by Tim Willocks
‘His accent is subtle. Yours I can’t place, though it is less so.’
‘That at least does not surprise me.’
Tannhauser had spent the last seven years refining his command of French, a language he had previously found abominable but had come to love. That Carla was his primary instructor was not immaterial. He now thought in French. The course of his life could be plotted in the languages Fate had forced him to think in: German, Turkish, a confection of Italian dialects.
Tannhauser said, ‘You travelled a long way for a wedding, lad.’
‘We did not come for the wedding. Our good king, Sigismundus Augustus, is dead. Henri of Anjou has designs on his crown.’ Juste swung the retort from the lamp and emptied it in the dish. ‘The Lutheran electors sent my brothers to meet Anjou, to find out what kind of man he is. But we were never able to get past your friend Torcy. Benedykt was furious.’
‘Anjou doesn’t want to live in Poland,’ said Paré. ‘He considers them pig farmers.’
‘In Poland Catholics and Protestants do not fight endless wars. Our people are not starving. Our fields are not burned. We have not spent all our gold to pay Germans to destroy our country. And we have invented the means to dispose of our shit instead of letting it rot in heaps as it does inside the Louvre.’
Tannhauser, knowing him better, was more surprised by this than Paré.
‘I meant no disrespect to your great and famous nation,’ said Paré. ‘All you say is true. I pray God we had a statesman of Sigismund’s genius on the French throne, but we do not. I meant, as a point of fact, that it is Catherine who has designs on the Polish crown on her son’s behalf. She will persuade the Polish electors to choose him. And Anjou will obey his mother whether he likes Poland or not.’
‘Whereupon they’ll empty the Polish treasury of all but the mice droppings,’ said Tannhauser. ‘But Anjou is a degenerate. Why would the Poles want a king who dresses like a woman?’
‘That’s the question my brothers would have taken back to Krakow.’
Paré took the dish of warm wine and oxycrate and handed it to Tannhauser.
‘Enough politics. Soak the dressing. I will cut the poison from your son.’
Paré’s speed and decisiveness were marvellous. He opened the wound and trimmed the dead flesh until it bled, removed shreds of cloth, and through a second incision extracted a small iron ball, which he gave to Tannhauser.
‘A pistol bullet,’ said Tannhauser.
‘No powder burns, no wadding or patch in the wound. Shot from behind at some distance, at least twenty feet.’
‘A shot meant to kill, then.’
‘Most shots are,’ agreed Paré. ‘Unless he was an exceptional marksman.’
‘A marksman would know that the chances were greater of missing him or hitting him in the back. Yet they didn’t finish him.’
‘He also took a blow to the back of the head,’ said Paré. ‘We must assume to stun him. Who are “they”?’
Tannhauser said, ‘I don’t know.’
Paré completed the debridement and applied the concoction of Ægyptiacum. Orlandu tried to pull his arm away. The pain must have been exquisite yet at no point did he wake. The entire bottle of tincture must have gone down his throat.
‘I have dressed him,’ said Paré. ‘It’s up to God to heal him.’
Tannhauser grabbed a pair of gold coins from the lavender-scented purse, the clink of one against the other hard to resist. As he withdrew them, their weight told him they were Spanish double pistoles, double doubloons each worth twenty livres. Before he could drop one back, and the clink having revealed that he held two, thus making palming one appear devious, Paré had already extended his hand and raised an expectant brow. Tannhauser gave him the golden ounce. Paré’s smile must have been his first in at least two days.
The surgeon advised that it would be unwise to move Orlandu, at least before the youth awoke, if wake he ever did. For the moment Tannhauser did not have a safe place to move him to. Later in the day he could hire a wagon and take him to the Hôtel D’Aubray, or perhaps the Temple. Until then, Orlandu would have to convalescence at the centre of the carnage. It was a better spot than most. That there was no one left here to kill was general knowledge. Paré wouldn’t be taking to the streets until he received orders from the Louvre, and a guard to boot, and the King had much else on his mind.
‘With your consent I’ll post my man Stefano up here to ensure your safety. I can warrant he took no part in the massacre, should that ease your mind. Though no doubt he would have done so if ordered to.’
