Muse (20 page)

“Out of his way,” the guardsmen cried, clearing the mob with flashing swords.

As the Pope’s splendid barge mounted the ramp towards me, the people massed, their faces as dark and severe as their clothing, with only a leavening of courtiers and merchants to brighten them. Yet there was grandeur to them—and they had collected to honour me. Now they honoured their Pope as well. This show of homage from his vassals was humbling even for John XXII. But
who
had blasted his city with thunder and fire, and
who
had saved it from destruction? The mob awaited the Pope’s official proclamation.

The Pope’s tiara and lapis eyes rose out of the barge and his fist menaced the sky. “Sorcières stirred up this tempest,” he decreed with shaky voice, “and were halted by the power vested in me, Christ’s Vicar, through the agency of my own visionary, a necromancer with the power for good!”

His gilded staff nodded towards me and his eyes met mine across the esplanade. He recognized me, as well he might, for he had taken me by force in his luxurious bed. Beneath his triple crown was the same woollen deathcap he had worn in his bedchamber. Under the magnificent cope was the same senex, looking like a cobbler in the costume of a grander man. I did not lower my eyes and they were an even darker lapis than his own. Did he fear my power today as much as I had feared his then? The potency I had given to him a six-month past I now took back, sapping his power. He spoke some maundering drivel, then was swallowed by his opulent couch.

The city marshal shouted to the crowd, “The Pope rewards this visionary with a purse of gold!” He made a show of giving me a weighty
purse, then ordered the guardsmen, “One of you, put her in the keeping of the captain, who will know my mind.”

Just then, the Pope was stricken by a surfeit of bile and his coughing tilted the barge off its axis. The marshal signalled to the palafrenieri, who heaved the barge-poles onto their backs to shunt the Pope at full speed to the battered palace. The officers and guardsmen trotted to keep up, each assuming some other man was guarding me.

The poor flooded the esplanade, scraping the ground for gold threads that might have fallen from the papal garments. I was cloaked from scrutiny by the weapon-smiths, who surrounded me to pick charred scraps off my robe. They walked me through the piazza to protect me from the mob. Although they had elected themselves my citizen army, they had not grasped the marshal’s intention, and I was well hidden in their red-haired company. Only now did I feel my breasts aching and my womb cramping with after-pains from my unhappy births. My arm sockets stiffened from the bell rope. Where the street twisted, I was squeezed into a narrow corridor of moving flesh, and eluded the kindly smiths by ducking through a dog-leg. I ran south, supporting my belly with my hands, through workshops and potteries and slaughterhouses until I reached the rear of the Cheval Blanc.

I found Conmère delirious in my bed—the first time I had ever seen her in it. She was complaining that the Rhône had risen so far inside her throat that it was choking her. I rubbed her with sweet almond oil and dressed her cleanly. I slept and woke, troubled by grim imaginings of Perrette’s agony, and slept and woke again. Conmère died with me beside her, my tears soaking her filthy, matted plait. Her death was swift, brought on by crouching in a damp, infested cellar, her heart already weakened from carrying my dead twins to their unhallowed grave not long before. There, in the cimetière des pauvres, Conmère also found her resting place, for no hallowed graveyard could be paid enough to take her.

Twenty-five

N
OT LONG AFTER
I saw Pope John carted towards the palace, he died in state with his cardinals around him, having recanted his heresy about the Beatific Vision. As was the custom, the camerlengo struck the Pope’s skull with a mallet and called out to him using his birth name,
Jacques Duèze, are you dead?
When this was repeated three times without an answer, the camerlengo pried off the Fisherman’s ring and cracked it with shears. It was buried with the corpse inside triple coffins in the cathedral of Notre-Dame-des-Doms. The Pope’s death appeared to be the sacrifice the storm demanded, since a new pope was elected in a single ballot.

These mysteries jumped from mouth to ear along the city’s arteries until they reached me in the Cheval Blanc. When the Pope’s ring was crushed, so was my link to the papacy. Still, I thought it wise to tame my hair with henna to a disguising auburn, for I had almost died. Fortune had spun me up, then spun me down, where I was safer. At Noël, when the new ring was cast for Jacques Fournier, it bore the name Benedict XII.

