He thought he had lost Anne’s brother, back at the Marquise’s house. He’d wanted to, now that he’d led him astray, now that he had what he’d come for. Soon his pursuer would be part of a pack, for the aristocracy of Paris did not like it when one of theirs was robbed. Even … no, especially, if the thief was one of their former pets.
Tagay transferred the heavy leather satchel to his other shoulder, heard the clink of gold from within it.
No thief, he thought, for this is mine, my sweat-backed labour earned it. All those purses, like the one she’d picked up … was it only yesterday morning? … from beside the crumpled beds of the so-called nobility and emptied into this leather bag.
Tagay smiled. A woman had floated from the sky and gold was no longer heavy but light as air under an eagle’s wings. It would lift him up onto the horse that waited at the rendezvous. It would waft him along a sunbeam across the Great Water to his land.
He had led his hunter through the alleys of Montparnasse, up the great hill, beyond. The fields had begun, tilled at first, gradually giving way to grazing land. Across a stretch of common, the first of the woods began. He had often accompanied the King and court here, for Henri liked to keep his Little Bear with him when he hunted and Tagay liked to run beside the King’s horse, down the tree-lined paths. It felt like the home he’d only ever dreamed of. And he was fast; the King had won money on him many times. No one had ever beaten him. Somehow, he didn’t think the man following him would be the first.
Tagay stopped, turned. On that open field before the woods, close-cropped by sheep and cattle, there was nowhere for Gianni to hide. He stopped too, and the two men stared at each other over fifty paces. For a long moment the only sounds were the wind and the bleating of lambs. Then, without a word, Tagay turned and ran.
The Grey Wolf of Rome was a wondrous tracker. But this was a different land and its forests belonged to the Bear.
‘Read it to me again.’
‘Father, I have read it to you five times already.’
‘I know, but it is such a good story. And you know how I like a good story.’
Erik sighed, and raised the piece of paper into the greyish dawn light.
‘“The Pagan Prince and Wing’d Love: The Tale of Tagay of Canada and Anne Rombaud of France.”’
While Haakon settled back contentedly into the stone steps, Beck rose and climbed them to the wooden gates of Notre Dame. From this little elevation she could look out over some of the rooftops of the city. From here, too, Erik’s recitation was just a drone in the distance, which was best for her. Where Haakon heard romance and adventure, she heard only the suffering of her kin, the danger they were in.
Are you out there as well, Jean? And Gianni? Father and son, she wondered, which of you is the hunter, which the prey?
Gazing now over the steeples of Paris she again felt that both her children were either near, or had been so until very recently. She had always had this sense, as if a cord still joined her to her babes, stretched out though it had been by distance and time. Once, she had had the same feeling for Jean, would look up the moment before he’d walk through the door of the Comet with a bunch of grapes and that smile. But she had lost him, sometime in the recent years, lost him in her anger, in his doubt. Although that anger had largely gone – because she had come to realize he could only do what he was driven to – she still could catch no trace of his soul nearby.
She looked down across the square before the cathedral, saw the Fugger and his daughter walking rapidly toward them. Beside them was another man, a stranger in a plumed hat and cloak. She descended the steps and met them just as they reached the Norsemen.
‘News?’ said Haakon, rising.
‘Yes, I think so.’ The Fugger leant on Maria, tried to master his breathing. ‘And I was right about going to the bankers. They always know what is going on.’ He turned to the man beside him. ‘May I present to you my cousin, François Fugger. He has information for us.’
The young gentleman bowed, sweeping his hat from his head. He was dressed like a dandy, all lace and plumes. Yet his voice was deep and serious.
‘I only know bankers’ gossip. Yet when my cousin told me his need, I made a few immediate inquiries and the word that came to me this morning seemed relevant.’
He looked to the Fugger, received a nod to proceed. ‘It appears a certain Marquise, patron of the native boy in that pamphlet you are holding, owed a great deal of money around the town. A bank, a rival house to ours, had advanced her considerable sums. She was due to make good on her debts with the money amassed from certain … ah, services.’ He glanced at Maria, blushed and looked away. ‘… Services that her ward would perform. Not only did he fail to perform them, he has absconded with the money earned so far, which would have gone a little way to clearing her debts.’
