Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (59 page)

‘You were gone a long time.’

Grégoire stared at the janissary symbols inscribed on Tannhauser’s arms.

‘I told you, I’m not to going die in Paris.’

‘What happened to the minstrel?’

Tannhauser wrung out the shirt. He didn’t answer.

‘The music stopped. I heard the noises. Then I saw that.’

Grégoire pointed. Blood flowed under the door and down the step.

‘Then all the noises stopped.’

‘I couldn’t talk to Paul with a dozen knives at my back.’

‘Did the minstrel have a knife?’

‘The minstrel didn’t suffer. He died singing.’

Grégoire threw his arms around Tannhauser’s waist and sobbed. He was a child. Worn out with fear and toil. The one man he looked up to had murdered a minstrel.

Tannhauser slung the shirt over one shoulder and put his hands on Grégoire’s back. He felt the ungainly body shudder against him. If God at the moment of Creation had held the essence of goodness in His palms, and in the spirit of curiosity stacked the pain of confusion on top of it, Grégoire was what He might have made.

Feelings that Tannhauser did not need to feel rose inside him. He was one of the men who had made this world into the world that it was. He searched through the shame for something worth saying. For something he had the right to say; something that was true, and not some evasion. He could tell Grégoire he was not a good man; that he was not a wise man; that in pursuit of his woman’s safety he was content to employ any evil, at any cost to his spirit. He could tell him many such facts. But the boy wouldn’t understand. He would not find in such truths any grain of the comfort he needed and deserved. He should never have taken the boy from his stable. He remembered sitting with the printer’s daughters, in that same stable. It was worth a try.

‘Grégoire. I love you.’

The boy looked up at him, his gums covered with snot, as if he’d never heard the words before, which, on reflection, Tannhauser thought was likely enough.

‘You have saved my life. You may yet save my soul. Should I lose them both, I will love you from the fires of Hell. Now, wash your face.’

Grégoire scrubbed his face with water.

Tannhauser took a piss against the wall. He tied the shirt around his waist by the sleeves. The shirt had served him well, but it marked him a wanted man.

Grégoire relieved himself, too. Tannhauser laughed.

‘A wash and a piss and a man feels ready for anything.’

Grégoire grinned and nodded.

Tannhauser needed Grégoire to take him to the house in the Truanderie. Joco. Red-haired Typhaine. After that, he could place him in some hostel, and, despite the boy’s protestations, he could bully him into obedience. That was the right thing to do. Yet Tannhauser could not find it in himself to expel the boy from this dark quest upon which Destiny had called them.

‘Grégoire, I have more bloody work to do. I will do it.’

Grégoire nodded.

‘Dire hazards lie ahead. I will set you somewhere safe if you want me to, but if you’ll join me, I’d be grateful for your help. Without you, I don’t much fancy my chances.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Take me to the house you saw in the Rue de la Truanderie.’

CARLA AWOKE TO
find Amparo looking into her eyes. Their noses were almost touching. Carla wondered what the babe saw. She seemed to be bathing in her mother’s breath. Carla didn’t move. She was spellbound by her radiance. She felt the embrace of eternity. The world was one and it was forever. Amparo uttered her sweet, piping cry. A greeting, a question, a song of life. Carla smiled.

‘She’s ready for another feed,’ said Alice.

Carla looked up and saw her by the lamplight. The old woman sat by the bed, absorbed in the spectacle, as if seeing it for the first time.

Amparo cried out again and Carla sat up and put her to her nipple. The curtains were drawn back to let in the air. The sky was mauve, streaked with red tendrils. Fires crackled in the yard below and sparks flew upwards in the gloaming. Voices and laughter. The smell of roast pork. Grymonde’s feast. Carla felt hungry. Alice had an iron tripod warming over a candle. When Amparo was fed, Alice brought over a bowl of broth and set it by the bed.

Carla wrapped Amparo in a shawl and held her out. She was surprised by the tug in her heart at handing her over, even to Alice, but the joy in Alice’s face banished the feeling. Carla swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. She needed to use the pot. She asked to be excused and Alice walked to the window, murmuring to the babe. Carla stood up, amazed at how light her body seemed. She was unsteady but felt strong enough. Her stomach cramped in a late contraction. She left some clots in the chamber pot but not enough to worry her. Alice returned and sat in her chair and Carla sat on the bed and ate. The broth was good.

‘Should we swaddle her?’ asked Carla.

