rode up, alongside the boys. —Shut the fuck up. Leave them alone.

Martin rode past Sanson at trot, winked at him, faded into a blur of black against the sunset. Martin had made it clear that he wouldn’t get involved in what was to come from Anthoine. It was up to Sanson, maybe for the last time in his life, to be a bodyguard for Jacques.

Sanson squeezed his eyes shut from the pain in his side. He had learned to march forward when it was impossible to stay awake. He had learned to keep fighting when injured and in fear of his death, to keep going until the fighting was over. He could hold his pike up, thrust it forward into a man’s guts while his arms screamed at him. When other men fell apart, cried from frustration, pain, and fear, he stayed steady. That is why Jacques had always kept him around. Sanson was steady. But now, his ancient body was falling apart, his heart was breaking for this girl, he felt like crying all of the time.

He had never worried before. He believed what they told him. The first thing his place. He did what was expected of him, and all was well.

He had always, since he was a boy, found pride in his work, and lamented that battles came too far apart — weeks, months, sometimes years, though it was possible to find a fight somewhere. He never enjoyed killing. What he liked was feeling that he was useful to those who depended on him. His usefulness translated into food, a bed, better treatment than the camp dogs and whores. He took these as compensation. It was a short life.

But he was unique in his ability to accept this lot without complaint. Even the other servants commented on his subservience. Jacques often beat Sanson, who could, in his prime, have killed Jacques, and Sanson never said a bad word about his master. Sanson let the beatings and verbal thrashings happen. He knew that others had it worse than he did, that he was in a bargain, and that he could pretend that he was suffering the pains of Christ being beaten by the Romans. In some moments, he welcomed the beatings as penance. He accepted, somehow that the beatings purified him. While enduring Jacques’ blows, the idea cooled his rising anger.

Everyone took beatings, but Jacques’ cruelty and his own consistency meant that he was resented and despised everywhere he went. When he was treated like a dog, the other soldiers despised him. When he was pulled from the ranks to be Jacques’ pet in battle, he was despised. The nobles hated him for standing among their stamping, steaming horses as if he were a vermin crawling in the mud, taunting them. The nobles’ other servants hated him, perhaps for threatening their own position. He tried to make himself as small as possible, but that wasn’t easy — he was a large man, and soon fat, and thus conspicuous. He tried to stay still, to be invisible. But there was nothing to do but ignore the taunts. He didn’t want to lose whatever favored position led to a few more scraps of meat from Jacques’ mess. He could not win, knew it, and did not try.

He was there in the wars against the English, among the cavalry. He ran after them, speared horses and mounted Englishmen with his pike, then speared the fallen men under their arms, between their legs, under their chins. He would be lying if he said he didn’t take pleasure in dispatching nobles. He soon gained a reputation among the Burgundian knights, for being a fearless soldier, and for not getting trampled in battle by armored chargers. They still despised him for being a big, ugly peasant they were afraid of.

When the English and French crowns reached a detente, there was not much to do, Jacques became a sort of free-lance knight. He had good armor, good arms, and a desire to stay away from home. He and Sanson headed first to Flanders, where he helped put down several uprisings. Sanson did feel badly fighting against his own kind, sometimes. But he mostly did as he was told, and set aside feelings and thoughts. It was easy enough to fight men. It didn’t matter, really, who they were.

Sanson understood the irony that the one time Jacques went away without him was when Jacques went East for the first time to fight for the Thunderbolt, in his first campaign to suppress the Hungarians trying to resist his westward expansion. Sanson had a terrible ague, a high and delirious fever. Among the servants in the Crequy household near Amiens, he was despised, but they did take care of him. One old maid took pity on him, fed him boiled stock, checked on him, pointed out that he would likely die, but she would try to prevent that.

She was rough with him, as were any of the others who came through his sickroom, but he didn’t require their tenderness. He stared at the ceiling, unable to move, and prepared himself for death. Jacques left without a word to his right-hand man.

Sanson survived that illness. He found ways to make himself useful around the house. He was still hated, but he was indispensable to the workings of the household.

When Jacques returned, he abandoned his household duties and fell back into the old routine with Jacques. When Jacques again left on a campaign, headed south of the Alps into Lombardy, Sanson was by his side. Nothing had changed, except that Sanson’s body was marred by the illness. The pain in his side, which had started one day when he got up from his sickbed to go to the commode, never went away. It all built from there.

But he never complained. Campaign after campaign, he was caught by an arrow, the tip of a sword, a club across the ear. The injuries were always minor, but they added up over the years until he was a broken man, fatter, slower, and deafer. More in pain. Then Jacques was called to join a crusade against the Turks, and Sanson was called to join Jacques.

A single snaking road alongside a shining ribbon of river. A mill in the sparse woods. A little further, a bakery. A small dairy farm. Around a bend, an inn nestled against a hill. Stone retaining walls created a town square.

On either side of the inn’s door was a tree stump. On each stump sat an old man wrapped in a gray wool blanket. They watched the horses ride up, looked at each other. The one on the right yelled back over his shoulder. “Marie!”

Just beyond the inn, on a lane that curved up the hill from the road, was a large stables with a hayloft.

A young woman ran up, nodded, called for a Nicolas. Nicolas, a boy of about 14, ran up, counted the horses, and called for an André. André, a boy of about 12, ran over to the closest horse, Jacques’, and took the reins. Jacques dismounted. They all did, and the horses were led away.

Sanson, Kata, and the others stood around while Jacques went inside the inn. Sanson watched Anthoine watching Jacques walk away. Then again, they were all watching Jacques.

They trudged up the hill to the stables.

Martin held his hands out to the side. —Who’s going to bring Jacques his things?

Loys shook his head. —Not me. Make the dummy do it.

Anthoine laughed. —Yeah, the dummy.

But Sanson sat down on a low rail and put his head down while Loys and Anthoine berated him, entreated him to speak, to speak. Kata was alarmed by their raised voices. He could hear her standing at his side. The boys did not hurt him with their words.

Martin grabbed the bag. —Jesus, I’ll do it. Just shut the fuck up, you two, will you?

He went out into the night. Loys waved his hand. —Dummy.

A thick layer of straw covered the floor of several empty stalls, so Sanson chose one near the door to lay out his and Kata’s pallets, so if Anthoine tried to sneak out and attack Jacques. Sanson, who barely slept, would keep watch all night.

Martin came back and, right away, climbed up to the hay loft to sleep. The boys followed.

Andre came with food, and the others came down from the loft.

Andre brushed down the horses as they ate. —You are going to Paris?

Martin nodded, mouth full of bread. —How far away is it?

—About a week’s ride, if the roads aren’t muddy.

Loys smiled. —And are the roads muddy?

Andre thought about this for the moment. —I guess it’s about a week’s ride.

—Is the master of the house your father?

Andre snorted. —No. He’s not my father. He’s a terrible man. Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll beat the shit out of me. He’s terrible.

Anthoine shook his head. —It’s fine. So is ours.

—Why are you going to Paris? Are you from Paris?

Martin took another bite of bread and ate some cheese. —Our master is going there. We come from fighting the Saracen in the east.

Andre nodded. —I know. I heard your master talking. He said the Duke’s son is being held for ransom.

Loys sat up. —And guess who’s riding to Paris to arrange for the ransom?

Andre made a show of thinking about this. —Um, a bunch of guys who haven’t changed clothes in months, sleeping in a hay loft in a stable?

Anthoine laughed and rolled over.

Loys looked angry and punched Anthoine on the arm. —No, our master. We’re going with him. We’re going to the palace where the King is.

Andre nodded, made a skeptical face. —Right. OK, fellas.

Loys persisted, serious. —Seriously. Our master knows the Duke. He’s met the King.

—Right, OK, good. I believe you.

Loys stood up. —Listen, man, you’re going to get it.

Martin stood, held Loys back. —Your master, the innkeeper?

—M. Herman.

—He is a rich man?

—In this town? He’s rich. I don’t know. Why?

Loys sat in place. Martin shook his head, sat down.

Andre sniffed. —Look, I got to go wipe the monsieur’s ass and get him and his wife to bed. Have a good night.

Anthoine got up and stretched. Sanson thought he was going to head back upstairs, but he started walking outside.

Sanson, who had been lounging on his back, rolled onto his front, got to his hands and knees. —Where you going?

Anthoine turned back. —What, dummy?

Sanson held onto the wall, lifted himself up. Pain bloomed. Kata lifted an arm to help him. —Where you going?

—I’m going to take a piss. What do you care?

—I’m going with you.

Anthoine looked around at the others: He’s crazy. —You’re going with me? Fine, you can hold my dick, write my name on the wall.

Loys thought this was hilarious. Sanson turned to Martin. —Watch her.

Martin nodded.

Sanson limped next to Anthoine as they walked up the hill in the moonlight, past the sheepfold. Inside the shuttered inn, Jacques was telling someone about his exploits in the war against the English. Sanson knew this bit. Gallantry, mocking of the sniveling Brits. Laughter from men and women.

Sanson walked with his hand on the hilt of his dagger. Anthoine would have to lure Jacques out. Sanson didn’t know how he could do it.

They were well-made latrines, four stalls in a single outhouse, a full door on each stall. Anthoine stepped into one and left the door open. Sanson stood in the door of one of the others, waiting until he heard the stream end, his hand holding his dagger instead of his cock, in case Anthoine decided to run for it.

Going back, past the inn, Sanson walked in front of the boy, dagger out. He wouldn’t have to lure anyone. As they were able to reach the door of the inn, the light from inside spilled out and Jacques stepped out into its cone, stretched, looked impatient, left and right, unable to see out into the darkness. —What? Who’s calling out here?

Did someone call? Sanson turned to look back at Anthoine, who was lunging past him, knife pointed. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Sanson did what he knew how to do. He took a step back, turned to the right, raised his dagger in stabbing position, and allowed the blade to find the soft depression just below Anthoine’s Adam’s apple. He felt it slide in, meet easy resistance, hit the neckbone.

Anthoine dropped, face up, blood bubbling from his mouth. Jacques had stepped into the dark, was struggling with another. A woman screamed inside the inn, men yelled. Then the struggle was over and Jacques stepped back into the light, his undershirt covered in blood. Sanson and Jacques faced each other, each holding a knife, each panting. Both dropped their blades. Jacques shook his head. —What? Anthoine?

Sanson pointed at the body in the darkness beyond the door.

The innkeeper came outside, fully clothed, holding a taper. —What is it? What happened? My wife!

Even in the dim light, Sanson saw the other man on his side twitching, as blood spurted from his groin and flowed from his side. It was Martin. Sanson looked back at Jacques. —Are you hurt?

Jacques shook his head, held up his arm. —It’s a scratch, just a scratch.

Women crowded the door behind the innkeeper. There was Kata and Loys, who ran forward and knelt by Anthoine’s side. Jacques pointed at Loys and barked a commandment. —Grab him!

Andre appeared and held Loys, who put up no fight. Jacques leaned over, picked up Sanson’s dagger and the other, handed both to the innkeeper, gestured to Loys. —Hold on to these. These two men attacked me, and this one is in on it. Call the constable. I’ll wait in the stables with my man.

—No, Sir Jacques. You don’t need to stay in the stables. You can come in the house.

—I don’t want to leave my man outside.

The innkeeper looked at his scowling wife, then shook his head. —Of course, he can come inside. Is he hurt at all?

Jacques looked at Sanson, who shook his head, then looked at Kata. —And the girl?

Jacques rolled his eyes. —Yes, we have a ward. She’s well behaved.

—Yes, yes, fine. Let’s go inside and wait for the constable. Andre, tie this man up in the stable. Piers, you go with him and make sure he doesn’t fuck it up. Come, let me pour you some wine.

They went through the door, through a small mudroom, and into a parlor yellow with candlelight.

The innkeeper pointed at the corner, looked at Sanson. —Just stand over there. We’ll get you something to sit on. Sir Jacques, please, sit over here.

—I’ll stand, thank you. But I’ll take that wine.

The innkeeper motioned to his wife, who huffed and went through a door into a kitchen. —What happened?

Jacques paced the floor, from Sanson and Kata to the far door. —These were soldiers, under command of the Duke’s son, who is new to command. They are, or were, just boys, and nobody knows more than me how hard it is to keep young men in fighting shape. They were not my men. This one over here, on the other hand, has been with me for years. I have been harsh with them. That is my way. I suppose they thought it was too much.

Sanson then realized that Anthoine had been moving to protect Jacques, not to kill him. Martin had lied to Sanson, tried to throw him off, and Anthoine died. Loys would die, too. More death.

The constable didn’t come for a long time. Sanson dozed standing, Kata leaning against him. Jacques talked nonstop, explaining his history, telling more stories of his exploits. The innkeeper himself tried to get some sleep by curling on a low ottoman while they were waiting.

Finally, the constable came, a small, round man in his nightgown and furs, ornery and grandiose. But Jacques won him over by being deferential to the old man. —Yes, I am at your disposal, and if there’s anything I can do for you, please say the word. We only want to continue our critical mission for the crown and country.

Of course, the constable cleared Jacques and Sanson before morning. Jacques’s wound really was a scratch, but it was cleaned and bound by Andre. The innkeeper allowed them to stay inside, even Sanson, who slept in a bed with Jacques, and Kata, who slept with the innkeeper’s young daughters. Sanson was warm under real covers for the first time in weeks.

When Sanson woke up, Jacques was already up and dressed in his livery. —They’ve filled our waterskins, tacked our horses, and tied up the other horses. It’s time. Get your ass up.

Sanson tried to move, but he couldn’t. Kata was standing in the doorway.

—Yeah, and her. Control her. She cried all night, and they’re already suspicious. I have vouched for you. Get up.

Sanson shook his head. Jacques bent, put his arm under Sanson’s, and lifted. Sanson gasped from the pain. —Oh, stop being such an old woman. All right, are you up? Girl, come here and help him with his boots.

Kata came over and stood, unsure what to do. Jacques pointed down at Sanson’s boots, Sanson’s feet. —Boots. Put them on.

Jacques stood back, stretched. —You know, it’s a relief to be rid of those three. I’m not sure why I kept them on except that I certainly wasn’t going to cook and clean for myself. You know, you’re fairly useless, except for that move with Anthoine. In a fight, you’re all right. Otherwise, you’re an old crippled dog.

Sanson pressed his foot into his boot, winced. Kata looked up at him, and he shook his head. I’m OK. Emotion overwhelmed him. His eyes blurred with tears until he couldn’t see her anymore.

14.

Paris was a gray-brown haze. Before they heard the bells, before they smelled the woodfire and shit, before they saw the spires and the cathedral, before the beggars and the finery, Paris was a gray-brown haze below a low, dirty white ceiling.

It was just the three of them now, approaching the eastern wall. Above the Porte Saint-Antoine, next to the Bastille, heads gazed west while birds took leisurely bites. A criminal’s body was cut into four pieces, each piece slid onto a stake. Boys threw rocks, barely making it half the way to the heads.

The bells rang, each with different voices, like friends they had never met, and Sanson realized it midday, and Christmas Eve. Through the gates, passing long-familiar buildings. Cats everywhere here, evil, hateful creatures. They met his gaze, almost in challenge to him. He yearned to kick them.

Their journey was almost finished. He would stay vigilant, not let down his guard until Kata was delivered. They were riding past the turn to Jacques’ house, and on to the Hotel de Saint Pol. Sanson didn’t understand why Jacques wouldn’t want to bathe before he went to the king’s residence, but maybe he wanted to play out some heroism.

Outside the Hotel, a large number of liveried attendants stood around, all wearing the king’s colors. Jacques dismounted and the attendants held his horse. Jacques walked right inside without telling Sanson to wait, without a word. Kata hit Sanson on the side, questioning. But Sanson didn’t know more than she did. —I have no idea. That hurt.

Kata hit him again, and Sanson knew what she was asking. She was hungry. So was he. He handed her a small bag of dried fruits, but that was all they had. Sanson didn’t know what to do. If he left, how would Jacques find him? He didn’t know if he could find his residence in the city without Jacques. He could try going into the Hotel, but they wouldn’t let him in. The guards were standing at attention, but they paid him no mind.

—Is the king in? Fellas?

But they didn’t pay attention to him. Instead, they took turns passing across the entryway, presenting arms. And then they stood firm.

They dismounted and walked their horses away from the Saint Pol. They would have to bide their time. They could likely find their way to Jacques’ place, but maybe that wasn’t what Jacques wanted. He probably expected them to wait. They would wander a bit in the neighborhood. They walked over to the Quai of the Celestines and stared at Notre Dame across the river on the Ile de Paris. It was huge, like an enormous crouching spider. Then they walked north along the west side of the Hotel. They had a little money, and found a food stand, where they bought some meat folded over in some crepes. Sanson’s teeth hurt, and he tried to eat. But Kata devoured the meal and then poked Sanson and pointed up to the horse. —Up. She smiled.

He smiled back and held his hands together, leaning down with great difficulty. She stepped into his hands, held onto the mane, and lifted herself up. She leaned forward, hugging the horse’s mane, and closed her eyes. Sanson looked up at her, squinting into the light. He had almost done it. He had protected her best he could. He had delivered her. He had stayed alive and he could now make sure that she was able to see her way to a new future. In time, she would forget what happened, just as he had. And she would be happy.

Slowly, he led the horses by a lead, every once in a while checking to see that Kata was still safely in the saddle. At the entrance to the Saint Pol, the same guards were there. He whispered at them. —Did my master come out?

They ignored him. —Please. I must know. I have his daughter here.

They looked up at Kata, rolled their eyes. She clearly wasn’t the daughter of a nobleman. But the taller of the two guards shook his head. —Didn’t come out yet. Go over there. We’ll let you know if he comes out.

He pointed at a blank area of wall, and Sanson obeyed. He felt safe now to close his own eyes and lean. He couldn’t sleep, but he could rest, for the first time in a long time.

—You there. You!

Sanson opened his eyes to see the taller of the guards waving his hand at him. He got up, limped to the guard. —Yeah.

—Maybe take the girl to the hanging?

—Hanging?

—There, in the square. If your master comes out, I’ll send someone to get you.

Sanson didn’t want to see a hanging. —Who’s getting hanged?

The guard looked around, careful. He lowered his voice, leaned in. —A nobleman. A brigand, caught on the eastern highway.

Sanson stared at the cobbles for a moment, closed his eyes. Opened them, he could still see out of both eyes. The pain in his side was gone. The guard was still standing over him, looking at him, examining him. —You really stink, do you know that?

Sanson looked up at him. —I know. I am almost at the end of my journey.

Sanson squinted, waved Kata over. —This way.

He limped in the direction of the square.

15.

Muleteers hurled curses at their mules. Dogs barked, fought. A pack of students in black walked by. A beggar, bleeding from his scalp and dragging a leg, followed them silently, hand out, then gave up. The city streets were thick with shit. They rode down an avenue that opened to a square. At the fountain they filled their skins. Sanson didn’t get off his horse, but Kata did it for him.

They rode on, and in the next square, they stopped to watch an execution. A subdued but excited crowd stood in an arc around the scaffolds. A man in a black cloak walked around on the platform, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the people. A cart parted the crowd. Sitting in back, the condemned man, a priest, and a soldier in leather armor. They pulled up next to the stairs, and the priest got out first.

When they were all on the platform, the priest whispered in the condemned’s ear, then nodded to the soldier, who nudged the man forward. The hangman placed the noose around the man’s neck. The priest then stepped forward, yelled out to the crowd. —Confess and be forgiven!

The man started speaking, but then out of the crowd, a cry. —Murderer! My son is dead! Die and go to hell!

The yelling confounded the priest. He peered out into the crowd, but someone was running up the stairs now, holding a stick. Sanson saw Jacques on his horse bounce in his saddle with delight at the show. Kata held Sanson, her face pressed against his back.

—Murderer! No confession!

The young man was on the platform now, and he was coming at the condemned, swinging the stick at anything in his way. The hangman and the soldier, both shocked, held up their arms and were struck. The priest backed up and fell off the platform. The crowd gasped and was silent.

The soldier held the young man from behind in a bear hug, and the hangman put the noose around the condemned’s neck. The poor soul was yelling now. —My confession! My soul. My

But the hangman wanted it over. And so it was. The body fell, the rope snapped taut. They rode on.

They were only a few moments’ ride from the Hôtel Saint-Pol, a gleaming, whitewashed palace with circular parapets at each of its corners. Sanson leaned back to see crossbowmen high up, staring down at him.

Leaning against the white entry arch was a young man in a crimson tunic and black hose. He wore shoes with long toes that were tethered to his calves by silk cords like the prows of boats tethered to dock posts. Sanson realized he’d seen other men wearing the ridiculous things. The young man stepped forward to take Jacques’ reins. He was clean-shaven, with straight hay-colored hair that parted down the middle. He was thin, and in his finery, he looked almost regal.

He smiled. —Sir.

Jacques dismounted, smile wide, looking past Jean through the white arch. Jean took the reins. —My boy. I’ll catch up with you later. Wish me luck.

—Good luck, sir.

Jacques touched the rabbit’s foot tied to his arm and without a word to Sanson, he hurried in. Jean stepped forward, took Sanson’s reins again.

The dismount, always in agony. He wasn’t going to get on a horse ever again. Kata jumped down, stood aside, waited. They exchanged glances as if preparing, together. With pain, he swung his right leg over. His left foot in the stirrup, he stood there for a moment catching his breath. Then he held onto the saddle, took his foot out of the stirrup, and hung by his arms. He had no idea, even after so many dismounts, how far it was. He just had to fall, knowing what was to come. The shock of it made him shiver, and he found himself in the dirt, on his ass. Jean was laughing, and Kata was helping him up.

Jean stood over him, not helping. —That’s quite a show. Is that every time he gets off his horse?

Kata looked at him, didn’t answer.

—OK. So you are Sanson, and this is the girl.

Sanson was still breathing heavy, dusting himself off. —Kata. Sir Jacques’ ward.

Jean nodded, seeming skeptical. —I am Jean de la Tremoille. You will come with me.

The son of the great knight. Sanson stopped and looked up. —Your father.

Jean grimaced, shook his head. —Is held for ransom, yes. Let’s go. We’re walking.

Two men in livery ran up and took the horses and all of their possessions. Sanson realized that he really didn’t have anything to bring with him.

They walked as fast as Sanson could handle. Kata held his hand as they walked to the river, then along the quai to the bridge. There was Notre Dame, squatting like a spider downstream. Here were large houses of carved stones. They stopped before a large wooden door. Just to the left, Jacques’s family crest was painted on a metal shield. Jean grabbed the knocker, struck once.

Nobody came, so Jean struck again. Finally, a man opened the door, looked out, and waved them in. His livery was slightly off, soiled and frayed, maybe. Sanson couldn’t see very well in the dim entry hall. —I’m busy in the back. I’ll get Berta.

He yelled as he walked away. —Berta!

Kata held tight onto Sanson’s arm. Jean was bored and nervous at the same time, it seemed. Down a stairway, out of the darkness, a woman in a black habit came toward them, walked right up to Kata and took her arm. —Come child.

Kata refused, standing her ground, held tighter to Sanson. The woman, who was very tall, looked down at Sanson, an appeal for help. —Child, come. You’re just getting a bath.

Sanson looked at Kata and nodded, and the girl let go. They looked at each other until she was gone, with Berta, up the stairs and out of view. Then he had a thought—he was supposed to deliver her to the Lady de Helly.

—But where is the Lady de Helly?

Jean was kneeling down, retying his shoe’s cord to his leg. —Back in Picardy. For the season. She didn’t come back for this. Who is the girl, by the way? Nobody told me anything.

Sanson didn’t trust this boy. —Nobody.

Kata was safe in this house. He could ask Jacques for his pension and retire. He would spend his life on the edges, keeping an eye, inquiring about Kata. When Jacques returned, he would finally have the conversation and accept what may come.

—Let’s go.

Sanson looked up. His neck blossomed in pain. He squeezed his eyelids together. —Go?

Jean laughed. —Did you think you were staying here? What’s wrong with you? Come on, let’s go. C’mon. Move.

Sanson could kill him, but Jean was just a boy. It would do no good. They went out, over the bridge to the Left Bank. A student imitated Sanson’s limp, making the others laugh. The houses thinned out as they reached the outskirts of town. Just when Sanson was going to ask to stop and rest before he passed out, he looked up and they were stopped across from a small pasture where three thin goats grazed. Jean knocked at the door of one of a row of tightly packed houses. Once again, there was no answer.

Two kids stopped behind Sanson and Jean. —Hey! Who are you?

Jean waved them off. —Go away.

—Hey! Who are you, fancy man?

Jean pulled his dagger and pointed it at the kids. They laughed and ran away, and Jean sheathed his dagger. It was a fancy dagger, even, with a carved pommel.

The door swung open, tipping off one hinge. An old woman inside had already turned and was heading back in. —Shut the door!

Jean shoved Sanson inside. He shut the door behind himself, scoffed. —I know, stupid.

Inside the little house, the woman turned around. —Do not call me stupid.

Jean sneered. —Then don’t say stupid things.

The woman opened her mouth to speak, then shrugged and turned back to what she had been doing, cutting vegetables on the table in the middle of the room.

On the flat hearth, a low fire burned under a cast-iron pot set on a rack. The smoke from the fire hugged the ceiling and escaped, across the room, out of the top of a door open to a shared courtyard behind the house.

In the corner, sitting on a large wooden bed with a tall mattress, linen sheets, and a wool blanket, was a child of about 4 or 5 years old. He had long hair and was playing with two wooden soldiers, one in royal blue and the other in the yellow of Jacques’ livery.

In the center of the room, a post held up the ceiling. The table was pushed up against the post. There were four stools pushed under the table.

Jean cleared his throat. —This is Sanson. He’ll be here for a few days. Tops.

The old lady scooped cabbage and kale into her skirts. —Where?

—What? Here.

She laughed out loud, a moment of actual mirth. The vegetables went into the pot. —Where? Look around.

Jean shrugged. —Not my problem. You do what you’re told, right?

She closed her eyes, raised her eyebrows, shrugged again, conceding the point.

Jean nodded. —Don’t let him stray too far. If he strays, have Zalman fetch him.

—Yes, sire.

Jean shook his head, sniffed, and left without a word, leaving the door open. The woman went over and closed it firmly, without anger.

Sanson looked around the little house. Pinned to a beam was a child’s drawing in crayon on the wall on a scrap of paper. Another woman, a younger woman clearly lived here. Sanson could see her clothes strewn about, brightly colored garments that were too flashy for the old woman. He walked to the back door, looked out.

—Want food?

He nodded, came back in, and sat at the table. She put a bowl of pottage in front of him with a small wooden spoon that looked like it was for the kid. His side was in terrible pain, and his headache was back. He felt like he might pass out, but he breathed deep and ate the food. He was exhausted.

—Thank you. It’s delicious.

He sensed her nod. She was pleased.

—Who’s Zalman?

She laughed. —Oh, Zalman. He takes care of us when Jacques isn’t around. He’s another one of his guard dogs. I’m guessing that’s what you are.

He looked at her, blinked, trying to get vision back in his right eye. He considered what she said for a moment, and with some sadness, he nodded. She handed him a slice of good, white bread. He soaked it in the pottage so the crusts wouldn’t hurt his gums. The evening was falling. He was tired.

—Known him long?

Sanson looked up at her. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was.

—Who?

—Oh, you are something, aren’t you. I’ll let you figure it out.

Sanson thought, then he realized who she meant. —Oh. I guess I’ve known him all my life.

—From your age, I’d say that’s all his life, too.

Sanson nodded, thinking about the kitchen in Picardy.

The boy started crying for no reason, and the old woman motioned for him to come over. She held him, looking at Sanson over the boy’s shoulder. —Why are you here?

He didn’t know. He was done. Now he could rest. He needed to stay, just a little longer, to wait for Jacques. But he could leave. He could disappear, throw himself on the mercy of the Church, beg for food.

