The Wolves of Paris

by Michael Wallace

  “Mine was injured, practically dead already.” Lorenzo looked at Montguillon. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Summon a priest, if there are any left.”

  “I’m all right,” Montguillon said, and pushed himself into a sitting position.

  To Lorenzo’s astonishment, he seemed to be telling the truth. The earlier wound at his neck bled through the strip of cloth. He suffered another gash at his collarbone, but the way Simon had buried his head at the prior’s throat, it was a miracle he was alive. And then, when the man rose, Lorenzo saw what had saved him. The jaws tore through the robe and cloak, but the hair shirt had stopped the attack. Made of uncured hide, it was like a thick leather pelt and the wolf’s snapping jaws hadn’t torn it away enough to deliver a killing bite.

  “You are one lucky bastard,” Marco said.

  “I am consecrated in the fight against Satan,” the prior said in a boastful tone. “Hell cannot stand against me.” He touched gingerly at the new wound. “Assuming Lady d’Lisle can apply her balm, I should be fine in a few days.”

  “Don’t you mean use her witchcraft?” Lorenzo said. “Or has she suddenly turned to a healing angel now that it’s convenient for your story?”

  “The Lord will heal me with whatever vessel he chooses. I told you, I have a mission to do His will.”

  The brothers stared at him.

  “Why did it have to be Simon who turned?” Marco asked. “Why couldn’t it have been the prior?”

  “So you wish to quench your sword against a man of the cloth?” Montguillon said. “Is that how far your blood lust has carried you?” He picked up his staff and pointed it down at the dead wolf.

  “There is not much difference between the carnal man and a wolf,” he added. “Both are consumed with animal hungers. Lust, gluttony, the love of power. Lorenzo, you of all people should know what it takes to purge those evil thoughts. But perhaps I was too easy on you before. When you next present yourself to Saint-Jacques—”

  Marco drew up next to the prior. “Listen to me, old man. He will not be setting foot in that place. And if you breathe one word of ill about my brother again, I swear before God I will hunt you down and tear your throat out myself.”

  Montguillon stared back, the arrogant expression never wavering. But he was wise enough not to respond.

  Marco nodded at Lorenzo. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

  Lorenzo couldn’t keep the grin off his face as the brothers hurried back toward the surface with one torch, while Montguillon fell behind, carrying the other.

  “Does this mean I can stop wearing the yellow cross?”

  Marco snorted. “Brother, if I see you wearing that thing again, I’m going to pin it to your ass and give it a good kick.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Five days after the final defeat of the wolves, and three days after Martin’s funeral, Lorenzo felt well enough to accompany Marco to Lord Nemours’s palatial manor on the western edge of the Cité. The wolves may have been defeated, but the pox still raged through Paris and the winds swept down from the north with a chill that penetrated to the bones. Few people braved the streets, and the cart clattered along empty streets.

  They had important, perhaps even crucial, business to attend to with the king’s provost, but Lorenzo couldn’t tear his thoughts from Lucrezia. Last night they had sat in her library, reading to each other for hours: Ovid, Virgil, Cicero. He read until his throat grew hoarse, then listened with his eyes closed as she read the Latin, her voice as clear and melodious as a silver bell. Well, it seemed that way to him, but he was admittedly biased.

  They were not betrothed, and now that matters had calmed, everyone seemed concerned that they have a chaperone at all times. Marco stayed with him most of the time, watching with a flinty eye and scowling when Lucrezia touched Lorenzo’s arm or leaned in to whisper something clever or risque in his ear. When Marco attended to business however, a servant stayed in their company. During these times, Lucrezia sometimes let Lorenzo steal a kiss.

  When he remembered these kisses, the cold wasn’t enough to stop the flush of warmth that worked up his cheeks. If only she were with him now, cuddled beneath the blanket. Instead, it was Marco sharing the blanket in the wagon, and that wasn’t quite the same thing, was it?

  This was Lucrezia’s business they were attending to, but she had assigned them as agents. And the thing about agents is that they had permission to be aggressive scoundrels on behalf of their client. The brothers had already used several tricks to get what they wanted and had a couple more to bring out when the time came.

