Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) (5 page)

Barnaby disdainfully lifted a corner of the intricately-cut purple and silver tunic with his long, thin, oddly flexible fingers.

‘I’ll take it off,’ said Michel, and started to do so. But Barnaby shrugged.

‘You would have to take your head off too while you were about it. They can sniff out a nobleman 15 paces away. I must admit, I can’t help wondering if these two are not a little mad to have involved themselves in an affair like this.’

‘Mad or not,’ Catherine cried tearfully, ‘we are going to save him!’

‘Anyway,’ Landry said crossly, ‘all this talk is getting us nowhere. We have better things to do than stand around talking. We have to think of getting back home. It is pitch- dark now. You will have to help us get out of this place, Barnaby!’

Landry was obviously beginning to think of the sound beating that assuredly awaited both Catherine and himself on their return. Moreover, they still had to work out a way of getting Michel into the Legoix’s cellar. By way of an answer, Barnaby unrolled the bundle he was carrying under one arm. It proved to be a grey cloak similar to the one he was wearing, but perhaps a shade cleaner. He threw it round Michel’s shoulders.

‘This is my Sunday best I’m lending you,’ he grinned. ‘I’d be surprised if they spot you under there. And your shoes are muddy enough now for the colour to pass unnoticed.’

With obvious repugnance, the young man slid his arms into the sleeves of the cloak. And then, with a rattle of shells, he drew the hood up over his head.

‘A fine pilgrim from Santiago we have here!’ Barnaby said jestingly. Then, with an abrupt change of tone: ‘We must be off now. Keep close behind me. I shall put the light out.’

Taking Catherine’s small hand in his giant paw, he led the way across the muddy square. Here and there a faint light flickered; a sign that life was returning to this sinister neighbourhood. Shadowy forms slipped along beside the dripping walls. With great strides, Barnaby turned into an alley apparently identical to all the others they had seen that night. All the lanes and alleys in the Beggars’ Kingdom looked alike – perhaps by design, so that any would-be pursuers would be thrown off the scent. Sometimes their route took them under a dripping tunnel, or across a stinking open sewer. Indistinct shadowy figures, fantastic-looking in the dim light, flitted past them in ever-increasing numbers. Occasionally Barnaby exchanged a few unintelligible words with one of them, probably the password the Beggar King had chosen for that night. It was the hour when both sham cripples and pilgrims and real beggars and thieves returned to their squalid dwellings. The crumbling battlements of Philippe-Auguste’s fortress, still crowned here and there by a half-ruined watch-tower, showed black against the night sky. Barnaby stopped.

‘We have reached the bounds of the Beggars’ Kingdom now,’ he whispered. ‘We must be on our guard. Can you run a bit farther?’

Landry and Michel nodded. But Catherine felt as if all her strength had drained out of her. Her eyelids kept drooping and her limbs seemed to be made of lead. Her hands trembled in Barnaby’s grasp and a tear rolled down her cheek.

‘She is worn out,’ Michel said pityingly. ‘I’ll carry her. She doesn’t look very heavy.’

He picked her up in his arms.

‘Put your arms round my neck and hold on tight,’ he said, smiling.

With a contented sigh, Catherine slipped her arms round his neck and let her head droop against his shoulder. Her weariness gave place to deep contentment, and a delicious lassitude overcame her. She could see Michel’s profile close up now, and she was conscious of the warmth and scent of his skin; a pleasant smell that suggested that he must be a fastidious young man who made great use of soap and water. Not even the layers of filth and grime on his cloak could quite disguise it. Catherine did not know anyone else who smelt so nice. Landry scorned the use of soap and water and tended to give off a somewhat pungent odour. Caboche smelt simply of blood and sweat, Cauchon of acrid dust, fat Marion – the Legoix’s servant girl – of smoke and cooking, while Loyse’s smell reminded her of cold wax and holy water. Not even her father and mother smelt so nice as Michel. But then he came from a different world; one that was closed to people like her. Everything was soft, easy and pleasant there. She sometimes daydreamed about what this world was like when she saw the Court ladies, resplendent in priceless silks and jewels, being carried past in their silk-hung litters.