—What’s the matter with you? Are you all right?

He had dozed off, and had been sleeping upright.

She took his bowl, handed him a rag. He wiped the beard around his mouth. —There.

She was pointing to the foot of the bed, where she had put down a thin pallet and a cover, with a roll of rug for a pillow. He stood, limped over, lowered himself with pain, and was asleep before he thought to go to sleep.

16.

In the night, the courtyard whispered, clanked, barked, cried, grunted. Sanson slept, woke in the dark, slept again, woke in the moonlight, and he had to pee. Soon it became urgent enough to endure standing up — quietly — in terrible pain. He moved slowly, rolling onto his stomach, curling his knees up, tucking his toes, and pushing up until he was sitting. Agony. He squeezed his eyes shut, stood up, little by little. Nobody woke up to yell at him.

He blinked and both eyes were working again. The orange glow from the hearth. The blue moonlight. In the bed with the old woman and the boy, another figure with long hair. Maybe the boy’s mother.

He moved slowly across the packed dirt floor, lifting his feet so as not to kick the rushes, using the low roof rafters as a guide. Across the threshold, into the night. The courtyard was quiet. He was free of Jacques and the road for the first time in months. He walked forward a few paces, pulled the front of his britches down, felt the cold air on his penis. In time, the piss came, loud on the ground over the buzzing in his ears. The moon shined bright before him. He closed his eyes, felt a momentary happiness that shocked him. Finished, he turned and headed back, hoped he was going into the right house.

Inside, he felt with his hands and feet for a clear path. He moved too quickly — his hand hit the handle of a wooden spoon, which flipped and drummed on a pot.

—Go to sleep, you.

The old woman. He moved slowly, deliberately, breathing slowly. The boy snored, a contented sound.

He woke, parched and achy, and could tell it was late because the sun was already high in the sky. Directly above his head was the underside of the wooden table. Sitting on a bench at the table was a woman and the boy. Sanson cleared his throat to alert them that he was awake.

—Come up here and have something to eat.

Sanson obeyed, grunting and moving with great effort, and found his way onto a stool. The woman was feeding the boy from a bowl, with a spoon, and he was enjoying himself. Around his neck was a napkin dotted with porridge.

Before Sanson was his own bowl of porridge, a spoon, a napkin. —It’s not hot anymore, but you slept late.

He nodded a thank you. He was hungry. She had drizzled honey on top and Sanson looked up in surprise.

She smiled. This must be Vera’s daughter, the boy’s mother. Her hair was pulled up, away from her neck. She was not young anymore, but was still youthful.

She wiped the boy’s mouth as he squirmed away from her. She covered his head with the napkin, and he giggled and pulled it down and held it so she couldn’t pull it back. —Ah, you.

She took a drink from her water. —Want some?

Sanson nodded, and she got up to get a wooden cup, put it before him, poured from a pitcher.

From behind his cup, Sanson nodded at the child. —Jacques’ boy?

—This is Luc.

Hearing his name, Luc pulled the napkin from his head and smiled at Sanson, who smiled back.

—And you? You’re also one of Jacques’ boys?

Sanson gave a short laugh. —For longer than he’s been.

—From Picardy. The chateau. Not from Paris.

—Since we were children.

Her face became sad and she stared into her water. —What’s your name?

—Sanson.

A voice from the courtyard. —Shut the fuck up!

Sadness became annoyance, and she glanced at the back door, rolled her eyes. —I’m Severine.

She stood, knocking the bench back a bit and startling Luc, who stared at his mother to see that all was well. She noticed, touched his head. She took up Sanson’s empty bowl and bent to place it on the hearth. She stood and there she stayed, facing away from him, silent, unmoving. Luc stirred but did not fuss. He looked at Sanson, smiled. A good-natured boy.

Sanson wanted to get out of her way, so he got up, went outside into the courtyard. Severine’s voice from inside was cold. —Don’t go far. I’m responsible for you.

Sanson peered at the houses, pressed together in a broad arc, squat wood frames and rough tile roofs. The courtyard between was dirt and occasional weeds. He wanted to see where that sudden vulgar voice had come from. He turned, squinting and peering into open doors.

One house stood out. It couldn’t even be called a house. It had no back wall, no front wall, just an improvised roof of wood frames affixed to the side of the adjacent houses covered with sticks and thatch. Sanson walked over to see more.

Inside, an old man sat in front of a fire burning in the center of the dirt floor, huddled under hides and horse blankets. He coughed, looked up, saw Sanson. —Come, come in.

Sanson looked back at Severine’s house. He’d wandered a fair distance and couldn’t see details with his eyes, but that was the old woman standing there holding a broom, staring in his direction. He obeyed the man, stepping under the roof and lowering himself down onto a wooden box across the fire.

The man smiled at him. This had once been a handsome face. —Shame about Abbé Geoffrey.

—What? Who?

—A good man, died like the others, but, you know, not like the others. Attending to the others. Went into those houses without a care for himself.

—I don’t

His voice lowered to a whisper, and Sanson leaned forward, toward the heat. —That was the day I started to hate God. Not when he took Eliza or Will or when he took Leos. It was when the Abbé died. Because

He looked away, chewing on his gums. —I don’t blame you. It’s all right. You couldn’t know. But you remember Abbé Geoffrey. You were only a boy, but you remember. I don’t remember. Did you help rebuild? You were a boy but you were old enough to help, right?

The old man looked up at him, waiting for an answer. Sanson nodded. —Yeah, I helped.

The man coughed, nodded in approval. —Sure you did. Everyone did.

—Sure, everyone.

—We helped rebuild. It was never the same. Not the only church that fell that day. We found the Abbé, do you remember? Found him under a lintel, across his shoulders like he was a milkmaid. His burden was great that day.

Sanson stared at the man. A branch in the fire lost its support, sending sparks up, so in the blur of Sanson’s vision the old man looked demonic.

—Stop talking to him. He’s crazy as the king.

Sanson turned, with difficulty. A woman, about his own age, a shawl covering her head, leaned against the wall eating an apple. —I wasn’t

—You were, I saw. Get out of here. Leave him alone. Whatever you’re pulling. Look at you.

Sanson stood up and walked out into the courtyard. Closer now, he could see that she was even shorter than him, stooped, curled over. —I barely said anything. I was just listening to him. He thought I was

—I know what he thought. The big earthquake, church, dead abbé. You’re not special. Why are you here? Who are you? Who do you know?

A cold drizzle started. He pointed in the general direction of Severine’s house. —I’m with, I’m at Severine’s.

—Whore.

—What?

—Men in and out of there. Fine things, no husband, not dead husband, no husband. Worst thing, Vera and the boy stand outside when there are men in there. Waiting. Whore. What would you call it? What have you seen. Tell me what you’ve seen.

—Nothing.

She scoffed. —Nothing. For 40 years I’m friends with Vera. Old friends. But the girl? A whore. Always has been. Comes home with a child, gets fine things. What do you call it? What are you doing there? She your whore?

He shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he was doing there. Jacques wanted him to stay there, so he was there. That’s all he knew. Jacques knew where Kata was, and so he would stay and find out.

The woman looked at him coldly. —Come with me.

He followed her to a door directly across the courtyard from Vera and Severine’s. She gestured for him to go in, and she followed, closing the door behind them and lighting a tallow candle. In the dim light he watched her sit on a rough bench and regard him. —What’s the matter with you, boy?

—Boy? I’m as old as

—You look like you’re about to fall over and die. You sick?

Was he sick? He felt awful, and come to mention it, only wanted to lie down and close his eyes, be left alone. If he did die, so be it. It was God’s will. His place was to accept what was to come, though he knew what that was. The pain in his side. Was he sick? His fingertips searched that spot under his ribs. And his foot hurt too.

—What is wrong with you? Hello?

He didn’t know how much time had passed. He was leaning against the wall and might have pissed himself a little.

The woman leaned forward, smiling a little. —Tell me what you’ve seen over there.

—She made me breakfast. I met the boy.

Sound and light all at once, then a hand on his shoulder, and he was pulled back and toward the light, lifted off the ground and thrown, away from the shocked woman, up and away, then he landed on his left side. He couldn’t get a breath and his chest hurt. Also his head had struck something hard. Tears filled his eyes, and he couldn’t see much, only dim shapes. The woman was screaming, and he was lifted again, to his feet, which hurt, and now his head was wet, he thought, but not from tears, and he still couldn’t see. He was walking, sort of. Then he was inside again.

—What did you do?

Severine.

—I know, I know.

A man, an Ottoman, it seemed, stop-start tones, deep voice, contrite.

—I didn’t say hurt him, I said to find him and bring him back here.

—I know, I know. Well, I got him. Just let me put him down.

—He’s bleeding. Put him over there!

Vera, impatient and frustrated.

—Mama? What is it?

Where was Kata? Was she safe?

The man spoke again. —It’s not as bad as it looks.

Vera was next to him now. —Here, a rag. Wipe his eyes. It’s in his eyes.

Severine was on his other side. —I know, I’m doing it. Get Luc. Go over there. Please.

He submitted to someone wiping his eyes. It had been blood. And there was the man, standing to the side, looking amused and a little ashamed. This must be Zalman, slim, tall, muscular, a mean-looking face. If he didn’t hear him speak Sanson would think him from the south, maybe near Iberia, and wouldn’t have thought him a Turk. Father was probably Burgundian or French, mother an Ottoman whore.

Vera was sitting on the edge of the bed, the boy standing in front of her.

Sanson nodded, took the rag from Severine, placed it over his closed eyes.

—I’m sorry I was so rough with you. I didn’t realize.

—Didn’t realize what?

—I thought I was just busting in there to scare the old woman, ask her where you’d gone, but there you were, and I got carried away. I’m sorry.

Zalman’s voice was kind. It hurt to look up at him. It hurt to breathe, even more than before. Sanson nodded, accepting his apology. He slowly turned to Severine.

—Why did you think you needed to find me? Did you think I was running away?

—I didn’t know where you went. You heard Jean. That’s as good as Jacques saying it — if I couldn’t find you, get Zalman. So when I turned around and you were gone, I ran out to the street and asked a boy to find Zalman. And, well

Now that the commotion had died down, Luc ran out of his grandmother’s arms and hugged Zalman’s leg. Zalman smiled and playfully pushed him away.

—You just came back from the east?

—Just.

—Which means Jacques is in Paris?

Sanson nodded. Severine and Zalman shared a look. This was a kind conspiracy, mutual concern, preparation for consequence.

Sanson, for some reason, wanted to put an end to this. —How do you know Jacques?

Zalman laughed. —Let’s just say that I, also, came from the east with him. Many years ago.

This man was no older than 30. Many years ago meant he had been a boy or young man. Sanson had never heard of Zalman. —Many years ago.

—And you?

Severine laughed. —They were boyhood friends, he says.

Zalman looked at Sanson sideways and smirked. —What? Is that true?

Sanson didn’t like to be laughed at, not by other worms like himself. And he was alarmed that someone might repeat this to Jacques himself. —I wouldn’t say friends.

Sanson looked away, ashamed, out the door. The old woman across the courtyard was there, complaining to her neighbors about the invasion of her home, and between two houses, through an alley, Sanson could see movement, traffic walking by, the motion of a pushcart, maybe a pie vendor. He was hungry all of a sudden.

Zalman started pacing. Severine was mending some cloth, speaking softly to her mother, something he couldn’t hear over the buzzing in his ears. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Sanson focused on Zalman’s shuffling feet, the cracking thick cloth of his shoes bound by twine. The scuffs in the packed earth. He stopped.

—Let’s walk. Want to walk?

Severine sighed. —Yes, please, go and let us do our work.

Zalman helped Sanson get up. They went through the narrow passage and were about to go out when Severine called out. —But what if he comes?

Zalman laughed. —Your problem. I’m watching him. We won’t be long. Just getting out of your hair. We’re here.

The door stuck, and Zalman pushed it with his shoulder, and they were out. Sanson thought how much that would hurt, to push on a door like that.

—Are you sure you’re all right to walk a bit?

Sanson stood in the street and did a sweep of his body. It hurt to put pressure on his right foot. His left was fine. A bit numb in the toes. He patted his head with the rag that was still in his hand. The bleeding had stopped. Children stopped to watch them. He was a little dizzy, but surprisingly not much more than usual. He longed to dig under his ribs for a growth, but didn’t want the questions. —Yeah, I’m fine to walk.

They turned away from the river, dodging piles of shit in the road. It was a slow walk. Small mercy. Sanson found he was dragging his feet, and tried to pick each one up a bit with each step. When he looked up, Zalman was gone.

He found a pile of wood against a wall and part-sat, part leaned, catching his breath. He kept his eyes down, thinking what he must look like, a pile himself.

Zalman came back with two meat pies, handed Sanson one. —Come.

They walked on. Sanson bit gingerly at the tepid pie, feeling now the pain in his teeth. The kindness of the gesture made him want to cry. The comfort he felt was unbearable to him, and he kept his head down.

—You were with Jacques in the east. What did you see?

Sanson shook his head. He wanted to know about Kata. —Will he come?

—To Severine’s? Yes, he has business around, and visits when he’s close by. He brings something for Luc. You know. I keep an eye on them, help him with errands. He trusts me.

—You said you came years ago. You were young?

—He sort of found me. My parents were killed.

Sanson nodded, a shiver down his back. —Like Kata.

—Who?

—A girl, a young girl who came with us, traveled with us. Jacques said she would be his ward and raise her as his own. I want to see her.

He looked at Zalman, who nodded with grim focus, looking in Sanson’s eyes.

Zalman sighed, took a big bite of his pie. —Jean will probably come in Jacques’ stead. Jacques has him doing everything these days, though he’s been pretty idle lately, what with Jacques being away. But Jean opens doors, you know.

—What do you mean?

—Here, there, everywhere. Noble’s son. Father in good standing.

Why would Jacques need someone in good standing? —I hate that fucker.

Zalman laughed. —He is a a little fucker, isn’t he? Always has been. Know him well?

Sanson realized how little he knew of Jacques’ life in town.

Zalman coughed. —Hey, Sanson, know Jean well?

—Oh, sorry. No, I just met him.

—He’s been around for a long time. Since he was a small boy he’s been hanging around, asking to do things. His father’s pretty rich. Maybe it’s a good sign things are up for the old man.

—For Jacques?

—Yeah. He’s been scraping by for a while. He puts on a good front for the nobles, but I see it. I see what’s going on. That was fucking great. How is yours?

Sanson looked down. He had taken one bite from the meat pie. —It’s good. Just not that hungry. You know, I kind of got beat up earlier.

Zalman laughed. —I said I’m sorry.

Sanson smiled. What Zalman said didn’t make any sense. Yes, the estate in Picardy always seemed a little shabby, but when Jacques was there, he entertained, had a full staff, horses, fine food.

—You ready to go back?

Could Jacques take care of Kata if he was poor?

—You know, being a knight is expensive. And he’s got fancy tastes in general. Good luck charms, relics, that sort of thing. But he’s pretty broke. Let’s get moving. Need help?

Sanson shook his head and started walking, head down.

—Hey Sanson, this way.

Sanson turned and walked the other way, still holding the barely eaten pie.

17.

For five days Sanson was in the way. It was too cold for him to sit in the courtyard all day, so he sat at the small table until Severine or Vera needed to work at the table, then he would sit on the floor near the hearth until they told him to move, then he would go back to the table.

Zalman was never far. Any errand Severine asked him to run, he would take on. He would go out to get food, wood, straw to stuff the beds — anything she asked. Then he would hurry back and stand around chatting with her until she sent him out again.

Then, in the evening, he’d leave, and Sanson would try to stay out of the way, until he could drag his thin mat under the table and go to sleep.

On the sixth day, Sanson had been dodging Vera and Severine all morning, and Zalman was stacking kindling in a basket next to the hearth. Both women were preparing food, and Sanson couldn’t sit at the table or on the floor, so he was standing outside for a few minutes. He was staring into the house, through the rough-framed door, watching the blur of figures inside, the blue blob of Severine’s shift, the gray blob of Vera’s housedress. Zalman was out of sight, tossing a ball in the corner for Luc to fetch. Through the door, the red blob of Luc’s shirt. The dark patch of the hallway to the front door, which lit up for a moment, then fell dark. For a long time, nothing. And then, from the darkness, yellow. Sanson squinted to see.

Jacques squinted back at Sanson, put his finger to his lips, leaned against the wall, listened to the family.

He was all cleaned up, hair washed, wearing his family livery, fine boots, a leather saddle bag slung over one shoulder. Sanson dreaded that Severine, Vera, or Zalman would say something insulting about Jacques. Sanson wanted to say something, to get their attention, but Jacques had told him to stay quiet, and he couldn’t risk upsetting Jacques.

—So, everyone is here.

Someone dropped something metal, and Jacques stepped, smiling, out into the room. Sanson came in, stood in the door. Severine had already overcome her initial shock, but her mouth was still open and she was staring wide-eyed at Jacques. She looked for Luc, who was at her feet picking up the ladle she’d dropped, pushed him behind her skirts, and crossed her arms. —So.

Jacques laughed. —A fine way to greet me. I’m back. Hello, Vera. And my boys, Sanson, Zalman, and Luc. Where’s Luc? There he is. Come here, boy.

It was a command, and Vera reached over and pushed Luc toward his father. Jacques reached down and scooped him up, held him out for inspection. —Ah, a fine little man.

Luc was wary. —Did you bring me anything?

—Did I bring you anything? Well, no. But I’m back, so I’ll get you some toys. Doesn’t Zalman bring you toys?

—Yes. He brings me toys.

—Well, then, those are from me.

—Those are from Zalman.

Jacques looked at Zalman, then at Luc. —Is that what he tells you?

Luc was confused. —He gives them to me and we play together.

Jacques put the boy down. The boy took up position behind his grandmother.

Sanson couldn’t take it anymore. —Where is Kata? Can I see her?

Everyone looked at him, surprised that he was speaking at all.

Sanson’s eyes started going dark, and he closed them, hoping they would work again when he opened them. He didn’t know what to say. —Kata.

Jacques was silent for a long moment, then his voice was cold and low. —Vera. Take the boy and go for a walk.

—It’s cold.

Sanson opened his eyes. Jacques handed Vera a few coins. —Go to church, then. Buy him something.

Severine’s lips were pressed together. She nodded at her mother, who grabbed a shawl and Luc’s hand and went out the front door.

Jacques walked over to Sanson and put his hand on his shoulder. Jacques smelled like roses. He imagined Kata being waited on by maidservants, bathed with rosewater, her rags thrown out to be collected by ragpickers in the street, dressed in fine clothes, looking at herself in a silver spoon with delight, spinning around. Sanson remembered the roses on the estate in Picardy, that one bush that stood on the path between the kitchen door and the stables, the lavender field just beyond, the way the buds appeared in the spring, the pedals fell in the late summer, covering the ground like a pool of blood. Jacques’ hand squeezed on Sanson’s shoulder. —I’ll talk to you later.

Zalman was then walking Sanson out the front door. Severine was looking at the floor and Jacques was starting to sit at the little table. They were outside. It was early evening. The slanting shadows darkened one side of the street. Night would fall quickly on that side, not much later on the other. Zalman held his arm and led him where he would. Sanson would follow. They walked toward the sound of a crowd cheering. He glimpsed faces they passed, smiling faces who looked down at him and scowled.

They were in a large, uneven square. People were gathered, a dozen, fifty or more, around a tall pole. Then Sanson was in the crowd, moving between voices yelling, the smells of rotten breath, food, vinegar. As one, voices rose up. —No, the side, the side!

A woman howled, a woman screeched. He reached the inner circle and Zalman’s arm was gone. There was no way to turn and look for him. He was squeezed in between an old man and an old woman, both much taller. In the clearing, a shirtless young man stood, his arms tied behind him, bent at the waist, catching his breath, blood streaking his shoulders. He faced away from Sanson, only feet away. He wore short, inexpertly cut hair and rags tied around his feet.

Just above Sanson’s eye level, on the pole, a cat was bound with a cord of thick hemp twine under its front legs, and another just above the rear. The cat was all black, save for a white spot between its ears, like a monk’s bald head. The white spot shone with red blood. It tried to twist free, yowled — this was the woman’s scream he’d heard.

The man straightened, squared his stance. The old woman to Sanson’s right giggled. —There he goes again. Just missed last time, smashed his head. Here he goes!

The crowd roared in encouragement. The young man grinned, closed his eyes, rushed forward, at the last moment snapping his head down to strike behind the cat’s right ear. There was a dull klunk and the cat’s round lament. It grabbed onto the young man on either side of his head with its front claws and dug into his cheeks. With its back feet, it kicked out over and over, scratching vertical lines down the young man’s face from eye to chin. It bit at the top of his head. The man screamed. —Help me, help me, do something!

But nobody came forward. He stood at the cat’s mercy, trying desperately to pull away. Finally he staggered backward. Rivulets of blood flowed down, stained his trousers. He stamped his feet in pain. The rag on his right foot came loose and fell off. It looked like he was crying, but it was difficult to tell, with Sanson’s eyesight, if it was tears or blood. There were teardrop-shaped holes in his cheeks. He rushed forward again, face down, and rammed the cat’s belly with the top of his head.

The cat’s eyes bulged, tongue extended like it was vomiting. It tried to grab at the man’s head again but he jumped back quickly and then up and down in triumph. The cat started making a coughing sound and pinwheeling its rear legs, then they fell limp and its head lolled to the side.

Sanson remembered a dream he’d had when he was a child about a cat that looked like this one. The cat, dead and rotting, with maggots in its eyes and nose, had sat on Sanson’s chest and grinned at him and somehow sent him a message that he needed to have the courage. Sanson had woken up wondering what it meant, and he’d wondered about it everytime he’d seen a cat since.

The man tried kicking the cat, but it was too high up on the pole. He stepped back again and and aimed another headbutt, but he was too hasty — he made contact instead with the pole, and he fell down and was still.

The crowd screamed at him to finish it. Two people ran up and lifted him under his arms, yelled in his ear. He did as he was told, but there was no rush now. He stood in front of the unconscious animal and aimed carefully, and brought his forehead down hard on its forehead. The man dropped to his knees, looked up. The cat was twitching. He nodded to a man at his side, who helped him up, and he rammed the cat’s belly again. It didn’t react. There was no more yowling, no more squirming. A stream of piss dribbled down the pole.

The young man stepped back, head tilted up, and let himself slump down to sit cross-legged, catching his breath. Then he tipped over until his face was against the dirt. Nobody bothered to untie his hands.

Boys ran up to poke the cat with sticks while the crowd wandered away. A man cut the cat down and one of the boys grabbed for it by the tail and ran away, trailed by the rest.

—We should get back.

Zalman was at his side again. They moved away from the square, into the darkness of a side street. Zalman talked nonstop. —I know that fucker doesn’t have much, but he’s got more than me. I stay with Severine. I help her and the boy with everything. I am like a slave to them, and what do I get? Nothing. Not a place to stay, not, well, anything.

He talked about the unfairness of his situation. Sanson wanted only to know one thing, that Kata was safe, secure, and happy. Then he could safely die and pay for his sins.

When they reached the house, Zalman paused and took a deep breath, knocked, listened.

Severine’s voice was quiet. —Come in.

Through the dark entryway and into the only room. Severine stood alone at the hearth, staring down into the dim fire. A thin wisp of smoke rose up and escaped through the hole in the roof. She dropped a stick into the fire and there was a spray of sparks.

Zalman was staring at Severine. Sanson looked around. —He’s gone?

She looked at Zalman. —Gone. Nice walk?

—Oh, great.

Severine waved her hand. —But he’s here.

Jean stepped into the doorjam. —Boys.

Zalman pushed past him and went outside. —Watch who you call a boy, boy.

Sanson wanted to go to Jean and shake him. —Where is Kata?

Jean looked confused. —Who?

Severine was also interested. —Who is Kata?

—The girl, the one we came to Paris with. The little girl, dirty, from the east. You know.

Jean shook his head and Severine looked up, brows pulled together. —What? You came back with a girl? Who is she?

Sanson ignored her. —Where is she?

Jean shrugged. —I have no idea.

—She’s not at the house?

Severine pressed on Sanson’s shoulder to make him look at her. —At the house? What is going on?

Jean answered Sanson. —Look, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her.

Sanson banged on the table and Jean flinched. A clay mug fell and broke. Zalman walked in and stood in front of Sanson. —Get yourself together.

Jean blinked. —I have no idea where she is. You’ll have to talk to the boss. I don’t know. I’m going now.

Sanson stood in Jean’s path to the front door, so Jean hurried out the back door.

Severine shook her head. —What’s going on? What’s this about a girl? How old was she?

Sanson’s shook his head. He was too mixed up to speak.

—Speak.

But Sanson couldn’t speak.

18.

Sanson was awake well before the dawn, staring into the dark, listening to Vera’s airy snores, Severine’s sighs, the boy’s snuffles. At first light, when he could start to distinguish shapes, he heard a soft cough and watched a blurry Severine wrapping herself in a blanket and kneel before the hearth, facing him, turning up the embers, blowing on it, and he could see her face glowing red from the small fire, could even see, blurry as she was, the look of triumph when she accomplished a self-sustaining fire. She sat on the floor, slumped over, forehead on her hand, elbow on her knee, and sighed.

She poked at the fire with Luc’s toy, a blunt iron sword. She put some water in the pot and hung it on the hook over the little fire, then sat on her haunches and poked at the fire again. She added small twigs and sticks, paused, and looked at Sanson, who was staring at her from under the table. She shook her head and went back to ignoring him.

After a long time, Zalman came in quietly, exchanged a smile and a long look with Severine, put a package tied with twine down on the table, bent to look at Sanson, waved, and left again. Severine stood over Sanson so he could only see her feet. She was unwrapping the package, which Sanson assumed happened every morning, because he’d watched her for four mornings. He closed his eyes, imagined himself standing before her. She was unwrapping the package, laying out the eggs and the rasher of bacon, maybe a piece of fruit or two, maybe three if it was a good day. Then she squatted next to the fire, poked it with the toy sword, sighed. He opened his eyes and watched her.

Just after the first bells rang at St. Sevrin, Jean knocked on the door and waited for a response before coming in. He pointed at Sanson. —You. I need you.

Severine pointed at the corner. —You are here too early. Stand there. Leave him until I say it’s all right.

Jean looked sheepish and stood back in his appointed corner to wait. He had tried to be haughty but it came out peevish and silly. He was a child, and it could not have been different, and Sanson could see that he knew it.

The boy and his grandmother were now up, sleepy and moving slow. Luc reclaimed his sword and wandered out into the courtyard, looking for friends.

Zalman came in, sweaty and serious, and sat at the bench, glancing at Jean. —What’s he doing here?

Sanson slowly emerged from under the table and moved the other bench into place. Zalman was wringing his hands, and Sanson noticed that there was blood on them. —Are you OK?

Zalman looked up, shrugged, hid his hands. He didn’t look well. —Not mine.

Severine, moving past him, put her hand on his shoulder. —You good? Want anything?

Zalman said nothing, just nodded.

Severine poured a cup of hot water in a mug and put it in front of Zalman. He looked up at her. —I’m fine.

Luc came over and put his head down on Zalman’s knee, and Zalman wiped his hand of blood on his pants and then patted the kid’s back, absent-mindedly.

Jean was shifting weight from foot to foot. —We have to go, Sanson. We have to go now. He’ll be angry.

Sanson nodded and stood. —Am I coming back?

Jean looked ashamed. —I don’t know. I really don’t.

Sanson turned to Severine and Vera. —I have to

Severine waved her hand, dismissing his attempt. —It’s nothing. Before you go, who’s this Kata?

He tried to find something to say that wouldn’t get him in trouble, but he couldn’t think of anything. He couldn’t figure out where the danger was, or if there was any. He looked into the corner and stared, mouth open.

