The Copper Sign (40 page)

“We’ll quickly find out.” Ellen nodded.

Ellen had been many places since leaving Tancarville. She knew almost all of Normandy, parts of Flanders and Champagne, and she had also passed through Paris once, but this was the first time she had ever been in Compiègne, quite a distance north of Paris. The forests in that area where the tournament was to take place were a favorite hunting ground of the French king and the city itself the goal of many pilgrims who hoped to view the sacred burial cloth and many other religious relics in the abbey there. Innumerable churches and the tall, round tower of the royal castle were landmarks of this impressive city.

The three of them strolled leisurely through the narrow lanes, viewing the displays of the merchants and tradespeople and the stalls at the marketplace. Ellen bought enough material from a linen weaver to wrap the scabbard, and a long, dark red silk cord for the handle from a silk merchant.

“I still need some leather for the scabbard and belt…” She looked around, and it wasn’t long before she found a piece of fine, wine-red leather for the scabbard, a belt of good cowhide, and a brass buckle all at a suitable price. Happy with how things had gone, she turned to Jean and Madeleine and said, “I think we’ll spend the night here and not go on until tomorrow morning. What do you think?”

“You mean we’ll stay at an inn?” Jean asked in disbelief.

“For heaven’s sake no, naturally not. Are we dukes or rich merchants? We’ll inquire in a church about a place to sleep for the night. With so many pilgrims here, there must be many accommodations for guests.”

“Oh, I see! Yes, certainly.” Jean seemed relieved. He looked at Madeleine, whom he had to take by the hand and drag along with them so she wouldn’t stop at every stall and admire the colorful displays.

The search for a place to stay turned out to be harder than Ellen had suspected, but finally she found a place free to spend the night in the largest church in town. Pilgrims were standing around everywhere in long lines at the latrines, the inns, and hot food stalls. The residents of Compiègne knew how to take advantage of the masses of believers and sold all of life’s necessities at exorbitant prices and inferior quality. Ellen purchased a big, expensive pasty, which they hungrily consumed, and a large mug of beer. The pasty had a rancid taste, and the beer was flat. Disappointed, they stretched out on the cold stone floor, crowded tightly between a group of pilgrims on the one side and a few strange-looking foreigners whose language they couldn’t understand on the other. There they tried to make themselves as comfortable as possible for the night.

Although they spread the tent out under them, had a blanket to roll up into, and were tightly crowded together, it was still so cold that Ellen had trouble falling asleep. Even Greybeard, who always helped to keep them warm, was not able to help. In the middle of the night Ellen woke up, her cheeks on fire. Her teeth chattered, her body trembled, and her head was dreadfully painful. But her exhaustion helped her to fall back to sleep again. In the morning she was too weak to stand up on her own.

The priest thought that her stay in his church and God’s closeness would help to cure the sickness, and he promised to pray for Ellen, but otherwise paid no heed to her predicament.

But a friendly young merchant woman who had come to the church for morning prayers spoke to Jean, recommending an herb woman who lived not far from the church. The thought of spending money for a healer seemed to Ellen like pure extravagance and she didn’t want to follow this advice, but this time Jean prevailed and she didn’t get her way.

“The herb woman will not enter the church, however, and you must leave your friend on the steps before the portal,” the young woman advised him. “In any case, it’s cold and drafty inside here, and outside the sun is shining and will warm her up.” She even offered to show Jean the way. When he returned with the herb woman, Ellen was already delirious with fever.

“Aelfgiva! You’re alive!” She sighed with great joy, fervently kissing the hand of the strange woman.

“She can’t stay here. Bring her to my house,” the herb woman said, clearly concerned about her condition. “If she sleeps one more night in that drafty church, she will die.”

Jean and Madeleine helped Ellen to stand up, but she kept collapsing. Two strong-looking men happened to be there making repairs to the church door, and Jean turned to them. They carried Ellen to the herb woman’s house, which was large and comfortable, swept clean, and with a splendid odor of mint and cooked meat.

