A/N: Hello again :) Before we begin, thank you as always to those of you who reviewed and commented on the story last week. Big thank you as well to those of you simply read my silly little words and derive some enjoyment from them. All of my dear readers, both old and new, vocal and not, are very much appreciated!
Chapter Thirteen
"Tanca la porta amb set claus,
Ferma el ferro dels set panys.
El que ha de ser, serà,
I li tallaran les mans."*
'Voldrien', L'Ham de Foc
It all happened so fast. One moment Sancha was standing captivated before Marguerite de Beaumont, and the next, she was in the literal clutches of a red-clad cardinal.
Quasimodo heard himself cry out her name as he lunged towards them. He was stopped by the point of a sword, leveled at his throat by a stone-faced guard. Frozen in place, he glanced over the stranger's shoulder, where Tomas de Tavera spoke in calm Spanish to Sancha. The way he put his face close to hers made the bell ringer want to throw the cardinal half-way across the square.
"I knew I'd find you eventually," Tavera cooed, as if scolding a troublesome kitten. "You've caused me no small measure of grief, dragging me all the way up to France."
Sancha said nothing. All she could do was stare, speechless, at the man who had ransacked her home and killed her parents. She blinked rapidly, hoping in vain for his image to fade away and reveal this to be nothing more than a bad dream. But, Tavera kept talking, the rough skin of his knuckles grazed the back of her neck where he held her by her dress. He undeniably, horribly, real.
"Be warned, this little escapade of yours will be added to your charges. No matter, though. I promise to read them all out loud for you at your pyre."
Sancha felt herself trembling. She opened her mouth, but she wasn't sure if she was going to scream or vomit.
"Now, this is as embarrassing for me as it is for you." Tavera glanced around at the gawking crowd, who were being held at bay by his guards and their squire. "If you come quietly, we can both return to Spain with some of our dignity."
"But… how…?" Sancha whispered hoarsely to herself.
Tavera grinned, one corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other. "How did I find you? Simple: Your traitorous mother told me. Familial transgression is a terrible sin, wouldn't you say, señorita?"
A deep shudder ran through Sancha's body. "It's not true," she murmured. She would not believe him. She could not believe that her mother would sell her out, no matter what terrible things the inquisitor had done to her.
Tavera was saying something, but she barely heard him. Instead, someone shouted nearby in French, the familiarity of the voice shattering the spell over her.
"L'église, Sancha! Vas à l'église!"*
She turned and saw Quasimodo held in place by a sword, his body poised and his face ashen. Seeing him there, hearing the plea in his voice, broke her completely out of her paralysis. Without a second thought, she ducked her head and pulled with all her might.
It was no use. Tavera held fast to her dress and used his free hand to grab her arm. His voice was thunderous in her ear.
"Be still!"
"Let me go!"
"Juan, get her other arm!" Tavera called over his shoulder at the squire, when a flash of white and a resounding thud erupted between the girl and the cardinal. Tavera grunted and stumbled back, his grip slackening.
Sancha took the opportunity and ran. She didn't look down to see Djali standing in front of Tavera, his head bowed and his legs splayed. Instead, she turned on her heel and sprinted towards the cathedral. She swerved around one of Tavera's soldiers and Juan, who made a grab for her. The youth caught her satchel's strap, but Sancha kept going. The bag tore off her shoulder and its contents spilled onto the street.
Sancha kept running and only stopped when she slammed her body into the church doors. She gripped the massive handle, like a frightened child clutching her mother's hand, and turned back to the square.
"I declare sanctuary!" she shouted in Spanish, and then again in French. A hush fell over the crowd as Tavera, who was rubbing his chest, slowly walked over to Sancha's ruined bag. He ignored her declaration and knelt down by the scattered coins, her pocket knife, and…
Sancha's courage evaporated as Tavera picked up a single, triangular leaf between his fingers. He held it up for examination, his gaze darkening as it drifted to her. Gone was his cool and smug façade. Now, he looked angry, as if she had personally offended him.
"The devil take you," he spat. "I'll assume this to mean you've added infanticide to your list of crimes against the innocent."
