Chapter XXVIII
XXVIII
Saint-Julien-by-the-Stream
“Sir, wake up,” I called over my shoulder, bringing my horse to a halt.
I pointed to a forested rise in the distance, where Chateau d’Ocerne shone like a crown of ivory and glass in the morning sun.
Below it on the valley floor, a cluster of rooftops dozed under a blanket of chimney smoke.
“Look, sir. Chateau d’Ocerne—and Saint-Julien. We have arrived.”
Jacques sat up briefly in the wagon behind me and gave a halfhearted smile.
“You seem less than excited, sir,” I remarked.
I could not blame him; I wasn’t thrilled to be back in Gévaudan either.
At least Jacques was in reasonably good health again, all things considered. With a steady diet of living hearts, we had kept the monster within him at bay, but it was certainly not a permanent solution.
“I am sorry, Professor,” Jacques said. “You have brought me this far and I am grateful. But I cannot be a danger to my family—are you certain this acquaintance of yours can help me?”
“I am. She is an associate of Mademoiselle Cecile, and I can care for you in the meantime. You must only promise to tell me if that voice in your head grows too insistent. It is not much farther—we are almost there.”
Abandoned fields and blackened ruins were bleak markers on the road to Saint-Julien.
The ragged homesteads of the farmers—those who remained—spoke of profound poverty.
Many were burning their own fences for warmth.
Jacques told me that most of the farms had been torched during the Red Winter and then purchased for a handful of crumbs by the wealthy mercantile families of Mende, most notably the Fontaines.
“The bishop’s family shares his ambition, though not his vow of poverty,” Jacques said darkly.
It was fitting that the first Gévaudanais we met were in a funeral procession.
As we neared the crossroads to Saint-Julien, we came across a small group of mourners.
Beyond them was a huddle of brick buildings and animal pens; a weather-beaten shingle identified it as Saint-Julien’s piggery.
Pallbearers emerged from the homestead bearing a cloth-bound figure on a pallet.
The first corpse was followed shortly by a second and then a third, much smaller than the others.
I bowed my head respectfully as we passed them, close enough to overhear a whispered conversation.
“. . . barely a handful of sows left,” said one man to his neighbor. “They ate him, and the wife and the boy, and then they ate each other . . .”
Didn’t I tell you it would be awful here? said Sarmodel. Didn’t I tell you?
I didn’t respond. We took the southern road toward Saint-Julien.
Little wonder there was talk of treasonous discontent in France.
Twenty years had passed since last I was in Saint-Julien-by-the-Stream. They were years I had spent nursing my injuries—both visible and invisible. Years I had spent trying to forget the Red Winter.
And years of utter misery for the people of Ocerne, it seemed.
Saint-Julien had deteriorated noticeably.
It looked smaller to me. There was less movement—less life in general.
The people had a terrible sameness to them; a likeness born of hollow eyes and thin cheeks.
They were strangely colorless, in spite of their cosmetics and various crude vanities.
Their clothing was dun and their skin gray. More than anything, they looked hungry.
Their lot had improved little since the days of the Red Winter, though their circumstances were still far better than those of their countrymen in the farmlands.
We arrived by the southern road, passing by the church and its little cemetery.
There were a number of fresh graves and a few pits waiting to be filled—no doubt by the pig farmer and his family, following close behind us.
I could hear the bite-and-scrape of the gravedigger’s shovel, performing its grim duty somewhere out of sight.
A man’s ghost stalked the street ahead of us in his waistcoat, his immaterial musket raised—undoubtedly one of the many hunters who had died here. I decided not to disturb him.
Jacques raised the hood of his cloak when we arrived, concealing his face from the townsfolk.
“Far better that I am not seen,” he said in response to my questioning glance. “There is little goodwill for Gévaudan’s noble families of late. I would rather avoid trouble.”
“As you will, sir. You have nothing to fear, in any case; you would scarcely be recognized in your current condition.”
“A small blessing.”
“Now, you said we might visit Mademoiselle Cecile, did you not? Where might I find her?”
Jacques stiffened. “Professor, what exactly do you hope to gain from visiting our sage-femme?”
“Information. She may be able to help me find a cure for you, in fact.”
Jacques wanted to protest, I could tell, but there was no reasonable objection he could make. “Very well. That way, toward the river.”
We passed through the busy village square.
My gaze alighted on the places I had so recently described to my young companion.
The stalls. The charming fountain. The gallows, now adorned with a neat quartet of hanging bodies and a well-fed little community of coraxes.
The gated laneway where the Beast had made his first kill of that horrific market day.
And behind it all, the high road leading up the forested mountain to beautiful Chateau d’Ocerne.
A group of people were gathered by a stand of books, sniggering at some sort of pamphlet.
As we approached, a scu?e erupted among two of the men, encouraged by catcalls from the rest. To my horror, the smaller man threw his opponent to the ground and began stomping on his face, his eyes wild and saliva flying from his mouth.
Far from intervening, the others gathered around, laughing and applauding; I realized they were all quite drunk.
In the melee, one of the pamphlets landed on the ground by the wagon; Jacques passed it up to me wordlessly.
It was rough in texture and cheaply produced, but it made its point eloquently.
It was a pornographic political cartoon, depicting the queen, Marie Antoinette, in her private chambers.
Her much-lampooned hair towered ridiculously overhead, while she exposed her vulva and invited a procession of courtiers to “pledge their allegiance.”
“Come, Professor,” said Jacques. “I do not wish to loiter here.”
“No indeed.” I discarded the lurid cartoon, disturbed in a way I could not quite define. “Let us conclude our business and be gone.”
It did not take us long to find the midwife’s house.
Cecile the sage-femme had significantly improved her circumstances, if not her station.
