Le Sourd nodded slowly. He, who lived by the knife, could respect those who died by the sword. If he wanted an aristocrat at his table, young de Cygne was the real thing. Just as well he hadn’t killed him.
“The ruin of my family was completed,” the young nobleman calmly continued, “by my own father in the time of Joan of Arc.” He paused. “But that may be a story it would bore you to hear.”
“Not at all.” Despite himself, Le Sourd was coming to like this aristocratic boy. “Please continue.”
Young Guy de Cygne was just about to begin when he realized that he could be about to make a terrible mistake. He had forgotten to ascertain Le Sourd’s politics. He thought quickly, but it was too late. He’d have to tell the story as it was, and take a chance.
“Paris was under the rule of Burgundy and England,” he began. “But Joan of Arc had just appeared.”
It had been a miserable period. After the poor king had gone mad, his family had formed a regency council. But regencies usually mean trouble, and soon two factions within the extended royal family were vying for control. One was the Duke of Orléans. The other, also royal, was the Duke of Burgundy. For after the old dukes of Burgundy had died out, and their huge territories, which included many Flemish cloth towns, reverted to the crown, Burgundy had been given to a royal younger son. The Burgundian faction favored the great cloth trade with England, which supplied the wool for their rich Flemish towns. The Orléans faction, known as the Armagnacs, favored rural France.
Soon the factions were fighting in open war. The Duke of Burgundy courted the merchants of Paris, and soon the capital was under Burgundian control, while the mad king’s son, the dauphin, and the dispirited Armagnacs were pushed out to the Loire Valley and old Orléans.
So perhaps it was inevitable that when yet another generation of greedy Plantagenets came, like hyenas, to see what they could tear from the bleeding body of France, the Burgundy faction did a deal with them. After all, England’s wool merchants were their business partners.
They supported the Plantagenets’ bid for the throne of France.
When the strange peasant girl Joan of Arc appeared with her sensational message—“The saints have told me that the dauphin is the true king of France”—and gave the Armagnacs new spirit, the Burgundians were alarmed. When Joan and the Armagnacs drove the English back and crowned the dauphin in holy Reims, they were horrified.
But then the Burgundians captured Joan of Arc, and sold her to the English—who had her judged a heretic and burned her at the stake.
It had been in the first, magic moment, Guy de Cygne now explained, when Joan had arrived in the Loire Valley with her message from God, that his father had made a dangerous journey. Determined to play his part, he was ready to sell some more of his remaining land to equip himself for the fight. He tried to transact the business in Orléans, but the city was so depressed that he could get no takers. He knew a merchant in Paris, however, whom he could trust; also an old aunt he had not seen in years. Using the plausible story that he had come to see the old lady, he managed to get into the city, and sell his land. The merchant, who was a secret Armagnac himself, even promised that if de Cygne found the money within five years, he could have his land back.
“Well pleased with this, and with a small chest of coins, my father passed a night in a tavern before leaving the city. There were Englishmen there, but to them, he was just another Frenchman. A party of Burgundian soldiers became suspicious of him, however. One of them knocked him on the head, and when he woke up, both his money and his horse were gone.”
Guy de Cygne stopped and looked at Le Sourd. Had the story been a mistake? Many of the Parisians had preferred the Burgundian party and their merchants. Was he about to lose the sympathy of his host? Was he going to get his throat cut?
He saw Le Sourd raise his hand. He reached for his sword. But the hand came down on his shoulder.
“Damned Burgundians,” the big man roared. “If there’s one thing I hate more than an Englishman, it’s a Burgundian. So your father could not fight?” he asked.
“Not armed and mounted as he wished. So he went on foot as a humble man-at-arms. He said it was his pilgrimage.”
“Ah. Bravo, young man!” cried Le Sourd. “Magnificent!” He seized his goblet and raised it. “Let us drink to the Maid of Orléans,” he called, “to Joan of Arc and all who fought for her.”
Guy de Cygne allowed himself to smile. It was all right. He’d taken a chance and it had paid off.
For as it happened, though the stories about his ancestors had all been true, the one about his father was not. He’d made it up on the spur of the moment. The truth—that his father, as a young man, had stupidly gambled away some of his small inheritance—was hardly heroic. But the tale he had told was much better, and it amused him that this villainous rogue had believed it.
When the toast had been drunk, his host turned to him in a manner that was almost solicitous.
“So tell me, monsieur, have you come to Paris to serve our new king?” he inquired.
It was only a year since King Louis XI of France had come to the throne. But it was already clear that the new king meant to make changes. Louis’s father had been content enough, thanks to Joan of Arc, to keep his battered kingdom. King Louis had made no secret of the fact that he wanted far more. Ambitious, cunning and ruthless, he intended to destroy all opposition, and raise France to glory, and he’d do whatever it took.
And if Guy de Cygne’s family could have afforded armor and a fine warhorse, then this might have been an option. But they couldn’t, and their reason for sending him to Paris was more prosaic.
“I have come here to meet my bride,” he answered, without enthusiasm.
