Chapter 1: The Trickster
CARCASSONNE, KINGDOM OF FRANCE, 1349
GISELLE
The cloth covering the priest’s mouth and nose was yellow from his breath and the thick, moist air that had been passing through it for the past two days. His hand, veiny and grey, was shaking as he crossed himself before me, murmuring a muffled prayer. The heat was coiling under his robe, and a sharp smell spread from him. There was a pungent heaviness to his presence, the weight of a particularly nasty responsibility—taking care of the plague-ridden. It made one both pity and admire him, perhaps the paradox of priesthood in general.
The people behind me pleaded for food and water, or a remedy of some kind, an absolution of their sins, or a prayer for their loved ones, but the priest moved along without meeting any of our hungry, pleading gazes. The number of the sick lingering behind the chapel grew each day, and the corpses were beginning to pile up. The rotting dead and the rotting living smelled differently, there was a distinct sourness to the living that prickled my nostrils and made my skin crawl.
It was the peak of a dreadful summer, the summer marked by the plague returning to Carcassonne, this time sweeping through it like an unstoppable demon. The harvest was scarce, the trade ceased almost entirely, and The Cité de Carcassonne closed its door once again, the chapel within the city walls our only connection to the fortress. At first, they were mumbling about the number of the dead, but as that number grew, everyone quieted. It was a wave, and waves needed to be endured. The unlucky did not endure. I did not endure.
The night was hot, wet, and relentless. A moist breeze touched my cheeks, carrying an acrid, heavy smell that stuck to my skin, and the disease glued to me, spreading. It started five days ago with a sudden fever, while I was sweeping floors at The Golden Ram. A burning overtook my body, pounding sharply in my head, and I knew I was done for. By nightfall, my chest was tight and full of prickling needles. By morning, I was coughing out blood. When Mistress Jeanne saw my condition, she kicked me into the street to fend for myself. I’d been at the back of the chapel since, watching people come and go, growing weaker, waiting for death.
I pulled my hood over my head, ignoring another coughing fit building inside my painful chest, and followed the priest through the sick crowd. Most couldn’t walk anymore, some couldn’t speak. All the expression they had left was the one in the eye—the mirror to their desperate, wounded souls. Much like the priest, I avoided their stares, terrified to face those dark depths, and dragged myself away from the crowd.
I understood why the priest kept far from us. I would, too, even if God Himself had sent me to take care of the ill. It was enough of a burden to do it without catching his death. Though, I doubted his own demise was far from ours.
“You were correct,” a voice interrupted my walk, and I faced the flat-faced Philippe, the tailor’s boy, a spoiled brat and my only company in this wretched situation. “Guards were just escorting her over the river, she is on her way here.”
“Wipe that bloody snot off your snout and square your shoulders. If what I heard is true, she will only take those in good shape.”
Philippe was almost handsome when he was not rotting from the plague, but there had always been an ill-wishing streak in his blue stare. “None of these poor peasants stand a chance.”
“Oh, as if you are any better than them, Philippe Couturier, we are all dying from the same disease.”
The self-indulgent retort he most certainly had prepared got caught on his tongue as the priest finished the prayer for the final group of the diseased and continued to the front of the chapel. Philippe and I followed close by, sticking to the shadow of the stone blocks protruding from the walls. As the wailing of the sick grew quieter, our footsteps on the grass became too loud. I buried my feet into the dirt the moment I heard voices from behind the wall. Philippe slammed into me, and even the touch of his clammy skin on my robe made my stomach upturn.
“Have you got someone for me, Father Jean?” the noblewoman’s voice sounded like a bell; there was a cadence to it that most never mastered.
“Dame de Montfort, the disease is the deadliest we had so far seen,” the priest answered. “Most do not make it past the two-day mark. There is no one to help.”
Though I’d found many a thing illogical in that sentence, it did not stop me from stepping out of the cloud of Philippe’s heavy breath.
“There is,” I said, and my knees wobbled, pushing me into a curtsy, my gaze falling to my chest. “Noble Dame.”
Philippe dropped into a full bow, still healthy enough to know he would manage to get up. A bitterness formed on my tongue, regret that I had shared what I found out with him, but I was no longer capable of running around, I needed someone to do it for me.
“My Lady de Montfort, my name is Philippe Couturier, and I am humbled by your very presence, my Lady.”
If I hadn’t feared a coughing fit, I would have sucked in a breath.
“You may stand up,” the noblewoman said.
Ever since the day Lord de Montfort and her arrived, every unmarried and married woman wanted to look like Lady Katya de Montfort. Her skin was moonlight-white, her forehead high, the waves of her dark brown hair that I’d once caught a glimpse of tied neatly under the silk hairnet with golden threads, complimenting her chocolate eyes. She was wearing a beige cotte with long, trailing sleeves, tight at the torso and flowing below the hips, and a sideless gown over it. The surcote was crimson red, embroidered with golden threads, matching the hairnet. It was difficult to determine her age—there was not a wrinkle on her perfect, smooth face, yet there was a wisdom in her gaze that far surpassed the naivety of a young girl. Unlike the priest, she had no cloth over her thin, red lips and she did not flinch upon looking at us.
“How long have you been ill?” she asked.
“Just today, my lady,” Philippe blabbed, almost stumbling as he tried to bow again. “Only since this morning.”
