Chapter Two -- The Joust

Chapter Two
The Joust



 

Jean d’Craon surveyed his grandson’s bedchamber. The master of Champtocé-sur-Loire was impeccably dressed in a silver-studded grey doublet, with a black chemise protruding through at the elbows to make puffs. He wore grey gloves with rings over top of the fabric, and similarly colored boots that rose to his knees and were supported by one-inch heels. Around his neck draped silver chains of considerable worth, while about his head he wore a turban of black silk.

The room was a wreck from his grandson’s indulgences of the previous night; the remnants of trays of food scattered over every surface; bottles of wine and claret left where they were finished, sometimes knocked onto their sides to spill their last drops upon the floor; and sleeping in the bed, two naked boys.

D’Craon strode over to them. He lifted his silver-tipped walking cane, positioned it above Gilles’ rising chest, and jabbed down at the boy with an excessive might. Gilles hollered out in pain and his grandfather scoffed. The boy beside the young Baron de Rais was startled awake by the shout and, stupefied, beheld the master of the house.

“Get out of here, Henriet, before I have you hung as a sodomite,” d’Craon snarled.

Henriet leaped from the bed, over de Rais, to the floor. He snatched at his clothes, but found d’Craon standing upon them. He tried to tug at them, but the old man responded by clobbering him soundly with the ball of his cane. “Out! Out!” his master yelled, until the boy fled into the hall in a still shameful state.

Meanwhile, young de Rais had lifted himself into a sitting position in the bed and was massaging his bruised chest as he gazed sulkily at his grandfather.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that, you vile thing,” d’Craon admonished. “Look around you: is this how you want to live your life, waking up at half-of-noon still drunk?”

“S’better than waking up hung over,” de Rais replied, reaching his hand down the side of the bed in search of a not yet empty bottle he’d left there the night before. D’Craon kicked at the appendage so that de Rais snatched it back to his chest, and then d’Craon kicked over the bottle, splashing its contents across the floor.

“It’s a shame René is the younger brother; you are the more childish.”

“It’s a shame René was not gored along with our father.”

“Hateful,” d’Craon grimaced. “I have come to advise you that the Seigneur de Hambye has arrived with his daughter Jeanne. De Hambye is one of the wealthiest men in Christendom, and Mademoiselle Paynel is his only progeny.”

“She sounds perfect. I’ll tell you what, send her up. I’ll consummate the marriage while you draw up the papers.”

“As yet, she is eight.”

“Very well, I’ll close my eyes and pretend she’s twenty; and then I’ll start spending her money.”

“Spending!” d’Craon spat. “Crétin. It is some joke of God’s that all my efforts should result in you being the ultimate recipient of Jeanne la Suze’s fortune. If I’d have known such, I would never have allowed, much less recommended, the marriage of your father and my daughter. Money, imbécile, exists to augment power and influence—not to fund whoring.”

“What is to fund whores if not money?”

“Cankers are the only payment they deserve,” d’Craon sneered. “Your attempts at wit are unamusing and rather feeble, besides. You would be better off listening to what I have to say than distracting yourself with the construction of half-brained retorts.”

Impotent, Gilles clenched his jaw and fists and fumed.

“Compose yourself; and then get dressed and come down to meet Mlle Paynel.” D’Craon began to leave, but turned back, adding, “And try to tone down your affectations. Effeminacy is detestable.”

Gilles rolled onto his side, away from his grandfather, allowing the sheets to pull and expose his backside. With his grandfather just at his door, Gilles called out, “I thought you liked my effeminacy.”

D’Craon did not turn around. “What was attractive on a boy is disgusting on a man.” And he shut the door.

De Rais returned his head belligerently to the pillow, whereupon he spent the majority of the next hour trying and failing to return to sleep.

* * *

The three carriages containing the family of Milet de Thouars, their luggage, and their servants arrived at Champtocé-sur-Loire, still in the early afternoon. The lead separated from the other two and pulled up at the main entrance. Juliette was the first to tumble out after a footman opened the door. “Oh, I’m exhausted!” she cried, stretching in an unladylike manner, but, fortunately, her mother couldn’t see her, as Justine had obstructed the view through the door of the carriage while she was being helped to the ground. “All night in a carriage!” Juliette continued. “Why do people leave home when they could just ask everyone to call on them instead? Now where is Cendrillon?” she emphasized.

“She is with the other carriages at the servants’ entrance, Juliette. You needn’t mention her all the time,” said Béatrice, exiting the vehicle.

Milet didn’t follow his wife out. “I’m going straight down to the tournament field,” he called. “I’ll send the carriage back for you.”

“Oui, jusque là.”

“Au revoir, Papa!” Juliette called out, after the carriage.

“Now what’s first?” asked Justine. “The joust? I don’t think I brought anything to wear to the joust. I was only concerned with the ball.”

“A full carriage is packed solely with your outfits, and you only have costumes for one day?” Béatrice reproached.

“Well, it’s not just the ball; there are dinners and lunches and breakfasts, and there might be a masque or a mystery play or something. Come, Juliette. Let us go find our rooms, and examine our options. Maybe you have something for outside if I do not.”

“See, it’s good we brought Catherine—Cendrillon—along. If you have to wear something of mine, she can alter it.”

“Mon dieu, Juliette!” Justine complained. “How it’s possible for you to botch one simple instruction. You call her Cendrillon all the time at home. I can’t remember the last time you called her Catherine!”

“That’s enough, girls! Justine, people will overhear your bickering sooner than they will Juliette’s slip of the tongue.”

Béatrice watched her daughters follow a servant into the château, but she remained behind in the sunshine, stretching her legs and trying to clear her head after the uncomfortably lengthy exposure to her husband during the ride. On one side of the road was a cherry orchard, and past it the river, while on the other a maze of gardens. She opted for the river, but she had barely entered the orchard when a handsome man of about forty, who had exited the gardens, came striding in her direction. After overtaking her, he swung her around to face him, then kissed her upon the mouth, with fluid self-assurance.

