To Hold the Bridge

by Garth Nix

  As he did so, Irene stopped, cried out something in a language MacNeacail recognized as Greek but could not understand, looked down at her immodest scarlet dress in surprise, then clapped her hands to her wig, finding that also to be an unwelcome addition to her ensemble. She was about to throw it off when she stopped and instead pulled it down more firmly on top of her head, once more obscuring her features. Then she thrust herself against MacNeacail, insinuating herself into a one-armed embrace, though he managed to keep his sword-arm free.

  ‘Monsieur MacNeacail,’ gasped Irene. ‘You must help me. I do not know how I came to be here, save by some foul magic.’

  MacNeacail was unable to immediately answer this appeal, as De Lartigue stepped past him and fired his pistol, the report of the shot immediately followed by shouts and the clash of steel. Over by the ox cart, De Vitray and Despreaux were beset by half a dozen small, masked bravos who, while no taller than children, had extraordinarily long arms and elegant tails that twitched and pounced behind them. More of these creatures, who wielded poniards and hatchets, were climbing over the side of the bridge, to advance upon the beleaguered guardsmen.

  ‘Alas, I have my duty,’ said MacNeacail. Pushing her away, he pulled the wig firmly down over Irene’s face, turned her about, and projected her in the direction of Father Gallagher, who had just managed to get to his feet.

  ‘Secure her!’ MacNeacail shouted over his shoulder as he ran toward the combat. The monk had caracoled his horse about at the same time, and was just ahead of him.

  ‘To me!’ roared De Vitray, swinging his sword like a scythe, as the bravos crowded him from all sides. Despreaux was already down, ashen-faced, with a poniard in his leg above the knee and his blood running to the gutter.

  MacNeacail ran faster, extending his sword arm, and then – he felt a rush of wind, far greater than even the notably errant airs encountered on the bridge. His hat sailed off his head, the bee charms spread gossamer wings and took flight back toward him, and the tailed bravos shot into the sky, chattering and screaming as the breeze carried them higher and higher till they were lost in the winter clouds.

  The monk pulled his hood forward once more. As he did so, MacNeacail shivered, for he saw the shadow of a vast wing move across the bridge, in unison with that motion.

  ‘Thank you,’ said De Vitray, doffing his hat to the monk. ‘I daresay I would have managed, but – ah, Despreaux!’

  Despreaux, pale as a ghost, lay upon the pavement, a slight, philosophical smile upon his face. He tried to raise his head as De Vitray bent down and ripped off his sleeve to fasten a bandage, but failed and fell back.

  ‘Dead,’ remarked De Vitray. ‘He always did neglect his guard.’

  He turned his companion slightly, revealing the dagger thrust to the kidney that had finished him, though he would likely not have survived the leg wound in any case, unless one of the angels about had chosen to intervene, which they hardly ever did. Those angels who chose mortal companions were usually of the most combative sort, and were not known for their interest in the fragility of the flesh that clad immortal souls.

  ‘It is such an annoyance to have to cross this particular bridge at the appointed hour, particularly when everyone knows it,’ said the monk.

  ‘Everyone?’ asked MacNeacail. He himself had no idea what the monk was talking about, though it had already cost Despreaux’s life.

  ‘Everyone concerned in the current matter,’ said the monk. ‘That is to say, His Majesty the King and those who serve him; the Dauphin Louis; the Dauphine Helen, or rather her uncle, the Emperor Constantine; the Spanish whose soldier-monkeys they were, brought from the Americas; the English; the Pope; and I suspect, the Dauphin’s adviser, Cardinal Richelieu.’

  ‘Cardinal Richelieu?’ asked MacNeacail. ‘He was only an Archbishop yesterday.’

  ‘He has his hat,’ said the monk. ‘It will be all the news of Paris by tomorrow. Come. We have to get the cart out of the sun. It must be kept cold.’

  MacNeacail looked up. There was little sun to speak of, and he did not like to think what might be in the coffin-shaped box on the cart that needed to be cold.

  ‘If everyone does know it, monseigneur, why cross the bridge at this time?’

