The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) (6 page)

‘I presume the dandelion woman didn’t want to talk to the capitaine of gendarmes in Ordebec?’

‘She refuses to consider it.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me, he wouldn’t appreciate it. And you, commissaire, you’ll be able to forget it all afterwards too. Do we know anything about this hunter who’s disappeared?’

‘He’s a brutal hunter of game, and worse, he mostly kills females and young animals. The local hunting league has expelled him, and nobody wants to go out shooting with him now.’

‘Bad guy then? Violent? A killer?’ asked Danglard, taking a mouthful of wine.

‘Looks like it.’

‘That fits. This Lina, she lives in Ordebec then?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Have you really never heard of this little place, Ordebec? A great composer lived there for a while.’

‘That’s irrelevant, commandant.’

‘But at least it’s a positive note. The rest is more disquieting. This army. Did it go past on the Chemin de Bonneval?’

‘Yes, that was the name she mentioned,’ Adamsberg replied in surprise. ‘Did you hear her say that?’

‘No, but it’s a well-known
grimweld
, it goes through the Forest of Alance. You can be sure anyone who lives in Ordebec will be well aware of it, and that they often talk about this story, even if they’d prefer to forget it.’

‘I don’t know what that means, Danglard:
grimweld.’

‘It’s the name they give a road where Hellequin’s Horde goes past – the Furious Army if you prefer, or they sometimes call it the Great Hunt, or the Ghost Riders. Only a very few men or women have ever seen it. One man is quite well known. He saw it going to Bonneval, like your Lina. Gauchelin, his name was, a priest.’

Danglard swallowed another two large mouthfuls of wine and smiled. Adamsberg tapped his cigarette ash into the cold fireplace and waited. The slightly provocative smile creasing the commandant’s jowly cheeks was not a good sign, except that it meant Danglard was now completely at ease.

‘It happened in early January in the year 1091. Good choice of wine, Armel, but there won’t be enough for three of us.’

‘In the year what?’ said Zerk, moving his stool closer to the fireplace and preparing, elbows on knees, and glass in hand, to pay close attention to the commandant.

‘The end of the eleventh century. Five years before the First Crusade.’

‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ said Adamsberg to himself, suddenly having the unpleasant impression that this little woman from Ordebec, fragile dandelion clock or not, had been leading him on a wild goose chase.

‘Yes indeed,’ said Danglard. ‘A lot of fuss about nothing, commissaire. But you do still want to know why she was afraid, don’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘In that case, you ought to know the story about Gauchelin. But we’ll need another bottle,’ he repeated. ‘There are three of us.’

Zerk jumped up. ‘I’ll go back to the shop,’ he said.

Before he went out, Adamsberg saw him pass a finger lightly over the pigeon’s feathers. And Adamsberg repeated mechanically, like a father: ‘There’s some money on the sideboard.’

Seven minutes later, Danglard, reassured by the presence of a second bottle, poured himself another glass, and began to tell Gauchelin’s story, then broke off, frowning up at the low ceiling.

‘But maybe it would be clearer if I told you about Hélinand de Froidmond, from the early thirteenth century,’ he wondered. ‘Give me a minute to remember it, it’s not a text I look at every day.’

‘Whatever you like,’ said Adamsberg, now completely lost. Since learning that they were off into the mists of the Middle Ages, abandoning Michel Herbier to his fate, the story of the little woman and her panic now seemed of little consequence to him.

He stood up, poured himself a little wine, and took a look at the pigeon. The Furious Army didn’t concern him, and he had obviously been mistaken about the evanescent Madame Vendermot. She didn’t need his help. She was simply an inoffensive woman with mental problems, who was afraid bookshelves might fall on her head, even those of the eleventh century.

‘It was his uncle Hellebaud who told the tale,’ Danglard went on, now addressing the young man only.

‘Hélinand de Froidmond’s uncle?’ asked Zerk, concentrating hard.

‘Precisely, his paternal uncle. And this was what he said:
“When towards midday we approached this forest, my servant, who was ahead of me, riding fast to make the lodgings ready for my arrival, heard a great tumult in the woods, like the whinnying of many horses, the clash of arms and the shouts of men on the attack. He and his horse being terrified, he came back towards me, and when I asked him why he had turned round, he said, My horse would by no means go forward even when I whipped or spurred him, and I was so frightened myself, I was unable to move. I have heard and seen the most astounding things
.’”

