Chapter Four
"Hurry near, another day is dying
Don't you hear? The winter wind is crying"
'Come to Me', Les Miserables
Over seven hundred miles away from Notre Dame, Jeanne de Beaumont sat in a cramped and foul-smelling cell in near-complete darkness. Somewhere in the depths of the dungeon, someone was weeping. Jeanne wished she could commiserate, but she was too frightened to cry. Every modicum of energy left in her exhausted body went into ruminating on the fate of her family.
Avram had been separated from her immediately upon their arrival to the jail. After being taken to some other infernal pit, Jeanne had made herself ill imaging the possible tortures her husband was being put through. There was no doubt in her mind that Tomas de Tavera would torment the conversos and Jews before moving onto the likes of her, a fraternizing Christian.
She berated herself for not seeing what would happen sooner. Everyone in Toledo knew of the disappearance of Alfonso de la Vega. This was partly because news always travelled fast in the city, but also because of what little Alfonso was rumoured to be: The natural son of the cardinal himself.
Of course, no one knew what happened to the child, but Jeanne had heard gossip that she initially dismissed as fearmongering: That no matter what unfortunate fate Alfonso had met, Tavera would find a way to take out his grief on the Jews. The biggest rumour amongst the Christian community was that Alfonso had been kidnapped and murdered in a blood libel, a heinous and completely imaginary crime often pinned on Avram's people. Surely, the community whispered, the infidels of Toledo were going to pay for it.
And in seeking vengeance for his lost child, Tavera had separated Jeanne from hers. In the darkness, the distraught mother clasped her hands and prayed that Sancha had made it to Paris unharmed. She hadn't seen her daughter amongst the chained prisoners upon their arrival at the jail, which she chose to believe was a sign that Sancha had escaped the city.
Still, Jeanne thought, her daughter was young, unmarried, and travelling alone. The idea of something happening to her along the way was enough to make Jeanne lightheaded.
Her chains rattled against the stone floor as she stood to peer out the single window of her cell. The bars sliced the full moon in half.
"Please, let her be safe," Jeanne whispered. A single tear escaped her eye and ran a clean track down her dirty cheek. "Do what You will to me, but please, spare my child. Let her find the one who can help her at Notre Dame."
It had been nearly twenty years since Jeanne saw the saviour she spoke of, but if memory served her well, she knew her mother would never pass up a chance to visit the cathedral.
XXX
Marguerite de Savoy had become Lady de Beaumont upon her marriage to one of King Louis's courtiers when she was sixteen. Forty-five years, six children, and one prolonged illness later, she was completely alone. With her husband carried off by the pox, her sons married, and her only daughter run off with that deicidal Castilian, Marguerite wiled her days away by writing letters and attending offices at Notre Dame Cathedral. The latter was the most effective remedy against the daily onslaught of loneliness she experienced.
It was one such occasion when Marguerite decided to attend the office of Matins. She had awoken in the middle of the night and been unable to fall back asleep. And so, she sought comfort amongst the sleepy monastics and the solemn intoning of the archdeacon.
As the office ended, and the clergymen filed out of the church, Marguerite stayed in her pew for further prayer and contemplation. Her mind had already begun to bother her with thoughts of her children, half of whom she would not see for the upcoming feasts of the Nativity and the Epiphany. She prayed for peace, but her treacherous thoughts soon turned to Jeanne, her youngest progeny and the single most unsettling thing out of Marguerite's life.
After her daughter spurned a good betrothal and eloped with a heathen, Lady de Beaumont tried to wash her hands of Jeanne. The little witch had brought scandal upon their house and secured herself a place next to Helen of Troy in the afterlife. Marguerite desperately wished she could hate Jeanne – or better yet, forget her – but after almost two decades since that incident, the mother never stopped worrying about her daughter's soul.
With a sigh, Marguerite rose from the pews and approached the devotional altar of the Virgin that dominated one of the transepts. Gazing up at Mary's benevolent alabaster face, the lady pressed her palms together and silently prayed for mercy.
That was, until, the shadows at her feet moved.
"Merciful heavens!" Marguerite cried.