  MacNeacail called him ‘monseigneur’ because it seemed fitting but also from caution. Whoever this man was, he was not a mere monk. Apart from the powerful angel who kept him company, there was a look about him that seemed familiar. Something about the nose reminded MacNeacail very much of His Majesty the King, and at the back of his not very retentive mind he dimly remembered some story about a cousin who had taken holy orders.

  ‘Ritual,’ replied the monk. ‘It is as the ancient ceremony dictates. Summon your men. We will need them to carry it inside.’

  MacNeacail wanted to ask about the ‘ancient ceremony’ and investigate exactly what ‘it’ and ‘inside’ might mean, but he knew better. Instead, he looked up at the house in the Place Dauphine, and saw one of his men in the window.

  ‘Cauvignac! What occurs?’

  ‘We have been fighting apes, or perhaps monkeys, I know not what to call them!’ called down Cauvignac. ‘They had a falconet, but lacked practice in reloading.’

  ‘Come down!’ ordered MacNeacail. Already the braver citizens of the city were venturing back onto the bridge, emboldened perhaps by the distant drumming that announced that a force was marshalling in the Châtelet upstream on the right bank, and would soon – but not too soon, due to the innate caution of the city watch of the Prévôt des Marchands – march forth to investigate the disturbance.

  He also belatedly noticed the flash of a scarlet dress as Irene Amytzantarants left the northern end of the bridge and disappeared down the steps to the quay. Gallagher, who he had supposed to be detaining her, instead appeared on the other side of the horse and bowed his head most subserviently to kiss a ring on the monk’s hand, which confirmed MacNeacail’s wisdom in using a polite address.

  ‘I beg your pardon, monseigneur,’ said MacNeacail, striding around the horse’s head. He bent down to Gallagher’s ear and whispered, ‘Where is Ir … the woman? I told you to secure her!’

  ‘I am a priest,’ Gallagher whispered back. ‘I cannot be holding on to harlots and whores.’

  MacNeacail chose not to respond to this, though knowing Gallagher as he did, he could offer several examples of occasions when the Jesuit had chosen to be less the priest and more the man, for example quite recently with a certain young and beautiful widow who favored the Irishman for her confessions. Besides, he knew it was probably more to do with politics than the public display of a suitably holy aversion to women. Irene, and more importantly her mistress the Dauphine, would now owe the priest a favor for letting her go.

  ‘The woman is not important,’ said the monk. ‘You must bring the cart to a house on the northern end of the rue de Harlay, just short of the quay. There are carvings of orange trees around the door. Bring the box inside. I must go ahead and open the way. Quickly now!’

  ‘At once!’ cried MacNeacail. He ran back to the cart and leaped onto the driver’s seat, but almost fell off again when the fellow emerged from beneath it and took up the reins.

  ‘Through there!’ commanded MacNeacail, pointing to the entrance to the Place Dauphine. The driver grunted and rolled his eyes insolently, but MacNeacail didn’t notice, distracted by his guardsmen who were emerging from the house. He called out to them to fall in around the cart, while he stood next to the driver and struck a commanding pose. It was his habit to do so, acting upon the deathbed instruction of his father, who had told him to take the high ground at every opportunity and make himself obvious. That way, according to the older MacNeacail, he would be noticed. If noticed by enemies, they would be drawn into acting against him so that they could then be defeated; if noticed by friends, they would rally to him; and if noticed by superiors, they would see his actions, which might then lead to rewards and honor.

  Gallagher and De Vitray picked
up Despreaux’s corpse. The priest muttered a prayer as they carried him into the house on the Place Dauphine that had housed the monkey-soldiers’ cannon, and instructed the householder to keep the dead guardsman’s body and possessions safe, upon pain of having his house ransacked and destroyed by the entire Scottish Guard. The man, a water merchant already terrified at the prospect of retribution for unwittingly allowing his attic to be infested with enemies of the state, bowed and groveled and promised the utmost care.

  As the cart trundled through the Place Dauphine with a file of guardsmen on either side, MacNeacail looked back at the mud-washed sacking. One corner was torn, revealing a finely shaped and inlaid panel of chestnut and ebony, and this made whatever lay upon the cart’s axles look even more like a coffin. A very large coffin, made for a giant.