Danglard held out his glass towards the young man.

‘Armel,’ he said – since Danglard absolutely refused to call the young man by his nickname, Zerk, and regularly criticised Adamsberg for using
it – ‘Armel, please refill my glass and I’ll tell you what this young woman Lina saw. Then you’ll know why she suffers these night terrors.’

Zerk poured the wine, with the eagerness of a child who’s afraid he won’t hear the end of the story, and sat back down again alongside Danglard. He had grown up without a father, nobody had ever told him stories. His mother had worked nights as a cleaner in a fish-gutting factory.

‘Thanks, Armel. So the servant went on: “The
forest is full of dead souls and demons. I heard them talking and shouting: We have caught the Provost of Arques, and now we shall capture the Archbishop of Reims. And I replied, Let us make the sign of the cross on our foreheads and go forward in safety
.’”

‘That was the uncle talking, was it?’

‘The last bit, that’s right. And Hellebaud says:
“When we advanced and came to the forest, it was getting dark and yet I could hear voices and the sound of armour and horses neighing, but I could neither see the shades nor understand the voices. After reaching home, we found the archbishop at his last extremity and he did not survive fourteen days after we heard those voices. People said he had been taken by spirits. They had been heard saying they were going to seize him.”’

‘Well, that doesn’t correspond to what Lina’s mother said,’ Adamsberg interrupted gruffly. ‘She didn’t say her daughter had heard voices, or horses, or seen shades. She simply saw this Michel Herbier and three other men, with the Riders in the Army.’

‘That’s because the mother didn’t dare tell you the whole story. And because in Ordebec there’s no need to explain. Up there, when someone says, “I’ve seen the Furious Army go past”, everyone knows perfectly well what it means. I need to tell you a bit more about the horsemen Lina saw, to explain why she probably doesn’t sleep at night. And if there’s one thing that’s sure, commissaire, it’s that her life in Ordebec will have become very tough. People will certainly be avoiding her like the plague. I think the mother came to talk to you above all to get some protection for her daughter.’

‘What did she see?’ asked Zerk, his cigarette hanging unsmoked from his lips.

‘Armel, this ancient cavalcade causing havoc in the countryside is
damaged. The horses and their riders have no flesh and many of their limbs are missing. It’s an army of the dead, of the putrefied dead, an army of ghostly riders, wild-eyed and screaming, unable to get to heaven. Imagine that.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Zerk, pouring himself some more wine. ‘Can you excuse me a minute, commandant? It’s ten o’clock, I have to see to the pigeon. Instructions.’

‘From whom?’

‘Violette Retancourt.’

‘Well, you’d better do it then.’

Zerk set conscientiously to work with the wet crumbs, the water dropper and the bottle of tonic. He was getting used to it now, but when he sat down, he looked anxious.

‘He’s no better,’ he said sadly to his father. ‘That horrible kid.’

‘I’ll catch him, believe me,’ said Adamsberg serenely.

‘Are you really going to investigate some kid who’s been torturing a pigeon?’ asked Danglard, looking mildly surprised.

‘Absolutely, Danglard,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Why not?’

Danglard waited until he had Zerk’s full attention to continue the tale about the ghostly army. He was increasingly struck by the resemblance between this father and son, their expressions were so similar: vague, without sharpness or movement, their eyes shadowy and withdrawn. Except that in Adamsberg’s case there was sometimes a sudden flash of light like the sun illuminating strands of seaweed at low tide.

‘The Ghost Riders always carry along some living men or women, who are heard shrieking and lamenting in suffering and flames. They’re the ones the witness recognises. Just as Lina recognised this hunter and the three other individuals. The living people beg some good soul to atone for their terrible sins, so as to save them from torment. That’s what Gauchelin says.’

‘Stop, Danglard,’ Adamsberg begged him, ‘that’s enough about Gauchelin, we get the general idea.’

‘Well, it was you who asked me in the first place to come over and explain about the army,’ said Danglard in some irritation.

Adamsberg shrugged. Stories like this sent him to sleep and he would have preferred Danglard to keep it short. But he knew how happy it made his commandant to wallow in the telling, as if swimming in a lake of the finest white wine in the world. Especially when he had the admiring and excited attention of Zerk. Well, at least this excursion had wiped out Danglard’s fit of the sulks, since he seemed much more at ease with life now.

