Nothing is as burdensome as a secret.-- French Proverb

1437-Notre Dame:

The Festival of Fools rang out with cheers, even though the thick wooden doors of the cathedral. Today was a wonderful day. Although it was late, three days to be exact, wonderful news was to be celebrated, the death of a Queen. A Queen, a consort of a cruel man, of a genocidal murderer, a man who called upon God to chase natives from their homes, to slaughter innocents in their houses, to hunt down those even thought of suspicious actions, had died. Catherine of Valois was dead; the traitor lay in an abbey in England, a cruel and oppressive country.

"Have you chosen a name?" the priest asked. It was unusual for him to tend to small ceremonies, but he was the only person inside even the great monument to The Virgin this day.

"Yes," replied Margaret. Her son would be reminded of this day so long as she and her daughter lived. She had seen eight infants pass away, all in her arms, but she knew this one was special. God had chosen to finally give her a son on the very day he ended the life of a deserter, a warmonger, a whore with no loyalties. Margaret's loyalty was to the true king of France, and no strange woman with a stranger background would make it so easy as to hand their beautiful country over to England. No, her son would be reminded of what was stolen away from their country, he would grow up to fight for justice, for to know justice was to know God, and someday, he would fight in glory for justice and the king and he would know nothing but righteousness. "I've decided to name him Claude."

……………………………….

1485-Streets of Paris:

The Guerre de Cent Ans had ended long ago. Claude Frollo remembered the day well, indeed that they had won both the war and the right to the land pillaged and stolen from right under the king.

It had ended, but it had not left. No, he had never expected it to leave. It was determined to haunt him, possibly more than any other undeserving Frenchman in all of Paris, maybe even the whole country.

This night was a distracting one, and that was a bad omen. Strange noises came from alleyways, drawing his soldiers in different directions; two groups had reported being led to nearly run right into each other after following strange sounds of a tortured animal, only to find nothing.

Now he was alone, alone with a corpse. Not too far off, his men were gathering another such corpse, a man with his throat slit, off the street. Frollo had seen someone run down the road in this direction and pursued, regretting leaving his horse back in the stables, and all he'd found was a corpse.

He didn't recognize the dead man, but he'd been having flashes of mild confusion, in one instant all his thoughts were wiped away in an instant and he wondered where he was and what he was doing, only to gather it all back up before anyone noticed. He'd been racked by mild chills the whole day as well, and had lost his footing twice today on nothing. One soldier had had the bad judgment to make a comment about the Minister of Justice getting too old for his job, and Frollo had beaten the man before sending him away to be punished in the Palace of Justice. That was the end of that idea.

Frollo shivered as he scanned the shadows, constantly turning to keep from being jumped by anyone from the shadows. He realized his breath was racing and then, he found he couldn't calm himself; any attempt he tried felt like he was suffocating. He shivered again. What was wrong with him? It was indeed October now, but he was never cold, not even during the heavy snows of January. There was another flash of confusion and he shook his head.

For one second too many he forgot where he was and let his guard down. They walked out of the shadows, a tall peasant man confidently tossing a large stone in the air and catching it and tossing it again. "En el extremo del juego veremos quién gana," he said as Frollo went for his dagger. At the sound of the Spanish, Frollo knew he should have yelled, and that it was too late. He knew it before the gag was thrown over his face and pulled into his mouth. He knew what the stone was for before the man threw it, he knew before ropes pulled at his arms, yanking them behind his back.

The man threw the rock; it instantly disappeared into the darkness, but even over his heavy breathing, his pounding heartbeat, and his struggles, he heard it sail over a house and hit another behind it. He could hear his soldiers racing to investigate, seeing nothing of his futile struggle to free himself as his hands were tied behind his back and he was pulled into an abandoned building.

……………..

1451-God only knew where:

There were six gypsies in the darkness with him, one behind him, holding his arms behind his back, one with a broken wrist from the way they twisted them further at each blow the other five dealt to him. They seemed to take turns beating on him. Past them, only a few yards away, someone watched impassively, watching for something in him; they wanted him to break, and wondered what would happen, for they were so sure it was only a matter of time, it was only a few more blows and they'd have their answer: begging, sobbing, bribery…

But nothing happened. He felt a rib break under the force of someone's fist, and the sound was heard by the man in the back. Claude thought he was dreaming, that a blow to the head had played with his sight and his mind, but no, the man was indeed illuminated by a nearby fire. He saw the man's face change as he shouted for them to stop. As the gypsies moved away and the man approached, Claude saw he held a torch, making everything around it appear as if in hell, and if one of these people said that was indeed where he was, he would believe them then and there.

