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Even a year later, Isabeau finds that she still craves the taste of raw meat.
It is a lucky day when some innkeeper undercooks a roast or when some roadside pitboy slices open a lump of steaming flesh and red juices spill forth. On such occasions, Isabeau silently licks her lips.
But those happy accidents are rare. More often, any meat before her is cooked until it is a gray lump, tasteless and tough. To Isabeau, it is like eating wet ashes. To say nothing about the insipid taste of everything else: the bread and the cabbage and the "little" wine, which is always watered down into nearly nothing.
Dismal meal follows dismal meal, night after night, and Isabeau tries to remember to be grateful.
—Until the afternoon that Navarre appears in their shared room with a dead rabbit. "Poachers. Boys, really. I let them off with a warning to stay off the duke's lands, but I confiscated what they had collected." He hefts the rabbit. "I thought you might want it instead."
Isabeau has spent the day doing needlework, as befits the idle hours of the pretty little wife of the duke's new captain of the guard. Her eyes and fingers are tired, and her tongue is sharp. "Me? Whatever for? Shall I line some gloves with its fur? Perhaps it will make part of a stylish hat for you?"
Navarre smiles. "I thought you and I might put it to other uses. Come, take a walk with me in the vineyards. At this time of day, there will be no one there."
Isabeau drops her embroidery with relief. "As you wish, my husband."
In the middle of the green-leafed trellises, far from the prying eyes of the manor, Navarre skins the rabbit quickly and efficiently with a sharp knife.
Isabeau feels saliva rise in her mouth.
Navarre uses his knife to peel off slivers of rabbit flesh, which he divides between Isabeau and himself. By the time they are finished, the rabbit is a bundle of stripped bones and offal, and their mouths are stained red.
"Mmm," Isabeau says, licking the lingering coppery traces from her lips. "How can something be so disgusting and so perfect at the same time?"
"The perversity of this fallen world. You look better now. Back in our rooms, you looked like a ghost. You've got some color back in your cheeks now."
Isabeau laughs. "I am relieved to be saved from needlework. But I know I should not complain. I know I should be grateful that the Lady Orsa has condescended to allow the pretty little wife of the new captain of the guard into her retinue. Surely the misery of squinting over little stitches is worth that honor." She gives him a rueful smile. "As long as you like your position here, I can suffer through embroidery and boring meals."
Navarre scratches his cheek. "About that, Isabeau..."
That night, Isabeau is a cheerful and vivacious presence at dinner in the main hall, and the people sitting around her nod approvingly. Among themselves, they say things like The new captain's pretty little wife was so dull at first, but she can be charming, clearly. They watch her eat everything—the gray meat, the hard bread, the watery wine—and they think, It's good to see a woman with such a healthy appetite.
The next morning, the duke's new captain and his pretty little wife are gone without a trace. Their rooms are empty and bare. A very large horse is missing from the stables.
—and Lord, you know me, I am not one to complain, I take everything in this life as it comes with stoicism and grace, yes, everyone is always saying That Philippe Gaston Is A Veritable Wall, It is Impossible To Know What Philippe Gaston is Ever Thinking, That Philippe Gaston Is An Enigma And a Mystery, but even so, Lord, I have to say it is a little hard to endure being accused of thievery when you have only arrived to a place, I mean, the Abbot might have given me a couple of days and the opportunity to steal something, but no, instead I am accused of a sin I have not even committed, and while I doubt not your providence, Lord, I am growing a little weary of escaping from prisons, not that this is even much of a prison, I really question the Abbot's commitment to imprisoning people in what is merely a glorified root cellar, though yes, Lord, I know I should be thankful for your aid, but Lord, the repetition of such things do wear on the soul, and I—
Etienne Navarre is an accomplished swordsman, has a nice seat on a war-horse, and knows how to swirl back his red-lined cape heroically with one subtle motion of his shoulder. In those places where his reputation does not precede him, his potential value in a lord's war-band or honor guard is obvious.
There are places, of course, where his name is known, along with his past. He and Isabeau do their best to avoid those places. Too many possible questions, too many possible accusations.
It is not hard for Navarre to find employment. Every lordling on the peninsula is forever going to war with his neighbor. A fighting man who comes with his own horse and his own sword? No lordling is going to ask too many questions about Navarre or his sharp-eyed wife. Have you seen his sword? Have you seen his horse?
