by Tim Willocks
‘You want me to multiply the arguments in favour of this scheme.’
‘Do you have reason not to supply them?’ asked Retz.
‘The oldest families in France are no more than its oldest criminals.’
‘His Majesty counts some of them among his dearest friends.’
‘A king who cannot kill his dearest friends for the good of his people is no king at all,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Suleiman strangled his own sons to preserve the peace. He strangled the wrong ones, but that’s another matter.’
‘I can’t use an argument that compares His Majesty unfavourably to a Turk.’
Tannhauser wanted to get out of the carriage. He didn’t.
‘His Majesty must demonstrate raw power. At so late an hour as this, the only currency that buys such power is blood. Coligny’s alone is no longer enough, for his is now the blood of a martyr. But if such blood were diluted with that of his fellow conspirators while quelling a plot to seize the throne – which, in effect, is what Coligny is attempting to do – then the martyr would become the traitor that in truth he is. Be scrupulous to avoid any wider repression of the Protestant religion and the rest of the Huguenot nobility will come to heel. It worked for the English. The more dear friends he kills, the better. And he should seize the Protestant strongholds, in particular La Rochelle, preferably by riding up to the gates in person and demanding the keys. If he had the mettle to do that, I doubt they’d have the mettle to shoot him.’
Tannhauser did not expect this last advice to be taken seriously. It was not.
‘Dilute the blood of the martyr.’ Retz relished the phrase. ‘The King will say it is wrong.’
‘Has the King seen the state of his kingdom?’
Retz did not answer.
‘I’ve just ridden the length of this country from the dock at Marseilles. It should be the Garden of Eden. It’s a wasteland. It’s a disgrace to its keepers. But I’m not finished.’
Retz nodded at him to go on.
‘A strong king would go beyond a cull of the Protestant elite. He’d arrest Guise and a dozen more Catholic schemers and have their heads, too. He would cleanse his palace of the libertines and live like a man. With the fear and respect thus earned he could banish civil war. If at that point his subjects wanted to worship idols carved from mud, he could let them do so, for no one would dare break his peace.’
‘You would spill a lot of blood.’
‘Hundreds of thousands have died in these wars for the vanity of men like Coligny. The King wept no tears of grief and shame for them. He played tennis.’
Tannhauser sat back on the scented cushions. The carriage was too small for him. He felt that if he took the deep breath he needed, the walls would be rent apart.
‘I see it,’ said Retz. ‘Yes. I see it all.’
Tannhauser reflected on his advice. Some might consider it monstrous. Carla, for one. Perhaps it was. He couldn’t think of anything he had said that wasn’t true. It wasn’t his problem.
‘You have armed me with some powerful propositions,’ said Retz. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
‘For me?’
‘No one gets as close to the throne as you now sit without asking for something. Preferment, a pension, a pardon, a grant of monopoly, a contract of supply. The very life of the court consists in a perpetual seeking of advancement and advantage by all who manage to gain access.’
At another time Tannhauser might have squeezed Retz, but he felt tainted. He had spoken the truth, but he knew he had been used. He did not want to be paid for it.
‘I appreciate your offer, but it sits ill with me to stand in any man’s debt. I want to be reunited with my wife, nothing more.’
‘I’m disappointed.’ Retz smiled. ‘Your answer makes me wish you were indeed in my debt. Instead, I am in yours. I salute you, sir.’
‘In looking for my wife I need to locate a palace functionary called Christian Picart. If a word from you would make that task easier, I’d be grateful.’
‘A simple courtesy is no reward, but yes, of course.’
They climbed from the carriage.
Across open ground to the east stood the Louvre: part fortress, part palace, fashioned by diverse kings in diverse times, and currently a composite of different architectural eras. To the west, the city walls loomed. A gateway pierced the wall just short of the river and this was where the carriage had stopped. Through this gate Tannhauser saw lavish gardens and the wing and pavilion, both incomplete, of another half-built structure of elaborate dimension and design. Building materials littered the area in massive stacks but workers were nowhere to be seen.