  The cart rattled up to Nemours’s imposing home. Built of dressed stone, with three separate towers, and a curtain wall that was two stories tall itself, it dominated this end of the island. Nothing but a small army could breach those walls. It was only a fraction of the size of the chatelet in the countryside, but here in the city, looming above its surroundings, the home gave an impression of power and wealth. In Paris, only the palace of King Charles himself was its better.

  They climbed out of the wagon to approach the massive iron-bound doors. Two men stood with lowered pikes, glaring at them.

  “Ready, little brother?” Marco said.

  “Ready, my lord,” Lorenzo answered, his tone impudent. “Lead us to glory.”

  He and Marco were getting along so well these past few days that it was almost as if a lifetime of rivalry had been swept away. They weren’t elder and younger any longer, so much as partners and equals. This kind of talk was all in jest.

  “Remember, you’re in love with the woman,” Marco said, “so you’re soft, anxious to make a deal. I’m the hard one, skeptical.”

  “I’ll play it that way at first, but if he balks, I’m going to start frothing at the mouth and pretend I’m turning into a wolf.”

  ✛

  Lord Nemours’s bonhomie dissolved when he read through the contract. He’d welcomed them into his great hall with shoulder slaps of good cheer, and a few rousing comments about their glorious victory at Notre Dame.

  After killing Courtaud and Simon in the catacombs, Lorenzo, Marco, and Montguillon had reentered the cathedral to find the doors thrown open, a mob of Parisians with swords, spears, even stones pouring in to help finish off the last of the wolves. When it was over, Nemours lifted his sword in the air and shouted victory for Cross and King. To great cheers, he promised every man in the cathedral honors and wealth.

  Heroes of the realm, champions of the king. Ten silver livres for every man. No, twenty livres!

  Nemours’s expression as he sat across the table thumbing through the carefully written contract was of a man nursing a hangover.

  “All this for a bit of land and a couple of castles?” he muttered.

  “That bit of land is some of the richest in Touraine,” Marco said. “Sixteen hundred acres of vineyards alone. Plus a hunting forest, trade privileges in the Hanseatic League, a toll bridge in Lombardy, and a Norman quarry. Another estate in Burgundy.”

  “I notice you’re keeping Ducy’s library, though.”

  “Lady d’Lisle is attached to her books,” Lorenzo said. He leaned across the table. “We’re anxious to settle. With Lord d’Lisle’s lands added to your own, you’d be the second richest man in France. Rich as a Medici, almost.”

  “But I can’t pay for this. I’ve loaned so much to the king for the war, I’d be hard-pressed to set ten silver pennies end to end. And still the king presses me for more.” He rested his hands on the contract. “I can’t manage these sums. It’s impossible.”

  “What sums could you manage?” Lorenzo asked with a side glance at Marco, whose face immediately affected a scowl.

  “There is no managing,” Marco said. “We’ll search for another buyer if Nemours can’t raise the sums. But look, my lord. We’ve arranged for payment on contract.”

  “I saw that. Fifteen hundred florins a year rent? That’s how many livres?” Nemours’s eyes drifted to the wooden ceiling panel
s, lips moving as he calculated to himself. “Outrageous.”

  “They’re rich lands.”

  “Not that rich, by God.”

  “In a good year they bring in twenty-seven hundred florins,” Marco said.

  “And in a bad year I’ll be eating turnips. My wife would kill me if I took that risk.” Nemours paused. “Twenty-seven hundred you say?”

  Lorenzo consulted the sheaf of papers in front of him. “Last year, the d’Lisle estates brought in 2,727 florins. This year, with improvements to the Touraine vineyards, we’re expecting an increase of twelve percent.”

  Nemours gave a low whistle.

  “Still. I need how much up front?” The provost looked at the papers. “I can’t send you back with that much gold. I simply don’t have it.”

  “Ah, but you’re the king’s provost,” Lorenzo said. He reached across the table and tapped one of the subclauses of the contract. “We’ll waive the initial payment if you’ll covenant to ten years of advantageous terms on the tolls between Florence and Paris, and guarantee our security whenever we’re in French territory. We’ll save a fortune on armed guards.”

