The Secret Book of Paradys (21 page)

The idea of the fat woman, the housekeeper with the keys, who had accosted her in the street by the statue-fountain that first day, had come to Jehan this very morning, as she sorted herbs in the infirmary annexe. That the house was a rich one had been evident. That the woman had charge was probable. The master was “old” and “always off on business.” Come in, she had urged Jehan.

For a while they debated and said No, but, standing silent in the door, watching them with clear eyes, she brought them round. Conrad declared this boy was a fiend, and another that fiends were lucky to the wicked, and they all laughed and spoke of hair the hue of sulphur, and after that ten of them went with her down the stair, and only three stayed sullenly behind.

Under the wall of the overgrown park, in the sky-sailing shadow of the embryo of the Temple-Church, the thieves stared across at a house Jehan had indicated. And the City bells rang for Laude.

“Stay here then, I’ll go rouse the fat dame,” said Jehan. “When I’m in the house, Conrad – you come across and wait by the door. No other, till he gives the signal to you.”

Jehan ran lightly, dark to dark, to the side door of the house, and shook it. As she had supposed, the boy she had seen was porter there, and in a
moment he whined at her through the panels. “Is your master at home?” said Jehan.

“No. Master’s off,” came the high voice, stupid with sleep and resentment.

“The housekeeper then. Your mistress.”

“She’s in her bed.”

“Wake her,” said Jehan in a low and terrible tone.

Through the door, with an uncanny night-hearing, Jehan heard the boy stumble away.

(From the wall across the street rose a mutinous shuffling, and she cursed it down, making no sound or sign.)

Then, above, in a toadstool bulge of the house, the pane of a window lighted. Again, Jehan heard the noises of human things aggrieved.

(Conrad was out, standing by the cowled well. Jehan flung an arm out at him in a gesture of rage, and he lurched down behind the trough, hidden.)

The woman’s flat fat tread was descending through the house now. What luck, they were alone there. No other servant even, it would seem, and the old man “off.”

“Who’s that? Who’s there? You rogue –”

The woman’s voice was breathy but not alarmed, not even entirely prepared for anger. She might be prone to night callers. Jehan put her mouth to the door and moaned, “Kind lady, let me in for the love of God. I’m known to you – that brother of Master Motius’ student, Pierre –” her voice quavered on the name, which was fortunate. “I’ve been set on, mistress. Robbers. Help me –”

Then great billows of righteous outrage and passion the far side of the door, and bolts and bars being sprung.

Wrapped in her bedclothes, the woman flooded the door alcove. She thrust her candle out, and Pierre’s handsome brother, Jehan, stood wilted and swooning in the radiance, one hand to his side, gasping.

“God’s vitals. Poor boy. Come in at once. There. Lean on me, as hard as you like. I’m well-cushioned.”

“I knew no one else –” said Jehan.

“And what of your fine brother? For shame. And the Master Artisan’s pet, too.”

“He won’t know me. Turned me off. It will break our mother’s heart.”

“Where is he then, the disgrace?”

Jehan said: “I know no more than you.” And staggered.

“Where are you hurt?”

“Only a little.”

“Yes, you seem unmarred.”

“In my heart the worst.”

In the kitchen, Jehan sprawled out in a chair. Her swimming vision told
her that the pans were of quality, and the big hearth and its apparatus evidenced many lavish roasts. Instantly the woman had lit another three candles – extravagance, too. Then she used one of her keys, and brought wine. In her own right, the lady was also a thief.

“Drink that now. That’ll bring you back. And I’ll keep you company in a drop. He’s got so much, he never misses the sip or two I take. A mean fellow. Pays me in pennies, works me off my feet. I must live. His poor relation you understand. Kept me from a husband, too, I’ve had my chances – all lost –”

Jehan tried the wine, thick as velvet, and began to revive.

Jehan asked nothing about the old man and his valuables. No need, for the woman spread the night with tidings, while sometimes patting Jehan’s knee. Gold plate sat above, and candlesticks, a chamber-pot with gold handles, a box of money – the one key he stinted her of (no trouble when a dagger-hilt might be used on it)—another of rings and chains, which he hid, as if she would touch it, God pardon him. There was a Bible too, and a book got from the artisan, who was a magician, both with covers warted by gems. And a robe trimmed with bullion, and gloves stitched with pearls – what a treasure trove! – and her without a decent gown for holy days.

