A FATAL HOMECOMING
By Trevor Whitton
Copyright 2012 Trevor Whitton
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Chapter 1
May 1310 - Troyes, Kingdom of France..
Hugo the Forestier shook his head sadly as he inspected yet another dying tree. It was the fourth he'd found that morning, to add to the dozens he'd come across over the past month. What was decimating his forest he couldn't tell. His father would have known at a glance - but he'd been dead for three years, now. Hugo had done his best to learn all his secrets before he died, but found that the old man - although a very fine forestier - was a very poor teacher.
‘Its something that can't be taught,’ he'd explain impatiently to his frustrated son. ‘You can only learn the secrets of the trees by watching and listening to them over many, many years.’
‘Listen to them? What do you mean, “listen to them”? Don't talk such rubbish.’ - to which his father would just hang his head and mutter to himself. Well, Hugo had tried to watch and listen, but the trees remained stubbornly mute. In his own way he had nevertheless managed to learn a great deal, and was now almost as well respected amongst the community as his father had been. In reality, he was the only person aware of his shortcomings, but that would quickly change once people noticed that the forest was dying. He ran his hand over the rough bark, half hoping it would give him a hint of what was wrong. ‘“Listen to them!” my father said. Well, if you're ever going to speak to me, now's the time to do it. No? Then there's little I can do to help,’ he said aloud. He shook his head and did one more circuit of the trunk. He could identify any one of a dozen diseases, but none that remotely resembled this. In the end, he broke off one of the afflicted branches in the hope that his friend in Saint Guillaume (a village some three miles away) could shed some light on the mystery. He tightened the rope harnessing the load of sticks on his back before continuing his daily search for kindling and inspection of traps.
A light rain was falling now, and Hugo pulled the hood of his tunic over his head to keep out the worst of the damp. It hung down almost to his nose, restricting his vision to a small circle just ahead of his feet, but protected his eyes from the stream of water that was soon cascading over his face. Some days were better than others for a forestier - but ones like this came bottom of the pile. He stumbled over tree roots and more than once grazed his shin against a protruding rock, but he knew he had to clear the traps today or they'd be cleared by poachers and foxes tonight. The Commune of Troyes only paid him to watch and maintain the forest - they wouldn't care if he went home and dried himself beside his fire. As long as the trees were kept healthy (God willing, he'll be able to do something to make sure of that) and a daily load of kindling was supplied during the colder months to the various charitable institutions to which the Commune was committed, then no-one cared what hours he kept. There were no restrictions on which animals he was allowed to hunt and trap - a great privilege allowed only to the forestier and the local nobles, and one on which he greatly depended. There was no alternative but to plod on despite the rain.
Soon he came to a denser part of the forest and his progress became more difficult. There was a lot more kindling to collect here, but tree roots barred the way in every direction and were treacherously slippery in the damp conditions. It was curiously quiet - neither bird nor animal stirred and the only sound came from the branches above as they rocked back and forth in the wind. He came to a particularly awkward root buttress and placed his palm against it for balance as he tried to climb over. Suddenly the moss covering the bark gave way and the load on his back forced him to lose his balance and topple sideways. At the last moment he tried to brace himself with his foot, but by now his momentum was too great. He fell face first into the mud, bruising his elbow and taking several layers of skin off his hand into the bargain. He was just beginning to think the day couldn’t get any worse, when he lifted his face from the mud and looked directly into the dead, staring eyes of a corpse.
Suddenly the forest wasn't quiet any more.
Chapter 2
Richard Beauchamp couldn't understand it. His wife Marguerite was usually such a gentle, even-tempered woman. He'd never seen her so much as raise her voice, but for the past few days she didn't seem to have a civilized word to say to anyone. She'd yelled at the fruit merchant because the apples weren't ripe (it was hardly his fault); she'd yelled at her step-son Etienne for breaking a ceramic plate (it was an old one, anyway); she'd yelled at Etienne's wife Beatrice for trying to calm her down; and here she was arguing with Richard himself. He was a tolerant man and generally didn't hold with husbands who wouldn't allow dissent from their wives - but he was nevertheless glad that no one else was around to see her challenge him in this way.
‘Please remember I am your husband,’ he said as the argument started to become heated. ‘I trust that I deserve your respect.’
‘And please remember that Josephine is my daughter. I have every right to object to would-be suitors.’ For a moment Richard considered reminding his wife that Beatrice was also his daughter - albeit stepdaughter - and that (technically, anyway) it was he who would have the final say over whom she would wed. He stopped himself just in time, realising that, although this might be the legal situation, in reality Marguerite was right.
‘You can’t protect her forever, you know – and she’s already in her middle twenties. Etienne managed to have Mathilde wedded just last year, and time is quickly running out for Josephine.’ Mathilde was Richard’s granddaughter, and his son and daughter-in-law had had the devil of a time convincing her to get married. Despite the young woman’s initial reservations, she was now living happily with her new husband across town in their own handsome stone house near the Cathedral.
‘I know how old my daughter is,’ said Marguerite coldly. Richard decided to try a different tack. He began scratching absently at the faded upholstery on the arm of his chair and tried to look nonchalant.
‘I don't see why you still bear a grudge against the Bellimonts, anyway. Jean's a fine fellow, and his son Claude is making his way very well in the world. They were once a poor family, but Jean is Deputy Bailli in all but name these days, and Claude is a well-regarded and talented apprentice vintner. You need have no worries about his prospects.’ Marguerite gave her husband a withering look - one he'd never witnessed from her before and would never have guessed she possessed. It was alarming. He thought he knew this woman!
