Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (54 page)

Petit Christian had explicitly denied that he had lodged Carla with Symonne.

‘Symonne was Protestant, why would he ask you, a Catholic priest?’

‘Symonne was a convert. I baptised her as a child. She converted when she married Roger. He was a known radical, a Huguenot militant.’

‘Why did Christian pick her?’

‘Symonne was a noted musician. Your wife, too, or so Christian told me. The notion was to mirror the royal wedding with a musical symbol of reconciliation between the two Faiths –’

‘When did Christian first approach you with this scheme?’

‘After the wedding was announced. Late April, perhaps early May.’

Over three months ago.

‘Symonne readily agreed?’ asked Tannhauser.

‘After her husband’s death she was a strong advocate for peace.’

‘Why didn’t Christian approach Symonne himself?’

‘I don’t know. He asked if I knew her, knowing it was likely. It’s my parish. It’s part of our work to grease such wheels.’

‘Why was Christian aware of Symonne?’

‘Perhaps he knew of Roger. Roger was murdered in the Gastines affair.’

‘Christian was involved in that?’

‘His confraternity was involved – the Pilgrims of Saint-Jacques.’

‘Fanatics.’

‘Devotees of the Blessed Sacrament, from Saint-Jacques, the butchers’ church near Les Halles. They wear red and white ribbons to signify their motto:
One bread. One body
. For most it’s an excuse to throw banquets and get the best seats at Mass. But some are militant leaguers – politicals, militia captains.’

‘Bernard Garnier.’

‘Garnier, Thomas Crucé –’

‘And you.’

‘No, no, I don’t share those interests at all.’

‘You share others.’

Tannhauser grabbed him and turned him to face the portrait of the cardinal fondling his own bastard. He spoke from behind La Fosse’s ear.

‘Christian pimps for the lordly. What dainties does he procure for you?’

‘Please, Brother Mattias –’

‘You whisper secrets gleaned from confession in his ear and he pays you with boys. Christian sells boys and you buy them. Isn’t that what he holds over you?’

‘The eminences in Rome proved that nowhere in Scripture, nor in the writings of the Doctors of the Chapel, is carnal knowledge of a boy deemed fornication.’

‘That can quiet your conscience when I cut your throat.’

‘My God, my God.’

Tannhauser threw him back at the wall.

‘You sent a message to Christian. You told him I’d been here.’

‘I had to tell him what happened at the Hôtel D’Aubray, which, as you can testify better than anyone, came to me as the most horrible surprise.’

‘Tell me this. If there’d been no riot today, but the events at the Hôtel D’Aubray had still taken place, how would those events have been received?’

‘Murderous burglaries are hardly unknown.’

‘And if the victims were a Protestant family with a radical history, how many tears would be shed? That is, outside the Huguenot community?’

‘Any general outrage would be difficult to imagine,’ said La Fosse.

‘The police are hand in glove with the Catholic militants, so any investigation would be perfunctory, the crime neglected and forgotten. Yes?’

La Fosse nodded. ‘More than likely.’

The knot of the riddle loosened.

‘They didn’t need this massacre to disguise Carla’s murder,’ said Tannhauser. ‘It was already disguised, as the death of an unfortunate bystander. And as a Catholic woman in a Protestant home, she wouldn’t even get much pity.’ He thought of Bernard Garnier on the Parvis. ‘Some would even welcome the crime, not only as one more warning to the Huguenots at large, but to any Catholic inclined to show them friendship.’

La Fosse sagged as if some bleak revelation had dawned.

‘More than just a warning.’

‘Explain,’ said Tannhauser.

‘Don’t you see? If all were as usual – if Admiral Coligny had not been shot, if the week of wedding celebrations had reached the happy climax so intended, and if the Queen’s Ball, and its musical symbol, had gone ahead as planned – then the assassination of Carla and Symonne would be seen as a singular repudiation of religious tolerance. That is, a violent expression not simply of militant hatred for the Protestants at large, but of their contempt for the royal wedding, for the Peace of Saint-Germain, for the Edict of Toleration, for the Queen’s entire policy –’

‘Murder the symbol.’

At last, Tannhauser understood.