A section of Swiss Guard met the carriage. Their halberds and harness shone in the long yellow light. They avoided eye contact, as professionals will. Also present were three courtiers. Their self-esteem seemed injured by the sight of Tannhauser emerging from the carriage. He watched them wonder who he was and what entitled him to such fellowship with Retz. Most of all they wondered what threat he might pose. Retz chose the youngest, who happened to be the most corpulent.
‘Arnauld, escort the Comte de La Penautier into the palace. He will tell you what he needs, make sure he gets it.’
Arnauld grovelled to hide his chagrin at being expelled from distinguished company into that of a ruffian. He glanced at Tannhauser with unconcealed distaste.
‘They feed them well at the palace, then,’ said Tannhauser.
Retz laughed as if a laugh were what he needed.
In response to Retz, the courtiers tittered, the bloated youth included.
‘I regret our meeting was so short,’ said Retz. ‘God bless you and happy days.’
They exchanged bows. Retz headed towards the gardens with his entourage. Guzman winked in passing and Tannhauser nodded. He turned as Grégoire ran up. He was drenched in sweat. The cloth wrapper tied with ribbon that contained the christening robe was crumpled under one armpit. He appeared to have developed a limp.
‘Are the new shoes nipping you? If so, take them off.’
Grégoire, though in pain, was horrified. ‘The shoes are a marvel, sire.’
Arnauld’s horror was the greater. ‘That creature is coming with us?’
‘Grégoire, this kind young gentleman has volunteered to take us into the Louvre.’
‘Tannhauser!’ Retz had paused at the gate. ‘One last question.’
Tannhauser looked at him and waited.
‘Would you kill your dearest friends for the good of the people?’
‘My dearest friends are the only people I have. For their good, I’d kill anything that breathes.’
CHAPTER THREE
Swine
ARNAULD DE TORCY led them through a sequence of corridors, salons and halls whose extravagance left Grégoire agape and filled Tannhauser with contempt. He was not immune to architectural beauty, but of late he’d seen too much scorched earth; and the Italians did it better.
Statuary inspired by the Romans abounded, along with ornamented masonry, delicate friezes, and allegories in relief that portrayed the fantasy of Valois genius. Each gallery and ceiling sang the praises of its patrons and recast historic acts of violence and greed as grand myths. All was newly built and on a scale so lavish that Tannhauser did not wonder that Italian cash, at excruciating interest, was paying the bills. He foresaw years of fresh taxes with every step he took. Household officials scuttled back and forth to assuage the whims of the lordly, who were as numerous as they were repellent. As Arnauld strutted towards each new room, footmen bowed and opened twin gilt doors.
‘Note that most courtiers merit the opening of only one door,’ explained Arnauld.
‘Did you hear that, Grégoire? For such as we, you must open both doors.’
‘Very amusing. But here, in the jewel box of civilisation, such distinctions are not inconsequential, nor are they empty ceremony. Each detail helps to define one’s rank in the court hierarchy. If such details are neglected or ignored, then how can we tell who – o
r indeed what – a given individual truly is?’
In the salons of the pavilion, as on the streets, an undertow of disquiet was general, but this did not prevent a determined display of the decadence for which the court was famed. Women of outstanding beauty and high station, perhaps in an attempt to raise morale, displayed their tits for the languid gentlemen who sprawled about the furniture, several of whom wore silver cages hung about their necks in which they carried miniature dogs. While a handsome young footman served a reviving cordial, one of the gentlemen stroked the former’s crotch bulge with a tongue-moistened forefinger, to a chorus of titters and squeals. The footman bore this ordeal with admirable stoicism and of the cordial he did not spill a drop. The smell of urine lingered everywhere.
‘To a provincial this must seem a paradise,’ said Arnauld, ‘but what you are seeing is an intense struggle to conquer the pyramid of precedence. The ambitious are constantly developing elaborate manoeuvres, either to establish superiority or to undermine rivals, which latter are in endless supply. It may look gay but there is little real enjoyment, rather a perpetual commerce in suspicion, jealousy and spite. I doubt you would do very well here, but that you may take as a compliment.’