‘That's not what I have against him, as well you know,’ she said - slowly and emphatically. She was standing over him with her hands on her hips and an unbecoming scowl on her face. Richard shook his head sadly. The truth was that he had his own reasons for introspection lately – one recent event in particularly had given him cause for deep concern. Whatever transpired, he knew he had to keep the news from his wife at all costs. He forced his concentration back to the argument at hand, and tried once again to defend a family he knew to be good.
‘Surely you can't still hold a grudge against Jean? That was years ago.’ Marguerite didn't reply, but stood looking at her husband stony-faced. The room had quickly emptied of its inhabitants - servants and family alike - once the argument had started. The couple now had the solar to themselves, a small fire crackling on the hearth and the rain outside beating against the shutters. ‘For Saint Peter’s sake,’ said Richard once he realised he wasn't going to get a response, ‘the poor man even undertook a pilgrimage to Compostella to atone for the wrong he did you! What more can he do?’
‘I have no particular argument with Jean Bellimont - but I do not want his son seeing my daughter. Absolutely not!’ And with that she suddenly burst into tears and stormed from the room, slamming the huge oak door behind her so hard that the whole house seemed to shake. Richard shook his head once again and chewed on his upper lip contemplatively.
‘There's more to this than meets the eye,’ he said aloud. ‘But for the life of me I don't know what it is.’
Bailli Henri Dubois cocked his head to one side and regarded his clerk closely. He could tell the man wasn't happy by the way he avoided his employer's gaze, and Henri wasn't going to stand for it. His underling had a strong tendency to get above himself sometimes, and it was a habit he intended to stamp out. He leant back in his chair, put his feet on the desk, and clasped his hands behind his head. It was a look he hoped conveyed both authority and disapproval. The two men couldn’t have been less alike – Henri was tall and still strikingly handsome despite his advancing years, and Jean was a good two heads shorter, bald except for the tufts of hair stretching from ear to ear around the back of his head, and presenting a less-than-flattering physique which seemed to grow more rotund by the day. He was also several years the other man’s senior, although he looked considerably older.
‘Something wrong, Jean?’ said Henri, a challenging look in his eye. Jean continued to write without looking up - merely shrugging his shoulders in reply. It was a mannerism that irritated his employer - although he could never explain why. He tried to appear casual, but it was an effort. ‘You disagree perhaps with my ruling on that possession dispute?’ Another shrug was enough to tip Henri over the edge. He jumped to his feet and walked over to his clerk's desk - hands on hips and legs astride. ‘Well what would you have done?’
‘It was the old man's by right,’ said Jean, still without looking up.
‘But not by law - there's a difference!’ said Henri, thumping the table and nearly knocking over a jar of ink. The little clerk caught it just in time to avert catastrophe, then finally deigned to look up.
‘Unfortunately you're right. Too often ethical and legal issues conflict. I'm glad I don't have your job.’ The words were contrite enough, but they were delivered with just a hint of insolence. Henri was nonplussed how to respond, and finally settled for repeating his original question.
‘So what would you have done?’
‘Me? I'd have broken the law,’ said Jean, going back to his writing. Henri continued to stand over his clerk, still unsure what to do. This was an ongoing quandary for him – should he correct his insufferable behaviour or learn from his wisdom? Was the fellow a fool or a sage? The scene was finally interrupted by the entry of the huge lieutenant, Francois.
‘What is it?’ snapped Henri.
‘A body, sir. Hugo the Forestier's found a body.’
‘Recognise him?’ asked Henri, looking down at the body on the table a short time later.
‘Never seen him before,’ said Jean.
‘No doubt what killed him,’ said Henri, pointing to the deep gash in the man’s head.
‘A sword would you say?’ The Bailli shook his head.
‘No – more like a club. Blunt rather than sharp is my guess.’ The two men continued to contemplate the scene before them in silence, until Henri finally clicked his tongue and turned away.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Jean, following close behind.
‘This is the part of the job I can’t stand.’ Henri had dealt with dozens of murders in his time, and Jean wondered why this case was any different. If it had been a child lying dead back there or a young woman, he could understand. But why get so upset over a total stranger? Henri must have sensed his clerk’s bewilderment. ‘Public display of the body for identification,’ he explained with distaste. Suddenly Jean understood. Public displays brought out the worst in everyone. People who were normally reasonable suddenly flocked to ogle the corpse. Henri spat on the ground and turned back to look at the poor wretch stretched out on the slab. ‘No one deserves such humiliation. Well – some do, I suppose. But it makes me sick. If I had my way I’d lock up the lot of them. Troyes would be much the better for it.’ Jean was in complete sympathy. After another rueful shake of the head, Henri bellowed for Francois, who appeared so quickly he must have been waiting outside expecting the summons. ‘Arrange for the Crier de Cite to announce a public viewing of the body for tomorrow morning, please,’ said Henri – almost regretfully.
‘Public identification?’ asked Francois. Henri nodded and shrugged.
‘As soon as possible, please. I want this matter cleared up before..’
‘Before he starts rotting, sir?’ Henri pulled a face and nodded again.
‘You have a way with words, lieutenant. No doubt about that.’
‘No point pissing around, sir,’ said Francois, before turning on his heel and setting off to get things under way. For a moment Jean was worried that Henri was going to vent his anger on the retreating back of his trusted servant, but his face quickly softened and he even managed an ironic smile.
‘At least I know I can rely on him to get the job done. Everyone in the city will be aware of the situation before the day’s close. Then I can look forward to all the madmen turning up at first light tomorrow.’
‘Surely they won’t be here that early?’ said Jean sceptically. There hadn’t been the need to identify a body since he had begun working for Henri several years earlier, and this was all a new experience for him. His employer gave him a baleful look.
‘They’ll be lining up overnight!’ he said mournfully. 'In the meantime, I'd better have a word with Hugo the Forestier.'