The three men’s flying feet carried them rapidly along streets and across open squares. No-one paid any attention to them. The town was still in a state of upheaval. Everyone seemed, if anything, in a greater state of excitement than ever. The sack of the Bastille, the successful attack on the Hôtel Saint-Pol and the seizure of the Dauphin’s counsellors had all combined to throw the citizens of Paris into transports of joy and excitement, which found their expression in turbulent processions and jubilant singing and dancing round fountains and at street-corners. With all this going on, it was scarcely surprising that no-one paid much attention to this particular group, who were not, when all was said and done, running that much faster than anyone else. But things looked quite different once they had passed the Grand Châtelet, via the Rue Pierre-à-Poisson, and found themselves in sight of the Pont-au-Change. Torches flamed along the wall nearest the moat, and by their flickering light it was possible to make out the shapes of two men-at-arms posted at the end of the bridge. One of them was on the point of making fast the massive chain that was drawn across the bridge at night, thus creating a barrier between the City and the rest of Paris. It had not occurred to the fugitives that the bridge might be under military guard during the night. The two men in question wore the Provost’s uniform, which meant that they supported the revolt.

Michel set Catherine down and looked inquiringly at his companions. Barnaby grimaced.

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you any further, my young friends. It would be dangerous for me to have anything to do with the likes of those two characters over there. The best thing would be for me to turn back now. You will be better off without me. And you, take good care of my cloak now!’ he added with a comic look at Michel.

The four of them had crossed the Châtelet’s moat and rested in the shadow of one of the pillars of the church of Saint-Leufroy, which stood at right angles to the house on the bridge. The stormy sky was streaked with red here and there where fires raged below, fanned by the high wind. Huge clouds were gathering, as black as lead. Heavy rain began to fall. Barnaby shook himself like a skinny mongrel.

‘This time it looks as if we shall have to swim for it! I’m going back now. Good evening to you, my three young friends … and good luck!’

Before any of them could utter a word, he had vanished into the darkness as silently as a ghost, and peer as they might, they could not make out which way he had gone.

Catherine collapsed onto a cornerstone while waiting for the others to decide what to do next. Michel spoke first.

‘You have both risked quite enough for me already! I want you to go home. Now that we have reached the Seine, all I have to do is to go down by the water’s edge and steal a boat. I will get away quite safely, don’t worry –’

But here Landry cut in: ‘No. You would never make it. For one thing, it is much too early, and for another you have to know where you can steal a boat without running too much risk of being caught.’

‘You seem to know your way about,’ Michel smiled.

‘Of course I do. I know the river and the riverbanks like the back of my hand. I spend a lot of time wandering around these parts. You wouldn’t even get as far as the water’s edge. There are still too many people around.’

As if to reinforce his words, shouts and cries sounded from somewhere behind the Châtelet and parties of men brandishing torches came running toward them along the riverbank. A second later, a mighty voice thundered upon the night air, dominating the noise and agitation so effortlessly that soon there was complete silence.

‘Listen,’ said Catherine, ‘it’s Caboche speaking to the people! If he comes this way and sees us we shall be lost!’

Michel de Montsalvy hesitated. Compared with this menacing voice, the precise import of which he could not catch but which clearly spelt danger, the dark bridge, guarded by only two men, seemed reassuring. Hardly any lights showed in the houses along the bridge, either because the inhabitants had gone out to swell the mob, or because they had gone to bed early in sheer fright.

Landry took the young man’s hand. ‘Come, don’t let’s waste any more time. We must take the risk – it is our only chance. But you must leave all the talking to me. I know how to deal with these soldiers. Remember, not a word! They could spot you a mile off by the way you speak.’

There seemed to be no alternative. A crowd was gathering behind the Châtelet. People were flocking along the riverbanks toward it. With a last, regretful glance at the dark river water, Michel agreed. The three young people hurriedly crossed themselves. Michel took Catherine’s hand, pulled his hood down over his face and followed Landry, who was boldly advancing toward the guards.