Severine scoffed. —You look like an idiot, tongue out like that. Fine. What about you?

Jean was flustered. —What? I just wanted, I just need to get him. I don’t know if. You know, I think we need to go. Let’s go.

Severine pointed at Jean’s chest. —I don’t care if you are of noble birth. You are a useless tool, a boy with no future.

Jean flinched and pulled at Sanson’s tunic. —Let’s go. Now.

Sanson knew that Jacques had no love for this boy, had no respect for him. But even he was prudent enough not to humiliate him further in front of anyone. They left without another word with Severine, and then, when they were outside, he grabbed Jean’s wrist and removed the hand from his tunic.

Jean turned around, surprised.

—If you touch me again like that, I will see what this broken body is capable of.

Jean started to speak but thought better of it. He looked down, defeated, nodded, turned, and walked off. Sanson felt like his eyes were losing focus. He couldn’t see anything but Jean, in a small circle, walking ahead of him. His side started to throb, a deep pain that threatened to crowd out other thoughts. He followed, limping, taking his time. This child’s job was to bring him back, and he would succeed. Sanson could take his time, today.

Soon he felt a hand on his elbow. He couldn’t turn, couldn’t see. —Who?

Jean heard Sanson and turned around. Sanson watched him roll his eyes. —Zalman, you’re not coming.

Zalman’s voice, from behind. —I am going. Are you going to stop me?

Jean rolled his eyes again, stamped his foot. —But he asked me to get only Sanson. He said specifically that, only Sanson, not Zalman. You shouldn’t come. He’ll be angry. You’re going to get me in trouble.

—Fine, he’ll be angry. I’ll make sure he’s angry at me, not you.

Jean was pleading. —Are you sure? You’ll say that, that it’s not my fault?

Zalman crossed his arms. —Yes, you little idiot.

Jean pouted. —I’m not an idiot. Come on then. Let’s go. We’re late.

Sanson started walking, then stopped.

Zalman turned back, held out his hands. —What?

—Zalman, I think he’s right. Listen, I need Jacques to be in a good mood. I need to find out some, some information. And if he’s angry, he’s not going to talk. Please.

Zalman stopped for a moment and thought, but he shook his head. —I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll hang back. But I need to go.

Sanson looked at Zalman and knew that there was no use in arguing with him. —Just stay out of the way.

Zalman nodded, and they went on in silence.

Before they got to the stable, Zalman ducked out of sight in a doorway, turned to Sanson. —Don’t worry.

Jean pulled at Sanson’s arm, yanking him too fast so his back started hurting. Sanson shook his arm free, but tried to keep up.

Ahead, the stable door was wide open, and the sun shone in, a blurry but peaceful scene. Jacques stood next to a horse, hand resting on its neck, talking to a squat man who was probably the stableman. It was a part of town that Sanson had never been to before, way out in a far northwest district.

As they approached, they could hear the sound of Jacques and the man arguing over the sounds of the street.

—You can’t just take her. I told you.

Jacques looked up, almost cheery. —Oh, Jean, you came. Look, we have to go. We need to get on the road.

Sanson was going to say something, but the stableman spoke up again. —I’m taking her in.

The man grabbed the reins and tried to turn the horse around. Jacques held tight, smiling at the man’s distress. The horse stamped and snorted in protest to its treatment.

Jean looked around. —What is this place?

—Shut up. Listen. I need you to pay this man and we can go.

The stableman pulled at the reins. —It’s not about money! This is my mare! She’s not for sale.

—You have a stables. What are you doing here, then? Are you that useless?

Jacques bent down, looking at the man under the horse’s neck, glared at him, then stood up and pulled Jean in. —Look, take this son of a whore into his stable and beat the shit out of him. Then we can get out of here.

Jean looked, incredulous, at Jacques. —I can’t beat him up. Have Sanson do it.

It was true. He couldn’t have moved the stableman, whose arms were thicker than Jean’s thighs. Jacques shook his head.

—No, Sanson’s not up to it anymore.

—So why the hell is he here? What’s he good for?

Jacques backhanded Jean across the face, knocking him down. —Never question me. You’re only here because of your father, do you hear me? Sanson is here because I need him.

Sanson looked at Jacques and was actually moved to emotion. He wanted to take the emotion and banish it. It was a leftover, this feeling. Jacques was a demon. Once Sanson knew that Kata was all right, he could find a corner and fade away.

—Get up, you little idiot. I’ll take care of this.

Jacques went to the stableman. The two men stared at each other. Jacques was taller, stouter, but the other man was younger and closer to the ground. He could probably win a grappling match. Jacques was clearly a nobleman, but he was also out of his element.

—You have a daughter.

The stableman nodded. —I do.

—You will give me this horse. I do not have the money with me at the moment, but I need to take this horse. I will pay you when I return.

The stableman looked confused. —What does that have to do with my daughter?

—I’m telling you that you will let me take the horse today, and then I will return with money to pay you for your services.

—Otherwise what?

Jacques stood and stared at the man, who slowly grew angrier by the second. He dared do nothing, but he kept his hand steadily on the reins.

Jacques also took the reins, higher up, near the horse’s mouth. —I don’t want to do anything. I just want to go about my business. Which is pressing. And urgent.

The stableman couldn’t speak, but after a long time he released his hand from the reins and walked inside, into the dark of a horse stall.

Jacques nodded to Jean to come take the reins, and then he turned and noticed Zalman standing off to the side. —What the fuck are you doing here? I told you to stay put. What am I paying you for?

Zalman, a big man, hung his head, shuffled his feet. —But, Sir Jacques, that’s the thing. You’re not paying me at all. You haven’t paid me in a year.

Jacques threw his hands up in frustration. —Go back. Do your job. I am aware that you are owed pay. You doubt me? The insolence. You will go back, or I will dismiss you from your service. There are many others who would be happy to take your place.

Zalman looked up, defiant, shocked at the lie. —Oh really? Like who?

—If you do not get out of my sight right now, you will never see Severine or the child again. Do you hear me? Is that what you want? You want to go do something else? I’ll make sure you’re never able to see them. Is that what you want?

Zalman stood still for a moment, thinking. —Fine. I’ll go away.

—Good. Go.

Zalman turned and walked back in the direction of the house, Sanson watching him get blurrier as he went, then the smudge of Zalman disappear around the corner. Jacques sighed. —That is all I need. I have enough going on. If you pull any of that shit, disobey me, I swear to God above that I will kill you. You I don’t need, not like I need Zalman. Are you ready to ride?

Sanson nodded.

—Jean, you stay here and make sure that Zalman behaves himself. It’ll be me and Sanson on this errand.

As they rode through the gates of the city, a snow began falling.

—Where are we going?

—None of your business.

Jacques was quiet for a long time. —If you must know, we’re heading to see an associate of mine. We have business to discuss.

—What do you want me to do when we get there?

—Just look your pathetic self. Just be there, say nothing, do nothing. Just stand there. We won’t be gone long. As soon as we complete our business, we will come back.

The snow stopped and it cleared up. The sun was bright and yellow in their eyes when they entered a small town just outside the city gates, with a row of houses and a small parish church. In the town square, they rode around to the back of the church.

A small group of young girls were playing a game in the melting snow. Jacques got down, but there was nobody to help Sanson, and once again, he fell off the horse. The little girls laughed at him. He scrambled to his feet, but Jacques was already gone, through the door of the church.

Sanson trudged up a slight incline to the shabby church door. The stair was too tall, and Sanson tripped over it and almost fell.

Inside, there’s nobody, and in the darkness, Sanson hears, through and around walls, above the din of the ringing that are not bells, raised voices. He begins to move forward, trying to get closer to the voices. Maybe the voices aren’t real, but he can hear them getting fainter or louder as he moves. He hears ringing, then, real bells, close by, and that cover the sound of yelling. He finds himself at the rood screen and through the murk sees Jacques standing over a skinny man with thinning hair who has his arms crossed, head down, like he’s examining his own shoes.

—You promised me. You stood right here, with me, on this spot, and told me that it was all possible. And now you can’t do anything?

The skinny man looked up, cocked a thumb at Sanson.

Jacques started, then calmed. —He’s mine. Speak freely. He’s been with me since we were boys. I trust him.

The man — he was a priest, Sanson could see now — nodded slowly, crossed his arms again, turned his back on Jacques, and walked a few paces away, turned and came back.

His voice was soft, easygoing, a balm to Jacques’ agitation. —You say that I can’t do anything, but you know that this is not the problem. The problem is that I can’t advance you anything. If you have it here, I can do something with it. But you’re yelling at me and threatening me over nothing.

The priest opened his arms and turned his palms up, looked around, playing at finding the nothing he spoke of.

Jacques pointed his finger at the priest. —You said that if you were assured that I knew what was coming, you would take care of me. By the way, you stink, do you know that? You smell like you’ve been rolling around in dogshit.

Sanson came closer, but the priest smelled worse than he imagined himself to smell. The priest moved subtly away from Sanson.

The priest was still unmoved. —Your insults and japes don’t help you at all, you know that? I can tell you are desperate, so I will give you something.

Jacques leaned back, crossing his own arms, as if to say, All right, I’m waiting.

—Yes. I’m going to give you some advice. Go and see the one person who can help you.

—You’ve got to be kidding.

—Look, Sir Jacques, there’s nothing I can do. You have to understand.

—Understand nothing. I’ll find someone else to go to. You’ll lose my business.

The priest laughed and easy laugh. —Business? What business? You leave for months, and leave me with nothing. You don’t have business, you have promises, and that’s all you have. You promise me things I can sell, and I make those promises to my people, and when you return, nothing. This is not the first time this has happened. I don’t need you, you need me. I don’t understand. I thought you were getting an income for being the hero of your failed expedition. Didn’t I hear something about an income of 200 livres?

Jacques looked shocked.

—Oh, you think that kind of thing doesn’t get around? You think we don’t all know each other? So if you’re getting your income, why are you here? I know that been all over, and you owe everyone. Everyone. You have also borrowed money from every Jew in town. You’ve been blackmailing — unsuccessfully, I might add — at least three men I know personally, and you have asked your friends to entrust you with funds that you will somehow triple in Lombardy? But it’s all wisps of smoke. Wisps.

He seemed to be playing with the word, enjoying the sound of it in his mouth, like a morsel of sweets.

Jacques was unusually defensive. —I am not certain of receiving my income. The Duke of Anjou is advising against it.

—The Duke of Anjou! Maybe you can blackmail him? No, that wouldn’t work. Oh, boy. You really counted on that income, didn’t you? And now you come to me for money. Unless you have something of value, true value, here, in your hand, you have nothing to offer me.

—I have a piece of the True Cross, a hefty sliver here, in my bag.

—Is it true? An authentic piece of the Cross?

—Yes, I purchased it years ago from a

—Sir Jacques, I have a basket back there overflowing with authentic pieces of the True Cross. Do you want more? I’ll give you a handful and bind them in a neat package of linen and twine, if that’s what you want. But no, I don’t need another, but thank you so much, truly.

Sanson was stunned. He had never heard anyone speak to Jacques like this. He stepped back, into the shadows, amazed at the sight of Jacques looking so defeated — head down, shoulders slumped, hands at his sides. When Jacques was frustrated, that’s when he was most dangerous. He would take out his frustration on Sanson. But this wasn’t frustration, exactly. Jacques didn’t look ready to turn to violence.

The priest’s voice became sympathetic. —Look, Jacques, I’m giving you good advice. We’ve known each other for a long time. Go see your brother. It’s been awhile, but he know have a way. If anyone knows, it’s him. Oh, also, you’re on parole, right?

—Yes.

—Well, when you do go back for your release, maybe there’s a regular thing you can get into. You know the the Sultan, right?

—Yes, all right.

—You don’t have a choice. Those are the ideas I have for you.

—I know, I know. Yes, we’re leaving. Sanson, let’s go.

—Look, Jacques, it’ll be fine. You’ll work it out.

—I know. Something will come up.

Jacques nodded and walked out toward the front of the church. Sanson couldn’t move.

The priest walked in Sanson’s direction, then stopped before him. —Your master is reckless and profligate. He will come to ruin, if he’s not already there.

Jacques’ voice echoed through the empty space. —Sanson! Now.

Sanson looked at the priest, who looked back at him, amused.

Sanson turned and walked, obeying his master.

19.

As they rode through the gates of Paris, Jacques stopped and turned his horse to look at Sanson.

—You look like worse shit than usual, Sanson.

—Thank you, my lord.

—Oh, don’t be an asshole. Look, you’re going back to Severine’s tonight, and tomorrow, we’re heading out early to Corbie Abbey. Do you understand? You’re coming with me to see my brother? Do you remember him?

Sanson did remember him. If anything, he had been worse than Jacques.

Sanson didn’t think before he started pleading. —I don’t feel like I can. I am in pain and can’t deal with being on horseback, and I can’t walk anymore. I’ve never complained, but I’m asking you to please let me stay at Severine’s or somewhere else. I want to speak with you about something.

Jacques smirked and waved him away. —You are coming, and you’ll like it. We’ll be gone at least two weeks. It’ll take a couple of days to get there, and then we’ll likely stay a few days. But I can’t be away from Paris for very long. I need to

Jacques seemed to suddenly realize that he was talking to Sanson. He stopped talking, looked up and into Sanson’s eyes, and then shook his head and looked away. He turned his horse again and rode away at a walk.

Sanson realized that he had again lost the moment to ask about Kata. They were alone for hours, and he’d let it slip away. He would find a way to speak with Jacques as they rode to the Abbey. There was always another chance, as long as he remained able to sit in his saddle, to walk.

As they passed the northern gate leaving Paris proper, Jacques called out a greeting. Sanson looked up to see a young nobleman, on horseback, coming toward them into the city. His hair was brown, shoulder-length, very fashionably done, and wore an understated brownish tunic and dark hose with finely crafted boots carelessly loose of the stirrups. The young man was nodding with great dignity. He pulled up alongside Jacques so they faced each other.

—My friend.

The man didn’t see particularly amenable to being Jacques’ friend, but he nodded and they shook hands. The man opened his hands to the side. —And how is my boy doing these days?

Jacques was nodding enthusiastically. Sanson had never seen him so lacking in haughtiness. —Jean is a wonderful boy and serving me quite well. He listens, follows orders, does not talk back. I could not ask for a better page.

So this was Jean’s father. Sanson squinted, could see the resemblance.

—Your man is squinting at me. Can you tell him to stop?

—Sanson, cut it out. What can you do? He’s a trusted servant, has been with me my whole life, but a little dim.

—Yes, yes, I understand. But make sure he doesn’t squint at me. It’s unnerving.

Jacques glared at Sanson. —It is. I normally smack the behavior out of him. It seems I haven’t been successful.

—One can only keep kicking the dog again and again and hope they change, you know. I’m glad to hear that the boy is doing well. He’s always struggled. He’s a nervous boy. Feel free to smack any behavior out of him as well. So it’s good to have him learn from you to be, well, less sensitive. I’m afraid I’ve been too easy on him. I trust you will whip him into shape.

—You know that I will. He will be fine. I promise.

—So I see you are out for a ride.

—Yes, I am going to visit my brother, another second son, who went into the Church. He is at Corbie.

—Is that a fact? I didn’t know that. I hadn’t heard of your brother.

—Yes, he, too, was a troubled boy, but he found his way.

—I always thought the Church would be a good direction for Jean, but I fear that that is not in his line, and I don’t want to push him in that direction. He’ll be better off building his skills, finding a permanent position in a wealthy house, and then marrying a rich daughter.

—Yes, that’s true.

They were silent for a while, looking at the ground for topics of conversation.

Jean’s father raised his head. —Are you going with the delegation?

—Back to the Ottomans? I must.

—Right, the parole.

—Yes, the parole. I must return.

—The Duke is eager to see his son returned. There are rumors that Boucicaut is sick, perhaps dead. Plague.

Jacques nodded grimly. —Nevers will return. We will see to it. I had heard that of Boucicaut. It would be a great loss. Well, we must be off. I will take care of your boy. Pay no mind.

—Yes, indeed. Give him an extra smack for me. Have a pleasant journey, and if I don’t see you before you go East, be safe.

They rode off, through the gate and into the countryside.

—That fucking bastard. I haven’t seen a penny from him. I am shepherding his retarded son into a career and I haven’t received gift one from him. It’s bad enough that I need to deal with you, Sanson.

Jacques was quiet. Sanson thought that he would have a moment as they rode through the placid rolling hills toward Corbie to ask about Kata, but now that chance was gone.

Jacques growled. —The entire nobility, every last one of them are snakes, monsters. They have ruined my life. My father, his father, his father — who knows how far back it goes? Each generation was fucked by his father and fucked his sons in return. There is no way out. There is nothing left. To be a peasant! How that would be to have no responsibility, to only sit on a hill and herd goats all day with nothing to do. You think I want to do these things? I would have loved to live as you do, Sanson, just following orders. They’ve made it impossible for me.

Sanson watched him as he raised his head to the skies, spoke to God. The cows in the pastures turned to look and listen. —Take the Sir, take the estate! Take the burden from my shoulders! Poor me, poor Jacques!

20.

It was an all-day trip on horseback to Corbie, from sun-up to past sundown. It snowed the whole time, a gentle, still snow that made Sanson lose focus and never find a good moment to break the silence. One time, as they stopped to urinate along the side of the highway, Sanson tried to ask Jacques about Kata, but he barely got out a cough before Jacques told him to shut up. It kept him from trying the rest of the trip.

When Sanson thought he might fall off his horse out of exhaustion, Corbie’s spire rose up among the hills. Sanson squinted, peering around at the landscape. Even in the moonlight, he recognized all of a sudden the forests of the Somme.

Jacques had the same thought. —So close to home, Sanson. I try not to come here. I haven’t seen Daniel in a long time.

Sanson said nothing. The abbey, which he had never seen, despite having grown up so close, was massive. In the darkness, Sanson was afraid of the abbey church, the huge, blurry stone facade blotting out the gray sky.

They rode around to the front, and a monk came out to greet them. He wore black robes, but not a tonsure. He put his hand on his heart. —Brother Marcel. If you’ll dismount and follow?

From either side of Brother Marcel, four monks in similar dress emerged from the door and held their reins. Jacques lowered himself and landed nimbly. Sanson rolled off, hung down, hoped someone would come to his rescue so he didn’t have to fall in the dirt. Two monks held him and softened his landing so he could simply walk away. Jacques was already walking through the church door with Marcel, and Sanson hurried to follow.

Inside they walked over smooth stone floors, catching a glimpse of the cavernous inside of the church but not entering. Sanson desperately wanted to be under that artificial sky for a moment and try to feel God, but they were led left, through a small door, through a dim hallway lit by a single candle, and then out into an open courtyard where monks walking hunched in black robes, heading for their cells. Snow sat bunched in dark corners, looking like soft bowers, ready for Sanson’s collapse.

Then they went inside again, through an infirmary hall with three rows of three beds. One monk, dressed only in a white tunic was curled on one, on top of a pile of heavy blankets, one in a roll at his feet. Another monk was trying to pull the blanket up over his legs, but the sick man kicked it away. He coughed without sound. Then they were outside again, walking through a small cloister, and then inside, in a chapel house with rows of columns.

Marcel stopped and turned. —You are Brother Daniel’s own brother?

Jacques stamped his dry boots. —Yes, yes. You know that I am. Did you know that we were coming?

Marcel nods.

—Really, and how did you know that?

—We have many ways of knowing things around here. There’s a lot of talk about things going on in Paris. We stand apart, but of course we are only a day’s ride for a fast rider.

Jacques took a step toward the door and looked around. —That’s true. Are you expecting some news?

Marcel smiled. —We are always expecting news. We were expecting you. That is a good thing. You come at a good moment. We’ve prepared cells for you. You are welcome. Come, let’s enter.

They stepped into the long stone room, gray all around, with a large crucifix at the far wall. Sanson suspected that their tour of the abbey had been to delay their entry. There was no place to sit except a row of benches on either side of a stone altar, about waist height. A fat monk sat to one side. On the altar was a tray of wine and food.

—It’s just after compline, so everyone is in bed. Almost everyone.

—I’d like to see my brother.

Marcel smiled that frustrating smile. —He’s one of the ones who is likely in bed, I’m afraid, but it certainly isn’t here. He’s actually away from the abbey right now.

Jacques, amazingly, was calm. He looked around, treating Marcel like a servant and not the one who was in control. —I thought you said you were expecting me and that it was a good time.

—We were, and it is, but that doesn’t change the fact that Brother Daniel had to conduct business nearby.

—He’s then likely not in bed. At least not alone.

Marcel was silent, stolid and unreadable.

Jacques gave up the suggestion. —I thought his work is to be a monk in the abbey.

—Your brother’s work is as the head monk at the abbey, but that does not mean a life of leisure. As head monk, he is in charge of much more than simple contemplation.

—Right. Sure. When will he be back?

—He will be back tomorrow. If you would like, we can show you your quarters. And for, Sanson le Picquier, it is?

Sanson was about to answer but Jacques preempted him. —You can put him wherever, the stables or a floor somewhere.

—Of course, Sir Jacques. Why won’t you come with me. Sanson, you will stay here and wait until I return?

Jacques went out and left Sanson alone. Then he realized that the monk was sitting there, smiling at him. He nodded at the monk, who just grinned and chewed at the inside of his cheek.

Marcel returned, leaning through the door and motioning to Sanson to come with him. —Your master is demanding, is he not?

Sanson was exhausted. —He demands much of many.

Marcel smiled and let out a laugh. —You are more than it seems, Sanson. I will give you a cell that surpasses the comfort of your master’s. It will be our secret. A mattress with fresh straw and a woolen blanket. You will sleep well. Here you are. I will see you in the morning.

Sanson slept poorly, but at least he was as comfortable as he suffered.

He was awakened before dawn by back spasms. He weighed the merits of staying in bed or getting up before deciding that he would be better off being upright.

It was dark but still clear in the courtyard outside his room. Nobody was about. He wandered to the other side of the courtyard, under the stars, and went through an open passage to another courtyard edged with dry vines.

A glow from the opposite end drew him forward. He looked in and saw 12 monks huddled over four rows of desks. He went in, turned and closed the heavy wooden door. Nobody looked up at the sound. Sanson walked to the first row of desks and stood over the monk, who was a tiny man, curled like a fiddlefern over his work. Up close like this, Sanson could see what he was doing. What he was creating was an illustration alongside a block of text. Sanson couldn’t read, so he didn’t know what the page was, but he was working with blue ink, drawing a large letterform.

Sanson was struck by the care he was taking. —That’s beautiful.

The little man didn’t respond. He just kept working. It was freezing in the scriptorium, and he kept leaning over and breathing on the tiny tin of blue ink.

Another monk in another row spoke. Sanson couldn’t tell who it was. —He’s a showoff.

Yet another monk. —Can’t work fast. Ink’s frozen.

And another. —Ink is ice.

Another. —Ice is ink.

—Breath on the ice.

—Hands frozen.

—Keep writing.

The monks fell silent. Only the scratching of the quill pens, the sound of breath warming inkpots. Sanson retreated from the room.

21.

They stood around in that chapel again. This time, the fat monk was gone. Jacques paced while Marcel leaned against the rostrum, smiling his serene smile. —Brother Daniel will be here any moment. Have no fear.

But it was a long time, time enough for Sanson to almost ask Jacques many times about Kata. He couldn’t not. He ventured to clear his throat at one point, but Jacques shot him a look that killed the thought in a moment.

Brother Daniel made his entrance well before he actually came into the chapel. They could hear him bellowing greetings to the other monks, disturbing the general sense of peace in the abbey. —You there! Good to be back! My boy! I will see you later! Yes, always good to be back.

Marcel’s smile broadened. The door burst open, and Daniel’s form was in the doorway. —My Lord! Look who it is!

He was a big man, overfed, hunched and old, but he moved quickly. It was the first time that Sanson had seen him since they were children. He was passing Sanson by to greet his brother when he stopped and he turned his large face to Sanson.

—Sanson. This is Sanson?

Daniel’s face was a ridged, twisted nightmare of wavy skin, shiny and ropy, with a hole where a nose should have been. —I can’t believe it’s you. How is it that I haven’t seen you in all these years? Let me look at you. You look awful. Truly terrible! You’re dirty and look at your clothes! You’re all twisted!

He clapped Sanson on the shoulder, leaning in to kiss him on both cheeks, and then he leaned back and laughed. —And you stink! But it’s so good to see you, my boy!

Jacques folded his arms and cleared his throat. —Hello, brother.

Daniel released Sanson and turned to Marcel. —Look who it is, come to visit me. The returning hero of Nicopolis.

Jacques nodded as if to say, Yes, all right, you got me. I see. This is what I expected.

Daniel advanced on Jacques. —The hero of the tragedy of Nicopolis, the one who returned. You were defeated. You should have died on the field of battle, no?

—Hello, Daniel.

They embraced and kissed cheeks. Daniel’s face was hideously twisted, but he smiled warmly at his brother. Sanson stepped back into the shadows.

They were silent for a while.

—So you came to see me. I apologize for not being here last night to greet you. I had business to attend to, and returned early this morning.

Jacques motioned to a bench and Daniel declined to sit. —No, I try to stand these days as much as possible. My back, you know. But please, go right ahead.

Jacques remained standing.

—Suit yourself. So, you came to see me. It’s been a very long time, hasn’t it?

—Many years.

—And you so close.

—Not so close.

Daniel chuckled to himself, turned around, and found Sanson. He pointed at him and beckoned him forth. Sanson stepped forward. —It occurs to me, Sanson, that you have not seen my face since I was boy. Certainly you’ve never seen it like this, right?

Sanson glanced at Jacques, said nothing. He didn’t want to be part of this conversation. He remembered.

Daniel looked at Jacques. —Do you remember what you did?

—Daniel, must we do this? It was years ago. We were children.

—Sanson, do you know what happened?

Sanson froze, looking at Daniel in the eyes, trying to communicate his fear.

—Of course you know what happened. But Marcel might not know the whole story, do you, Marcel?

Marcel smiled. —No, Brother Daniel, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the whole story.

Daniel clapped his hands and Sanson could see that he wore gloves. —Oh fine! I’ll tell you what happened. We were children. You remember. I remember. Oh, Sanson, I recall that we were not very kind to you. We weren’t kind to each other either.

Jacques put out his hand as if to say, Calm down. —I remember, Daniel. We were children.

—Yes, we were children. Fighting happens with children. It happens among those of us who were former children, that is for certain. But fighting is what children do without consequence. We fight, we recover, we love. But what happened in this instance? Let me tell you what I remember: I remember we were fighting over some fried dough. The cook had just fried up some dough in some pork fat, drizzled honey over it, and brought it out to us. There were little pieces. You remember. We ate them up, burning our mouths, and then there was one left. You remember. I was a child. I grabbed that piece and ran. I watched you go into the kitchen and come out with a knife. I turned around and ran, but you were bigger than me, faster than me. You caught me, stabbed me in the leg, and then sliced at my face, again and again. Then what did you do?

—Daniel, I was a child.

—What did you do?

—Daniel, please.

—Marcel, do you know what he did? I didn’t see him do this because I was half blind with pain and blood. But everyone who was there — including you, Sanson, perhaps — everyone saw him reach over and open my hand. I had been holding the piece of dough, still. It was sticky with honey, and you took it from my hand and walked away, enjoying his treat. Do you know what happened next? The cook, I think it was, acted quickly, putting me on a table in the kitchen. He staunched my wounds, called a barber from town. He was not able to save my nose, and so he trimmed away the useless organ. I was noseless, a freak.

Jacques was staring at the floor.