Chapter 3
Jean had tried to prepare himself, but the next morning was worse than he could ever have imagined. As Henri had predicted, there was a group of about twenty people waiting outside the Baillerie as Saint Jean's bells pealed for eight o'clock Mass. The body had been placed towards the end of the great hall under the largest of the glazed windows – all the better for ready identification. The crowd scrambled through fighting for the best vantage point as Francois flung the doors open, nearly knocking him over in the process. A man usually quick to anger, Jean was surprised at his restraint.
'I've seen it too often before,' he said in response to the clerk’s questioning glance.
The crowd came and went as the morning progressed, and there was a constant murmur and almost a festive feel to the proceedings which was sickening to behold. Worst of all were those who seemed to get pleasure out of touching and poking the corpse, momentarily scattering the ever increasing flies in the process. Francois quickly sent them away with a growl, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at Henri, who watched from his office doorway at the top of the stairs.
'I told you it was unpleasant,' he said as his clerk vented his disgust. Jean shook his head.
'I just can't believe some of the people who've come here. Respected clergymen and merchants – and the women! I wouldn't have thought a woman capable of such uncouth behaviour. For the Good Lord’s sake – even the Dean of the Guild was here!' Henri flinched. Paul Grossin was recently appointed head of the town’s Council and Merchants Company (thanks largely to the influence and support he received from the Duke of Burgundy), and – despite being unpopular with both his colleagues and the populace in general - had aspirations of one day usurping the Bailli’s role in Troyes. He and Henri were constantly at loggerheads, and he also held a strong animosity towards Henri’s good friend Richard Beauchamp – the most powerful and popular guildsman and merchant in the town.
'I’m sure he only came out of a genuine sense of civic duty,' said Henri – fairly dripping with sarcasm.
'Why does he persist with this ridiculous ambition of his, anyway?' asked Jean, who never really understood how the man thought it could be done – to overthrow the King’s appointed Bailli. To his surprise, Henri seemed to take the threat seriously.
‘It’s not unheard of. In places where the Dean of the Guild is popular and the Bailli is not, the role wields considerable influence. Under such circumstances it’s been known for him to take over the judicial role – he holds the power anyway, in fact if not in law. I don’t think you realise just how fickle our Offices are, Jean. They are very much subject to political expediency. Fortunately, Grossin is about as popular here as weevils in a loaf of bread. Sadly for us all, both are inevitable.’ Having thus unburdened himself on the subject, Henri went back to the unpleasant pastime of watching the crowd.
When Claire Vaillant saw her dead husband’s body lying stretched out before her, her first reaction was one of pure relief. It surprised her. Despite all that he had done to her, she hadn't realised quite how much she'd come to hate him. Upon reflection, it seemed fitting, somehow, that he should end up this way. From the time she'd left Paris in pursuit of him (although she hadn’t dared admit it to herself), part of her had been half expecting something like this to happen – he was that kind of man. Recalling all he had put her through, she was quite content to leave his body unidentified. Let him lie in an unmarked pauper’s grave, she thought – it was no less than he deserved. Besides, it was clear that he had been murdered. And to whom would suspicion fall if it were to become known who she was? A spurned wife from a distant town would be just the sort of person any Bailli would be willing to sacrifice without so much as a second thought.
Bernard had left her a week earlier. She’d awoken one morning to find that he hadn’t returned from the alehouse the previous night – and her intuition was already warning her that something was seriously wrong. Her husband had his faults (and whoring was certainly one of them), but he always came home before dawn. Always. She went straight to his favourite public house and spoke to the Innkeeper, who told her that he had spoken of returning to his home town of Troyes - seeking to escape the debts he had incurred at the local gambling house.
Although she still showed traces of the beauty that had originally attracted her husband nearly twenty years ago, the lines on her face and wrinkled, dry skin betrayed her age. Yes, her beauty was fading, and now she had lost her husband. But that wasn't all. No, not by a long way. She discovered that his debts had now become her responsibility, and that he had stolen from the church of Saint Severin where he worked as a lay labourer. Of course she knew that such a man hardly deserved to be pursued, but felt that she had little choice. What was she, if not wife to her husband? The answer was as obvious as it was distressing – nothing! She’d decided there and then to pursue him and beg him to take her back. Perhaps they could even begin a new life together in Troyes?
That was nearly a week ago. The journey had been difficult - travelling all the way from Paris on foot - but she had persevered and survived relatively unscathed. She’d arrived just in time to hear the announcement of the Crier de Cite, and had come the next morning to investigate. Now, despite her vulnerable position, she was left with little choice but to return to Paris and throw herself on the mercy of her husband’s – now her – debtors. She had nowhere else to go and no one to turn to. The priest at Saint Severin had promised to help, and that was far from insignificant.
She took one, last look at the recumbent corpse, before turning away to begin her long journey home.
Claire Vaillant wasn't the only visitor from Paris that day who was acquainted with the deceased. A short time after she had left another stranger looked down on the lifeless body, and decided that his work was done. Perhaps it wasn’t the ideal outcome – but it was one well within his brief, nevertheless. His craggy features broke into a half-smile as he turned and made his way back through the crowd. He rubbed slowly at the small scar on his neck – a habitual action he was hardly aware of – and shielded his eyes as he stepped out into the harsh sunlight. He looked left and right down the busy, neatly cobbled street (being an important market town, such expense was well justified), momentarily unsure which way to go. There was no need for him to stay, but he was still reluctant to leave. It was, after all, a pleasant town as provincial towns go, and it was particularly inviting in the warm sunshine. With a nod and shrug to himself as he made up his mind at last, he turned left towards the market square, where he was assured of distractions to keep him happily diverted for the remainder of the morning.
