Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) (3 page)

Caboche and Denisot, who had by now recovered from their surprise, once more seized hold of their prisoner. They tried to force him to kneel before the man he had insulted, but he kicked out so fiercely that he managed to break free once more, in spite of his bound hands, and again went up to Jean-sans-Peur, as if intending to add something further. The Duke’s face was livid with rage. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, the onlookers saw his face pale and one hand fly up to his cheek. Michel de Montsalvy had spat in his face …

Catherine realised that the young man had just signed his own death warrant.

‘Take him away!’ the Duke cried hoarsely. ‘Do what you like with him! Let the others be taken to my house, where they will remain as my guests for the night. You have my word upon it, son-in-law!’

The Dauphin did not answer, but turned his back on the Duke and leant his face against the chimneypiece. The little Dauphine still wept, refusing to allow herself to be comforted by her brother.

‘I will never forgive you … never!’ she stammered between her sobs. Caboche and Denisot meanwhile had seized the prisoner firmly and were pushing him toward the stairs.

Catherine slid a trembling hand into Landry’s and whispered, ‘What will they do to him?’

‘Hang him, and sharp about it, I should hope! It’s all he deserves, dirty Armagnac scum that he is! Did you see what he did? He spat in the Duke’s face …’

Landry joined vigorously in the chorus of voices now chanting bloodthirstily: ‘Death to him! To the gallows with him!’

Catherine snatched her hand away. She was crimson to the roots of her hair.

‘Oh! Landry Pigasse! You disgust me!’

Before Landry could recover his surprise, she had whirled round and vanished into the crowd, which had parted briefly to allow the prisoner and his captors to pass. She pushed frantically after him.

Catherine would have found it difficult to explain just what was going on in her childish heart at this point. She had never laid eyes on Michel de Montsalvy before. An hour before, she had not even heard his name. Yet suddenly he seemed as near and dear as her father or sister, and she felt as if she had always known him. Invisible bonds had suddenly been forged between the young nobleman and the goldsmith’s daughter. Bonds rooted deep in the heart; and ones that would ultimately cause great suffering.

Catherine’s only conscious thought was that she must follow the prisoner and discover, at all costs, what was to become of him. She had seen him twice at close quarters; once when the skinners had been tying him up and once when he had insulted the Duke. Both times, the light from the window had been shining full on his face, and the sight of him had made her feel quite giddy, with red spots dancing in front of her eyes, like the time she had tried to outstare the sun for a joke. It did not seem credible that a young man could be so beautiful.

Beautiful he undoubtedly was, with fine, clear-cut features that might have seemed almost feminine in their perfection but for the firm chin and mouth and haughty blue eyes. His gleaming blond hair, which he wore short at the nape and above the ears, had the smooth casque-like look that was then fashionable, and that permitted a helmet to be worn on top without discomfort. He had an athlete’s shoulders under the purple silk doublet embroidered with silver leaves, and his tight grey and silver hose revealed the muscular calves and thighs of a skilled horseman. Stood there between the two butchers, his hands tied behind his back and his head arrogantly raised, eyes cold with anger and a scornful smile on his lips, he looked like some archangel fallen into evil hands. Catherine was reminded suddenly of a picture she had admired in a finely illuminated gospel, for which her father had been crafting a cover of chased gold. It had shown a golden-haired young knight in silver armour, stood on a dragon that he had transfixed with his lance. Gaucher had explained to her that this represented Michael the Archangel and his victory over the Evil One. It was he whom the young man resembled … and his name was Michel too.

This thought only added to Catherine’s determination to help him in some way, or at least to stay near him as long as she could.

