by Tim Willocks
‘Perhaps that’s why.’
‘And by the way, my lord Anjou’s taste in clothes does not necessarily make him a sodomite, nor does his tolerance of masculine love among some of his favourites. I myself saw him take a maidservant from behind while she was scrubbing the floor, though, I admit, he was intent on proving himself to his mother, who was also witness.’
‘Buggery’s not a practice to which I’ve given much thought. Must I?’
Arnauld smirked. ‘Tell me, why did you insist on crossing the courtyard?’
‘Aren’t you glad we did?’
‘I do believe I am.’
‘There’s your answer.’
They entered a large room stacked with the detritus of diverse theatrical productions.
‘Wait here,’ said Arnauld. ‘Christian Picart, yes?’
Tannhauser nodded. While Arnauld went to question the man in charge, Tannhauser studied the room. Artificial mountains, painted silver and topped with thrones, lined one wall. Here were sheaves of scenery designed to recreate the flames of Hell. The masks of demons and imps filled several shelves. Animal costumes and angels’ wings hung from racks. A strange sequence of noises drew him deeper into the clutter.
Hidden from view was a large cube covered by a sheet of black velvet. From beneath the cover came rustlings followed by silence, then whispers and croonings, then more silence. Tannhauser lifted the velvet and was greeted by a gale of shrieks so violent he took two steps backward and dragged the cover off with him.
The cage was made of hardwood slats. Its interior teemed with scores of monkeys, each no bigger than a squirrel. Their coats were short and yellowish. Their mouths and eyes were rimmed with black fur, which gave them the look of skulls. Their tiny and perfect fingers clung to the slats, which showed the marks of their teeth. Their ribs heaved rapidly beneath their skins. When they pulled back their lips, their gums were grey. Their eyeballs were shrunken from the rims of their sockets. Some lay on the cage floor, too lethargic to move. Grégoire stared at the creatures with a sigh of pity.
‘What are they?’
‘They’re called monkeys.’
Grégoire made a fair attempt at pronouncing the word.
‘They live in trees. These are from the New World, across the ocean.’
‘They’re scared and hungry. And there’s no water in there.’
‘Well spotted. Lend me a hand.’
Tannhauser threw the velvet cover aside. With a deafening exacerbation in the violence of the shrieks, he and Grégoire manhandled the cage from its obscure location and left it at the door. Arnauld reappeared and studied the monkeys with distaste.
‘What are you doing?’
‘The poor creatures are dying of thirst. Here they can let their keepers know it.’
They left the monkeys to raise the roof and Arnauld led them back down the corridor.
‘Why do you want to find Picart?’ asked Arnauld.
‘He can tell me where to find my wife.’
‘His nickname is “Petit Christian” because he was born with a deformity of the genitals. He has no testicles and his penis is barely visible, or so I am reliably told. In his younger days this made him sexually desirable to those of more outlandish tastes, whom this place draws as a manure bin flies. Christian submitted to these humiliations in the belief it would advance his ambitions as a playwright. If he had trace of talent as a writer, perhaps it would have.’
‘He’s a writer?’
‘He wrote a single play, crudely borrowed from Gringoire but lacking his wit, and outstanding only for its pretentiousness and vacuity. In some circles these qualities are highly valued but the bloom quickly faded from his buttocks and with it his career. He now pens spiteful pamphlets aimed at dramatists more gifted than he and erotic doggerel for a private clientele. He is most valued for the sexual freak shows that he stages to titillate his former abusers at the court. He can draw on a whole stable of grotesques, midgets, freaks and children, or so I am reliably told. In his official role, however, he is an administrator of court entertainments.’
‘Not a man of great importance, then.’
‘Who is of lesser importance than a failed playwright?’
Tannhauser said, ‘I’ve never seen a play.’
‘After spending half an hour in your company I will never watch one again.’
Arnauld investigated three further offices. Christian had been busy enough that morning but had not been seen at all that afternoon. No one knew where to find him.