Towards noon a small, lightly bearded man approached the body with nothing more than mild curiosity. He was paying more attention to what was going on around him than to the corpse, until he found himself at the front of the line. He glanced down briefly, before turning back towards a particularly pretty young woman who had taken his fancy (the attraction was most definitely not reciprocated). Suddenly he stopped and frowned. He looked back at the face of the dead man, vague memories stirring at the back of his mind. On closer inspection there was no doubting the resemblance – but was it him? It had been many years, but the more he looked, the more certain he became. He startled everyone by suddenly shouting; ‘Lieutenant – lieutenant!’ Looking up from his desk in the middle of the hall, Francois scowled across at the man, before pushing back his chair and stomping across the room towards him. His demeanour suggested that the interruption had better be justified, or the consequences would be severe.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘I recognise this man.’
‘The dead man, do you mean?’ Now it was the other’s turn to scowl.
‘Of course I mean the dead man. Who else?’ Francois didn’t reply, but continued to wait for the man to go on. ‘It’s Bernard Vaillant,’ he said at last. After the briefest of pauses he added – ‘He was the husband of Marguerite Beauchamp.’ Francois’ heart sank. He was not what could be described as quick-witted, but even he could see straight away that this was not good. It was not good at all.
A short time later he was standing before Henri, watching his employer pace the floor as he knew he would.
‘Oh shit!’ was all he could say, over and over again. ‘The man’s sure?’ he demanded.
‘Ask him yourself – he’s outside,’ said Francois, sharing a grimace of concern with Jean, who was sitting quietly in the corner. Henri took a deep breath and made a beckoning gesture.
‘Best show him in, then,’ he said resignedly. A moment later the witness was standing before them, slightly nervous but confident in his identification. Henri nevertheless asked him if there was any chance that he was mistaken.
‘None at all,’ he replied, offended that his word could be doubted. ‘He left Troyes more than twenty years ago, but he hasn’t changed that much.’
‘You’ll swear to it before a priest if you have to?’ asked Henri – clutching at his last straw.
‘No need to – just ask Marguerite Beauchamp. She knows him alright.’ He was tempted to go on, before he remembered the Bailli’s well-known relationship with the Beauchamps. But Henri had already read the suspicion in the man’s face. He was only just able to stop himself from rebuking the insinuation, before realising that he was going to have to get used to it. The whole town would be thinking that way soon enough - Marguerite was a natural suspect and Henri’s friendship with the family compromised him.
‘Take a seat,’ said Henri, gesturing to the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Jean – you’d best write all this down.’ - then to the witness; ‘Start with your name.’
‘Guillaume Leclercq.’
‘Very well, Monsieur Leclercq. How did you know this…what was his name?’
‘Bernard Vaillant.’ The man took a moment to gather his thoughts, trying to think back nearly twenty years. ‘He was by no means a good man,’ he said, apologising for the dead man’s behaviour at the outset. ‘He liked his women and he wasn’t the most honest man who ever lived. I suppose you know that he was a tax collector for the previous Bailli?’
‘I did not,’ admitted Henri. A vague memory stirred in the deepest recesses of his mind, before gradually making its way to the surface. He snapped his fingers as he recalled the story. ‘He was caught stealing money, wasn’t he?’ Leclercq smiled and shook his head.
‘He was found out, sure, but he got away before they could catch him. That’s why he left Troyes – left his wife behind and all. Felt she would be too much of a burden.’ Henri repeated his earlier question:
‘How did you know him?’
‘We were friends – drank together in the Cheval Noir most nights.’
‘And what is your occupation?’
‘Well, back when I knew Bernard I ran errands for the Bailli. Knew these halls quite well, I did. Of course there was no grand office back then,’ he said, gesturing around the room dismissively. ‘Mucked in with the crowd down below, the old Bailli did – no offence intended.’ Henri ignored the jibe, but Francois couldn’t resist giving him a clip around the ear. Leclercq flinched and glared impotently at his attacker.
‘Show some respect,’ growled the lieutenant.
‘Leave it,’ said Henri curtly. ‘I suppose that’s how Vaillant got wind that my predecessor was onto him.’ It was more of a statement than a question, and Leclercq didn’t bother with a reply. ‘So what do you do now?’
‘I sell vegetables at the market. Came into a small plot of land a while back and decided to go into business for myself.’
‘I see. And did you ever see Bernard Vaillant again?’
‘Not ‘til this morning.’ Henri had no reason to trust the man, but could see no purpose in him lying. He was silent for a while as he considered his next move, then nodded to Francois to show the man out.
‘What about my reward?’ demanded Leclercq as he was herded towards the door.
‘The lieutenant will take care of it,’ said Henri angrily. He was already trying to work out how he was going to handle this mess. It was clear that under these circumstances he was going to have difficulty fulfilling his duties without bias, and even clearer that Paul Grossin would use this opportunity to undermine him in order to further his own ambitions. From his corner, Jean could tell exactly what was going through his employer’s mind.
‘A pretty pickle, isn’t it?’ he observed. Henri paused in the act of stroking his chin and looked askance in the direction of his clerk.
‘Not one I’d care to eat, I must say. Unfortunately, I might just have it shoved sideways down my throat!’
Chapter 4
Claude Bellimont led his bewildered and impatient employer to the top corner of the vineyard. He’d brought a stoneware jug and a mug with him, and now began pouring.
‘Firstly, I must explain that I deliberately left this patch in the corner of the vineyard to the vagaries of the weather last season – giving it no water at all. The rest I irrigated as normal. I think you’ll agree that the result has been interesting.’ Giles Monchet was a competent and well-respected wine maker, and he didn’t take kindly to being told his trade by a novice. His face began to turn red with rage.
