by Tim Willocks
Grymonde doubted that the King’s decree was genuine. The country was ruled by imbeciles, true; but any dumb beast could see that killing forty thousand citizens would gut the city. When they reached the Rue Saint-Martin, his doubts were removed.
He stopped and his followers halted behind him, and they stared up like witnesses to some shared hallucination as, on the parapet of a four-storey building, militiamen shoved a family from the roof.
The children went first, one by one. Saint-Martin was one of the few paved streets, and three small bodies already lay on the flagstones, stunned and shattered, or dead. Four more followed, whimpering, bewildered, terrified as much by the shouts of the Sunday soldiery as by the prospect of the drop. The speed at which they fell perplexed Grymonde’s senses: at the same time much slower and much faster than he expected. They fell in silence, perhaps that was it; as if holding their breaths; as if it were some daring game with a jolly outcome. Their clothes fluttered briefly; their legs broke; their heads bounced and split apart to discharge their brains. It occurred to Grymonde that their end, ghastly as it was, was swifter than that which his own victims had met at the Hôtel D’Aubray.
The women were next, three of them. They filed from the low doorway of a garret with their hands clasped before them, praying as they sobbed, and they went to their deaths with a dignity that put their murderers to shame, though of shame the latter showed not a trace. The women believed in something Grymonde did not, and he thought of Carla, and the shame became his, and the rats inside him bared their teeth and started to gnaw.
He looked back at his tatterdemalions. The diversity of their feelings could only be guessed at, but many eyes turned to him, as if for guidance, and he could not give it. He turned away.
Two Huguenot men holding bibles plunged from the roof; then the militia ducked into the garret and the roof was empty. Piteous groans drifted from the tangled pile.
Grymonde chewed his tongue. He looked up and down the street. Other groups of militia – four, five – were breaking down doors with spear butts and axes, and dragging folk outside, whereupon they slaughtered them.
A great confusion overwhelmed him. His heart banged on his ribs like the knock of some infernal bailiff on the gatehouse of his soul. He heard the sound of his mother’s voice but not her words. He had spent his life in loving her and not listening; and though she had loved him through all, she had not listened either: to his rage at not being the man he might have been; though what that man was, he himself had forgotten long ago.
A weight lay in his gut like a sow of lead; he had carried it all day. He had borne that same burden only once before and, there was no mistaking it, for nothing else on earth was so heavy. He was in love with Carla. On the part of whichever demon played such pranks, it was a good one; not least because this time, unlike the last, he had no doubt as to the woman’s true worth.
‘Chief?’ said Bigot.
Grymonde flapped a hand to silence him; but Bigot was right. There was the business in hand. The militia emerged from the house opposite, empty-handed but for their half-pikes, and they stabbed the broken and scattered bodies in the street. The groans of those yet alive ceased. The militiamen moved on to other atrocities.
Grymonde had never felt more like a king. He had roused his people to action with a confection of fine fancies that served his own vanity and which would damn their souls. He could have ordered them to turn back and go home. He could have spun some other fancy to justify it. Like the people of any king, eating shit was the one thing they could be counted on to do. But that decision would inaugurate the beginning of the end of his reign. A true king would have laid down his crown, though which king had ever done so, except at the point of a knife? His kingdom was miserable and fleeting, though which was not, even should it encompass the world?
He loved Carla, and in that cause, and without a qualm, he would have laid down all he had. But there was nothing that could serve that cause. Carla would consider it no decision at all, but only that which ought to be done on the instinct of decency.
Rage could lighten the weight that oppressed his entrails. He knew that. The practice of evil could dull the pain of love better than any physic. He knew, too, because Alice had taught him, that evil was not some eternal essence on its own account, but merely a craft – a practice, a tool – designed like many others by the race of men to advance their power. And like any other king, what else could he lay claim to but the power to do wrong?
Perhaps that was a king’s duty. Their habits suggested so.
The king turned to his army. Some had made their own decision and were scuttling away. He didn’t stop them. He looked at Bigot. Bigot took a step back without knowing it and stared at Grymonde’s chest.
