Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (50 page)

‘Marshal the carts and the crew. And leave her be.’

‘Papin’s already taken his turn.’

‘I said leave her be.’

‘You said share and share alike –’

Grymonde shot him in the face. Bigot flew backwards and hit the floor without a twitch. Grymonde looked at Papin through the powder smoke. Papin stared at Bigot, panting with shock. He spun towards the door without facing Grymonde.

‘Papin.’

Papin stopped on the threshold, too afraid to turn.

‘The carts. The crew. Take them home.’

Grymonde pointed the pistol at the head of the girl and fingered the second trigger. She raised her face up and recoiled, more at the sight of him than at that of the gun bore. He hesitated. What was he doing? The girl looked at him again. Her eyes pleaded for mercy, but whether that meant life or death he couldn’t tell. He locked the hammer back, returned the pistol to his belt. He took the girl by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

‘Can you walk?’

He didn’t ask her name and the girl didn’t give it. She said nothing at all, and neither did he. As they threaded the maze towards Les Halles the streets became quiet, if not peaceful. Too much dread infested every building to leave any room for peace. A knot of militia approached them, heading for the killing grounds. Grymonde gave them the stare and they looked at their feet and trotted on by. His mind cleared. The pressure behind his eyes eased and his vision steadied.

He stopped at the Church of Saint-Leu and turned to the girl.

‘You’ll find sanctuary here, if you want it.’

‘Must I be baptised?’

‘Father Robert is no zealot. We’ll ask.’

The girl nodded without looking up at him.

The interior was gloomy and he heard a swell of fearful murmurs and cries of alarm before he saw them: the church was packed with refugees. The terror his entrance had inspired in their throats was reflected in their faces. Wounded lay on the floor and an old priest stooped among them with a jug, and he must have been deaf for he didn’t turn. A second priest, much younger, pushed his way down the aisle. He was appalled and he was angry, and he made no effort to hide it. Grymonde knew his reputation: devout, but a man of true charity. He did not reflect on the priest’s probable opinion of him.

‘Father Robert, I’d be grateful if you’d shelter this girl.’

Robert bowed to the girl. He gestured towards the aisle. She hesitated.

Grymonde said, ‘She’s afraid you’ll make baptism the price of her safety.’

‘Mademoiselle, you are welcome here without any conditions.’

The girl burst into tears. Robert beckoned to some women. Two hurried over, attempting to mask the disgust they felt at approaching Grymonde. They escorted the girl away to join the rest.

‘She’s been ill used,’ said Grymonde.

‘I will not ask by whom. She’ll be handled gently here.’ Robert glanced at the bloodstains on Grymonde’s shirt. ‘You’re the one they call the Infant.’

‘My name is Grymonde.’

‘The one is as black as the other. Now you may leave. You frighten them.’

Grymonde found himself unhitching his purse.

‘Keep your blood money,’ said Robert. ‘Satan’s coin will not buy your salvation.’

‘I seek no salvation, least of all from this house of lies. I’ll pay the Devil his due in whichever coin he wants, though I dare say he’s in my debt by now. Keep your scorn for the next time you kiss your bishop’s ring, and hear me out. This madness – this Catholic madness – will go on for days, and where and how far it will go, no one can foretell. The door of this church is held safe only by words –’

‘God’s word.’

‘Few are marking His word today, and among those preaching a different gospel are a number of your own Roman brethren. So mark a word of good sense. Hire a
sergent
to stand watch. I’ll send one over. I needn’t tell you none will do it for free.’

Grymonde shoved the purse into Robert’s chest.

‘Christ will forgive you for paying in Satan’s coin,’ said Grymonde, ‘even if your pride won’t. Besides, you’ve got mouths to feed, and none will do that for free either.’

Robert took the bag. Its weight surprised him. Grymonde turned to leave.

‘I will say a Mass for your mother –’

‘My mother doesn’t need your gibberish.’

‘Then I’ll pray for your black soul –’

‘Just hire the
sergent
.’

On a Sunday Les Halles was like a heart that had stopped beating. The rest of the week, it pumped the lifeblood of the city: the vast tonnage of food that Paris shovelled down its gullet between one dawn and the next. Each night thousands of beasts bearing flesh and organs to suit every pocket were driven down the Rue Saint-Denis to the reeking abattoirs, and to the shambles where the animals were butchered in the open street. With them came scores of wagons loaded with fish, fowl and game, greengrocery, wine, and above all grain, for Parisians loved bread more than God.