‘Are you telling me that you deliberately neglected your duties in order to follow some hare-brained scheme – without consulting me first?’ Claude should have seen this coming, but had been blinded by his enthusiasm. He’d had the devil of a time keeping it all a secret, and only now realised the flaw in his plan. He just couldn’t have faced the prospect of his ideas being rejected before he’d had the opportunity to present physical proof of what he could achieve.
‘If you’ll just let me explain..’
‘What’s to explain? I gave you explicit instructions and you ignored them. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t dismiss you straight away.’
‘But I only experimented on this one short row - it’s normally reserved for our own consumption, anyway.’
‘Nevertheless..’ Monchet was notorious for his occasional irrational bouts of bad temper, and Claude realised that he was in real danger of losing his position. Desperate to regain favour, he held out one of the mugs he had poured with a pleading look in his eyes.
‘Just try it and tell me what you think.’ The vintner regarded him closely, trying to decide whether he could really afford to let the young man go. He knew that, left with a choice between his other two workers, he stood little chance of leaving his land in charge of someone he could trust. In his mid-forties and without a family, he was fast approaching the end of his working life and had no one else to whom he could pass on his business. His land was allodial, or freehold, not unusual for the area but none the less precious for that. It was common knowledge that he worried constantly about the future of the vineyard he and his father and his grandfather before him had devoted their entire lives to, and that he dreaded watching it run to ruin in his old age. His sun-dried, olive brown skin made him look older than he was, and people were surprised that he had continued working as long as he had. Being without an heir, he could leave his land to whomever he wished – as long as such a bequest was properly witnessed. Now the time was fast approaching for him to decide who that would be, and Claude had been doing all he could to demonstrate that it should be him. It was a fine line he had to tread between initiative and arrogance. The old wine maker wouldn’t take kindly to someone promising to introduce too radical a change, and to watch his precious legacy produce poor wine would be as bad as watching it run to weed. He was taking a long time deciding just how angry he was, but eventually he came to the conclusion that Claude was probably right – at the end of the day this one small plot mattered very little. He was still furious that it had all been done behind his back, but had some regard for Claude’s skills and was interested to find out just what the lad had achieved. He took the proffered mug, sniffed at its contents, and pulled a face.
‘It smells disgusting.’
‘It’s still too young – you’ll need to make allowances,’ said Claude anxiously. Monchet took a small sip and swallowed.
‘It needs another year at least,’ he said, but Claude could see that his interest had been piqued. He took a second sip and forced himself to hold it in his mouth a little longer. There was a long silence as he regarded first the mug of wine, then his apprentice.
‘Well?’ He took a long time to answer, and Claude could hardly stand the tension.
‘Interesting,’ he said at last. ‘It’s very sweet. I haven’t ever come across anything remotely like it before – even from my grandfather’s days.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s still too early to tell. But it has promise, I’ll give that to you.’ He took another sip, followed by another, and then drained the cup. ‘You used these vines, then?’ he said at last, indicating the last row.
‘Like I said, they usually produce an inferior wine, anyway,’ replied Claude, trying to keep his excitement in check. Monchet stood staring at the plants in question for a long time, before pouring himself another half-mug.
‘It’s sweeter. Much, much sweeter. It may even evolve into an excellent wine, given favourable circumstances.’ He waited again, trying to assess what he had tasted. ‘And the flavour lingers in your mouth.’
‘It seems to get better with each sip, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes it does. And this was achieved simply by starving the vines of water?’
‘Only during summer. I also thinned out the bunches so the flavour was concentrated in what was left and didn’t place too much stress on the roots.’ Giles Monchet shook his head in wonder.
‘What made you try this? How did you know what would happen?’
‘I was speaking to a wine maker from the south. He told me that they have to know how to make the most from their grapes during dry seasons, or they’d go every other year without a decent harvest.’
‘Ah, but they use different grapes – make different wines. That’s no guarantee that their method would work here.’
‘Which is why no-one has tried it before, and why I decided to test the result on one small patch of vines.’
‘How did you meet this Provençal winemaker, then?’ Claude blushed and hesitated noticeably before responding.
‘I met him at Monsieur Beauchamp’s one evening.’ Monchet noted the young man’s discomfort and smiled to himself. He was sure he knew the reason for it.
‘She’s a pretty girl, that Josephine Beauchamp,’ he said. There was no mistaking Claude’s embarrassment now, and he began to inspect the ground a little more closely than was absolutely necessary. ‘No need for shame,’ said Monchet pleasantly. ‘She’d be an excellent match, and I’m sure she feels the same way about you.’ Claude felt a desperate need to change the subject.
‘I thought that if we were to reserve just this small patch at the top of the hill, we could continue to use it for experimentation without risking the entire crop.’ His employer took the hint and moved away from the delicate subject of romance. He considered the scheme for a moment before sitting down under the shade of a nearby chestnut tree, gesturing for his apprentice to do the same. Off to their right they watched the other two apprentices Andre and Pierre busily removing weeds. They were a little heavy-handed with their hoes, and the vintner winced whenever they dug too deep and cut into the roots of the vines. It was an effort to force his attention back to Claude’s proposal.
‘So how much wine did you end up producing from that plot?’ Ah! This was the difficult part.
‘Just four casks.’ Monchet’s eyes opened wide in amazement.
‘Four casks? We usually get at least ten! That hardly makes it commercially viable, does it? I’d lose money making the stuff.’ Claude had known that the conversation would eventually lead to this, and he had his argument carefully worked out.
‘Think about all the water you’d save, not to mention the labour carting it. And if the final product is superior, you’ll be able to sell it for a lot more than we do now.’ Monchet immediately held up his hand.
