Christopher Buehlman - Between Two Fires

“You’re eating Parsnip,” she said matter-of-factly.

“It’s donkey. Would you like some?”

This last would have sounded friendly except that Godefroy patted the rotten beam he was sitting on. She should sit near him if she wanted food.

“No. She was tied up in the woods to hide her, but she must have gotten loose. Her name is Parsnip,” she said.

“Well,” Thomas said, “that’s lucky for us. We’re not supposed to eat meat on Friday, but parsnip is perfectly permissible.”

The others laughed.

“The mouth on you, Thomas,” Godefroy said, lingering on the final s , which Thomas’s half-Spanish mother had insisted on pronouncing. “To the whoring manor born.”

“Is it Friday?” the fat one said. Both Thomas and Jacquot, the one with the drooping eye, nodded.

Only Thomas kept eating. The rest watched the girl. The girl stood there.

“Come sit near me,” Godefroy said, patting the beam again. With his other hand he brushed back a wick of his stringy, black hair. He wore jewelry that didn’t seem to belong on such a dirty man. Her eyes fixed on a cross of jasper on a gold necklace; something the seigneur’s wife might wear.

“I need help,” she said.

“Come sit here and tell me about it.”

Nobody wanted strangers close these days; she began to realize there was something dark in this man’s mind.

the word is rape he’ll rape me

She thought about turning and running to her tree, but an angel had shown her these men, and pointed to the barn. She knew it was an angel because his (her?) pretty auburn hair didn’t seem to get wet in the rain, and because he (she?) looked like something between a man and a woman, but more beautiful than either; it just pointed and said, Go and see . When angels spoke to her, and she had seen perhaps three, they spoke the same Norman French she spoke, and she found that odd. Shouldn’t they sound like foreigners?

She put her faith in the angel even though it was gone now. It was that angel whom she saw most often, and she liked to think it was hers.

She didn’t run.

“I need help putting Papa in a grave.”

“Silly bitch, there aren’t any graves anymore. We’re in a grave already, all of us. Just stack his bones outside. Someone will get him.”

“Who?”

“How the devil should I know? This is your sad little village. Maybe some nuns or monks or something. Anyway, everyone else is just putting them outside.”

“I can’t lift him.”

“Well, I won’t lift him. I didn’t live this long to catch it by hauling around dead serfs.”

“He’s not a serf.”

“I really don’t give a shit.”

“Please.”

“Forget it, girl,” Thomas said. “Go back in the house now.”

This man was different; he didn’t frighten her, even though he was the biggest of them. He was handsome with his longish dark hair; handsome despite a nose that had been broken more than once and a round, pitted scar on his cheek. He wore more armor than the others, some on his legs and shoulders, as well as a longer coat of mail. But over his chain mail hood he wore a peasant’s big straw hat with a horn spoon through a hole in it; he was clearly dangerous, but also just a little ridiculous. He had spoken gruffly, but in the way that a man barks at a child to make the child act swiftly when there’s trouble.

She liked him.

“Wait a minute,” Godefroy said, dismissing Thomas, and now addressing the girl. “How much is it worth to you?”

Brigands. That was the word for what these men were; men who were soldiers before the war with the English, but who now traveled the roads, or hid in the woods and robbed people. Even before the plague had come, her papa had spoken with their neighbors about what to do if brigands came.

Now they were here and no one could help her.

Why had the angel left? Why had he pushed her toward these thieves?

“We only have a little silver,” she said, “and some books.”

“I don’t want silver.”

“The books are very good, most of them are new ones from the university in Paris.”

“Books are for wiping my ass with. I want gold.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Of course you do.”

Godefroy got up now, and Thomas stopped eating. Godefroy went over to her and pointed two fingers at where her pubis would be beneath her dirty gown.

“Right there,” he said. “Haven’t you? Haven’t you got just a little gold there already?”

The fat one was the only one who laughed, but it was hollow. None of them liked this about their leader, his taste for the very green fruit. She had the fine bones and small build of a child, but her gaze was more than a girl’s; she was probably just on the eve of her first bleeding. If she lived, she would be tall next summer.

“Christ crucified, Godefroy, let her alone,” Thomas said.

“That’s only for my husband.”

“Ha!” Godefroy barked, pleased at this touch of worldliness. “And where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“He shouldn’t leave you alone.”

“I mean I don’t know who he is. I am not yet promised.”

“Then I’ll be your husband.”

“I should go now.”

“We’ll all be your husbands. We’re good husbands.”

“She could have it,” the fat one warned, eating again now.

“I’d rather get it from her than her papa.”

“Leave her alone,” Thomas said, and this time it wasn’t a request. He put his straw hat beside him. He tried to do it casually, but the fat one saw it and, also trying to be circumspect, spat out the overlarge piece of donkey he had just taken and set the rest on his leather bag.

Godefroy turned to face Thomas.

The girl slipped out the door.

“What if I don’t want to leave her alone?” Godefroy said.

“She’s just a scared little girl in a dead-house. Either she’s full of it and you’ll breathe it in from her, or she’s shielded by God’s hand. Which would be even worse for us. Save your ‘husbanding’ for whores.”

“The whores are all dead,” said Jacquot.

“Surely not all of them,” said Thomas, trying one last time. “And if one whore in France still has a warm chatte , Godefroy will smell it out.”

“You make me laugh, Thomas,” Godefroy said, not laughing. “But I need to fuck something. Go get that girl.”

“No.”

Thomas stood up. Godefroy backed up a little in spite of his nominal leadership; Thomas had white coming into his beard and lines on his face; he was the oldest of the four, but the muscles in his arms and on either side of his neck made him look like a bullock. His thighs were hard as roof beams and he had a ready bend in his knees. They had all fought in the war against the English, but he alone among them had been trained as a knight.

Godefroy noted where his sword was, and Thomas noted that.

Thomas breathed in like a bellows, and blew out through clenched teeth. He did this twice. They had all seen him do this before, but never while facing them.

A drop of sweat rolled down Godefroy’s nose.

“I’ll get her,” Jacquot said, proud of himself for thinking of a compromise. He went out of the barn into the rain, pulling his coarse red hood up. He held the hood’s long tail over his nose and mouth against the smell pouring out of the house as he pushed the door open with his foot. The sun was almost down now, but the house was still full of trapped heat. The smell was blinding. Wan light coming from the polished horn slats in the windows shone on the rictus of a very bloated dead man who had stained his sheets atop a mess of straw that could no longer be called a bed; he had kicked hard at the end of it. His face was black. His shirt rippled; maggots crawled exuberantly on him, as well as on two goats and a pig that had wandered into the single-room dwelling to die.