‘Elect one band to yonder house to reap the pillage,’ said Grymonde. ‘Another to follow the militia and scavenge their droppings. Tell ’em to keep it sly. We’re going on.’
Bigot nodded. Grymonde looked at his rabble. His spell had waned. He was king not of lions but of crows. They needed to spill some blood. The weight inside him was heavy. His heart kicked his chest. He waved them on.
They got their blood. The streets were soon awash with it. It filled the iron-hard wheel ruts in the mud; it brimmed from doorsteps; the noonday sun baked it into enormous glazed platters that crackled underfoot. Killing for kings, killing for duty, killing for gold, killing for pleasure, killing for creed, it was all much the same; and much of it there was to be had, and much was done. Grymonde had never been for a soldier; he preferred to die for his own crimes than be gutted for someone else’s; yet here he was doing a soldier’s work, killing his enemy’s enemies for money he would never spend, turning boys into murderers and worse. Like dogs gone crazed in a field of sheep which slaughter without eating, they forgot they were here to profit, and the carts remained half-empty. On and on it went in the foetid heat, house to house, street to street, family to family, the beggars competing in atrociousness with the militia they despised, and grease and sweat ran from Grymonde’s pores, and he lost his mind. He had no purpose of his own in all this; yet he stayed; he exhorted; he inspired. And he was not alone. Here, two priests wandered the carnage, sprinkling the butchers with Holy Water from buckets plated with gold. There, a bevy of armed nobles sat their mounts and watched as if at a tourney, until boredom drove them on to other pleasures. A herald rode up in a uniform that must have cost more than his horse and blew a trumpet, as if God were a comedian and this a bold satire He Himself had writ upon His Judgement, and in the King’s name the herald told them all to stop, and they pelted him with rocks and turds and drove him away, for here Death was king and god both, and all of them his loyal subjects, the living and the slain alike.
Grymonde’s army dwindled.
They stuffed their shirts, mostly with bright trash, and sneaked away.
Grymonde didn’t stop them.
He lost track of the carts and didn’t care.
The weight in his gut got heavier. His vision blurred and the images crafted by evil multiplied in his brain. He clapped a hand to his eyes. He no longer needed to see the depravity; he was no longer even part of it; rather, he contained it: all of it, the blood, the vomit, the tears, the shit, the screams; it was all of it awash and reeking in the cesspit of his being. He stumbled through an open porch to escape the carnival, but in this deplorable home no escape was to be found.
Bloody bodies littered the hallway in puddles of gore. From the parlour came coarse grunts and piteous whimpers. Conscience had been hatched to keep the poor at heel, for the rich never jumped to its sting, and so he had always disdained it, blunted it, silenced it. He told himself to find some other refuge. He drew his twin-barrelled pistol from under his shirt and lowered both hammers to their wheels.
He barged into the parlour.
Papin held a young woman face-down over a table, while Bigot grasped her buttocks in his meaty, bloody hands and raped her. His face was bright red with sunburn and the strain of t
rying to pump out his seed, for this victim was not his first. They both looked at him, startled.
‘Leave her be,’ said Grymonde. ‘We’re going home.’
‘What, now?’ gasped Bigot. His thrusts became more frantic.
Papin stepped away from the table.
‘Marshal the carts and the crew. And leave her be.’
‘Papin’s already taken his turn.’
‘I said leave her be.’
‘You said share and share alike –’
Grymonde shot him in the face. Bigot flew backwards and hit the floor without a twitch. Grymonde looked at Papin through the powder smoke. Papin stared at Bigot, panting with shock. He spun towards the door without facing Grymonde.
‘Papin.’
Papin stopped on the threshold, too afraid to turn.
‘The carts. The crew. Take them home.’
Grymonde pointed the pistol at the head of the girl and fingered the second trigger. She raised her face up and recoiled, more at the sight of him than at that of the gun bore. He hesitated. What was he doing? The girl looked at him again. Her eyes pleaded for mercy, but whether that meant life or death he couldn’t tell. He locked the hammer back, returned the pistol to his belt. He took the girl by the arm and pulled her to her feet.