When her eyes landed on mine, I almost flinched. Such was the strength of that stare.
“What about you?”
I looked at my own clammy hands. I had no strength to hold a piece of bread anymore, my teeth had no strength to chew it, and all that I had left, I pushed into keeping myself upright.
“It shall be the fifth morning by sunrise,” I said, “my lady.”
Dame de Montfort held my gaze for a long moment, unnerving me in a peculiar way, turning my heated blood cold. There was no expression to her features—no twitches, no mannerisms, no movement, like each and all muscles she had were perfectly controlled. Once her decision was made, her head snapped sharply to the priest.
“Father Jean, give the boy medicine.”
“No, wait—”
A coughing fit caught me, and my chest expanded to the point of searing pain, then tightened into a knot, and deep inside me, water and blood gurgled.
“Thank you so much, my lady.” Philippe followed her as she turned away from us. “You are a miracle sent to us by God, my lady. But, please, my lady, I have a brother. He had befallen to the disease yesterday eve, no difference, truly. Please, help him, too, my lady. He is but a child.”
My knees gave out as all of my strength switched to anger, and I couldn’t keep myself upright anymore. I couldn’t breathe anymore, the coughing fit taking control over my lungs. I coughed out into the dirt, grateful no one could see the blood in the dead of the night.
“Please, my lady, please, hear me out,” Philippe continued.
“How old is your brother?” she asked.
“He is but five, my lady, a mere lad—”
“No.” Her answer was so sharp and abrupt that I managed to look up through the pain.
“What- what do you mean?” Philippe’s eyes widened. “But- but the two-day mark!”
“Is a one-day mark for children,” the noblewoman said. “Now, you may take the medicine if you want. No one can stop you from sacrificing yourself and giving it to your brother.”
“Yes, good lady, yes. Please. Thank you.”
I buried my left knee into the mud, ignoring the stench of shit catching onto it, and pushed myself up against my palms. I hissed as I stood up, the burning in my veins overshadowing the light-headedness behind my eyes.
“That is not fair,” I said through my teeth, tremors overtaking my body. “What is a two-day mark? Are you not called to help anyone who might need your help? There are dozens of people holding onto the hope preached under that cross.” I pointed up, to the slated wooden roof of the church. “Must you squash it over an illogical rule? Why wouldn’t you help a child?” I cleared my throat. “My lady.”
She stopped again, and that peculiar gaze cut through me. “There are consequences to survival, too, girl.”
“Yet none as irreversible as the consequences of death,” I spat, desperation getting the best of me, and decided to say what I had to say even if they burned me at the Tower for it. “I have been tracking you ever since you arrived, Dame Katya. I found out you were helping people here even though no one past the Aude dared to speak a word of it. Five days ago, there were only a few seeking refuge before this chapel, but I spread the word. They came because of me, Philippe came because of me, and yet I watched them all come and go, no one worthy of your mercy.”
Silence dropped over us like a veil, and a guttural fear clenched my gut. Father Jean made no sound, and Philippe’s eyes burned the side of my cheek, but I refused to bow out. Lady de Montfort was looking straight at me, her face revealing neither feeling nor thought. I breathed through the pain in my chest, swallowing down the blood lifting up from my lungs and clogging my throat. I would not show just how sick I was. My own weakness would not be my demise.
Finally, she released a breath, “Give the girl medicine, Father Jean.”
Relief washed over me, forcing me back into the mud.
“Are you certain, my lady?” the priest asked, but even if his question would make her doubt her decision, I had no strength to fight anymore.
“Yes,” the noblewoman answered, her gown swishing as she turned away from us.
“What about my brother?” Philippe shouted suddenly, as if woken up from a dream, and his voice turned malevolent as soon as he continued, “My lady, please, do you not know what she is? You cannot spare her and let my brother die! I beseech you, my lady, consider what the village would say if she would return healthy. You must have heard the rumours—”
“Every decision is reversible, Philippe Couturier,” she said, already leaving us.
There was not enough spirit in me to fight his battles, not anymore. I used all of my strength to push myself up as Father Jean came closer and threw a small vial of crimson liquid in front of me. My palm closed around the vial, my heart pounding with excitement for the first time since the wave of plague swept through Carcassonne. I could barely hold it and I doubted I’d be able to get far from the chapel before ingesting it. Father Jean gave one to Philippe and stalked after Lady de Montfort through the small wooden door by the side of the chapel. I found footing and managed to stand up, careful not to drop the vial.
A hand clasped the nape of my neck and slammed my head into the wall. Pain burst behind my temples, sharp and numb at the same time. The ability to scream left me, my eyes rolled back into my skull, and my body gave out, my head splashing straight into the pile of shit and mud. The ground was warm and wet, and the stench of iron got mixed in with the stench of faeces. My body convulsed, unstoppable tremors overtaking my muscles, disabling me from holding onto the vial as Philippe clawed it out of my hand.
“I’m sorry, Giselle, but he is only five,” he whispered, got up, and drank the first vial right in front of me.
I gasped, my mouth wide open, but couldn’t breathe in. My chest was burning, eyes bulging, body closing in on itself. Philippe stared at me, now standing above me. The pity in his blue eyes was the last thing I saw before he slammed the heel of his foot into my temple.