‘It’s up to you. Most do. But this woman doesn’t believe in swaddling bands. What young living thing would want her arms and legs bound tight? It makes no sense. There’s plenty bonds in life without having to start off in them. A nicely tucked shawl is enough, and as much of your skin as she can get.’

‘Show me how you would do it.’

Alice produced a white linen clout and demonstrated the knots and folds that would keep it round the baby’s waist without chafing her. She stood back to let Carla practise. What delight. They swaddled Amparo in a shawl from Carla’s valise. Sounds came from downstairs: the front door opening to a waft of festive noise, which was muffled again when it closed.

Carla said, ‘Grymonde?’

Alice shook her head. ‘The house didn’t shake.’ She stood up and shuffled to the door. ‘Who’s there? Speak up or we’ll have your guts for garters.’

‘I’m looking for Grymonde,’ called a small, bold voice.

‘He’s not here.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I think it’s Estelle,’ said Carla. ‘Call her up.’

‘Come on up.’ Alice looked at Carla. ‘Estelle?’

‘One of Grymonde’s gang, I think.’

Alice frowned, as if she thought this unlikely.

Estelle appeared in the doorway and stopped. She was, if anything, even more filthy than when Carla had first met her. She was smeared from head to foot in damp soot. Her hair was matted with the stuff. Her arms and legs were covered with scratches and scrapes. Her eyes shone white from the black mask, fierce as ever. She didn’t enter the room.

‘Hellfire.’

‘Estelle,’ said Carla. ‘Did you come down the chimney again?’

‘No, I climbed up a chimney. Where’s Grymonde?’

‘He’s out,’ said Alice. ‘And if you’re coming in here you’ll not escape a wash.’

Estelle submitted while Alice removed her belt and pulled her smock over her face and used it to swab up the worst of the loose soot from her long ringlets. Alice bundled the smock and threw it out of the window, ignoring the protest from below. She took a linen towel used earlier and wrapped the girl’s hair in a turban. Most of the fallen soot was confined outside the door.

‘This is a special place, so mind your manners,’ said Alice. ‘Now, save this old woman’s back and put that basin of water on the floor, go on. Don’t spill it.’

Estelle tiptoed into the room. She saw Amparo in Carla’s arms and stopped.

‘Is that your new baby?’

‘Yes, she’s a little girl.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Amparo.’

‘I never heard that name before.’

‘When you’re clean, you can say hello to her. You’ll be her very first friend.’

‘Her first friend ever?’

‘Her first friend ever, in all the world.’

Estelle lifted the wide pewter basin from the table and set it on the floor. The water wasn’t fresh, but that hardly mattered. Estelle stood in it with great solemnity. As Alice prepared to struggle down to her knees, Carla stood up and offered Amparo.

‘Please, let me do it, I feel fine.’

Alice didn’t resist. She took the baby and Carla knelt by Estelle and washed her from the neck down with a soaped cloth. It was the first bath the girl had had in some time. There were sores on her skin, as well as the new scratches. When her hands were clean, Estelle leaned on Carla’s shoulders for balance. The hands felt good.

‘You’ll have to find a better way of coming and going than by the chimney.’

‘I hate the chimney, but the
sergent
was sitting by the front door and the window was too high. He ate all our soup and fell asleep. I hate him, too. I hate them all.’

‘Well, there’s no one to hate here. We’re all good friends.’

‘Is Grymonde your friend?’

‘Yes, Grymonde has become my friend. He’s a good friend to have.’

‘He takes me flying.’

‘That must be wonderful,’ said Carla.

‘It is. But you like the chevalier better than you like Grymonde, don’t you?’

Carla stopped and looked at her. She remembered the jealousy in Estelle’s eyes, the pain at her expulsion. The jealousy was gone; in its place was a terrible need. Carla’s heart clenched. There was no doubt in her mind. Estelle was Grymonde’s daughter.

It was not because she saw Grymonde in Estelle’s face, but because she saw Alice in Estelle’s eyes. Wild and grey as the sea, and as deeply wounded. The urge to cry rose in Carla’s throat. She swallowed. She wanted to look at Alice, but didn’t. The chevalier? She wrung out the cloth. She wanted to wipe her brow, but cloth and water both were now so filthy she used the back of her arm. Her thoughts were blurred by emotion. She took refuge in practicalities.

‘Step out of the basin, Estelle. We’ll use fresh water for your face.’