‘Can you walk?’
He didn’t ask her name and the girl didn’t give it. She said nothing at all, and neither did he. As they threaded the maze towards Les Halles the streets became quiet, if not peaceful. Too much dread infested every building to leave any room for peace. A knot of militia approached them, heading for the killing grounds. Grymonde gave them the stare and they looked at their feet and trotted on by. His mind cleared. The pressure behind his eyes eased and his vision steadied.
He stopped at the Church of Saint-Leu and turned to the girl.
‘You’ll find sanctuary here, if you want it.’
‘Must I be baptised?’
‘Father Robert is no zealot. We’ll ask.’
The girl nodded without looking up at him.
The interior was gloomy and he heard a swell of fearful murmurs and cries of alarm before he saw them: the church was packed with refugees. The terror his entrance had inspired in their throats was reflected in their faces. Wounded lay on the floor and an old priest stooped among them with a jug, and he must have been deaf for he didn’t turn. A second priest, much younger, pushed his way down the aisle. He was appalled and he was angry, and he made no effort to hide it. Grymonde knew his reputation: devout, but a man of true charity. He did not reflect on the priest’s probable opinion of him.
‘Father Robert, I’d be grateful if you’d shelter this girl.’
Robert bowed to the girl. He gestured towards the aisle. She hesitated.
Grymonde said, ‘She’s afraid you’ll make baptism the price of her safety.’
‘Mademoiselle, you are welcome here without any conditions.’
The girl burst into tears. Robert beckoned to some women. Two hurried over, attempting to mask the disgust they felt at approaching Grymonde. They escorted the girl away to join the rest.
‘She’s been ill used,’ said Grymonde.
‘I will not ask by whom. She’ll be handled gently here.’ Robert glanced at the bloodstains on Grymonde’s shirt. ‘You’re the one they call the Infant.’
‘My name is Grymonde.’
‘The one is as black as the other. Now you may leave. You frighten them.’
Grymonde found himself unhitching his purse.
‘Keep your blood money,’ said Robert. ‘Satan’s coin will not buy your salvation.’
‘I seek no salvation, least of all from this house of lies. I’ll pay the Devil his due in whichever coin he wants, though I dare say he’s in my debt by now. Keep your scorn for the next time you kiss your bishop’s ring, and hear me out. This madness – this Catholic madness – will go on for days, and where and how far it will go, no one can foretell. The door of this church is held safe only by words –’
‘God’s word.’
‘Few are marking His word today, and among those preaching a different gospel are a number of your own Roman brethren. So mark a word of good sense. Hire a sergent to stand watch. I’ll send one over. I needn’t tell you none will do it for free.’
Grymonde shoved the purse into Robert’s chest.
‘Christ will forgive you for paying in Satan’s coin,’ said Grymonde, ‘even if your pride won’t. Besides, you’ve got mouths to feed, and none will do that for free either.’
Robert took the bag. Its weight surprised him. Grymonde turned to leave.
‘I will say a Mass for your mother –’
‘My mother doesn’t need your gibberish.’
‘Then I’ll pray for your black soul –’
‘Just hire the sergent.’
On a Sunday Les Halles was like a heart that had stopped beating. The rest of the week, it pumped the lifeblood of the city: the vast tonnage of food that Paris shovelled down its gullet between one dawn and the next. Each night thousands of beasts bearing flesh and organs to suit every pocket were driven down the Rue Saint-Denis to the reeking abattoirs, and to the shambles where the animals were butchered in the open street. With them came scores of wagons loaded with fish, fowl and game, greengrocery, wine, and above all grain, for Parisians loved bread more than God.
With a shrewd eye for making a fortune, King Francis had ordered the rebuilding of the whole neighbourhood in ’43, the year that Grymonde had been born. They’d been rebuilding ever since and still weren’t done.