The Parisians exchanged glances and conspiratorial murmurs. For a moment, Sancha wondered if anyone understood what Tavera was saying, and her blood ran cold.
She glanced at Quasimodo, who looked ready to run himself on the soldier's blade if Tavera took one more step towards her. Sancha silently willed him to stay put when the door opened behind her.
"What's all the shouting?" the archdeacon demanded as he stepped out of the cathedral. He glanced down at Sancha, raising his eyebrows at her terrified expression. "Are you all right, child?"
"I would ignore her claim to sanctuary if I were you, Father," Tavera announced in French before Sancha could answer. He rose and brushed off his habit before pointing a finger at her. "If you allow that girl into Notre Dame, know that you'll not only be concealing a criminal, but a Jewess as well. Give her to me, and you'll be rid of her corruption."
An agitated murmur swept through the crowd, the word 'Juive' repeated like a twisted mantra. The archdeacon glared at Tavera for a moment before a shrill voice cut through the chatter in the square.
"He's lying, Father!"
Sancha turned to see Marguerite at the edge of the crowd, her head held high and her hands balled into fists at her sides.
"That girl is my granddaughter," she continued. "The ring she wears on her left hand was a baptismal gift from my daughter, Jeanne, which she inherited from me. The child is Christian and has a right to sanctuary."
Tavera glared at the older woman, grinding his teeth. "Silence! This is no business of yours –"
"Enough," the archdeacon commanded, raising his hand for quiet. When everyone fell silent, he looked down at Sancha and asked, "Did you declare sanctuary?"
She nodded, and the world spun.
"Then come inside." The kind clergyman guided her through the open door, his hand on her shoulder. "All of God's children may seek shelter in Notre Dame, no matter their colour or creed."
Without a word, Sancha stepped into the shadowy interior of the church. The archdeacon followed in after her, closing the door and plunging her into momentary darkness.
XXX
Tavera glowered at the doors of Notre Dame, the only thing that stood between him and his captive. He was so close, and she had escaped yet again.
He barked out an order for his men to fall back. Gomez, Diego, and Juan did as they were told, and Gomez, who had been holding a deformed hunchback at sword-point, lowered his weapon. Tavera watched as the wretched creature rushed past them and into the cathedral, the door shutting behind him with a resounding bang. A female voice called out, "Quasimodo!", and Tavera turned to see a beautiful gypsy woman staring at the cathedral doors, her hand outstretched. She turned to a man in a travelling cloak next to her and looked up at him, her emerald eyes wide and incredulous.
The cardinal was broken out of his seething observations by a rough hand on his arm.
"Damn you, Tavera, I warned you." Philippe du Chastel regarded him with such contempt Tavera wondered if the minister would dare to strike him. "You were not to harass my people."
"Your people are just fine," Tavera snapped.
"You threatened them with swords!"
"A few of them are aiding and abetting the Jewess." Tavera's gaze wandered back to Notre Dame.
"I'll have no more of this. You disrupted a holiday and caused a public disturbance. His Holiness the Pope will hear about this, and your queen as well."
Tavera turned back to the minister, his eyes wide and unblinking. "Is that a threat, sir? While you're at it, you might as well send His Holiness and Her Majesty the proof you asked for."
The inquisitor shook off Philippe's hand and thrust the small green leaf towards him. The minister snatched it away with a scowl.
"What's this?"
"Raspberry leaves. They're used by witches to terminate unborn children."
Philippe furrowed his brow, his gaze skeptical. Tavera continued in a strained, hushed voice, "I have reason already to suspect her as an accessory to blood libel, and now I have found a substance of murder on her person in your city. If you're any kind of God-fearing man, you will grant me permission to arrest her, now. Or, shall I tell your King Louis about this? I presume His Majesty would love to know his minister is impeding the work of a Holy Office."
The sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting shadows over Philippe's trouble face. At length, he threw the leaves on the ground, letting them flutter down next to Sancha's ruined bag.