‘Precisely,’ said La Fosse. ‘The Huguenot nobles would have insisted on justice – and not just a few thieves sent to the gallows. They would never have believed it was the work of mere criminals. Symonne wasn’t even that rich. Admiral Coligny would have put tremendous pressure on the King to find and punish the conspirators, but would the King have dared? Not just the militants, but Paris itself was against the wedding. Rome was against the wedding. The Pope’s dispensation was never even acquired; it was forged to trick Cardinal de Bourbon into agreeing to the ceremony. Thus, the crime would have forced the King to choose between alienating Coligny, or alienating – indeed humiliating – the strongest champions of the Catholic cause. And while the latter may not approve of Charles, they are more than eager to fight for him.’

‘Another war.’

The greater crime now consuming the city had provided the perfect screen for the lesser one of Carla’s murder; or so Tannhauser had believed until now.

In fact, and to the contrary, it had buried it.

The murder of the symbol – of two musicians who embodied conciliation between Catholic and Huguenot – had been lost amid the murder of thousands. It was unlikely that this muting of their voice would disappoint the conspirators. By chance their intrigue had collided with a larger one, but in place of a promising stratagem they had the war of annihilation they craved.

The performance at the Queen’s Ball was to have been on Friday night. Carla had been safe until then. There was no sense in murdering the symbol in advance of it becoming one. Carla and Symonne had been killed on the night following, Saint Bartholomew’s Eve.

The D’Aubray outrage had been prepared, not in hours – to exploit the unforeseen opportunity provided by the massacre – but over months. The wedding and its celebrations had been the opportunity. And of all the many such amusements laid on, none was more apt to purpose than the gala devised by the Queen, she who, more than any other figure, was seen as a traitor to the Catholic cause. Catherine would have understood the message, and its political implications, in an instant.

Tannhauser admitted the scheme’s brilliance. Retz had told him Coligny had threatened civil war only last week. The murder of the symbol could have tipped the balance with ease. Previous wars had blown up over much less.

Carla’s assassination had not been personal. It had been political. She and Symonne were pawns, sacrificed in an attack on Catherine de Medici and the policy of tolerance.

No one had expected Tannhauser’s arrival, not even Carla. Unwittingly he had threatened their scheme, long planned and prepared for that very night.

Orlandu, as Carla’s only potential defender in the city, had been spied on by the porter, who had indeed known who Tannhauser was. The porter had alerted Petit Christian, who had followed him to the Louvre and alerted Dominic Le Tellier. Dominic, improvising, had tried to get him killed in the Duello, and having failed, had arrested him.

Orlandu must have got wind of the intrigue, and been shot before he could warn or protect his mother. Why was he imprisoned, not killed?

The riddle was unravelling entire.

And the assassins next door would soon be itching.

Tannhauser looked at La Fosse. La Fosse cringed.

‘On the blood of Christ I played no knowing part in this conspiracy, let alone a willing one. You must believe me.’

‘I do. Who is your go-between?’

‘Boniface, the porter at the Collège d’Harcourt.’

‘Boniface, is it? Tell me, who is Orlandu?’

‘Orlandu? I don’t know. I have no idea. Truly, on my –’

‘What is Marcel Le Tellier’s role in all this?’

‘I didn’t know he had a role until he came here today with Christian. I’d never met the man, though I know his reputation.’

‘Is he a militant? One of the Pilgrims?’

‘I don’t know. Many conceal their convictions for fear of the Queen. In his position, obviously, he would be wise to do so.’

‘What did Marcel say?’

‘He questioned me on our conversation, which I related. I spoke of you only in the most respectful and fraternal terms.’

‘He told you exactly what to do with the coffin.’

‘Yes. I’d started making provision for the coffin as soon as you left. He told me to continue, precisely as you had asked, even though the body –’

‘He told you to expect these assassins and to do their bidding.’

‘Yes, exactly, though I didn’t know they were assassins until they arrived.’

Tannhauser considered the time had come to let the bravos earn their pay.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about these men?’

La Fosse hesitated. Tannhauser leaned into his face.

‘If I die, they won’t know you helped me. If I live, you will need my charity.’

La Fosse said, ‘I believe Le Tellier wants you alive, if possible.’

‘Did he say that?’

‘No. I heard his men talking, about how to shoot to cripple you, not to kill.’