Beck descended a step. ‘And did your source say where he might have absconded to?’
‘The bank has hired some men to recover the money. For reasons that are unclear, a large party set off, not an hour ago, for a port in the west of the country. St Malo.’
On hearing these words, Beck turned away from the rising sun, already casting the shadows of Notre Dame over the great square. Somewhere out there, to the west, were her family. She could feel again the faintest tug on the binding cord that linked them to her.
‘Come then,’ she said, looking down at the others, ‘let us ride to the ocean. And we must ride swiftly. For I am sure we are not the only ones who have gleaned this information.’
EIGHTEEN
DEATH ON THE SHORE
‘Come, my friends, let us shake hands, and toast a bargain made and the Saint’s sweetest breath in our sails!’
The glimmer in Captain Ferraud’s eye was a match for the gold in Tagay’s hand. Yet Jean watched the young man hesitate now, something he had not seen him do in their brief but busy acquaintance. He had organized their escape from Paris with seeming ease, his money paying for the carriage and the changes of horses in both Alençon and Le Teilleul that had brought them to the harbour of St Malo by the evening of the third day. On arrival, enquiries had led them to this waterfront inn and the only two men still alive, fishing captains the pair, who had sailed with Cartier to Canada all those years before. They had interviewed both of them, and while the first, Pierre Jacquet, had proved surly, full of cautions and doubts, this Captain Ferraud was all smiles and certainties. He promised the fulfilment of the young man’s deepest desire, a speedy return to his homeland.
And yet now, for the first time, Jean watched Tagay hesitate.
So into that pause, Jean spoke. ‘Perhaps my friend needs a little longer to consider. Will you excuse us, Captain?’
The smile faded a little. ‘I will be here, gentlemen. But do not consider for long. The fishing fleet sails tomorrow with the tide and we must be with it, eh?’
The rain had returned, blown off the sea by a strong wind. They pulled their cloaks tight about them, bending their heads together to talk.
‘You have doubts, Tagay?’ Anne said.
‘I do not know why.’ He shrugged. ‘This one promises me all my heart’s hope, while the other speaks as if it is near impossible. And yet …’ He looked out to the water. ‘I think we should talk to that other again.’
They found him, as before, on his caravel, which looked even smaller now as it wallowed on the rain-lashed swell, like a cork in a vat of sour wine, belying the name of Sea Feather painted in blue on its bow. Jacquet sat on the raised aft deck, passing nets swiftly between his fingers, checking for tears, a busy needle making necessary repairs. He was shaped like his ship, seeming almost as squat and broad as he was long. The rain ran off him unnoticed.
He grunted when told of Ferraud’s response.
‘There you are, then.’ He spat expertly, using the wind, over the gunwales. ‘I wish you a pleasant trip.’
‘You do not think it will be as easy as he describes?’ Jean asked.
The response was so long i
n coming they thought he may not have heard. ‘Easy? Oh, aye, so easy. You sails a thousand leagues through the biggest seas known to man. If you’re very lucky, after five weeks mayhap, you catch sight of a piece of land. You might recognize it, probably not, so you sails up and down for a week, looking for a landfall, for fresh water.’ He leaned forward, spat again. ‘And that’s just when you’ve barely reached the Indies. Then maybe you’ve got some strength left to fish – and the fishing’s fine, mark, it’s why you goes, pushing against the bow, they are, leaping into these nets – so you work day and night for a month and then you sets off home before the autumn storms. Did Ferraud’ – another spit – ‘did he tells you how far beyond the first landfall lies the place you seek, Stadacona?’
They all shook their heads. Jacquet gave something that could have been a laugh. ‘Not surprised. I recall he was lying below decks for most of that time, feigning scurvy.’
He looked up at them for the first time. ‘And once you get there … well, there’s good reason why no one’s gone that far down the St Lawrence for twelve years, more.’