As they passed from one wing to another, Tannhauser saw a woman topped with a mass of golden curls hoist up the skirts of her blue silk dress, the pearls on which alone must have cost the price of a modest farm. She squatted over a mound of human faeces piled beneath a staircase.
‘What am I seeing now?’ he asked. ‘An elaborate manoeuvre to establish her superiority? Or her intense struggle to conquer the pyramid of precedence?’
‘That is why the court has to move every month from one palace to another,’ tutted Arnauld. ‘The stench becomes intolerable and the building has to be aired for fear of the plague.’
‘And what do the midget dogs in cages signify?’
‘One expects the centre of power to attract the dishonest, the greedy, the venal, the vain and even the wicked,’ admitted Arnauld. ‘It would be a shabby little court that did not. The elite must be allowed their privileges or what is the point? What is so dispiriting is that nine out of ten courtiers are also stupid, ignorant, talentless and scared. In every respect, except perhaps physical beauty, they are mediocrities. Yet they prosper.’
Swiss and French Guard were stationed so that every room and corridor was watched. Ranks of Swiss steel walled off certain stairways and entrances all together. The apartments of the royal family stood above. They left the Pavillon du Roi through a grandiose portico.
A huge courtyard opened out before them, perhaps a hundred paces square. It was walled in by buildings old, new, demolished and half-complete. The north and east wings were ancient, and unlike the new to the south and west, which were created to satisfy the vices of degenerates, the old Louvre was built to be a fortress. Its three conical towers rose above the courtyard’s angles at all but the south-west corner. The courtyard swarmed with armed Huguenots.
Most of them were young and milled in truculent cliques. Some affected a silence suggesting righteous anger straining at the end of its tether. Others held vehement debates. Some, probably drunk, yelled insults and threats at the windows of the royal apartments. A handful wore armour. The white cross on Tannhauser’s chest marked him out as someone worthy of their scorn. Some had already noticed him and were pointing him out to their fellows.
Tannhauser said, ‘Where are the Swiss Guard?’
‘His Majesty has posted them indoors, for fear of further inflaming high passions.’
‘Where do we go next?’
‘The office of the Plaisirs du Roi, where we’ll find Picart, is in the North Wing.’ Arnauld stared across the courtyard as if wishing for an underground tunnel. ‘Unless this fury passes we will witness some terrible madness. Don’t these fanatics understand? The King is the best friend they’ve got.’
‘Perhaps not for much longer.’
Tannhauser studied the armed cliques. He wondered if he could reach the other side without shedding blood and decided he didn’t much care. He set out across the courtyard with Grégoire behind him. He realised that Arnauld had not budged from the portico. He turned and looked at him. Arnauld pointed to a narrow gateway at the centre of the North Wing.
‘Today the duty captain of the military household is Dominic Le Tellier, of the Scots Guard.’
‘Vicious, dour and intemperate, and given to drink?’
‘I doubt the Guard have a real Scotsman left. I was in the Guard for a year. It’s a prestige posting, the senior company of the King’s Life Guard. We swear to protect His Majesty wherever he goes – that is, to banquets, on hunting trips, to take the waters, and so on. The Life Guard only take to the field of battle when the King himself does so in person.’
‘Not exactly veterans then.’
‘That does not stop us having a high opinion of ourselves. I’m sure Captain Le Tellier will gladly take you to find Monsieur Picart.’
‘Retz said anything I need. You will take me yourself, gladly or not.’
‘We could adopt a different route,’ offered Arnauld.
‘You should’ve thought of that sooner. I’ll walk where I choose.’
‘You’re as much a fanatic as they are.’
‘If we turn tail now, they’ll know why. We can’t do it, can we, Grégoire?’
Grégoire hoisted the waist of his new red pants. In hindsight, they ended too far short of his knees, but the boy seemed not to mind. Under his arm the package for Carla was a sodden mass.