Instead, every lord welcomes Navarre graciously; every lord allows Navarre's wife to attend the lord's wife or daughter or sister; every lord stables Navarre's tremendous horse. Shelter and food and the respectful recognition of a lord, and in exchange, all Navarre has to do is go out and fight some people. Navarre is very good at fighting people. Inevitably, the lord's respectful recognition grows. Sometimes Navarre and his wife are permitted to sup at the high table. More battles are won. The lord begins to talk vaguely of giving Navarre and his wife some land, some peasants, perhaps a knighthood.
And that's when Navarre always feels the phantom trap closing around his leg.
He is a fool, he knows. The universe is forever offering him security and safety, and he is forever dashing it away. And what's worse, his capricious whims injure not only him, but they injure Isabeau as well. Does his wife not deserve stability? Does she not deserve the very best things he can possibly achieve on her behalf?
And yet every time he thinks about the rocky bit of ground that some lordling wants to give him, in exchange for an oath, in exchange for forever, Navarre wants to howl.
That night, the current lordling's banquet runs long, and by the time Navarre finally retires to the rooms he has been given, it is late and Isabeau is already asleep.
She stirs as he crawls into bed beside her. "Suitably feted?" she murmurs.
"Oh, yes," he says tiredly. "Lord Ridolfo was very impressed by how I held the hill. Says he wants to make me his vassal. Give me the lands that used to belong to old Pierre."
Isabeau is quiet for a moment, and then she says, "Will you do that?"
"I should want to do it. Pierre had some good farming land. Happy peasants. The place would pay for itself and then some."
"Hmmm."
"I should say yes," Navarre says restlessly. "I should not spit in the eye of this good offer."
"Hmmm."
"After all, when are we ever going to encounter a better possibility than this?"
Isabeau laughs. "You said that last time as well. For something considerably worse than this."
"After a while, God will grow weary of my churlishness," Navarre says. "He keeps extending gifts, and I keep knocking them out of his hands."
"Are they gifts from God?" Isabeau yawns. "Perhaps they are just snares from the devil. Old Pierre did not gain much from either his lands or his peasants. He died with an axe through his skull."
"True," Navarre says.
"And I do not have a lot of faith in Lord Ridolfo," Isabeau continues. "He has a very shifty mustache."
"Also true," Navarre says.
"Of course, if you want to stay here..." Isabeau begins doubtfully.
"Oh, God's breath, no," Navarre says.
"Good," she says sweetly. "Because I don't think much of this place. I think it's about time we thought about moving on."
A feeling of relief floods Navarre. "I thought you liked it here."
"It has been acceptable," she says. "But there are plenty of other acceptable places in this world. I do not think that you or I need to settle for acceptable."
Navarre smiles and presses against her happily. "No, we do not. Should we leave tonight?"
"Not tonight, my love. This bed is very warm. But tomorrow night, certainly."
—and Lord, while I can certainly admit that robbing the lepers was perhaps not my most noble and admirable moment, surely the extent of my sin must be mitigated by the revelation that they were not actually lepers but merely rogues disguised as lepers who were preying on passing pilgrims, even if I did not perceive their disguise at the moment of lifting their coin-bag, but perhaps that was merely because you guided me without me knowing it, and when I innocently thought I was merely robbing a leper, it was truly your Will that I was your blind instrument of retaliation, and now I see that I need not serve a penance for my deeds, which is a true relief, though, Lord, I must insist that the truest relief would be if you could produce a miracle that could help me escape these bonds, because when the lepers come back for me, I fear that this poor little mouse may suffer a truly undeserved fate, and—
Isabeau leaves Navarre at the cathedral steps.
"Are you sure you won't come in?" she asks him.
"No," he says, though he smiles when he says it. "I met the dean of the cathedral here years ago under less than ideal circumstances. I believe I may have killed one of his cousins in a duel. If he is about, he would not react well to seeing me."
Isabeau sighs. "Very well. I will include you in my prayers."
"Very generous, my love."
She goes through the shadowed doorway, and Navarre turns to regard the square before the cathedral. It is thronged with people: pilgrims and townspeople and beggars and—
Startled, he steps down until he reaches one beggar sitting cross-legged in a block of cool shade afforded by the cathedral's spires.
"Alms?" asks the beggar easily. "Alms for the poor?"
"Philippe?"
"A bit of charity, generous sir? A bit of pity for me?" The beggar gestures with one bandage-wrapped arm. He is covered in dirt and sores, but there is a very familiar-looking eye looking up at Navarre from under matted brown hair. "A small act of mercy, and God will smile down upon you, God will bless you."