It was a friend of his father’s who’d arranged the business. The girl was from a rich merchant family, and Guy’s parents had been well satisfied with the dowry offered. But his father had left Guy a choice. “Go to Paris and meet the girl,” he’d instructed. “If you truly dislike each other, we’ll call it off. Although,” he added, “I’ve known couples who got on perfectly well for years without liking each other in the least.” He shrugged. “However, I suppose you may as well like each other at first.” Guy was due to meet the girl the following day.
“Your bride is noble?” asked Le Sourd.
“She is of a merchant family,” de Cygne said quietly. His lack of enthusiasm was evident.
Villon, who’d been listening carefully, shook his head.
“Take care, young man,” the poet cautioned. “This is Paris, not the countryside. Do not despise the Third Estate.” Of the Three Estates that the kings of France occasionally summoned to advise them and vote them taxes, the first two, the nobles and the Church, had traditionally been more important. But times had changed. “Even back in the days of Crécy and Poitiers,” Villon continued, “don’t forget that Étienne Marcel, the city provost and leader of the merchants and artisans, practically ruled Paris. It was he who made the great ditch and ramparts that became the new wall. Even the king had cause to fear him. Today, the richest merchants live like nobles, and you despise them at your peril.”
“It is true,” Le Sourd said quietly, “but I have a feeling that Monsieur de Cygne would rather marry a woman of noble birth.”
And Guy de Cygne blushed.
Le Sourd glanced up at his son. Young Richard was taking everything in, that was clear. He was learning about the world. He had seen a noble blush from embarrassment, and now he should see his father save the noble further embarrassment by changing the subject. And amazed at his own fineness, Le Sourd now turned to the poet, like a king in his court, and said: “Give us one of your verses, Master Villon.”
“As you like,” said the poet. He reached down into a leather satchel at his feet and drew out some sheets of paper on which long columns of verse could be seen in his spiky, scholarly hand. “Last year,” he explained, “I finished a long poem called ‘The Testament.’ It has several parts. Here is a pair
of ballads from it.”
The first was a short, clever ballad asking what had become of the classical gods, of Abelard and Héloïse, and even Joan of Arc. It was simple, but elegant, and a little melancholy as it echoed the passing of time. At the end of each verse came the haunting refrain: “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?
The second was similar in form, and spoke of the vanished rulers of the earth, not without humor. Where was the famous Pope Callixtus, the king of Scots, the Bourbon duke; where was the worthy king of Spain, of whom he did not know the name? And again, with each verse, a refrain: “And where is mighty Charlemagne?”
“Excellent,” said his host. “And is there anything new?”
“I have started something. Some fragments so far.” He shrugged. “I hope to finish it before my ruin.”
Frères humains qui après nous vivez
N’ayez les cœurs contre nous endurcis
Car, si pitié de nous pauvres avez
Dieu en aura plus tôt de vous mercis
Brothers who are alive today, when we
are gone, do not be hard, but pity us
Beg God’s forgiveness for us now, that He
may sooner pity you, when you are dust.
It was a poem about a group of men in jail, awaiting execution. He had written only a couple of verses so far. But as he read them, a strange quiet fell over all the men listening. For it was a fate, like as not, that awaited themselves one day, and his words were sad, and dark, yet full of pity.
And as Guy de Cygne heard Villon recite his verses, he could not help being struck by the haunting melody in them. Whoever he might be, this fellow was clearly a scholar, yet one who lived with murderers. He might be a thief himself, yet he could write poetry that moved the other thieves.
When Villon was done, there was a brief silence.
“Master Villon,” said Le Sourd, “your poems should be printed.”
“I agree,” said the poet with an ironic smile, “but I can’t afford it.”
“Could your uncle the professor help?”
“He can tolerate me, occasionally. That is all.” Villon shrugged. “It is my fault.”
Le Sourd nodded, took a long sip of his wine, then turned to de Cygne.
“Master Villon is fine, is he not?”
“I agree.”
Le Sourd gazed around the room, and nodded to himself thoughtfully, then shrugged.
“This is our life,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then, after another sip of wine, he turned to his guest and the matter still in hand. “So, Monsieur de Cygne, let us return to the question of your missing pendant. Can you describe it to me?”
“It is gold. There’s a design upon it, from Byzantium, I believe. My grandmother always told me her father got it in the Holy Land.”
“I cannot tell you where this pendant is, monsieur,” said Le Sourd, “but if I make inquiries in this quarter, I may find the man who has it. But theft is like war. Whoever has your pendant will want a ransom before he yields it up.”
“I can offer a hundred francs,” said de Cygne. When one of the king’s new francs was officially the same as an old-fashioned livre, a pound of silver, it had once been a lot of money. But time and devaluation had done their work. A hundred francs was now a modest sum.
“I should think it’s worth more than that,” said Le Sourd.
“It may be, but that’s all I can afford.”
“Well then,” said his host, “I promise nothing, but let me see if I can recover it for you. I have influence in this quarter. Would this be agreeable to you?”
Guy de Cygne gazed at him. He wasn’t deceived. This rogue probably knew where the pendant was at this very moment. But if courtesy was the way to get it back, then so be it.
“You are very kind,” he said. “I should be in your debt.”