‘The Guild would never agree to it,’ he objected.
‘Monsieur Beauchamp says otherwise.’ The old vintner’s head shot up angrily.
‘You’ve spoken to him about this proposal before consulting me?’ Claude backtracked quickly.
‘I made sure that I spoke hypothetically. He has no suspicion that you intend to make such a proposal to the Guild. I would never undermine your authority in such a way.’ Monchet was quiet for a while, contemplating the shimmering heat haze above the vines. He brushed away a fly before asking:
‘And he said that the Guild would agree to a higher price for a better wine?’ Claude suddenly became circumspect, and began making circles in the dirt with his finger.
‘He said it would have to be a particularly fine wine – but in principle, yes. He thought a case could be made.’ Both men were silent for a while, until Claude decided to go on before he lost this opportunity forever.
‘As I said, we could experiment with this one patch and see what the Guild thinks about the finished product – once it’s had time to mature properly. And if they agree, not only could you make as much money selling less than half as much wine, but you’d save money in production and enhance your reputation. You could sell to England and Flanders.’ The old vintner looked at his apprentice sceptically.
‘England?’
‘Why not? Bordeaux is already..’
‘Bordeaux is in English hands, my boy. That makes a big difference.’ Claude shrugged and conceded the point.
‘Very well. But you have to admit that a fine wine travels a lot further than a poor one.’ He had chosen his strategy carefully. He knew that his employer possessed a considerable streak of vanity (in the matter of wines, anyway), and that the promise of making a great wine would have its allure for him. So far his reaction had been encouraging, although Claude knew he still had a long way to go to convince him. The man often agreed to suggestions, only to change his mind a few days later. And this was understandable – it was late in life to be suddenly changing your whole outlook on winemaking. The young man rolled down the sleeves of his tunic and looked down the gentle slope across the vines to the hazy silhouette of the town in the distance. Beside him, Monchet pulled himself heavily to his feet and placed his hands on his hips, considering carefully everything he had heard.
‘Alright,’ he said at last. ‘But just that small patch – and I want to be consulted on every matter. No more going off on your own without talking to me first, understand?’ Claude jumped to his feet excitedly.
‘You won’t regret it!’ Giles looked at his protégé out of the corner of his eye.
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. The proof will be in the final wine,’ he said, careful to introduce a note of restraint.
‘Of course,’ said Claude, trying hard to contain his joy.
When Francois saw the familiar figure of Paul Grossin enter the Baillerie and storm past him, he knew immediately where he was headed and why. Ignoring the farmer who had been busy explaining his predicament (something about an unfair tax on animals he did not possess – the usual thing and the lieutenant had only been half-listening anyway), he jumped from his desk and tried to intercept the unwelcome visitor. By the time he’d caught him up, the Dean of the Guild had mounted the stairs to Henri’s office and had already begun his tirade against the startled Bailli.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Francois breathlessly. ‘He was too quick.’ But by now Henri was more concerned with his visitor and dismissed the lieutenant’s apology with a wave of his hand.
‘Well? Is it true?’ demanded the Dean for the second time.
‘Is what true?’ said Henri, although he suspected he knew what this was all about.
‘That the murdered man was the husband of Richard Beauchamp’s wife?’ Word had travelled around town like a fire through long grass. This encounter was inevitable, and Henri kicked himself for being unprepared.
‘Apparently,’ was all he could muster in response. Grossin drew himself up to his full height.
‘Have you bothered to have the woman identify him?’ he asked. Henri threw a questioning glance in the direction of his clerk, quietly seated in the far corner of the room.
‘She’s coming later this afternoon,’ said Jean, who had been also taken off guard by the intrusion. ‘Francois said she was reluctant to come at all, but he managed to persuade her in the end.’ Grossin startled them all by banging his fist angrily on Henri’s desk.
‘There – she behaves as though guilty already.’ Henri tried to remain calm, but every fibre in his body wanted to throw the man out.
‘Such hesitancy is only natural,’ he replied reasonably. ‘Not everyone enjoys the sight of a dead body.’ Grossin recognised the jibe, but didn’t bother to react. He held the upper hand, and they all knew what was coming. Nothing Henri could do or say would stop it.
‘And of course you would protect her – and her husband. Your relationship with these people is well known and compromises you, Bailli.’ They regarded each other in silence for a long time, and Jean was wondering how he could leave the room without being noticed. In the end he decided it was best to lower his head to his work and remain as unobtrusive as possible.
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Henri at last. Grossin finally calmed down enough to take a chair, and leant forward - arms on Henri’s desk and with every appearance of sympathising with the Bailli’s predicament.
‘That you are in no position to be investigating this matter. It wouldn’t be fair on you.’
‘So good of you to be concerned for me,’ said Henri sarcastically. ‘But you’ll be relieved to know that I have already delegated the investigation to my lieutenant and clerk.’ He knew it was a futile alternative, and one that the Dean wouldn’t accept for a moment. The sad fact was that he could hardly blame him - he would have done the same thing had their positions been reversed. Grossin sat back in his chair and folded his arms. It was as if he’d moved into the office already!
‘You know as well as I do that such a serious matter needs to be dealt with by a person in authority.’
‘Like you?’ Grossin didn’t even hesitate in his response.
‘Like me,’ he replied. The room was so silent that Jean could hear conversations from below as clearly as if they were in the room with them. The two antagonists continued to stare at each other unflinchingly, until Henri finally broke the deadlock.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said simply.
‘All the better,’ replied the Dean – without the hint of a smile. Henri pushed himself up from his chair and strolled over to the window – his back to the Dean.
‘I want to be the one who accompanies Madame Beauchamp when she identifies the body this afternoon.’ Grossin shook his head.