  ‘To the left,’ instructed MacNeacail as they approached the rue de Harlay. This time he did see the driver roll his eyes, and awarded him a judicious blow to the head for insolence.

  ‘Thank ’ee, sir,’ croaked the driver. He ceased to roll his eyes and passed on his punishment by flicking his whip across the backs of the oxen, who paid it no more heed than they did the flies that clustered in columns along their ridged backs.

  The house with the carvings of orange trees was the second-to-last one before the quay. The white horse was tied up outside it, and the door was open, but there was no sign of the monk. The oxcart stopped outside the door, the oxen lowering their heads in dumb obedience to their driver, who immediately jumped down and began to pull the sacking away to reveal the ornate, polished box.

  MacNeacail swung himself casually off the cart and glanced inside the doorway. He was surprised to see not an entrance hall or room, but a garden. The house was a mere shell, without a roof or upper floors. The high, windowless stone walls enclosed a narrow but very long paved courtyard that had two lines of bare, ancient olive trees, one down either side. At the far end, the monk kneeled in front of an ancient standing stone that had a cross crudely carved into its granite surface.

  ‘Make haste!’ ordered the monk, without looking back.

  ‘Curious,’ muttered De Vitray, who had to peer past MacNeacail’s elbow, as he could not see over his shoulder. ‘A very secret garden. I wonder—’

  ‘Best not to wonder,’ warned MacNeacail.

  He turned about and negligently waved at the box, as if it were a handkerchief or something he had left behind on a chair.

  ‘Cauvignac! Montausier! All you fellows. Be kind enough to bring that box over here.’

  The guardsmen looked at him in surprise. Carry a box as if they were lackeys, rather than noblemen serving in the Scottish Guard of His Majesty? Impossible!

  MacNeacail knew this, and was drawing breath to attempt a rephrased and cajoling rendition of the same request, when Gallagher, smiling as ever, got in first.

  ‘Gentlemen! This is not some mere box! It contains a holy relic of great importance to His Majesty the King and to France. In usual times it is borne on the shoulders only of princes of the blood, but in the present circumstances, noble birth shall suffice.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so!’ exclaimed Cauvignac to MacNeacail.

  MacNeacail sighed and looked suspiciously at Gallagher, but he couldn’t tell whether the tale of the holy relic was the truth or some invention. At the same time he was trying to remember long-forgotten sermons and readings of scripture. Was there a saint who was a giant whose body had been preserved by some miracle? Or was that a children’s story his nurse had once told him?

  The task being properly explained, the dozen guardsmen made short work of lifting the box from the cart. Taking it on their shoulders, they carefully followed MacNeacail and Gallagher into the courtyard. De Vitray shivered as he crossed the threshold and drew his cloak tightly around his neck. It was much colder inside, though the roofless courtyard was no more shaded than the street.

  Close to the standing stone, MacNeacail noticed that the worn gray pavers underfoot became a faded but still wonderful mosaic, partly obscured by dirt. He could not pause to inspect it, but from surreptitious glances down as he trod over it, he took in a narrative of some kind, the mosaic telling a story of the construction of a city, dealings between angels and men, a titanic battle, and all of it ending near the stone with a glorious sunburst, the disc of the sun immediately beneath the kneeling monk.

  The monk crossed himself and stood to receive the guardsmen and their burden.

  ‘Lift it up,’ he instructed. ‘Set the foot of it here, upon the sun.’

  The guardsmen did as they were told, lifting one end of the box so it stood upright, like a small, narrow house and less like a coffin.

  ‘Strip the sacking away,’ said the monk.

  With the sacking torn off, the box was revealed to be of very fine construction, rich chestnut panels bordered with ebony and a large fleur-de-lis in coromandel wood, ivory, and gold leaf set in the middle of the front panel.

  It also had bronze hinges on three edges, and a huge latch upon the other.

  ‘It is a cabinet!’ exclaimed De Vitray.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the monk. ‘De Vitray, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, monseigneur,’ replied De Vitray, puffing out his chest at being recognized.

  ‘Take your men and guard the doorway. Allow no one to enter without my word. MacNeacail, you will remain here with Father Gallagher.’