She leapt back as the creature at the foot of the altar roused from its sleep, limbs thrashing about. For a moment, Marguerite thought a fox had gotten into the church somehow, but when the figure rose up into the light, she saw she was completely wrong; it was a girl.
Standing a head shorter than Marguerite, the latter guessed the young woman was barely a day over eighteen. Her long, light brown hair was tousled, and her wide, frightened eyes were glassy and underscored with shadowy rings. They stared at each other for a moment, until Marguerite broke the silence.
"What on earth are you doing?"
Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling in the most uncouth manner. The girl blinked, the fear slowly melting off her pale face.
"I… I sleep here."
Marguerite blinked. She wasn't sure what threw her off more: The girl's words or her accent. "I beg your pardon?"
"It is where I sleep," the girl repeated, gesturing to the straw palette behind the altar. Marguerite peered over at it, her mouth moving soundlessly.
"Would you not be more comfortable in your own home, girl?" she demanded, folding her arms across her chest.
The girl glared at her. "I am a pilgrim. I sleep here."
Marguerite immediately decided she hated the girl's accent. "There are inns aplenty in this city. Go there and do not presume to lay about in here with your head uncovered and your feet bare. How dare you presume to treat a church like a public house?"
Marguerite could feel herself growing angrier as she looked at the girl. It couldn't be helped. She had prayed throughout her life for God to cool her temper, but it was all for naught. Truly though, she thought, this woman deserved every bit of what Marguerite gave her.
The stranger's gaze hardened. "The archdeacon says I may stay here."
Marguerite sniffed and straightened her back. "I sincerely doubt that was what he meant when he offered you shelter."
"You know nothing of it," the girl snapped. "There is not usually one person in the church before the sun is rising. I have been sleeping here for a week, but now is the first time I have been woken so early by a screeching bird."
Marguerite could feel her cheeks growing hot. Had this wench been her daughter, she would have struck her already. "You wretched girl, do you have any idea who you're speaking to?"
She never got an answer. Instead, the girl turned away, gathered up her palette and blanket, and marched past the altar. As she brushed by Marguerite, she said, "Continue your prayer. I did not intend to frighten you."
With that, the girl walked off, which only made Marguerite's blood boil. Servants, children, and even men of lower class knew to show respect to her. She was, after all, a noblewoman, and she would be damned if she was going to let a bare-footed floosy talk to her like that.
"A pox on you," she declared shrilly. "You ought to be ashamed… And so should the sow that raised such a brat!"
"¡Qué de ten por culo!" the girl shouted without turning around.
Marguerite watched as she disappeared up the bell tower staircase, silently enraged that she couldn't counter an insult she didn't understand.
XXX
Matins had been rung, and Quasimodo had about three more hours until Prime. He rarely went back to sleep after the first office of the day, and that morning was no different. What was different was the sleepy little voice that drifted up from the floor below.
"Quasimodo…?"
He looked up from his worktable to see Sancha's small head peeking up over the edge of the mezzanine. Her eyes were bleary, and her hair was half hidden by the blanket over her shoulders. She stayed on the steps, as if waiting for him to grant her permission to come up. He was surprised to see her there, but not unhappy.
"You're up early," he said as he left the table. He offered her a hand, and she took it with a tired but grateful smile.
"I was hoping you would be awake," she said. "If it was my screaming that woke you, I am sorry for that."
"Screaming?" Quasimodo looked her once over, unable to help himself. "You're not hurt, are you?"
The girl shook her head and pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "No, not hurt. But I'm annoyed. Do you want to know what happened just now?"
They sat down at the worktable, and Sancha explained why she was up at this hour: An angry old parishioner had almost stepped on her in her sleep. The anecdote ended with Sancha evasively telling him she had said something "very bad" to the woman.
"If my mother heard me, that would have ended with a slap and a few Ave Marias."
"I don't think you'd deserve that," Quasimodo offered, instantly disliking the thought of Sancha being hit.
"Thank you. I do not feel terribly bad for my words. It felt worse to wake up to someone yelling at me. Ay…" She shrugged and covered a yawn. "It is often that my family and neighbors endure this. The shouting, and the pushing, and the curses… Only, my father is not here to protect me now."
Quasimodo frowned. "Why would they do that?"
