Read The Shadow Queen A Novel Online
Authors: Sandra Gulland
The Shadow Queen A Novel (5 page)
The two other men had pulled Father off. Mother was still struggling, but the big man held her. I kicked him in the backside. He let go of Mother and I kicked him again, aiming for his codpiece. He grabbed me roughly by the hair.
Two of the men had Father down on the cobbles. Helpless, I heard the sickening sound of heavy boots, my father’s grunts of pain.
“Alix, don’t!” he cried out as Mother flung herself at his attackers.
“Hey!” someone yelled. Men emerged from the door of the tavern across the road, hefty laborers. “Leave off!” “We’ll roast your balls!”
With a wrench, I was pushed away. Cloaks flapping, the masked men disappeared down a dark alley. I swayed on my feet, panting, my teeth chattering.
Mother was down on the cobbles beside my father. His eyes opened. Merci Dieu. “The devils,” he said, struggling to sit.
The men standing at the door of the tavern cheered.
“Nicolas, I was so—” Mother began to weep.
“You were a fury,” he said with a weak chuckle. “You too, Claudette. My women.”
I picked up his hat and dusted it off. The feather had snapped at the spine. “Where are you hurt?”
Father touched his forehead. “It’s just a bump,” he said, putting on his hat. He winced and pushed it back off his forehead.
One of the men, drunk as a wineskin, staggered over with an earthen mug of what smelled like warm grog. He said something kindly but incomprehensible.
“Bless you,” Father said, downing the mug.
I became aware of Gaston whimpering. He was standing in the cart, throwing out props.
The men gestured for us to come inside the tavern.
“Thank you,” my father said, “but—” And then his eyes rolled back.
W
e headed north again, eating stolen apples as we walked. Father had recovered, but toward midday the swelling on his forehead got bigger and he could no longer wear his hat. He covered himself with the hood of his cloak, like a penitent. “I’m praying for you,” he said, making light.
That night, camping in an abandoned stone hut, Mother and I watched him. “I’m fine,” he insisted, but it was clear the injury pained him, and twice in the night he cried out in his sleep, overtaken by specters.
In the morning, there was a blush around my father’s wound and his left eye and cheek were swollen. Mother gave him half a dram of dried lovage root, an herb under the sign of Taurus. I suggested he be bled.
“But no cuts,” she insisted: only leeches.
At a pond fringed with reeds, I showed Gaston how to stir up the shallows and scoop the leeches up with a spoon. I held the tin as he slipped each wriggling dark body in. The leeches had long brownish stripes down their backs and speckled underbellies.
By the time the sun was high, we had caught thirteen, one as big as my thumb. Gaston hummed a tune as we headed back to the camp; I wished for his lightness of heart.
Mother washed Father’s wound and then patted it gently dry. I showed Gaston how to pick a leech up by the middle and hold its small end to the inflamed area.
“But not
on
my eye,” Father joked.
Gaston laughed with delight to see Father draped in leeches.
Then we all watched, entranced, as the slimy creatures fattened and began to drop off.
MOTHER SET UP
the Virgin with her relics: the corn-husk doll, the chipped cup, the key. The dried carnations I put under my father’s pillow of straw to keep bad dreams away. That night he did not suffer pain. Mother knelt by the Virgin and prayed, offering thanks for the miracle.
“Don’t waste your time.” His voice sounded thick, as if his tongue were swollen.
I looked at Mother’s little Virgin propped in the corner. Her eyes were cast down, avoiding my gaze.
And indeed, the next morning Father was feverish again and distressingly weak. He’d developed a harassing cough in the night, bringing forth a rust-tinged froth.
“Don’t worry,” he said, touching Mother’s hand.
I insisted she stay with him while Gaston and I went to a nearby village market to perform. We were sorely in need of money for a healer.
GASTON AND I
passed through the village gates and made our way to the market. I found a spot near the fountain. Heart heavy, I tumbled and juggled and made a clatter with the slapstick. Then I played the wood flute while Gaston hummed. Perhaps our poor spirits showed, because people gave us a wide berth.
I reminded myself of my parents’ teaching:
invention, especially when things go wrong.