“She absolutely must rest for two weeks if she is to recover properly. Her condition is not good,” the woman said, examining Ellen closely.

“But that’s not possible—she has to work. She’s a smith at tournaments, and we were going to leave today!” Suddenly Jean looked as helpless as a child.

“Then you’ll just have to leave her here. Do you see how her eyelids are fluttering? She’s having visions and thinks I am someone else—you both saw that earlier. Even if she’s a strong young woman, a high fever is nothing to trifle with. If she’s lucky, she has just gotten a chill and is exhausted. If not, it’s something worse. But one thing is certain—she needs rest.”

Jean looked helplessly at Madeleine and then turned back to the herb woman.

“We can’t pay you very much, but Madeleine could stay here and look for work. Perhaps you know someone who needs a maid…”

The herb woman looked at Madeleine and nodded. “I hope she can be a real help.”

“She can, believe me. She is used to hard work.”

“Then she can stay here with me,” the herb woman decided.

Jean was relieved that he had found a place for Madeleine to stay. He would take Greybeard, Nestor, and the tent along to the tournament site by himself. After all, he had to be there to explain Ellen’s absence to Pierre so that he wouldn’t be angry with her forever. Maybe he could offer to help the smith until he had found someone else.

“You are in good hands here, I believe,” he whispered to Ellen, even though he couldn’t be sure she understood him in her feverish condition. “I’ll be back again, don’t worry, and I’ll take care of everything.” He patted her arm, said good-bye to her, and after giving some advice to Madeleine started out on his way.

Thibault was furious, and stomped across the square where the merchants had set up their stalls. William just wouldn’t stop provoking him. Just that morning, he had proclaimed loudly that he felt as strong as an ox and wanted to have at the French. He acted again as if he alone were responsible for the outcome of the tournament. It was ridiculous how the others cheered him on. Children were running around between the tents, playing, while horses, mules, and wagons were unloaded. Women were quarreling shrilly about the best places, and in the middle of it all, dogs were running around and fighting. Thibault stumbled twice. Once he had failed to notice a tent peg, and the second time his foot got tangled in a rope lying on the ground. Furious, he spat on the ground. Now if this smith girl should appear somewhere…he gave a quick kick in the rear to a skinny cat passing by. If it was so thin, it couldn’t be a good hunter and deserved nothing better. But of course, his anger had little to do with the skinny ball of fur. He had been thinking of Ellen again, and that’s what had made him so furious. William and Ellen made his life hell, each in their own way.

Thibault had almost reached the smithy. He had been drawn here quite unconsciously, and now that he saw it, his blood started to boil again. Just as he was going to turn around he heard the smith’s voice. He seemed very upset.

“First she demands more money,” he lamented, teary-eyed, “and then she turns out to be an unreliable, lazy woman who doesn’t bother showing up for work at all!” He passed his hand through his thick head of hair. It was jet black with only a few streaks of silver. Hardly any man his age still had such thick hair, Thibault thought enviously. For the most part, lice and skin diseases caused it to fall out prematurely. Thibault passed his hand through his own hair, which had already become a bit thinner. The smith’s hair gave him a certain dignity he didn’t even deserve, Thibault thought.

The smith got so worked up that his neck swelled so much it seemed he would burst.

“She is neither lazy nor unreliable—she really wants to work, Pierre. I’m sure you know that!” Thibault could hear someone saying.

Thibault squinted and tried to think. He had seen the lad somewhere before. Right! Last fall he was the one who saved Ellen from being trampled by his warhorse.

“You know her well enough to know she must be really sick if she doesn’t come in to work. She has a high fever, and the herb woman said she might die if she doesn’t stay in bed,” the boy explained. It was impossible not to see that the lad was worried.

Thibault snorted. Ellen was ill!
That serves her right
, he thought with satisfaction, and kept listening.

“Oh, come now, these herb women always imagine the worst, and they do that so you’ll be frightened and pay them more. It will cost you a fortune. She’s just pulling your leg.” Pierre gave him a look of contempt indicating he thought the boy was really smarter than to believe all that, and Thibault nodded approvingly.

