Iacobus by Matilde Asensi

here.”
    Jonas and I dismounted, tied the horses to a tree and walked towards the woman.
    “Are you sure you paid him ten gold escudos?”
    “Yes, ma’am, but as I see that you don’t trust me, here is another escudo for you. We got lost in the forest, and if it wasn’t for your husband’s directions, we would never have been able to leave these parts.”
    “Sit down and drink,” she said, pointing to some wooden benches. “The wine is good.”
    The truth is that the wine was awful and had a bitter taste of old vinegar but what else could we use as an excuse to start a conversation?
    “And what are you doing around here? It’s been a long time since somebody from the city came to Pont-Sainte-Maxence.”
    “My young friend and I are coustilliers of King Philip the Long, may God take care of him for many years.”
    The woman didn’t believe me.
    “How can you be a coustillier of the King if you aren’t French? Your accent is … strange, from nowhere.”
    “You are right, ma’am! I see that you are an intelligent woman. My mother is French, daughter of Count Brongeniart, who I’m sure you’ve heard of because he was the advisor of Philip III the Bold. My father, however, was from Navarre, subject of Queen Blanche of Artois, whom he accompanied in her flight when she escaped the Aragonese and Castilian pursuit of Navarre, fleeing to Paris with her young daughter Jeanne. Everyone knows that old story. When my mother died, my father returned to his homeland, taking me with him. I only recently returned but the King was good enough to appoint me coustillier of his gabinet for being a Brongeniart.”
    The old woman was dazzled by so many names of high lineage, and I ended my speech by taking a sip of that vinegar with the innocent and distracted air of somebody who has told something so true and so evident that there is nothing left to say.
    “And tell me, sire, what has brought you to this forest?”
    “You see, ma’am, Pope John has requested a full report from the King regarding the death of his father, King Philip IV the Fair. Because I don’t know if you are aware, when he was found in these parts after falling from his horse, he only said two words: ‘The cross, the cross …’. The Pope wants to canonize him, as Boniface VIII canonized Louis IX, great-grandfather of our current King, in 1297. Now, ma’am, let me tell you a secret …,” and I lowered my voice as if instead of being in the middle of a dark forest, we were in a cattle market or a public square. “The King doesn’t want his father to be put on a pedestal. It would be too much having to bear the weight throughout history of his grandfather and his father being saints! He would always look bad in comparison.”
    “True, true!” the hag agreed enthusiastically.
    “So instead of sending the royal guard or the bishops or the advisers, the King has sent us, two coustilliers, to investigate the facts surrounding the death of his father, strongly warning us to find something that would discredit the wishes of Pope John. Which is why we need to find someone who knows exactly what happened that day, who has all the details and who, for a little money, is willing to talk. Do you know of anyone like that?”
    “Me, sire!”
    “You, ma’am. How can that be?” I asked in surprise.
    “My husband and I know everything. Do you not see that nothing happens in this forest without us ten or fifteen servants who live here finding out?”
    “Ah, well, that is interesting! Look, Jonas, this woman is the person we were looking for. What is your name, ma’am?”
    “Marie, sire, Marie Michelet, and my husband is Pascale Michelet.”
    “Well, here are five gold escudos, adding them to the one I gave you earlier and the ten I gave to your husband, it’s a small fortune!”
    “And what about me!” she yelled angrily. “What you gave my husband was for the wine and the directions, and what you gave me when you arrived was because you wanted to.