Father insisted that we were players, not beggars, yet I was desperate to save him. I covered my clown costume with my cloak and told Gaston to stand silently by my side as I held out the cup, crying in a plaintive voice, “In God’s name, help us, I beg you, we’re orphans.” It was not chivalrous to beg—much less lie—but this was no time for a knight’s scruples.
The bells rang for evening prayer; it was time to head back. I lingered, watching the well-dressed families enter the glow of the church. We’d gotten a meager three deniers—not nearly enough for a healer, but enough for a prayer.
The village priest stood inside the church door, welcoming his parishioners. He frowned when he saw me and put out his arm.
I was barred?
He made the sign of the cross in front of my face—as if I were a devil! “You’re a
player.
” Gesturing at the costume just visible beneath my cloak.
“We go into churches all the time,” I protested. As players, we couldn’t take Communion, but we liked the singing, and some churches had wonderful organs.
“You mock the Eucharist in feigning to
choose
what you feel.” He was short, but righteousness seemed to inflate him. “Only Christ has the power to choose what He feels, only Christ can
choose
to suffer. And He chose for us! A player will never cross the threshold of this sacred realm, and especially not your”—he sneered down at Gaston—“your idiot boy, son of the Devil.”
I spat in his face.
I STOOD OUTSIDE
the church doors, stunned by what I’d just done, anger still coursing through me. I crouched down beside Gaston. My thoughts were turbulent, both furious and dejected. I must learn to dissemble, not give way to choleric passions. “That was a bad thing I just did.” I’d been taken over by a demon, surely. Perhaps the priest was right.
Gaston hummed, sucking his dirty thumb, his eyes tearing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. He gave way to tears as I embraced him. Had he heard what the priest said? Had he understood? “Come, Turnip, we’re going back home,” I said, wiping his cheeks and taking his hand.
Home: a stone hovel.
I looked back with longing and anger at those within the church: warm, well-fed, blessed. How easy it must be, I thought, to live in the realm of the chosen, to fatten in the certainty of Heaven.
M
other was weeping when Gaston and I returned to where we were camped, tearing at her hair like a madwoman. “Nicolas is not getting better,” she wailed, covering her face with her hands.
Gaston began to cry again, frightened to see Mother in such disarray.
“You must go back to town, get the priest,” she said, gripping my arm. “Nicolas must renounce. If he doesn’t, he—”
“I know, Maman.” If a player didn’t renounce the stage before he died, he would go to Hell. “But I will not speak to that priest!” Ever! Wrath and remorse surged through me, stirring up my blood.
And then I realized what it was that my mother was saying: Father was
dying
? I rushed to the hut, stooping to squeeze through the entrance. “Father?” I felt his foot—uncovered—and heard him faintly moan.
The stench of the infection was suffocating. I must not up-heave! I turned to the opening, for control, then crawled back. I could see him better now, the light of the setting sun illuminating his face. One side was swollen. His eyes, sunken into his skull, were bright.
I reached for his hand—so hot! Mother is right, I thought with swooning dizziness.
“Claudette,” Father said, strangely matter-of-fact and without difficulty. “Tell me a story,” he said. “Something funny.” His smile was grim, but sweet.
I can’t, I thought. “You tell one,” I said, lighting a rush candle. “Tell me a story about the glory days.” A story about the time before the wars and famine—a story of long, long ago, before theaters had to close because there wasn’t even flour to powder a player’s face. A story of the golden time
before
all that. “Tell me of the Great Corneille,” I said.
“He applauded me,” Father said, brightening.
“I didn’t know that,” I lied. My parents regarded the playwright as practically a saint.
“I think he rather fancied Alix,” he added with a weak chuckle that made him cough. “Your mother has a talent for the stage,” he said, recovering, “a God-given gift, I swear.” He paused to catch his breath. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned, but the convulsion passed and he was still.
Too still, I thought, fear chilling my blood. “I’m going to get Mother to sit with you,” I told him, crawling toward the opening. I felt sick at the thought of facing that priest—after what I’d done!—yet I knew I must. If Father didn’t formally renounce the stage, he would spend eternity in Hell, suffering pains worse than being torn apart by a pack of wolves.