Twice born, I opened my window to dedicate myself anew to life, and my soul leapt under the bold moon. I would much rather embrace Francesco than join the martyrs, where mortal arms would never enfold me. He had fled to the Vaucluse to speed his writing in seclusion. From there, I received beautifully composed letters, the latest announcing that Pope Benedict had summoned him to an audience on Mardi gras. How much did Francesco know of my ordeal and fleeting glory? Nothing, I hoped, since I wished to put it all behind me.

On Mardi gras, I walked along the rue de l’Épicerie, which was brisk with trade. Here were turnips, celery root, sacks of glistening rice, and traders calling out the merits of fish, wine, and foreign cloth. A black cat sprang in front of me, a dancer with white paws. The weathercock was motionless and the air was redolent with winter spices—mace, cumin, and cinnamon bark that reminded me of Francesco’s skin. I could sense his presence in the city as I had sensed his palm travelling a breath above my naked flesh.

A pedlar held up a mask of silver wire, twisted delicately into feathers. “Try it on, madonna?”

His smile was too broad to bestow on a woman of good family, but was it not a day for masquerade? Today, the sun itself was made of filigree. After some banter that we both enjoyed, I bought the mask and tied it to my belt. I felt a pinch through three layers of fine cloth. Gherardo, in pattens and baggy hose, standing beside me.

“Your laughter is bouncing off the buildings, Solange. I suppose you are also meeting Francesco at the Two Ravens.” His grin was sheepish. “It is good to see you after all these months.”

How did he always charm me so readily? “So you have come out of hiding, Gherardo.”

He squinted at me. “What happened the night I conveyed you to the palace? Where did the guardsman take you?”

I was in the mood to forgive, and would make it easy for us both.
“To the Pope’s bedchamber, where I cured him of his fever. Where were you during the thunderstorm, Gherardo?”

“Cowering in the Vaucluse with Francesco. He has our mother’s fear of winter storms.”

Then the brothers knew little of what had gone on, which suited me. About the rest, Gherardo was incurious. As we walked along the rue des Fourbisseurs, Gherardo clacking in his pattens, one of the red-haired smiths hailed me from his munitions shop, “Saint Barbara! Have you had any more visions? Do you need an honour guard for carnival?”

It was the master, the man with the turnip ears. Gherardo looked at me oddly, but I waved the master off and hurried Gherardo away from the workshop. At the Two Ravens, we found Francesco with Guido Sette. Francesco had slung his cloak over the only proper chair, which he offered to me, allowing his hand to graze my head covering, the cinnabar cloth he had brought from Bruges. Five months had passed since we had been together. I leaned back against his cloak, glorying in its familiar scent, and whispered that I was glad to see him.

Before he could respond, Guido said, “Tell us, what is Pope Benedict like?”

“As austere as we were told,” Francesco said. “The opposite of Pope John. Half his age but twice his size. He welcomed us in an old Cistercian habit. By contrast, all the men of letters, all the artists, were overdressed. The nobles were ingratiating themselves, strutting in their regalia like the Pope’s camel and his bear. He gave only modest rewards to the cardinals who voted for him and is packing all the useless clerics back to the provinces.”

“What will Benedict do with Pope John’s vineyards?” Gherardo asked.

“From what I saw, he will drink them dry. We Italians have been deceived in Benedict, for he is in no hurry to return to Rome. He will build a new palace in Avignon to replace the damaged one. It will be
the greatest monastery in Europe, a cold Cistercian fortress to keep his enemies at bay. And he is in a hurry. Eight hundred workers will be employed.”

“His French allies will be glad,” I said. “So will the labourers and guilds. Those of us who live here will benefit as well.”

“I have already,” Francesco said, “since he has awarded me a canonry in Lombez.”

Guido and Gherardo hauled him up to perform an Italian dance step from their Bologna days, but I could not wish Francesco good fortune. How could I, when he would be more frequently absent from the city? He was moving up in the world of diplomacy, a world that had never welcomed me.

“You already have a post with Cardinal Colonna,” I protested.

“As an errand runner and nursemaid to his nephews. At any rate, I need not give that up. I will divide my time between Avignon and Lombez.”