"Is that you, little mouse?"
"Just a bit of charity." The beggar's voice is getting louder. "Just the tiniest smidgeon of charity. Just the smallest fragment of charity. A veritable dust mote of charity!"
Navarre regards him for a moment, and then he digs into the money-pouch tied to his belt, and he brings out a small metal coin, printed on one side with the figure of Saint John and on the other side with an uneven column of fleur-de-lis.
"Here you go," he says slowly, dropping the coin into the beggar's waiting hand.
"Oh, bless you, generous sir, bless you and your house, bless you and your family, may God shower a thousand—"
"Yes, no doubt He will," Navarre says, looking around. It does not take him long to spot the group of grim-looking toughs who seem to be watching him and the beggar from the base of the cathedral steps. "After all, Our Lord sees all and knows all."
"Indisputably true, gracious sir, your wisdom and piety are equally sweet to these tired old ears—"
"You know, beggar? I feel compelled to aid you further," Navarre says thoughtfully. "Have you thought about coming into the cathedral with me to pay our respects? I hear they've got a fingerbone that belonged to one of the Saint Anthonys in there."
The beggar sucks in his breath and says, "Oh, well, I don't think—"
"Nonsense," Navarre says, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him upright, and despite the beggar's decrepit appearance, he rises smoothly and easily. "I must insist. It's an incredible cathedral, you know."
"Oh, I know," hisses the beggar as Navarre hustles him up the steps to the door. "Believe me, I am well-acquainted with its splendors, Etienne."
Navarre grins. "Indeed? And those muscled men who are glaring at us down there?"
"Another set of acquaintances," the beggar says. "I have many friends in this town. They were under the impression that I had acquired a golden reliquary and then that I had secreted it somewhere, and they have been watching me until I went to retrieve it."
Together, they step across the shadowy threshold. "And did you secrete somewhere?"
"Regretfully, it was not even gold, and its yellow coat scraped off as soon as it was rubbed. Truly, it is difficult to be a man of faith in this world when confronted with so many lies and—"
"So just give them the fake," Navarre says impatiently. He is scanning the pilgrims spread across the cathedral. He does not see Isabeau.
"I tried, but they are convinced that I swapped the real one for the fake one. Meanwhile, the cathedral chapter knows that they have been robbed, but they have not yet realized that the lame beggar who is always out front could climb up to a third-floor window. But it will not take them very long to figure things out if they see—"
"Ah," Navarre says, no longer listening. "There's Isabeau. Come and say hello, Philippe."
"Ugh," Philippe says. "Like this? Give me a chance to take a bath first, Etienne. Let me put on a clean—"
"Those sores are impressive," Navarre says as he steers Philippe in the direction of the corner where Isabeau is standing. "Are they real?"
Philippe brightens for a moment. "Not a one. Just the result of a cunning paste that a traveling minstrel taught—"
"Hello, Isabeau," Navarre says, and his wife looks up at him with surprise. "Look at who I found."
She glances past him, and it takes her a moment to look past the bandages and painted-on sores and recognize the other man, who is wearing an uncharacteristically blank expression.
"Oh," she breathes, her eyes widening, her hand stretching out to touch his shoulder. "Oh, it's you, little mouse."
"Lady," Philippe says, inclining his head.
And then there is a shout, and a man in ornate robes is tottering down the central aisle. He is pointing at the three of them. He is yelling.
Philippe winces. "Well, I have been identified—"
"No," Isabeau says, gripping his shoulder. "No, it's Navarre. That must be the dean, and he's recognized Navarre."
Navarre shrugs. "Unfortunately, I believe that is correct."
"Murderer! Murderer! Seize him! Murderer!"
Philippe glances at Navarre. "A serious accusation, sir."
"His cousin tried to murder me first," Navarre says easily, though his smile is strained, and he has his right hand on his sword hilt.
Isabeau takes a deep breath, places her own hand over Navarre's sword-hand, and says. "Philippe, what's the fastest way out of here?"
"Oh," Philippe says. "That's easy. There's a little door cunningly hidden back here. I, uh, stumbled across it the other day. Follow me. Maybe we should run? Let's run, my friends. Running would be best, I think."
They run.
