“We’ll wait here until they wake,” she whispered.
“And then you’re all going again,” said Gertrude.
Margriet shook her head. “Vrouwe Ooste is going to Dunkirk, with the children. But Beatrix and I will wait here for Claude for another day or two, if you are willing.”
As if summoned by the thought, someone halloed outside the door. Gertrude flinched.
“That’s Claude’s voice,” Margriet said, and pushed herself onto her unsteady feet. She opened the door to Claude and the messenger.
“You came,” she said, and tossed the messenger his coin. “Come in, Claude, and have some food. But softly. The children are sleeping.”
Claude grabbed her arm. “Margriet. What did you mean by your message?”
Margriet pulled away, walked in to the mill where it was dim. The sun was shining today; it made her head hurt.
“I wanted to get you here, that’s all,” she said.
“Margriet,” hissed Jacquemine. “You will tell her. There is no point now in lying.”
Margriet shut her eyes. Jacquemine was right. Claude would see it for herself soon enough. Margriet might start to gibber and screech at imaginings, or fall to the floor and shake. What did it matter if the whole world knew? Beatrix knew, and that was the hardest thing, and it was done.
“You have the Plague,” said Claude.
Margriet looked up, caught Claude’s eye. It had not been a question.
“Yes,” Margriet whispered. “Keep your voice low. No need to wake the children.”
“I should have guessed earlier,” said Claude. “I saw you touch a hot cake and not notice it. Since Bruges, then?”
Margriet nodded. All was made plain now. It was her last judgement among women, among living women.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“We will go to Hell, you and I, and get the sack.”
He stared. The Plague must have reached Margriet’s brain already.
“That is your plan? It’s madness. That’s why you sent for me? You want me to fight anyone who needs fighting? You forget. My sword arm is wounded.”
“You fought my husband well enough,” Margriet said quietly. “But anyway I hope there will be no fighting. I want you because you have been there and know what Hell is like, inside. And I want you to get past any locked doors.”
“I do not have the key to Hell, or do you forget?”
“Of course I don’t forget,” Margriet snapped. “But you managed to steal a suit of armour from what was doubtless a locked chest under guard.”
Yes, he remembered the click of the padlock in his hand, the strange magic of it. Margriet had squirreled her questions about that away. She probably only thought him a lockpick.
“Somehow,” Margriet said, “you escaped from Hell before. If anyone can get me into Hell, you can. Don’t you want to get the mace?”
“Yes, and I would also like to fetch the golden fleece from Colchis and the waters of youth from Prester John’s kingdom and Holy Grail from the castle of the Fisher King. What you ask is not possible. I have been in Hell. I have been a prisoner there. You will not succeed.”
“But you got out,” said Margriet.
The woman’s shrewish eyes were narrowed. Damn her. She thought she knew everything. She knew nothing.
“God’s teeth, woman. Yes, I got out. I was invited in, taken with some of the best fighters in my company. I will tell you what I learned while I was there. The Chatelaine said we were guests, and set about trying to convince us that we should become chimeras. One of my comrades was made into a kind of chimera she called a gonner: she gave him a metal arm that shot bolts using an explosion of black powder. It worked like a charm. We all watched him shoot targets in the great belly of the beast. When he missed, the beast would rumble, but that was all. It has a hide like iron.”
“I am not suggesting we try to cut its hide.”
“No? And how would you get in and out? Through its mouth? There came a day when I thought that I, too, would let the Chatelaine choose a weapon for me. But that day, my comrade was practising, and the powder exploded too wildly and he was killed. Blown to little bloody bits.”
“Yes,” said Margriet, which was the last thing Claude expected her to say. “I saw something like that, before the gates of Bruges, the day—the day we left. I saw chimeras with metal arms attack the gate, only some of them were wounded themselves, and wounded their colleagues next to them. But you found your way out.”
“Only because I convinced a smith to make me the mace, which took him many days. The mouth is shut in an iron contraption like a bridle. The Chatelaine was the only one who could open it.”
“How will you get out?” Gertrude asked.
“By then,” Margriet said, “we will have the mace, won’t we?”
Again they looked at each other, and again were silent.
“Even if I were to get in,” Claude began, and stopped. He did not like this scheming; there were so many cracks in it. Yet could he live the rest of his life like this? Would he have to cut off his right arm to stop this infernal itch? And would that be enough to stop it, this phantom torture that did not need mere flesh to make itself known?
“If we were to get in,” he said, “we’d need weapons, and there are none to be had anywhere.”
“There, I can help you,” Gertrude said.
“You?” Claude asked.
“Why not? We have a scythe, and we have hooks and hoes and all manner of things that can be beaten into shape. We will beat our ploughshares into swords, or something sharp to poke people with anyway.”
They stared at her.
“Good,” said Margriet roughly. “You can also help us make ourselves look like chimeras.”
“Not me,” Claude said, shaking his head. “I don’t wish to be anything but myself.”
“You are the best known there of any of us!” snorted Margriet. “You will be recognized, be you in man’s clothes or women’s. At least wear a helm or something to cover your face.”
“All right,” Claude said, and nodded. “So long as I can see well enough to fight, well enough to see where my enemies are and my friends.”
“You’re all mad,” said Jacquemine, as Agatha murmured.
Beatrix knew it was mad. Jacquemine was right. It was death, probably. And yet it was better than a life locked away, listening to her husband call her name every night.
“You propose to raid Hell,” said Claude slowly, “with one spinster, one wounded man-at-arms who can barely hold a knife, and one wet nurse who is half-dead of Plague.”
“No,” Mother said. “The spinster stays here.”
Beatrix looked up. So Mother didn’t want her, after all. She was to be disposed of, again, always.
“If you wish to kill yourself,” Claude said, in a soft infuriating voice, “there are easier ways.”
“Why would I want to kill myself?” Margriet retorted. “I’ll be dead in a week anyway. But I want to see Beatrix settled before I go.”
“As likely to see her a revenant, if you bring her to Hell,” said Claude.
“That’s why she isn’t going near.”
Beatrix frowned. “What do you mean? It’s a mad plan, it’s suicide, but I have nothing to live for anyway. If you want me, Mother, I’ll do it.”
Mother smiled at her. “That’s my girl. But it is too dangerous for you.”
Beatrix shook her head. They were worried about Baltazar. But she had met Baltazar three times—the night of the fireflies, the night of the owl, and the trial—and three times she had denied him, or nearly had. If Mother was going into Hell then she would need help.