"Fine," he said curtly. "You have my permission to arrest the girl. All the better if it gets you out of Paris faster. However, I cannot rescind her right to forty days of sanctuary. As an esteemed man of the cloth, you should know that. And, until she steps out of that church, Tavera, you will not bother the citizens as you did today. If I find out you've done anything to them or their property, I will be meeting you again in my courtroom."
With that, Philippe turned his back on Tavera and marched away. The cardinal watched him go, imagining for a moment what it would be like to dash the minister's brains against the streets of his precious city.
"Papa…"
Tavera's body stiffened when he heard that familiar, ghostly voice in his ear. He slowly looked down to see Alfonso standing beside him, staring intently at the cathedral. Tavera followed his son's gaze, which came to rest on the massive doors. Heaving a sigh, the cardinal reached out to caress his son's blond head.
"Don't worry, boy," he murmured. "She can't stay in there forever."
He waved his hand, genuinely surprised to feel nothing but the air against his palm when he expected down-soft hair. Tavera looked down and blinked. Alfonso was gone, leaving behind an empty space for his father to flex his fingers.
XXX
When Quasimodo staggered into Notre Dame, Sancha was nowhere to be found. He ascended the bell tower stairs as quickly as he could, but the young woman was neither on the mezzanine nor in their makeshift bedroom. He was just about to panic when he heard a little noise from the second level.
Sancha was up there, sitting by her bell, knees drawn up to her chest. Her gaze was vacant and very far away. Though she wasn't sobbing, a pair of tears raced in red tracts down her cheeks. Seeing her in such a state, Quasimodo all but ran to her and dropped to his knees. He swept up her trembling body his arms and held her close, as if he was shielding her. She didn't respond to his touch. It was almost as if she couldn't see him, and that worried Quasimodo nearly as much as her momentary absence did.
They stayed silent for a long time. Quasimodo didn't know if anything he could say would comfort her, as he himself was shaken in no small way. Watching Sancha fight her way past a domineering authority figure reminded him too much of similar events that occurred last year. Each time a horrible memory resurfaced, he would touch her arm or press his lips to her temple. Anything to remind him that she was there with him and out of immediate danger.
After a while, Sancha said in a hollow voice, "He followed me from Spain."
Quasimodo rested his cheek on the top of her head. "He can't hurt you here."
"For now."
His grip tightened around her. "Don't say things like that."
"I have my safety for forty days." Sancha looked up at him, her expression equal parts frightened and hopeless. "What then? Tavera is mad. If I am the last judía* of Toledo, he will not rest until he has me."
Quasimodo averted his gaze. Her words were starting to scare him, because he knew she was right. Men like Tavera never gave up until they got their way. It didn't matter if they wrecked lives or left abject misery in their wake. They were driven by single-minded ambition, and empathy was a foreign concept to them. Tomas de Tavera, Quasimodo knew, was exactly like Frollo, and he had hoped never to confront another personality like that again in his lifetime.
But, Fate had not been so kind, and he couldn't show Sancha how frightened he was now. For her, he had to be strong.
"Forty days is a long time," he said evenly. "We'll figure something out."
She let her head fall back down onto his good shoulder and wiped at her eyes. Quasimodo gingerly touched the back of her head, running his fingers through her light brown tresses.
"I won't let anything happen to you," he whispered to her. "I promise."
Sancha heaved a sigh and curled up against him. Absentmindedly, she fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, her fingertips occasionally grazing his skin.
"I know," she murmured. "I trust you."
XXX
Three days passed without incident. Sancha stayed in the bell tower, trying to keep busy by cleaning the place, cooking, and sewing whatever she could find. Quasimodo had to run most errands on her behalf, which he was loath to do. Not because he didn't want to help, but because he didn't like leaving Sancha alone under the circumstances. While he knew she was safe and sound within Notre Dame's walls, he couldn't help worrying every time he parted ways with her. Occasionally, Esmeralda would visit while Quasimodo was out, and that gave him the freedom stay out longer without worry.
"It won't be so bad," Esmeralda told Sancha one day as they walked between the bell towers. "I was in the church for barely a night before Quasimodo helped me escape."
"I know," Sancha sighed. "But that situation was different. Notre Dame was not your home, and you had some place to go to. This…" The girl raised her hands towards the two towers. "This is all I have."