—I was hidden away from sight. Few were allowed to see me. Only Uncle came, some women, the priest. I ceased to exist. You didn’t see me again after that. I was in agony for many days. I don’t remember how long, but I remember the agony. The pain I forget, but the itching is something I’ll never forget. They had to tie me down so I would not scratch my face and reopen the scabs. When I slept they bound my hands. That I remember. My nurse pinched my arm when I misbehaved, and let me tell you, I misbehaved. That’s about all I did. I screamed and yelled to be able to scratch, but they would not let me touch my face. I don’t know how long I spent in that room.

Daniel paused and smiled to himself. —One day it felt better and then better. They did not give me a glass so I could examine my new face. I hadn’t been able to touch my own face. The itching had passed. They unbound my arms, and with disgust they looked away and let me at it. I explored my face like fumbling in a girl’s breeches. I could feel the contours of my nose — inside my nose. You’ve never experienced anything so strange as touching the inside of your face.

Daniel laughed, staring at Jacques with eyes that hated.

—I was a child, kept in the dark from that point on, hidden from the eyes of almost everyone. And then one day they came with buckets, a stack of cloth, a small bowl of flour. I remember getting excited because was going to be able to play, that this was a gift to me in my solitude, but they weren’t coming to play. They made me lay down, fashioned a piece of folded paper into a fake nose, placed it over the hole where mine used to be, and then emptied some of the flour into the water, ripped strips of cloth, and soaked them in the water. They were doing papier mache, for sure, but I did not play. They were fashioning a mask for me. They lay strip after strip of cloth on my face. I lay there, waiting for it to dry. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I was alone again and everything was gone.

—They brought me the mask the next day and fitted it with soft cords over my ears. It covered the middle of my face, over one side of my mouth, and over one eye. That eye had a little hole cut out so I could see through it. They had painted the mask with milk paint to match my skin. It fit well, but rubbed against my cheek and raised a welt. I cried, but was immediately pinched and smacked into silence. The kindness I had seen since your attack had lasted only as long as it had to.

—The next day, they took me out of that room. With the mask and the return of rough treatment, I figured that I was going to return to my education and I was looking forward to seeing Uncle again, seeing the rest of the household, but instead, I was led out of the room, down the stairs, and out to a waiting horse and cart. I was placed in the back, and I looked up one last time at the house with my mask on, peeping out through a hole with one eye at the house, my house, where I was born, and saw you up at a window. You remember, brother, I’m sure.

Jacques shook his head. —I don’t.

—Ah, well, that doesn’t matter. We rode for a long time. I knew that we were going east, toward the rising sun. That’s all I knew. Then I realized what was east. They were taking me to the abbey. I was a smart child. I’ve always wondered: Did they punish you?

Jacques shook his head. —They said that I had done something bad and that you were leaving. That was all.

Daniel laughed out loud. —That pretty much covers it. Yes, so that began my new life. One day I was a boy playing with my brother, and the next I was essentially a miniature monk, in robes, my head tonsured.

Jacques cleared his throat and Daniel looked at him, waiting for his response. —You were not innocent, brother. You used to scare me with tales of demons so I couldn’t sleep. You would hide in niches and jump out, startle me. You never saw a consequence. You terrorized me. You refused to sleep, you refused to eat, to sit, to stay, to go, to come when called. When you were beaten, you would smile through it. Have you thought that maybe you got what you deserved, and that you leaving was the only thing that could have happened?

Marcel rose to speak, but Daniel put his hand out. —Jacques, my brother, I have some work to do. I will leave you here. You are welcome to stay, as my guest. Marcel will see to your accommodations.

Daniel walked out, turning right at the door and he was gone.

Jacques didn’t wait for Marcel. He just walked out, turned left, and was gone. Marcel followed Jacques, leaving Sanson standing in the room alone.

The room still buzzed with the conflict. Sanson walked to the bench, where the fat monk had sat the day before. He felt his eyes closing, and when he woke, he was shivering and it was dusk. He felt like he had injured his shoulder. He needed to find Jacques and ask him about Kata. But when he shuffled out of the chapel, he turned right, away from wherever Jacques had gone. He wandered under a covered walkway along a cloistered garden that was all dry twigs and dirt. Nothing grew in the icy square of land open to the sky.

He walked around to the other side of the cloister again, and then turned right, out toward the orchards. Sunlight was gone, and everything inside was in shadow. He watched as two women, definitely prostitutes, ran out into the orchard and disappeared between the rows of trees. They were followed by two monks coming out of the same door. Sanson walked out and toward the door, passing the monks, who nodded at him.

It was dark now, and it was if his eyes had mostly stopped working. He felt along the stone exterior of the building and just when he thought he was lost in the moonless night and all he had was his tether to the building, he felt the wooden door and went in. He closed the door behind him and felt around in the dark. There were no candles burning, no light from any windows he could see. He put his hands out in front of him, but nothing was in this room. He was out in the middle, with no connection but with the floor. He put his hands out, felt a wall that, after some inspection turned out to be a stone column of some kind.

He sat on the floor, which drew his warmth. Shivering, he submitted, thinking as he fell asleep, after a few moments or for half the night, that it was fine if he died. Kata was likely fine. He had done his duty.

22.

A boy was standing over him, shaking his shoulder. Marcel was there, standing to the side. —Sanson?

Sanson blinked, and his right eye was blank. —Yes.

—What are you doing here?

—I couldn’t

—You need to come with me.

—Where?

—Just get up and come. You’ll be fed. And we have some mulled wine. Would you like some mulled wine?

Sanson nodded. —Is Sir Jacques still here? Did he leave me here?

—No, he’s sleeping. But you’ll come with me and we’ll warm you up.

Sanson sat up, painfully uncurling. He stood painfully, and couldn’t really move.

Marcel pointed at Sanson. —Help him.

The boy looked incredulously at Marcel. —He’s too big, sir.

—Nonsense. He’s not that big. You can help. I’m not asking you to carry him, for the sake of God.

—OK, sir.

The boy put his arm around Sanson, then recoiled and stepped back.

—He smells, sir. He’s disgusting.

—I don’t care. Do it.

Sanson put his arm around the boy, who gagged.

Marcel stood in the door. —We’ll get you into a bath. We have plenty of hot water here.

He walked out of sight.

Sanson extended his knee in excruciating pain and put weight on his foot, which screamed at him. Then the other leg, and he stopped.

The boy looked at him. They were at eye level. —OK?

Sanson nodded.

—How old are you?

—Ten.

—I’m sorry.

Marcel’s voice from afar. —Boy, let’s go!

The boy straightened up, lifting Sanson’s arm and making him wince. —We should get moving. How did you get like this?

Sanson focused on moving his legs. He could feel things start to loosen. —Like what?

The boy shook his head, thinking about what to say. —Like, broken.

—It’s a long story.

Soon they were out in the hallway. Sanson focused only on moving, trying to ignore the pain. Soon, he felt his knees get more limber, and he took his arm from around the boy’s shoulder. The boy held his elbow lightly and Sanson let him.

They walked for a long time. Crystal clear skies pressed down as they walked across the cloister through the blasted herb garden. There was nothing growing, nothing at all.

He was standing in front of Daniel, who wore a cloth mask, a swoop of cloth across the center of his face. The room had no windows, and the candlelight shone off his tonsure. —Doesn’t this place — the church, look like Notre Dame? It’s truly beautiful.

A girl of sixteen or so stood by, picking her nails. —This is Colette. Her parents are not well. They’re very old, and they’ve been leaning on the abbey. She will stay here when they go to their reward. Isn’t she beautiful?

Colette looked up at Sanson, shyly. Her cheeks were ruddy, like she had been running. Her hair was covered with a makeshift wimple and she looked down at her feet. She looked plain and unhappy.

—Her father Robert was a carpenter here years ago. She doesn’t want to get married, so she’ll come here as a lay sister.

—That’s good.

—It is good. She will help me greatly here at the abbey. She will help the sisters and we will help her. So, Sanson, have you gotten a bath?

Marcel cleared his throat. —We will give him a bath after we are finished here, Brother Daniel.

—Very good. I hear you haven’t been able to bathe in some time.

—No, my lord.

—Ah, don’t call me a lord. I’m lord of nothing. I’m a humble brother of Saint Benedict. I serve our Lord and nothing more.

—Yes, sir.

—I’m not a sir, either, Sanson. Well, anyway, no matter. Do you know why I asked you in here? I can tell that you’ve been looking around for Jacques, is that right?

Sanson thought for a moment. He knew that he was being manipulated, that Daniel was able to think faster than him. —Sort of. I have to ask him something, but I believe that you might have ruined the chance by upsetting him.

Daniel laughed and Marcel smiled along. —Well, what do you have to ask him?

—Nothing, nothing.

—No, you can tell me.

Sanson looked at Colette, who glanced up at him then looked away. She was not an orphan. She had a home. She had a place that she could go, and he could see that Daniel and Marcel would take care of her. At the very least, she was safe from harm. Her parents were aged, and she would soon be orphaned, but then she’ll have a place to go and live.

—I’m

—What is it, Sanson? You can tell me.

Sanson stayed silent. He couldn’t risk it. He had to speak with Jacques first.

Daniel and Marcel exchanged looks. —All right, Sanson, have it your way. Look, we wanted to see you because we were worried about Jacques. He clearly trusts you. You are an interesting choice of attendant. He would normally have his squire or some other young nobleman here with him, would he not?

—I guess so.

—Yes, I guess so too. But you’re here. You are a mere soldier, a pikeman, if I understand correctly. You worked in our kitchen when you were a boy, and then you became somehow a friend of sorts to my brother?

—Well, sort of, sir.

—Please, don’t call me sir. But no matter. You’ve been with my brother for a very long time, since we were all boys. I can see that you are quite aware of what and how he’s been doing. I must ask you, is he doing quite well?

—What do you mean?

—I mean, is he healthy?

Sanson was confused. —You can see that he’s healthy. He has no ailments that I’m aware of.

—Good, good. That’s marvelous. Well, how is his relationship with the Lord. Is he quite pious?

—I think so. I have seen him pray. He has a piece of the True Cross. He cherishes it.

—Is that true? Really. He cherishes his piece of the True Cross. And you were in the East with him, is that right?

—Yes, we were in a losing battle in

—At Nicopolis. Yes, I’ve heard all about this. And your lord was released on parole. He was chosen by the Sultan himself to deliver the news officially to the King, is that right?

—Yes.

—And he chose you to accompany him instead of being executed or sold into slavery, is that correct?

—Yes, I suppose that is true.

—So you owe Jacques your life.

Sanson shrugged. He tried to blink his eye back to life. —I guess that’s true, yeah. It was me and a few others who were all bound together and

—And you came back to Paris on horseback. Long trip.

—Yes sir. It was a long trip.

—And he must return. And you are supposed to go with him. Do you want to go back?

Sanson hesitated. He didn’t want to go back. But he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t trust Daniel. —I’m old and not well. It will be a difficult trip for me.

—You are only a few years older than I am. And the same age as Jacques.

—About, yeah, that’s right.

—But you have seen more combat than Jacques, and certainly more than me.

—Right. Well, different combat.

Daniel laughed and nodded. —You are an unexpected wit, Sanson. So true. I have seen a certain kind of combat, myself.

Sanson shook his head. There was a sense of hearing through thick wool for a few minutes. He just kept nodding and Daniel kept talking. Then his ears cleared and Daniel was asking him a question. —and you have been staying where?

—At Severine’s.

—Who is Severine?

—Luc’s mother.

Daniel looked at Marcel. —Luc, you say? A boy? How old is Luc?

A sharp pain under Sanson’s ribs took his breath away. He felt there with the tips of his fingers, looking for the source. He would find it.

—Sanson, stop that. How old is Luc?

—I don’t know.

—Is he a small boy?

—Yes, a small boy.

—Who lives there with Severine and Luc?

—Vera.

—Who is Vera?

—Severine’s mother.

—How do they live?

The pain, the agony. —I don’t know.

—You don’t know.

Where was Jacques? Sanson needed to ask him, finally, about Kata. He must see Jacques. Sanson squeezed his eyes shut to try to get control of the pain. Daniel was speaking again. —How do they live? Sanson, you must know something. Well, tell me this, what is their home like? Where did you sleep?

—On the floor, under the table.

—Under the table? Do they have a bed?

—Yes, they have a bed. But the home is nothing, poor. They do not live as they should.

Daniel’s eyebrows raised and he looked at Marcel. —But they have a bed. But it’s poor. Is that a fact. That is your opinion, is it not?

—I just

—No, I think we understand. What’s wrong with your eyes? Ah, well, tell me more about Severine and Luc and Vera and their home.

—I don’t know more.

—You know quite a bit. Is Luc Jacques’ boy?

Sanson shook his head wildly, trying to clear his head. Daniel scoffed impatiently.

—You might just tell me what you know. Ah, here’s Jacques. Hello, my brother.

Sanson closed, then opened his eyes and his eyesight was back. The pain in his side was gone. Jacques wasn’t wearing his livery, just a plain tunic and hose and simple shoes. His head was uncovered, and he was being led by a young boy who immediately ran off.

He looked between Daniel and Sanson. —What’s this?

Daniel laughed, with that airy sound through his nose area. —What’s what?

Jacques waved his hand, indicating the tableau, specifically Sanson, but also taking in Colette and Marcel. —This. What’s going on?

—Nothing, brother. We’re just talking. I’m hearing all about your long relationship with Sanson, our boyhood friend. It seems as if Sanson has been privy to quite a bit, since he’s been around you for years.

Jacques stared at Sanson, ignoring his brother. —What have you been talking about?

Daniel was silence. Colette had a coughing fit while Jacques glared at him. When Colette quieted down, Daniel smiled. —Yes, what have we been talking about? I’ll tell you.

Jacques crossed his arms, waiting. —You will tell me. You’re a snake.

—Maybe, maybe. But it seems as if I’m an uncle and wasn’t aware of it. Another nephew. I didn’t know. I would have sent my regards. I might have visited Paris and

—You disloyal idiot.

Jacques was speaking to Sanson.

—Don’t blame poor Sanson. He is not to blame.

—You will pay. I will break your head. You will never be the same, do you know that?

—My brother, please, he is not to blame. Restrain your natural violence. I know that it is your profession and your calling, but this is not the place. This is a house of God, and I’d ask you to respect that.

—Respect that? You are no saint, no martyr because of your

Jacques fell silent, and Daniel laughed his airy laugh.

—What is it? What were you going to say?

Jacques shook his head and took a deep breath. —Nothing.

—No, you must finish. I’m no martyr because of my what?

Jacques took a step toward his brother. —Can we speak alone?

—No, I’m afraid I’m not comfortable with that. I’d prefer not to be alone with you. The last time I was alone with you, well.

Marcel smiled.

—Fine. You won’t be alone, but Sanson, go away.

—No, Sanson will stay. I prefer that he stay.

Jacques sighed and nodded in resignation. —All right, if that’s how it must be.

Jacques sighed and rubbed his face. —I was thinking about it, and I want to apologize to you.

Daniel raised his eyebrows and looked around, for effect. —Oh, may, for what?

—Daniel.

—No, I want to know specifically.

—For what I did to you, those many years ago, when we were boys. It was a terrible thing.

—What kind of Christian would I be if I did not offer you my forgiveness? If our Lord can ask his Father to forgive his tormentors, who am I to withhold my forgiveness? You were but a boy.

—Thank you, Daniel.

—What I don’t understand is that you never did reach out to me. Soon, you were no longer a boy. You became a man and you never reached out to me.

—I was ashamed.

—Ah, brother. That can not be the total story.

—Well, I’m sorry about that as well.

—I have been at Corbie for more than 15 years. The estate is mere miles from here. Did you ever think to stop in?

—For a long time, I thought you were still at Cluny.

—Did you inquire at Cluny? I know it is far, but there are ways. I did not hear from you one time. Your apology is ridiculous. And I know why you’re here. You’re not here to apologize.

Jacques’ lips, which had been pressed shut, now parted slowly, as if he were trying to think of something to say and then decided against it. His hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. Marcel took a tentative step forward, but Jacques seemed not to notice. He looked lost in thought, trying to figure out a way forward.

Daniel nodded sullenly and pulled aside his mask, let it drop. To Sanson’s eye, the big hole in Daniel face looked like a reddish-black area the size and shape of a pear. He was grateful he couldn’t see more clearly. He was also grateful that the focus wasn’t on him at the moment.

Daniel stood up and walked toward Jacques, stopping just a few paces from him. Jacques seemed to lean away from this gentle onslaught, hand still on his sword. —What is it, my brother? Nothing to say?

Jacques’ thought process finished. He looked up. —I have nothing to say.

—So it’s true? You’re in need of my help?

—Yes, it’s true. What would you have me do? I’m at your mercy.

Daniel looked at Marcel as if to say, Well, that’s interesting.

—I have not been compensated for my service in the east, and the King’s brothers are withholding payment because they are angry and humiliated. I am now a vassal of the Duke of Burgundy. That should be a great honor but it is just another financial burden. I expected a grant of 200 livres a year but I have gotten nothing, no promises. He calls me a trusted adviser and says that he is impressed with my delicacy. My delicacy. Can you imagine, me? That was the word he used. But I know that it’s all bullshit. The Duke, his brothers, and all of the families are anticipating a great loss of treasure from this, and Philip can be as impressed with my delicacy as he wants, but it will do nothing for me. Coucy’s son is held for ransom. Do you think he’s interested in giving out incomes, especially those who are vassals of others. I’m grateful that my head is not moldering in a pile along the Danube, but if I had been kept for ransom along with the others, I would be warm and awaiting rescue, drinking and playing cards.

—That would assume you were as important as the others.

Jacques glared but nodded. —Yes, there is no ransom for me. I’m screwed. Truly fucked.

Daniel was calm and even. —Language, my brother.

Jacques’ anger flared. Sanson could feel it.

—So yes, I came here to ask for your help and your forgiveness.

—Forgiveness so that I would give you help.

—Yes. I can not keep up with the estate. I have men that I can not pay.

—You are a resourceful man. What have you been doing to save yourself from this indignity?

Jacques said nothing, and Daniel waited.

—Look at me. Am I that hideous that you cannot look me in the face?

—No, it’s not that. It’s just that I’d rather not say.

—Well, you don’t tell me your business, then I will not help you. You will walk away empty-handed and will have to take your chances with being a supplicant to the Sultan, the only other who will hear your appeal. And it sounds like he spent a while putting some of your people to death.

—They are your people as well, no?

—Don’t talk back to me, brother. Not when you need my help.

Jacques’ lips pressed together again and he rolled his eyes.

—Yes, the Sultan will likely not help me. There is no reason he should do so, despite our long history. He is angry and has his own problems, including Timurlane making incursions to the east. He is not in the mood to provide me with funds, let alone an income stream.

—No, I suspect not. So.

—So.

The two men were quiet for a long time. Colette had a coughing fit, hand to her mouth. Marcel cleared his throat, she looked up and then went out in the hall where they could hear her coughing for a long time. She finally got it under control and came in and took up her position in the corner, staring down at the stone floor.

—Look, Jacques, I have things to attend to. If there is anything you’d like to say, please, let’s do it now. It’s time to tell me what you’re doing to alleviate your situation or, and I ask forgiveness, you can fuck right off back to wherever it is you have to go before you take your long journey to debase yourself in front of the Thunderbolt. Now, let’s go.

He snapped his fingers, as at a dog.

Jacques was furious. —Yes, fine. Mostly I have muscle and use it. There is a boy named Zalman, an Ottoman who has been in my employ since he was a child. He does many things for me, but mostly he attends to wealthy merchants and reminds them that if they don’t want their warehouses going up in flames, that they can pay me. They don’t know it’s me. I’ve invented a guy who’s very secretive, a guy named Leonardo, who is the boss, and Zalman goes around and collects, you know.

Daniel laughed. —I love this.

—But times are hard. I can’t push too hard. If I do, they’ll look for protection from Leonardo, and the whole thing comes down. So I have to soften periodically when times are tougher. I also, when I have some money, I lend it out, with a Jew as a front, at high interest, and Zalman collects as well. But he isn’t so busy these days.

—Fenus pencuniae, menus est animae.

—Yes, I know. My soul is in danger anyway. But we have our confessors.

—I am not your confessor, brother.

—Yes. I know. I know.

—Is that all you’ve been doing?

—Yes, that’s all.

Daniel smiled and nodded. —I see. And the blackmail?

Jacques looked up, surprised, looked at Sanson.

—Brother, I have ways of learning things about you. But rest assured that Sanson has not been one of those ways.

—It was a one-time thing. That’s too much of a dangerous game.

—I see. All right. So you’re asking me for my help, is that it? What do you want?

—I want you to help me. I know that you’re into a lot of things.

—Oh really? What am I into, do you think?

—You think you’re the only one who knows how to get information?

—All right, then tell me what I’m into.

—I know that you’re blackmailing the Bishop of Liege.

—That’s a serious accusation. What else?

—You’re embezzling funds from the church, selling supplies that they are given and when they get funds from the Cardinal, he runs the abbey, so he is able to take what he needs. He is able to line his pockets with donations. I believe that you’re selling indulgences along with the parish priest. And I don’t know, but I think you have a pickpocketing scheme with some children in Amiens.

—Are you finished?

Jacques nods. —Yes. I’m finished. No, wait. I think you’re running some girls in Paris. In fact I’m sure of it.

—Great. And now are you done? And what do you want to do about all of this? Are you threatening me? The sainted Abbot of Corbie? Do you really think you know anything about anything?

—I do know.

—All right. Now what? You know what I think?

—What?

—I think you’re a failure, my brother. I think that you’re simply not capable of doing anything but what you know — fighting. You come to me, asking me for help, after everything. You are pathetic. You know nothing and can do nothing. You wouldn’t even know where to start. Let’s say I was involved in any of those crazy things you’re suggesting I’m involved in. Marcel, can you imagine that I’m involved in any of those things?

—Truly laughable, Abbot.

—I know. It’s crazy. But let’s say I was. Do you think that I would provide you with an income by what, giving you a racket? Peeling of some of that business and letting you handle it? Can you imagine? You? Do you know even where you would start?

Jacques didn’t say anything.

—That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Sir Jacques. I’d like to hear what you have to say.

—I don’t know.

Marcel and Daniel both laughed and Daniel pointed. —There! There it is. I love this so much, you have no idea.

Jacques nodded, head slumped, resigned. Sanson could see it. All of the fight, all of his motivation, had gone out of him. He would not speak because there was nothing to say. —I need your help. I have nowhere else to go.

—You have alienated everyone else?

—Yes.

—And you need me and my money?

—Or a connection, a hookup. I need something that can boost my income. I don’t want to have to go to the Dukes and tell them that I need their help. I would become a laughing stock. I can’t do it.

—Oh, but you must.

—I can’t do that, and you know it. They blame me. I’m a scapegoat.

Daniel smiled his sinister smile. —You will survive either way. If you will. Either way, I will not help you. I will not sacrifice my own security in my old age for you who never cared for me.

Jacques’ face compressed as he thought of what to say or do.

—But, my brother, I will think about it. Who knows? I might change my mind someday. You must come back to visit some time. I am always here, you know. Thank you so much for coming to stay with us. I wish you safe travels and Christ be with you.

Jacques stood watching Daniel as he and Marcel shuffled out of the room. They were left alone, dismissed, assumed to be leaving the Abbey that very day. Sanson felt like his chest would burst, so certain he was that he had no recourse, now. He would not be able to speak with Jacques for hours, if not for days. This was a great blow to Jacques. In fact, he didn’t want to be alone with him.

The signs of despair were there. His soul was in danger and Sanson wished he would pursue Daniel and seek forgiveness not from him, but from Christ Jesus. There was no place to go.

When Jacques started walking, Sanson limped behind, trying to stay as quiet as possible. He squinted at the ground, saw the glint of sunlight off of broken pieces of glass between the stones of the walk, saw when then light left them. He often thought, when he was a child, that God lived in the light. When he saw light too bright to stare into, that was God. He searched for that light, sometimes. Sometimes it was underfoot.

They mounted in the shit-smelling warmth of the stables, and then rode out in a light snow. The wind kept shifting, blowing against this side of his face and then that, as if the world was sweeping him with a broom.

Halfway to Paris, Jacques still had not spoken a word. He just stared, rode slowly. It wasn’t anger Sanson saw, which is what scared him. Instead, it was real despair. He’d never seen Jacques quite like that.

Slowly, he starts talking.

—If I must return, I will return. I will take advantage of the trip. If Galeazzo will not help, if Daniel will not help, if the Dukes will not help, if nobody will help me, then I will help myself. I will return to the Thunderbolt. I will also return to my imprisoned brethren. They will see me as the hero I am and they will reward me with incomes. The Thunderbolt will provide me with a disbursement and we will catch up like the old friends we are. He was my former employer, after all. And then I will return.

Sanson waited. It was best, he knew, to let Jacques talk. If he interrupted him, for one, he could lash out and knock Sanson down, wait for him to get up, and then strike him again. He would also stop talking, and there would be no way. He simply had to wait for his moment.

As they approached the Porte St. Victor, they passed the Clos des Arènes and Jacques stopped. —There, the mighty Roman peoples gathered. So many people, forgotten by time. I will be make my mark. This is the start. I have spent my years in obscurity thanks to a wayward father and the bad management of many years. But I will not be forgotten. I will make my name.

They ambled under the arch of the Porte. Sanson saw his moment. —You are a great man, Sir Jacques. A great man who deserves to be recognized for your greatness.

For a moment, Jacques looked like a child. Not like a child that would beat him, but rather his face radiated something different, like when he would kneel in the chapel. There was hope in his face. He was thinking of a future that was brighter.

—You know nothing, Sanson, and your opinion means less. But still. I thank you.

—Excuse me.

—What is it, Sanson.

There was almost gentleness in his voice.

—I want to ask you something.

—All right, all right, out with it. I need to go.

—Kata. I want to know how she’s doing. Is she starting her education? Is there a way I could see her?

—Kata? The girl? The girl we returned with?

—Yes.

—Oh, she died. Got sick, died. She is no longer with us. We buried her, I think. You’ll have to find out where. I’m not sure. All right. You know where to go. I’ll see you in a couple of days for our journey back to Bajazet.

And he rode away, leaving Sanson standing by the horse and the stableman.

23.

The next day he didn’t come out from under the table at all. They summoned Zalman to remove him, but he couldn’t get Sanson up. He threatened him, cajoled him, offered him meat pies from the stall down the road. But nothing worked. He commanded Sanson. —Get up now.

But nothing worked. Sanson couldn’t bring himself to get off the floor. They ate at the table with him at their feet, and soon Zalman left to run some errands. Severine and Vera cleaned the pot, put Luc to bed. The sun set, and darkness fell, and there was nothing to do but stare at the wall.

Kata was dead, and there was nothing left to do, no reason to get up, no reason to listen to Zalman or Jacques. He had no reason to serve, no reason to live. He would stay under the table. He was in the bosom of a family, and they tolerated him. He listened to how Vera and Severine talked to each other and now, with no other distractions despite his own agony, body and heart, he heard the family warmth in their words. Severine was not always thrilled to be spending time with her mother, but she appreciated the help she got from Vera with Luc, and loved how close the older woman was with the boy. Vera teased him, made him giggle, tickled him until he told her to stop and she stopped. He heard how Severine stopped any instructions or requests until the playing stopped. In turn, Vera had compassion and gratitude. They tried to make life easier for each other and the boy. Sanson was already dead, buried under the table, and nobody remembered that he was there. They went about their business, though once Luc came and laid a toy by his face, and at dinner Vera placed a bowl of stew next to his shoulder, but he couldn’t eat. She tried again with half an apple but he just closed his eyes.

He lay all the next evening staring at the gathering darkness, listening to the neighborhood: a yowling student, babies crying, dogs barking, bells ringing, a couple having sex. He listened, the buzzing in his ear breaking up the sounds, like rocks falling from a cliff. He felt like the table was pressing down against his chest, with a nail sticking through. He let it happen. He wished for the end.