“Don’t disturb your mother,” Father said.
“Someone needs to be with you.”
“You’re here.”
“But I have to go into the village, Father.” I would have to be repentant: that would be the hard part. But I could do it. I
was
repentant! I would play the part truly, with all my heart.
“Whatever for?”
“If you don’t … if you …”
“It’s dark,” he said patiently. As if I wasn’t talking any sense.
“I know. I’m not a child.”
“Verily, Claudette, you are not, but I have authority over you. I forbid—” He swallowed and tried to lick his lips. “I forbid you … to leave my side.”
“You must renounce!” I cried, weeping now.
He was silent for a time. “You think I’m dying.”
I did not answer.
“I see,” he said with a defeated tone. “Well—” He stopped, gasping for air like a drowning man. “I guess I’m not much of a player then,” he said finally, recovering.
I clasped his burning hand. He
was
dying, and he knew it. This somehow made it true. “I spat at him, Father.”
“At a priest?” His voice incredulous.
“Oui,” I admitted, ashamed.
He chuckled meekly.
So I did have a funny tale for him after all. “He wouldn’t let me into the church.” And called Gaston son of the Devil. I dared not tell my father that. “I wanted to say a prayer for you.”
“The ruffian,” Father cursed, his breath labored again. “He’ll be the one to burn in Hell.”
I saw Father’s rosary in the blankets and offered it to him.
“You’re going to have to have more sense, Claudette,” he said, running the beads slowly through his fingers. His breathing had calmed. “Your mother—she loves you and Gaston so much, but she’s … she’s not always strong. You may have to be the one to look after her and our sweet little fool. I’m sorry.”
I heard an owl hoot in the silence.
“Promise me,” he said.
I didn’t answer right away. I knew that this was a sacred moment, knew that my words would have to be true. “I promise,” I said at last.
To never betray a trust. To do what is right, whatever the cost.
“Once the wars are over, go to Paris,” he said, closing his eyes. “Look for Courageux.”
I remembered Courageux. He’d been a member of our little troupe, a funny man who played the buffoon.
The rosary slipped out of Father’s grasp, slithering into the grass bedding. “Paris,” he said with a long sigh. “It was always my dream to see Alix play there again.”
He fell silent. I leaned forward, my hand on his chest.
“I’m going to rest now,” he said.
I retrieved the rosary and laced it between his fingers. His breaths came fitfully for a time, and then stopped.
(1660, Paris)
T
he room was dark and smelled of rat—but we could live with that. Anything to get out of the cold. Approaching Paris, we’d walked the river ice.
From the look of the blackened bricks, the fireplace smoked, but at least there was one. There was even a swing hook over the grate. The storage closet would be just big enough for Gaston to sleep in—soon he would be fourteen, too old to share a bed with his mother and big sister. And although the chicken butchery in the courtyard would be smelly, we might be able to get cheap meat from time to time, poultry not good enough for the market, but fine for our cauldron.
“I’ll take it,” I told Monsieur Martin, setting my cracked leather valise on the rush-strewn floor. We’d been living near Rennes when peace had finally been proclaimed, working on the country estate of an impoverished noble—Mother hired on as a necessary woman emptying chamber pots, I at the looms, Gaston cleaning the soot-clogged chimneys. It was a miserable existence, the steward cruel, and so, with our New Year’s gifts of coin in hand, we’d set out for Paris, wending our way slowly across the war-ravaged fields on oxcarts and hay wagons, once even riding in the undercarriage of a post chaise. Everyone, it seemed, rich and poor alike, was swarming back into the city.
“That will be three months in advance,” Monsieur Martin said, appraising me in a way I’d come to know rather too well. A woman of twenty-and-one, I was considered attractive in spite of my height, my small breasts and big feet.
With a theatrical show of despair, I sat down on the valise and looked up at him. A man gained ground by pressing a point; a woman by a show of submission. “
One
month, Monsieur?” I flashed my excellent teeth. We’d once been so desperate I’d considered selling them. The toothless rich were willing to pay handsomely.