Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (13 page)

Arnauld made a sound of disgust. ‘The man asked for mercy.’

Tannhauser continued to the foot of the stairs.

‘Be thankful you weren’t skewered, too.’

‘They would not dare,’ said Arnauld.

‘They reeked of grog. One noble looks much like another, and for men like these the chance to make a noble scream is a treat indeed.’

Arnauld pointed at the Maltese Cross on Tannhauser’s doublet.

‘No one will take you for a Huguenot.’

‘Someone takes me for worse.’

Yellow light exploded through the arrow slits in the wall. Another volley. Tannhauser hefted Orlandu on his shoulder and followed the trail of blood left by the guards. It wound across a hall where he counted five more bodies sprawled in puddles on the polished marble floor. One was a woman and two were the size of children. He stopped at the gate to the inner courtyard.

He looked out upon a torch-lit slaughter.

The West Wing, it seemed, was where the bulk of the Huguenot nobles had been housed. Here and there a window would light up with the blast of an arquebus. From the main gateway of the wing a sorry string of Huguenot nobles were chivvied between ranks of palace guards towards the centre of the courtyard. And not just nobles but their pages, grooms and valets, and a handful of wives and children, too. Many were in a state of undress, some already bleeding. None were armed. A handful of the boldest tried to get at the throats of the guards beyond the blades of the halberds. They were lanced like boar and their co-religionists stumbled over the corpses towards their doom.

Crossbowmen and arquebusiers were assembled on the south side of the square. They fired at will into the mass of Huguenots herded out before them. The east side of the courtyard bristled with steel. Those unfortunates crazed enough to flee were speared and hacked by guardsmen competing for their quota. The maimed and the dying slithered about in a foul bog of gore and final excretions. Last words were uttered, and some kissed each other goodbye, and some knelt down on the bloodslaked stones and prayed. Outrage and terror and laughter wheeled about the night. The King was cursed and God was entreated but neither intervened in the butchery.

On a balcony of the
Pavillon du Roi
, Tannhauser saw a group of figures standing at a balustrade. As still as the statues around them, they watched the unfolding catastrophe. King Charles and his brother, Anjou. Catherine de Medici, their mother. Albert Gondi, Comte de Retz. Other high and mighty statesmen. At least they had the stomach to bear witness to their deeds; unlike most of their ilk, who preferred a brief summary on paper.

Tannhauser turned at the sound of a sob. It was Grégoire. For all the ill treatment and danger he had borne, the lad had made no complaint, let alone shed a tear. Now his cheeks were wet and mucus streamed from his deformed and gaping nostrils and over his gums. He was a child, and gentle of spirit. The mindless horror of the bloodbath had stormed his soul. Tannhauser pulled him away from the gate into the hall.

‘Wipe your face, lad. Tears won’t help us here, nor pity, either for them or ourselves.’

Grégoire scrubbed his cheeks and nose on the sleeves of his cambric shirt.

‘And Jesus wept,’ said Arnauld.

‘They came to provoke a war. They have one.’

‘This is not war. This is a massacre.’

‘Massacre is war’s oldest tool. And when every other tool devised by man lies blunted in the ashes, when every wheel has been broken and every book burned, and we’re back to grubbing in the mud, massacre’s edge will be as sharp as ever and just as often honed.’

Arnauld shrank from his eyes. ‘That is a counsel of despair.’

‘I forgot. We’re in the jewel box of civilisation.’

Arnauld turned away and said no more.

Tannhauser felt Grégoire tug on his sleeve. The boy had regained his composure and was pointing at Orlandu’s head. Tannhauser realised he wasn’t feeling much movement against his back. He spotted a bench against a wall and hurried over. He lowered Orlandu and laid him flat on the wood. Arnauld brought a torch from its fitment on the wall. Orlandu’s lips and face had turned purple. As they watched, his chest rose and fell and his colour grew paler.

‘His weight must have cramped his lungs. How far to the street?’

‘If we’re not waylaid, a minute or two,’ said Arnauld.

‘The gate will be well guarded?’

‘By Anjou’s Swiss, who know me well.’

‘Can you get me that horse?’

‘That would cost more time than it will take you to walk.’

Orlandu looked as well as he was going to.