  De Vitray doffed his hat and bowed, but did not say anything, as he was no longer pleased. He snapped out a command and stalked off to the doorway, without a backward glance, the other guards following. Most of them did look back, as they wished to see what might be in the case.

  ‘Welcome to the heart of the city, gentlemen,’ said the monk.

  ‘This is the heart of Paris?’ asked MacNeacail. He looked around again at the bare walls and the bare trees. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Since time immemorial,’ snapped the monk. ‘Do you take me for an idiot?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said MacNeacail. He bowed in some confusion and would have doffed his hat, but he’d forgotten to pick it up. The bee charms, which were now attached to his hair, rustled as his fingers brushed them.

  ‘No matter,’ said the monk. ‘It has been a long journey, and I am tired. Please, gentlemen, open the cabinet.’

  MacNeacail and Gallagher undid the latch and eased the front of the cabinet open. A wave of chill flowed out, even colder than the winter air. This unnatural frost intensified as they pulled the sides of the cabinet fully open to reveal that what lay inside the box was not the body of a giant saint, as MacNeacail had suspected, but a throne. An immense throne carved out of a single block of ice, the back and arms covered in lines and lines of tiny incised letters in an alphabet that MacNeacail didn’t even recognize, let alone was able to read.

  ‘The throne of ice of the Parisii,’ whispered Gallagher as he stepped back. ‘I had never thought to see it.’

  MacNeacail nodded dumbly. He had never even heard of it, but he was impressed.

  ‘Step back,’ warned the monk. ‘We must not touch the throne until after the ceremony.’

  MacNeacail stepped back quickly. Gallagher lingered for a moment, then came to stand by him. The monk pushed back his hood and the sleeves of his habit, and kneeled before the throne. He muttered a short prayer, then stood up and raised his arms. As he did so, dark shapes moved up the walls, the broad shadow of spreading wings. MacNeacail’s bee charms huddled closer together in his hair, but did not buzz.

  ‘Bellinus! Protector of the city! I, Charles de Guise, a prince of the blood and Archbishop, with my companion Ophaniel, bring you the throne of ice!’

  MacNeacail backed away another step and almost fell over Father Gallagher. As he did so, the bee charms in his hair buzzed in alarm. Gallagher pushed him upright and looked around wildly, his expression distant. He fumbled in his glove for the silver object and flipped open its cover. This time MacNeacail saw it was a watch, but instead of hands, it had a silver cross mou
nted on the central dial. The cross spun wildly and then pointed at the blank wall to the south.

  ‘Shelalhael… ,’ whispered Gallagher. ‘What occurs? Show me … ah!’

  He bent down on one knee. Blood gushed from his nose as he looked up at the monk and cried out, ‘There is a tunnel dug from the house opposite, they have placed a mine … another angel opposes—’

  Gallagher gave a gargled, choking cough and fell forward to the ground.

  The monk still faced the throne, his arms stretched up to the sky in supplication. But the shadow of the wings disappeared, and the southern wall suddenly rippled, as if all the bricks were momentarily water and something had dived through.

  ‘Bellinus! We keep the compact!’ called out the monk, in a parched, high voice. He slowly sank to his knees, and his arms quavered closer to his head, as if he were trying to hold up a great weight. Then he collapsed, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to the foot of the throne of ice.

  MacNeacail was left alone in the courtyard. Both the monk and Gallagher were unconscious, and their angels thus no longer present, or at least no longer acting under the persuasion of their mortal companions. Gallagher had muttered something about a mine, but there was nothing he could do to stop that exploding, if the fuse was already lit on the other side of the wall.

  It was very quiet. The bees were completely still, and he could not even hear the usual, muffled noises of the city beyond.

  Man, said a voice inside his head.

  MacNeacail turned around and then quickly looked down at the ground, blinking furiously. There was something on the throne of ice now, something that he could not gaze directly upon, though it was not bright, but simply too terrible to behold.

  Man? said the thing upon the throne.

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled MacNeacail. He edged sideways and prodded the monk with the toe of his boot, hoping desperately that he would return to his senses. Or that Gallagher would recover, that some priest used to dealing with angels could speak to—

  But I am not an angel.