‘I’ve done my best,’ said Arnauld. ‘I’ll order Dominic Le Tellier to send his guards to find the wretch. Then, with your permission, I’ll attend to my other obligations, which are many.’
Tannhauser nodded.
They returned to the vestibule and stopped. Two men stood in the shaft of light thrown from the gateway, engaged in urgent conversation. Tannhauser could only see the face of the taller, an officer dressed in an expensive buff jerkin and matching hose. His handsome features were set off by a figure-of-eight ruff. He glanced over the other’s head and his eyes stopped too suddenly on Tannhauser. Once again Tannhauser had the sensation of being recognised by someone he was certain he had never met.
‘At last, there’s Dominic Le Tellier,’ said Arnauld.
Dominic nodded in their direction and the second man looked over his shoulder. It was the weasel in bottle-green velvet from the Grand Hall. Alarm flitted through his eyes. As in the market, he turned away.
‘And that’s Petit Christian,’ said Arnauld. ‘Do you want me to introduce you?’
Tannhauser studied him. There was nothing in Arnauld’s eyes to suggest duplicity.
‘No. If all goes well, our paths won’t cross again. But I won’t forget your generosity.’
‘Then hear my counsel. Imagine a nest that is home to a family of vicious and overfed rats, all of whose members harbour secret hatreds for each other. Imagine further that the nest is festooned with webs spun from the purest lies, and that on those webs scuttle venomous spiders almost as big as the rats. Finally, imagine that this nest is located in a pit filled with vipers and poisonous toads.’
‘You have there the material for a painting that would cheer the King of Spain.’
‘I would not joke, because such a nest in such a web in such a pit is where we stand right now. Loyalties turn on a rumour. A sacred oath may be broken on a whim, an old friendship betrayed for a promise that will never be kept. Even an honest man, and they are few, may go to bed sworn to one faction and wake up supporting another because his master has changed allegiance while he slept. In short: leave as soon as you can.’
‘I plan to quit the city with the sunrise, if not before.’
‘Good.’ Arnauld bowed. ‘May God go with you.’
‘Be careful crossing the courtyard.’
Arnauld smiled. He turned and headed for the gateway.
Tannhauser indicated Christian Picart.
‘Grégoire, look at the man talking with the captain. He holds his arms like a monkey.’
Grégoire nodded.
‘Have you ever seen him before?’
Grégoire nodded again.
‘Where?’
‘Across the street from the Red Ox. By the college gate.’
‘Was it before or after we ate?’
‘Just after. When the girls took us to their shop.’
‘Well done. Go and stand by the gateway and watch for young Arnauld crossing the courtyard. If he chances on trouble, come and tell me.’
Tannhauser walked over to Dominic.
‘I’ll be having a word with this fellow Petit Christian.’
Dominic swallowed the discourtesy without comment.
‘As you wish.’ He left.
Christian turned with a false smile, as if seeing Tannhauser for the first time.
‘Christian Picart, at your service, my lord.’
‘Mattias Tannhauser, Comte de La Penautier. I understand you can tell me where my wife,
Lady Carla, is lodging.’
‘Lady Carla is the guest of Symonne D’Aubray.’
‘I’d appreciate directions.’
‘I can take you there myself, sire, if you can wait a short while.’
‘Who is Symonne D’Aubray?’
‘The widow of Roger D’Aubray,’ said Christian.
‘Both widow and husband are unknown to me.’
‘Roger was a merchant and a much admired rector among the Protestants of Paris.’
Christian paused, as if waiting for Tannhauser’s reaction to the fact that his wife was lodged with a prominent Huguenot. Given the state of the city, the news was hardly welcome.
Tannhauser said, ‘Go on.’
‘Roger was murdered last year in the Gastines riots, during the Third War. Symonne has continued his business. She imports gold braid from the Dutch, with considerable success.’
‘I am delighted for her. Why does she play hostess to my wife?’
Christian flapped his hands.
‘They both are wonderful musicians, as are also the four D’Aubray children. Since the underlying theme of the royal wedding was religious conciliation, a joint performance at the Queen’s Ball – a musical allegory so to speak – was considered an excellent idea.’