Tannhauser rolled his shoulder and hauled him aloft. He followed Arnauld.

They headed east, away from the courtyard, then north through a maze of corridors. They passed another corpse. And another. Then more. Arnauld jumped as they passed a piece of statuary in an alcove. His hand flew to his sword.

‘In the King’s name, show yourself!’

Tannhauser backed away, his hand on his dagger.

A slender figure emerged from hiding, pale in the torchlight. When he saw Tannhauser, his terror increased. If a flicker of hope remained in his breast, it died with the sight. It was the blond and sole survivor of his clan, Juste. He was clothed in Huguenot black and bore no arms.

‘His name is Juste and he’s harmless,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Let’s go.’

‘If we leave him here he’ll be hunted down and murdered,’ said Arnauld.

Tannhauser continued down the corridor. A moment later the light of Arnauld’s torch caught up from behind. He had brought Juste by the arm. They took another turn and Tannhauser saw a well-lit guardhouse thirty paces hence. He glanced at Arnauld.

‘You’ll not keep that boy alive in this bloodbath,’ said Arnauld.

‘No, I won’t, because he’s going with you. You will keep him alive.’

‘I will take that as a jest.’

Arnauld stopped. Tannhauser stopped and turned. Arnauld’s eyes were aflame.

‘The lad won’t want to go with me. I killed three of his mother’s sons.’

‘I might say all the more reason to take his part, but now I know you too well. Perhaps I am worse, for this is my world, not yours, and I have helped make it what it is. But Tannhauser, for the love of God, we – you and I – will do something decent on this most shameful of nights.’

Tannhauser looked at Juste. The boy was trembling.

‘I don’t love God,’ said Tannhauser. ‘And I am doing something decent. I’m caring for my family.’

‘I have cared for your family, too.’

To this, Tannhauser could find no reply. Arnauld’s eyes bored into him.

‘You promised me eternal friendship, and suggested that it might prove “a treasure”. I claim my treasure. I call upon your friendship. Take this boy with you and protect him. As I believe you would protect me.’

Tannhauser looked at Juste, who stared at the ground with no part to play in his own destiny. All Tannhauser could see was another burden. Juste might even seek revenge; but Arnauld would not believe that; and neither did he. The youth’s heart was not made for such a road. Juste, too, was gentle in spirit.

‘Juste,’ said Tannhauser.

Juste looked up at his chest and no further.

‘You will do exactly as I say, and as soon as I say it.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘If in doubt, follow Grégoire.’

Juste looked at the grotesque child. ‘Yes, sire.’

‘I’ll tolerate no snivelling nor any of your Calvinist gibberish. If it’s martyrdom you crave – as some of your kind do – then stay here.’

‘I would not have you think me a coward, sire, yet I do want to live.’

‘Then let’s go test our mettle, before Arnauld asks me to change the water into wine.’

None were amused, so Tannhauser laughed alone.

Arnauld led them onwards. They approached three guards at the gate. Tannhauser touched the hilt of his dagger with his elbow. Orlandu would slow him up, but, by the same token, they would not expect to die at the hand of a man carrying a body on his shoulder.

‘Juste, take Grégoire by the hand and don’t let go.’

Tannhauser took the lead. Arnaud gave him a look and slipped in front of him.

‘Open the gates, in the name of Anjou,’ ordered Arnauld.

Two guards and the sergeant of the watch eyed the group with the suspicion it deserved.

‘May I humbly ask for what purpose, my lord of Torcy?’

‘Lombarts, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘As you can see, Lombarts, the favourite page – the most cherished favourite – of His Highness, Anjou, has been wounded helping to suppress the rebellion.’

Tannhauser gleaned from Lombarts’ reaction that Orlandu was taken for a sodomite.

‘This learned doctor and Chevalier of Malta must deliver the unfortunate page to Ambroise Paré, the King’s surgeon, at the Hôtel Béthizy, before His Highness’s beloved page expires.’

‘My lord?’ said Lombarts.

‘Before he dies,’ snapped Arnauld. ‘If he dies we will all have to answer for it, and blame will fall most heavily on the man who blocked the way. Every passing minute threatens his life.’

Tannhauser gave Lombarts a stare.