He opened his eyes on a cold morning and the underside of the table. Both of his eyes were working. He turned his head to the side and saw Jean on his hands and knees, facing him, looking frantic.

—You have to come with me.

Vera scoffed. —Don’t bother. He’s been like that for two days.

—Why?

—How should I know? But I can’t stand it anymore. You need to get him out of here.

—How?

Vera sighed. —What do I care?

—Mother.

—Sev, we have had a man, an unwashed soldier, no less, under your table for two days and you don’t care?

—I just feel bad for him.

—Well, that’s very nice of you, but Luc has started to pretend he’s a mountain range and is fighting battles on his belly.

Luc got serious. —Leave him there!

Vera couldn’t help laughing. —There, you see?

Sanson closed his eyes. There was nothing to be done. After a while, he realized that Jean had left and it was nighttime and everyone was sleeping again. Then it was morning again. Zalman was where Jean had been.

—Hey buddy. You gotta get up. Sanson. Come on.

Zalman pulled him by the arm and out into the room, bumping his head against the hearth. —Sorry, but come on. You have to get up.

He stood by Sanson’s head and reached under his arms, lifting him to a standing position. —Do you have anything here? Anything of yours?

Sanson was completely unencumbered. He could go anywhere. He could lay down again. But Zalman wouldn’t let him.

—You need to get out of here. Come on, Jacques is coming here. It’s time to go.

Sanson couldn’t fight. He went where Zalman led him.

24.

—You are leaving tomorrow. Shipping out. You’re going back with Jacques to the east.

Sanson nodded his head, slumping down. He couldn’t think. He was exhausted. —I know.

They were sitting on the edge of a fountain in a square not far from Severine’s. They had come to sit here before. There were no vendors in or on the square. It was more of a hidden courtyard, and they could ignore people walking by. Zalman stood up and paced. —Do you think he’ll ask me to come? No, he won’t. He never asks me to go with him. He just wants you. He wants me here. I take care of Severine, keep her off his back.

—I know.

Zalman was quiet for a long time. —I have to tell you something. I love Severine.

—I know.

—You knew?

—Everyone knows.

—What about

—Except Jacques. I don’t think he would ever guess. He wouldn’t even think about it. But I’m not sure he would care. What does he care about you?

Zalman sat again. —I want to protect her.

—You can’t protect her.

—I know.

Sanson’s chest was starting to squeeze, so his whole body was folding painfully in on itself. This talk of love seemed wrong. What did it matter? —I am going to kill myself.

Zalman laughed. —Kill yourself? Sanson, you are not a suicide. You fear God too much. You will go to hell.

Sanson shakes his head. —I am going to hell either way.

Zalman nods. —Yes, likely, but you can get out of it, right? Confess your sins. You will be forgiven. Christ will forgive you.

Sanson shrugged.

—You want to die? Find another way. Have someone else run you through. Tell Jacques that his shoes are the wrong color. Then you can go to your reward.

—I want to meet Kata some day in heaven.

—Well, there you go. You can find your way back, no? Please don’t kill yourself while I’m gone, okay? Look, I need to run an errand for our friend. Jean will come and get you here. Don’t move.

Sanson considered Zalman’s suggestion. It was a good idea. He would anger Jacques so much that Jacques will kill him, will cut his throat.

Sanson gets up, starts wandering around the square. Each step caused his back to wail, but he walked and thought.

Three men, laborers, likely heading home for their supper, entered the square from a side street. Each carried a heavy-looking metal hook on a pole, probably for fishing or grabbing logs. They were wearing heavy leather aprons covered in blood. From the abattoir, then. Sanson stood in their way and pulled his knife.

—You fuckers.

One of the men lifted his metal hook and looked at the other two men. They looked tired, more tired than Sanson, who had been lying under a table. He regretted it immediately, but before he could move, the man in front brought the blunt side of the hook down on Sanson’s hand. It didn’t hurt much but he dropped the knife.

—You need to go home, old man. You’ve got a distemper. Go home.

One of the other men leaned down to pick up Sanson’s knife, examined it, and then turned it around, handle out, and gave it back to Sanson. He turned to his friends. —He’s harmless.

They walked away, out the other side of the square.

Sanson had killed 43 people, that he knew. He had stuck his pike with skill between the seams of English armor. He had been a fearsome fighter, a man of great strength and power. He was harmless.

It had to be Jacques, at long last. It made sense, and he could rely on Jacques to do it.

If they were heading east again, he would find a moment when he could finally tell Jacques, in front of others, what he thought of him. Jacques would have no choice but to strike him down and leave him for dead. Settled now, seeing the justice in this end before God, he sat down and rested.

25.

Jean was before him, a child in the latest fashions. —Come on, let’s go.

Sanson saw another option. He didn’t move. He would be stubborn. —Jean, I don’t want to go back there. Look, I need you to do something for me.

Jean straightened, folded his arms. —What.

—Do you have a knife?

Jean reached into his tunic and pulled out his knife. A rich boy’s knife. —Of course.

—I need you to take your knife and stick it in my neck.

Jean let his arms fall to his side. —What.

—It’ll be fast. We can find a quiet place and you can just cut open my neck. I will bleed and will be gone from your life.

Jean laughed. —Right, OK. Let’s go. Come on. We’re late.

Sanson didn’t move. He turned his face to the mattress. —I’m serious. I want you to kill me.

—But why?

Jean would never do it, Sanson realized. He was stupid to have even though it was possible. —It doesn’t matter.

—No, it doesn’t. Can we go?

—I just want to go lay under Severine’s table again.

—You can’t go back to Severine’s.

Sanson looked up at him. There was no place else that he felt safe. —What? Why can’t I go back to Severine’s?

—Do you remember when you laid down on the floor of her house and wouldn’t get up for days?

Sanson groaned.

-She doesn’t want you there. She feels badly for you, but she won’t have to at her house. You’re going somewhere else.

Sanson felt bereft. —Where?

—I can’t tell you that. We need to get moving. I have things to do.

Sanson realized that he needed to find a way out of this. Laying there, it would take him too long to die. He needed to find Jacques and anger him. There was no faster way. He struggled up with help from Jean, and they walked off together through the streets.

—Sanson, why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?

They walked on.

It was worth one more try. Sanson stopped short. —I want to die, Jean. You have to do it, before we get wherever we’re going. We can go behind this church. Nobody will see.

—No! I won’t do it. I won’t take your life.

—You’re useless to me. Why should I go with you?

—Why do you want to die? You must tell me.

—I can’t tell you.

—You must.

—Oh, fine. I promised to protect that girl.

—What are you talking about?

—Kata. The girl, the little slav girl, we picked up along the road.

—Yeah, I remember. What about her?

—She died. Jacques told me that she got sick and died. She is dead.

Jean shook his head. —No. She isn’t dead. At least, I don’t think so. No, I don’t think so.

It took a moment for Sanson to register what Jean had told him. In that moment, he felt his meaning return. He needed to live, even for another minute or two to learn what this boy knew. He couldn’t speak, but just waited until Jean started speaking again.

—Yeah, they sold her.

He said it with such lack of shame that Sanson didn’t understand what he said.

—Sold?

—Yeah, they sold her.

Sanson was quiet. Surely this needed explaining, but Jean didn’t seem to want to answer. His lack of outrage was outrageous. He advanced on Jean until the boy was backed up against the side of a stone wall.

—Sold?

Jean now understood what was required of him.

—There’s a priest, just outside of the walls. He will take young girls and send them east. You know. There are men who will purchase girls. And boys! You know, just will buy them. They get sent to the east.

Sanson’s legs stopped working and he sat in the dirt next to Jean. She is alive.

—I mean, I don’t know if she’s alive, but she was when she left here.

—How do you know, for sure.

—Well, I was the one to deliver her. I brought her to this priest.

Sanson only looked up at the boy.

—Yes, I didn’t know that she meant anything to you. Look, can you get up? It’s time to go.

—Sold.

—It’s a little side business of Jacques. I don’t think it brings in very much money, but I’m sure it helps.

—Where is she?

—I don’t know? Beats me. She’s probably far away by now, maybe not east. Maybe somewhere in the south, maybe in the Levant. Probably in some harem by now, keeping some Amir company, you know. Who knows what they do down there. But maybe she’s east. I don’t know. Come on, man, let’s go. I’ll get in trouble.

—You’ll get in trouble.

—Yes, I’m supposed to deliver you.

Sanson couldn’t breathe right. —I need to sit here.

Jean was practically dancing from foot to foot. —No! Let’s go. Come on.

Sanson nodded. He was consumed with trying to think of ways to kill Jacques slowly and painfully. He couldn’t think at all. There were no words, no thoughts, only beginnings of images that floated away to be replaced by other beginnings of images, which floated away. They were somehow up and moving.

Sanson would not, could not rest until he was able to destroy Jacques. There was no mercy. There was no way around it. There was no way to get back Kata. She was lost, as if she had fallen into the sea and was perpetually drowning. He knew of this trade. He’d known these girls, had seen them when he went east, when he was in the south with Jacques. They were bought and sold by wealthy men, and they live for a time and then are discarded when they bear a child or when they outlive whatever whim led them there. He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. He had failed her. He had broken his promise to Kata. He had delivered her to her fate. It was his fault entirely. It was worse than death because there was no escape except death.

26.

So Sanson went willingly. They walked through the streets. He looked down at the mud, wanting to fall and refusing to go on, but something pulled him forward, past Severine’s. Wherever he was going, at least he didn’t have to face her. A couple of blocks off, they came to a door, knocked, and were invited in.

Inside was a woman, heavier and with less hope in her face than Severine. She was less severe, too. She had a daughter a couple of years older than Luc and years younger than Kata who hid behind her mother’s skirts. An older woman and an old man, both with bone-thin faces sat in the shadows. The man never looked up. He stared at the wall.

Jean smiled broadly. —Harriet, this is Sanson. He’ll be staying with you for a couple of days.

She nodded, peeling potatoes. Jean watched her. She dropped her knife and crossed her arms. It was a gesture of frustration and sadness. She avoided eye contact. —I told you, Jean, I wouldn’t put up with this.

Jean put his hands out at his sides. —What can I do? I didn’t know until this afternoon, so you’re finding out just a little after me. And what can I do? He wouldn’t listen to me. You’re lucky he didn’t come here himself.

—Fuck this. I have to go work.

Her mother tsked. —Please. Language.

—Shut up. Tell it to him.

She pointed at the old man.

The little girl was wearing a simple shift made of heavy linen or light canvas. Her face was dirty, and she stood staring at Sanson. Sanson looked at her. Kata must be thinking that Sanson did it on purpose, that he had delivered her, that this had been his plan as well. This girl looked at Sanson without fear. She stood there, stupid, sucking on her finger, not knowing what was waiting for her. He could never find her.

The mother said something to the girl, but the girl was staring at Sanson, and the mother smacked the girl across the face, and the girl started crying. The sound of the wails filled his head, and he wanted to hit the woman for making the girl cry. The woman hit her again, and Sanson started for her, but he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned. It was Zalman.

Sanson didn’t understand. His head hurt. —What are you doing here?

Zalman shrugged. —I heard Severine ask that you not come back there. I’m sorry.

—What are you doing here?

—Outside. Now.

Sanson turned and walked out of the front door, turned right, paced a few yards, turned around. —Kata.

—What? What is it?

—Did you know about her? That he sold her?

—What?

—Yes, like this one.

—He wouldn’t sell Pauline. She’s his own. His daughter, even if she is a bastard.

—She was sold, sold somewhere. Do you know where?

—No.

—Did you know about this?

—Yes, I knew. I have, well, I’ve helped him before.

—Did you help him with this? Was it you who did the deed?

—I don’t think so, no.

Sanson realized, did it really matter if he did or not, this time? He didn’t believe Zalman anyway, and in that moment hated him. He sat down on the ground and put his head in his hand.

—Sanson.

Sanson didn’t answer. He was trying to think. He was hoping Zalman could just leave him alone so he could try. Not that it would matter. A dog was barking, a bell ringing, a drover yelling.

—I take care of these four as well. It is the same setup, basically. I take care of their needs, make sure they have enough of everything. There isn’t enough of anything these days. Jacques hasn’t brought money. There’s one other that I help out with. Those are the only three, that I know of. I don’t think there are more of me, but what do I know? He doesn’t have money to take care of them. The women, they go out at night, but it’s not enough. And he insists that I collect for him. From them. But for Severine I don’t. I do other jobs, whatever I can, and I cover her share. He demands the money, so there’s nothing I can do.

They were both quiet for a long while. What was he going to do? He couldn’t trap Jacques on his own. He couldn’t kill him on the trip east, on the boat. He would never get close enough, not when he was with his peers.

Sanson realized that there was only one way. He couldn’t die until Jacques was dead. —I need your help.

Zalman nodded. —I’ll do what I can.

But Sanson didn’t know what help he even needed. He tried to think it through, but he was fuzzy. He couldn’t figure it out. Somehow Zalman could be the way, but what did that mean? Images of killing arose and faded like bubbles in a simmering pot. Zalman killing Luc, killing Severine, or attacking Madame de Helly on the street, her blood running like the cherry tree branches and roots. Jacques’ sons — they would die. The thoughts made him feel more wretched but he felt as if he was the simmering water, but no bubbles escaped. Zalman was staring at him. But Jacques didn’t care about anyone. It had to be him. Zalman would never kill Jacques, and Sanson couldn’t. It had to be Zalman. It had to be this way.

27.

For the first time he could remember, Sanson wanted to move. He couldn’t just lay in the house as he had in Severine’s. He finally knew what he had to do, and he didn’t know how to do it. He felt a spirit within him, the Holy Spirit demanding that he do something. Was this God? Was he being guided by God? His foot hurt. His hip hurt. He thought he had actually felt something in his side. His back flared. His head hurt on the side, as if someone had hit him with a club, recently.

But he didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared with what moved him. He refused to go inside. The little girl reminded him too much of Kata. He couldn’t face her. He started walking away, and Zalman followed. He knew that Zalman wouldn’t leave his side.

He walked as fast as he could in no particular direction, Zalman walked leisurely at his side. —Do you want it to stop?

Zalman shrugged. —Do I want what to stop?

—Jacques.

—What do you mean, do I want Jacques to stop?

—Do you want him to, you know, stop?

Zalman stopped walking. They were in front of a small church. Bells starting ringing close by, then more far away. Sanson didn’t know what they meant.

—Sanson, are you asking me if

Sanson didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes down. He knew what would happen. He had learned from Jacques how to get things from people.

Zalman sighed. —I want her to be free. He doesn’t give her anything anyway, doesn’t give Luc anything. Maybe we can get out of here. Not that we can go anywhere. Where would we go? But at least we could try to find a way. I don’t know.

Sanson kept his mouth shut and started walking again, knowing that Zalman would follow. They were at the old bridge, and they crossed it and continued on, passing a family of beggars who moaned together. Sanson knew that if Zalman left him, he wouldn’t know where to go or how to get back.

Zalman put his hand on Sanson’s arm. —I have to stop.

Sanson felt like he could walk forever. He thought he could walk until he fell. They were in a part of town he didn’t know. He pointed at a fallen tree. —Let’s go over here.

They sat on the log and Zalman shook his head.

—I think there’s a way.

Sanson shook his head. —But how?

Zalman mirrored him. —I don’t know. But we could come up with something. We could

—What?

—I don’t know. I have to think.

They both sat on the log and thought about the problem.

Zalman ran his hand through his hair. —Of course I’ve thought about it, but I never considered actually killing him. I’ve always dreamed that he’d die, but not that I would ever do it.

Sanson looked at him. —What if we do it together?

Zalman shook his head. —I don’t know. How?

They were silent for a long time. Sanson looked up. —What if it was when he came to see Severine?

—You want me to stab him while he’s fucking the woman I love? To fall dead on top of her? You want him to die in that house and then we have to take him out of there?

Sanson nodded. —All right, all right. So it can’t be in the house. On the street?

—An assassination.

—Have you killed before?

Zalman spoke softly. —This is different.

—What’s the difference?

—It’s not in the middle of a fight. I’ve never, you know, just to solve a problem.

Sanson looked up at the sky. His body didn’t hurt in one place. He was now a field of pain, a radiance of pain, like heat, like a smell. He sat in it, was the source of it. It came from the center of him. He couldn’t explain it, but that’s what it felt like. The pain he felt was enough to want escape immediately, and the only things that kept him from it was fear and rage. —This problem is not just yours. This is Severine’s problem, as well. Luc’s problem. This is an opportunity to be free, for all of you to be free. I can distract him. You will wait for him, and surprise him by being in a place where you’re not supposed to be.

—Like where?

—I don’t know. Is he coming back to Severine before we go?

—I never know when he’s coming.

—So we have to find out where he’s going to be, then. Somewhere where he’ll be alone. Then you will talk to him, and I will distract him. Then you’ll stick him or cut his throat. And we’ll just leave him there and go about our business.

A young girl came over and held out her hand to Zalman, asking for money. Zalman shooed her away. She gave a little miniscream and ran back to her mother.

—You need to get back to Harriet’s, because I need to do collections. I can’t sit around with you all day and plan something that’s never going to happen.

Sanson stood up. —This is your chance. You must do this. I will help.

—I’m not doing anything until you tell me what this is all about.

Sanson couldn’t think. He had to decide if telling the truth would get him what he wanted, what he needed. He knew that thinking would get him nowhere. —I’ll tell you. It’s about that girl, Kata. I was supposed to protect her, and I couldn’t. Jacques didn’t find her. He killed her grandparents and took her. Now she’s gone. You know where.

—I swear, I don’t know where.

—It doesn’t matter. You know where she went. What kind of place. You know it. And you helped. It’s on you. You have to do this. You owe it to Kata.

Zalman hung his head, and then he started crying. Sanson was astonished. It started raining, a fine cold rain. —What do you want me to do?

Sanson’s mind was blank, but he had a feeling that he didn’t have to say anything else.

Zalman crossed his arms. —There have been others. And Severine, the poor girl. She suffers so much. The things she has had to endure. Luc can’t know about any of this. He needs to grow up with a mother and a father who love him and appreciate him. He’s a fine boy. He needs to erase Jacques, to grow up without him.

Sanson felt exultant. He knew he would get his way. He wanted Jacques to be mortally injured, and then to deal the final blow, for the man to know, in his last moments, that the people he trusted the most had betrayed him for justice. Sanson felt confident that he could say that this was going to be God’s own justice.

28.

Their only chance was in the morning, when Jacques headed to the embarkation point along the Seine. Their plan depended on the cover of darkness. It would be impossible, otherwise. He had to be lured to Severine’s house. That was the only way.

When they got back to Harriet’s house, Sanson stopped Zalman. —What if Jacques comes here today? Is there a chance of that?

—No chance. He hasn’t been here for two years. There’s no money. I just keep coming back here to check on them because, well

—What?

—Well, nothing. They just have nothing. There’s no money. She does what she has to do, but there’s almost no money or food. The girl is going to have to go out soon. I come and help. Jacques remembered them this time because he needed you to stay here. So he had me bring them something. This was a solution for your behavior at Severine’s. Look, it is what it is. Let’s not make it a big deal. It’s one night, and then you’re gone. But he won’t be here. We can talk freely.

They walked in without knocking. Nobody looked up except the girl. The house was smaller than Severine’s, with a packed dirt floor with rolled sisal mats. Sanson could tell that the mats were well maintained. In the dim light he could see where some had been repaired with a darker color of fiber. Zalman pointed to the corner. He took down a rug that was on the wall and bunched it up.

—He’ll sleep there. As I said, it’s only for one night. He’s passing through and needs a place to stay. He’s safe and will be out in the morning.

Harriet shook her head, muttering to herself.

The hearth was a simple half-moon of stones. Smoke flowed through the hole in the roof, but the hole wasn’t cut in the right place, so the smoke lingered before escaping.

There were some rough wooden stools and a low bench where Harriet kneaded dough and chopped vegetables. She was cooking a stew or soup over the hearth fire in a sturdy iron pot on an iron stand. It bubbled and smelled amazing. She was hunched over the bench with a sharp knife, cutting a carrot and throwing it into the pot.

Harriet looked up at them and rolled her eyes. She was a bit older than Severine, with pox scars on her face and arms. She pointed at a bowl. She was abrupt and angry. —Get me that.

Sanson obliged, and she ladled out some soup. There were pulses and a white and orange mush.

—Give her this.

He took the other bowl and handed it to the child. She retrieved a spoon from a carved wood cup and returned to her stool. She blew on a spoonful of soup and ate it, then did the same and tried feeding it to her grandmother, who refused like a toddler. She was stone-faced. She shook her head and tried again, so she shrugged and started eating the soup.

Harriet pointed again, and Sanson grabbed another bowl, and this time retrieved a spoon without her asking. She poured out a bowl and, scowling, handed it to Zalman.

Zalman refused the bowl. —No, I ate already. I’m not hungry.

She shrugged, took the bowl back, and sat down on the hearth to eat. She shook her head, scowled.

Zalman leaned down and whispered to Sanson. —I think I know what to do. I’ll be back.

He left. If Jacques and Sanson were to leave the next day, that night or early the next morning was the only chance to take care of this business. Sanson sat on his rug, put his full bowl on the floor next to him, closed his eyes and waited. He found himself curling up in the dim light and his eyes closing. He felt like if he fell asleep he might not ever wake up again, and he would lose his chance. He tried to stay up, but couldn’t. He had a dream in which he could run again without pain, and then he woke up feeling like he was falling. He caught himself and cleared his throat. The family looked at him and he shook his head. He sat up, with difficulty and pain.

Harriet and the girl and her grandmother sat in the gathering afternoon, just staring at the fire in the hearth. The girl kept her eye on her mother, afraid to say anything. The grandmother lay on her rug and whimpered. Harriet shook her head, wordlessly gathering a shawl around her shoulders, and went out. Sanson looked at the girl, who seemed dazed. He was holding a piece of shawl, a square of material a lot like her mother’s. She put it to her face.

Sanson must have dozed again because he woke to Zalman pulling at his coat. —Let’s go.

Outside, it was cold and starting to drizzle. —You are due to leave tomorrow at first light. I am supposed to gather you at Harriet’s tomorrow morning an hour before dawn. I told Jacques that Severine had something to give him and that she was insisting on giving it to him personally. He said he would come after he made some other arrangements for the trip and after he had his supper. We need to move.

It was happening. Sanson was fully awake and energized now. They walked as quickly as Sanson could manage, with Zalman constantly hectoring him to move faster. Sanson kept getting out of breath and having to rest. When they rested one time, Sanson had a terrible thought. —So he’s going to think that Severine had something to do with this. You put her and Vera and Luc in too much danger.

—He’ll be dead anyway. What does it matter? You’ll get your revenge, she’ll be free. Who cares what he thinks? Come now, let’s go. It’ll be dark soon.

At Severine’s, Zalman knocked and went in. Luc was singing and Severine was dancing in the middle of the room. When she saw Zalman, she beckoned him over. —Is it just you?

A look at his face and Sanson’s emerging from the hallway behind ended her smile. —What is it?

Zalman took her hand and led her to the bench. She sat down. He glanced at Vera and Luc. —Can they go out?

—Where would they go? It’s raining and freezing out there. Zalman, what is this? You’re frightening me. What’s happened?

Zalman looked at Sanson, then back at Severine. —Nothing has happened. Not yet. But tonight, Sanson and I are going to do something.

Her face softened, her voice lowered. The lines in her forehead vanished. —What is it? Now I am afraid.

—Jacques is leaving tomorrow, with Sanson and many other men, to go back to the east, to the Thunderbolt, to bring gifts, arrange for ransoms, and for Jacques to be released from his parole.

—Tomorrow?

Zalman nodded. —At sunup. And I told him that he needs to come here first.

Severine stood up. —Here? Why? We’ve already got our visit. He can’t come here again!

Zalman put his hand on her shoulder and she sat. —Please don’t worry. He’ll never make it here. You won’t see him again.

—What do you mean?

—Sanson and I are going to make sure he never makes it here.

Severine thought for a moment, then gasped. Vera stood up. Luc looked up at her. —What, mama?

Severine smiled and shook her head. —Nothing, sweetheart. Mama just heard something wonderful.

—What, mama?

—Nothing. I’ll tell you later.

—If it’s so wonderful, tell me now.

—I’ll tell you later. It’s a surprise.

Luc was mollified by his grandmother, who started to tell him a story in hushed words and distract him with his knight and horse toys.

Severine looked at Zalman, then at Sanson. —What are you going to do? Are you sure you can do this?

Zalman held her hand. —Do you trust me?

She took back her hand and began picking her nails, a look of wide-eyed focus on her face. —Of course I trust you. I just — I’m afraid. How will you — what are you going to do? Not here, right?

Zalman shook his head. —No, not here. Look, we’ll find a way to live. We’ll find a way, together. I’ll figure out some way to support you without you having to go out. It’ll be fine. We know what we’re doing.

Severine frowned. —I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Zalman’s whole body seemed to relax and he took her hand again. Vera glanced over and scowled.

Zalman noticed and turned to the old woman. —Vera, he hasn’t given you anything for many months. Anything you have has been from my hand, my livelihood.

—And where has your livelihood come from?

He was silent. —I will figure something out. I have plans.

She huffed and turned away, back to Luc. —You have plans. That’s good for you.

Zalman was emboldened. —This will be good for you! I swear.

Vera turned and stuck out her finger. —No, you only think so. This will be a disaster for all of us.

Zalman didn’t know what to say. He turned to Severine. —I will take care of you and them. I promise you.

She lifted her head and looked at him. —I believe you.

Vera laughed out loud. —Ha!

Severine looked at her mother. —Mama, don’t. You don’t have to do what I do. You aren’t in my position. And I

Vera held her hands out. —You what?

Severine put her head down.

Vera shook her head and turned around. —Well, isn’t that something.

Luc was watching his grandmother while going through the motions of fighting knight against knight.

Zalman put his hand on Severine’s, paused and then turned and walked out of the house.

Sanson sat there for a moment. He didn’t want to leave, but he had to. —I’m sorry.

Severine nodded. —It’s not your fault. You’re not to blame.

He didn’t know what to say. To not be treated with scorn. He grunted and pushed himself to a standing position. —We’re going to get him. It’s time.

Outside, Zalman was pacing and waiting for Sanson. —Come with me. I had an idea I wanted to try out.

They walked the route that Jacques would be taking to Severine’s. It wasn’t far, maybe a few minutes, and they knew that Jacques wouldn’t ride — he’d have to go retrieve his horse at an odd time, and wouldn’t want to answer questions. He would simply slip out and walk. That’s what he’d always done, according to Zalman. They walked the narrow streets until they came to a small, dark archway that cut between two buildings. A roof had been built across the road and rooms built above it.

—This is it. I’ll wait for him at the exit and then you step out behind him and call his name. When he turns, surprised to see you, I will approach from behind and stab him. Or maybe I’ll hit him in the head first, then stab him. I don’t know yet. But he’ll be surprised. He trusts you, so he’ll just wonder what you’re doing there. We’ll use his wonder.

Sanson nodded and looked around. Could this be the site of his liberation? Was it possible? He was shaking.

—Look, you have to get yours. You will strike, too. I can strike first. I know you are ailing. But you must come with your own weapon and be a part of this. Otherwise I won’t do it. It has to be both of us.

Sanson nodded. Yes, this was possible. It was a long street, and they were talking about around a time that most people would be going to sleep. This was secluded. Nobody would see them. It would bring the powers that be down on this neighborhood, but there would be no witnesses. Sanson couldn’t move quickly, but if he dropped the knife quickly and moved into the shadows, nobody would know.

—But he must suffer.

Zalman gave Sanson a look. —Sanson, my friend, there’s no time. What would you do? This is our chance for us all to be free. We need to do it now, and it has to be swift. If it gives you any consolation, he won’t die right away. He will see me, and then he will see you. He will know that we are the ones ending him. But look, if you aren’t a part of it, I won’t do it.