He’d learned to run and talk and steal and sell in an enchanted land of demolition and construction. He’d watched buildings he loved torn down, and buildings he loved rise up in their place. He’d mixed mortar and dug footings and hauled bricks and timber and lead; for pennies. If they’d knocked it all down and started all over again, Grymonde could have told them how to do so as well as any other living man, and would have made a better job of it than most. But he was from the Yards and a bastard, and his mother some villain’s doxy, so digging was all he was fit for.
Even so, he loved it all.
Les Halles, as locals loosely marked it, was bounded on the north side by the Truanderie, on the east by Saint-Denis down to the Châtelet, on the west by the cheesemongers, and on the south by the old salt works near the river. It was at once vast and intricate. The new markets were covered galleries devoted to every variety of produce, and not foodstuffs alone, but leathers and furs and fabrics, cutlery, shoes and exotic birds. Above the galleries were dwellings, and interspersed among them were churches, houses and hôtels, the public fountain, the octagonal tower of the pillory, and the remnants of the old market and its workshops.
On a Sunday the roar of multitudes, human and animal, surrendered to the relative quiet of watchmen, promenaders, young lovers and delinquent children. Today only the watchmen were left, reinforced by a larger than usual contingent of sergents à verge from the Châtelet. The Huguenots en masse, and sundry unlucky Catholics, might be dying in their thousands in their own homes, but nothing could be allowed to threaten the markets.
Grymonde nodded to various of the sentries as he passed by. They knew he paid the bite when it was proper; they knew his interests lay elsewhere; indeed, various of their employers sold his goods, often more than once if they were willing to let him know to whom they had sold them. They were all partners in the neverending crime that was Paris.
Grymonde spotted Sergent Rody outside a cutler’s shop.
‘We’re in for a spot of rain,’ said Rody, nodding east.
‘A dry post awaits you. Father Robert needs a watchman at Saint-Leu. He’ll pay whatever you’re drawing to stand here. If you can’t claim both wages, you should retire.’
‘I heard he was harbouring heretics.’
‘You don’t care if they live or die, so why not?’
‘I’ve got orders not to care, but when did you become a samaritan?’
‘If you don’t
want the job, I see three from here who’ll take it.’
‘Oh, I’ll take it,’ said Rody. ‘The militia won’t violate the church. They’ve too much else to do. I wouldn’t trust them to shovel shit without getting it stuck between their teeth, but they’ve strong stomachs, I’ll give ’em that.’
‘The Châtelet’s keeping its nose out?’
‘When this is over the militia will go home. We can’t. We’ll be back to collecting fines next week. Wouldn’t do for us to be seen as a gang of murderers, even by murderers.’
‘Men of principle, then.’
Rody laughed. ‘We kept the militia away from the market or they’d have left it covered in corpses. We moved out all the Huguenot tenants ourselves, quietly like, and handed them over to Garnier and Crucé. Le Tellier’s orders. Meek as lambs they went. Thought they were going to prison, the Conciergerie. Well, they were, but when they got there they were butchered, underground. And they threaten us with Hell, eh? Garnier said he’d sworn an oath to Saint-Jacques that he’d send a hundred to the Devil by his own hand. We gave him a good start.’
Grymonde had ordered the pig roast from Garnier’s abattoir that morning.
Rody winked. ‘It’s an ill wind but it’ll blow good for some. The Crown will auction off the empty premises. The goods inside won’t last that long – if you’re interested.’
‘I know where to find you. I’ve had my drink of havoc up and down.’
‘It’s a quiet day, for us, funnily enough,’ said Rody. ‘The city’s tight as a drum. All the gates are locked.’
‘All the gates?’
‘All of ’em. They’ll open just the Porte Saint-Denis at midnight. Can’t leave a thousand cattle to strip the faubourgs clean. Besides, they can butcher Huguenots, but we can’t eat ’em.’
‘Anything else on the wind?’
‘The King wants the rioting to stop, if you want to spread the word.’
Rody smirked. Grymonde didn’t smile.
‘There is one sniff worth a few francs,’ said Rody. ‘A peculiar item, given, as you say, havoc up and down. A man someone wants to find.’