“Ellenweore’s teeth are chattering with cold even though she feels hot to the touch. She is feverish, whether you believe it or not. I’ve seen with my own eyes how sick she is. As soon as she gets better she’ll be happy to work for you again.” The smith turned away from the boy even before he had finished speaking.

“If I still want her!” And with these words he departed, leaving the boy worried and dumbfounded.

“And Ellen’s sword?” he called after him. “What will become of the sword she has been working on?” But he received no answer.

Thibault stroked his chin. “Aha, she’s making a sword,” he mumbled.

The next day, Thibault followed his rival William. He observed him as best he could, always in the hope of discovering something he could use against him. When the Marshal came to Master Pierre’s stand, a woman hurried up to ask what he would like. Thibault hovered nearby without being noticed.

“I am looking for Ellenweore and haven’t seen her anywhere. Doesn’t she work for your husband any longer?”

“No,” Armelle answered curtly, looking the Marshal up and down. “Has she been causing trouble?” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

Instead of replying, William asked, with some irritation, “Could you tell me where I can find her?”

“No, sire,” Armelle answered sharply. “She walked out on us. Who knows who she took off with!” It was unmistakable that the smith’s wife didn’t like Ellen.

“What do you mean by that?” William demanded.

“Well, a girl her age and not married…” She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “She’s no longer a spring chicken, and she’s got to know she’s got to act fast if a good opportunity comes up.” Armelle looked at him disdainfully.

Without wasting another word, William turned away and left.

“He could have at least said thank you, that rascal,” she grumbled, shaking her head and watching him as he left.

Thibault pushed off from the wall he had been leaning on and ambled over to her. “Arrogant fellow,” Thibault mumbled and nodded in the direction of where William had gone. “He thinks he’s something better,” he said, giving the smith’s wife a warm smile.

She blushed in embarrassment and pushed a fat strand of hair back under her bonnet. “Can I do something for you, my lord?”

“Well, that might be possible,” Thibault answered with feigned cordiality. “This woman, Ellenweore, has been working on a sword, I’ve heard.”

The woman’s face darkened as soon as he mentioned Ellen’s name.

“What is it about her that makes men chase after her like that?” she mumbled.

“The sword, it’s only the sword that interests me. The word is that she has placed a magic spell on it in order to harm our king. This has to be stopped! It is very important that you report to me, and only to me, as soon as it is finished.”

“Who knows if she’ll ever return.”

“Right!” Thibault had to restrain himself in order not to grab her by the collar and shake her. “I’ll be here for the next tournaments as well. If you have any news for me, tell Abel, the jewelry dealer. You know where his stall is, don’t you?” he asked with pronounced cordiality.

Armelle was impressed, and nodded. The jewelry merchant had the finest stall anyone had ever seen!

Thibault placed a silver coin in her hand.

“If you have further news for me, I’ll have three more coins for you.”

Armelle grinned broadly. “Depend on me, sire. But sire, what shall I tell him who is to receive my news?”

“You need to say nothing more, just: the sword is finished!”

“The sword is finished…yes,” she stammered, somewhat confused, and started to ask another question, but Thibault was already gone.

Ellen sat on a stool behind the house enjoying the noonday sun while Madeleine knelt in the vegetable patch, pulling weeds and singing. The laundry hanging above her on a waxed rope looked as if it were about to break away and sail off into the blue sky at the next gust of wind. Ellen smiled with satisfaction: she couldn’t remember ever seeing Madeleine so happy. Suddenly the girl jumped up and ran to the gate. Ellen got up slowly and ambled the few steps around the corner of the house. What she saw was enough to make her heart pound so hard that she had to stand still and catch her breath.

“Jean!” she exclaimed joyfully when she saw who had come.

“Ellen, you’re feeling better,” he said with obvious relief.

“She hasn’t completely recovered. She still has to take it easy,” the herb woman said as she came out of the house to greet Jean. “In any case, she shouldn’t try to work yet.”

“I don’t think I could,” Ellen replied, breaking out in a bad coughing fit.