“Jean!” Béatrice quickly extricated herself and slapped him. “Control yourself. Anyone could be watching.”

“And they would forgive me. When you step out into the sunlight, Apollo himself is tempted to come down and steal you away.”

“I am sure they would not—forgive you, I mean,” Béatrice returned. “We are blessed that we survived Maman’s discovery of our trysts in our youth, I am certain we would be executed if the world so much as suspected what we’d just done.”

“Oh, Maman!” Jean spat. “Must we talk about her? Once this week is over, I shall finally be rid of her.”

Béatrice laughed. “What do you mean?”

“I have brought her here with me and I shall not bring her home again. Now that Grand-pere is dead, I am the Baron de Sillé. She has no authority to meddle in my life a moment longer. She is diminished. She may as well be dead.”

Béatrice visibly flinched. “Oh, you sound like a child.”

“No. I sound like a free man. She can live off the scraps her friends afford her, or she can go and live with Jeanne, if the Comte de Sancerre will have her,” he said referring to his older sister and her new husband.

Béatrice shrugged, but then rethought her attitude and smiled pleasantly. “Well, that is tidy enough, then.”

Jean smiled as well, and took his sister by the arm, leading her deeper into the orchard. “You will be free, too, you know. You should come and visit me in Sillé-le-Guillaume. Bring the girls. How long has it been since you’ve been home?”

“Oh, mon dieu,” Béatrice gasped, putting a hand to her chest. “I can’t count the years. I was thirteen, you know that.”

“It is a much more beautiful province than the one you are living in now.”

“That is true,” Béatrice agreed. “But I don’t think I want to see it. The memories are painful. They engender such overwhelming feelings of betrayal and frustration within me. You are painful, Jean.”

Jean stopped walking, bringing his sister to a halt as well. Beyond them the river could be seen, and Béatrice looked at it rather than her brother’s visage, distorted now with angst. “I don’t want that,” Jean said. “That must not be true. Béatrice—” the sound of her name forced the return of her attention, “—memories of those times, when we were children, are the only things that bring me gladness. And in war on the battlefield, on the long rainy nights waiting, unable to sleep for apprehension of the next mortal day, thoughts that you were safe at home and might be praying for me were the only things that would bring me comfort.”

Béatrice weakly smiled and shook her head. “Oh, Jean—”

“No, Béatrice,” Jean interrupted. “You must know that you are the only one who can share my life. When we are apart, I am utterly alone. Every day we’re apart—”

Now, it was Beatrice’s turn to interrupt. “Every day!” Béatrice repeated indignantly. “Jean, you stopped visiting. You left me alone again and again. You left me alone in Sillé-le-Guillaume; you left me alone at the abbaye; you left me alone with Milet and the children. I have felt miserable. I have felt betrayed. I am sorry that I am getting used to it!”

“Béatrice, be reasonable. I had to leave you to start my education. I couldn’t break down the walls of the abbaye. I—” Jean stopped himself, thinking better.

“You had to leave me to get married,” Béatrice finished.

“I had to attempt to have children, someone to whom I could pass on the Barony de Sillé. I’m the only son of our father. I couldn’t just let it go to whomever would marry Jeanne.”

“Why do you care? Those are Maman’s values.”

“Those are not just Maman’s values, Béatrice. Those are everyone’s values.” Neither spoke for a few long moments, while Jean revised his thoughts. “I didn’t think I was leaving you alone. You made things very complicated. I thought that you loved Milet.”

That caught Béatrice. What had she felt back all those years ago? She had pushed it away for so long. “I—He has made that impossible.”

Jean cocked an eyebrow. He could call her out on her hypocrisy, but he would rather live in her world, than force her to live in his. “I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong. But there’s so much pressure. It’s hard to make just our own life. Don’t you see?”

“Oh, I see,” Béatrice said with a sarcastic tone, but almost immediately regretted it. Her brother was vitally earnest; he deserved more, and she wanted to give him more.

Jean seemed to waver between one approach and another. Finally he said, “Every time you say that I left. It felt more like you were taken from me.”

Béatrice put her hands up and hid her face. She shrugged. “Maybe.” She took a breath inside her shelter. Jean reached up and took his sister’s hands in his own. He drew them down to her chest. He thought she might have been crying, but she was not.

“I love you, Béatrice,” he professed. “You are the only person to whom I could ever say that. I was born loving you.”

“I—” Béatrice didn’t want to say it. “Of course, I love you too. Of course. I … I must get ready for the joust. I must go, Jean.”

Jean kissed his sister.

Béatrice kissed him back, but removed herself, too, soon after. “I must go. Are you competing?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I’ll see you down there. Au revoir, Jean.”

“Adieu,” Jean replied, despondently, as her form fled away through the trees.

* * *

Justine and Juliette watched as Thérèse and Catherine unpacked Juliette’s belongings, in her private room.

“Oh, Juliette,” Justine complained, “Maman chastises me, but you’ve done even worse. Sable coats and rabbit-lined hats. Is it the middle of winter?”

“Well, it’s October, isn’t it? Oh! I’m already miserable enough, Justine; you don’t have to rub it in. And besides, it’s Thérèse’s job to pack for me. I just gave suggestions. She’s the one who didn’t know how to work with them.”

Juliette looked meaningfully at Thérèse for an apology, but Thérèse apparently hadn’t heard.

“You could go in your traveling clothes,” Catherine suggested. “You wore them to impress people as you stepped off the carriage, but there was nobody there to see them.”

Juliette frowned.

“I know they are a bit simple, compared to what you’d prefer to wear, but simple, elegant clothes will make your jewels stand out all the more. Bachelors will be impressed by your wealth. And really isn’t that the first thing men look for?”

