Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (53 page)

The black pudding that coated the hallway was ploughed by footprints and seethed with winged insects laying eggs. Altan Savas had not been moved. Rats were feeding on the exposed grey meat of his limbs. Tannhauser saw no means to soon bury him. A warrior’s grave would have to do.

Tannhauser dismounted.

He recited the
Salat al-Janazah
.

By the time he had finished, he was still alone. He called out.

‘Grégoire.’

He called a second time. He got no answer. He walked down the alley to the garden at the rear. The stains on the back door were baked to the texture of pitch. He called again, in vain.

At least three hours had passed since Grégoire had parted from Juste. Tannhauser did not believe the boy had abandoned him, despite he had every right to. Beyond that, any explanation for his absence was possible, most of them grim. Tannhauser’s mind felt filled with mud. He couldn’t think of a reason to move. A woman’s lamentations drifted through the rank humidity. He wished them silenced and at once they were gone, as if her voice had escaped from a dream only to be recaptured. Had Carla screamed thus? Of course she had. He’d heard such screams all over the world; they would never stop. He was sick of grief. Grief was as common as dirt and worth even less, his own included.

He was tired.

He saw Altan’s palliasse.

He left Clementine to graze the cabbage and dragged the straw mattress to the rear wall of the garden. He lay down in the shade and his body groaned its thanks. There was a thin chance he’d get his throat cut, but as long as it was done neatly the prospect was not without allure. He closed his eyes.

Tannhauser awoke because Clementine had stopped eating. He rolled to his hands and knees, dagger clenched, and looked across the garden. There was no one there. He followed Clementine’s gaze to the mouth of the alley.

The grotesque dog emerged in his gold braid collar. Grégoire followed. His bare feet and legs, and the once-red breeches, were caked in Paris mud, as was his shirt. He grinned and his face gaped open and Tannhauser mastered his urge to turn away. He returned the grin and meant it. He stood up.

‘Welcome, Grégoire, back from the wars.’

Grégoire ran and stood before Clementine’s chest. She nuzzled his head.

Tannhauser carried the
spontone
to the house and propped it against the wall.

‘How goes Juste?’ asked Grégoire.

‘He’s bronzed and he’s fit and living in luxury with four girls, one of whom he is in love with. Not only that, but I fancy the charm is mutual.’

While Grégoire absorbed this shock, Tannhauser took the lid from the butt and scooped warm water into his face. He scrubbed the grit from his eyes.

‘Not one of Tybaut’s girls?’ said Grégoire, with justifiable dismay.

‘No, another sister of more or less his own vintage. He needs you to help them get to Poland, if that’s any consolation.’

‘I don’t know where Poland is.’

‘That problem can wait on another day. Spin me a tall tale while we walk to the chapel.’

‘No, not the chapel.’

Tannhauser looked at him.

‘There’s a lot to tell,’ said Grégoire.

Tannhauser sat on a stone bench. The sun was now hidden by the streets yonder. His ear had to reacquaint itself with the grunts and growls of Grégoire’s voice but with the boy’s repetitions and mimes, and by probing for details, Tannhauser understood it all.

After crossing the bridge, Petit Christian and Marcel Le Tellier had gone directly to La Fosse’s house, next door to the chapel of Sainte-Cécile. While they were inside, Grégoire had looked inside the chapel and found it empty.

When the two men reappeared they went to the Hôtel D’Aubray and Petit Christian was sent inside to investigate. When he came out, he puked, then gave his report to Le Tellier in a state of marked agitation. Marcel gave instructions then rode north towards the Temple. Grégoire followed Petit Christian west, into Les Halles.

‘Why did you choose Christian?’ asked Tannhauser.

‘He’s the errand boy. I wanted to see the errands.’

Christian entered a tavern near the Cemetery of the Innocents, the Blind Piper, and stayed some while. On leaving he walked to a shabby house in the Grande Truanderie and went inside. This visit was shorter; Grégoire didn’t know who was in there. On leaving, Christian went to Marcel Le Tellier’s
hôtel
, near the river, west of the Rue Saint-Denis. Grégoire watched the house in the hope that Christian would come out again, but he did not. Two
sergents
guarded the front door. Messengers and officials came and went. Time passed. Grégoire was on the verge of leaving when a wagon drove up.