With a shrewd eye for making a fortune, King Francis had ordered the rebuilding of the whole neighbourhood in ’43, the year that Grymonde had been born. They’d been rebuilding ever since and still weren’t done.

He’d learned to run and talk and steal and sell in an enchanted land of demolition and construction. He’d watched buildings he loved torn down, and buildings he loved rise up in their place. He’d mixed mortar and dug footings and hauled bricks and timber and lead; for pennies. If they’d knocked it all down and started all over again, Grymonde could have told them how to do so as well as any other living man, and would have made a better job of it than most. But he was from the Yards and a bastard, and his mother some villain’s doxy, so digging was all he was fit for.

Even so, he loved it all.

Les Halles, as locals loosely marked it, was bounded on the north side by the Truanderie, on the east by Saint-Denis down to the Châtelet, on the west by the cheesemongers, and on the south by the old salt works near the river. It was at once vast and intricate. The new markets were covered galleries devoted to every variety of produce, and not foodstuffs alone, but leathers and furs and fabrics, cutlery, shoes and exotic birds. Above the galleries were dwellings, and interspersed among them were churches, houses and
hôtels
, the public fountain, the octagonal tower of the pillory, and the remnants of the old market and its workshops.

On a Sunday the roar of multitudes, human and animal, surrendered to the relative quiet of watchmen, promenaders, young lovers and delinquent children. Today only the watchmen were left, reinforced by a larger than usual contingent of
sergents à verge
from the Châtelet. The Huguenots en masse, and sundry unlucky Catholics, might be dying in their thousands in their own homes, but nothing could be allowed to threaten the markets.

Grymonde nodded to various of the sentries as he passed by. They knew he paid the bite when it was proper; they knew his interests lay elsewhere; indeed, various of their employers sold his goods, often more than once if they were willing to let him know to whom they had sold them. They were all partners in the neverending crime that was Paris.

Grymonde spotted Sergent Rody outside a cutler’s shop.

‘We’re in for a spot of rain,’ said Rody, nodding east.

‘A dry post awaits you. Father Robert needs a watchman at Saint-Leu. He’ll pay whatever you’re drawing to stand here. If you can’t claim both wages, you should retire.’

‘I heard he was harbouring heretics.’

‘You don’t care if they live or die, so why not?’

‘I’ve got orders not to care, but when did you become a samaritan?’

‘If you don’t want the job, I see three from here who’ll take it.’

‘Oh, I’ll take it,’ said Rody. ‘The militia won’t violate the church. They’ve too much else to do. I wouldn’t trust them to shovel shit without getting it stuck between their teeth, but they’ve strong stomachs, I’ll give ’em that.’

‘The Châtelet’s keeping its nose out?’

‘When this is over the militia will go home. We can’t. We’ll be back to collecting fines next week. Wouldn’t do for us to be seen as a gang of murderers, even by murderers.’

‘Men of principle, then.’

Rody laughed. ‘We kept the militia away from the market or they’d have left it covered in corpses. We moved out all the Huguenot tenants ourselves, quietly like, and handed them over to Garnier and Crucé. Le Tellier’s orders. Meek as lambs they went. Thought they were going to prison, the Conciergerie. Well, they were, but when they got there they were butchered, underground. And they threaten us with Hell, eh? Garnier said he’d sworn an oath to Saint-Jacques that he’d send a hundred to the Devil by his own hand. We gave him a good start.’

Grymonde had ordered the pig roast from Garnier’s abattoir that morning.

Rody winked. ‘It’s an ill wind but it’ll blow good for some. The Crown will auction off the empty premises. The goods inside won’t last that long – if you’re interested.’

‘I know where to find you. I’ve had my drink of havoc up and down.’

‘It’s a quiet day, for us, funnily enough,’ said Rody. ‘The city’s tight as a drum. All the gates are locked.’

‘All the gates?’

‘All of ’em. They’ll open just the Porte Saint-Denis at midnight. Can’t leave a thousand cattle to strip the
faubourgs
clean. Besides, they can butcher Huguenots, but we can’t eat ’em.’

‘Anything else on the wind?’

‘The King wants the rioting to stop, if you want to spread the word.’