—All right. Let’s go over it again.

They did, again and again. They watched the spot, stood around and looked for people, but the afternoon was quiet, and there were few passersby. The ones who did go by, a woman carrying a basket filled with greens and a man dragging a noisy cart that dragged in the dirt, barely looked at them. Already the archway was in shadow. They looked up at the windows above, but the shutters were closed. It was as if nobody was home. They felt better and more secure about the plan. Bells rang a few blocks away.

—That’s the Notre Dame bells. We should go. Remember, you’re

—I know, I know. I got it.

Zalman agreed and turned to lead the way back to Harriet’s house. Sanson felt Zalman’s haste, and felt badly that he was slowing him down, but he couldn’t move faster.

She was close by, on a road near a rope factory. It smelled like fish, but luckily it barely came through for Sanson. Also, he fully expected to die that night. Jacques would see him and kill him.

—He stinks, Zalman. He stinks.

—Your place smells like fish, Harriet. The whole neighborhood smells like fish. What are you complaining about?

—But my house doesn’t smell like shit. He smells like shit. We have to eat here.

—Why didn’t you say anything before? Look, so he smells like shit. It’s not his fault. You need to put up with it. I don’t have time for this. It’s only for a few more hours, and then he’ll be out of your life forever.

—Not that he’s easy to look at either. God, why must I put up with this shit. He doesn’t give me anything!

She was screaming now, and the neighbors screamed for her to shut up, and she screamed back at them to shut up.

Sanson’s hearing cut out. It was like having curled-up wool in each ear and holding a blanket against the side of his head. The smell was probably from the corruption happening inside him, in his gut. He knew it was happening. He didn’t have much time left. He couldn’t smell himself. He just knew that others found him foul. He was ashamed.

Harriet was quiet again. —Zalman, you have to tell me what’s going on and what it has to do with me.

Zalman didn’t say anything for a long time, and then he twisted his mouth and put his hands on Harriet’s shoulders. —I am going to help you, Harriet. I’m going to help all of us. But I can’t tell you. I’ll come back and tell you tomorrow, all right? I promise. Tomorrow.

Harriet looked in his eyes.

Harriet’s mother stood up. —Are you going to hurt us, you heathen bastard? Are you going to make our lives worse than they already are? We have nothing to eat. Are you

—Mother, please. Mama, sit.

Harriet reached up and took Zalman’s hands off her shoulders. —Go. Just go.

Zalman turned to Sanson. —I’ll come and get you when it’s time.

Sanson nodded and sat in the corner, out of the way. After Zalman left, he closed his eyes and listened to Harriet and her family. Tonight could be the night he died. This was a poor family, yes, but it was a family. He listened to the girl speak with love and respect to her mother and grandmother. He listened to them distract themselves from their hunger. He wished he was younger so he could go out into the city and steal for them, but there was nothing to be done. He listened best he could.

Sanson opened his eyes, and Harriet was standing in front of him.

—All I can give you is this heel of bread, if you’re hungry. It’s pretty soft, still.

He looked up at her, nodded his thanks. His eyes were working. He was grateful for this. He looked at the girl. She reminded him so much of Kata. Her hair was stuck to the side of her face. She wore a long shift that was dirty from working around the hearth. He started crying softly, just letting tears fall. —I’m not hungry. Thank you.

—Why are you crying?

When he didn’t answer, she shrugged and turned away from him, back to her life. The next thing Zalman was shaking him, and it was dark. Everyone was sleeping. —Can you get up yourself or do you need help?

They made their way to the arch. Zalman had left enough time for Sanson to walk comfortably instead of rushing. —I’m almost certain he’s going to come this way.

Sanson looked at him. —You don’t know for sure?

Zalman shook his head. —I can’t make him do something he isn’t going to do. I just know that this is the way he comes. As long as he is going to Severine’s, then he will come this way.

—This is our only chance. There will not be another chance. There’s not enough time for that.

—I know that. You’re just going to have to trust me, then. Go, find your place.

Then Zalman put his hand on Sanson’s shoulder. —Whatever happens, you are my brother and my friend. We come together to defeat a common enemy, one who is a burden on this world.

Then he was gone, and through the archway, and tucked into his spot. Sanson took up his hiding spot Zalman had chosen for him, an alcove where a broken wooden box would let him sit and rest until the appointed time.

Sanson sat, and while he waited, he thought about Kata, somewhere in this world. He could not hope to find her, but he could hope that she could find peace someday. Was it possible? He didn’t know. He hoped so. But the man who had thrown her away was coming, and he would meet him tonight. His rage was a burden, and he felt it as a burden he carried, would carry, until his last breath. It was unbearable to carry around pain and anger that could never be put down. Only God could lift his burden, and even then he doubted that. All he could hope for is justice now.

The agreed-upon signal was that Zalman would cough twice in succession. Sanson waited.

Was that a cough? He didn’t know. If it was just one cough, was it someone else? There were people in these houses. He couldn’t hear, all of a sudden. He couldn’t come out of his spot to change the signal. He tried to listen harder.

Sanson waited a long time. It was a half moon, and there was just enough light to see by. At one point, Zalman — or someone — coughed twice, and Sanson looked at the street. A man was coming their way, a tall man who clearly wasn’t Jacques. He knew Jacques. Even with his bad eyesight, Sanson could tell that it wasn’t him.

At one point a woman walked by him, got startled, and yelled at him. —You bastard, what are you doing there?

She hustled away. Two kids ran by fencing with wooden swords and yelling at each other about saving the princess. They should be in bed. It confused Sanson, but they didn’t see him. Sanson began thinking that Jacques wasn’t going to come, and Kata would go unavenged.

Two coughs, and Sanson peered around the corner, and there was Jacques. He couldn’t see sharply, but he knew his gait. He was bundled against the night in a heavy leather coat, something that would resist a blade, at least at first. He could find a spot unguarded. That was him. He would know Jacques anywhere. He waited for Zalman.

Jacques stopped. He had seen Sanson. It was over.

—What is

Then Zalman stepped out behind Jacques.

—Jacques.

The older man turned. —Zalman, is that you?

Zalman didn’t say anything. He approached and said nothing.

—What is this? What’s the matter with you?

Zalman was advancing, and now he was holding something in his hand and Jacques took a step back in surprise. —What’s this? Are you mad?

It came out of Zalman like a whisper, but even Sanson could hear him. —You are a devil.

Zalman was standing right in front of Jacques now, a knife clearly in his hand. But he didn’t strike. Zalman was taller, stronger. Jacques struck out at the arm with the knife, which dropped with a clatter. Then his arm went up, a swipe across the face, and back the other way across the neck, and Zalman was in the cold dirt, and Sanson thought he would turn around and see him because he had already seen him, and he would come and kill him or worse, not kill him but keep him alive. But Jacques didn’t turn around. He just started walking back the way he came, turned the corner, and was gone. There had barely been a noise. Nothing to alarm anyone. Sanson hadn’t even had a chance to step out of the darkness.

He walked to Zalman, who was on his back, moaning softly. He writhed, his upper body twisting slowly, like a snake. Sanson tried to kneel, but halfway down, his leg lost any power and he fell on his side, hitting Zalman with his knee.

—Oh, my God.

—Sanson.

He could barely see in the dark, just the reflection of moonlight on Zalman’s neck. —Sanson, I couldn’t

—I know, I saw him lash out

—Like a viper. I was looking at him and I just

He stopped talking and started moaning and grunting and Sanson didn’t know what to do. He didn’t have the power to drag him somewhere he could see better. He couldn’t just leave him in the street, but if someone came, he would get caught. All he knew to do is what he’d done after a battle, which is to just stay with his friend until he died or someone else came for him. It was late now, and the last bells had rung. Everyone was going to sleep. The prostitutes, even, were heading back to their homes. They were alone and it was quiet, at the end of the day.

He couldn’t do anything but sit there and wait in the darkness. Zalman kept trying to speak, but all that came out were grunts and soft cries. Sanson put his hand on Zalman’s head. There was nothing to be done. For a long time he sat there, but nobody came by, and nothing changed. He didn’t want to feel for the wound. He didn’t want to hurt Zalman. The vigil went on, and then, later, though Sanson didn’t know how much later, Zalman stopped breathing and Sanson shook his head and realized that now there was nothing to be done.

He got up and stood up but didn’t know what to do or where to go. He could faintly see the edges of the archway, but couldn’t remember which side he’d come in from. All he could do was go out and look around. But it was so dark that he didn’t know if he could even know which side he came out of.

Severine. He should try to find her place and tell her what happened to Zalman. She deserved to know. But how to even find her? He couldn’t face Severine. She would learn what happened to him. They would find his body in the morning, and people would find her. People talk. They know each other. They would find a body of a Turk and know that this was Severine’s man.

Out in the city. He was out of the archway. Under the stars. He could see the blur of the stars. It had been a long time since he saw a single star distinct from the others. Maybe if he walked long enough in one direction, he would be able to find something he recognized, but he walked for what seemed like an hour and he could barely see the building fronts. He felt his way along the walls, leaned against doors to see if he knew them. Nothing was familiar. He sat down in the dark in the road for a little while, listening to the squeaks of rats around him. He stunk. His body itched from lice. Kata was lost.

Even though it hurt to get up, he felt he had to keep moving. Finally the world started to take shape around him. Everything took on a faint blue outline and he found a baker and asked him for directions to the street that Harriet lived on. He limped in that direction and kept asking bakers until he found his way. One gave him a day-old loaf, which he broke in half and put in his pockets.

Finally he found Harriet’s house and walked in, collapsing on the floor and falling asleep almost immediately.

29.

Sanson woke again and didn’t know what hour it was. He didn’t want to miss the boat. He knew that Jacques had seen him, and that he would be killed. Jacques might even have come here the night before looking for him, but Sanson was still out wandering around, looking for the house. Jacques might have missed him. But here he was. Someone had covered him with a knitted woolen scarf, wrapped once around his neck and then laid like a ridge trail along the top of a mountain, down the side of his body.

The women and the girl were up and working at something at the hearth. They were speaking loudly, clearly unconcerned that they might wake him. He tried, but couldn’t get up. He was too stiff and in pain.

He lay there, eyes closed, resigned to his failure. Zalman, gone. Jacques aware of his betrayal. It was over, utterly over. The worst thing was that Jacques might actually just leave, and never concern himself with Sanson again. He was useless, beneath retaliation.

There was a knock at the door. Harriet went to the door, but Sanson couldn’t hear what she was saying. She just turned around, and behind her, there was Jean. She waved her hand in Sanson’s direction, as if to say, there, take him, please. Get him out of my house. Zalman would not be back here.

Then Sanson was on his feet, his arm around Jean. They walked out into the street and Jean was helping him up onto the back of a cart, where he lay and watched the tops of buildings roll by.

Then the cart stopped, and Jean held his arm up and led him forward toward a group of people, toward activity. They were loading boats on the river. Jean and Sanson walked until they were on a wooden deck, and Jean let go and walked away. Sanson swayed as if he were drunk, and then collapsed into a heap. He had no spirit left in him.

Another man gave him a hand and stood him up, walked him across a gangplank to a barge. He sat on a crate on the boat, feeling the gentle rocking as men yelled and horses snorted and dogs barked and things splashed in the water and that went on for a long time.

Sanson looked up, saw horses and dogs, valets for horses and dogs, doctors for the dogs, falcons in large cages, falconers with the falcons, then workmen were loading rolled and bound tapestries, hunting horns and hunting saddles, many bolts of cloth. Chests of jewels. Guards for the jewels. It seemed as if they were loading the entire wealth of France and Burgundy on the boats.

Then there was a trio of soldiers sitting on a crate next to him. Sanson allowed himself to slip down between crates so he was out of sight. One of the soldiers was older than the others. He narrated the procession of nobles and their men, as they were the last to board.

—And that bastard is Chateaumorant, the king’s chamberlain. Look at him, thin and skinny as a stalk of grass. Happy as can be, despite his position serving a madman. Poor bastard. And that one, walking behind him, looking as if he stepped in something nasty, that’s Jean de Vergy, governor of Franche Comte, practically a Hun. He’s a true son of a bitch. Nobody likes him, even Chateaumorant, who likes everyone. But he’s a son of a bitch putting up so much of the money so that he will have pull with the Dukes. Lord knows he will get it. He’s been angling for years, and this is his moment. That’s Jean Wilay behind de Vergy. Wilay, he’s looking to climb the ranks at court. Watch for him. He’s a comer.

—Oh, this one, Gilbert de Lewergen or something, I’ve heard of him. He’s Coucy’s man in Flanders. Put down the worker rebellion there. A fancy man. He’s got the hair, the golden chaff that Chateaumorant would love to have. What locks! He’s a pedo. Gropes boys, girls, you name it. I’m not taking shit. Everybody knows it. If you have kids, keep them away from Lou-whatever.

—Jean Blondel, your typical noble bastard who would just as soon as see you fall in a ditch and die as help you. Us? We’re shit to them. Fuck that guy. And this guy too, d’Anguel. Robert d’Anguel. This guy, man, he knows. If I were Wilay, I’d watch him close, take notes. He’s a fourth son. You believe that? Did he become a churchman? No. He became the secretary of Burgundy himself, the top dog. The funny thing is

He started laughing hysterically.

—You see his ears? Like a hound’s. They call him the eyes and ears of Burgundy. At least he’s the ears, huh?

He lost himself in a laughing fit again. —Oh, him, I don’t know.

He pointed, and Sanson looked up. —I know him.

—Yeah, who’s that?

—Jacques de Helly.

—Jacques de Helly? Who’s he vassal to?

—The Duke of Burgundy. But

—But what?

—He’s not, well, nevermind.

—You’re a mysterious one. You stink like shit, too.

Sanson watched the three men walk away. He would miss nothing of this city, not the incessant bells, not the stink of human and animal shit, not the unending flow of the Seine, not the pall of woodsmoke. He would not miss this world, not the sadness, not the cruelty, not the hope. He would be happy to give it all up and move on. He had only one thing left to do, if he could. He had one last chance. Then, if he could, he would confess and die.

The quay was cleared save for a few men checking lists and women waving. Men on board were standing on the deck, arms crossed, watching the city. Horses stamped and whinneyed, and men quieted them. Goats bleated. Dog trainers, horse-shoers, goatherds, muscle.

He had no weapon, nothing he could use to stick Jacques with in case there was a chance. He didn’t even know which boat Jacques was on. They were a convoy of barges, and Sanson didn’t even know if he could get from one boat to another. He didn’t know how long they would be on the boats. He had to stay put and hope that something would present itself — a weapon, an opportunity.

But nothing presented itself. They were on their boat for many days. Someone brought him food. He would just find it next to him, a trencher of bread with some pulses and potatoes on top. He didn’t know who to thank. Then he was able to get up and get his own food. He found a loose iron nail and wrapped it up and put it in his tunic, thinking that he could somehow sharpen it and use it to stick Jacques with.

The men pissed and shit off the side of the boat, and some vomited from nausea. Sanson would blink and the sun would suddenly be lower in the sky. He would blink and it would be in the middle of the night and all were asleep. He stayed in the same spot on deck, and came into possession somehow of a large piece of oilcloth that he used as a blanket.

When he opened his eyes, it was nighttime, and the light from torches and lanterns aft set the foggy air glowing. A trencher was on the deck next to him. He ignored it, closed his eyes again.

—Sanson.

There he was, before him, standing there, alone, at the edge of the boat, in silhouette. But it was him.

—Stand up.

Sanson hesitated, and Jacques flashed in anger. —What did I say? Get up on your feet.

It was possible that Sanson could pull him down off the boat with him. Nobody was there. There was silence around. Laughter came from far behind, music from far ahead. They were alone.

If Sanson could get them both close enough to the edge, he could pull them both into the Seine and hang on to Jacques until they both breathed the cold water into their lungs and drowned.

Jacques stepped forward to pull him up and then recoiled and let him drop back to the deck. —You fucking stink. You’re disgusting, do you know that?

Jacques didn’t expect an answer to his question, but he looked in disbelief at Sanson. —What?

—I didn’t say anything.

—Call me sir, you idiot.

Sanson hung his head. He was pathetic. —OK, sir.

Jacques nodded, walked to a nearby crate, and leaned against it. —Look, I’m glad you’re on this trip. I’m—I’m a little shaken, to be honest.

Sanson wished he had any strength in his body left.

—Yeah, I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, but I know that you and Zalman had gotten pretty close. Do you know that he tried to kill me last night? He attacked me, and it was only my superior strength and speed that allowed me to overpower him and take care of him. I left him bleeding out on a street back in Paris.

—He’s

—Dead, yeah. I killed him because he was trying to kill me. Why is everyone always trying to kill me, Sanson? Why? What did I do?

Sanson shook his head. He thought to himself I don’t know why everyone wants to kill you, but I know why Zalman did.

Jacques turned and looked, astonished, at Sanson. He was on his feet, standing at the edge of the barge. —You what? You know why Zalman tried to kill me?

He had said it out loud. He nodded.

—Well tell me then, you fucking stupid idiot.

Sanson thought this might be his moment.

—Come on, idiot, let’s go. Just tell me.

Would he have the speed to grab Jacques’ own dagger and kill him with it? There was no way.

—Oh my Lord help me. Mary mother, give me strength to deal with this idiot. Come on. Tell me what you wanted to tell me.

Sanson finally got up on his feet and took a moment to catch his breath.

—It was Severine.

Jacques turned around and thought for a moment. He was too far away from the edge of the boat now. Someone came up and asked Jacques something, then walked away, giving Sanson a look that clearly expressed disgust. —Severine? He wanted her?

Sanson nodded.

—And he wanted to kill me to what, protect her from me?

—Yeah.

He whispered. —But I’m the father of her child.

—Yeah.

He raised his voice. —Protect her from me? But I protected her against the world. I gave her everything. She would have been living in a hovel if it weren’t for me. As it was, she had all she could expect. What an ungrateful bitch. Well, that’s it, then. She’s dead to me. She’s nothing. Cut off. Her and her bastard. I don’t need them. That’s it. I put too much effort into this. You know, you can see it.

—But she wasn’t

Jacques was pacing, but then he looked up and turned to Sanson. —She conspired against me. With him. She knew about this.

—No, I

—She’s dead. Her and the bastard. I’ll make sure of it, when I return. Chivalry dictated that I felt responsibility for her, but no more. I have no responsibility for her anymore, nor for her bastard. It’s over. Well, that’s a relief, really. I need not spend anymore time thinking about them right now. Zalman. What a betrayal.

A nobleman was strolling up to them. His shoes were the curly toed kind, with the tips tied to his calves. It was impractical for a boat journey and it was a youthful fad, and he was a middle-aged man with a big belly, and he looked ridiculous.

Jacques gave a little wave of the hand at Sanson, as Harriet had done. He turned from Sanson, gave a small bow. —Ah, Baron, are we not lucky to go on such a mission?

The Baron was disdainful of Jacques, that was clear. —Yes, so lucky. But tell me, you have been there?

—Where, to the court of the Ottoman? Yes, of course. In my early days, when fighting ended against the English, I was a sort of military consultant for the Sultan, on strategy and such. These were the days before his ambition and greed led him to attack good Christian souls and stoke the anger of Hungary and the wrath of Burgundy. I feel like I can be instrumental in securing a

—Yes, I’m sure you can. I look forward to. But what is the food like? Will there be anything palatable?

Jacques and the Baron walked away from Sanson, who held the nail tight in his hand.

30.

A few more days in, Sanson started getting seasick. He wasn’t the only one. Many of the boys could not tolerate being on the boat. Even though the going was almost entirely steady, Sanson lay on his stomach vomiting over the side of the barge. When he wasn’t vomiting, he was dry heaving. And then he would sleep, only eating when he didn’t think he would survive.

Jacques was nowhere to be seen. He was clearly up ahead, somewhere. When they stopped the boats, they weren’t able to get off and onto shore, where, Sanson assumed, he’d get relief. Instead, he continued to lay on the deck and vomit. At night, he would roll himself in a blanket and sleep as long as he could. More than once he considered finding a cannonball, wrapping it in his tunic, just rolling off the deck and into the river, letting himself sink to the bottom.

Food was deposited at his side. When it rained, someone put a oilcloth over him, but he never saw who it was. Sanson watched the river rush by, the green and blue of the water. Sometimes he could see the shadow of a fish against the side of the boat. He could see a crust of bread float past, the skin of a chicken, a branch from a tree. He saw how the water flowed around a stick that stuck up into the air. The mist in the morning looked angry against a spot on the side of the boat. The sun made the same spot look cheery and ridiculous.

In these moments he forgot the pain in his side. Then sometimes, when the nausea passed or he had nothing left in his system to throw up, he would turn over and watch the sky, squint against the sun and to see the shape of clouds, how the clouds pushed through the air with the wind. He thought of Kata and hoped she was well. He watched the trees on the shore go past. He thought of Kata making herself small and unseen, of shrinking down until she could hide in the seams of her bedclothes, until she could play in the straw, befriend the lice.

At Buda and Pest, all the residents came out to watch the six flat-bottomed barges loaded with huge parcels wrapped in linens, cages filled with falcons and other birds of prey, five cages full of songbirds. One cage fell onto the deck, broke, and released color and sound into the hazy air. A man was dressed down. Casks of wine, barrels of salted meats, horses with no burdens, all for the Ottoman king.

Soon he came to learn that the boy who brought him food was named Laurent. The others, it seemed, had made Sanson their project. They were determined to keep him alive and well and to learn his story, perhaps better to torment him. Laurent was the one who was chosen to bring him food and water and to cover him up when it rained.

One afternoon, the boy brought a stool and sat next to Sanson, who was sitting up against a crate after a long vomiting session, breathing heavy and thinking about Kata.

—I’m Laurent.

—I know.

—You do. I knew it. You’re not as dumb as they think, are you?

—I don’t know. Maybe I am. Are you the one bringing me food and drink?

Laurent nodded.

—You don’t have to do that. You can all just leave me be.

—Don’t want to leave you be. Want to ask you something.

Sanson nodded.

—Question: You in trouble? You supposed to be here?

—I don’t know. I think I’m supposed to be here, yeah.

—Whose your people?

—My people?

—Who are you all with?

—I’m traveling with the lord who brought me.

—He’s your master?

—Sure, yes.

Laurent smiled, then sat down on the deck next to Sanson. —You sure are easy to talk to. Smell quite a bit, don’t you?

—I’ve been told.

—You really do. Want to know why I’m here?

—Sure.

—I’m an apprentice to a falconer. I’m tending the birds best I can with my master. We’re bringing the birds to give them away to heathens. Though I suppose the birds won’t mind. I mind. I’m going to miss them. Know I’m not supposed to get attached or anything, but I couldn’t help myself, and now I’m not happy that they’ll be heathen birds.

Sanson stared at this boy, looked at him. He had curly auburn hair with freckles on his face. He had to squint, and the boy squinted back. The freckles pressed together on his face, making a brownish-red starry night of his yellow face. His ears were a little pointed at the tips, giving him a sense of embodying either a little bit of evil or a great deal of goodness. —Can’t see?

Sanson didn’t answer, just kept staring. There were streaks of light and dark in Laurent’s hair. He was wearing a makeshift scarf around his neck made of a strip of what seemed like the same material as his pants. His mouth was turned up at the corners even when he frowned, which made him look happy. His face was dirty, smudged with a streak of mud above his right eye.

—Look, I just wanted to talk. Can I talk? The boys don’t want to hear this stuff, but I got to talk about lest I burst.

Laurent’s hands were cracking on the palms and was bleeding from at least one spot.

—You see, I’m worried. How long are we away? Four months? Be back in the summer? If I come back. I know there are vicious men out there, assassins, wild animals, poisonous snakes. The Turks might attack us. And my wife is with child. She’s going to have it maybe four months from now. Maybe when I get back, maybe before I get back. I had to come. I didn’t want to come. I wanted to stay with her, to help her. She’s sick, so sick. She throws up all day, all night, like you, and her mother died last year, and my mother died last year, and we don’t have help. And we’re kind of alone. We don’t have anyone to take care of her. So she’s there at home, throwing up. She can’t do anything. I’m worried about her. I can’t do anything about it, but I figured I could tell you. Maybe because of the throwing up. Never been away from home before, you know? I grew up in Paris, lived in Paris, never went anywhere. Never left my street, practically. I want to be there for my wife. This is whining, isn’t it? But you know, I feel sad. That’s fine, isn’t it? I miss my father. I loved my father. He was the only good one in my neighborhood. All the other fathers were terrible, used to beat up my friends, but my father never wanted to do that. He knew I’d be a good man and didn’t need to beat me. I miss him.

—I miss my mother too but not like I miss my dad. I’m going to come back and be a good dad to my boy as well. If he does get out of line, if I see him going bad, I’ll beat him. I just want to make it back home to see my boy. I think it’s a boy. It might be a girl, but Mme Vache, that’s not her real name, but it’s what we call her because she looks like a cow and walks like a cow. My wife likes it. She thought that was funny. Mme Vache thinks it’ll be a boy because of the way she’s carrying, you know, like higher up, I think, or lower down, I can’t remember. I’m almost glad that her parents are dead because they already didn’t like me before they died on account of my parents. They didn’t like them. Thought they were above my parents, which they weren’t. But I’m not glad they’re dead because they thought they were above me. I’m glad they’re dead because they wouldn’t have hated to see me go away when their daughter was with child, but I don’t really think it’s good they’re dead. But they are dead, right, so it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t worry, though. I think it’ll be all right, right? I don’t know. I just hope that she’ll be all right, and I’ll be all right, the boy will be all right. He’ll be all right even if he’s a girl, you know? I’ll come back and I’ll raise him, even if he’s a her. Do you live in Paris? Because if you want, when we get back, you can come and see the baby, whether or not it’s a boy, you can come. All right, I should let you, you know, vomit. Seems like you want to. I just wanted to thank you for talking to me. It really helped me. I’m going to go back because I can see they’re looking over here and are wondering what we’re talking about. We’ll talk again. We got a long way to go. But you know you can always come and visit me and my wife when we get back to Paris.

Sanson watched him walk away and disappear into the group of men who were all pointing and laughing at Sanson, and it was clear that Laurent had said something about him, maybe that he smelled. Maybe not, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter much.

Sanson would never return, he knew that. He would never meet Laurent’s child or his wife.

31.

There was Orsova and the massive gorges of the Iron Gates that rose up hundreds of feet in the air. Everyone on board looked up in awe as they moved through the narrow channel.

That meant that those towns they passed were Rahova and Vidin. The towns were partially rebuilt, but by squinting, Sanson could see the breaches in the walls that had not been repaired. From here, he could spot houses, standing quiet and blue with distance. Dozens of smoke columns rose up in the still air. He could see that people were walking around.

The men on his boat and the men on the other boats walked to the port side and stood with their arms crossed. The people in Rahova were pointing now at them as they floated by. A few men. A lot of women and children, standing with the sun to their right side in the morning light. They all moved, as one, to the banks of the river, and pointed. They were a blur on the banks. But the nobles and soldiers had already lost interest and turned back to their floating city.

When they had reached Rahova, a few hundred men - mounted knights, including Jacques — and pikemen, including Sanson — and a few archers — had marched up to the town and over the course of an afternoon of hard work, with no resistance except for some curses hurled down from the walls, filled in a pathway across the moat that surrounded the town.

It wasn’t much of a moat really, only about two yards across at its widest. They joked together about how it was meant to keep cats out of the town.

All day, the mounted men shouted directions at the soldiers, but the job was so easily done, and so quickly done, that they realized that their leadership was not needed, so they simply sat back in their saddles and watched the work and then, bored, yelled up to the few men up in the towers.

—Hello! We are coming in. Would you like to let us in?

Another nobleman. —We’re tired. Can you open the doors, please?

Jacques. —We have been polite. We won’t be so polite after sitting here all day.