“Cendrillon is right, Juliette. I shall do the same thing. My jewels will catch the baron’s eye, and then he will notice my beauty.”

Juliette was unconvinced. “Cendrillon, you and Thérèse go into one of the girls’ rooms who have already gone down to the field—Béatrice de Rohan, perhaps, she’s very rich—and see if you can borrow something for me. You can alter it to fit, I know it, you clever little seamstress. You could even add some material to it, some embellishments so that she doesn’t recognize it.”

“I’m not stealing, Juliette.”

“You wouldn’t be stealing for yourself, you’d be stealing for me. So I would be the one stealing.”

Catherine shook her head.

“Oh, why did I bring you along, Catherine? Your whole existence is pointless! Eldest daughter of our papa and you spend your time in the kitchen with the servants. You’re so embarrassing! And.... And worthless!” she shrieked.

Catherine’s speechlessness was but momentary. “Well—well, I didn’t want to come here as your guest, I wanted to come here as a guest of d’Craon. I would have loved to have seen the tournament and to dance at the ball. I would have liked to have found my own husband here. Do you think I want to be tied to the two of you for the rest of my life?”

Juliette stood up, walked over to her half-sister and slapped her.

“Who do you think you are talking to?” Justine added to the admonishment. “Juliette shows you just a little bit of pity and look at her thanks for it. If Maman had heard you, she would have thrown you out!”

“Onto the street,” Juliette emphasized.

“Where do you fit in this family?” the elder of Béatrice’s daughter’s asked. “You’re here because of our good graces. Your maman had a lover. Papa was beyond generous letting you stay. You were never his daughter. And you don’t belong here with him and his new wife.”

“Oh, none of that is true!” Catherine complained belligerently. Years before, when Béatrice had explained all of this to Catherine, she had told her step-daughter that they could keep it between themselves and Milet. Now, hearing it from Justine’s lips, Catherine ached for the betrayal.

“It is true,” Justine asserted. “You hadn’t been told, to spare your feelings.”

“We’re Papa’s family, Catherine,” Juliette chimed in, “not you.”

Justine continued. “But because we are not uncharitable, because we thought you were good and kindly, and worthy of the extension of our charity, we have allowed you to live with us.”

“And not just live with us, but as though you are our own sister. I think of you like that, Cendrillon.”

“And yet, this is how you show Juliette your gratitude.”

“By expecting more. ...There’s a word for that.” Juliette looked to Justine to help her.

“Entitled. You act as though you are entitled—and you aren’t. Under the law, under plain sense, you aren’t entitled to anything. You—”

A knock sounded upon the door, breaking off the assault.

“Catherine, now pull yourself together and go and answer that,” Justine ordered.

Miserable and exhausted, Catherine straightened her back and smoothed her hair. She walked over to the door, answered it, and accepted a communique from the page on the other side.

“A message?” asked Juliette, excitedly. “What does it say? Read it to us, Cendrillon!”

Of the women in the room, Catherine was the only one who had been taught letters. She quickly scanned it over, before folding it and tucking it into her sash. “There is no reply,” she said to the page and shut the door. “It’s just from Papa,” she informed her sisters. “He wonders where everyone is. We are to head down to the tournament field immediately. The joust is ready to begin.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll take your suggestion, then, Catherine, and just wear my traveling clothes anyway,” Juliette chirruped. “Now come and help me shave my eyebrows; I think they are coming in again.”

* * *

The young Baron de Rais may have been effeminate in affectation, but he was robust in stature. He was tall—two inches over six feet—and sturdy, with defined musculature. Even at his sixteenth birthday, he had a full chest of dark hair and a well-groomed, curled mustache which he liked to play with absently. His brow met above his nose, and superstitions surrounding this, coupled with his dark, arrogant eyes, kept others at a distance despite his relative beauty.

At eight years of age, Jeanne Paynel was afraid of the man, and hid behind her father upon being introduced to him in the crowd before the tournament stands.

Her father nudged her forward.

“Baron de Rais,” she recited, obeying, “would you do me the honor of wearing my favour in the joust?” and she offered up her handkerchief.

“Nothing could provide me with greater incentive to conquer my opponents than knowing that doing so would be in your name,” de Rais replied, accepting the silken square. “And may I be so bold as to ask my lady if you would further honor me by viewing the contest from my box? As the seat of honor, it has the best vantage of the field.”

Mlle Paynel looked up at her father. “Of course she would,” her father decreed. “Now, run over there, la plus chérie,” de Hambye pointed to some other children. “The baron and I must talk policy.”

“She is my only offspring,” de Hambye began, after his daughter had left. “One of her brothers died at Agincourt, and the other afterward in Paris. These Burgundians need to be fought tooth and nail. Instead, the Dauphin makes treaties.”

Gilles, desirous of escape to his friends, was only half paying attention. “The assassination of Jean the Fearless last year was hardly a treaty,” he said in an off-hand manner.

Coming up behind his grandson, d’Craon overheard the two and inserted himself into the conversation. “Seigneur de Hambye refers to the Dauphin’s overall mishandling of the situation since Agincourt. It has resulted in the Dauphin losing control, and his feeble-minded father being manoeuvered into disinheriting him with the Treaty of Troyes.”

The young baron frowned, but remained silent.

De Hambye was much more enthusiastic, however. “Oui! And it’s all due to the influence of that woman...”

“Isabeau of Bavaria?” de Rais suggested the queen, derisively.

“No. The Aragon woman, ah...”

“Yolande of Aragon?” d’Craon proffered.

“Yolande of Aragon! She makes all the decisions for the Dauphin. He hides behind her skirts like a toddler. ‘Queen of the Four Kingdoms?’ Faugh. The woman doesn’t have the wit to be queen of her own household. Four kingdoms!”