‘I can’t allow that,’ he said. ‘Her reaction on seeing the body will be crucial evidence.’ Henri turned around slowly, and Jean had never seen him so determined.
‘This is not negotiable. You will have to kill me to get into that room with her.’ Grossin was startled at the seriousness of the statement – not to mention the attitude which accompanied it. He considered the situation long and hard, before reluctantly acceding to the Bailli’s demand.
‘Very well. But be assured that this is the last concession I will allow. From then on you are out of this investigation. Is that understood?’ It was no request – it was a statement of fact. Henri ignored the comment and turned back to the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
‘Please show the Dean out, Jean.’ Grossin allowed the clerk to usher him respectfully towards the door, before turning back briefly to address the Bailli.
‘Good day Monsieur Dubois,’ he said, deliberately avoiding the use of Henri’s title.
After the drama of the recent exchanges, the room seemed empty after the Dean had left. Henri stood where he was and gave no indication that he was going to move any time soon. Jean knew better than to interrupt, and eventually went back to his desk, picked up an inked quill, and began writing. When he’d finished his task more than an hour later, Henri had still not moved.
Chapter 5
True to his word, later that afternoon Henri led Richard and Marguerite Beauchamp to the cellar of the Baillerie to view the body of Bernard Vaillant. He poured them both a mug of beer to steady their nerves, before throwing back the sheet to reveal the corpse. The couple stood looking down at the dead man for some time, before Marguerite finally turned away. Henri laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and guided her to a chair, as Richard remained examining the dead features of his wife’s former husband. She was given a few moments to compose herself, before Henri sat down beside her.
‘Is it him? Is it your former husband?’ She nodded without hesitation, confused emotions passing one after the other across her face.
‘Yes, it’s him alright,’ said Richard as he joined them. Marguerite looked up in surprise.
‘You knew him?’ There no longer seemed any point in hiding the fact. He shrugged and sagged onto a chair next to her.
‘I suppose you might as well know. He came to our house to see me about five days ago.’ Marguerite could hardly believe her ears.
‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I didn’t want to upset you.’ Marguerite shook her head disbelievingly.
‘You’re not honestly telling me that you didn’t think he’d come to see me as well?’ Both men looked at her in surprise.
‘He saw you too?’ said Richard.
‘Of course he did. Why would he see you and not come to see me?’
‘That explains your recent temper, anyway,’ said her husband under his breath. Henri had been sitting quietly with his head in his hands throughout this exchange.
‘This just gets better and better,’ he said. When he finally looked up his eyes were beseeching; ‘Please – whatever you do, don’t let Grossin find out about any of this.’
‘Why? What’s it got to do with him?’ asked Richard. Henri sighed. He might as well get this over with sooner rather than later.
‘He’s taken over the investigation,’ he said, almost ashamed of himself for not putting up more of a fight – however pointless it would have been. ‘I really had no choice,’ he added, flinching at their appalled expressions.
‘But Henri – he’ll ruin me,’ said Richard – hardly above a whisper.
‘Only if he finds something to incriminate you. That’s why you must keep all this a secret.’ Richard shook his head ruefully.
‘I’m afraid there was a witness.’
‘Who?’ asked Henri, dreading each new revelation.
‘The vintner – Giles Monchet. He was there on business – trying to convince me to buy more of his wine.’ Henri’s head dropped. An excuse like this was just what Grossin was looking for - he just had to hope that the man lacked the competence to discover it.
‘And Marguerite – how did you come to meet him?’ Her brow creased as she tried to remember back to that morning.
‘It would have been just before he approached Richard. He must have waited outside our home and followed me on the way to the market. He came up behind me as I turned into the Rue du Pain.’ She closed her eyes as she recalled the incident, taking a moment to compose herself before continuing. ‘He greeted me as Madame Vaillant. I recognised the voice straight away – it was as if I’d suddenly been transported back twenty years! I could hardly believe my eyes when I turned and saw him standing there.’
‘What did he want?’ asked Henri. Marguerite’s eyes grew wide with incredulity.
‘He admitted it all without batting an eyelid! How he’d run away to Paris to avoid arrest for stealing the tax collections – how he’d eventually found employment as a labourer at the church of Saint Severin – how he married again after a few years – and how he had had to run away again to avoid his debts.’
‘Did he expect you to go back to him?’ Marguerite slapped a hand across her mouth to stop herself from laughing, a nervous reaction to her current state of mind. She shook her head vigorously and threw her husband a glance.
‘If you’d known him you’d realise why the suggestion is ridiculous. The only interest he had in me was as a source of income. He wanted money to stop him from telling Richard – about us, I mean.’
‘And did you give him any?’
‘Why? What could he do? We were legitimately married and I’d already told Richard all the details of my previous marriage.’
‘So you said no.’
‘Of course I did. I told him a few other things, besides,’ said Marguerite, bristling at the memory.
‘Did he demand money from you too, Richard?’ Now holding his wife’s hand in his own, the old merchant nodded.
‘The fellow was mad – or desperate. He posed no threat to us, so I called Etienne and had him physically thrown into the street.’
‘Just to make sure Giles Monchet wouldn’t forget the incident!’ Richard exchanged a regretful look with his old friend and shrugged.
‘Even so,’ said Marguerite, ‘I can’t see what possible motive the Dean can concoct for either of us killing Bernard.’ Henri took a deep breath.
‘That’s not something I’d like to risk. As the most popular senior Guild member and his closest rival, Richard represents a threat he’s been trying to eliminate from the moment he arrived two years ago. He’s not going to miss this opportunity – and minor details like motive will be very low on his list of concerns.’
‘But he’ll have to establish a case against us, nevertheless,’ Marguerite persisted. Henri shrugged.