The men in the towers watched them. The moat might be bridged, but there were still the walls and large iron gates. But then it was clear that the Burgundians had ways of getting through and ripping the gates off their hinges, so the Rahovans began to throw rocks, shoot arrows, pour boiling water.

These had no effect. The Burgundians shot back and blocked their workers with shields. Sanson was a shield bearer. He could not shovel anymore or carry rocks, but he could hold a shield. There were no casualties.

The rest of the army, tens of thousands of men, set up camp only an English arrow’s flight away. Men who needed a break could wander back to camp to rest for a little while. They watched their backs, looking up at the walls to make sure they weren’t getting shot at, but it was mostly fine. Nobody got hurt.

By late afternoon, they were done. The strip across the moat was topped with earth and packed down by fifteen men, stamping on the ground under the cover of shields. That took another few hours, and then it was supper and almost dark, so they went back to camp. The nobles spent some time riling up the men, explaining how beautiful the women were in the town, how much wealth they had, how they were Orthodox heathens who deserved to die. Better that they were for the other pope! They were even worse because they were on the side of the Ottomans against their own fellow Christians!

The next morning it rained. The new land bridge in the moat had eroded a bit, so it was only a few feet wide. So they widened it. While the work continued, several men, safe under the hang of the portico, worked on banging on the town gates with metal instruments, to scare the inhabitants away while others tore chunks off the stones around the gates, working with chisels.

Meanwhile, others were charged with yelling skyward, berating the men on the walls. Once one of the men

threw a large stone from the tower, breaking a man’s

ankle. This caused great mirth, and they bore the man away. That

man would be decapitated a week later, but until then, he enjoyed being the first combat casualty of the campaign. He was

carried around by the men, feted, celebrated, given drink and

food. It was a good week for that man.

Finally they loosened the gate and were able to lever the gate so it was almost loose. The first man who put his face jokingly to the hole in the stone lost an eye to an arrow. He ran away screaming while his fellows laughed. There was little danger if you didn’t do anything stupid.

Sanson and the other pikemen took turns sticking their pike through the hole and pulling down hard on it, to widen the hole. Sanson had no strength left in his arms. It cost him terrible pain to just take part in this exercise, but he had no choice. What was to come next was men skewered, women raped and killed, children killed and orphaned. He had seen it too many times. To his credit, had have never raped a woman, never killed a child. But he had killed many men before in the name of the cross and crown, men who were defending their homes and women and children. He had killed and knew that killing in the name of God was not as simple as his fellows seemed to think it was. It would all be worked out in the hereafter. He put his pike into the hole and pulled down feebly. The men — dozens of them — laughed at him, and so Sanson le Piquier took his pike and retreated to the rear of the group. He did not seek shelter under a shield or bother to look up for stray arrows.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the gates to be demolished. They kicked at them, ran into them, each assay the cause for an ovation of cheers and laughter. The men rubbed their shoulders in mock agony, put on helmets and ran headfirst, falling down theatrically, arms outstretched, pretending to have gotten knocked out.

To the side, not taking part in this joyous work, were the nobles, looking severe and respectable but laughing behind their hands in the guise of talking to each other privately. Nevers, Boucicault, and a dozen others, including Jacques, watched the festivities.

When the gates were finally broken, the order was given to make way, and Nevers and Boucicault, as the commanders, mounted and rode across the land bridge. The rest of the men followed into an empty courtyard, just a large dirt circle inside the gates. Sanson went in with the last few men. They were a thousand, if not more, and they spread out to fill the courtyard, with Nevers and Boucicault and the other nobles on horseback, rising up in the middle of the men.

Little by little, they fell silent. All expected Rahova to be a fight, as other towns had been, but there was no resistance. They occupied at least this part of the town. For a few minutes, all Sanson could hear was murmuring, the bark of a dog, the neighing of horses, the rushing in his ears. He wandered to the side of the group, near a wall, to lean against something, to ease his painful back and legs.

Then there was the scream of hundreds of men, and there, coming from one road leading into the courtyard, came the Rahovans, the inevitable fight for home.

At the van, a man with a long beard carried a pitchfork. Even squinting, Sanson couldn’t see his face at that distance, but he was screaming as he crossed the space, only a dozen or so yards, toward the Burgundian soldiers. Behind him, two men carrying wooden stakes, knives bound to the tip. The blades caught the sunlight. Behind them, four more, and even more, until there were hundreds of them rushing out screaming and yelling.

They surprised nobody. The Burgundian soldiers laughed, swung or thrusted their pikes, and struck down the farmers and weavers and tailors and bakers. Their neighbors fell before them, but still they came, looking for an advantage where there was none.

Soon the mounted nobles joined the fun, yelling for the soldiers to get out of the way. They chopped down with their swords, let the horses’ hooves trample those who fell.

All told — they counted, after all was still — more than two hundred men ran forward to their fate. Sunlight reflected off the pools of blood, until the blood soaked in and darkened the ground. Soon, the last of the Rahovans lost their taste for the fight and retreated or came forth to be captured.

Sanson was no good to anyone to do almost anything, let alone lift his pike against a man without protection. Nobody asked him why he wasn’t fighting, in part because there was very little for most of the men to do except cheer their fellows on, and in part because he was invisible to everyone in the fun.

The nobles ended up doing most of the killing after the first few minutes. Once they came forward, a lot of the men simply cheered on Nevers and Boucicault. And then it was over, the prisoners were cordoned off against a wall, and a few of the soldiers came forward to get a kill so they could tell their friends back home. There was no ransom forthcoming for these men, so they were without protection.

Nevers rode forward, positioning himself between the prisoners and his soldiers. He bestowed his triumphant smile on all. Boucicault strode up, towering over the boy but offering only his support and advice, which Nevers immediately sought, huddling with the older man. They conferenced for a few moments, and then Nevers spoke with authority to the prisoners.

—Who are the most prominent members of your town? Who are your leaders?

There was no response. Some were boys who couldn’t grow a beard, and some had gray beards. Their friends and relatives lay at their feet, some not dead, but groaning in agony. Some of them were wide-eyed, while some of them let their lids droop in despair. Sanson squinted to see.

They began a march to the town square. A bell tower, a stone church, the wailing of women, the crying of children, the stomp of feet, the shouts of men. It was a weary and familiar sound.

As they went through the streets toward the town hall, they dragged the men, goading them with pikes, piercing their sides and letting them fall where they stood. They did not walk fast enough. And as they went through the streets, they stopped at each door, kicked it open, went in, pulled women and children out, and added them to the procession. Sanson stood aside, bearing witness to this. Three priests had arrived, smiling and enjoying the show.

This went on for hours. The men got thirsty and found what they could in the houses. They spread out, and soon all men were coming back with women, children, and bottles of wine. By midday many were drunk and were spending more time in the houses before bringing out the women.

The van had reached the main square. A cordon was made around the outside with horses and pikes, and the inhabitants, mostly Ottomans, streamed in, were pushed in, until they were a huddled mass.

Along with the women and children came the richest merchants. It was easy to see who these were. They were not in finery, but they held themselves, were given respect from all of the citizens.

A whispered suggestion from Boucicault to Nevers, a conference of captains, and the merchants were rounded up and taken into the town hall. Apparently the mayor had been killed in the initial fighting.

The merchants’ women and daughters broke down in tears, and they were consoled by the women and daughters of the poorer folk. This was a rare moment, it was clear, where the poorer women had any access to the richer women, and it was a triumph for them. They petted their hair, cradled the girls, encouraged the youngest of these lofty families to the youngest of their own.

The killing had stopped, and there was hope. A sort of calm came over the crowd. The merchants were negotiating with the invaders, and they would talk it over, offer them what they desired, and then they would leave and let them be. All would be well again and then there would be a new order in Rahova. They had shared this moment together, the richest and the poorest, and nothing would be the same. Sanson watched them hold each other and tell themselves that this was the case.

There was a banging sound from inside the town hall, and the women gasped, all together. Then nothing for a while, and they went back to planning their future. The childrens’ smiles returned soon as well.

Nevers emerged, stepping to the door of the town hall and folding his arms. He shook his head, almost to himself, though he knew he was being watched by hundreds. He was young, barely 25 years old, self-assured, not afraid to ask his elders for help, not afraid to fight. It was clear he would go far, lead men, go down in history as a man to be reckoned with. And he would rule soon. His father was not well. Philip the Bold would be Philip the Dead, and then Nevers would be John the Fearless.

Boucicaut was not much older, maybe five years, but he had much more experience. He had been fighting in the field since he was 12, was knighted at 16. He appeared behind Nevers, spoke into his ear.

Nevers waved his arm and spoke, without attempting to project his voice. —Kill them all.

One woman screamed. One. She was the only one who could understand Nevers, and she started explaining, in low tones, to the women around her.

The news didn’t get far before the killing began. Sanson was invisible, so he didn’t have to take part. He was despised, so he didn’t have to take part. He did force himself to watch. The nobles did not take part in the killing. This was not honorable.

The pleading was the worst of it. The remaining men, the old men, on their knees, heads in supplication as if in prayer, the women falling to the ground holding their children, covering them with their bodies as if they could protect them from the spears.

There was no talking, no rejoicing on the part of the soldiers. This was a task, and they would perform it, but there was no fun in it at this point. This was a job done in the name of Christ, in the name of the Duke and the King, and yes, it was a little distasteful, but they would do it. This night, they would get drunk on whatever they could find in town.

The men in the town hall were the last to die. They had been sequestered inside, had been entertained for the hour or so it took to finish the task and kill everyone in the square. Then these dozen or so men were led outside, where they lamented and cried for a few moments. Then they too were cut down.

All was not still, for only mortal wounds had been given without regard for death. It was enough to know that they all would die, not that they were dead. So they left many squirming in pain and spread out to the rest of the town to find what they could, to drink, to eat, to sell. Nevers gave the men the rest of the day off. When the morning came, they were expected to return to the rest of the amassed army.

32.

The word among the men in camp was that the Burgundians were hated by the rest of the armies. The Hungarians, the Prussians, even English were there, and they all thought that the Burgundians were needlessly cruel, rash, and stupid. They were only tolerated because they had brought the largest contingent of mounted men and a great deal of money.

King Sigismund of Hungary, the other commander, had taken a village, Vidin, not far from Rahova, but his men had not created a massacre. There were few, if any, rapes. Why did the Burgundians feel the need for such brutality? It would come back on them. Sanson heard these sentiments among the nations as we wandered around camp, near a fortress called Nicopolis.

Jacques’ tent was among his peers. He had an agreement with Sanson that Sanson would always pitch his tent behind the horse corral, near Jacques’ horse. That way Jacques could always find him. Sanson liked it that way because he didn’t have to be around the men, who made fun of him when they got drunk. They had encamped for only two nights before the Burgundians under young Nevers decided to confirm their reputation, go against the wisdom of Sigismund and other other commanders, and attack from a position of weakness against a superior force on unfamiliar ground.

It was up the hill where the battle happened. They were soon driven down the hill and toward the river. Men tried to swim away and drowned. Nobody made it across the river. Those who refused to jump in and die were taken prisoner. Back up the hill, there were the executions, retribution for Rahova, rashness, brutality, cruelty, stupidity.

Sanson looked at the hill, covered in wildflowers of purple.

—That is where I saved your life. You should be grateful. Maybe you’re not my lucky charm. Maybe I’m your lucky charm. Maybe you should think about that?

Sanson didn’t turn, and it wasn’t until later that he thought it was possible that Jacques hadn’t been there.

Past the fortress, out into the Black Sea, they made landfall and were met by local lords, who sent fast horses, and arranged for campgrounds for the hundred or so men and all of their treasure.

The next day, they boarded on large ships that took them along the coast to the south, through the Prosphorion to the Marmara Sea, around the tip of Izmir to landfall.

Sanson went across with a group of falconers and two nervous horses. On the other shore, bread was handed out, and they continued on to meet up with Bajazet. They traveled south, to Bursa.

33.

They were brought en masse in carts while the nobles rode their Arabians, toward the site of the Grand Mosque where they would be met by the head of the project. The Grand Mosque! They all wondered what stately palace they would get to visit.

But when they got there, they rode their carts directly into a cleared, open field among massive columns.

A man explained, through a translator, that this mosque, which was to be the greatest in the Ottoman Empire, was being built to commemorate the victory over the combined forces of the west at Nicopolis.

The man spoke for a long time about the plans for the mosque.

—Yes, you see very little now, but the plans are quite impressive, including two massive minarets that will flank the front, taller than any other building for many miles around. Thousands will come every day to pray to Allah here, knowing all along, for generations to come, that our people conquered the mighty combined French forces, and humiliated them on the field of battle. Just as Mohammed destroyed his enemies, so did the Thunderbolt subdue the flower of a dozen nations. And here you are, the defeated, come with gifts to beg for the lives of your countrymen, just as the son of your Duke of Burgundy pathetically begged on his knees for his friend Jean Le Maingre. We welcome you to this holy site.

The Baron de Coussay crossed his arms and cleared his throat. —We would like to speak with the Thunderbolt now.

Another man, in fine silk robes, stepped forward and also spoke through the translator. —You will not see the Thunderbolt today. Today you will meet with your imprisoned countrymen, so you can see that they have not been harmed in any way, for once we have laid down our arms, we treat our prisoners well.

A great show of restrained gratitude was given to this man, who led them through the streets on foot along with all of the gifts, across town. They walked and walked while families came out of their homes to see them.

Finally they arrived at a gate that opened wide into a courtyard. Birds flew down to watch them. Once they were inside, the gate was closed and locked from the outside, and guards were positioned at either end.

Four men came forth. Sanson recognized them all from when they all stood together on the balcony overlooking the executions.

The Count du Beauvais came forward to greet them. —Constable, Nevers, Jean, my dear Coucy. Are you all right?

Boucicaut coughed into a cloth. —We’re alive. All is well. Have you come to negotiate our ransom?

Jacques spoke up. —Yes, we have traveled here with great gifts for the Sultan and with authorization to see to your release.

—Oh, Jacques, it’s you. All right, good.

Boucicaut was bitter and sarcastic, and Jacques blushed. Then the younger, more famous knight turned to Nevers.

—How are you, my friend?

Nevers was even younger, just a boy, really. He couldn’t grow a beard. He scowled. —I’m fucking tired of this shit, I’ll tell you. The food here is terrible.

Boucicaut shook his head and tsked. —You are whining. It does not become a future Duke of Burgundy.

Nevers scowled at him and nodded. —You’re right. I’m just hungry. Tired. I didn’t sleep last night. It’s the fucking peacocks.

Coucy laughed. —The fucking peacocks. You know they haven’t treated us very well, do you know that? We were forced to march to Gallipoli after the battle. You, Helly, you went off on your little walk through the countryside. The boys did not have shoes.

Boucicaut scoffed. —Fuck those boys. Those were peasants. Useless. They are the reason we lost that battle.

Coucy slapped his thigh in anger. —You will be quiet, sir. I almost died of the cold on the way, and was only saved by the quick thinking of some of those boys, who shared with me the blankets they carried. I was wounded, and they were wounded, and they chose to help me.

—As well they should have. You are a nobleman and thus your lot is to protect them. You deserved and deserve their gratitude and admiration.

Coucy shook his head and turned to go back inside. —I’m not feeling well. I’m going to go lay down. You fellas wake me for dinner.

They were all quiet for a while. Nevers paced for a bit. —He’s not going to make it.

—Richest man in France, and he’s going to die in some shitty chateau in Lord knows where.

Nevers snapped back. —He’s NOT the richest man in France.

—Yeah, that’s because he spent so much money helping your fucking family.

—Guys, guys! C’mon. That’s enough.

—I’m sorry. You’re right. We’re a little on edge. Boucicaut isn’t doing well at all either. They think it’s plague, and nobody will get near him. So that’s got everyone upset as well. Look, we should probably go inside and rest up. You have all had a long trip here. We’ll want news from home.

Nobody stopped Sanson. He was truly invisible. He was always with Jacques, and nobody questioned it because there was no reason. He was barely a person. They were in a large home of a rival of Bajazet’s who had been eliminated. This had been their home for the previous five months. They gave them much less than they were accustomed to. The food was much too spicy for their tastes. They hadn’t had women since they had been there. Everyone hated them. The muezzin’s call was annoying. Yes, they were always polite — everyone, but in sort of a mean, hateful way, if they understood. Nevers could tell that all of the Turks hated them, especially him. It was a melancholic situation. They were not given enough candles. It was starting to get warm. They hadn’t had word from home.

They asked about their children, their wives, politics at home. Jacques was quiet. They posed no questions to him. He sat watching these men of higher station and Sanson watched him. When the conference waned, Jacques approached Nevers, who was sitting with Beauvais. Jacques remained standing.

—Sir, might I have a moment alone with you?

Beauvais looked at Nevers. Nevers looked at Beauvais. —No, Beauvais will stay. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of him.

Jacques nodded. —Might I sit?

Nevers paused, long enough to communicate his disdain, then held out a hand.

—Sir, I wanted to talk to you about my future.

—Your future? You are how old?

This was a sharp question, and Sanson, because he knew Jacques well, knew that this hurt him. But there was nothing but charming buoyancy. —I am 63 years old, my lord, and still going. I have years left, perhaps not as many on horseback, and perhaps not many on these long treks to the east, but that is why I wanted to talk. I feel like my experiences can be valuable at court. I think that I could be helpful to you as we head into a new century.

Nevers listened to him. Sanson could see what what was happening. Now that he had been through battle, he was proven, and could handle minor knights like Jacques alone. Beauvais was there just for support, for light supervision, just in case. When Jacques was done making his case, Nevers stood and paced.

—Jacques, listen, you need to know something that you might not be grasping here. You are not of consequence. You are much, much older than I am, much older than all of the others here, but the fact is that I have enough advice. And I don’t think I’ll need your counsel. I see your problem, but you already have the vassalage of my father, who is of good health and is in a position to reward you should you actually live up to that responsibility, first, before anything else. You also know that the only reason you are on this trip is because you were released on parole by Sultan Asshole, and you were to be released from your parole. I suggest that you simply bide your time until tomorrow, see yourself released from your obligation, and then you may find your way back to your estates, which are, as I understand it, quite sizable.

Nevers looked to Beauvais, who nodded in confirmation or approval.

Jacques knew he was being dismissed. He stood, nodded his head at Nevers, at Beauvais, and turned, and then Sanson could see his face. He looked at Sanson, which meant that Sanson should follow him. He walked out of the room. Sanson waited a moment under the gaze of Beauvais, and followed.

He found Jacques pacing out of earshot in a hallway. Sanson had no weapons except the nail, which he held in his fist, no chance of overpowering Jacques. He would have to extend his agony for a little longer. There would have to be another chance to get him alone when he was more vulnerable.

—Sanson, it seems as if our luck is running out. I have only one more opportunity here, and that is to talk to the Sultan himself. Bajazet will give me something. He owes me. If I can get him alone, get an audience with him, I know I can convince him. We go back many years. All I’m looking for is a small honorarium. He knows that there is nothing negative between us. Sanson, we will find a way out of this.

Then Jacques was gone, and Sanson was standing along in the hallway. He had missed his best chance in the street. Zalman had failed him. How would he ever find a moment. It could not be a feeble attempt. It had to mean something. If he died in the attempt, that was all the better. At least Jacques would know, in his last moments, that it was Sanson who did it. If he could give his life in Kata’s name, all would be well and he could rest.

He was being ushered into a barracks, and there was an empty cot. It was night. The room was smelly and loud. There were other men, but he fell asleep almost immediately. Then he was awake, somehow sitting up in bed and he was apologizing to Kata, who he saw clearly before him. And there were people yelling at him to shut up and go to sleep.

Then Jacques was standing next to his cot and it was morning. —I’ll be outside.

They were going with the noble prisoners to see Bajazet, who would accept the gifts the negotiators had brought as a way of beginning talks about ransom. They had been forced to dress in the clothes of the Ottoman’s, and then marched through the streets. People came out to watch them in curiosity. There was no jeering, no anger, only a weariness and a desire to break up their day.

It was a hot day, and they walked through the palace, out the back doors, into a large garden. At the end of the garden, a huge rectangular tent, open on the long side, was set up as an outdoor court. On a large chair in the middle of the tent, the Sultan slouched.

They stood before the Thunderbolt as four large carts rolled up. Beauvais and Coussay, who had been selected as the ambassadors, each selected something from the carts, and one by one, carried or had men carry the gifts into the tent, stand before the Sultan, and explain the gift.

—Your excellency, a gold box that, when opened, plays a song, which as we understand is a favorite of your excellencies. Here, we’ll show you.

—Your excellency, this is one of the finest tapestries we had in the king’s palace.

—Your excellency, these falcons are four of the best birds our falconers have. They have been trained as young to hunt small animals.

—Show me.

—You want us to show you now?

The Sultan nodded, impassive and stolid. —Yes.

—All right. Is there a coney or a squirrel or anything else that we can release to show you their great talent?

The Sultan snapped his fingers and one of his aides came running up to him. He whispered something in this man’s ear, and the man ran away.

Beauvais and Coussay tried to show the Sultan something else while they waited, but the Sultan shook his head. He spoke accented but excellent French. —We will wait, and then we will see a demonstration.

They all waited in the heat, and the Frenchmen tried to engage the Sultan in conversation. —Are you sure that we can’t continue with some of the other gifts, and then we can continue with the falcon demonstration after?

But the Sultan glared at them and that shut down any further attempts.

His own people came to him and talked to him, their backs to the Frenchmen. But he shook his head gently and even smiled a little. It was clear that this was a form of punishment. He had people to tamper his fury. He had people to offer him good advice. Sanson had seen it on that day of the battle, when he had finally, after thousands of heads had been separated from bodies, after so much blood had been spilled, relented and let thousands more live. They had all been tied up in groups, in a line, ready for their turn, and thanks to some of these advisors, they had lived to be sold off, just as Kata had. But now, the Sultan would not and could not cut off heads, and he would not sell anyone into slavery. He could only make their lives more uncomfortable and inconvenient. He would sit in his tent while his guests stood in the sun for as many hours as he liked them to. And he would enjoy it, and chuckle about it with these advisors, and they would smile slyly to each other that they were preventing further brutality and could enjoy this.

And then finally five men came running down the rocky path with cages. They placed the cages at the feet of the Frenchmen, who motioned to the falconers, who set a small animal free, unhooded a falcon, let it fly, the swoop, the kill, the return, the showing off of the dead animal, the rewarding of the falcon, and then again with the others until the falcons had all shown off, and had been rewarded and rehooded, and then handed to the Turkish falconers, who received the birds with a mixed show of respect and haughtiness. The falcons, truly of quality, were handed over. Then, and only then did they continue with the show.

—Your excellency, these pieces of jewelry are from the collection of our queen herself. They belonged to

And so on, and it went on and on for hours. The Sultan, after the falcons, seemed to have no interest in the proceedings at all. He was tolerating this show of obeisance.

The moment came for Jacques to approach the Sultan to be released from his parole obligations. He stepped forward and the Sultan spoke with him directly.

—You are released from your obligation, Sir Jacques.

Jacques stood there. He had been dismissed, but he stood there.

—Sir Jacques, you are released. Your service is no longer required.

—Your Excellency, I would like one moment of your time to discuss a matter of importance. Is it possible that I can

—That’s enough, Jacques. You are to return to your place.

Jacques stood there a moment longer. The Frenchmen exchanged glances and would have snickered, had it been decorous.

—But I feel like I have earned an audience with the

An advisor stepped forward and put his hand up. —You are to return to your place.

Jacques nodded, turned around, and shot a glance at Sanson, who knew that he would be trying later, to get away and try to speak to the Sultan another way. He nodded, turned around, and walked back to his place in the heat.

The carts were empty, the gifts were done. Bajazet stood, stepped forward to the edge of the tent.

—You French, you come here to negotiate the ransom for your noblemen. I will not charge you for the men who have died in the interim. Obviously they can not be returned. I want to tell you something, especially you, Nevers.

Nevers held his head high, stepped forward to be addressed.

—Nevers, you will live for many years to come, if Allah wills it. You will likely become the Duke of Burgundy and be John the Whatever, and you will likely decide that you are a brave man, fearless against his enemies, a man who deserved respect. But you also must carry with you the shame of this crusade against us who have only been looking to rule what is truly ours. You, being the leader of this army, or what is left of it, you carry the blame for your defeat.

Nevers clenched his teeth and nodded.

—You come here with no provocation at all from my people, at the behest of a ridiculous king, but unlike him, you are not a fool. You come here for glory and you find nothing but shame. You treat people as if they are not all Allah’s children, the children of God. You know that your arrogance is why you have lost so many men.

Bajazet was quiet for a good minute, while he looked upward at a sky the color of skimmed milk. —Nevers, are you hearing me?

Nevers said nothing. He stood with the expression of a petulant child being scolded by his parent.

—Now, because you are so egregiously responsible for this

defeat, you might want to wipe out this blot and regain the

honor you have so tainted. You might be tempted to go home,

raise a more powerful army to lead against me, and come back. I do not know if that is what you are planning, but I can see you thinking it, that this is something that is possible. I could see this army marching back out, this time on your own, without the help of Sigismund, without the help of the English. You will see revenge. Yes, is that something you are thinking of?

He began to raise his voice, and soon he was yelling at Nevers directly.

—Well, boy, if I were afraid of you, boy, I would rely on the scant honor you still retain, and make you swear, and make your friends swear, on your faith, on your Virgin Mary, on your honor, on your family’s name, not to do this. But I will not do so.

Bajazet stopped, stood up, and turned around so he was facing the back of the tent. His advisors leaned toward him, concerned. They stole glances at each other, and Nevers looked back at the Frenchmen, confused, then back at the sultan. His shoulders quivered, and for a moment, Sanson thought he was crying. But then, his advisors, who were studying him closely, relaxed, their shoulders lowering, and they were smiling. Then Sanson could see that he was actually laughing. At long last his shoulders stopped moving, and he spun around, face stern.

—No, boy, I will not demand such an oath from you nor from anyone, and that’s not because I would not believe you, though you have shown yourself to be dishonorable. No, I will not demand such an oath because it is my solemn wish that you do, in fact, go back home, raise an army, and come back to retrieve my head. For of course, I have taken so many of yours, and the favor must be returned. Understand this. Remember, Nevers.

He was yelling now. —Remember, Nevers, that you will find me, no matter when you return, you will find me prepared for you and your army. I will always be ready to meet you on the field of battle. What you hear me say today, repeat to all. Do you know why?

Bajazet waited for a very long time, but finally Nevers was

forced to speak up. —No, why?

—Because, boy, I want deeds of arms. I wish to extend my conquest, and you can offer me that. So please, Nevers, please convey my message to your betters.

Bajazet spit out the last word. It was a further provocation, and he relished in it. Nevers and the rest of the French were seething with anger, and had they had an army at their backs, would have gladly fought another battle at that moment. But as it were, they were merely 40 men, including attendants and servants, almost completely unarmed. Their lives had been spared once by this man, and he was sparing them again. They were going to pay him, thank him, and leave.

With that, Bajazet turned and went back into the tent, sat on his large chair, and smiled. One of his advisors stepped up to face the French. —Yes, well, the Thunderbolt has instructed us to send his thanks to your king and the Duke of Burgundy for sending their gifts. We are appreciative, and will look forward to your first payment of your ransom of these men at your convenience. At that time, we will release the prisoners. Now, on to a small gesture from us.

The sultan had been harsh, as was his prerogative. He had been rude, but this was a summit of sorts. These were high-level leaders meeting with a high-level leader. That was, of course, the custom. Exchange gifts, speak plainly, and move on. The Frenchmen straightened, preparing to be courteous and gracious and to end this meeting as quickly as possible, so they could go back home.