Rody smirked. Grymonde didn’t smile.

‘There is one sniff worth a few francs,’ said Rody. ‘A peculiar item, given, as you say, havoc up and down. A man someone wants to find.’

‘I’m no nose.’

‘Even so, you’ve got one, and this has naught to do with your lot. This man’s a Chevalier of Saint John. A big man, white cross on his chest, bold as you please. He killed three Huguenots, in a duel yesterday evening.’

‘Is that why he’s wanted?’

‘Why would that give warrant? The Châtelet can’t arrest one of the Religion like some street thief. They’d need the Parlement, the King, maybe the Pope in Rome.’

‘The Religion?’

‘The Knights of Saint John. A law unto themselves. Everyone lets them be. Anyway, we weren’t told he’s wanted for a crime, just that his whereabouts are sought.’

‘Who seeks him?’

‘I don’t know, and neither did the man who told me, nor whoever told him, and so on, unto who knows where or who? He is needed for some weighty matter of high urgency. Who knows, perhaps the chevalier has a big cock and the Duc d’Anjou is feeling penitent.’

‘I’ll keep an ear open, what’s his name?’

‘Mattias Tannhauser.’

Grymonde twisted his lips as if the name meant nothing. One advantage of his face was that any expression he cared to make was so extreme it served to mask whatever he was thinking. What he thought was that the name didn’t mean much; but more than nothing. His gut told him it meant much more.

‘Anything else to mark this man out?’

Rody squinted skyward to rack his brain and Grymonde was relieved. Rody swam like an eel in a sea of lies, as did they all, but had he wanted to deceive he’d have tried a little harder than that. It meant that Rody knew of no connection between the woman he had seen that morning in Grymonde’s cart and Mattias Tannhauser. Rody shook his head.

‘No.’

‘So the big cock isn’t a certainty.’

‘Only in my wife’s dreams.’

‘I’m off. You can tell your wife Father Robert pays in gold.’

‘Why would I want to tell her that?’

Grymonde stopped at the Fontaine des Innocents and washed his boots under the spouts. There might well be no connection, but Mattias was hardly a popular name; except, Grymonde presumed, among Saxons. The lead weight still lay in his gut. He loved the woman, so the choice was simple. He could act upon the sentiment; or he could not. He reminded himself to change his shirt before he went to the birthing room. Whether the Saxon had a big cock or not, it could not be denied that it worked.

Grymonde glanced at the sun, still hot and high but advanced in its decline to the west. He’d lost the run of time. He pressed on to Cockaigne.

Tannhauser would be looking for his wife; he wouldn’t find her. Others might, once they found out she was still alive; and find out they would, if they hadn’t already. He muttered random of his thoughts out loud in the hope of making more sense of them.

‘A murder isn’t a ribbon for your sweetheart. Nobody buys one on a whim.’

The risk. The expense. The courage. The crime was cowardly, but the idea alone would turn most guts to pisswater. And not just a murder but a plot. Plotting took practice, though there was plenty being had. This wasn’t the buyer’s first purchase on the murder market. He thought of the Louvre.

‘Bastards.’

Why were the Châtelet looking for Mattias Tannhauser? To tell him, help him? Warn him, protect him? Perhaps the same malice that had paid Grymonde to kill Carla was reaching out for Tannhauser, too. Who would want to kill either of them and why? In a life spent with miscreants high and low, Grymonde had never met anyone more unlikely to provoke murderous hatred than Carla. Then again, murder solved a wide range of problems. On a day that the royal family had painted their own palace with blood – the blood of wedding guests, relatives and lifelong friends – anything was possible.

‘The babe,’ said Grymonde.

Was the babe the reason?

Was Tannhauser the secret villain?

‘He wouldn’t be the first husband to rid himself of a wife.’

Who knew how long Tannhauser had been in Paris?

Grymonde swatted grease and sweat from his eyes.

His brain hurt.

This was why it didn’t do to ask questions. Or break a contract.

He stopped to piss. The
sergents
wouldn’t come into the Yards; the price now and later would be too high. They didn’t need to. The Yards appeared as a unity to outsiders, but like much of the world it was patchwork sewn together with envy and spite. Grymonde was not short of rivals and they could be hired as easily as he had been, and probably cheaper. It was a better time than most to fight a gang war; but not for him.