A mass of people crowded along behind the prisoner, all screaming for his punishment by death. Catherine, jostled this way and that, had the utmost difficulty in keeping up. At length, a daring idea suggested itself to her: with tremendous effort she pushed up close behind the huge bulk of Caboche the Skinner himself and clung on round his waist. Elated by his recent triumphs, the Skinner did not even notice, just as Catherine was oblivious of the blows and knocks she was receiving in the press of bodies and of the feet stepping painfully on hers. She had long ago lost her cap, and from time to time someone dragged at her loosened hair. But in some mysterious way, a current of hope and encouragement seemed to flow into her from the fair-haired boy in front.

There were other prisoners besides Michel de Montsalvy: the Duc de Bar, cousin of the Dauphin; Jean de Vailly, Chancellor of Guyenne; the Dauphin’s Chamberlain, Jean de la Rivière; the two Giresmes brothers; and a score or so more. They were all being dragged along in chains like common criminals, through a volley of spit and insults. As she went through the heavily-carved oak door at the head of the stairs, Catherine caught a fleeting glimpse of the long, morose features of the Maître Pierre Cauchon. He stood in his black robes with his back to the wall, trying to avoid being swept along by the crowd. Catherine was astonished to intercept the look he cast at the prisoner as he went by. His dim, lacklustre eyes suddenly sparkled as if the sight of the young nobleman on his way to the scaffold gave him exquisite pleasure, and satisfied some deep need for revenge … A wave of nausea passed over Catherine. She had never liked Cauchon. Now he positively sickened her.

As the crowd pushed toward the palace door, the struggling and jostling grew more savage. Catherine was forced to relinquish her hold on Caboche and found herself being gradually forced back. Her protesting scream went unheeded in the din. Then the feel of warm sunshine on her face a second later told her that they were once more in the open air. The rushing torrent of humanity spread out momentarily, scattering over the sanded alleys before flowing together again for the plunge through the shattered gate. Catherine took a deep breath, like a gallant little soldier before the attack. Then she was dismayed to discover that the prisoner and his escort were at that moment going through the archway. She could just make out Michel’s golden head in the midst of gleaming steel helmets and halberds. A second later he vanished from sight. Catherine gave a cry of dismay and was just about to fling herself after him when she felt a strong hand seize her by the shoulder, holding her back.

‘Found you again at last!’ came Landry’s voice. ‘What a fright you gave me! This is the last time I take you anywhere with me, you can be sure of that! There’s a devil in you!’

Landry had evidently encountered considerable resistance on his way through the stampede in the Hôtel de Guyenne. He had a black eye, one bare and bleeding knee, and one of his sleeves had been torn right off. The fine green tunic with its white Burgundian emblem, which he had flaunted so proudly that morning, was now a sorry-looking, bedraggled garment. He had lost his cap, and his black hair stood stiffly up all over his head. But Catherine was beyond noticing these sartorial details. Wiping her eyes on a corner of her torn dress, she raised her small, tragic face to her friend’s.

‘Landry, help me, help me to save him, I beg you!’

Landry gazed at the little girl in stunned surprise.

‘Save who? The Armagnac fellow whom Caboche plans to hang? You must be out of your mind. Anyway, what difference does it make to you whether they string him up or not? You don’t even know him!’

‘I know, I know. But I don’t want him to die. You know what happens when they hang someone. They string them up on those dreadful rusty chains between the pillars –’

‘Well, and why not? He is nothing to us.’

Catherine shook her head violently, throwing back her long hair with an unconsciously graceful movement that touched the boy. Catherine’s hair and eyes were her only claims to beauty – but how beautiful they were! Her hair was a golden fleece such as can rarely have been seen on such a young girl. Where the sun caught it, it seemed shot through with light. Loosened, it hung about her like a magnificent cloak of soft, living silk, reaching almost to her knees and enveloping her in all the radiance of a summer’s day – a radiance that could sometimes be heavy to carry about.

As for Catherine’s eyes, her family had not yet decided just what their colour was. In quiet moments they looked dark blue, with velvety purple shadows like Lenten violets. When she was happy they sparkled with golden rays like a honeycomb held up to the sun. And on the occasions when she flew into one of her rare, inexplicably violent rages, the pupils went a stygian black, from which her family had learned to expect the worst.

