dragged naked to the gibbet, and hung in Montfaucon, where vultures and magpies will feast on his limbs and eyes—if Marguerite’s champion, her husband, should fail, then she too shall forfeit her life for swearing a false oath against my Court—God’s will be done, she will burn at the stake and hang in public alongside Jean, the rot of their flesh on the wind blowing throughout the city—a spectacle, true enough, but I do not cherish its kind—she is dressed in black upon a black-draped scaffold as if already in mourning and so too am I—on the morrow I bury the prince and the land is hard and cold though the earthworm never sleeps—it crawls through the earth as surely as my mind, with the stealth and force of ten British armies, and I would destroy him with a mace if it would not also mean self-slaughter—a tear ticklesmy eye and I know it is but the earthworm itself creeping from its lair, its head probing forth, and I stand and shout, Anon, Anon, Anon —my voice echoes off the high wooden walls, the throng of viewers, the silent guards, and the priests who have cleared the field of their makeshift altars and host—what do we need with God’s verdict today?—am I not His earthly delegate made manifest in law? If so, then why could I not conjure the truth, why my blasted hesitancy, my dead child? Damn the earthworm! Lest he be God’s chosen emissary and the blood of a knight may bring about the resurrection and rapture!
In the center of the field, the grand marshal holds aloft a white silk glove until all grow quiet and I am leaning forward out of my box when he shouts, Laissez le aller! and tosses the glove high in the air and I want to leap for it, catch it, and wipe my face clean, but instead I merely clap and clap like a child at play.
Jacques Le Gris, 50,
Newly Anointed Knight (Gray Coat of Arms)
W e have broken our lances and with my axe I’ve beheaded his horse and Jean fell to the ground and disemboweled mine and so we were on foot until I lashed open his leg, the blood luscious over his thigh—the sun is noon-high and I sweat and stand over the man, whose breath comes like passing clouds—I recall the day I came to her and she raised a hue and cried, Haro! Aidez-moi! Haro! till her voice turned raw and blue and I had my desire of her, her hands tied behind her back and she kicked like a good mule and when I took my leave I donned my wool cap, still warm from having been stuffed in her moist mouth—I raise my long sword over my head and watch its tip touch the pale sun and I see a hawk on the wind and archers in the stands and, as I bring the steel down, the marshals by the gates in the wooden walls and poor Jean lying in the dirt like a thing tossed aside—poor foolish Jean bade me be his first son’s godfather not knowing I too was his own true father and his first wife took me as her own deep secret until the day she died—which is worse, Jean having no heir to inherit his land or me having a failed father with nothing to hand down? At an early age I swore that by God’s cloak I’d make my mark and so I’ve taken upon my grievance to amass a fortune, to take all the things of this world I’ve wanted, and now I will have Jean’s estate and child as well.
I miss and the steel buries in the sand and somehow I land facedown and his breath is in my ear, the sound as wet and rogue as the heave of sex, and he has me pinned like a woman and I am helpless and he turns me over and pushes his four-inchdagger slowly into my underchin and I feel the blood choke there and throb out of me like petite mort and the sun is there and the ramparts are there and the knights and the priests are there and the executioner and Marguerite and Count Pierre and my lawyer and ten thousand witnesses have all gleaned my guilt but God knows from the voice of our confessions that I am innocent of any crime that Jean would not have committed himself.
Jean de Carrouges, 51,
Knight (Red Coat of Arms)
I n
In the center of the field, the grand marshal holds aloft a white silk glove until all grow quiet and I am leaning forward out of my box when he shouts, Laissez le aller! and tosses the glove high in the air and I want to leap for it, catch it, and wipe my face clean, but instead I merely clap and clap like a child at play.
Jacques Le Gris, 50,
Newly Anointed Knight (Gray Coat of Arms)
W e have broken our lances and with my axe I’ve beheaded his horse and Jean fell to the ground and disemboweled mine and so we were on foot until I lashed open his leg, the blood luscious over his thigh—the sun is noon-high and I sweat and stand over the man, whose breath comes like passing clouds—I recall the day I came to her and she raised a hue and cried, Haro! Aidez-moi! Haro! till her voice turned raw and blue and I had my desire of her, her hands tied behind her back and she kicked like a good mule and when I took my leave I donned my wool cap, still warm from having been stuffed in her moist mouth—I raise my long sword over my head and watch its tip touch the pale sun and I see a hawk on the wind and archers in the stands and, as I bring the steel down, the marshals by the gates in the wooden walls and poor Jean lying in the dirt like a thing tossed aside—poor foolish Jean bade me be his first son’s godfather not knowing I too was his own true father and his first wife took me as her own deep secret until the day she died—which is worse, Jean having no heir to inherit his land or me having a failed father with nothing to hand down? At an early age I swore that by God’s cloak I’d make my mark and so I’ve taken upon my grievance to amass a fortune, to take all the things of this world I’ve wanted, and now I will have Jean’s estate and child as well.
I miss and the steel buries in the sand and somehow I land facedown and his breath is in my ear, the sound as wet and rogue as the heave of sex, and he has me pinned like a woman and I am helpless and he turns me over and pushes his four-inchdagger slowly into my underchin and I feel the blood choke there and throb out of me like petite mort and the sun is there and the ramparts are there and the knights and the priests are there and the executioner and Marguerite and Count Pierre and my lawyer and ten thousand witnesses have all gleaned my guilt but God knows from the voice of our confessions that I am innocent of any crime that Jean would not have committed himself.
Jean de Carrouges, 51,
Knight (Red Coat of Arms)
I n
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