  “Hmm, I hadn’t noticed that.” Nemours peered more closely.

  Marco grumbled. “That’s my brother’s doing. I don’t trust that clause—it relies too much on other people. Who can guarantee the tolls? Other lords own those bridges and castles.”

  “I’m anxious to get this matter settled and bring Lucrezia home,” Lorenzo said.

  “Too anxious, Brother.”

  “I won’t leave her here.”

  “You won’t have to,” Marco said. “Edmund will manage the Ducy estates in our absence.”

  “Edmund?” Nemours growled. “Who the devil is that? Sounds English.”

  “He is English,” Marco confirmed. “From Calais, but loyal to the French crown. He has spent many years in the Boccaccio employ and is trustworthy. He’s our replacement for Giuseppe Veronese and Luc Fournier.”

  Edmund of Calais may have been trustworthy, but he pursued business concerns with a certain dogged lack of imagination. At nearly sixty years of age and losing his hearing, there was no way they’d trust him with the sum total of their own investments, let alone Lucrezia’s. But Nemours didn’t know that.

  Marco pushed away from the table. “We’ll always remember the valiant way you led us to victory, my lord. But you understand that we are the lady’s agents in this matter. We have a duty to gain her the best possible terms. Rigord Ducy’s son-in-law has already inherited the duke’s title—perhaps he will consider taking on these terms for the land. Lorenzo, it’s time to go.”

  He tugged at his brother’s elbow to bring him to his feet. Lorenzo rose with a sigh of disappointment.

  “Wait,” Nemours said.

  The brothers sat back down, Lorenzo quickly, and Marco feigning reluctance.

  The provost picked up a bell on the table and rang it. A man entered, wearing a green and red tunic, long flowing locks from a head that looked too long for a slender neck, and sharp eyes. Nemours rose and met the man by the door, where they engaged in an intense, whispered conversation.

  “Are we close?” Lorenzo asked Marco in a low voice.

  “It’s done. Nemours has to figure out how to manage it, is all.”

  “I’ll bet he wishes he had back all that silver he was tossing around the other night.”

  Nemours returned to the table, looking surprisingly smug. His servant shut the door quietly behind him as he left the room.

  “It seems you have overlooked the small question of inheritance,” the provost said. “Now, given the unusual situation—Lord d’Lisle still alive after he’d been declared dead, but given over to witchcraft and thus an ex-communicant on death—it’s questionable whether his adult children have any claim on this fortune. I believe that if I approach the king on your behalf, he’d agree to a transfer with a minimal fuss. It might cost you something, though.”

  Lorenzo smiled. He reached into his purse and retrieved a letter marked with the seal of King Charles. He handed it to Nemours.

  “As you can see,” Marco said, “we’ve already settled that question. You didn’t think we’d make this offer without clarifying the lady’s rights and responsibilities, did you?”

  Nemours read it over, sputtering. “How in hell did you manage this?”

  “His highness already owes us 11,000 florins, but as you said, he’s still short of funds to prosecute his war against the English. We arrived in Paris in possession of the necessary cheques, pledges, and contracts to assist him in his acquisition of debt.”

  Nemours stared. “You bloody Italians. No wonder you own half the damn world. You would sign a deal with the devil himself.”

  “That depends,” Marco said. “What are the terms?”

  A broad smile stretched across Nemours’s face. He slapped his hands on the table. “All right. I know when I’ve been beaten. Where’s my man? Let’s sign and notarize this contract before you swindle me any further. Another five minutes and you’ll walk out of here carrying my balls.”

  “Our caravan is already loaded for the return trip,” Lorenzo said. “If we tried to squeeze in your balls, our carts would sink into the mud.”

  Nemours roared with laughter. “Well said, noble Florentine, well said.” He rang the bell. “Someone bring us a bottle of wine! We’re dying of thirst in here.”

  ✛

  An hour later, contracts signed, heads light from Nemours’s wine, the brothers emerged into the chill courtyard full of good cheer.

  “For all his protests, Nemours is a wily old fox,” Lorenzo said. “All of that handed to him, with nothing up front. Only a paid escort to get us out of France. I’d say he made out pretty well.”