‘I shall pray hard to Our Blessed Lady while Landry talks to them,’ Catherine whispered. ‘She is sure to listen.’ Something seemed to have happened to her all of a sudden. Now that they found themselves in real danger, she found she cared about nothing except Michel’s safety.

As they approached the chain across the bridge the heavens opened, unleashing a sudden torrential downpour of rain. In a second the dust underfoot had turned to squelching mud. The two guards ran for shelter under the porch of a nearby house.

‘Hey, you two!’ shouted Landry. ‘We want to get across!’

One of the two men came suspiciously toward them, furious at being summoned out into the rain again. He trailed his weapon behind him.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘We want to cross the bridge. We live here. I am Landry Pigasse and my friend here is the daughter of Maître Legoix, the goldsmith. Do hurry up! We are getting wet, and we shall be beaten if we get home too late!’

‘What about him? Who is he?’ the guard asked, pointing at Michel, who stood motionless, his hands tucked into wide sleeves and his head modestly bent under his hood. Landry was unruffled. He answered without a second’s hesitation: ‘That’s a cousin of mine, Pierrinet Pigasse. He has just come back from Galicia in Spain, where he went to ask St James to intercede for his sins. He is coming home with me.’

‘Why can’t he speak for himself? He isn’t dumb, is he?’

‘Almost. You see, he made a vow when he was travelling through Navarre and almost fell into the hands of bandits. He swore not to speak a word for a whole year if he were allowed to return safely to his own country.’

This sort of vow was quite common, and the soldier found nothing odd in it. Also, he had had enough of standing chatting under a downpour that seemed to get worse every minute. He raised the heavy chain.

‘Very well. You may pass.’

In spite of the rain streaming down their necks, Landry and Catherine could have danced for joy when they felt the rough, familiar surface of the bridge underfoot again. They escorted Michel to the Legoix’s house.

In the kitchen, which also served as a communal room and opened into Gaucher Legoix’s workshop, Loyse was busy at the hearth stirring a delicious-smelling stew in a cast-iron pot suspended over the fire. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead along the roots of her pale blonde hair. She turned and stared at Catherine as if she were a visitor from another planet. Dripping wet, her dress torn and splashed with mud, Catherine certainly did look as if she had been splashing through a sewer. She gave a relieved sigh on finding her sister alone, and smiled sunnily at her as though her sudden appearance were the most natural thing in the world.

‘Where are Maman and Papa? Are you alone?’

‘Do you mind telling me where you have been, in that state?’ Loyse demanded when she had finally got over her surprise. ‘We have been looking for you for hours!’

Catherine wanted to find out how the land lay and how severe a punishment she was likely to get. She also had to keep talking in order to drown the trapdoor’s faint creak as Landry let Michel down into the cellar. So she answered by asking another question, raising her voice a little:

‘Who is looking for me? Maman or Papa?’

‘Neither. Marion. I sent her out to see if she could get any news of you. Papa is still at the House of Pillars, and might not get back tonight. Maman has gone to sit with Dame Pigasse, who is not well. Marion told her you had gone to visit your godfather, so as not to alarm her.’

Catherine was relieved to find that the situation was better than she had supposed. She went up to the fire and stretched her wet hands out to it. She shivered in her wet clothes. Loyse started bustling about.

‘Don’t just stand there shivering! Take your clothes off. Just look at the mess you are in! Your dress is ruined and you look as though you have paddled in half the gutters in the town.’

‘I did fall into one. But it is pouring with rain as well! I wanted to know what was happening, so I thought I would go for a walk and look around …’ Without quite knowing why, Catherine started to laugh. She was not worried about Loyse, who was a good soul and would not talk about her escapade. And it felt good to laugh. It eased her taut nerves. She felt as if she had not laughed for years, the sensation seemed so strange and delightful. She had seen so many terrible things that day.