The Eloquence of Blood cdl-2

by Judith Rock

  “I do need it.” Jean kissed Marin and smoothed the white hair back again. “Reine knows.”

  Charles stopped. “What does Reine know?”

  “She saw. But she didn’t tell Marin. That was good. But when he came to himself-he did sometimes-he remembered that she’d had it.”

  “Reine had it? Had what?”

  “Not Reine.” Jean held out his left hand and showed Charles the little heart resting on his palm. “Martine stole it.” He closed his fist tight around the heart. “She stole it years and years ago, but now I have it back.”

  Charles gaped at him. “Martine? You knew Martine?”

  Jean began to cough again, doubling over until his forehead rested on Marin’s body. Realization washed over Charles and nearly turned him sick. Understanding came, but not like light, only deeper and more mournful darkness.

  “You killed Martine,” Charles whispered. “You’re Tito.”

  “I didn’t mean to kill her! The heart was mine, not hers! They beat me when I tried to take it back. Then I wanted to give it to Marin. And God wanted it, too. I went to Martine’s house and the angels unlocked the door and took the bar away. I went up to her chamber, but she wasn’t there and I couldn’t find my heart. Then I heard her outside, talking to someone. So I waited, and when she came in, I asked her for it. She said terrible things and hit me. I was only trying to cut the ribbon, but-” He shuddered and his fever-bright eyes pleaded with Charles to see the right of his complaint.

  “Reine recognized the heart,” Charles said relentlessly. “She knew you took it from Martine.”

  “It was mine! I took it for him, I loved him, he called me his son. He wore it around his wrist because the ribbon was too short for his neck. But when he remembered he’d seen it on Martine”-tears glistened in Jean’s cavernous eyes-“he called me a murderer and beat me with his stick. I thought he was going to kill me. I won’t let anyone take it away from me, not ever again!”

  Keeping his eyes on the knife Jean still held, Charles moved a little nearer.

  Jean brought the knife up, pointing at Charles. His eyes glittered, but with rage now, not tears. “I’ll kill you if you try to take it. Like I had to kill the other man. I was sorry. But he saw her dead. I knew he’d tell someone and they’d take my heart again.”

  “Who saw you kill her?” Charles kept his tone quiet and even. He thought he heard a rustling sound in the passage to the cave but didn’t dare take his eyes from Jean.

  “He didn’t see that. If he’d seen that, he would have known it was an accident, he only saw her fall down when I cut her. But he ran away. I had to chase him and it made me cough so hard I thought I would die, too.” Jean began to cough again, and blood from his mouth spattered Marin’s chest.

  Charles moved almost quicker than sight, circling to come behind Jean and take the knife. But a new scream, one that might have risen from hell, filled the cave and spun him toward the entrance. Reine burst from the darkness, pulling her own small knife from the scarves wound around her waist, and flung herself on Marin’s killer.

  “He loved you, he loved you like a son!”

  The man who had arrived with her tried to grab her, but he was too late. Jean lurched sideways and Reine’s thrust went over his head, sending her off-balance. Jean sliced upward with his own blade and ripped through her layered clothes as she fell. Then he reared onto his knees, gripping his knife in both hands, ready to stab downward, but Charles and the other man caught his wrists. Charles jerked him backward, away from Reine, who was lying across Marin’s legs, and twisted his arms until the knife dropped from his hand. Charles was pulling at the cincture around his cassock, thinking to restrain Jean with it, when the other man dropped to his knees beside Jean.

  “See to Reine,” he cried, “I’ll manage this one.”

  Recognizing the man as Richard, the beggar with the fleur de lys branded on his cheek, Charles left Jean to him and went to Reine. She was struggling to sit up, feeling herself for wounds.

  He knelt beside her. “Are you hurt, Reine? Can you walk?”

  She shook her head. “I am not hurt. Not my body. He only tore my finery.” Her face crumpled and she tenderly folded Marin’s hands across his breast. “My poor Marin, my poor old darling.” She bent and laid her cheek on his veined, dirty hands. “He loved his damned Jean, he called him his angel. God forgive me!” She straightened, crooning and rocking, lost in tears, stroking Marin’s hands and smoothing his hair.