‘I’m sure he’ll come up with something. He’s already proven himself a stubborn and persistent – not to mention unscrupulous – man. No, it’s crucial that you keep this information from him if you can.’ Richard looked worried.
‘Do you mean lie?’
‘Yes. I mean lie. One of your lives may be at risk for God’s sake!’
‘But if he invokes compurgation and I’m required to swear under oath…I cannot lie to God, Henri.’
‘You will only be subjected to compurgation in regard to your innocence or guilt - and I presume you have no reservation in attesting your innocence to God?’ Richard seemed reassured, and turned to his wife.
‘I would still prefer to avoid the truth rather than lie outright. Hopefully it won’t come to that.’ Henri feared that this was a vain hope, but he kept his reservations to himself.
‘After today I can be seen to have no more to do with either of you or this case, but rest assured that I will be doing my utmost to find the true murderer. So, before you leave I need to know – can you think of anyone who might have killed him?’
‘One of his creditors must have followed him from Paris,’ said Marguerite, without hesitation. Henri nodded.
‘It sounds a logical place to start. I’ll send my clerk to Paris as soon as possible to look into it.’ Marguerite looked taken aback, even a little uncomfortable.
‘You mean Jean Bellimont?’ Henri tried to be reassuring – mistaking the cause of her concern.
‘Don’t worry, he’s a skilled investigator and interrogator. I wouldn’t send him if I didn’t have the utmost confidence in him. You must realise that I can’t go myself, and Francois – well, if we wanted him to arrest someone it would be a different matter. But he possesses little subtlety or finesse, for all his good qualities.’ Marguerite remained unconvinced, and Henri suddenly remembered why. She still found it difficult to fully forgive Jean for the injury he had inflicted on her all those years ago. He met her gaze unflinchingly. ‘Believe me when I tell you that this is our best chance - all else is irrelevant for the moment. Do you understand?’ Marguerite was silent for some moments before finally relenting.
‘I’m sorry, Henri. Of course you’re right, and I’m extremely grateful to Monsieur Bellimont for his help.’ Henri nodded, relieved that she was being reasonable.
‘You’d both better leave now. I’ll try and get news to you when I can, but it’s important that I remain discreet. All I can say is – try not to worry, and be very careful.’
Chapter 6
Jean broke the news cautiously to his wife later that evening, whilst Claude sat in the corner listening.
‘You don’t owe that woman anything any more, you know,’ said Marguerite as she chopped the cabbage for supper. ‘It’s all water under the bridge – a mistake that you’ve paid for a hundred times over.’ She tossed the diced leaves into a pot and started on the turnips. Her long hair kept falling into her eyes and she had to regularly stop what she was doing to brush it away. ‘You retaliated when she tried to rob you – it was only natural under the circumstances. How were you to know that a desperate beggar would some day marry the most important wine merchant in town? You’ve got to stop beating yourself up over it. So does she, for that matter. She’s changed and so have you.’ Jean sat with one leg crossed over the other as he rubbed absently at the bald spot on the top of his head. He wasn’t particularly thrilled to be going to Paris, either, but he had to disagree with his wife – a rare occurrence.
‘Well, I believe that I’m still in her debt. Whatever deprivations I went through on my pilgrimage, they were of little benefit to her. Besides,’ he added quickly, ‘her life may be depend on my going.’ Marguerite stopped what she was doing and turned to her husband.
‘But it may not. Dean Grossin might find nothing to implicate her.’
‘Anyway, you forget that it’s my job,’ said Jean, with what he hoped would be finality. Marguerite looked at him in disbelief.
‘It’s not the job of a clerk, Jean, and you know it.’
‘There’s not much choice. Who else could Henri send?’ His wife shrugged and turned her attention back to the turnips, aware before she’d even replied that her husband was right.
‘He could send Francois.’ They both knew the impracticality of that option, and Jean was starting to get angry at his wife’s obstinacy.
‘Francois is many things – and I realise that he’s a lot sharper than most people give him credit for – but he’s not up to this task. And I think you know that.’ They postponed their argument as first Jean’s brother Gastolde and then their daughter Janine came and went. Claude continued to sit quietly in the corner biting his tongue. ‘What’s the real reason you don’t want me to go?’ asked Jean eventually. Marguerite dropped the knife she was using and swung around in exasperation.
‘Because it’s dangerous on the roads out there – anything could happen. You of all people should know that. It’s only by the grace of Saint Christopher that you’re with us now and not lying dead in some ditch on the Camino Frances!’ Jean understood his wife’s concern, but it didn’t deter him from his responsibility – to Henri, to the Beauchamps, and to his own sense of justice. He sat sucking his bottom lip trying to think of an appropriate reply, and was astonished to hear Claude speak up.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, mama,’ he said, unable to restrain himself any longer. Neither of his parents could ever remember him being so disrespectful, and Marguerite was momentarily speechless. ‘Of course papa has to go. Don’t you realise it’s the only honourable thing to do? Would you have him let Madame Beauchamp hang?’ He was so angry that he had stood up and was shaking from head to foot. As Marguerite remained looking at her son in stunned amazement, Jean decided it was time to intervene. He took Claude by the arm and marched him into the next room, where his uncle, sister, and the housekeeper Elizabeth all looked up from their various tasks. ‘You watch your tongue boy,’ he growled. ‘This is no argument of your’s and that’s no way to address your elders. Now go away and calm down, then come back in an hour and apologise.’ Claude was about to respond, but was stopped mid-word by his father’s glare. Discretion overcame his anger and he stormed away – out the front door and into the street. Gastolde and Janine stared wide-eyed at his retreating back. Elizabeth tried to look as if she hadn’t heard a thing.