A man from Jarnac appears bearing hot, fat sausages on sticks. He hands one to Maraud and Jacques. “Eat up. We begin shortly.”
When he tries to hand one to me, I nod my head toward Maraud. “Give it to him. I had two already.” It is a lie, but the wine has filled my stomach. And besides, Maraud has much catching up to do as far as meals go.
As he eats, I introduce him to my new friends. “This is Denic, a weaver of wool here in Jarnac. And this is Jarnac’s village priest, Father Innocent. Although,” I say in a loud whisper, “with his wandering eyes and sneaky fingers, he is anything but.”
Father Innocent blushes, looking abashed as the others laugh. I smile to soften the barb in my words. I do not begrudge him his pleasures, simply the sneaking of them. “And this is Marie, whose husband’s fine wine we are drinking. Herbin and Rogier you already know from this morning.”
Maraud nods at each of them, lifting his cup in acknowledgment. In order to maintain the pretense I told the others—that Maraud and I are “friends” from a tavern in Norvaigne, I lean against Maraud’s arm. “Denic will be dressed as the king tonight, and Father Innocent will be performing as the Green Maid.”
Maraud lifts his cup to Father Innocent. “A lovelier Green Maid I cannot imagine.”
As the men laugh at his joke, I wonder briefly if my act of being nobly born is ever discovered, can I plead it was naught but a Twelfth Night frolic gone on too long? It is the one time of year when the world turns upside down and peasants may dress as kings and kings play beggars and fools.
And here I sit, a peasant pretending to be a noble pretending to be a peasant. It is absurd enough that my laughter joins with that of the others.
Maraud looks at me, a single brow raised. “What was that?”
“What?”
“That noise you just made.”
I place my hand on my chest and look offended. “You are mistaken. I made no noise.” I hiccup, for good measure, and the others laugh.
It is surprisingly easy to simply be with these people. It is as natural to me as breathing. Surely that is why I giggled and exchanged a quick smile with Maraud. Before I can make a further fool of myself, Rollo—the round jester who seems to be in charge of the entire operation—appears. “Places, everyone.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “The fire has been lit, the people gathered. It is almost time to begin.” As he speaks, his face is transformed, and his eyes take on a purposeful gleam. For the first time, I wonder if he is perhaps a true follower of Salonius.
As we prepare for the performance, the jug of wine is passed around again. I take a swig because doing so draws less attention than refusing, then hand it to Maraud. I secure the sword at my hip and lower my helmet, careful to ensure my hair spills out beneath it so the audience will know I am Brigantia taming the wolves of war.
Once Maraud places the snarling wolf’s head over his own, I step closer, holding out the chain. Our eyes meet and something both warm and dark passes between us. Unsettled by the nature of it, I secure the chain around his neck with more force than is strictly necessary, as if binding him will somehow control my own wayward feelings.
We are two people in costume using each other to escape our circumstances. There is nothing more to us than that.
?Chapter 60
s I step out into the night, my vision is momentarily dazzled by the huge bonfire and scores of torches. For a moment, I feel I have gone back in time and am reminded of just how old this tradition is.
The mummers have been tasked with telling the stories of the gods since long before there were written words to record such things. They told of their exploits, their victories, and their defeats. When the new Church crowded out the Nine, it fell unto the mummers to keep the memories of the old gods alive in the minds of the people.
A drumbeat sounds, a deep pulsing that feels as if it comes up from the bowels of the earth itself. A trumpet blares, cymbals clash, and a flute begins its haunting melody, and like a single serpent made up of many parts, we all move to take our places.
Perhaps we all move as one because we float on a surfeit of wine, or perhaps it is the gods themselves who command our movements as we honor their existence. Whatever the reason, I feel more my own self than I have in years.
Within moments, the music is pulsing deep within me, the rhythm of the other performers a perfect accent to my own. Step, step, face Maraud. He raises his arms and bares his teeth. I raise my sword. He ducks. I swing to the left. He ducks again.
The music builds.
He lifts his face to the sky and snarls, raising both hands overhead as if coming in for the final attack. I raise my sword, thrusting it to deliver a mortal blow.
As the sword finds its target, the frantic drumbeat stops. In silence, the crowd watches Maraud the wolf flail in the agonies of his death throes, a flute picking up the final notes of his dying.
A moment later, the music begins again, cheerful and upbeat, fools come tumbling by, and Maraud and I advance a quarter circle around the bonfire to begin our performance once more. Our bodies are in perfect accord with the music, the crowd in perfect accord with us. There is little thought, no room for remorse or guilt or worry. Simply the dance and the surrounding night. The dance grows—encompassing musicians, performers, and crowd alike—holding us in its arms, carrying us away from our own smallness.
Again, step, step, stop. Face Maraud. As he rears up snarling, his eyes find mine, the impact of them as potent as a slug of the strongest wine. Our eyes locked, I raise my sword. He ducks, his dark gaze fixed upon me, never wavering, reading my body for the next move. I swing to the left, willing him to look away, loath to be the first to do so for if I do, it feels like I will have lost some silent challenge he has issued.
And so we continue, thrice more around the bonfire, each time our bodies and movement more in tune until it feels as intimate as a pair of lovers. On the final build of the drum, I thrust my sword in the space between his arm and his ribs. When he writhes, clutching the sword, I finally look away. As my eyes scan the rapt faces of the crowd, I find I am no longer certain as to precisely what struggle Maraud and I are performing for them.
* * *
In silence, we return to our small corner of the hall. Even though he says nothing, I can feel his presence behind me, as unrelenting as the night. When we reach our things, I turn away from him to remove my helmet, desperate to break free of the spell that has settled over us.
I am so tired that my limbs feel as useless as wet straw, but my skin, my senses, are wildly, painfully awake.