“Then let us drink to that,” cried Le Sourd, suddenly cheerful. “Will you raise your goblet with me, as a man of honor? I know that this place is not where you would normally come, monsieur, but”—he looked around the room and spoke the words clearly so that every man in the place should hear—“you are welcome at my table anytime, and from this day, all men here are your friends.” He paused and looked at de Cygne in a way that indicated that he too, in his own way, was a man of honor. “Should you ever be in trouble in the streets of Paris, monsieur, tell them that Jean Le Sourd is your friend, and you will never be harmed.”
This grandiloquent statement was probably true. Even the thieves in the other quarters of the city would respect the protection of a powerful chief like Le Sourd. And had Guy de Cygne been a native of Paris, he would have understood that he had just been given a gift worth far more than his golden trinket from the Holy Land.
But he raised his goblet of wine all the same, and thanked his host for his hospitality and friendship. And Le Sourd glanced at his son, and then looked around the tavern like a satisfied monarch, and told himself again that the kings of the feudal world were, after all, nothing more than himself writ large—in which belief, it must be said, he was entirely correct.
“My son, Richard, will accompany you to where you are staying so that we may know how to find you,” he said. And although Guy wasn’t delighted by the idea of taking Le Sourd’s son to the house of his father’s friend, it seemed the only way to get his pendant back. So after renewed expressions of mutual esteem, he and Richard set off.
He met the girl the next day. The Renard family lived in a fine house on the Right Bank near the river. She wasn’t so bad. Her name was Cécile. She had red hair and a pale oval face. Some people would have thought her beautiful. His father’s friend, who knew the Renard family well, came with him, and on their way back he told Guy: “She likes you. So did her parents. It’s up to you now, young man.” And his tone of voice said: “If you turn down this dowry, you’re a fool.”
“Does she want to live in the country?” Guy had asked.
“Of course she does.”
“She didn’t say much, but her family talked about Paris a lot.”
“Naturally. That’s all she knows. She’ll love the country when she gets there.” His father’s friend smiled. “You might as well say an unmarried girl’s a virgin, therefore she won’t enjoy being married.”
He was quite surprised when they returned to find Le Sourd’s son, Richard, awaiting them. He came forward and made a polite bow with his shaggy black locks. As he looked up at de Cygne, he smiled.
“I have good news, monsieur,” he said. And he held out his hand. “Is this the one?”
It was. So the rogue had had it all the time, as Guy had thought. But he kept up the little comedy.
“And what is the ransom demanded?” he inquired.
“Nothing, monsieur. My father was able to persuade the man who had it to part with it for nothing. My father told him that, perhaps, this good deed might save his soul.”
“Let us hope so,” said Guy. It was hard not to smile at the rogue’s cheek.
“My father sends you his respects, monsieur. Is there any message I should take back to him?”
Guy de Cygne considered. He knew what he thought: that Le Sourd was a thief and prince of thieves. On the other hand, the thief had given him back his pendant.
“Please tell your father that Guy de Cygne thanks him for his hospitality, and thanks him for his help.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” The boy smiled. “May God keep you.”
“And you too.”
That night Guy de Cygne thought long and hard. There were terms the nobles used for marrying a rich bourgeoise: “Putting gold on the coat of arms.” Or, less lovely: “Putting dung on your land.”
Cécile Renard was all right. He imagined he could love her, but he doubted that she’d be happy in the country, and this troubled him a little. But then he thought of what her dowry could bring. He would be able to enlarge the estate. He could make improvements to the manor house.
> He knew his duty. Before he went to bed, he said his prayers. He knew, he told God, that he should honor his father and mother, and if he married the girl, he’d certainly be doing that. But the family motto also came into his mind. “According to God’s will.” He would be guided by it. If God sent him a sign—if, for instance, his bride should die before their wedding day—that would be a clear signal that God did not want the marriage. But if there was no sign, he’d take it as consent. And he gave the Almighty the assurance that he would try to make the girl’s life pleasant, if it could be done.
The marriage took place three months later. The ceremony was in Paris, at the house of the Renard family.
It had to be said that they did the thing handsomely—far more so than the de Cygne family could have done at their crumbling manor. But there was something that his parents were able to do that clearly satisfied the bourgeois Renards.
They were able to summon noble kinsmen that Guy had hardly known he had. He might not be making a noble marriage, but it seemed the news that he was marrying an heiress was enough for all kinds of family friendships to be renewed. A score of noble names appeared, with their sons and daughters. If the Renards had been counting on this, then they had received their part of the bargain.
Even before the marriage took place, Guy suddenly found himself with kinsmen who declared that his bride was charming, and sweet, and all the other things that are said of a rich young girl—as long as she doesn’t make herself unpleasant—when she arrives on the social scene. Cécile seemed delighted by their friendly attentions, and was promised all kinds of amusement when she came to the country. As for Guy, his kinsmen soon introduced him to their own friends so that, by the time he married, he was on friendly terms with young men who belonged to some of the greatest families in the land.
The wedding was a success in every way. By the third day, he and Cécile had decided that they liked each other very much indeed. Meanwhile, a week of gaiety in Paris was called for, before he took her down to the valley of the Loire, to see the modest estate which so urgently needed her love.
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