‘If you trust him with your son, I can hardly complain.’
‘Juste will stay here, too. As you have seen, he is an excellent companion.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Paré.
‘I want to come with you, sire,’ said Juste. ‘You made a promise. You killed my three brothers and you promised to protect me.’
Tannhauser became aware of Paré’s scrutiny. He felt the prestige he had taken such pains to establish wither beneath the surgeon’s gaze.
‘The brothers forced me into a duel. It had nothing to do with religion.’
‘No,’ said Juste. ‘You’d kill anyone.’
‘If I’d known you were Poles I might have been less harsh.’
‘Why? Because you despise us?’
‘Because men of the north ought to be allies.’
‘Then we should be allies, and I should come with you.’
‘Your wishes are immaterial.’
Paré said, ‘I hope mine are not. I have faith in my authority to protect my patient, while I’m here, but I can’t protect Juste.’
Tannhauser was about to point out that Stefano would do the protecting.
‘I’ve seen enough murder. I’m sorry.’
Tannhauser bowed. Paré was right. And were Juste to be exposed as a Lutheran, his presence could endanger Orlandu, too. He would take him.
‘Master Paré, I am in your debt.’
‘I thank you for protecting Coligny.’
‘Monsieur?’
‘I saw you from the window. You stopped them desecrating his body.’
‘An old soldier shouldn’t be treated that way. It means the world has no future worth knowing.’
‘The only future worth knowing is reunion with God.’
Tannhauser saw that the light outside had changed, from indigo to pale violet.
‘I’ll settle for reunion with my wife. There’s one last favour I will beg of you, though it’s an urgent one. Can you recommend a midwife?’
‘You wife is expecting a child that imminently?’
‘I can’t be that exact, but imminently enough.’
‘Then bring her to see me, the sooner the better.’
‘You’ll deliver our babe?’
‘Childbirth is the matter of my next book. I have skills no midwife can match.’
‘You’ve lifted a tombstone from my chest.’
‘Coligny’s wife is in the same advanced condition. He was planning to leave Paris to be with her for the birth. Instead . . .’
Tannhauser didn’t like this coincidence. It smacked of ill omen. He put his superstitions aside and acquired Paré’s address, on the Left Bank. He took his leave.
He went downstairs, past Cosseins’ guards. Gelid lumps of blood slithered under his feet. Ambroise Paré had agreed to deliver Carla’s baby. On reflection, he could think of no more valuable prize to have won. The man had written a book on the art. A book. Had anyone else in the world? Had anyone else even thought to do so? That sufficient knowledge on childbirth to fill a book existed at all was astounding enough. And Paré knew it all. It was as if the hidden motive driving Carla’s rash journey had at last been revealed. Having replaced a dire superstition with a more auspicious variant, he felt better.
Tannhauser resolved to be cheerful.
In the courtyard outside he found Stefano waiting in the dawn. The long light fell straight down the length of Rue B�
�thizy and the great swill of clotted gore that stiffened in the gutters and grouted the stones turned from black to russet as he watched. He motioned Stefano over and told him what he required. Stefano tightened his lips and without voicing his reluctance, bowed his assent.
‘Hold out your hand.’
Stefano did not need to be told twice. His demeanour changed to one of reverence as Tannhauser dropped a double pistole in his palm.
‘Have you ever held one of those before?’
‘Sire, I don’t even know what it is. But its weight is sweet.’
‘Half an ounce of Spanish gold at twenty-two karats. If it were any more pure it would melt in your fist. To you, it’s four hundred sols.’
A good month’s wages. Stefano didn’t speak.
‘If when next we meet, Orlandu has suffered no new harms and you are still by his side, you’ll get two more. If events force him to be moved, go with him. Whatever happens, do not leave him. You’re canny enough to stretch Lombarts’ orders as needed. Use Arnauld de Torcy as your warrant. If you and Orlandu do move, or if there’s anything else I should know, leave word for Mattias Tannhauser back at the gatehouse.’
‘Sire.’