—Lord, you have to admit, I tried to stay away, I virtuously left them behind to walk in Your light, because the last time I saw them in that church, they were glowing with happiness and they could only look at one another, and I knew that it was time for Philippe Gaston to tiptoe off, it was time for Philippe Gaston to leave them to their love story, it was time for Philippe Gaston to scurry off, lest I taint their joy, lest I weigh them down, since I knew that they were probably going off to live in a castle or somewhere, and there would be no space or place there for me, and that was perfectly fine with me, Lord, because I am not a greedy man, as you know, and I was making my own way in this life, and how could I know that they would happen to visit that particular cathedral, that we would have to flee through the back, that the cathedral bells would be clanging the alarm as all three of us climbed on that horrible horse and galloped through the town, oh Lord, it was easy to leave them the first time, but to ask me to do it a second time, that's—
Several hours later, they are well outside the town. Goliath is tied to a tree and is delicately stripping the leaves from its low-lying branches. There is a small fire.
Philippe is naked to the waist and is carefully scouring the last of the painted sores from his skin. "Well, I doubt any of us will ever be able to set foot in that town again."
"Not much of a loss," Navarre says. "I spent some time there in the past, you'll recall. It does not have much to recommend it." He glances at Isabeau, who is seated by the fire with her knees drawn up to her chest. "Though I'm sorry if you did not have a chance to see everything in the cathedral. I hear Saint Anthony's fingerbone is rather special."
"I will live," she says. "I suspect if I counted them up, I've seen more than a dozen of Saint Anthony's other fingerbones throughout my life." She is watching Philippe. "But where will the three of us go after this?"
Philippe pauses for a moment in his ceaseless scrubbing. "Where will we go?"
"Anywhere," Navarre says. "Everywhere."
Philippe blinks. "Ah, but surely—" He looks between Navarre and Isabeau. "Surely you two fine folk have somewhere respectable to be. Somewhere far too respectable for me."
Isabeau laughs. "No. No, every time we've seen something respectable and fine, we have run in the opposite direction."
"We're not fit for respectable society," Navarre says. "Instead, we are tossed to and fro. Wherever the wind blows." He smiles. "As it happens, we have just left our prior position."
"Oh," Philippe says. He stoops down and picks up his tunic and slides it over his head. With a poor attempt at nonchalance, he says, "You know, I am on a pilgrimage."
Two pairs of eyes watch him over the fire.
"A pilgrimage?"
"To where?"
"Rome, of course." Philippe coughs self-consciously. "I thought best to start with the closest place and slowly work my way up to Jerusalem, you understand. Baby steps."
"Certainly, that only makes sense," Navarre says. "Is stealing cathedral reliquaries part of your pilgrimage?"
"I am a poor sinner, and I am thankful every day for the gracious mercy of Our Lord," Philippe said primly. "And I'll remind you that the reliquary turned out to be painted tin."
"I imagine you've seen such sights, Philippe." Isabeau's voice is low and dreamy. "I imagine you have not been bored."
Navarre glances at her.
"Not in the least, my lady. Has it been perilous? Yes. Strange? Yes. Have I occasionally doubted God's loving providence? Yes. But boring? Never."
"Why did you decide to become a pilgrim?" Navarre asks.
Philippe shrugs. "What else was I going to do? Can you imagine me as a farmer? You know me." He gives a dry little laugh. "You two know me better than anyone else does. You know that I must move constantly; I must always see new things; I must praise God in every way that I can; I must be ever wet and dirty and hungry; I must demand endless wonders. Civilized society has never called to me. I need the strange and the wild and the unfamiliar. You know."
"Yes," Navarre says.
"We know," Isabeau says.
Philippe rubs a hand self-consciously across the front of his tunic. "And maybe I'm not the only one who needs these things."
The fire crackles as one of the logs shifts and slides further into the flames.
"Have you ever thought about being pilgrims, my friends?" Philippe is staring at the fire to avoid looking at them. "Being pilgrims and coming with me?"
"To Rome?" Navarre asks.
"To Jerusalem?" Isabeau asks.
"Those are just placeholders," Philippe says. "Just places to point us in a direction. We could go anywhere. Anywhere that we could imagine. Though I warn you, the road is sure to be difficult and dangerous."
He looks up to see Isabeau over the orange flames. She is wearing the sharp smile of a predator. "I have never feared danger."
"There is nothing wrong with a long road." In the firelight, Navarre's eyes gleam. "Frankly, the longer, the better."
"Oh," Philippe says, and his voice cracks only a little bit as he speaks. "Then it's decided. We'll travel together. A pilgrimage to glorify the name of Our Lord."
"Amen," Isabeau says.
"Amen," Navarre says.
Thank you, God, Philippe thinks, glancing up at the stars overhead. I deserve nothing, and once again, you have given me everything.