Gherardo did another dance step. “Pope John must have appointed you before he died,” he blurted out. “This is Solange’s doing …”

My ears were smarting. “Gherardo, stop!”

Guido looked from Gherardo, to Francesco, to me. “What does he mean? What did these Petrarchs make you do?”

Francesco swirled the brackish liquid in his tankard. “I would like to know the answer as well, Gherardo.”

Gherardo wagged his tongue back and forth to relax his lips. “Pope John requested our sister. How could I refuse?”

“What took place, Solange?” Francesco asked.

I could not admit that the old pope had forced himself on me, for the shame would be excruciating. How little could I get away with saying? “I found the Holy Father in an illness, amidst his doctors, and managed to give him comfort.”

Earnest for once, Gherardo said, “I took her there myself.”

Guido stared at him. “Are you a half-wit? Would you have given your real sister to him?”

“I had no choice,” Gherardo said calmly. “Pope John’s guardsman was blackmailing me for having carnal relations with Agapito Colonna.”

At the mention of Cardinal Colonna, Francesco pounded the table so hard the tumblers leapt. He strode to the wall, and smashed his fist through the wattle and daub, breaking the skin across his knuckles. Gherardo and I sank into ourselves, while Francesco smacked his fist into his palm, again and again. Then, sucking his broken knuckles, he righted the stool and sat down. What had angered him most—his brother’s misdeeds or the risk of Cardinal Colonna discovering them?

At last Francesco spoke. “It was a dangerous ruse, Gherardo—dangerous for us all, but mostly for Solange. If we are asked where our sister is, we must say she has returned to Italy. I see you have darkened your hair, Solange, and bought a new robe, but not one so fine as to attract attention. This way you can lose yourself in the city again, a citizen of Avignon.”

Gherardo smirked. “And a necromancer who drives off lightning storms. There are men in this town, swarthy guilds-men with hair redder than hers, who know her well by sight.”

“You have done too much harm with your loose tales,” said Francesco. “Solange’s fame died with Pope John and it must stay that way. Now, go, both of you. I need to talk to her.”

Prudently they fled, but I was bristling. I had heard the lawyer in Francesco, concerned more with preserving his reputation than mine. “You want me to slide back into anonymity to shield yourself,” I accused. “Or perhaps you are jealous that I am recognized by other men.”

“Being admired is a two-edged sword, Solange. The mob is fickle and might easily turn against you. One misstep and you will be in the papal prison. This new pope led the inquisition against the Cathars. He sentenced countless heretics to death. I want you alive, not dismembered and hung on the city gates.
Alive
. Do you hear, Solange? I cannot love a dead woman.”

With these words, he regained my affection in an instant, for only half my heart had shut him out. Now that we had moved closer, his eyes rested on my belly, which had been swollen when he last saw it.

“Are you a mother now?”

I could not find the words to tell him there had been two deaths. “The child was stillborn.”

“I am sorry.” He gulped from his tumbler.

“The boy was yours, a beautiful, well-formed child who should have lived to give joy to us both.”

His head fell into his hands. His eyes, when he finally lifted them to mine, were red. Now I did feel sorry for his grief, although it was a shadow of what my own had been. We had both lost a child we could have been proud of, a son who could have worn the Petrarch coat of arms. I had lost a daughter as well, a double grief, so deep I could not speak of it. He grabbed my hand and gripped it, a link to the pain that neither of us could fully share in words.

“I thought of you frequently in my seclusion in the Vaucluse,” he admitted. “It is a lonely place, conducive to writing prose, but not so much to poetry. For that I seem to need you near me.”

At this admission, our hearts lightened, though neither of us could manage a whole smile. “I would like nothing better than to see your new poems,” I said.

He fingered the mask that dangled on a ribbon from my belt. “Your silver visor shines like moonlight. Will you wear this to some Mardi gras revels? Perhaps one of your admirers will escort you.”

“Do not mock, Francesco.”

“If you’ll wear your mask for me, I will take you to one of the city’s finest livrées.”

I hesitated. “You cannot wish to be seen in public with me.”

He held my chin to study my face. “You are handsome enough to display anywhere, and tonight Cardinal Colonna is hosting a musical fête. It is the last evening before Lent,” he coaxed, “a night we have often spent together.”