Her home was a little clay-brick cottage on the edge of town, with its back to the river.
She was still far from the homes of the other villagers, however, tucked in between a bulrush thicket and an old barn, where visitors could come and go with discretion.
I counted more than a few potent reagents among the flowers of her sweet front garden—monkshood, yarrow, poppy and pennyroyal.
Really, Sebastian? asked my Guest. The hedge-witch? Let us hope her temper has improved since the last time.
If it has not, we have lost nothing. And if it has, she may be able to save us a lot of time.
As you like, he shrugged.
I dismounted and tied my horse to a post by the door. Jacques climbed out of the cart, rising to his feet with some effort.
I raised my hand to knock on the door, but it opened—seemingly of its own accord—before I had the chance.
“Mademoiselle?”
A pleasant smell of chamomile, licorice and warm bread drifted from the small parlor inside the door. I entered hesitantly, noting the exquisitely Warded metal mirror hanging on the wall opposite; it appeared that Cecile had upgraded her practice significantly since our last meeting.
I followed the gentle clink of crockery to the kitchen.
She had her back to us. Her long blond hair swayed as she arranged a tea set on a tray.
Her stays and pinafore were a deep, burned yellow, likely dyed with madder root.
Warm light filled the room from the open window and glittering motes floated through the air.
A jar of honey on the sill glowed such that it seemed to be nothing less than liquid sunshine.
From the ceiling hung bunches of drying herbs and wildflowers.
A russet fox dozed on the floor, soaking up the sunbeam next to a very plump white rat.
Through the window I glimpsed the herbalist’s private garden, filled with nodding flowers and the lazy humming of bees.
I found myself smiling, my eyes half closed, as I inhaled the smell of the bread, a fresh baton rolled in poppy and thyme. Jacques gave a gentle sigh beside me.
“I had a feeling,” said Cecile, her voice so rich it was almost a melody, “that I should expect important guests.” She remained facing away from us, her hands occupied in their dance of counting pastries and turning cups.
Oh a “feeling” indeed, scoffed Sarmodel. Are we to believe you didn’t have every roach and pigeon in town reporting back to you?
Cecile ignored him. “Come, you must be hungry.” Her white-blond hair rippling in the light, she began to slice the bread. “You have traveled such a long way.”
“We . . . have indeed . . .” My smile grew as I saw the steam rising from the loaf. In the light, it was golden and soft and golden.
Sebastian? What is the matter with—
“Sweet,” murmured Jacques beside me. “Honey sweet. Apple sweet. Golden sweet.”
“Yes truly, young sir,” Cecile said (sang). “I have honey rolls and apple tart. Follow me outside; my daughter has set the table under the willow. She has been looking forward to seeing you again.” Still she did not turn around.
I really was hungry, and so very tired after our long journey, just as Cecile had said.
“Yes—Wait, no!” I snapped, shaking my head. “Stop that!” I screwed up my face and quickly bit the tender pad of my thumb, using the pain as an anchor for my senses. The soft world inside the witch’s kitchen began to sharpen back into focus.
What? A trap! Sarmodel was shrill in his outrage (which I suspect was somewhat confected). You dare, witch?! Sebastian! Attack!
Now that I was awake to it, Cecile’s enchantment was plain to see.
The warm light, the inviting scents and even the clinking of her tea set—each was a thread in the golden cable she was looping around us.
As it fell away, the kitchen resumed its natural aspect.
It was still warm and comfortable, but no longer suffused with her dreaming compulsion; still charming, but no longer charmed.
Cecile froze momentarily as she felt me slip free. The red fox was suddenly on its feet, fixing me with a calm stare. Its eyes were completely white. Behind its benign Mundane facade, a hook-nosed, wrinkled creature1 regarded me with suspicion.
Then the hedge-witch turned to face me, the tray in her hands. “Forgive me, Professor,” she said simply. Her voice was no longer musical, but it was pleasant enough. “You can understand some caution on my part after our last encounter, yes?”
I found I could not reply immediately.
Even without Arcane help, Cecile was unexpectedly lovely.
The ragged, pimply young woman I remembered had blossomed into something of a beauty.
The lack of artifice which had made her seem unkempt as a girl now bestowed her with a natural grace.
It was clear she cared nothing for the bouffant coiffures and lily-white faces to which the other village women so aspired.
She let her hair fall in a wild cascade of sea-foam around her face and down her back.
Her skin was tanned from her days outdoors, with freckles sprinkled across her cheeks and the soft ridges of her collarbone.
With clear gray eyes and a careful smile on her lips, she was far from the grubby, hysterical creature who had so vexed me twenty years ago.
And there, positioned perfectly in the cleft of her bosom, was the hagstone. It throbbed like a second heart.
I realized I was staring, at risk of falling under a very different sort of spell.
“No indeed!” I blustered. “Well, yes. Perhaps.”
“Then please, follow me,” she said. She turned to leave through the back doorway, into the garden. “And it may be better not to wake the young lord, if we are to discuss business. Don’t you agree?”
Jacques was leaning dreamily back against the wall, his eyes following the glowing motes that drifted through the sunbeam. He was smiling, his eyes half closed, more peaceful than I had seen him in our short time together.
“Sir, would you care to join us for tea?” I asked gently.
“Yes please, Professor,” he said immediately. “May I also have something sweet?”
Cecile gave a shrug and a half smile.
“Very well,” I conceded. “But if he comes to any harm, there will be consequences.”
Cecile laughed. It was a joyous, raucous sound, heedless of propriety and with a sharp edge of mockery. “I shan’t blacken his eye or club him in the cullions, if that’s what you mean.” She shook her head and led us outside, still laughing.
1. A Contracted canult, a very professional and exceedingly useful choice of familiar.