Jehan, much recovered, aided the woman to more wine. As it was done, Jehan gave her too a kiss on the cheek, and dropped in her cup a powder of herbs from the infirmary.

“Well now, you saucy boy,” said the housekeeper, very much delighted. “I’ll begin to think no one set on you at all, you only came here for a naughty reason.”

Jehan lowered eyes that, in the smoky light, were gold as any rich man’s plate. Boy-like, smiling, Jehan reached out, and gave the fat woman’s vast bosom a gentle tweak.

Such shrieks. The neighbours would think her murdered, unless they often heard the sounds, which seemed probable. Then, such a gratifyingly big drink.

“And you only a youthful lad.”

“Willing though to learn.”

“Well, well. One can’t even trust opening the door these nights.”

She drank again, in a huge swallow, not noticing the wine, eyes sparkling, breasts heaving. All the potion was gone, inside her. She reached and caught Jehan and pulled him down, massaging at buttocks and thighs. Jehan panted, fondled various mounds, imparted kisses and tasted in the wine-sweetened mouth the bitter tint of herbs, the powerful bringers of sleep –

Before the insistent hands could find out their mistake, they suddenly went sliding off. The fat woman rolled back, her eyes startled and still gaping as the first snore shook her bulk. Then her eyes shut on her. Protesting, snoring,
kidnapped by unconsciousness, she cascaded from the chair on to the floor and lay beside a mouse-trap baited with cheese.

Outside in the street, a thief barked. They were growing anxious. As Jehan opened the door, Conrad shouldered through it. He glared at her, then stepped out again. He whistled, the twittering note of a bird, and one by one the others darted noiselessly bat-like over the gap between the shadows.

Conrad and another man caught the door-boy asleep at the stairfoot, hammered him on the head for fair measure and left him sprawled there. At the fat woman lying by the mouse-trap with her legs wide, some of them were tempted. They thought her only dead drunk. Her keys were taken. One mounted her. She quaked under him, gurgling, oblivious, and so was reckoned secure.

Upstairs the gang ransacked the house, Jehan having informed them of what might be expected. Everything was found, even the chamber-pot, and the casket of jewellery, which last had only been inserted in the mattress, a common recourse.

Thereafter, Conrad and others slung their arms about the neck of Jehan, and crowned him with a gold chain from the casket, and poured a cup of white wine over his head to christen him in their fellowship, when once the wine-barrels had been got at. They remained, throughout the acts of carnage and celebration, quiet.

The house, so staid and safe without, was now inside a shambles. Only the kitchen had remained lit, and here at length they repaired, draped in the bed-curtains, toting their spoils, to drink about the laundry heap of the drugged woman.

There was time enough. The City gates would not part until the dawn, still an hour or so away. Even if the old fellow returned, he could not get in the City till after sunrise, and by then they would be gone. What a surprise they had left him.

“How Dwarf will cuss, how Fero will bite himself, when he learns what he missed!”

On the floor the fat woman breathed only in jerks and gutterings. Her face was grey and her lips slaty. The herbs had been generous in amount.

But the wine was good, and, not able to port it, they did not see why they should leave so much of it behind. The drinking went on, and in the middle Jehan sat on the table, looking under her or his lids, not speaking, scarcely-tasted cup set down.

Then the dark that came in at the alcove chink turned to a deep grey light. They roused to be going. They did not want to be seen.

As they stuffed the handy pouches in cloaks, surcoats, loincloths, with loot, there came sounds out of the speechless night. They were the hoofs of a mule that clucked along the cobbles, indeed, of two mules going in tandem.

“Not here,” said Conrad, “God’s tail, not here.”

But the mules picked delicately on, coming closer, coming to the door, and were there reined in. And now voices spoke outside the front of the house. A respectful mutter, an old man’s pedantic drone.

“He’s rich,” said Scar-Nose. “He’ll have paid the gate crew to open the postern. Back early, rot him.”

“When he’s in he’ll start a do. The world will come running.”

“Then when he’s in,” said Jehan, “we must stop his mouth.”

“I hear two of them, the old rat, and a young.”

“Both mouths stopped,” said Jehan. She moved from the kitchen towards the front of the house and its large door. “This has a lock. Be ready.”

When the large key turned in the large door, the inner space was waiting, lined by flesh.