The advisor was a man with a gray and black beard who wore a large turban and a robe with a sheen that caught the sun’s light and made it look like he was floating. He held out his hand, indicating three litters, each carried by four men. The men put the litters down. The first litter thumped to the ground, lowered by relieved servants or slaves. —Yes, first, aside from these tapestries, which were damaged during your rampage through Rahova, we have, first, a large mass of iron, representing the fact that we have all the iron we need to defeat you should you ever return.

The Frenchmen looked at each other. Two men came forth and lifted the top tapestry, which, when lifted, showed multiple burn holes. Underneath was a lump of dun metal the size and shape of a calf.

—Next, a suit of armor, made of the finest linen and

woven through with the dried innards of a man.

A man came forth to the second litter and held up the suit of armor. The Frenchmen, who had thought he was joking, gasped, all at once. It was loud and comical enough to elicit a snicker from the Sultan. Did he say the dried innards of a man? Even Sanson, after all he had seen, was shocked. He squinted at the armor. It was, no doubt, dried intestines and pale brown strands snaking in parallel lines into the lining.

The advisor cleared his throat. —For warmth. Quite effective.

Then he waved his hand and the suit of armor was thrown back on the second litter. He indicated the third litter.

—And this, the last Turkish drum you are likely to hear, alive.

A man dressed in the garb of a Janissary stepped forward

holding a drum. He placed it on the wet ground and was handed a thick bough. He struck the drum once, again, again, the sound echoing through the valley. Then he lifted the bough high over his head and brought it down dead center with both hands, as if he were churning butter. The bough went straight through the skin. He walked away, leaving it sticking out, like a spoon in a pot of yogurt.

Bajazet stood, and the Frenchmen were led away, turning their back on the Sultan and returning to their quarters. The Ottomans were friendly enough as they led them out. The offensive gifts stayed before the tent.

34.

The moon was a blurry pink disk, spreading out to fill a part of the sky. Sanson stood in the courtyard, staring at the moon and the stars. His neck hurt, his body aching all over. He stared up, wondering what to do.

—You’re the free lance.

Sanson let his head turn slowly to the right, where he thought he heard the voice. A clean shaven, older man stood there, one of the falconers. It occurred to Sanson now that the falconers were now without an occupation.

—You’re that free lance.

Sanson lowered his head, rubbed his neck with an aching hand. —Free I am not.

This made the falconer laugh.

—If you are not free, you should go. They aren’t keeping us here. I wouldn’t go far, but some of us have ventured out. The locals are used to outsiders, and they are welcoming. Some even speak French. You would do well to stop staring at the heavens and explore what’s in this world with the time you have left.

Sanson found himself in a winding, confusing part of town and realized quickly that he was lost. Everyone was asleep. He walked around for a little while longer, his leg starting to ache more than usual, when he saw an old man with a big belly, bearded, in the shadows, staring up at the stars. He was sitting in the dark. For a moment, he thought he was looking at himself. Was this some trick? Had he died?

Sanson went over to the old man and cleared his throat. The old man looked at him with curiosity. Then he spoke a word and an old woman came out and looked at both of them. She asked him a question, then turned to Sanson.

—You’re a French.

Sanson nodded.

—What do you want?

—I’m lost. I don’t know how to get back.

The woman talked to the man for a little while.

—You come in.

They went into the house. It was small, one tiny room. They gave him tea and sat. Sanson wondered if he could live here. It was ridiculous. And then he remembered Kata and the woman looked at him, alarmed. —Are you all right?

Sanson nodded, but no, he wasn’t all right. He sipped his tea. —My back hurts.

—Getting old is not fun.

The old man said something to her, and she spoke to him, and then he responded to her, and she smiled slightly, laughed through her nose. —But consider the alternative.

They sat in silence for a long time, and then the woman yawned and stretched and spoke to the man, who got up and went outside. The woman got up as well and smiled at Sanson. —Good night. My husband will walk you back. Come and visit us again.

Sanson paid attention to the route they took, praying that he could remember, and by the time they were back at the prisoners’ house, he felt like he could walk it again himself. He turned to thank the man, but he was walking slowly away under the moon.

Sanson found his way back into the compound, found his pallet, and fell asleep immediately.

Over the next several days Sanson visited the old couple. The woman always sat by and interpreted for her husband, and they talked into the night until she went to bed. Then the man would walk him home.

The man, Oybek, through his wife Nilay, spoke of his life, of his working days, when he made arms and armor for the Sultan’s father. He worked with steel and iron and was good at it. He never owned his own shop, though, never got out from under the heel of his employer, who held the contract with the sultan. His employer would beat him and humiliate him, partly out of jealousy. Oybek took the more difficult assignments and each time something great came out of the quenching tub, his boss would hit him, yell at him. Nilay never had children, and that was all right, but it was a long life and now they had nobody to take care of them.

Sanson told them his story. He told them about Jacques and his life as a good luck charm, and about Kata. The couple wept with him, and Sanson asked Oybek if he’d ever thought of revenge, of getting back at the employer for the years of poor treatment?

The man was quiet, but his wife sipped her tea and spoke for him. —Yes, he spoke of revenge, spoke of trying to find ways to ruin this man. For years he spoke about it, of lashing out and killing him, of poisoning his family, of costing him money. We talked about the fact that we had no children, and maybe it was all right to seek revenge and justice. We would be punished, yes, but so would this monster, and we would wipe away the past with one act. We would kill, then kill ourselves, and be done with it. But this man died, and we woke up, as from a dream. He drowned in the Hellespont with 20 other men when their pleasure cruise capsized. We dreamt of his deal many times, were never able to do it, and then it was over. And we went on with our lives. He found another position with a friend who took over the business, and we went on with our lives.

The old man stood up and threw his teacup at the ground. They looked down and saw a mouse. The mouse and the cup were both broken. It was dragging itself forward by its forelegs, its back legs extended out, useless. The old lady didn’t hesitate, but picked up a piece of wood and brought it down on the mouse. Then she used a rag to pick it up and throw it out in the lane. She nodded in approval at her husband, then sat back down.

—But you, you have nothing left. You have no time. This man deserves to die. We will help you.

35.

Sanson knew that he had to stick close to Jacques, to find a moment when he could kill him when he didn’t expect it. Walking up on his cot, Sanson had a moment of panic that Jacques might have left. What was there for him, after all?

He got up and walked around the compound. He heard raised voices in an inner room, slipped in, and stood in the shadows. Nobody seemed to notice.

Jacques was standing face to face with Beauvais, the key ambassador and negotiator. —I deserve an audience.

Beauvais threw up his hands, frustrated. —You do not. You clearly do not. Anyone else could see that. We’re trying to work here. You understand that we’re negotiating, right? You know this is not about you, right?

—I know, but

—But nothing. You are simply not welcome at this level of conversation. You are not needed any longer. We have moved past the bullshit show, the pageantry. We’re on to real business, and that doesn’t concern you. The Sultan already told you in front of everyone. He told you that you are excused. Did you think that was show?

Jacques turned around and was quiet.

—Jacques, you must go home.

Jacques nodded. —All right. I will go home. I will not pursue this any longer. But I have a favor to ask you.

—God’s wounds, Jacques, you are relentless. This is why nobody likes you.

—Nobody likes me?

—What is it, Jacques?

—I’d like you personally to put a good word in with the Dukes about me.

The ambassador shook his head and laughed. —What?

—Yes. That means I want you to ask them, especially Burgundy, for

—I will not! What do you want? Land? You have land. You want what, money?

—A place, a situation.

Beauvais sighed. —Jacques, you must make do with what you have. Who else needs to tell you this?

Jacques pointed at Beauvais. —Look, I know that you sell your wine. It’s not respectable, but you do it. And the Duke himself cuts down the trees in his forest and sell the lumber. Would that be frowned upon if people knew about it?

Beauvais looked indignant. —How dare you. Are you threatening me? You are impugning my honor?

Jacques shook his head. —Threatening you? I don’t care if you sell your wine. I’m saying that I understand. I would like to partner on some venture that

The ambassador was less physically powerful than Jacques, but he was taller and younger. He stepped forward and put his finger in Jacques’ face. —Stop and be very careful. I am not going to partner with you on anything. Anything, do you hear me? And I will not speak on your behalf to the Dukes when I return. In fact, I am motivated to do quite the opposite. I will not speak to the Sultan on your behalf. Now I have work to do. Jacques, go home.

Jacques stayed, trying to find a way to meet with the Sultan. During the day, the ambassador and most of the high-level nobles met behind closed doors with the Sultan and his men. The negotiations went on for three days, and Jacques was distinctly uninvited.

The first day, Jacques waited to see if he would be invited, and if he could meet with the Sultan after the meetings.

The second day, he went to the Sultan’s quarters and looked for someone to get him in to see Bajazet. Nobody paid attention to him, so he left and went back to the palace. He waited by the meeting room and asked to speak with the first Ottoman negotiator who came out for a break, who told him that the Sultan would not speak with him.

The third day there was a celebratory dinner for the negotiating team. Jacques approached Beauvais to ask if he could have one more moment.

Beauvais pulled Jacques aside. —You. I heard you went to the Sultan’s home to ask to see him. You’re ridiculous, a disgrace. The boats are leaving in the morning, with or without you.

Jacques turned and walked away. Sanson followed. —I will not leave. I will stay behind and talk with the Sultan no matter what. It’s my only option at this point.

In the evenings, Sanson went to see Oybek and Nilay. Mostly they just sat and listened to Sanson talk about his lack of opportunity to kill Jacques. This evening, Nilay was smiling when he arrived.

—What is it?

—Our good friend, I have something for you. I was thinking. You are with this man when he eats and drinks. This is for you.

Sanson looked at his hand. There was a small bottle.

The next morning, the boats left. Jacques stood on the banks and watched them go. He would wait behind and try to see the Sultan.

The Ottomans were gracious when he returned to the house. He was still their guest, even though all of the other Frenchmen had gone.

—Sanson, I will find my moment. They will not kick me out. I will stay until he agrees to meet with me.

Sanson stayed in the barracks, which were now empty except for a boy who returned in the evenings. Harry was the attendant to Philip of Artois, who was ill in the hospital. Sanson did not return to the old couple. He had to focus on getting this done.

The next morning, as usual, the Ottoman attendants brought Jacques his breakfast, some boiled grains with nuts and honey. Sanson, as usual, stood aside and waited. Jacques started eating, and then stood up. —I have to shit.

When he was gone, Sanson realized that he was alone with Jacques’ food. He walked over and poured the liquid into the food. It was clear, with a slight yellowish tinge. He poured a bit more honey over it, and went back to his spot in the corner. He saved some for himself.

Jacques returned and bent over his food. —Today will be the day, Sanson.

He ate all of it. Sanson felt the bottle in his hand, the cool ceramic, with a small chip on the bottom. It was done. Jacques went to the palace to try to speak with the Sultan, once again, and told Sanson to leave him alone. He watched Jacques walk away. This would be the last time he would ever see him. When he was sure, he would find a place and lay down to die.

Then it was night and he was lying awake on his cot. One of the Turkish soldiers came to him and told him that his master was in the hospital. Sanson followed. Harry was there, sitting on a cushion next to his master. He looked up when Sanson came in. —He’s over there.

In the other corner of the ward, Jacques lay on a compressed feather mattress in a long white shirt open on his chest. Like this he looked like the old man he was. His face was twisted in pain, but he was unconscious. His breathing was shallow, rapid, and erratic. He wasn’t dead. Was he going to recover? They didn’t know. Nurses came in, put poultices across his chest next to dry ones, which looked like rotting skin. He was sweating even though it was a cool night.

Jacques’ clothes and belongings were off to the side, and Sanson looked through them, found Jacques’ dagger, and held it close to his wrist to hide it from the nurses, who weren’t paying attention to him. Now Jacques was muttering nonsense, not even words.

He could just end it here, but for some reason couldn’t bring himself. There Jacques lay, his neck exposed. Sanson looked from close up, could see the blood pulsing under the skin. He was somehow glad that Jacques was alive, but he couldn’t do the deed in front of Harry, in front of the nurses. It wasn’t fear of being discovered, wasn’t fear of punishment. He simply had to do it with Jacques, somehow. It was between them.

But they were never alone. The nurses brought him food, and he stayed, as Harry stayed. Harry began sitting by Sanson, trying to talk with him, going back to Artois every once in a while to check on him.

—He’s going to die. They said it. The others gave me money for passage to Venice when it happens. That’s where all the others went, you know. Bajazet let them go there until the ransom is fully paid. But I’m stuck here alone. I mean, not alone. It’s just a matter of time. He’s so weak, barely there. He had his last rites and everything when the priests were here, but now I’m just waiting. He’s been a good master, but now I guess I’ll just go back to the family.

And on and on. Sanson was grateful for the distraction. It kept him in the moment, kept him from losing time. Otherwise he’d slip whole minutes, hours. He didn’t want to be thinking about everything. This was the end, finally. Jacques would never leave this room, same as Artois. Sanson might never leave this room, and he didn’t want his last memory to be Harry talking to him about his next position.

—Harry, can you go back and take a rest? Go back to the barracks.

Harry shook his head. —No, I can’t. I need to stay by him. If he has final words, I need to be there to hear him. I can’t leave.

—Harry, please, you need to rest.

Harry was upbeat now. —No, it’s fine. I’m young. I don’t mind sleeping on that bench.

He went back to sit near Artois.

Sanson didn’t know what to do but watch Harry go back and sit on his bench. The nurses came in and out, checking on the patients. Then it was night, and Harry was sleeping. It was Sanson’s moment. He could do it. It was late, he could tell, and he watched the moon through the window. Time passed. Then it was morning again. Harry was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. Sanson felt calm. There was nothing for him to do but try.

Harry got up and went out to use the privy. Sanson looked down at Jacques, whose color seemed to have come back. He took the knife from his sleeve, and held it against Jacques’ neck. This is it. They were alone. He had some things to say to Jacques before his soul departed.

—Jacques, you and I end our story here. I can’t remember a time when you weren’t there. The moment I saw you, I knew that you had the power to destroy me, and you did. I knew it would happen, and it did. And then you destroyed the only person I ever loved. You destroyed her! And now I

—Sanson?

Harry was standing in the door.

Sanson wiped the tears from his eyes. —What?

—Did you say something?

Sanson shook his head. —No, I … Go, I’ll watch him.

Harry smiled and bounded away, leaving Sanson alone with Jacques again.

Sanson crossed the room to Artois and looked down at him, at his barrel chest that heaved and collapsed, then remained still. His neck looked like thin ropes under a gossamer cloth. His face, wrinkled and bunched, was clean. Sanson reached behind himself and took a cushion from the bench. He placed it over Artois’ face. The old man was unconscious. He didn’t fight but his body did, twitching. When the twitching stopped, he held it longer.

He heard a rustle at the door, and turned, still holding the cushion on the old man’s face. One of the nurses, a young man with a delicate face, stood there looking at him. Sanson stared back. Then he took the cushion, and still watching the man, returned it to the bench. The nurse shook his head, rolled his eyes, and left.

Sanson returned to Jacques’ side. —We are alone now, truly alone, and you have to listen to me now.

Harry came back and sat on the bench again. Sanson stopped and watched. Harry sat quietly. Then he looked up and saw that something was wrong. —Help! Help!

Four nurses walked in, including the one that had walked in on Sanson. They all looked at Sanson for a moment, then hastened to Artois’s side. They listened at his chest, looked at his face, and shook their heads. Harry put his hand to the top of his head. —I wasn’t here!

The boy was inconsolable. Sanson guided him back to the barracks, which were cleaned out except for his and Harry’s cots. —What will I do now?

Sanson put his hand on his shoulder. —Now, you go home. Do you have a home?

Harry nodded yes.

—Then that is where you live.

—It’s so far away. I’m alone.

—You only have to start.

He gave him some of Jacques’ money and helped him book passage to Venice, where he would find the rest of the Burgundians. When he got there, he only had to ask, and he would find his way.

By the time that Sanson got back to the hospital, it was late in the day. He was walking past the ward’s window, and he heard Jacques’ voice inside.

—What can one do?

It sounded like he was talking to someone else.

—You are the only one I can trust.

Who was it? Sanson was limping forward, hurrying to find out, and then he realized.

—Sanson, Sanson, tell me.

Jacques was delirious, and talking to him. As fast as he could, he passed the nurses, rushed into the ward.

Jacques’ eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. —No rest in this world, Sanson. I haven’t found any, have you? Where is rest?

Sanson took out the knife and, before he lost his nerve, pressed it against the side of Jacques’ neck, stretching the skin but not breaking it. Against the side of his hand, Sanson could feel the sharp pins of where Jacques’ had shaved.

Jacques cried out. —Sanson! Why?

Sanson found himself talking back. —Why what? What do you have to say?

But Jacques thought he was there, but didn’t know he was there. —Sanson, why? Why? Why?

It came out almost as a whisper. Jacques dropped the knife and left.

The old couple took him in and he slept there that night. Sanson was sure that Jacques was going to come for him, and so he hid in the house for days. The couple never suggested that he leave. They simply gave him tea and food and waited for him to do what . They told him that he would have to go to the public baths once a day, as that was their law and their custom.

One day, the man, through his wife, announced that he was going to the mosque, and Sanson asked if he could come along. They both walked side by side, slowly as they had to, and Sanson watched the men pray, laying their prayer rug down, kneeling, speaking to their God, and then going back to their lives.

He started going to the mosque every day then, and soon began to learn the prayers, though he didn’t know what they meant. The man prayed at home four times a day and went to the mosque in the evening. Sanson always went with him. It was a way to get out of the house.

Each day he was afraid that Jacques would jump out and capture him. He lived in fear for a time, then one day he forgot about Jacques, and he remembered that he forgot, and then it was over. Jacques, he learned, had left, had gone back to France.

That day he walked through the city and found himself in the Grand Mosque, which was far from completion. They had made progress, but there was much to do. He wandered through the unfinished rooms, and came upon one in the center of the mosque. He looked up at a blue sky and realized that he would never be free, that there was no freedom to be had in this life.

36.

For more than two years, Sanson prayed every prayer, five times a day, without fail. Soon, that fell away, but he always looked fondly at that time, as if he had been a young man who fell in love. He loved that he had felt that swelling of his soul and had let in that love, but the practice fell away and he no longer felt the love as acutely. It changed into a fondness. The presence was now part of him.

He begged for a while, and when he had enough to eat, he would go buy some food. After eating he would go to the mosque and learn to read and write Arabic from the imam, who liked to talk to him. Soon the imam told him that he should go study with his brother, also an imam just six or so miles up the eastern road, where there was a small mosque.

He said goodbye to the old couple and presented himself at the mosque as a referral of the brother, and the imam allowed him to come in, gave him something to eat, told him that he was welcome as long as he studied and made progress.

Each day, Sanson woke up and prayed. The imam was clear. Sanson’s body was broken, and he could not kneel the way the others did. Instead, he was allowed to pray sitting down, and on days when his pain was too severe, he was permitted to pray laying down. It was not a problem, and there was no judgment. Allah knew what was in his heart, and so he should simply be honest, upright, and pure, and he was praying in the spirit of Islam.

Once the day was further along, he would be limber enough to go for walks. He couldn’t go far, but he felt it was good for him, kept him from seizing up. There were also many things to see as he walked — great poverty, great joy. Families, beggars, the sun, men and women making food, hanging clothes to dry.

In the morning for a little while and then in the afternoon, he would walk across to the small mosque and study the Arabic of the Quran. This was the first language he ever learned to read. Meanwhile, he also learned to speak Turkish, though the children made fun of his accent. But he didn’t feel diminished by them. They laughed at him, and he didn’t smell anymore. The imam insisted that he bathe more frequently than he ever had before, so he learned to make it a habit. He enjoyed it, going to the bathhouse, putting oils on his body. It made his muscles looser and reduced the pain. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t examine it too closely.

In this town, he found himself doing small jobs for people, mostly running errands. They were all menial jobs but he didn’t mind that. He felt that he was of use, and almost everyone treated him with respect, which he found jarring and difficult to get used to for a long time. But in this community of only a couple hundred people, he became a citizen. Not a prominent citizen, but a member of the community, and one that had a place.

One of the small jobs he would do was to act as an interpreter for local businessmen who sought to negotiate with traders from the west. The English, German, Dutch, and Hungarians that passed through knew enough French that he could communicate and translate into Turkish and back.

Every day he expected to die. He woke up surprised to be awake, moved through his day ready for a dark veil to fall over his eyes and to feel like strength drain out, and went to sleep expecting that he would not live to see the day again.

But each day he woke up. Soon, the only job he took on any more was his interpreting work. One businessman he worked with became a loyal customer, and he asked him to be a partner. Sanson found that he actually had a knack for business. He and his partner found a niche importing and exporting textiles. Sanson took care of the finance part of the business. He found he was good at it. He had a facility with numbers, and they built up trust together. Sanson no longer wished to die in his sleep because he was enjoying himself. He fully expected to die, but he didn’t wish it anymore.

His partner and he moved their business to Adrianople. It was difficult to leave, but the old imam died, and that was the last connection. They worked near the court. He lived above the office. He never saw the sultan directly until a few years later, when Timur captured him and he was paraded through the city in a cage. He looked old and tired.

The war that came after between the Sultan’s sons lasted a long time, but it was good for business. They provided the products needed for the armies, and they did business with both sides. And they also dealt in textiles that became scarce during this time. Demand went up, and they raised their prices, seeing massive profits.

That’s when the partners met and decided they would diversify into food. They became exporters, trading dates and almonds and other foodstuffs with traders and shippers going west. They had several local suppliers, and forged relationships that lasted for many years.

Sanson’s business partner, who was much younger than he was, died suddenly, collapsing suddenly on a trip to inspect one of their suppliers in Ankara. He missed his friend, this man who had given him so much. He had not been married, had no children, and he left everything to Sanson.

Sanson was afraid, but he found that he could find people to do all of the things he could not do. He did not have to lift anything, did not have to negotiate contracts. He paid people to help him. The only thing he did was keep the books, recording everything transaction on large sheets of gridded paper that he rolled up and stored in cubbyholes in a unit along one wall. He had inherited his partner’s home as well. He wanted for nothing, and was treated with respect.

He was actually courted by a woman. She was the widow of one of his vendors, and they found themselves doing business together for several months after her husband died. She was younger than him, in her early 40s, and much more youthful, and she asked him if he wanted to get married. She would keep his house and be his partner. He enjoyed her company. She didn’t ask much about his past, and she seemed to enjoy his company. They talked about many things. He wanted to tell her about Kata but didn’t. He accepted her proposal and they were married.

Each day he found himself looking forward to seeing her more and more. He didn’t remember how it happened, but soon, within a couple of years, they had two children, a boy and a girl, and he was a father.

The war ended, and there was a new Sultan, and he ruled with anger and justice. A story went around about the Sultan from when he was younger, that a woman had come to the Sultan with an accusation toward her servant, who had allegedly stolen goat milk from her. When she had confronted him, he had hit her viciously and kept her hostage overnight and raped her. When she was freed, she immediately ran to the authorities, who apprehended him. The Sultan told her that if she was lying, he would kill her personally. She agreed, and let the accusation stand. The Sultan ordered the man held by the arms and legs on the floor before him, and he had cut the man’s belly open. There was the milk. The woman was set free.

The peace was even more lucrative than war. His children grew and he became beloved to him. Each day he saw them and he thought of Kata.

Sometimes he thought that it was Kata who was there instead of his daughter. Sometimes he thought this for days and even called her Kata, and his family asked him who she was. He pretended not to know what they were talking about.

Soon his eyes began to blur, then dim, and then he couldn’t see more than moving shadows. He also couldn’t hear very well. He knew when there were people there, but he didn’t realize until his eyes were destroyed how much he had relied on his sight to hear.

His wife began to run the business. She had already done almost everything before, but now she did everything, or, as he had, she hired out. She would consult him, sometimes, for his opinion on this source or that, this customer or that, but generally this was a courtesy and something to talk about. They had spent years together talking about work, so that it was a hard habit to break for both of them. But she had to yell to be heard.

His children were in their youth when he lost most of his sight, in their young adulthood when he lost most of his hearing, and he couldn’t think very well as well, anymore. He lost time. He knew this because he’d be thinking about something, often a memory, and then the light will have changed. Time didn’t have much meaning anymore anyway. He had no appointments. He had meals, but he didn’t choose when to eat anymore. Someone came to him, put their hand on his shoulder, and put his hand on a spoon and yelled at him what he could expect when he put the food to his mouth. He could still feed himself, and for him, that was a point of pride. To be proud of something was a welcome feeling. He also took pride in knowing who was feeding him. It might be his son, his daughter, his wife, a servant girl, an employee. He didn’t know, but he enjoyed finding out, and it happened at least three times a day. This was exciting for him, these moments. He could still taste everything, and the food woke him up, marked time with flavors he wished he had known all his life, but that he savored now.

He was home almost all the time, unless someone took him for a walk. He could still walk. He got tired and when he did, he would just stop in his tracks. He could also smell, and so he asked to be walked through the spice market, around the food stalls. Sometimes they would give him food when he was out as well, and he was always careful to convey his gratitude. If he was gracious and grateful, then they would continue to give him these moments. He didn’t know just how many people were there. He could hear them as a muffled buzzing, like if a bee could purr. For some reason that was the image that stuck in his head, and it amused him. He listened to the sound of commerce and community, smelled the smells, saw the light change as he stepped in and out of shadows, and that was something. He never forgot that he was at their mercy. He never forgot, to the end of his life, that he was lucky in this, that someone took him to the market and let him smell the smells.

Soon, however, he would forget where he was. He didn’t enjoy going out because he felt confused, and so he began to refuse the offers of walks, began to stay home. Sanson didn’t lament this change. He found that he could revel in the more subtler smells and sensations of his home and never realized how much was happening. He was satisfied sitting in his chair. Someone rolled in out into the sun each morning, then made sure he didn’t overheat, and rolled him into the shade. He observed these changes, and the changes themselves were enjoyable.

He would forget that he had children, and then he would try to remember their names, the details of their lives. He would imagine his son, how he would make him laugh by pretending to be an alligator, and how his giggling had seemed to be the greatest sound he’d ever heard. He tried to remember his daughter Kata, how she used to ride on a horse with him when he was a young man and she was a very young girl. Did his children have children yet? He couldn’t remember. These shadows before me, he’d think, are these his children? His grandchildren? Servants? Nurses? After a while, it didn’t seem to matter. He appreciated that there were people there.

He forgot who he was, and forgot where he came from. He knew that he had fought for years, he knew that his body was broken, but he didn’t remember his origins. He didn’t know where he’d been. He didn’t know his name. He did know he was dying, but he wasn’t afraid. He simply allowed the moments in between understanding to come. The pain wasn’t bad. He’d been in pain for years, and now he would actually forget about the pain for periods. And the old pain, that was no longer even a memory.

He kept thinking, as he died, of a feeling. There were horses stamping their long legs all around him, and the sounds of metal hitting metal, and he was tired of the fear and of the blood, and saw the blade, maybe of an English knight, and he went toward the blade, moved toward it with steady steps, with power and clarity, and he closed his eyes but then he must have been hit on the head, because when he woke up his helmet was on the dark earth. There was absolute silence. The armies were gone. The wind blew through the field. The light was just coming up over the horizon, a line of greenish blue in the east. He squinted into the sun, not against the light but to better see the light. He was safe. His head hurt but he was safe. He picked up a weapon he found, but there was no reason he needed a weapon, so he dropped it, enjoying the muffled sound of it hitting the ground, and he walked uphill, not looking for his mates, not looking for help. He just walked to the crest of the hill and stood looking out over the field at the fallen white banners, the dead men. So many dead men, and the feeling that Sanson felt as he stood there looking out at the field, as the sun came up, was that he was still alive and that to stand on this hill he would gladly relive the horror of that battle as many times as was required so he could once again stand on the hill and look out at the world knowing that he was alive and that something might happen.