‘By whom?’
‘Why, by all involved, including, we must assume, since she accepted the invitation, your good Lady Carla. Due to the recent unfortunate events, the ball, and so the allegory, were cancelled.’
‘Who conceived this allegory?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Christian. ‘As you will appreciate, over a thousand guests were invited. I was instructed to make the arrangements for Lady Carla, just as I was for many others who had roles in the celebrations.’
‘It was your decision to lodge her with Madame D’Aubray?’
‘No, no, sire,’ said Christian. ‘I’m far too humble a servant.’
‘Then who was responsible?’
‘I am given lists of names and instructions. Long lists. The means are complex and many by which a name appears on such a list. A friend, a favour, a bribe, a debt. I cannot account for the habits of the court.’
Petit Christian was lying, or, rather, he was concealing what he knew under a mass of factual generalities. Tannhauser was certain that the playwriting pimp had followed him. If he quizzed him on the matter, he would only invite more mendacity. He would not get satisfactory answers short of inflicting fear and pain, which methods were not practicable here.
‘Tell me where to find the Lady Carla.’
‘You don’t want me to act as your guide? I could do so within the hour.’
‘Are you trying to delay me?’
‘Why of course not, sire.’
‘I have a guide. Directions will do.’
Christian’s eyes flickered about, as if hoping assistance might arrive.
‘For Paris, they are simple enough. Follow the river east to the Place de Grève, which will make itself obvious by the presence of the Hôtel de Ville and the gallows. Turn due north and you will by turns find the Rue du Temple. You will pass an old chapel and a priory on your right. A little further and you’ll see the remains of the old city walls, beyond which lies the Temple itself. Just south of the old walls, on the west side of the street, you will find three fine houses in the new bourgeois style, not more than ten years old. You won’t mistake them for they’re dressed with an abundance of glass. The middle house is taller than the others and has a double façade. Carved in the lintel above the door are three honeybees. That is the Hôtel D’Aubray.’
‘It had better be.’
‘I hope the proximity of the Temple reassures you.’
‘Why would I be in need of reassurance?’
‘I meant only to be courteous, sire. Can I be of any further service?’
Tannhauser said, ‘You can tell me where to locate the Collège d’Harcourt.’
It was hardly the subtlest of snares but Petit Christian did not expect it. In the Louvre dissembling was so habitual some didn’t know when the canniest move was to be honest.
‘There are scores of colleges, sire. I’m afraid I know little about them beyond that most can be found on the Left Bank.’
‘I’m told it’s near a tavern called the Red Ox.’
‘Taverns outnumber the colleges ten to one, sire.’
Tannhauser didn’t speak.
Christian shuffled, as if unsure who had outwitted whom. He knew that Tannhauser already knew the location of both buildings, for he had seen him there. Yet he dared not say so. A profession of complete ignorance must have seemed the safest course, and he stuck to it.
Christian said, ‘Shall I make enquiries for you, sire?’
‘I’ll be making my own.’
Christian’s lies confirmed he had followed Tannhauser up to the moment he met Retz. The porter must have sent a messenger while Tannhauser was eating. What had Orlandu been doing to justify this espionage? The answer would have to wait. He was eager to see Carla and the details of her location he believed.
‘One last matter, but an urgent one. Your monkeys are dying of thirst.’
‘My monkeys, sire?’
‘See that they’re watered and fed. See to it now.’
Christian bowed as he retreated to a safe distance. He turned and scuttled away.
Tannhauser heard footsteps and the rattle of weapons and tack.
‘There he is, the swine.’
Tannhauser turned.
Four Huguenot nobles stood in a menacing formation. The eldest was the brawler from the yard; the youngest was a stripling. They were flanked by two Scots Guard. Dominic Le Tellier stood at the fore but off to one side. His features bore no trace of charity. One of the Huguenots held Grégoire by the scruff. A red welt from a slap marked the boy’s cheek. Tannhauser took a breath to gentle the sudden urge to violence in his chest.