‘No, sire,’ he said.
‘Then let this creature be your guide.’
‘I could drag you across the yard,’ said Tannhauser.
Arnauld stepped from the portico as if into a pool of vomit.
‘Walk beside me, on my left,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Imagine you’re still a Scots Guard. Head high. Eyes on the gatehouse yonder. If it comes to swordplay, grab Grégoire and run.’
They started across the courtyard, Arnauld almost trotting to match Tannhauser’s stride. Though it galled him to do so, Tannhauser navigated the cliques in a series of straight lines designed to avoid a petty confrontation. If any of them moved to block his way, he’d take the man’s measure. They skirted several bands without encountering anything worse than stares. When they reached the halfway mark, at the centre of the square, the catcalls began.
‘Who’s that fat swine?’
‘His arse is bigger than the Queen’s.’
‘I bet it’s seen a lot more cock.’
Laughter. To distract Arnauld, Tannhauser struck up a conversation.
‘I’ve been getting about the city on foot but I’m hoping to find a horse.’
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ said Arnauld.
‘Can I get a mount here at the palace?’
‘Not without an authorisation.’
‘You seem lordly enough to provide one.’
‘I’d rather provide a warrant for your arrest.’
Twenty feet ahead, a Huguenot detached himself from the bunch. He stepped into Tannhauser’s line of march and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. He was sturdy enough to try such a manoeuvre and angry enough to want to. He had sufficient lumps and scars on his face to prove himself a brawler but men who indulged such ploys as this drew half their courage from their fellows. Tannhauser checked the group to see if the brawler was a decoy deployed to set him up for someone more dangerous. He saw no candidates.
Arnauld quailed. ‘What shall we do?’
‘Give me some room but don’t stop walking.’
Arnauld put his hand on his sword hilt and loosened it in its scabbard.
‘Take your hand from your sword and do as I say.’
As they approached the burly Huguenot, Tannhauser did him the favour of altering course so that a confrontation was not inevitable. But the brawler was not to be denied. As he stepped once more into their path, he pointed a finger at Arnauld’s face but spoke to Tannhauser.
‘
What does his arsehole taste like?’
Tannhauser grabbed the extended finger and cranked it backwards. The brawler howled with pain. Tannhauser stepped past him and the brawler, his strength rendered useless, was forced to bend backwards from the waist to avoid the dislocation of his knuckle. With the back of his right leg Tannhauser swept him behind the knee. As the hulk crashed into the flagstones Tannhauser felt the finger snap at the second joint and let go. Tannhauser had barely altered pace. He didn’t stop walking nor did he look back. He didn’t need to. The fallen brute – and not them – now formed the focus of the courtyard’s attention. Arnauld craned his head back over his shoulder.
‘Eyes front,’ said Tannhauser. ‘It’ll take him a minute to get to his feet, another to get over his shame. By then we’ll be inside. By the time the buffoon gets angry, he’ll be a problem for the Guard, not for us.’
They reached the gateway without further incident. On the steps a pair of guards stood grinning from behind their halberds. They nodded to Tannhauser but avoided looking at Arnauld, who was further incensed.
‘This kind of insolence is the cross I bear for being so close to Anjou.’
Henri, Duc d’Anjou – a man who by all accounts preferred wearing women’s jewellery to wearing a sword – was the King’s younger brother and no friend to the Huguenots. He made amends for his decadence with periodic bouts of self-flagellation.
‘Ignore it,’ said Tannhauser. ‘You did well.’
‘Really?’
‘You didn’t lose your head and you were ready to fight.’
Arnauld gained a couple of inches in height and strode on into the lobby. He looked back and forth then set off down a corridor. The windows of the old palace were hardly more than slits in the stone. Lamps and candles struggled to fend off the gloom.
‘You’re one of Anjou’s mignons?’ asked Tannhauser.
‘I am his friend and counsellor. He’s in great need of both.’
‘Counsellors seem to outnumber footmen round here.’
‘The palace is a stew of rivalries and plots.’