Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (97 page)

Tannhauser returned to the boat.

He wasn’t alarmed to see that the boy hadn’t moved. Opium entitled him to sleep even sounder than the rest. Tannhauser wondered if he shouldn’t leave him be while it lasted. He’d witnessed the agonies of those who’d lost a leg. They got worse for a long time before they got better. On the other hand, the feast would do the lad’s heart a power of good, and he’d need that as much as the food.

Grégoire liked his food.

Tannhauser climbed into the skiff and saw that Grégoire had moved since they had docked. The boy clutched something in his hand, some crumpled rag. Tannhauser stooped and saw the once-white ribbon in the boy’s fingers. The package from the market in the Grand Hall. The cloth-of-silver christening robe. What a lad. Tannhauser worked his arms beneath him. The body was limp but not cold. He lifted him to his chest.

It wasn’t until he stepped ashore that he realised Grégoire was dead.

He wasn’t breathing. His lips, and the wide strip of exposed gum, were blue.

More than that, he could feel in his heart that the boy’s ghost had flown.

Something in Tannhauser flew after him.

He knew that neither the something nor the ghost would ever come back.

Why had he died? There was no blood in the boat. Was his blood poisoned by the wound? The opium would have killed him much sooner if it was going to. He would never have woken up, yet he had roused himself to take the gown from the satchel. How could so small an effort have killed him?

It made no sense to die now, here, when it was over.

Tannhauser wanted to shake him.

He remembered the boy with the strawberry birthmark.

He remembered Juste.

Grégoire’s last act had been an act of loyalty.

Of love.

Tannhauser carried Grégoire into the forest.

He circled around the camp and its revellers. None of them had really known Grégoire. He had been too busy ferrying them about the bloody streets of his city. They didn’t need to see another dead child. He would tell Estelle he’d seen the dragon fly him away. The Mice might believe it, too. The others would understand. He stopped beyond the edge of the sounds of joy they made. He was in a small glade and the morning light was gentle and green. He laid Grégoire on the grass. He knelt on one knee beside him.

‘You were the only one who didn’t have to die. The only one with no good reason to come with me. The only one I chose when I didn’t have to choose.’

Tannhauser stopped. His voice broke and he didn’t care.

‘You loved horses. And I’d say they loved you, and I’d not blame them. You found my daughter in the darkest night. You put Carla in my arms. You were with me, you stayed with me, you guided me, through blood and death and thunder, and you never flinched. If we two never had met, you’d still be loving horses. But though my heart be breaking I’ll not lie. I wouldn’t wish it otherwise. I’ve nothing that suits the purpose to dig with, so I’m going to leave you here, in the wilderness, to be eaten by wild beasts and birds. I’d expect the same. A warrior’s grave, we call it. And never more bravely earned.’

Tannhauser took in Grégoire’s face, for he wouldn’t get the chance again.

The boy was as ugly in death as he’d been in life.

‘Call him the most beautiful.’

Tannhauser lowered his head and let grief consume him.

He didn’t know for how long.

He heard the laughter of girls and raised his head from his chest.

He found Carla kneeling beside him. She took his hand.

Amparo slept in the cradle of her arm.

‘Carla. You have never looked more lovely.’

‘I hope that’s another tender falsehood.’

‘It is not.’

‘We miss you. The children miss you.’

‘It doesn’t sound like they do.’

‘I think they’re laughing about you.’

Tannhauser grinned.

‘Let me hold my daughter. Amparo.’

Tannhauser took the babe. She rode well on his arm. He felt like she belonged there. And so did Amparo. After all, she did. So tiny. So extreme. So there.

Amparo was.

‘What’s Grégoire holding?’ asked Carla.

Tannhauser had forgotten about the package.

He took it from Grégoire’s hand.

‘We bought it for you and the nightingale, he and I. Grégoire never let go of it.’

He gave the package to Carla.

She pulled the ribbon and opened it and held up the robe.

It was striped with dark stains.

‘It’s a little big,’ said Tannhauser, ‘but she’ll grow into it.’

‘It’s charming. I love it.’

She kissed him. He looked at her.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,’ he said. ‘I should have been.’

Her eyes filled and he knew that she agreed.

She smiled and, despite that she agreed, he believed what she said.

‘You were always with me.’

He stood up and took her hand and pulled her to him. He put his arm around her waist. They walked back to the camp through the green morning.

There were a thousand bodies in the river more deserving of the privilege than he, and another in the glade for whom he would have died, but Tannhauser was alive to watch his daughter suck the milk from her mother’s breast. He sat down by the fire with Amparo in his arm and she stared at him while he ate, and he took pains to make a fool of himself, and the children laughed at him.

The Mice.

Estelle.

Pascale.

Orlandu.

Carla, the woman of his life.

Amparo cooed and he looked down.

Tannhauser laughed, too.

He had come a long way to spend but a day in the greatest city in the world. Now it was a long road home. But he gave thanks to Death and the Devil, and to Fortuna, blindfold or not, for the treasures he had discovered and the wonders he had been shown, for the dance he had been led upon and the songs he had sung in his soul, for the wagers won and the wagers lost, for the sight of his woman’s bliss, for the love chiselled deep in the stone of his heart by the Twelve Children of Paris.

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Published by Jonathan Cape 2013

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Copyright © Tim Willocks 2013

Tim Willocks has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

Jonathan Cape

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Map by Darren Bennett; adapted from ‘Map of Paris, 1572’, by Braun and Hogenberg, reproduced by permission of the National Library of Israel.

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