  Leaving questions for later-or never-Charles said the prayers for the dead. The other beggars, still hanging back in the safety of the shadows, drew closer and joined him where they could, filling the cave with murmuring echoes. It seemed to Charles that he’d done little else these last days but pray for the dead and those in danger of death. But then, who was not in danger of death? And what was his business, if not to pray? When he finished, he went back to Jean. The beggar Richard was sitting beside him, and the boy was shaking with fever now, coughing and exhausted. Charles took off his cloak and covered him.

  Richard said, “He’s had the lung sickness awhile now. I think it won’t be long until he goes where he’s going.”

  Charles nodded and watched the other beggars slip away, glad to have them gone before he summoned La Reynie.

  Reine wiped her face on her skirts. “Get Nicolas, Richard,” she said, holding something out to him. “Take this, he’ll know it. Bring him here. Only him, do you understand?”

  Richard jumped up and took the square of wood she held out. He peered at it and shook his head in wonder. “It’s exactly like Marin. It’s your best, I think.”

  “He was my best. My mark is on the back. Give it only to Nicolas.”

  “No, Reine, I’ll go,” Charles said. “They won’t let Richard in.” He moved so that he could see what Reine had given the man and caught his breath. The face carved in a few inches of heavily grained wood was Marin to the life. “It’s beautiful,” he said, marveling at her skill.

  Reine took a deep, steadying breath. “When they see my mark, they will let Richard in. I want you to stay here, maitre; I have things to say before Nicolas comes.”

  Richard took a last look at Jean, who was shivering and murmuring to himself under Charles’s cloak, and put the carving inside his jacket and went. Charles poked at the nearly dead fire with his foot and took refuge for the moment in the mundane.

  “Where do you get wood?” he said. “From the workmen’s store?”

  Reine pointed to the place where Charles had entered the cave. “There is kindling there, beside the archway from the passage. And a few bigger pieces, too.”

  Charles went to the archway and returned with an armload of wood. “All from the workmen?” he said, putting the wood down near the makeshift hearth.

  She smiled a little, one hand resting gently on Marin’s still chest. “The workmen leave much that is useful. When things disappear, they accuse the apprentices of taking them to sell. When the apprentices swear that we are the thieves, the masters hit them for lying. But we usually stay here only when the men are not working. With fire, it’s none too bad. They even leave buckets and there is water down at the Saint-Severin fountain.”

  “I would guess, too, that there is another way out of here?”

  “Of course.”

  The fire blazed up, crackling and spitting, and Charles settled beside her on the floor, but where he could see Jean, who seemed to be sleeping now.

  “I am so sorry about Marin,” he said. And sorry for thinking he was a killer, he added silently. “This Jean. He is really Tito? Martine Mynette’s servant?” He shook his head, still hardly able to believe it.

  Reine nodded.

  “You knew who he was all along.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know until I was in the passage and heard him speak that he’d killed Martine. May heaven forgive me, I thought Marin had killed her.” She bent and kissed the old man’s cooling cheek. “I would see Jean when I visited Renee. And I’d seen M
artine’s little necklace once or twice-in summer, when she wore her bodices cut lower.” She sighed. “My poor Marin had seen it, too. Marin and I used to beg there often enough, winter and summer, and the girl would bring us out clothes and food. She was very properly brought up. Most of the others who stay with us don’t know whose the heart was. Beggars in Paris come and go, like birds. But Marin knew. At least, when he was himself, he knew.”

  “I begin to see,” Charles said. “Jean gave Marin the heart. And this morning Marin remembered whose the heart was and accused him of killing Martine. Only Marin called her Claire and said Jean had taken her ‘Sacred Heart.’ Then Marin started beating Jean with his stick.. and Jean killed him.”

  “Martine was so fair, so blond. Marin often confused blond girls with his Claire. Marin frightened Martine, though. Sometimes when we came begging and she brought out her alms, she shrank from him. Which made the poor man call her a demon and accuse her of having stolen his Claire’s beautiful hair.”

  “Did Jean come to you in November?”