‘While you’re at it,’ continued Arnauld, ‘assign one of your men to carry the invalid.’

He pointed at the burlier of the guards, a corporal.

‘That man will do.’ As Tannhauser blessed him for this unexpected stroke, Arnauld looked at him and said, ‘They feed them well at the palace, as you see.’

Before Lombarts could quibble, Tannhauser strode to the corporal and hefted Orlandu from his shoulder. The corporal grunted as the body landed in his arms. Lombarts glanced at the youngsters holding hands.

‘The idiot and his guardian are going too,’ added Arnauld.

Grégoire started babbling an
Ave
. Lombarts decided his duty was more than done. He unhooked his keys from his belt and unlocked the gate that led from the Louvre.

Tannhauser motioned to Grégoire and Juste and they walked out. The big corporal followed them, carrying Orlandu. Arnauld held out his hand. Tannhauser took it and squeezed and looked in his eyes, and something passed between them that had not existed bare hours before.

‘Thank you, Arnauld.’

‘The bargain is square. I pray you find your wife safe. Godspeed.’

Tannhauser looked out into the absolute darkness beyond the lamps.

‘In Hell I’d rather fly the Devil’s colours.’

THE HEAT WAS
a damp weight on Tannhauser’s chest. Sweat plagued his brows and trickled down his flanks. Such was the coolest hour of the coming day. He took a deep breath. It coated his tonsils with an oily sediment exuded by a dozen different species of manure. He walked to the edge of the light thrown by the gatehouse lamps.

The moon had gone down behind the palace. The Plough pointed him north. To the east, Jupiter was bright. He turned towards the cramped
quartier
whose nearest buildings encroached on the far edge of the palace yard. Paris could be crossed on foot in less than an hour, yet some claimed that if its streets and alleyways were straightened and placed end to end they would stretch to Jerusalem. Pandemonium seemed the likelier destination. In all of man’s creation there stood no labyrinth more lunatic or unmapped. Carla was out there, somewhere.

He didn’t know what he would do without her, or what he would become, and he was afraid. As Petrus Grubenius had told him, all things, whether dumb stones or almighty God Himself, are of necessity founded in their
telos
, their purpose in existing, and his fear reminded him that Carla was his purpose. With age his understanding of the world had turned darker. Carla, with her love and her music and her hope, had saved him from the encroachments of despair. Such goodness as was within him he nurtured as a tribute to her, and to his love for her, and to her inexplicable love for him. Without Carla he would expend himself in destruction, for then such would his
telos
become.

She was well protected, or so he told himself. He feared for the child in her belly. The news of its existence had been welcome but a shock. Would the child be strong enough to live or would it die within hours of its first breath? Thus had died its brother not two years since, christened Ignatius Bors by his own hand, no priest being near. Carla took grief quietly. Her silence was terrible to witness; it had taken all his will to endure it. But such thoughts would only sap his strength. He pushed Carla from his mind.

He was on the run, on alien turf, amid a multitude of villains who called it home. He had to walk these streets as if he owned them. He had reasons enough to hate this reeking bitch of a city, but a wolf was wise to love his hunting grounds, and he resolved to love Paris. She had little kindness for her subjects, that much was plain, and he decided he would follow her example. With luck she would whisper some of her secrets in his ear.

Ox-drawn wagons lumbered across the square. Scullions ran out to unload them, nervous and subdued, as if they’d just found out there’d be fewer mouths for breakfast. Piles of materiel spoke further of a city half-ruined and buried in debt yet determined to outbuild Rome. To the south, by the edge of the Seine, pigs and street curs rummaged among a long pile of garbage stacked by a jetty, presumably awaiting transport. In the warren of streets to the east gunfire was general. He heard collapsing windows, splintering wood, bellowed orders, death cries. Behind the rooftops, the rose window on a church façade reflected the last of the moonlight. From the tower to the church’s rear the bell tolled on.

Tannhauser turned. The two boys huddled shoulder to shoulder. Grégoire plucked at his crotch with a finger and thumb. Tannhauser ordered them both to take a piss. The advice seemed sound so he joined them. He took a torch from a bundle soaking head-down in a pail and lit it at the gatehouse lamp. He turned to the big Swiss who carried Orlandu.

‘Corporal, tell me your name.’