Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said, scratching the gray’s nose. “Does your mother know you’re here, ma chere Jeanne?”

She pointed the sword at him again. “What if Jeanne’s mother had made her stay home?”

“A very good point,” Charles said gravely. “I never thought of that.”

She studied him. “I guess Antoine’s right about you. He says you’re not like grown-ups.”

Charles burst out laughing, remembering Jouvancy’s assessment of him on his first morning. Overly enthusiastic, perpetually young. Perhaps he should find another wooden sword and join Marie-Ange on the horse. At least then he wouldn’t be earning endless penance by covertly hunting Philippe’s killer. Or pretending enthusiasm for Louis’s allegorical exploits. And he could always use the sword to defend himself if Louvois and La Reynie came after him again.

“You are not listening, maitre! Maman says you still haven’t found that man who hurt Antoine. Why not?”

“I am not the police, ma petite. It is not easy to find just one man in all Paris.”

She sniffed. “Well, you should at least make that old Pere Guise give back Antoine’s note. Priests shouldn’t steal,” she added severely.

“What note is that, ma chere?” Charles said casually, wanting to hear her version.

“That priest looked through Antoine’s pockets, I saw him, and the note Philippe sent Antoine is gone. Antoine asked him very nicely to give it back, but Pere Guise says he’s imagining things because his head got hurt. But he isn’t!”

“Your mother didn’t mention seeing Pere Guise search Antoine’s pockets.”

“She didn’t see, she was-”

“My queen of victory!” Moulin was marching quickly toward them between the stalls, carrying a shovel as though it were a battle standard. “Here’s reinforcements and we’ll bury the English yet!”

Marie-Ange drew herself up and pointed the wooden sword at him. “Kneel, Sieur Moulin!”

He planted the shovel martially and sank to his knees.

She pointed her sword at the shovel. “Bury the English devils, because they’re all dead. I will marry Antoine and we will be the queen and king of France and you will be our loyal servant!”

Queen and king, Charles noted, grinning, not the other way around.

Humbly, Moulin bowed his head. “I thank you, my liege lady!”

Then he jumped smoothly to his feet, opened the stall door, and held out his arms. Marie-Ange launched herself at him, sword and all. Moulin stepped back into the aisle and swung her around, making her skirts fly. Then he put her down and looked anxiously over his shoulder.

“You must be on your way, my queen,” he whispered. “Else your lady mother will find you and we’ll be undone before you ever come to the throne. The back gate’s open for you.” He swatted her smartly on the seat of her skirts. “Off with you!”

She dimpled, ran back into the stall, and emerged wearing sabots and carrying a basket loaded with bread. Leaning to one side to balance the basket’s weight, she clomped away toward the gate.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, maitre,” Moulin said, shutting the stall door and shaking his thick black hair back from his face.

“I didn’t know you worked here. That was a nicely done little fable you played with her. Does she come here often?”

“She loves horses, poor little chit. I let her in sometimes, just into the stables, no farther. She’s also quite smitten with our Antoine, you know.”

“Does he come here, too?” Charles asked, following Moulin toward the stable door.

The brother looked over his shoulder, wide-eyed with mendacious innocence. “I wouldn’t like to get anyone in trouble, now.” His eyes darkened. “But yes, he does. I’ve caught the two of them playing in the hayloft. Nosing. Prying where they shouldn’t.”

“Surely there’s not much to find in a hayloft. And they aren’t your responsibility, you won’t be in trouble because they misbehave.”

“You’re right there, maitre.” Moulin gave Charles a brilliant smile. “I won’t be. Fair is fair.”

“They shouldn’t be in the stable at all, but I understand liking horses,” Charles said, going to the first stall. “This is a good-looking young fellow. How many horses do we have?”

“These two and one other. Pere Guise has that one today. He’s off again to Versailles.”

“Versailles?”

Moulin’s eyes widened. “Where the king lives, maitre,” he said, stepping closer and lowering his voice, as if imparting a state secret. “Very nice house, a bit small for my taste. Full of courtiers, who need a lot of confessing. Our Pere Guise does a good business there, you might say. A penitent of his, some noble old lady who’s been ill, took a turn for the worse and he galloped off to grab her soul before the devil gets it.”

“God defend her,” Charles said ambiguously. “What’s the third horse like?”

“Another gray. A gelding. Why?”

Charles shrugged. “I suppose I’m a little homesick. But horses are the same everywhere, aren’t they?” And none of the three college horses was the rangy roan Antoine’s attacker had ridden. Not that he’d thought it would be, but it was one possibility eliminated.

Moulin leaned the shovel against a stall and wheeled a handcart from its place by the door. “I’d better get this place mucked out, or they’ll stick me back in that hellhole of a kitchen.”

“You like working in the stable, then?”

He flashed Charles a look. “We work where we’re needed. No choice for servants.” The tone was light but the blue eyes were full of bitterness.

He wheeled the cart toward the stall where Marie-Ange had been and Charles drifted into the tack room. In the sunlight slipping through cracks in the wooden walls and barring the leather-scented shadows with gold, he went quickly over the few bridles, saddles, and saddlebags, noting where there were narrow strips of leather and looking for any place where there should have been such a strip and wasn’t.

The college clock had yet to chime nine the next morning when Pere Jouvancy burst into the grammar class where Charles was assisting and spoke briefly with the grammar master, who nodded reluctantly. Jouvancy led Charles out of the room and thrust coins, an old leather satchel, and a hat at him.

“I took the liberty of fetching your hat; it’s Wednesday, the markets are open. Now, listen.” Pouring out a steady stream of instructions on where and how to buy the perfect sugar, as though Charles were sailing for Martinique instead of walking to the Marche Neuf, he walked Charles at double time to the street postern.

“A companion?” Jouvancy pushed him through the postern. “No time for that, I exempt you. Just bring me sugar-and it had better be white as an angel’s wing!”

Charles loped happily toward the Seine. While he’d listened to his students’ halting reading, he’d been trying to think how to get out of the college on his own. If this Marche Neuf had blamelessly white sugar and he didn’t have to search farther, he should have plenty of time to look for the street porter who’d seen Antoine’s accident. Charles reached into his cassock pocket and felt his nearly flat purse with the few coins left from what he’d been given in Carpentras for his journey north. With all that had happened, he’d kept forgetting to give what was left to the rector. He told himself that if his errand was successful, the money would be spent for the good of the college.

His hand was still on the purse when a book display caught his eye. The rue St. Jacques was lined with booksellers and printers, and clots of students and teachers risked life and limb around the display tables in the street. Charles edged among them toward the book he’d seen. The Itinerarium Extaticum, by the Jesuit Kircher, was a tale of traveling to the moon, Venus, and the fixed stars in the company of the angel Cosmiel, who showed Kircher that what he’d seen through his telescope, the moon’s craters and mountains and the sun’s occasional dark blemishes, were real. Charles picked up the battered copy. It wasn’t expensive. He’d longed for years to read it. Of course, it might be in Louis le Grand’s library, but the Carpentras library didn’t have it… A boy with his nose in a mathematics tome backed heavily into Charles. The Kircher flew out of Charles’s hands and was grabbed by a white-haired man who clutched it to his chest and scuttled into the bookshop.