The old man came through, calling irritably to the porter-boy by name, his grizzled skull and fur-lined garment, his old body, creaking by a few inches from Jehan beside the door. Then, in the gloom, someone whacked him. The blow seemed to split his head across, blackish liquid spurted, and he fell into the vortex of finished deeds without a cry.

Outside, in the twilight, the servant was giving his mule water from the trough by the well.

Jehan called to him softly. “Sieur, sieur.” He turned, hearing a girl’s voice addressing him so politely. Puzzled, not dismayed, he came towards the door and found it empty and unlit. He was a young man, strong and comely. He stood framed against the dusk, as all their eyes, unseen, fastened on him. Then he moved inside.

Two of the thieves took him at once. But he was not such easy meat as the old one. For some reason he did not shout as he evaded them, but his fists lashed out, his feet. The gang closed with him, and the walls seemed to totter, grunts were audible, now something went over with a thud, and there were oaths. As the battle swung, Jehan moved through it. She lifted her arm, with the knife Conrad had given her, she stabbed the servant in the belly. It was a death blow, but not quick enough. Dazed, amazed, he was sucking in his breath to scream and wake the dead. But Scar-Nose, an able hand, reaching over the young man’s shoulder, cut his throat before his voice could sound.

Clambering across bodies, the thieves filed into the street and shut the door neatly. Conrad locked it tight with the key. Glancing at the mules, they rejected them, for they were over-ridden and besides conspicuous. The gang then broke in twos and threes or ones, and fled with bold strides away across Paradys and down, to the river, and over into the warrens beyond, losing all of itself as intended, Jehan with the rest.

The young nun stood in the yard, and coming from her sleeping cell, Jehanine discovered her. The face of Marie-Lis was grave and pure, but
had none of the smug melancholy of a true Madonna.

“You weren’t in your bed at sunrise, Jhane.”

(Jehan smiled under Jehanine’s skin. Why, did you come seeking me there?)

“I was about early, sister.”

“Yes.”

“I was in the garden.”

“You came from there. With a bundle of clothes.”

“A piece of washing I’d forgotten, sister.”

(Careless on this occasion, she had returned late. She had seen the ghostly shapes of two lay-sisters bending over the refectory well, and the phantom nuns wafting in a dawn mist from the church. Now, under her gown, a golden chain, and on the chain a little golden cross set with a topaz.)

“But you roam at night, Jhane,” said Sister Marie-Lis.

“Some nights, when I can’t sleep. How do you know, sister?”

“Where do you go to, Jhane?”

(Over the wall, into the blackness, into the night. You spy on me, but not enough.)

“To the chapel. Or sometimes I sit in the garden.”

“The nights are cold.”

“My cell also is cold.”

“We must endure, Jhane. We are not worldly, here.”

“No, sister.”

(And I washed off a dark stain in the dew. I thought of creeping to the other well, but it stinks, there must be a dead cat in it. And at the hostel’s well under the lemon trees you might find me. Why are you drawing so much water, Jhane? Dew was best.)

“We know almost nothing about you, Jhane. The Mother has never interviewed you. It’s customary, after a time, to inquire if you have come to feel any yearning for the life of a Bride.”

Jehanine lowered her eyes.

“I haven’t, sister.”

“Gaze on the window, Jhane, the Great Light, its petals of saffron and snow. Our Lord fell in his beauty, a shooting star. He brought light into the world. He asks only love.”

Jehanine frowned. She said, “You told me, it’s never demanded. I won’t be a nun.”

The air filled with shrieks. In a fashion, Jehanine had become accustomed to outcry. She did not respond, as did Sister Marie-Lis, who whirled about and spun away. Through the arch she went, into the churchyard. The noises came from the garden. Slowly, cautious now, Jehanine followed. She had a vision of
the fat woman erupting in at the nunnery gate, rushing through, to stand screeching of villainy under the bare fruit trees. But Jehanine suspected the fat woman might be dead, that all of those at that house, like Pierre, might be dead. She felt neither satisfaction nor distress. She was mostly indifferent, except to a certain tidiness that all the deaths together seemed to present, like duties performed.

The shrieks had ceased. Tawny fox-robes milled about the garden, clotted near the stinking ancient well. Across the turf the Mother was stalking. The nuns parted before her. She towered beside the well, imperious, ever a Queen Bee.