As Stefano stepped back to salute, Tannhauser noticed that Coligny’s corpse had been tied by its feet with a rope. At the other end gaped a neck stump. Coligny’s head was nowhere to be seen. Tannhauser looked at the Swiss.
‘Guise’s followers,’ said Stefano. ‘The head is to be packed in salt and sent to Rome. A solemn promise made to the Pope, they said.’
‘I’m sure it will bring the pontiff great cheer.’
‘They said that, too.’
Juste said, ‘You fed my brothers to the dogs.’
‘Stefano, you may go.’ Tannhauser turned to Juste. ‘What?’
‘You despise the dishonouring of Coligny yet you fed my brothers to the dogs.’
‘Different principles at stake,’ blustered Tannhauser. ‘Different traditions.’
‘Is it because we are Poles?’
‘Of course not. I fancied you for Normans. You were fierce enough.’
‘Does the world have a future worth knowing when men feed each other to dogs?’
‘I know that too sharp a wit in the young portends an early grave, a fate you’ve avoided only narrowly at least twice.’
‘My brothers have no grave. Why should I deserve one?’
‘Dogs or maggots, your brothers came from Poland to die. Their names were writ in that book before they crossed the Oder.’
‘Perhaps your name, too.’
‘That page won’t be turned in Paris.’
‘You sound like Bendyckt.’
Tannhauser reflected that he had sounded like a lot of people recently. The printer. The circle around Retz advising the cull. Now, a belligerent Pole. That was the problem with living among people. One’s pettiness and the base unoriginality of one’s thoughts were exposed. He decided it was no apt time for the sympathy he felt for the boy.
‘You are a burden to me, but I will shoulder it. I’ve taken you behind my shield but you’re not my prisoner. If my company offends you, you’re free to seek your own way. But if we are to be in league, we must agree to stop these bickers. If not, Death will claim you like a bad debt. And with that, perhaps Grégoire too, for his character at least is not in question, much less his loyalty to a friend. Do you agree?’
‘I agree. I beg your pardon.’
‘You have it, free and full. And I beg yours, though I don’t expect it.’
Grégoire emerged around a corner leading an enormous grey mare.
The only horse of comparable stature Tannhauser had ever seen had been harnessed to a wagon hauling thirty hundredweight of cannonballs. She was, to be sure, an extraordinary animal, seventeen hands at least, with a Roman nose, a deep chest, tremendous hindquarters and extravagant white feathering over her hooves, which were the size of meat platters in circumference. Her hide showed numerous signs of ill use in a city too puny to appreciate her essence: the scabs, burns and gouges left by accidents; the vindictive slashes inflicted by humans offended by her passing; the marks the large of spirit bore in a world that wished them smaller.
All this called to Tannhauser. Yet, vanity being the humiliating affliction that it is, and having coveted the lustrous horseflesh of Guise’s crew, the scarred and lumbering mare fell short of his image of a mount on which to flaunt around Paris.
Somehow, Grégoire had managed to get a saddle on the beast.
‘Grégoire, that’s a carthorse. I can hardly see over her back.’
Grégoire babbled and Tannhauser wagged a finger at his ear.
Grégoire began again.
‘This is the best horse for you, sire. Look at her – calm, strong, fearless. All the others, the fine horses, were affrighted by the shooting, the smoke, the smell of blood. She was eating hay. The others are country horses, but she knows Paris. Nothing will scare her. Also, she will not run away when you leave her outside the tavern. Also, you will ride much higher above the shit. Also, Paris is crammed between every wall and every other wall with people, but Clementine will drive the rabble from your path.’
‘Clementine?’
Tannhauser had hoped at least for a suitably intrepid name.
‘You don’t like Clementine?’
‘I like it,’ said Juste.
They looked at Tannhauser as if awaiting the verdict of Solomon.
‘It’s the very name I would have chosen myself.’
He stood before the great creature and looked at her and let her size him up. Wisely, having no good reason at all to trust the likes of him, she grunted and reserved judgement. He murmured some endearments in Turkish and was rewarded with a whicker that made his chest vibrate. He took this for permission and swung into the saddle.
‘Grégoire, as a judge of horses you have no peer.’