  “And so did you, Brother,” Marco said. “Fifteen hundred in rents a year. All you and Lucrezia have to do is sit in Florence and wait for it to flow into your accounts. How many blasted trips will I make to these frozen northern cities to earn the same?”

  “If you think I’m going to retire to a country estate like some Roman senator, you don’t know me very well. Someone in the family needs to keep an eye on how you manage the business. I’ll be with you on those northern trips.”

  “And leave your lovely lady alone at home while every flatterer in Italy tells her how beautiful she is? You’re a trusting man, Lorenzo. Or a fool.”

  “I’m not so worried about the flatterers.”

  He thought of the way Lucrezia scowled when someone remarked on her beauty. Then he thought of the way she sighed and looked at him when he recited Petrarch or Cicero. There were plenty of literate men in Italy.

  “All the same,” Lorenzo said with a wink at his brother, “Maybe she would be safer with us on the road.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Marco finally relented when the Florentine wagon train left Dijon. A week and a half on the road, plodding south with carts heavily laden with cloth, hides, and furs, and Lucrezia was already tired and ready for home.

  It had been early February before they left Paris. Even with the brothers working twenty hours a day, it was no trivial task to complete all the hiring, trading, contracts, and the hundred other things to get them back on the road. Together with selling her home and lands to Lord Nemours, Lucrezia needed to pack her library and wardrobe in trunks, distribute alms, and give her goodbyes to the friends she had made over the past few years. When at last they set out, the long-awaited thaw had arrived and the roads were muddy and slow.

  Lorenzo brought up the subject of betrothal, but his brother wouldn’t have anything to do with it. It wasn’t all Lorenzo’s idea. Lucrezia whispered this thought in his ear when they had a few moments of semi-privacy.

  “A betrothal changes everything, you know,” she said. “As a widow, all we need is a contract, and the permission of the church.”

  “Don’t forget my brother’s permission, too. He answers for the family.”

  “So get it,” she urged. “Three mor
e weeks to Italy—we could share lodging.”

  She delighted in the way Lorenzo’s face flushed when she said these things. In her own way she was teasing him as much as Marco, when the older brother pretended he didn’t understand the urgency. And it was almost more arousing to be so close to her love without being able to consummate it. Almost.

  Every time they passed a new village, stopped in to confess and take mass, Lorenzo would bring up the subject with his brother. Marco kept putting him off.

  On the tenth afternoon, after another long, tiring day on the road, Marco brought his horse back to where Lorenzo and Lucrezia rode. She’d tired of sitting in a cart, and with no fussy Dominicans around, had even put on leggings underneath her houppelande so as to be able to ride astride the horse like a man. Four of Nemours’s men-at-arms rode behind them, guarding the rear of the train, but she ignored their stares.

  “Well, my young lovers,” Marco said. “I received some news from the road ahead that you might find interesting.”

  “Does it have anything to do with wolves, Dominicans, or the plague?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Good news, Brother. Care to guess what it is?”

  “Let’s see. We’re still two hours from the next village. My first guess is nothing, but you’re bored and want to kill time by luring me into a guessing game.”

  “What? Would I ever do that?”

  “All right, get it out. What did you hear?”

  Marco reached a gloved hand into his cloak and pulled out a sealed letter. “It’s a letter from Lucrezia’s father.”

  “Father!” she said, her heart pounding.

  “Ah, ah,” he said, snatching back the letter as she pulled her horse closer and reached out a hand. “It’s not for you, it’s for me.”

  Marco turned it over in his hand and rubbed his thumb along the wax seal, not yet broken.

  “Dated only six days ago,” he said. “I wonder what it could say. I did send him a letter by fast courier the instant we left Paris. He must have answered the very same day he received it.”

  A sudden aching loneliness for home rose in her breast. Her parents and her brothers had written her many times, of course, but conversations took place over months, as mail packets traveled with the next available wagon train for Tuscany. Only once had they indulged in the luxury of a fast courier, and that was to announce the birth of her niece, the first grandchild in the family. Even when her uncle passed away from consumption she’d heard the news three weeks after his Requiem Mass.