“What are you saying?” de Rais scoffed. “You have no confidence in the Dauphin. You hate the Burgundians and therefore Henry and the Angevins whom they support. Who does that leave to be King of France? The king’s brother, Orléans? By all means let us raise an army and ships and free him from his English prison. We’ve done so well fighting on our home shores, perhaps we should try invading theirs.”

“No one wants to hear your sarcasm, Gilles!” d’Craon hissed.

“No, no,” de Hambye pacified. “He’s fiery. I like that. I agree with him. We should raise an army and storm Wallingford Castle. That’s the kind of leadership we need!”

De Rais stared at the seigneur in disbelief. He sighed. “Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît,” he said. “I must prepare for the joust.”

“No, no! Of course! I am anxious to see you in combat. I have heard good things. I am sure you’ll remain in the saddle.”

“Merci. Well, I am substantially better at swordplay than tilting, but I don’t hate my odds.”

De Hambye and d’Craon watched him head toward the field. As he did so, he passed a small man in his late thirties, wearing a flowing blue gown, or houppelande, embroidered throughout with the device of a blue eagle.

“Is that...” de Hambye leaned forward to get a better look. “I think—Is that a Trémouille?”

“It is Georges de la Trémouille, the Comte de Guînes,” d’Craon specified.

“Pardonnez-moi, but he is an ally of the Burgundians. You have a Burgundian here!”

“No, no, Seigneur. De Guînes has pledged his service to the Dauphin. He is an Armagnac now.”

“Then he is a traitor as well as a Burgundian.” De Hambye took a step in the direction of the as yet unaware Comte de Guînes.

D’Craon placed his hand upon the seigneur’s shoulder. “Seigneur de Hambye, s’il vous plaît. He enjoys the confidence of Charles. You don’t want to come into odds with the Dauphin. Just wager against him in the joust.”

“Is he jousting?”

“Or better yet, I could arrange for you to tilt with him, if you’d like. Unhorse him in front of his peers. You can win his shield and then hang it upside down for all to see.”

“I hadn’t intended on taking the field. D’accord. Arrange it, d’Craon. You know, the more I look at him, the more familiar he looks. I am sure that I saw him at Paris.”

*     *     *

The tournament field was prepared about three miles from the center of the town. The inns of Champtocé-sur-Loire were at capacity long before the actual event; and so at the edges of the field, camps were set up that now were spilling over with the chevaliers and soldiers who had not arrived early. Here also were the commoners of the area who could try their hand at making profit from the event: musicians, actors, clowns, purveyors of vittles and of liquor, fortune-tellers, magicians, and whores—these along with still less reputable personages: beggars, drunks, con men, thugs, and cut-purses, even an occasional clergyman selling indulgences. In the crush of these could be found two satellite noblemen of puerile age and indulgent temperament, Roger de Briqueville and his friend, Gilles de Sillé.

“I should leave,” de Sillé vacillated, looking first over one shoulder and then the other. “If la bête—or worse, my father—finds me, I shall end up in the stocks.”

“Stop with all this worrying,” chided de Briqueville. “Your father is away in the stands. You might as well be cities apart. La bête, too, I’ll wager.”

“A palpable choice of words, I think. Either way, he’ll see me when I enter combat tomorrow and he won’t think twice about skewering me.”

De Briqueville grinned. “La bête or your father?”

“Whichever gets there first,” de Sillé laughed. “I thought you were supposed to be calming me.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine, at least as far as the thug is concerned. You’ll be paid up tonight, I promise—the baron takes care of his friends.”

“But you’re his friend, not me. I can only have met him a handful of times. He has no reason to help me.”

“Don’t worry; he’ll love you. You have never met anyone as generous. He’s the richest man in France—or one of. Your debts are a trifle to him. I’ll tell you what. I will say that I owe you the money in gambling. He’ll give it to me and I’ll give it to you. Then we’re all good. We’re all solvent. And you don’t have anything more to worry about.” De Briqueville broke off the conversation abruptly to wave wildly in the air and exclaim, “Gilles! Over here!”

“De Briqueville!” De Rais and de Briqueville kissed each other upon the mouth. “You don’t stay gone for long. It’s been, what, less than a week since my grand-père ran you out of here?”

“If he wanted me to stay gone, he shouldn’t have invited me back.”

“He never did.”

“Well, he invited my father. I go where he goes, if I’m not here.” De Briqueville took a breath. “Gilles, have you met mon ami and cousin, Gilles de Sillé?”

De Rais did not recognize de Briqueville’s friend. “I do not believe I have,” he said. “But welcome, Gilles.” De Rais took de Sillé’s hand, leaned in, and kissed his cheek. “A friend of Roger’s is a friend of mine, and all that.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Baron de Rais,” replied de Sillé, deciding it was as one to be meeting the baron for the first time as to remind him they had indeed met before.

“De Sillé...” de Rais pondered. “You are related to Anne de Sillé?”

“She is my father’s cousin.”

“She is an appalling busy-body.”

De Sillé laughed. “Oui.”

De Rais smiled. “You’re all right, Gilles. Gilles and Gilles. I think we share more than a name.”

“I hope so.”

“Merci, Roger, for introducing us. Do you throw dice, de Sillé?”

De Sillé looked at de Briqueville.

“Of course he does,” de Briqueville replied. “I’ll cut you in this time, de Sillé.”

“And drink, we need drink,” exclaimed de Rais. “Wine over here! A round for everybody!”

* * *

The jousting was already underway when Béatrice and her daughters arrived at the tournament field. Béatrice wore a white houppelande with a device of a yellow cross sewn throughout. A hennin divided into two truncated cones concealed her hair, with a linen wimple draped over it, giving her head a heart shape. Justine exited the carriage from behind her, wearing the same dress she’d traveled in: blue velvet with white feathers. Juliette, however, had ultimately decided on one of her ball gowns: striking blue silk with a pattern of large gold suns. It was trimmed all over in red with tight sleeves bound with golden cords, her chemise poofed through the elbows. Thérèse and another servant accompanied them; Catherine had been left at the château.