Esmeralda nodded, her expression pensive. After a moment, she ventured, "You could go to my old home, if your Tavera doesn't leave before the forty days are up."
"How?"
The gypsy gazed out at the city. The wind picked up and blew a strand of black hair into her emerald gaze, which she absentmindedly pushed away. "Tavera doesn't know this city… Which means he wouldn't know where the old Court of Miracles is."
Sancha furrowed her brow, waiting for Esmeralda to explain.
"If Tavera insists on staying, Quasimodo could easily sneak you out of here once the forty days are up. I can meet you somewhere and hide you in the old Court of Miracles. As long as we're not followed, he wouldn't know where to find you. He'd eventually have to give up and go home."
Sancha smiled at her, the first genuine smile she had managed in three days. The two women discussed the plan, and Esmeralda explained what exactly the Court was and what happened to it a year ago. Knowing that it was now something of an outed secret hiding place to the Parisians dampened some of Sancha's enthusiasm, but Esmeralda didn't seem bothered.
"I wouldn't worry about being sold out," she said. "Tavera isn't making any friends around town, and if he keeps at it, he'll soon be making enemies."
Despite her friend's reassurances, Sancha felt her stomach twist. "Why?"
"He's already known as the man who caused trouble at the Festival of Fools," Esmeralda said with a shrug. "And he interrogates every businessowner and nobleman he sees, as if they know a loophole that'll allow him to get you." She shook her head, as if the whole thing annoyed her. "Don't let that worry you, though. Quasimodo's right – I know he wouldn't let anything happen to you, and we will figure it out. Just, think about what I said, about the Court of Miracles, all right? I'd even say it's our best shot at keeping you out of his hands."
The sky overhead turned grey, casting a shadow over Notre Dame and the young women who walked its pathways. Sancha nodded and followed Esmeralda's gaze towards the dark horizon, her mind swimming. The thought of more running, more sneaking, and more hiding wasn't appealing. But, if it meant Tavera would eventually be forced to leave her alone for good, she would do it. As they continued to walk, she made a mental note to tell Quasimodo about the plan when he returned home.
The day wore on, and Esmeralda eventually took her leave. Sancha stayed by the mezzanine window in the bell tower with only the gargoyles to keep her company. She gazed out at the town, watching the sky darken into a drab twilight. The day was dying, but there was still no sign of Quasimodo.
She told herself not to worry. He knew Esmeralda was visiting and maybe took his time running their errands. Maybe he was held up in conversation somewhere, or maybe he had paid Phoebus and the other gypsies a visit. Still, when she heard the creak of a floorboard underfoot, she jumped up and rushed to the edge of the platform.
"Quasimodo?" she breathed, excitedly.
But, it was not Quasimodo. The tall, aged form of the archdeacon stood at the bottom of the staircase, accompanied by a figure hidden in the shadows. The old clergyman raised his eyes and smiled kindly up at Sancha.
"Forgive me for disappointing you," he said, "but you have a visitor."
Sancha furrowed her brow at first, but her jaw went slack when the archdeacon's companion stepped out of the shadows and into the dim light of the tower. Dressed in a plain blue dress and a silk mantle was Marguerite de Beaumont, her mother's mother.
My grandmother, Sancha thought, and all the breath fled from her lungs. She had been so caught up in what happened with Tavera she had forgotten the secondary shock she received at the Festival: The miserable old woman who had yelled at her in a house of God was, in fact, her family.
Quietly excusing himself, the archdeacon retreated down the stairs and left the two women to stare at each other. After a moment, Marguerite cleared her throat and pushed back her hood, revealing a shock of greying blonde hair.
"Won't you invite your grandmother up?" she asked in a measured voice.
Sancha blinked, as if waking out of a dream, and stammered, "Muy bien – I-I mean, yes. Come in. Uh, come up."
She stepped aside as Marguerite slowly ascended the stairs, some bones deep within her legs cricking as she climbed. Once she was on level with Sancha, she took a quick look around the tower, her nose wrinkling in disapproval. Then, she looked down at Sancha and surveyed her for so long the girl began to feel warm with self-consciousness.