‘So you’re men enough to best a helpless boy. Let him go.’
Dominic spoke up. ‘These noble gentlemen –’
‘These noble gentlemen will let the boy go.’
The Huguenot shoved Grégoire forward.
Tannhauser tilted Grégoire’s chin to examine the welt.
‘Are you all right, lad?’
Grégoire nodded.
‘Stand behind me.’
Tannhauser looked at Dominic.
‘Which of these great warriors struck him? Or did the Scots Guard need practice?’
‘I chastised him as he deserved,’ said Dominic. ‘He cheeked me.’
‘Can you quote him?’
‘Enough of this,’ said the brawler. ‘Let’s get to the business.’
‘Wait your turn or draw your sword,’ said Tannhauser.
The sword remained untouched. Tannhauser looked back to Dominic.
‘Grégoire is my lackey. I’ll do the chastising.’
Dominic dipped his head. ‘I was unaware, sire. I beg your pardon.’
Tannhauser said, ‘Let’s to the business.’
‘These noble gentlemen claim you have impeached their honour.’
‘All four of them? I didn’t know I’d had the chance.’
‘They are brothers,’ said Dominic. ‘A slur upon one is a slur upon all.’
Weighty texts expounded the formalities of the Code of the Duello, designed, like the laws of chivalry, and the supposed conventions of war, to preserve the illusions of those too civilised to celebrate pure savagery. Under the Code an insult might be offered by word or deed, and since the latitude extended to either category was wide, duelling was rife. Tannhauser had never taken part in a formal duel; he preferred to set to without the mummery. But unlike the violence indulged by the lower orders, the duel enjoyed the protection of the law, and this he was more than happy to accept.
Dominic indicated the brawler. ‘This is Benedykt of –’
‘Let him save his name for his tombstone,’ said Tannhauser.
This discourtesy further inflamed the b
rothers. Dominic began again.
‘Sieur Benedykt claims that you did injure him in an unjust, cunning and dishonourable manner. It is his right, therefore, without further debate or questioning, to challenge you to the combat – unless you decline the same by making satisfaction for the offence.’
The thought of Carla’s disapproval pierced Tannhauser’s conscience. If a formal apology, however insincere, would see him on his way, he owed it to her to make it.
He swallowed. ‘How might I give this gentleman satisfaction?’
He managed to make the word ‘gentleman’ sound like ‘turd’. All present noted it.
Benedykt stepped forward. ‘Submit the first finger of your right hand to be severed.’
Tannhauser felt a burden lift from his shoulders. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘A refusal would impute me liar,’ said Benedykt, ‘and in such a state life is unsupportable, till death terminates either my existence or yours.’
A second brother stepped forward.
‘However,’ said this one, ‘since the said dishonourable injury renders my brother unfit for combat, I, Octavien, as his second, claim the right to fight in his stead.’
Octavien was taller and leaner than Benedykt, younger by several years and a sight more handsome. He sported one of the long quadrate rapiers fashionable among those who had never seen a battlefield. The way he wore it said he fancied himself a swordsman. He weighed up Tannhauser’s shorter, broader, cut-and-thrust sword with confidence.
Tannhauser looked at Dominic. ‘Do you call this lawful?’
Dominic shrugged. ‘Seconds often enter the fight.’
Octavien said, ‘Consider my brother’s offer. In the Duello I have slain five men.’
Tannhauser laughed at him. He turned to Benedykt.
‘Let me see this crippling injury.’
Benedykt brandished his index finger in front of Tannhauser’s face. It was swollen like a bobbin and mottled black beneath the skin. Tannhauser grabbed it and wrenched it sideways. The pop echoed from the walls, as did Benedykt’s agony. Tannhauser felt sundry tissues and sinews snap their moorings. Benedykt fell to his knees, jaws clenched. Tannhauser looked at Octavien.
‘Walk away or I will kill you. Think of the stripling.’
Tannhauser nodded at the blond-haired youngster, who was terrified.