Estelle stepped out of the basin and Carla used the bed to lever herself to her feet. She stooped to pick up the basin but Estelle reached it first.

‘I’ll do it.’ She carried the basin to the window. ‘Below!’

Estelle dumped the water, provoking more oaths. She carried the basin back and Carla put it on the table and poured fresh water from a jug. She looked for a clean cloth.

‘You said the chevalier. Do you mean my husband, Mattias?’

‘You do like him the most, don’t you?’ nodded Estelle, afraid of Carla’s answer.

‘Yes, of course I like Mattias the most. I love him. But how do you know of him?’

‘Petit Christian said the chevalier would give Grymonde a lot of gold if he would let you go home, so I told him you were here. But he’s a liar, they’re all liars. He called me a Judas and I’m not a Judas, so I escaped to tell Grymonde, and you.’

‘So you didn’t see Mattias, the chevalier?’

‘No,’ said Estelle. ‘They just talked about him.’

‘They? Who else was there?’

‘My mother and Joco.’

‘Joco from this morning?’

Estelle nodded. ‘You made Grymonde hurt him, without saying so.’

‘Does Petit Christian work at the Louvre, for the Queen?’

‘I don’t know. The people he works for are bad. He’s a poison toad.’

Carla found the cloth and twisted it in her hands. She wasn’t safe any more, but the feeling was distant because so much else was close. Her body. Her fatigue. Her joy. Her baby. Alice.

‘Carla? Let this old woman wash Estelle’s face, if you please.’

Alice offered Amparo. Carla took the babe and hugged her. Amparo was asleep. Carla’s breasts ached. She saw Alice study Estelle with great intensity, with her essence as much as her eyes. Estelle shrank back. Alice sat on the bed and beckoned her.

‘Don’t be frightened of this old girl, Estelle. You want your beautiful face to be nice and clean for when Grymonde gets home, don’t you?’

‘Is he coming home?’

‘Grymonde always comes home. He’s my son.’

‘He’s my dragon.’

Estelle smiled. Carla couldn’t remember seeing her smile before. It was Grymonde’s smile, a little mad, and as big as her heart. Alice sighed, all her pain and all her stolen joy in that sound. She patted her lap for Estelle to sit on it. Estelle did so, her blackened face alive beneath the soiled white turban.

‘I didn’t know Grymonde had a mother,’ she said.

‘Everyone has a mother, love. Even a dragon.’

Alice soaped and dipped the cloth. She hesitated. For one to whom flesh gave up its inmost secrets, she seemed almost afraid, as if Estelle might disappear if she touched her. Carla understood. She held Amparo to her cheek and watched as another moment of eternity unfolded before her. Alice began to wipe the soot from Estelle’s face. She touched her skin with tenderness and passion, rinsing after each stroke, as if each stroke were a treasure worth a lifetime of anguish, as if with each stroke that anguish, like the soot, was wiped away.

Carla’s fears were banished by something more potent, more enduring, than earthly woes. Something mystical. Amparo opened her eyes and cooed and Carla turned her around so that she could watch, too.

‘Grymonde lifts me on his shoulders and we fly,’ explained Estelle, between wipes. ‘His shoulders are the highest place in Paris, higher than everyone, and he takes me wherever I want. I pull on his ears to tell him which way to go and he roars fire out of his mouth. And everyone gets out of our way and they all wish they were me, because I’m the only girl in the world who can fly with the dragon. Is my face clean yet?’

‘Not yet, love.’

‘Why are you crying?’

‘Because I’m happy.’

Estelle looked at Carla. ‘Are you happy, too?’

Carla realised her own tears were falling. She nodded.

‘I only cry when I’m sad,’ said Estelle.

‘Sad tears are good. Happy tears are better,’ said Alice.

Alice wiped the soot from Estelle’s lip, and from her nostrils, and from her ears. She told her to close her eyes and wiped her eyelids and lashes. She looked at her.

‘You are her. You are you. Can I put my arms around you?’

Estelle looked at Carla for reassurance. Carla nodded.

‘If you like,’ said Estelle.

Alice embraced her. Carla saw her searching within the great realms of her knowing, questioning herself, searching for the truth, for the right. She was ready to deny herself her own just claim, despite that that claim – that recognition – would have healed every wound she carried. It was with the wisdom of that denial that she struggled. She was trying to see beyond her own desires to what Estelle most needed. She looked at Carla.