"Well," Marguerite said at length. "You certainly inherited your looks from your father."
That wasn't the first time she had heard that in her life, but Sancha felt that wasn't meant as a compliment.
She squared her shoulder and raised her chin. "I loved my father, madame. Don't speak ill of him in front of me."
Marguerite blinked, taken aback by Sancha's commanding tone. She opened her mouth, but promptly closed it again. Instead of yelling, she opted to draw in a deep breath and concede, "It was merely an observation. Cool your heels, girl."
Sancha didn't know what her heels had anything to do with it, but she said nothing. Hugging her arms, she looked around the bell tower, searching for something to say when her gaze landed on the worktable nearby.
"W-Would you care to sit down?" she asked.
Marguerite inclined her head and swept past the girl to pull out the stool from underneath the table. She settled down on it, grimacing at the hard, roughhewn surface. Sancha chose to ignore the look and sat opposite the woman.
Silence hung over the two of them for a moment. As Sancha tried to gather her thoughts, Marguerite looked around the tower again, gazing up at the stained glass mobile and scanning the diorama of Paris on the table. Eventually, she picked up one of the carved sheep.
"This is… cute, I suppose," she said slowly.
Sancha nodded. "Quasimodo has skilled hands."
Marguerite snapped her head in her direction, her eyes wide and horrified. Sancha realized what she had said and pinched the bridge of her nose. She could already feel a headache coming on.
"Guay de mí, I mean to say that he made this." She made a sweeping gesture over the table. "He is a good craftsman."
"Oh." Marguerite put the sheep down and looked at her lap.
The rustling of pigeons in the rafters above filled the air. Outside, the sky grew darker, and the first star of the night appeared without fanfare. Sancha was looking at it when Marguerite spoke again.
"I don't doubt that you have questions for me, but I would like to ask you a few things first."
"Yes?"
Marguerite's light blue eyes – the same shade as her mother's, Sancha thought – bored into her. "What happened? Why did you come here? And where is Jeanne?"
It was Sancha's turn to look at her lap and frown. There was no way to answer Marguerite's questions without starting from the beginning, just as she had with Esmeralda and Quasimodo. Now, instead of feeling cathartic when she recounted the event, Sancha only felt sad. How was she supposed to tell this woman that her daughter was dead, and the man who had disrupted the Festival of Fools was her murderer? Somehow, Sancha got through everything, and when she was done, Marguerite was stone-faced.
"I told her," she muttered. "I told her no good would come of that Spaniard…"
The old woman's gaze was far away, watching some long ago memory play out before her. Sancha let the comment slide while she fought off the image of her mother's terrified face, one of the last clear images she had from her last day in Toledo.
A loud sniff broke Sancha out of her sad rumination. Marguerite was looking up at the rafters, lightly touching her lower eyelid. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears, but after a tense moment, she ensured none would spill over.
"Jeanne must have told you to come to Notre Dame because she knew you'd find me," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Perhaps if you weren't such an ingrate when we met, I could have saved you from… this."
She gestured up at the bells. Sancha tried not to let those words rattle her, reminding herself of the moment of humanity she had just witnessed from her grandmother.
"It is not so bad, this sanctuary. Notre Dame has been my home since I left Spain."
"I know," Marguerite said, crossing her arms. "I've seen you running around town with the hunchback."
Heat scorched Sancha's cheeks. "He has a name, madame."
The woman eyed her momentarily, her lips puckering in distaste. "It's true, isn't it?"
"What?"
"That you've been cohabiting with that… man. People have been talking."
"It is no business of yours."