Béatrice, supporting herself upon the arm of her servant, Agnès, hazarded her way over the uneven ground to the stands to join her husband.

“Mon amour,” she greeted him. “Have we missed very much?”

“Not much. Just some out-of-competition tilts between commoners. My own man, Girard de la Noe, the son of my Captain of the Guard at Tiffauges, had quite an impressive showing—”

“Oh, did we miss it?” Beatrice’s maid, Agnès, interjected, anxiously, without thinking.

Milet looked at her astounded, wondering if she might continue with her commentary. She curtsied in apology. “It’s a shame he was left behind so long with the guard in Tiffauges,” Milet continued. “If we’d have had him before Paris, we might not have lost the city. Anyway, you’re in good time. Rohan and my cousin, Pierre—”

“The Vicomte de Thouars,” Béatrice said. She didn’t like him.

“—shall be the openers.”

“And who else is here?” Béatrice asked. “Have you met our host yet? Or the Baron de Rais?”

“No. The baron is in competition, so he is surely down in the field. I did see d’Craon talking with your mother.”

“Did you?” Béatrice frowned.

“And I talked to your brother, briefly.”

“I saw him at the château after we first arrived.”

“He seems well, I thought. Coping with his wife’s passing. He will join us after his match—if he’s in good enough shape.” Milet laughed.

Afternoon passed into evening as the contestants were unhorsed one after the other. Béatrice felt very confined in the stands, but her interest piqued when her brother took the field. He unhorsed one, two men, a third, and then was unhorsed himself by his brother-in-law, the Comte de Sancerre, and was taken out of competition. Three wins was a very good showing, his ultimate conqueror’s tender age of seventeen not withstanding.

Some time later he came up to join them in the stands. “How very nice it is to see you again,” Béatrice greeted him.

“And you, as well, ma sœur. And you Justine, and you Juliette,” the Baron de Sillé said, kissing his nieces’ hands.

“You never come to see us anymore, mon oncle,” Juliette complained.

“Perhaps I will have to change that.”

You had better not, Béatrice commented privately, not until Maman can no longer be counted among the living.

Returned from the joust, Jean was feral with sweat and blood and dirt. The martial combat radiated off of him and Béatrice sensed it and smelled it. She felt a thrill and a danger standing so near to both her husband and her first sin. She was scared to even look at her brother lest she give her thoughts away, but she breathed in his pheromones and looked out over the field as she considered how her life had come to this point.

Four children had been given life by Jean de Montjean and his wife, Anne de Sillé. Jeanne was the eldest, named after her father in case he should not have a son. Then, three years later there were the twins: Jean II, who would inherit the Baronnie de Sillé when Anne’s father died, and Béatrice, herself. Finally, three years after that, Céline. Everyone doted upon Céline: Maman and Papa, Jeanne, the servants, and any guests, all loved her. Constantly, Béatrice would hear how Céline was the most beautiful child ever born. “Isn’t your sister an angel, Béatrice?” they would ask her. Béatrice particularly remembered when Céline sat for a painting. The toddler was so beautiful, she would be forever memorialized as the Christ child, their nurse posing for the Virgin Mary. But Jean did not fall for her. He would commiserate with Béatrice, and as tight as twins are knit together, they grew tighter still. In the nursery, Jean and Béatrice withdrew from all else and played in their own world, and the rest seemed happy enough to ignore them. Until they reached the age of seven, when Jean was taken away from Béatrice to learn how to be a man.

Without a doubt, this was the most traumatizing event of Béatrice’s entire life. Before it happened, she didn’t really understand she was a different person than her brother. They shared their toys, their meals, their bed. They hadn’t needed to speak, for they shared their thoughts. Béatrice didn’t know it was possible for them to be separated. She was also afraid of it. Now she was left with one sister about whom she could not care less, and one sister whom she absolutely hated.

But crying and pouting changed nothing; and years passed without sympathy. Béatrice was compelled to become better friends with Jeanne and Céline, though they always favored each other in games. Her brother, she would only see irregularly. He lived far away in another wing of the château. There, he learned how to read and write, how to fence, and how to shoot a bow. Before any of her siblings had been born, initial efforts had been put into teaching Jeanne to read, enough so that when the lessons ceased, she had been able to teach herself the rest. She then taught Céline, but Béatrice refused, not really seeing the point; and besides, she found the studies difficult. Instead, while they read aloud, she’d listen, but meanwhile watch for her brother out the window. He would ride by on his horse and wave to her, and she would dab her eyes with her handkerchief.

Béatrice and Jean had first explored each other sexually when they were eleven. It was at an engagement party for their sister Jeanne—though this early betrothal would not last. Jean de Bueil, their sister’s eventual husband, had not even been born yet. At the party, the twins complained to each other of only being allowed a single glass of honey wine, while the adults swaggered about, getting louder and drunker. Jean told Béatrice to wait for him outside in the garden, and soon rendezvoused with her and a bottle he had stolen. He cut himself trying to get the cork out with his knife; and they looked fearfully back toward the château, but no one was nearby to hear them. Jean finally mastered the stopper, but he hadn’t brought glasses anymore than he had brought a corkscrew, and the children had no choice but drink the wine straight from the bottle. Béatrice was unused to this and drank too fast, spilling the liquid all over the front of her gown. The wet was cold in the autumn night, and Jean suggested she take off her outer garment and wear his instead. He also put his arms around her to keep her warm. And they sat there and talked and drank the sweet wine under the moonlight. Thinking of her sister’s engagement, Béatrice asked what a hymen was and why it must be preserved until the wedding night. Jean said he didn’t know, but he had heard what happened on the wedding night. Eventually, they turned from hypotheses to experiments.