The moment his arse hit the leather he knew the lad had picked a legendary steed. His thighs, his backbone, his heart, were connected to a massive force of life whose spirit was undaunted. The strength of his own spirit redoubled. Yet bells still tolled all over town and he had kept too many appointments he hadn’t made.
‘Grab a stirrup strap, lads, and hold on tight. Take me to the gallows.’
CHAPTER TEN
Out of the Strong
AT FIRST, THE streets were quiet. Any Sunday would have muted the turmoil of dawn; rumours of slaughter and rebellion must have prompted thousands more to stay indoors. Through a gap between the houses lining the Seine, Tannhauser saw a solitary boatman punt across the river. Seagulls patrolled the strand.
They began to pass armed citizens wearing white armbands, with white crosses pinned to their caps. Some carried flags so colourful they would have embarrassed an Austrian duke. No archers or crossbowmen; not the regular city guard. They roamed the wharves with the malign self-importance of those whose bigotries were backed by the state. The cross on Tannhauser’s chest was saluted with waves of their banners and spears.
By the time Clementine reached the Pont Notre-Dame the militia were stretching a chain across the road between iron hooks moored to the houses lining either side of the bridge. Tannhauser pressed on, though so many armed men now filled the thoroughfare he had to slow the carthorse to a walk lest she plough them down.
Grégoire had slung his shoes around his neck by the laces. He held onto them with both hands to avoid being kicked in the mouth. He let go and patted Clementine’s enormous shoulder.
‘A good choice, master?’
‘She must have been sired by Pegasus.’
The boy’s gums gaped in a warped grin. Tannhauser masked his disgust.
The Place de Grève opened before them. It was congested with bands of militia flying their colours. A pair of drummers practised a tattoo but no one marched. A preacher harangued the troops with apocalyptic fantasies. Cooks fired up their braziers. Enterprising drabs tried their luck. A miscellany of dogs scouted the doings with a no
se for scraps.
Tannhauser saw the gallows, the pale mare foaled by an acorn that had taken so many on their short last ride. The timbers were stained and saturated with the final evacuations of the doomed. Even at this distance, the stench of the distillate was piercing.
Beyond the gallows stood the half-built town hall, the Hôtel de Ville, where those who believed themselves the city’s best devised new catastrophes for its people. The façade was inscribed with the motto: ‘One king, one law, one faith’. Archers, crossbowmen and halberdiers were drawn up outside and passed a wineskin from hand to hand. Artillery crews manoeuvred eight bronze cannon. The church bells tolled.
Grégoire guided them north to the Rue du Temple. Like all but two or three of the largest streets its surface was unpaved. Here, too, an iron chain had been stretched across the street. A sentinel leaned on the shaft of a glaive whose tip stood an arm’s length taller than he. He held up one hand to stop them.
Tannhauser stared at him.
‘You’d best use that hand to lower the chain or I’ll cut it off,’ he said.
A diversity of expressions battled on the sentinel’s face, none suggesting the judgement he was in need of. Juste stepped forward to save the fellow pain.
‘If it please you, good sir, let me lower the chain for my master or he will slay you, and that would make seven the men he has slaughtered in less than half a day.’
Juste’s plea was so heartfelt that the sentinel tripped on the shaft of his spear in his haste to unhook the chain. Clementine clopped forward with a snort.
‘Tell me, sirrah,’ said Tannhauser, ‘what exactly are your orders?’
‘Hervé the plasterer at your service, sire! Our orders are to prevent the Huguenot rebels from escaping. Or from attacking. It is not certain which they intend, though it is certain that they intend evil.’
As far as Tannhauser’s eye could see, the Rue du Temple was deserted.
‘Has a rebel force been spotted?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sire, but I do know – everyone knows – that these devils have been sneaking in for years from all over the country. Normans. Southerners. Foreigners, too, of course, starving for blood and pillage. This here quartier – Sainte-Avoye – crawls with heretics. They’ve faggots and powder stashed in their own homes ready to burn the city down – that’s fanatics for you – just like in ’65, when they torched the windmills. Can’t trust your own neighbours. I had to sell a good coat to buy this spear, but you can’t put a price on safety –’