The bats came first, like swallows blackening the woad sky. She held her distaff high, her face wet with tears. Around her, they circled, chittering and swooping, confused as baited cockerels.
She stayed there, kneeling, holding her distaff, as the night grew darker. It would take longer for the revenants to walk here from Hell. She said all of her prayers. She told herself all of the stories of Reynard the Fox. She marked the passage of time with stories, each tale like a line marked on church candles.
The most frightening creature in the stories had always been Ysengrim the Wolf, despite his dull wits—or perhaps, because of them. Because he could be vicious without even knowing himself to be in the wrong. He could have done anything, and thought himself right, while Reynard knew himself to be a villain.
A figure stepped in front of her and she feared for a moment it was Baltazar, but it was Chaerephon, the advocate. He too was a night thing.
“What have you done?” he asked gruffly, in French.
She opened her mouth to respond and then remembered she did not need to tell him; she owed him nothing.
He reached for her distaff and she pulled it back, away from him.
She stumbled into Baltazar, who did grab the staff.
“Beatrix,” he said. “My wife.”
And Beatrix opened her mouth and laughed, a horrible laugh, hollow and rotten, spilling out punk and woodlice, decaying before it died.
“What do you want from us?” Baltazar asked.
“Yes, husband. Now it is my desire that matters, not yours. Now I want something. I am very surprised to learn that I want things, for myself, things that have nothing to do with you. I want many things, in fact. Do you know what I want? I want to eat some roast pork, first of all. And then I want to walk the Camino de Santiago on sore feet with a song on my lips. I would like to travel on a ship, also. And I would like to learn how to play dice.”
Father stepped between them, looking angry. She was shaking, but not with fear. With the cold air, with the hum of the distaff in her hand, with so much energy she wanted to run, run as the revenants had run.
“She wants the chest. Where is your mother?”
It took all of Beatrix’s will not to answer.
Instead, she thought of Ysengrim. She called him.
“The Chatelaine must be warned,” said Chaerephon, and put his hand out. A bat alighted on it, folding its wings, as if waiting for instructions.
“No,” said Beatrix, wresting the distaff away from Baltazar. It came toward her easily out of his grasp, but he pushed, so it knocked her in the face and she fell. Her cheek stung and she saw nothing but mud and bright blackness.
She could not best him with strength. But the distaff was a weapon in more ways than one.
Let me see, she prayed. Saint Catherine, show me a vision of time to come. Show everyone here the horrible sights that will pass.
For one long moment nothing happened. Perhaps it had not been the distaff after all, but the Grief, creeping into her mind with every sight of her husband. Oh God, how she wanted him, even now, to enfold her in his arms and take her away.
The air overhead filled with the screams of metal dragons and the thunder of fire. The earth beside her exploded and all the revenants were scattered. She lay in the mud, holding the distaff over her head, thinking only of the sights she must show.
“I will show you, my husband,” she screamed. “I will show you such awful sights that you will never wish to be near me again.”
She did not dare to look up but no one pulled at the distaff or bothered her. They were still near. The sounds of thunder and a rain of fire—what sights were they seeing? Not even Beatrix’s horrible visions could break a revenant’s heart, she suspected, but it might confuse them, distract them for a while.
Then she heard a sound, a howl on the air, and the vision shattered like glass.
The wolves came.
They ran almost silently and from all directions like shadows and fell snarling upon the revenants.
She looked up, holding the distaff out and began to stumble through the fray, outside it. But just as she was getting clear of the wolves, a revenant put his hand out and touched her shoulder.
Baltazar, looking at her as if he owned her. She expected him to say something, to protest that he would always want to be near her.
But he said nothing. His face was like stone. There was no need now for him to pretend for his mistress, to trick Beatrix into believing he still had love within him. He was a corpse.
Any moment now, a wolf would set upon them. She could stop that; she could control them. The distaff hummed in her hand.
Then something came flying around her like a grey rag on the wind, and plucked the distaff out of her hand, and took Baltazar up.
Chaerephon. Chaerephon, flying like a bat, his grey cloak fluttering, Baltazar by the hand as if he weighed nothing at all.
She jumped to grab for the distaff, to call Baltazar back, but they were gone. And now she was without her distaff, and could not call anyone, enemy or friend.
She rose to her feet and ran, praying that the wolves and the revenants would keep each other occupied, that neither would follow her.
Hell had its mouth shut tight like a child refusing to eat. Its great pale eyes looked out toward them as they approached. Margriet felt sure that this beast knew them for what they were. It saw through their disguises. But somehow she could not imagine that a beast who wore a bridle like that would share any secrets with the woman who held the reins. That bridle looked like it hurt.
“Hello beastie,” she whispered.
“What?” Claude asked.
Claude was wearing fur all over her face and hands, and a leather cap with the two drinking horns coming out of it. In the forge-mill, she had looked ridiculous. In the waning light, she looked like a demon.
“Ready?” Margriet asked.
“I have to piss,” Gertrude said.
Truth be told, Margriet did, too, and had merely added it to the list of complaints she would take with her into Hell, along with her palsied hands, her peeling skin, and her chin whiskers. The best Margriet could hope for, and truly it was unlikely, was that this death would come of Plague a few days hence, and not today, not here, at least not before she could get her daughter her due.
The dismantling of disguises took some time, with Claude watching the road and making impatient noises.
“You don’t have to go?” Margriet asked her.
“Soldiers piss in their pants,” said Claude. “Too much bother to take them off when you’ve got arrows raining down on you.”
She grinned, or at least it looked that way, although it was hard to tell with the fur. It was a joke, Margriet thought, but it was hard to tell with Claude. Everything was a joke with her, and nothing. Everything was on the surface and nothing was.
They arranged themselves again to watch the quiet road and the beast called Hell.
“I don’t like it,” said Gertrude. “I don’t like the look of it, just sitting there, staring. I’m sure it knows we’re here.”
With her weak eyes, Margriet could make out very little of the details of the Hellbeast’s face, but she could see the great eyes gleaming. Then they closed, and the great head heaved once or twice, as if it would vomit. Was the bridle a lock? Or was it only there to open the mouth when the beast wanted to keep it closed?
She soon had her answer. The beast opened its mouth and vomited blackness. The revenants screamed as they ran past.
To see the revenants running was a strange sight. Oh God, what had Beatrix brought upon herself?
Gertrude slammed her pot-helmet over her head. Margriet checked her helmet. She wore no disguise on her face but in her chausses and tunic, her helmet and breastplate and gauntlets, she doubted anyone would recognize her.