Free Between Two Fires (9781101611616) by Christopher Buehlman Page B

cross over him with one hand and lay her other hand upon his burning chest. The priest was certain she was a saint. He had no other way to explain his discovery in the orchard.
    The cart’s owner had broken his neck trying to stand on the wheel of the cart and beat the last almonds from a high branch. The body was still warm when the priest found him. A chill had gone through Matthieu Hanicotte, and for a moment he had wondered if the girl was diabolic in nature. He thought not. Then he had a moment to wonder whether God had slain this man to provide them a cart, or if He had merely directed Matthieu to the scene of this sad event, already foreordained. What was the difference? Everything served God’s will, and here, at last, after months of senseless deaths and unending tears, was a tragedy that bore some fruit. The priest had blessed the man, then cried and thanked God for at last revealing His face to him. For all those thanks, however, the mule was stubborn, and it had taken the priest nearly half an hour to get it moving.
    But now the mule was happy to pull.
    As they got closer, they passed others bearing the sick and dying to Rochelle-la-Blanche.
    It was midday when they saw the town.
    And the mob that was heading there.
    Nearly thirty peasants, mostly men, were marching on the town, several of them pulling a small, empty cart by hand. They were all armed. When they noticed the priest’s cart coming up behind them, they turned.
    “A mule!” one shouted.
    “Get the mule!” said a woman with a two-pronged wooden pitchfork.
    “It’s a priest,” another said.
    “Fuck him, we have a priest, too. And we need that mule,” said a man in gaudy yellow stockings.
    Père Matthieu felt a shock of ice in his heart, and he nearly froze with fear. The knight could have made the mob think twice, but he was dying. Then an idea came to Matthieu and he leapt to his feet, standing tall in the cart, and, though his knees shook, he kept his voice firm.
    “He who wants the plague, come and take this mule. For plague is upon this man you see here. He who wants his soul in Hell, come and take this mule unlawfully from one of God’s priests, and stop us on our pilgrimage.”
    This halted their frightening surge toward the cart.
    Now the woman with the wooden fork said “Come with us, Father. Help us take the Virgin back.”
    “What?” said the priest. He now noticed a stocky, cow-eyed priest among the farmers; he was holding a pewter candlestick like a club, and he seemed abashed to have encountered another of his sort. He shook this off and spoke.
    “Yes, brother. We’re taking our Virgin back. She was stolen from our village, Chanson-des-Anges, by those bastards of Rochellela-Blanche during the Great Hunger of ’17. Since then God has smiled upon them and pissed upon us for not defending her. Help us in our rightful suit.”
    “Shame on you, brother,” Père Matthieu said.
    The girl stood now, wide-eyed, and said, “You’ve got devils with you. Right now, with you.”
    “In your hearts!” Père Matthieu said quickly, suddenly scared this mob might decide she was a witch. “For the devil is in any heart that moves a man to hurt his neighbor. Yet will he leave you in peace if you will put your weapons down and turn from your sin. This is your last chance.”
    “You’re not from here,” the club-wielding priest said viciously and suddenly, as if the words weren’t his, and began toward the cart. The girl’s gaze stopped him.
    “I see it,” she said quietly. “I know what’s at your elbow.”
    It was the cutting of a marionette. The stocky priest began to cry then, blubbering incoherently. The woman with the fork came now and grabbed him by the shoulder.
    “To Hell with them,” she said. “Let’s get Our Lady back. Chanson-des-Anges!” she said. The crowd echoed her cry, and they lurched toward the village, pulling the weeping priest with them.
    Even though it took place at Rochelle-la-Blanche, the battle