‘What Gauchelin actually wrote,’ Danglard went on with a smile, fully aware of Adamsberg’s weariness, ‘was:
“Now behold an immense army of men on foot began to pass. They bore on their necks and shoulders cattle, clothing, objects of all kinds and diverse utensils which brigands habitually carry with them
.” Great text, isn’t it?’ he said to Adamsberg with a deliberate smile.

‘Yeah, great,’ Adamsberg replied without thinking.

‘Sobriety and grace, it’s all there. Rather different from Veyrenc’s verses, eh, which are clumping doggerel.’

‘Not his fault, you know that. His grandmother knew Racine by heart, and she recited it to him all day, just lines and lines of Racine’s plays. Because she had rescued them from a fire at her school.’

‘She would have done better to rescue some books on manners and politeness and then teach her grandson about that.’

Adamsberg remained silent, without taking his eyes off Danglard. It was going to take some time for this problem to resolve itself. At present, it looked as if there was going to be a duel between the two men, or more precisely – because this was one of its causes – between the two intellectual heavyweights in the squad.

‘So, moving on,’ said Danglard, “‘All
were lamenting and exhorting each other to move faster. The priest recognised in this throng several of his neighbours who had recently died and he heard them crying out about the great torment they were suffering because of their sins
.” He also saw, and here we’re getting closer to your Lina, he saw also a certain Landri.
“In court sessions and cases, this man gave judgment according only to his whims,”
and according to witnesses, if he received gifts, he modified his sentences. “
He was at the service of cupidity and deception rather than of justice
.” And
that is why Landri, Vicomte d’Ordebec, was seized by the Furious Army. To be a corrupt magistrate in those days was as serious as to commit bloodshed. Whereas nowadays, nobody cares.’

‘Yeah, right,’ breathed Zerk, who was uncritically in awe of the commandant.

‘Well, whatever the efforts of the witness when he goes home after seeing this terrifying vision, and however many Masses are said, the living persons he’s seen riding with the army die in the week following the vision. Or within three weeks at the outside. And that’s something you should remember about the little woman’s story, commissaire. All those who are “seized” by the Riders are certainly bastards beneath contempt, real villains, exploiters, corrupt judges or murderers. But their crime is not generally known to their contemporaries. They’ve remained unpunished. That’s why the army gets hold of them. When exactly did Lina see them go by?’

‘Over three weeks ago.’

‘In that case, there’s no doubt about it,’ Danglard said calmly, looking at his glass. ‘Yes, the man’s dead. Carried off by Hellequin’s Horde.’

‘His what?’ asked Zerk.

‘His horde, his servants if you like. Hellequin’s their overlord.’

Adamsberg approached the fireplace again, curious to hear a little more, and leaned against the brick hearth. The fact that the Riders singled out unpunished villains interested him. He suddenly realised that the other people whose names Lina had revealed would not be going about their lives very cheerfully in Ordebec. Everyone else would be watching them, asking themselves questions, wondering what crime these marked men had committed. You can tell yourself you don’t believe this kind of thing, but it’s difficult not to believe it. The pernicious idea digs a deep channel. It silently infiltrates the unavowed corridors of the mind, penetrates, and trickles through. You suppress the idea, it lies dormant for a while, then it returns.

‘How do they die, these people who are “seized”?’ he asked.

‘It depends. A sudden fever, or murder. If it isn’t some galloping disease or an accident, an earthly being may execute the implacable will of the Riders. So it’s murder, but one commanded by Lord Hellequin. You see?’

The two glasses of wine he had drunk – something he did only rarely – had softened Adamsberg’s bad mood. Now it seemed, on the contrary, that meeting a woman who was able to see the ghostly cavalcade would be an unusual and distracting experience. And that the real-life consequences of a vision like that might indeed be frightening. He allowed himself another half-glass, and stole a cigarette from his son’s packet.

‘Is this legend peculiar to Ordebec?’ he asked.

Danglard shook his head. ‘No, Hellequin’s Horde is known throughout Northern Europe. In Scandinavia, in Flanders, all of France, and England. But it always travels along the same paths, and it’s been using the one through Bonneval for a thousand years or so.’