As the man walked into view, Claude realized he was no man, he was just a youth, close to his own age. The boy was just slightly taller, unshaven, and his voiced echoed in the mysterious caverns. A long, straight scar over the boy's right eye fell through his eyebrow, missed the organ, and ended just above his cheekbone.

The boy grabbed Claude's face by his jaw and held it forcefully as the torch was held close, so Claude was made to see the fire shine in the other boy's eyes. "What is your name?"

Claude spat in his captor's face. "My loyalty is to the King!" he yelled.

"Funny," the boy said. "So's mine."

Cold steel shot through Claude's abdomen, and he could feel hot blood dripping down his uniform and along the blade. He wondered, vaguely, as everything melted away, who had screamed, because it wasn't him. He didn't even move his mouth.

…………………

1485-In the dark:

Gypsies. He was surrounded by gypsies. There was no light to tell how many, but he was severely outnumbered. He'd been dragged backwards into the building swiftly and then two sets of arms were under his shoulders, coupled by however many were pulling the rope that had bound his arms behind his back.

In a little over a minute, the gypsies had him. He did his best to struggle, trying to loosen the ropes or shake the arms away. He still struggled, at the very least making it difficult for them to hold him down. He could hear banging behind him, just after the arms had left and rope went slightly lax. He'd been tied to the handle of a trapdoor on the floor. He tried to scream past the gag, but all that resulted in was making one of them laugh at him, and so he instantly gave up.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, in some sort of mock-gesture of friendliness, along with a knife at his throat. "I've known dogs that could figure such things out faster than this," a man's voice muttered. "If you haven't noticed, no one has hurt you, dear minister. We'd actually like to keep it that way, and I'm sure you do too. If you do exactly what we want, it'll stay that way. I'm going to take that piece of cloth from your mouth and you're not going to scream. I also want you to stop struggling. Am I understood?"

……………

1456-The hidden alley:

He gripped the sweet brown hair in his filthy hand. He screamed her name over and over, but she was already gone. The gypsies had done this. They had taken her away without any sort of warning, any reason…his hand brushed something pinned in her locks.

Pulling the thing out of her hair, he hated them even more. The gypsies had had a reason. They had killed her justly, his sister had been taken away from him in an act of patriotism.

………………….

1456-Notre Dame:

"To know justice is to know God, and who knows God better than martyrs?"

……………….

1485-In the dark:

Frollo froze. He was afraid of the gypsies. He was afraid to be a martyr. He was afraid of the taste of the cat against his skin again. He was afraid of torture; was afraid of death; and no one brought such things like the gypsies.

His breath had been racing all this time. He almost passed out before the gag was taken away. He choked for air. He panted; he sweated… he felt hot. What dark magic were they cursing him with? The cold knife against his neck was becoming a welcome feeling, sharp cold against the thick, growing heat.

The hand left his shoulder and grabbed the hair on the back of his head, pulling it back and something was pressed to his mouth. Liquid, foul-tasting and almost rotten—he could swear there was dirt in it—and yet, lined with something sweet, washed over his lips and to keep breathing, he was forced to swallow. He knew this trick. Buckets of water, often with anything from salt to human filth, were poured down a criminal's throat, the torture used to force a confession out of him.

Just as he was about to accuse the gypsies of going back on their word, to tell them he had nothing to confess, it was taken away. They didn't want to torture him, they wanted to poison him, to drug him.

His confusion grew worse and he struggled to retain his mental grip on what was happening. But everything began to swirl in his mind. He forgot where he was, he lost his balance and fell sideways to the floor and started to struggle again, forgetting he was bound. He lost his sense of direction; he felt he was sliding off the floor, first one way, and then the other.

Every sensation was leaving him. He was barely conscious of coughing up sputum on the floor, but he did understand the words spoken to him.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Claude."

……………………

1456-Notre Dame:

The boy with the scar had become a man, a man with another sword. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Claude," he said, drawing the weapon and elegantly thrusting at him.

………………

1485-In the dark:

At the sound of those words, Frollo began to panic.

He couldn't feel where his limbs were. He couldn't feel anything but the need to get away. He thought he was reaching out, he thought he was screaming this time.

He gave one limp yank at the bonds and choked on trying to say something before he fainted.