He recognised the driver: Sergent Baro. Le Tellier’s man, Le Tellier’s fist. Everyone knew Baro. The wagon turned by the south side of the
hôtel
, and Grégoire saw Stefano, of the Swiss Guard, sitting on the back.

Grégoire circled the
hôtel
by its northern side and watched the wagon enter the rear courtyard, past another
sergent
. He walked by the gate, toying with the dog, and looked in. He saw Stefano help Orlandu from the wagon. Orlandu was unsteady, as if he were still drowsy. He leaned on Stefano as they walked into the Hôtel Le Tellier.

Grégoire sensed that Christian’s errands were not done. He paid a street boy a penny to watch at the rear, for a man in green, and returned to watch the front door. Some time later, Christian emerged and Grégoire followed him back to the Blind Piper.

There were the usual comings and goings, but no one Grégoire knew. He waited so long he fell asleep, sitting against the cemetery wall. When he awoke, he poked his head inside the Piper and Christian was still there, sitting with the boss, Pope Paul.

Grégoire then decided it was time to go and find Tannhauser.

‘Does Orlandu still have both his arms?’

Grégoire nodded.

‘Did Stefano look friendly?’

‘If they want to hurt Orlandu, they won’t do it there at the Hôtel.’

‘How would Marcel know I went to the chapel? Help me, lad.’

‘His noses are sniffing. People trust priests, and not just in confession.’

Tannhauser had trusted La Fosse only that morning. Yet the priest’s shock – his surprise at the news of the murders – had seemed genuine.

‘Why would La Fosse contact Marcel?’

Grégoire shrugged. ‘More likely he sent for Petit Christian.’

‘If La Fosse expects me to return to deal with Carla’s remains, so does Marcel.’

Grégoire nodded, as if this was obvious.

‘The coffin in the chapel is bait,’ said Tannhauser.

‘Yes. I’ve just been to the chapel. There are men inside.’

‘Did they see you?’

‘No, of course not. And I didn’t see them, or hear them, but I smelled them. They were eating cheese just inside, behind the doors. At least one on either side.’

‘How did you come by all this guile? You didn’t pick it up in a stable.’

‘I didn’t grow up in a stable.’ Grégoire bit his tongue. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘When I walk in I’ll be lit by the candles and looking at the coffin, or so they’ll expect. My back will be lit from the street. An easy kill. Guns or arrows, or both.’

‘Assassins like the crossbow.’

No matches, no smoke, no noise. Less skill than a bow; and no draw.

‘Marcel must know about the duel,’ said Tannhauser. ‘If he’s cautious and prepared to pay for it, he may have as many as four men, two behind each door.’

They had probably seen him pass by. He had almost put both feet in their trap. He recalled telling La Fosse that he was going to recover his own guns, another piece of foolishness, compounded by not having them. He retrieved the
spontone
and took out his whetstone and spat on it. He began to work the edges of the blade and wings.

‘Marcel will also be prepared for me to pay La Fosse the courtesy of visiting his house first, before going to the coffin. La Fosse will be there on his orders, to usher me to the slaughter through the church doors. If I were Marcel, I’d have one more man, hidden in the house, to keep La Fosse honest and to warn the others as soon as I arrive.’

‘Marcel will use good men, not
sergents
. Assassins. I think that’s why Christian went to see Pope Paul. Paul can arrange anything. But five to kill one man?’

‘Let’s hope I flatter myself and there are only three.’

‘You don’t have to take the bait, do you?’

‘La Fosse is a piece of the riddle. And if I don’t turn up, the assassins may search elsewhere. I don’t want to have to imagine them lurking round every corner in the city. But I can’t walk through those doors.’

Tannhauser pulled a dagger and scratched a map in the dirt.

‘Crossbows, space and distance give them all the advantage. If just one stays beyond the reach of my spear, I’m done. Here, there’s a corridor from the church, it runs past the sacristy to this inner door, into the house. That’s the choke point. If I can get La Fosse to lure the others into the corridor, they’ll block each other’s fire and be close to my blades.’

Grégoire listened with the air of one used to such discussions.

‘To use the priest you’d have to get to the hidden man first. But how?’

Tannhauser studied him for a moment. Grégoire shuffled.

‘You were a thief, weren’t you?’ said Tannhauser.

Grégoire opened his mouth. He dropped his eyes.