  “Yes, when Martine’s mother turned him out. He said his name was Jean, and I let him be Jean. I thought he would leave when he found a place to work, but he grew attached to Marin and stayed. He was coughing even then, and I saw that he was sicker than he knew. I also saw that he kept Marin safe, safer than Marin was able to keep himself. I never told Renee where he was. Then Martine was killed, and I saw her little heart on its ribbon around Marin’s wrist, and I was terrified that Marin had killed her. I charged Jean to watch him every minute. God forgive me!”

  “Did you know that he killed Henri Brion, too?”

  Reine’s old face crumpled in dismay. “Jean? Ah, no! But why?”

  “It seems Henri Brion was on his way home after an unpleasant encounter with two men he’d involved in a smuggling scheme. I imagine that Brion saw the side door of the Mynette house open and heard a cry and went to see what was wrong. And saw Martine just after Jean had stabbed her. Jean told me he didn’t mean to kill her and I believe him. He meant only to cut the ribbon and take the necklace, but he must have thrust too hard and opened the great vein in her neck. But he was afraid Brion would accuse him to the police, so he chased Brion and killed him and left him in the ditch. Where you found him.”

  Reine closed her eyes, twisting her neck as though she were in pain. “Jean was always timid, always afraid of what might happen to him.” A sob rose in her throat and she covered her face. “If only I had asked Marin where the heart came from, if only I hadn’t believed my worst fear, oh, blessed saints, Marin would be alive!”

  If only I hadn’t, if only I had… The universal litany of mourning, Charles thought, for which there was no comfort.

  Charles got up and searched the cave floor where he and Reine had struggled with Jean. A gleam of red from the fire showed him what he sought, and he leaned down and picked up Martine’s necklace. He held it out to Reine.

  Reine shook her head and turned away, her hands busy again stroking Marin’s face, resettling his hands on his breast.

  Charles closed his fingers over the necklace, unsure what to do with it.

  “Our poor hearts are so often stolen,” Reine said softly, looking at the dead face in her lap.

  Behind them, Jean tossed and moaned.

  Reine looked at Charles. “We must decide what to do about him before Nicolas comes.”

  Chapter 26

  Running feet struck thunder from the walls of the cave, and a swinging lantern sent shadows spinning crazily off the ceiling.

  “Reine! Reine, where are you? Answer me, for God’s sake!”

  “I am here, Nicolas. I am well.”

  Silhouetted against lantern light, the beggar Richard appeared briefly in the cave entrance before Lieutenant-General La Reynie shoved him aside.

  “Here, Nicolas.” Reine held out a shaking hand. La Reynie covered the space between them in two strides and knelt beside her.

  “Truly, ma chere, you are not hurt?”

  “Truly. I owe what is left of my life to Maitre du Luc.”

  La Reynie looked at Charles with gratitude so naked in his face that Charles looked away in confusion. But not before he’d seen La Reynie wrap his arms around Reine and hold her against his chest, rocking on his knees, his lips tightly closed against whatever he was trying not to say to her.

  Wondering anew what lay so deep between these two otherwise so far apart, Charles wondered if La Reynie had even noticed Marin’s body. Slowly, the lieutenant-general released Reine and got to his feet. He took the little carving of Marin from his pocket and held it out to her.

  “This is very like him, Reine.”

  She put it carefully away inside her garments. “Nicolas-”

  “At least we have his killer.” His face was hard with satisfaction. He went to where Jean lay tossing with fever and looked down at him.

  “I have him, Nicolas. And I am keeping him. Maitre du Luc and I are keeping him.”

  La Reynie stared at Reine. Instead of the anger Charles was waiting for, the lieutenant-general’s face creased with worry. He glanced at Charles and said gently, “Grief makes you rave, Reine. Of course I must take him, he is a murderer. At least I have found one whose guilt is certain,” he said, with an ironic look at Charles. “And I will see Marin decently buried.”

  “Nicolas, you do not understand-”

  La Reynie tried to talk over her, but Charles stopped him.

  “Jean is Tito. He killed Martine Mynette and Henri Brion.”