Their liaisons continued in private for almost two years, during which time Béatrice experienced her menarche. At first, they would sneak out at night and meet in the woods, but as time went on convenience conquered caution, and they began to meet in increasingly easier ways, until finally, in the daytime, in the library, they were caught by their mother. It was not as bad as it could have been. They were at least not having sex; but Béatrice was showing Jean her still-developing breasts when Anne walked in on them. The fallout was that it was arranged for Béatrice to be installed in l’Abbaye de Femmes Notre Dame d’Étival-en-Charnie until she was married, there to better learn the virtues and the rosary and how to live in God’s Grace. How Anne convinced her husband this was necessary without telling him what she had observed, Béatrice would never know. But she was not sent alone. Since that would have raised suspicion, she was accompanied by her younger sister. And of course, in the abbaye, Céline was the favorite.

* * *

The Baron de Rais avoided the jousts as long as possible, preferring instead to get drunk with the less reputable of his guests. He, Roger de Briqueville, and Gilles de Sillé complemented their inebriation by throwing hasard among the Vicomte de Thouars’ men, getting wilder and wilder and betting higher and higher with the baron’s money. The pot on the current round of dice had risen to a full livre. Hugues de Limoges, a robust chevalier, who served as steward for the Vicomte de Thouars besides being a soldier, had a main of 6 and a chance of 5. He shook up the dice, threw a 6, and turned over the table, swearing so that the devil himself might take notice. De Rais and his friends laughed and embraced each other with glee.

“Eh! You three, I’d like my share of the pot!” Girard de la Noe intruded. After winning his exhibition match in the joust, Milet de Thouars’ guardsman had joined the table and bet against his comrade, Sieur Hugues.

“All right, all right! Hold your horses,” Gilles chided, doling out the money.

“Now, let’s right this table,” smiled de Sillé, crouching.

“No, leave it,” Sieur Hugues growled. “Enough of these table games! It’s time to test your mettle on real sport.” He began to disrobe.

“Wrestling!” exclaimed de Rais, looking over the prodigious man. He nodded. “I’ll beat you at anything you like. I just need another drink first.”

De Briqueville laughed and put a hand on de Rais’ shoulder to stay him. “I know you see yourself as Jacob when you have enough brandy in you, but I just don’t think you have the time. You’d better go win at jousting instead.”

“Oh! Fine,” de Rais pouted. “I’ll go get my armor on. Where’s my squire? Thomas!” The baron swaggered off into his tent followed by the boy.

De Briqueville and de Sillé meant to follow as well, but Sieur Hugues stepped in front of them.

“Hold,” ordered Sieur Hugues. “You must give me the chance to win my money back. And not with those crooked dice.”

“Crooked!” de Briqueville spat indignantly.

Girard de la Noe inserted himself. “If both wits and strength are out of the question, perhaps accuracy will please both parties.”

“That seems reasonable,” de Briqueville nodded. “Let’s take it in pairs. You two against us two.”

Sieur Hugues and de Sillé agreed as well.

“Are the rest of you fine putting up the target without me? I need to get my crossbow,” said de Sillé. “I won’t be ten minutes.” He meant his father’s crossbow, back at the inn. Knowing his father was watching the jousts from the stands, he wasn’t particularly worried about meeting anyone he’d rather avoid when he got there.

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten la bête.

De Sillé was thrown hard against the side of the inn, violently enough that when his nose smashed against the stone and mortar, it started to bleed.

“Oh! What’s your problem?” de Sillé complained.

“What’s my problem?” la bête repeated, sarcastically, his shaved lip curling into a sneer. “My problem is people who borrow dozens of livre with no intention of paying it back. You know what I call those people, de Sillé? I call them thieves.” La bête took the back of de Sillé’s head by the hair and slammed it again into the wall.

“I’m going to pay! I’m going to. I have a plan. I will get the money!” de Sillé pleaded.

“Oh, really?” said la bête. He reached down and felt for de Sillé’s coin purse. “Hm,” he shook his head. “Because it seems like you have some extra money you could be paying me right now.” He jerked on the purse, snapping the thong that tied it to de Sillé’s belt.

“Oui! Oui! I won that for you. That’s yours. Take it,” de Sillé begged.

“It’s not enough,” la bête said, weighing. “What is this? Forty sous at most? I think I’m going to have to make a visit to your father. He’ll make things right. He’ll get me my money. He’ll get you a flogging. It’ll be square all around.”

“No, no! Don’t go to my father. You don’t have to do that. I’ll get all your money. It’s coming to me, I swear.”

“How?” asked la bête, twisting de Sillé’s arm up his back.

“How? De Rais, de Rais! The baron’s going to cover my debt.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He has loads of money, and de Briqueville has a plan. I—I just need some time.... A month?” de Sillé tried.

“A month!” la bête spat back. “Till the end of the tournament. And I’m adding ten percent.” He let de Sillé go.

“Ten percent,” de Sillé agreed, turning around.

* * *

De Sillé returned to the camp holding a handkerchief to his nose.

The much further inebriated de Briqueville looked up from the whore he was playing with and laughed. “Well? Where’s the crossbow?” he asked.

De Sillé walked up to his friend and slapped him alongside the head. “There’s no crossbow.”

“Then it’s back to wrestling,” smiled Sieur Hugues, rising.

“All right, but can I bet against Gilles?” de Briqueville snickered.

“There’s going to be no wrestling either,” de Sillé clipped.

“No wrestling?” roared Sieur Hugues, rising to his feet. “Look here, I lost a lot of money tonight. It’s only fair you give me a chance to win it back.”

“There’s no money either. It was all stolen by la bête.”

“Une bête? What would a beast want with money?”