In other respects she was like other girls her age, a child who had shot up too quickly. She had skinny arms, knees like a small boy’s, knobbly and perpetually covered with cuts and grazes, and her movements had the clumsiness of a young fawn that has not quite discovered what to do with its legs. She had a comic little pointed face with a short little nose and wide mouth, a bit like a cat’s. Her skin was fair, faintly golden and generously sprinkled with freckles. The general effect, however, had a distinct charm, to which Landry was far from insensible, though he would rather have died than admit it. Her whims and caprices grew daily wilder. But this latest notion was far and away the most outlandish yet …

‘Why does his life mean so much to you?’ he whispered suspiciously.

‘I don’t know,’ Catherine said softly. ‘I just know that if he dies I shall be very, very sad. It would make me cry a lot … for a long time.’

She said this in a calm little voice but with such conviction that Landry simply gave up trying to understand. He just knew that he would do all he could to help, bitter as the pill might be to swallow. It was easy to say ‘Save the prisoner’. But his mind reeled at the thought of what those three words represented in reality. First of all they meant snatching the prisoner from his escort of archers under the very noses of the crowd, and particularly of Caboche and Denisot, both of whom were capable of flattening him with a single blow. Then, assuming they got that far, which was unlikely, they would still have to find somewhere to hide him, in a town where he and his like were being hunted down like dogs. They would then have to smuggle him out of the city, through barricades, padlocked gates and battlements bristling with men-at-arms. And at every stage they would have to contend with the possibility of spies, treachery and betrayal. Landry reflected that this was asking a lot, even of so exceptionally resourceful a 15-year-old as himself.

‘They will take him to Montfaucon,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘It’s quite a long way, but not so far that we have time to spare. How do you expect to free him before he reaches the gallows? He has an army round him and there are only two of us.’

‘We must keep close behind him,’ Catherine insisted. ‘We’ll find a way.’

‘All right then,’ Landry sighed, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go, but you mustn’t be angry with me if we don’t succeed.’

‘You will try? You really will try?’

‘Yes,’ the boy groaned. ‘But this is absolutely the last time I take you out with me. Next time you might want me to take the Bastille single-handed!’

Landry and Catherine were panting and breathless by the time they reached the Rue Saint-Denis, but they had the satisfaction of knowing that they had caught up with Montsalvy and his escort once more. Luckily the latter had been halted several times along the route by shouting, chanting bands of townspeople. Some of these were on their way to help in the storming of the Bastille, while others were heading toward the Hôtel d’Artois, the Duke of Burgundy’s residence, in the Rue Mauconseil.

The escort had just halted once more when Landry and Catherine caught up with it. Capeluche, the public executioner, had ordered the halt to enable a passing Augustine friar to shrive the condemned man and help him make his peace with God before dying. It was fear rather than piety that finally persuaded the protesting monk to agree; but when the party started off again he was there, walking along beside the prisoner and telling his beads in an undertone.

‘It’s lucky for us that they are taking him there on foot,’ whispered Landry. ‘If they had decided to drag him there, or put him in a tumbrel, we would not have had a chance.’

‘Have you thought of something, then?’

‘I’m not sure. But it is getting dark now, and if I can just lay my hands on the one thing I need, we might manage it yet. But we will still have to think of somewhere to hide him …’

Just then they were joined by a group of students and women of the town who had come running up to take part in the procession to the gallows. Landry fell silent, but the precaution was unnecessary. Students and doxies alike were uproariously drunk, the predictable result of looting a tavern. They shouted and sang at the tops of their voices as they lurched and stumbled from one side of the street to the other.

‘The best thing to do,’ Catherine whispered, ‘would be to hide him in the cellar at home. There is a little window there that faces the river. He couldn’t stay there long, but …’

Landry promised that she could leave the rest to him. Catherine’s suggestion had suddenly inspired him, and the rest of the plan presented no problem.