Silence fell between them. Sancha leaned over, her elbows on her knees, as she hugged herself and stared into the distance. She blinked a few times before answering slowly, "In Toledo, there are people who wish others harm. For hundreds of years, all over Spain, different people have been fighting each other. It is only now the situación has become dangerous… And my mother and father were found to be on the wrong side."
Questions immediately flooded the bell ringer's mind. He hesitated, feeling as if he was trying to approach a frightened animal without scaring it away. "Is that why you were separated from your parents? Before coming here?"
Sancha nodded, still not looking at him. "And now I think I have lost my place to sleep. It wouldn't be wise to stay in the church anymore. If I had money, I may find an inn, but…"
She threw her hands up as she trailed off. Quasimodo noticed she only had two rings on her fingers, as opposed to the three she had when she came to apologize. Had she taken to pawning her jewelry to afford her bread?
He watched as her eyes fluttered under the weight of sleep, her gaze growing unfocused in the quiet. As she turned her head to cover another yawn, he spoke up before he could talk himself out of his idea.
"Y-You could stay here, if you wanted – There's an empty room behind that curtain" – he pointed over her shoulder – "a-and no one ever comes up here. You'd just have to deal with the bells, and…"
And me. As soon as he started talking, Quasimodo regretted ever giving the idea a voice. Sancha wouldn't want to stay in the bell tower. Sure, she was kind, but that didn't mean she was willing to be in close quarters with him. He looked away as he remembered how terrified she was upon first seeing him. Of course this was a bad idea. How could he have been so stupid as to think she would want to keep his company that often, or want to –
"You would let me?" Sancha asked sleepily, interrupting his racing thoughts. She peered up at him through her eyelashes. "After I was so mean?"
Despite himself, he laughed. "Mean? Sancha, you shared your lunch with me just the other day."
The girl rubbed her eyes again and blinked a few times. "I was still cruel before. The first time I came here…"
Quasimodo patted her hand. "You're tired. You're saying silly things."
Another yawn. "I came to keep your company, and now I'm falling asleep on you."
"Then we'll talk in the morning."
"Pero, it is morning…"
Even as she protested, though, a look of relieved gratitude settled over her face. Taking the hint, Quasimodo stood and helped her to her feet.
"Come. I'll show you where you can stay."
With a little nod, Sancha retrieved the palette she had left downstairs and followed him. Quasimodo led her past the table and pinned back the curtain for her. She knelt in the little 'room' and unrolled the palette on the floorboards.
"If you need anything, I won't be far," he told her. "I have to ring each mass, though, so it might get a little loud sometimes."
Sancha shrugged one shoulder. "Bells make beautiful sounds; old women in churches do not. No hay problema.*"
Quasimodo chuckled and stepped away from the newly made bed. "The next office won't be for a while, anyway. You should be able to get a few hours in."
He made a move to leave, when Sancha's soft voice stayed his step.
"Esperas…*"
She was suddenly standing behind him, a little closer than he was expecting. As soon as he turned, she took his hands and gave them a firm squeeze. A sleepy smile played over her lips, and despite her haggard appearance, she appeared quite lovely in the soft candlelight.
"Thank you, my friend. I do not know what I did to receive such kindness, but I am grateful."
The young man stood there for a moment in stunned silence. The expression on Sancha's face made his stomach flip over. As soon as he recognized the feeling for what it was, he shoved it away and let his hands slip from hers.
"Of course," he said softly. "You're welcome. A-Always…"
With that, Sancha retreated to bed, and Quasimodo unpinned the curtain for her. Once they were separated, he stayed where he was and flexed his fingers. Sancha's hands had been warm and appeared to almost burn his skin. Despite this, he couldn't deny the pleasantly warm sense of belonging when he remembered the last words she spoke to him.
It had been a long week without any sign of Esmeralda and Phoebus. But now, he decided, the bell tower didn't feel so cold and empty anymore.
* No hay problema : No problem
* Esperas : Wait
If you're curious to know what Sancha said to Marguerite before running up to the bell tower, I invite you to search the WordReference forums for a translation - Some things are just too crass for an author's note ;P Anyway, thank you for reading once again, dear reader, and stay tuned for more next week!