“It’s not a literal beast, you oaf. It’s this fucking trouduc I owe fucking two dozen fucking livre to.”

“Two dozen livre!” Sieur Hugues gasped, sitting down again as he imagined owing what would be, to him, a year’s salary.

“And ten percent.”

“Come on now, how did you ever gamble away so much?” asked de Briqueville.

“It wasn’t so much,” de Sillé explained. “I would win a bit and lose a bit. It was fun and I always had credit from Arnaud de Cholet before. And then one day I didn’t, and learned why he was called la bête.”

“How in Creation did this man ever have so much money to extend to you?” asked Girard, sitting near Sieur Hugues.

“It is not his own money. He has a master—though I am not sure who that may be... What am I ever going to do? He shall go to my father, and then I am finished.”

“No. That’s not going to happen,” maintained de Briqueville. “We’ll stick to the plan. It is a paltry sum to the Baron de Rais. I’ll ask him if I can borrow the money, and a week from now, he won’t even remember he has lent it to me.”

“I would trade you in a heartbeat for a friend so generous,” Girard said to Sieur Hugues, leading his dejected and now hopelessly poorer comrade to rather sadly finish off his beer.

“Come on,” said de Briqueville to de Sillé. “We’ll await him in his tent.”

* * *

On the tournament field, a fanfare announced the championship match of the competition. The guest of honor, Gilles de Montmorency-Laval, the Baron de Rais, Seigneur de Machecoul, heir of Champtocé-sur-Loire, of Ingrades, of La Bénate, of the Coutumier of Bourgneuf-en-Retz, of Bouin, etc. etc., would face the champion of the game, Jean V de Bueil, Comte de Sancerre, Vicomte de Carentan, Seigneur de Bueil, Montresor and Aubijoux de Château-la-Valliere, of Courcillon of Saint-Calais, of Vaujours, of Ussé and Vailly-sur-Sauldre. It would be a perfunctory combat. The Comte de Sancerre had been in the field battling all day, and so was exhausted, while de Rais was fresh and known to be an able horseman. It was intended to give the baron the gift of a championship on his sixteenth birthday. The two men took their steeds out onto the field, showing their armor to all the attendees. The Comte de Sancerre rode his horse toward where his much older wife, Jeanne Montjean, Béatrice’s elder sister, sat in the stands. Her kerchief already adorned his lance, but she bent down to kiss it for good luck. Béatrice’s attention, however, was not on her brother-in-law, but instead upon her wished-to-be son-in-law, the Baron de Rais. He rode his horse to the central area of the stands where his grandfather sat alongside Anne de Sillé and Gilles’ younger brother, René. Gilles’ grandmother was ill and had not come down to the field. A young girl, whom Béatrice did not recognize, leaned out over the stands, and kissed the kerchief hanging from de Rais’ lance.

“Who is that?” Béatrice asked of whomever may have been listening. “Who is that little girl? I don’t recognize her.”

“I’m not sure,” answered her husband.

“She acts as though she’s his paramour. That cannot be, can it?”

“Maman!” objected Justine.

“I know, Justine. Don’t worry. There is no better suited match for de Rais than you. We can attack this head-on once we are released from this jail of a stand.”

De Rais and his opponent cantered to opposite sides of the field. They nodded to one another, then lowered their lances. And then they charged. Gilles’ lance wobbled noticeably; even Béatrice could tell there was something wrong and she payed little attention to the fundamentals of such games.

Milet leaned forward. “What, is he drunk?”

The combatants met. Gilles’ lance failed to make contact with the Comte de Sancerre’s shield, but Gilles was carried off his horse and through the air to the ground by his opponent’s blow.

The crowd cheered! Sancerre was the victor of the day.

“What happened?” asked Béatrice. “I had heard he was very respectable with a lance.”

“It’s as your husband said,” Jean responded, “he must have been drunk. It’s the only explanation—or else his abilities on the field have been much exaggerated.”

Another flourish of the trumpet broke up further discussion. “Seigneurs et dames, mesdames et messieurs, your attention please, and a moment more of your time! We are not yet finished with the evening’s entertainment. There is to be one final contest added to the schedule. A personal grievance to be carried out on the tilting field. Mesdames et messieurs, may I present the Seigneur de Hambye and Chanteloup, Nicolas Paynel, and fighting against him, the Comte de Guînes, Georges de la Trémouille!”

The crowd cheered wildly, and Béatrice watched as the Seigneur de Hambye rode from the edge of the field up to the stands. There the same little girl who had kissed the Baron de Rais’ lance leaned out and tied a ribbon to the end of de Hambye’s.

“What a calamity,” Béatrice said aloud.

“What is the matter, Maman?” asked Justine.

“That girl in de Rais’ box is assuredly Jeanne Paynel. In acres of land they might have less than we, but it is a very rich country in Normandy, and the Paynels have drawn in a great fortune in trade. They may be the richest family in France, and so Europe. I had not considered them before due to Mademoiselle Paynel’s age. You cannot compete with her, Justine.”

“But Maman! You said it was certain! I was already seeing myself as la Dame de Champtocé-sur-Loire! You can’t take that away from me! You can’t let her take that away from me!”

“Oh, be quiet, Justine, and let me think. There are other eligible men here. D’Craon himself will soon be free of his wife. You could give him a son and disinherit Gilles, and still be la Dame de Champtocé-sur-Loire, if you want.”

“D’Craon!” Justine declared, horrified, before hissing at her sister, “But he’s ancient.” Juliette giggled.

“You’d have to fight Maman for him anyways! Now, just let me think!” Béatrice commanded.

The combatants began charging at one another from opposite sides of the field. They passed each other three times without landing a solid blow, but it was during the fourth pass, when de Guînes struck de Hambye from his horse, that Béatrice began to form a plan.