"It most certainly is my business now that everyone in Paris knows you're my granddaughter." Marguerite heaved a sigh and shook her head. A few strands of blonde hair escaped from her braid and fell into her eyes. "I haven't a clue where you and your mother get your tastes from, but they leave something to be desired. My own girl all but spat in my face when she ran off with a Jew, and now I come to find you're – "
"Happy with a man I love?" Sancha snapped. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
Marguerite threw her hands up in the air. "With the bell ringer? What a chore that must be! Love… What nonsense! You're old enough to know love's the stuff of court ballads and fabliaux.* Of course, what women like you and Jeanne don't understand is that love isn't a foundation to build a life on. You both have your heads so far up in the clouds, I do not comprehend – "
"You are absolutely right," Sancha interrupted, jumping to her feet. The stool tipped over behind her and clattered to the floor. "You do not comprehend. And I wouldn't expect you to. You do not think I know what you did to my mother? How you tried to force her to marry an old and cruel man when she did not wish for it? You are a woman who cares nothing of a person's heart, only what they can do for you. Of course you wouldn't understand!"
Marguerite said through gritted teeth, "Jeanne threw away a prosperous arrangement for a student – a scoundrel. And he was a heathen to boot. And you, young lady, are living in sin with a creature who barely qualifies as a man. Explain what I am supposed to understand about that."
"Don't speak to me of Quasimodo like that," Sancha said fiercely, her hands balling into fists. "He is more noble and more beautiful than the fairest knight in this land. You may not know this, but I do. I have chosen him, and I wish for you to be respectful of my choices."
"Choices?" Marguerite sneered. "You are a descendant of the House of Beaumont. You have one choice: To marry well. Or rather, it would have been, if Jeanne had just listened to me and did what she was told."
"And what is 'well'?" Sancha demanded. "What do you think I want? To be married to a miserable old aksi bashi?"*
Marguerite sighed. "I do not know what an aksi bashi is, girl…" Sancha carried on as if she didn't hear her.
"Or to a spoiled landowner who would sooner treat me as a servant?" She shook her head, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "My mother married my father because he made her happy. And Quasimodo makes me happy. I ask you what is so wrong about that?"
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Marguerite stared up at her granddaughter with bulging eyes and tightly pressed lips. Sancha swallowed down hard and drew in a calming breath. At the back of her mind, her conscious continued to worry about Quasimodo's whereabouts, but at the same time, she was glad he wasn't around to see her lose her composure.
Eventually, her grandmother said, "You are no different than your mother. You would rather live in a drafty tower with a hunchback than claim your rightful status as a lady."
Sancha glared down at her. "I would not find happiness in such a life, madame." She raised a warning finger and added in a low and dangerous voice, "And if you wish to see me again, you will never say such cruel things against me, my parents, or my esposo* again."
Marguerite opened her mouth to reply, but the rumbling of a carriage from down in the square drowned her words. The two women turned to the window, brows furrowed. The noblewoman couldn't possibly imagine who was out on the town this late; it was past curfew, and she had asked her driver to wait for her around the back of the church. There were a few shouts from under the window in a language she didn't recognize, followed by the cry of a man in distress. Gasping, Sancha rushed to the window and looked down, only to fall back with a terrible shriek.
"Quasimodo!"
Marguerite heaved herself to her feet and hurried to her granddaughter's side. "What is it, girl? What are you…"
She trailed off when she followed Sancha's horrified gaze. Down in the square stood Tomas de Tavera with the squire boy and the dreadful prison carriage he had arrived with earlier. Behind him, two guards held a bound and kneeling Quasimodo at sword-point.
* Tanca la porta amb set claus, : Shut the door with seven keys
Ferma el ferro dels set panys. : Secure the latch with seven locks
El que ha de ser, serà, : What will be, will be
I li tallaran les mans.": And they will cut her hands
*"L'église, Sancha! Vas à l'église!": "The church, Sancha! Go to the church!"
*judía: Jewess
*fabliaux: Short, bawdy stories that were popular in France during the Early and High Middle Ages
*aksi bashi: A Ladino expression that describes a grumpy or curmudgeonly person (though, take this with a grain of salt, as my only source was the Internet, and the Internet lies)
*esposo: Husband (although Sancha and Quasimodo aren't married, it sounds better than "the guy I'm currently shacking up with". It's also a bit of a Freudian slip on Sancha's part)
Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you're all enjoying the story! A quick note, though: The next update might come a little late because there's a big edit I need to get through, and next weekend is promising to be rather busy for me. Never fear, though - I'm as passionate as ever about this story and want to share it in its entirety with you, dear reader. Until next time...