He stood, stepped toward Tagay, peered up at him. ‘So, you’re one of them, eh? Sometimes wondered what happened to those natives we brought back. You’re as ugly as I remember ’em being.’ He sucked at his gums, his eyes never leaving Tagay’s face. ‘And so you want to go home?’
‘Yes.’
‘In your fancy lace,’ he sniffed, ‘your toilet water, your groomed hair? Think you’ll last a minute there before you’re stripped and dangling over a flame for some savage’s supper?’
Tagay’s voice was even. ‘Whatever my fate is, it lies there and I must go to it.’
‘Oh, fate is it?’
The small eyes in the sea-scored face narrowed. The Captain studied Tagay in silence for a full minute and Tagay’s gaze in return never wavered. Finally, Jacquet resumed his position on the deck, passing the net between his hands. Another silence came and they watched him work.
‘How much did Ferraud ask for?’
Tagay told him. There was another snort of a laugh. ‘I’ll take half, for my coffin doesn’t need no gold lining. Half of that left with my wife, the other half with the innkeeper of the Gannet to pay the families of my crew if we don’t return. It’s good wages for them but they’ll earn it because I’ll have to take less men to make room for you. And we might not have time to fish on the way back so our bounty will be whatever furs we can trade for. You’ll both bring your own provisions and you’ll both work the sails or pumps when necessary. Indeed, you’ll obey my every order while at sea. Agreed?’
Jean looked at Tagay. The hesitation of the inn was gone.
‘Agreed.’
‘Then go. There’s a chandler at the Gannet, he’ll tell you all you need. Bring nothing more, for there’s no room on a caravel. And take my advice, say goodbye to your lady at the inn – it’s harder to sail when they’re wailing dockside.’
Anne had stood beside her father while Tagay negotiated. She stepped forward now. ‘Captain, you do not understand. We are buying passage for all of us.’
The needle plunged into a finger. Jacquet cursed and sucked at it. ‘I thought it was for the two gentlemen. A woman on a ship is an unlucky thing.’
‘Nevertheless …’
‘I cannot do it. The crew don’t like it. It makes them … I hires tough men, lady. Not gentlemen. Their ways are not what you’re used to.’
Anne bent down, forcing the Captain to look at her. ‘You know nothing of me, Captain, nor what I am used to. I have lived my life among tough men and I come from tough stock.’ She squeezed her father’s arm.
Jacquet hesitated. Jean said, ‘And she has the gift of healing. Better than any I know.’
Jacquet looked at them both, then at the impassivity of Tagay. He sucked at his finger again, then bent down, picking up his needle. ‘Ten bells on the morrow-morn. An hour before the tide, not a moment later. My first order.’
‘We will obey it as all others.’
They turned and climbed the rope ladder to the dock.
Two hours passed in the outfitting and two more over a meal. All three ate and drank well, concentrating on what would be their last big supper shoreside, talking little. Their money bought them the best of the fare the Gannet could offer as well as a room upstairs they did not have to share. They spread their cloaks over the mattress and lay down, the men on the outside, Anne between them. Soon, both she and Tagay were asleep.
Though he was as exhausted as either of them, though his body ached in all the places the carriage had thrown him as it bounced over the pitted roads, Jean could not find the rest he craved. He lay listening to the wind shriek in the harbour, heard it gradually drop to a whisper, saw the moon dancing through the torn clouds, till its bulbous, half-full shape seemed to vanquish the last of them and stand in silver solitude. It filled the room with its light and having studied, for a while, the maiden’s face he had seen in that globe all his life, he turned again to the maiden beside him.
Anne lay curled with her back to Tagay, his arm a pillow, her mouth a little parted, her breathing soft. Jean remembered how he used to watch her sleeping when she was a child, the wonder of his firstborn then, that wonder still there now. And with the shadows and shapes of it moulded by moonbeams, he saw what else he had always loved about her face – the memory of her mother in it. Beck was just this age when they first came together, lying on pine boughs in the moonlight, on the umber earth, against the crumbling wall.
‘Beck!’ Jean whispered.