‘They’ll soon be forced to abandon that ambition.’

Tannhauser unrolled the cuffs of his boots to cover his groins.

‘If they succeed,’ said La Fosse, ‘they intend to take you to the Blind Piper, a villains’ den, I believe. If not, they will take your head for proof.’

‘You’re sure there’s five. You saw them. You saw them into the chapel.’

‘Five, yes, I’m certain.’

Tannhauser put a dagger to La Fosse’s throat. La Fosse farted.

‘You wouldn’t be the first priest I’ve killed.’

‘Please, brother, please –’

‘If you try to warn them, you’ll be the first to die.’

‘I swear. And the body. I’ve something else to tell you about the body –’

‘The body can wait. Come with me and keep quiet.’

Tannhauser pushed him from the room to the door in the corridor. On the far side he reckoned it twenty feet to the chapel. On this side, it was ten feet from the room.

Tannhauser spoke softly at the nape of La Fosse’s neck.

‘Stand with your face close to the door. Good. Now lift both your hands above your head. Place one on top of the other and both flat against the door. But do not push.’

La Fosse’s arms and hands shook as he obeyed. He whispered. ‘Why?’

‘I want you to stay in this exact position until I return. Understand?’

La Fosse’s shoulders sagged with partial relief. ‘Yes.’

Tannhauser grabbed the iron handle of the door with his right hand. The door was still a little ajar. He held it firm. He drove the dagger through the priest’s hands and nailed them to the timber. La Fosse screamed with a passion that curdled the blood. Tannhauser pushed the door half open, towards the chapel, and La Fosse shuffled with it. Beyond the priest’s pain-stiffened frame, he caught a shadow of movement at the end of the corridor.

Tannhauser turned and ran for the street.

The street was empty but for the rain. He grabbed the
spontone
and ran to the arch and stopped short of the double stone architrave. He held the
spontone
as a woodsman does an axe, his right knuckles almost grazing the wall, his left foot forward, eyes peeled for the arch. The
spontone
was a foot of winged steel blade, socketed on five feet of ash. Its weight soothed him while he waited. He heard voices in conference. They were strained but steady. There were no prayers for La Fosse, whose screams echoed within.

The sound tactic was to send three men out while two stalked the corridor.

The voices fell silent. Footfalls slapped on stone approaching the door.

No one running with a crossbow held his fingers on the trigger lever; it was too easily tripped. When the first of the bravos burst forth, his crossbow was at half-port, his right hand on the tiller. His speed carried him two paces clear before he saw Tannhauser, by which time the second bravo was looming in the arch.

Tannhauser stepped forward a pace and severed the first assassin’s left arm through the elbow. The crossbow fell. Tannhauser swivelled towards the archway.

The second bravo teetered on the threshold as he halted his charge. His bald pate was peeling from the sun. As he brought his crossbow to bear Tannhauser sidestepped its path and slammed the flat of his blade down hard where the stirrup met the curve of the bow. The crossbow dipped and the blow tripped the lever and the bolt was shot. As it buried itself in the baked dirt of the road, Tannhauser whipped the blade back up and stabbed the bravo in the throat. He felt the tip bite into the pulp of the spine and he stepped back and heaved. The bone clung on as the blade plucked free and the bravo was dragged from the threshold to fall on his face. His peeling head convulsed atop the flaccid body and he gargled on his blood as it spilled from his mouth.

Through the archway, a shape stepped in front of the candlelight.

Tannhauser lunged to the wall to clear the arc of fire and a bolt hissed forth from the gloom and split the timbers of a house across the street. Tannhauser looked through the arch.

The third hireling had one foot in the stirrup of his bow and was drawing the string, a bolt clamped between his gums. Tannhauser’s concern was the other two bravos, whose weapons were already loaded. Either might still be behind the door. He turned.

The one-armed man knelt on his heels, two yards behind him in the rain, staring at the torrents gouting from his sleeve. Tannhauser hoisted him by the stump and shoved him to stumble through the arch. His entrance flushed no hidden danger. As Tannhauser followed him the third bravo freed his jaws of the bolt and called back over his shoulder, towards the sacristy door.

‘He’s here! He’s here!’

He seemed not to realise that his voice was hoarse with terror.