  La Reynie spun toward Jean, oblivious in his fever. “He is Tito? How do you know?”

  Reine said, “I knew, Nicolas. I have known for a while that he killed Martine Mynette. But I did not know until this morning that he also killed Monsieur Brion.”

  Before La Reynie could find words, Charles said, “The servant called Tito left the Mynette house in November, and Reine says that he joined her group of beggars then, calling himself Jean. He told me himself this morning, after he killed Marin, that he had killed Mademoiselle Mynette and Monsieur Brion, though he did not even know Brion’s name. He didn’t mean to kill the girl; he was trying to cut the ribbon of her necklace. He thinks the necklace is his; I don’t know why. As for Henri Brion, he was a victim of poor timing. He must have been on his way home that morning, after Madame Cantel let him out of his prison, when he saw a door open at the Mynette house and went to see if something was wrong. He saw Martine dying. Jean chased him down and stabbed him in fear that Brion would denounce him to the police. Remember that Monsieur Fiennes told us that Gilles Brion saw his father crossing the Place Maubert just at that time.”

  La Reynie looked as though someone had given him a chest of gold.

  “Thank God and all the saints! Your Jean, Tito, whoever he is, goes to the Chatelet as soon as I can summon men to take him there. If these stories stand up, I can release Gilles Brion.” He strode to Reine and stood looking down at her. “And from here on, I am going to see that you are cared for.” His eyes swept the cave. “No more of this. And this street crotte who tried to kill you will die as he deserves.”

  “Listen to me, Nicolas! He is not street dung. It is partly my fault that he killed Marin. As Maitre du Luc just told you, I knew who he was; I thought it was Marin who had killed the girl, but I said nothing. If I had, the truth would have come out. It is my fault it ended like this. If I had confronted Marin, or come to you-” Reine threw her head back and stared up into the darkness. “If I had done that, Marin would be alive.” Then she sighed and bowed her head in defeat. “Instead, I gave Jean the chance to further damn himself. Unwittingly, but I gave it to him. Now I am not going to let him die in a prison cell, in worse misery than he’s already in. He stays here. I will watch out his life with him. He has the lung sickness; he’s had it a long time. I’ve seen the end drawing near him for days,” Reine said, drowning out La Reynie’s protest. “His fever will not abate now. I think he will be dead before another morning.” She looked at Charles. “Mai
tre du Luc agrees that he should stay here.”

  La Reynie rounded furiously on Charles, but Charles forestalled him.

  “I agree with all my heart, mon lieutenant-general.”

  “You are deranged, both of you, this is preposterous!” La Reynie went to the boy and nudged him with the toe of his boot. Jean’s labored breathing didn’t change. “He is a killer I’d almost despaired of finding and he is going to die where I put him. You,” he said to Richard, who stood motionless and sharp-eyed at the entrance, listening intently. “Take this and go to the police barriere.” He held out a round token bearing the outline of the city’s sign, the cathedral of Notre Dame. “Say that Monsieur La Reynie requires two men and bring them here to the cave.”

  The beggar didn’t move. “I am Reine’s man, mon lieutenant-general.”

  La Reynie reddened with anger. “You,” he snapped at Charles. “Help me carry him.”

  “No, Monsieur La Reynie. I am not your man, either.”

  “You are a cleric. Where is your sense of justice, of sin?”

  “Engaged in a fight to the death with my hope of mercy,” Charles said dryly. He never after knew what made him add, “If you had a son, Monsieur La Reynie, would you not want mercy for him? No matter what he’d done?”

  Behind him, Reine drew in a startled breath. La Reynie stood rigid, pressing his crossed arms against his chest as though against a wound. His eyes went to Jean, as the boy moved restlessly in his fever.

  “Yes, Nicolas,” Reine said, very softly, “which would you want for Gabriel?”

  “Your clever question means nothing,” La Reynie said harshly. “Gabriel is no killer. And he wants no help from me.”

  “But you want much from him. Give this dying boy mercy and perhaps the Virgin will give you mercy in return, you and Gabriel.”

  “Lieutenant-General La Reynie,” Charles said, appalled, “please believe that I did not know you had a son. I never intended-”