* * *

The Baron de Rais returned tempestuously to his tent beside the tournament field. Inside, de Briqueville and de Sillé could be found drinking his wine. News of his defeat had preceded him, and de Briqueville cleared his throat. “We had our run of bad luck, too,” he began, attempting to equate the debt with the defeat and so advantage by his commiseration, but the fury with which de Rais advanced upon him made him doubt his approach.

“Out! Get out!” de Rais shouted, throwing an empty bottle at him. “Lousy parasites!” he called with near clairvoyance after the two men as they escaped outside.

Alone, de Rais violently threw over a table and began destroying whichever chairs and benches were closest at hand. Finally, seeing nothing further to wreak havoc upon, he threw himself to the ground, still in his armor, and began ripping the sheepskin carpet apart.

“Spoiled child!”

De Rais looked up to see his grandfather striding to him from the entrance of the tent. When d’Craon got to him, the seigneur proceeded to direct as hard a kick as he was able beneath his grandson’s helmet and under the boy’s jaw. The force threw de Rais onto his back and caused him to bite deeply into his tongue.

“What an embarrassment! What a laughingstock!” d’Craon berated while de Rais clambered to his feet in a rage.

“Oh, you can stand, you hedonistic lout.”

De Rais bent and took the broken leg of a chair in his hand and wielded it over his head.

“Don’t you dare! Or do you want the ax as well?” d’Craon accused.

De Rais dropped the chair leg.

“Coward, too, I see!” d’Craon ridiculed. “Is this how you want people to think of you? Is this how you want to present yourself? A hedonistic drunk, who can’t even stay on a horse? And how can you be my heir? How can you protect these lands when Burgundy, Brittany, Plantagenet, de Guînes, when all these men who look upon our estates with lust see you as a drunk dog? They are impatient for the day I die, for then these lands will surely be theirs!”

Blood poured from de Rais’ mouth as he spoke. “The saddle on my horse was not belted tightly. It slipped while I was charging.”

D’Craon was dumbfounded. “Juvenile! Craven! Ignorant! I can’t even begin to comprehend how your mind works. Oh, I can’t look at you anymore!”

D’Craon whipped around and fled from the ignominy of the tent. Alone, de Rais swore at a volume that not a person in camp could have missed.

* * *

The sun had already set by the time the guests had left the stands and begun boarding the carriages that would take them back to the château or to inns, wherever they would lodge. Béatrice invited her brother to share their transport and so the family de Thouars, plus one, all piled into the back of the carriage, leaving the two maids to sit up top alongside the driver. Looking back out the window toward the field as they pulled away, Béatrice saw her mother considering her in return, her mother’s ill-tempered black poodle snarling at her feet. “Merde,” Béatrice swore under her breath.

Milet turned his head slightly. “I’m sorry?”

“Nothing.”

“You never come round to Pouzauges anymore, Jean,” Béatrice said.

“It was hard when Marie was alive,” Jean replied, and then adding a lie, “She didn’t like to be away from home for long. It was different when it was just myself. I could spend a month here or there, but staying away from home is harder when there is someone waiting for you.”

“You know you’re always welcome,” Béatrice suggested. “Milet loves to have someone to go hunting with.”

“Mais oui, as do I,” Jean furrowed his eyebrows meaningfully toward Béatrice, wondering why she was talking about this now. Was she just poking fun at Milet in front of his face?

Béatrice sighed.

No, thought Jean, her mood is deeper than that. He turned to look out the window, trying to pierce the moonless night. The woods turned slowly to the outer edge of the village. As they approached the church, the carriage slowed and finally stopped before the cemetery.

“What’s going on? Why aren’t we moving?” complained Juliette.

Milet leaned his head out the window. “Driver?” he called.

“I’m sorry, mon seigneur. There are carriages blocking the road. I shall have to get down and try to lead the horses back.”

“Well, what’s wrong? Why are the carriages blocking the road?”

“I could try to find out, mon seigneur.”

“Do so.”

The family waited patiently for a few minutes, and peered out through the carriage windows. Training their eyes toward the graveyard, they saw an intermittent line of people leading from the carriages before them to out between the markers and finally to become lost among the crypts. But it was hard to make out anything; the moon was hidden by clouds. Eventually, the chauffeur returned. “Apparently, there is some trouble in the cemetery. A suspicious body has been discovered. Shall I try to take the carriage back by the way we came?” But that course by now would have been futile as more and more carriages filled the road. Yearning toward the line of aristocrats, Justine immediately pleaded, “May we go see the body, Maman?”

“Please?” added Juliette.

“Absolutely not,” Béatrice decreed, but at that moment she spied a man with a young girl pass by the carriage. Dark as the night was, they were unmistakably the Seigneur de Hambye and his daughter. “I take it back. All day sitting in this carriage and then those stands. A walk would do us some good. Hurry up, now.”

One-by-one, a footman helped Justine and Juliette, Béatrice, and then the two men clamber out of the vehicle. Meanwhile, the two maid servants helped each other down from the dickey box. Béatrice looked ruefully out into the cemetery, realizing that they could never hope to catch up with de Hambye. Instead, the group walked markedly slowly toward the crypts. A solemnity had descended upon them, and even the girls were mute under the night sky.

Eventually they made it through the free-standing markers, and passed among the sepulchres with all their angels weeping over them. Justine and Juliette held each other’s arms and Béatrice took the arm of her brother. “I don’t think I want to see, after all,” Juliette whispered. But they continued walking in the strange, uneven processional. It was too late to go back now, they were ineffably compelled. Finally, they made it to where all the noblemen were gathered before the mouth of a large tomb. The crowd shifted as they approached and a path opened unnaturally to its focus. A servant girl lay collapsed near the crypt’s doorway, her eyes still open but lifeless, her skin white and dead. “Why,” said Juliette, “it’s Ca–” she stopped herself. “It’s Cendrillon.”