‘Don’t be embarrassed, lad. What am I missing?’

‘The lookout will warn them as soon as you enter the house, or even if I go in, or Lucifer. If anything changes at all he will warn them. He’ll be gone.’

Lucifer was examining the sun-shrivelled remains of the severed genitals. He cocked his head and panted, as if relieved to be excluded from the scheme.

Grégoire pointed to the map.

‘If they know you’re in the house, they will not come down that corridor for La Fosse, except maybe one man, or, if there are five, maybe two. They know a choke point, too, I think. They know the tricks.’

Grégoire was right. Tannhauser considered alternative designs, but all of them depended on seizing the lookout in silence, and therefore on the lookout being a fool. He stopped thinking about the lookout.

‘I’ll show those scabs some tricks.’

‘Five Paris assassins?’

Tannhauser pointed at the plan in the dirt.

‘I can’t lure them into the corridor. But if these bravos believe that I want to lure them into the corridor – and that I’m waiting for them there – some of them will leave the chapel by the street. They’ll come through the front of the house to get behind me.’

He pointed to either side of the choke point.

‘They’ll have me back and front.’

‘How can you be sure they’ll come out?’

‘When they hear La Fosse scream, they’ll have to do more than sit in the chapel and pray for him.’

Tannhauser gave Grégoire his last double pistole and told him how to find Irène’s hostel. He told him to take Clementine and find a circuitous route to the crossroads south of La Fosse’s house. He was not to pass in front of the chapel. From the crossroads he could spy on the outcome. If it went badly, he was to join the others if he wanted to, and, if not, to make his way as he would, with the gold he had more than well earned.

‘And before you ask,’ said Tannhauser, ‘in this you have no role to play.’

Tannhauser walked down the street with the
spontone
at port.

At the entrance to the chapel he stopped where he reckoned he could be seen through the gaps at the doorjambs. The arch was recessed behind the step by some eight inches and framed by twin stone architraves. Two men coming out abreast would scrape their shoulders. Two wielding crossbows would not try. He looked inside at the coffin. He made the Sign of the Cross. He did not have to fake the sadness of a man bereaved. He heard not a sound from within, but above the foetid reek of the city he detected fresher odours. Rotten teeth and gut wind. Cheese. He lowered his head and closed his eyes and murmured an
Ave
, to reassure them he had no suspicions and to give them the chance to spring. They didn’t take it. Their discipline was good.

A dull peal of thunder rolled from the east.

Drops of rain bounced in the dust.

Tannhauser crossed himself again and walked on to La Fosse’s door. He propped the
spontone
on the wall. He banged on the door. La Fosse answered. He looked as if he’d been bibbing to soothe his nerves, but the wine only rendered his attempts to mask his fear more pitiful. He stepped back.

‘Ah, Brother Mattias. Praises be to God.’

‘Praise be to Jesus Christ and all His Holy Apostles.’

The words drowned the sound La Fosse made when Tannhauser punched him under the breastbone and shoved him to his knees. He walked past the priest to the doorway on the far side of the room. He looked to the left. The door to the corridor and the chapel was just ajar. He fancied he saw the last quiver of its movement. As he had remembered, it opened away, towards the chapel, and was hinged on the left.

He pulled La Fosse upright by the throat and threw him into a wall.

‘How many bravos are in the chapel? I know the answer so don’t lie.’

‘Four,’ said La Fosse. ‘No, now there are five.’

‘Crossbows, knives, swords. What other arms are they carrying? Think.’

‘Crossbows, knives, swords,’ repeated La Fosse. ‘I saw nothing else.’

‘All five carry crossbows? Think hard.’

La Fosse closed his eyes. He thought hard. ‘Yes.’

‘Armour, breastplates, helms?’

‘Three wear helms. I saw no plate, unless it’s well hidden.’

‘No guns?’

‘No, I saw no guns at all.’

‘And your job is to murmur pieties and send me through the doors. Yes?’

‘Yes. Forgive me. God forgive me.’

Tannhauser assumed he had a few minutes for the pieties before his assassins had cause to get too nervous. He aired some conjectures as if he knew them to be facts.

‘You arranged for my wife to stay with Symonne D’Aubray. Why?’

‘Christian Picart asked me to approach Symonne, on behalf of the palace. I introduced them. He charmed her. He gave me no reason to suspect a malign purpose.’