Anne stirred at the sound but did not wake. She turned again, nursing, even in her sleep, her badly bruised, strapped up arm. And, of course, there was something else in the silver light, a shape within the folds of her dress. Distinctive, to someone who had an eye for it, for the material pushed out at six points. It was mere bone now but closing his eyes to that reality, he could once more see what had been. The hand that a queen, Anne Boleyn of England, had laid upon his shoulder, laughing at his shock. The hand he took from her the same moment he took her head. The hand stolen from him at a crossroads in the Loire, returned to that same crossroads after horrors and hardships, returned and buried by the sacred glow of a full moon for the fulfilment of an oath.
Another moon, another life, another Jean Rombaud. The man who had the courage to endure those horrors, the one who had buried that hand, was gone. He had even tried getting rid of the very symbol of that man; given it away, abandoned it. But the light that fell on the bed also fell on his executioner’s sword.
He reached out, touched the scabbard, and suddenly, looking once more at his women’s faces melding in the silver light, Jean realized what the morrow would hold.
Smiling now, Jean surrendered to sleep.
It was a glorious day, a cloudless sky, a gentle swell, and a strong warm wind blowing off the land. The caravels roped to the dock looked like falcons on jesses, straining for flight.
They stood above the Sea Feather watching the seventeen men of the crew make the ship fast for the ocean. Jacquet was among them, checking every detail of provision and implement. Their own meagre goods had been taken and stowed in one of the holds below. Now they could only wait, turned inward to the land, for the ocean beyond it would beckon soon enough.
Shouting made them turn back. It came from the end of the long stone pier that bent around to nearly touch the cliffs opposite. Between the two points was the narrow gap, the entrance to the harbour of St Malo.
Anne shielded her eyes against the sun with a raised hand. She saw men gathered around an iron frame.
‘What are they doing, Father?’
‘Lowering the boom. It’s the chain across the gap that keeps unwanted visitors out.’
The plunge of heavy iron links was a signal to the men on the boats. Those who were ready began to cast off, those who were not sped up their loading. Glancing up the dockside, Jean could see that the captain they’d rejected, Ferraud, was among the tardy.
‘Come, Father. They are telling us to board.’
Jean looked to his daughter. Tagay was below her on the rope ladder, an arm reached up to support her.
‘I am not going,’ Jean said.
‘What?’ She was back beside him in an instant, Tagay joining her, despite the protests from below. ‘Father! You agreed. The hand must be made safe.’
‘It must. But you are its guardian now and you must decide its destiny. I can do no more.’
She made to speak. But he laid a finger to her lips and, with his other hand, drew her close.
‘Hush, now, child. You know, and I know, that this is right. You know me, better than anyone else. You know I no longer have the … the strength for what must be done. I have used it all up. What remains may get me home, wherever that is. To your mother, at least. I have some amends to make.’
He pulled her tighter to his chest, looked past her to Tagay. ‘Take her, lad. She is the dearest gift I could ever give. Help her to do what must be done, let her help you. For she is a wonder, surpassing all the wonders of the world.’
Jean gently unloosed Anne’s arm from around his neck. ‘Go now. Follow your visions. Let them guide Anne Boleyn to her final rest.’
Tagay reached, pulled a speechless Anne toward him. ‘I will protect her, Jean Rombaud. I will give my life for hers.’
‘You had better.’ Jean reached to touch the sword strapped to his back. ‘Or my friend and I will come looking for you.’
They descended to the boat where impatient sailors helped them aboard, then turned to ropes and knots. Soon, the Sea Feather was floating away from the dock, its three sails unfurling. Anne stood in the bow, tears cascading, her one good arm raised. Suddenly, it appeared to Jean that there were two Annes there, his daughter and a queen, both waving their farewells. And it was as if all his aches, his agonies dropped away, taking the pain that had sat heavy round his heart for as long as he could remember, leaving him lighter, tasting the salt in the wind, feeling the warmth of a summer sun as if for the first time. He found himself hopping from one foot to the other, and the tears that ran down his nose and chin made him smile, then laugh. He was waving like a madman, his eyes on the boat taking both his joy and his sorrow away.
Blood Ties Page 30