The Silver Blade (5 page)

Authors: Sally Gardner

Tags: #Sally Gardner

BOOK: The Silver Blade

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At that moment the wind took hold of the door and threw it wide open, blowing the sawdust off the floor.

The innkeeper rushed forward, cursing; then, seeing the imposing figure of Citizen Loup and his son in the doorway, backed away.

‘What kept you so long?’ said Mr Tull, getting up to greet them. The butcher, a beast of a man with pig eyes in a ruddy face, entered, followed by Anselm, whose beauty shone like a beacon in this dimly lit inn, making him appear as if he had come from another world entirely.

‘
Merde alors
, have you noticed the weather,
rosbif
? We’ve had the devil of a job getting here,’ said the butcher, shaking the water from his coat like a dog. ‘I hope it’s going to be worth it.’

He sat down and ordered a bottle of wine, while Anselm went over to the innkeeper’s flustered daughter, who couldn’t believe her good fortune that the wind should have blown in one so handsome.

Mr Tull watched the lad walk away. There was something about that young man that made his flesh creep. On the whole, he thought to himself, he liked his fellow thieves and villains to look as devious as the trade they performed. Like Citizen Loup: what you saw was what you got. Angels made him uneasy.

Anselm had grown up looking more beautiful than many a young girl. His skin had not one blemish to spoil its perfection; his cheeks possessed the blush of a fine autumn apple.

He had learned at an early age the power his beauty had over people. Even when he was naughty he was rarely scolded. No one could quite bring themselves to believe a child with such angelic looks could do anything wrong. The only person he had failed to impress had been the downtrodden Madame Loup. She knew the truth of his birth. He was not of her flesh and blood. He had been abandoned in a basket of putrid animal entrails at the back of the shop. The butcher had wanted to slaughter the infant, but she had pleaded to be allowed to take it to the nuns. Then something had happened. The butcher saw in the baby’s yellow eyes another wolf, and wolves don’t kill their own kind. The butcher had threatened to slit Madame Loup’s throat if she ever told the boy the truth. He soon forgot he was not his son; she never could. All her babies had been stillborn; their eyes never opened, their hunger for life a whisper in a candle flame, snuffed out. This baby had been ravenous for life and clung to it with a tyrannical grip that repulsed her.

As a child Anselm had become fascinated by his father’s trade, saw him as a giant, an ogre who possessed an almost mythical power over life and death. The butcher saw in Anselm a kindred spirit, someone worthy to inherit the business.

Few people can claim they are born into the right period of history. Most of us have to make do with the times we find ourselves in. This could not be said of Anselm, nor for that matter his father, for never had a revolution come at a better time. It liberated them completely from any morals they might have had. In any other age both would have been called murderers.

Instead, the September Massacre had raised father and son, the beast and the beauty, to the status of heroes. They had been called the Spirit of the Revolution.

‘How long have we got before the chateau’s raided?’ asked the butcher.

‘My sources tell me tomorrow, about nine o’clock in the morning,’ said Mr Tull, relighting his clay pipe.

Anselm returned and sat down, while the innkeeper’s daughter, having lost her fear of Mr Tull and blushing bright red, served them their supper.

The rain battered at the windows and the wind listened through the cracks to what the three crooks had to say. They agreed there would be no point leaving the warmth of the inn until the worst of the storm had abated.

The plates were finally cleared and another bottle of cognac placed on the table. Anselm stoked the fire so it roared and hissed while his father settled back in his chair, tired after their journey, annoyed that the pain in his chest had come back. He closed his eyes and fell fast asleep, snoring loudly.

Mr Tull on the other hand was wide awake. He poured himself another glass. With no one to steady his hand he’d drunk more than enough.

‘Pa tells me that you also work for a very mysterious gentleman indeed. Is that true?’

Mr Tull couldn’t remember ever having had a conversation with Anselm before. Usually the boy looked bored rigid by everything he had to say.

‘I do indeed have another job,’ he said, taking from his pocket a rather fine watch.

Anselm still had his bewitching eyes fixed on Mr Tull, who felt somewhat uneasy at the intense look of innocence that this young lad’s face possessed. He snapped the watch shut. Even though he had never learned how to tell the time, he hoped it gave him a look of authority.

‘Come on, have a drink with me. Or can’t you take your liquor?’

‘It’s not that, Mr Tull,’ said Anselm, smiling, ‘I don’t want any more.’ To himself he said, ‘but I would buy you a vat of cognac if it would loosen your tongue.’

‘Come on, pour us another,’ said Mr Tull and he started to sing,

‘Old Nick is ailing
He’s complaining tonight.’

‘So tell me about your master, then,’ said Anselm.

‘Old Nick is ailing,’ sniggered Mr Tull. ‘I wish he was. Many men would pay high to know about my master.’ He leaned towards Anselm. ‘It’s as dark as Hades down there. Hell don’t burn bright with flames, no, it damn well don’t. It’s dark, it smells of dead men’s bones. I should know. I work for a man who lives under the city of Paris, in the catacombs.’

Anselm knew of the catacombs all right, a grim network of tunnels where many bodies from the September Massacre had been dumped, twenty metres below the city. He couldn’t imagine who would choose to live down there.

‘He sounds like a strange one, he does.’

‘I suppose, if you can’t stand the light,’ said Mr Tull, letting out a laugh, ‘it’s the best place for you.’

‘What? He lives in one of them dark tunnels like a rat?’

‘I’ll tell you something that will shock you,’ said Mr Tull. ‘There is nothing dark about the apartment my master lives in.’

‘What do you mean, apartment? There are only tunnels and dripping water down there. It’s where the dead go to rot.’

‘That’s what you think. My master is one of the richest men in Paris—’ He stopped for a moment. His words were beginning to slur. ‘He’s had the most stupendous set of chambers built for himself. Lined, they are, all in human bones covered in gold leaf. The chambers are lit by thousands of candles. He has a lake and a ballroom down there! What do you say to that?’

Anselm wasn’t sure whether to believe Mr Tull, but he didn’t think the old rogue had the imagination to make up such a thing.

‘Why does he live down there then, if he’s so rich?’

‘I told you, didn’t I, he doesn’t like the light.’ Mr Tull finished his glass. ‘What - you still not drinking?’

‘Want to keep a clear head for the work, don’t I, Mr Tull,’ Anselm said, smiling. ‘You, on the other hand, don’t have to worry.’

‘You’re right, lad. Now, what was I saying?’

‘You were telling me the reason for your master living down in the catacombs, remember?’

‘Yes, that’s right, he got hurt, didn’t he. Him and that dog of his got taken down there. Has to stay out of the light … shall I tell you a secret, boy?’

Anselm nodded.

Mr Tull’s vision had lost focus now. Anselm appeared more angelic than ever, a halo of light shining around his head. Yes, he was an angel come to save him.

‘Will you forgive me my trespasses?’ said Mr Tull, his frog-like eyes beginning to close.

‘I will if you tell me your secret,’ said Anselm.

Mr Tull shook himself awake. Secret? What secret? What had he let slip to the boy? Sitting bolt upright, he said, ‘You forget about the Seven Sisters Macabre, you just forget about them, all right? I never said a word!’ He had a feeling he was saying things that in the sober light of day he would come to regret.

Anselm, longing to know more and fearing that Mr Tull might fall asleep at any moment, asked, ‘What sisters?’

‘They’re half-alive and always dead.’

Anselm was beginning to feel like throttling the old drunk. He must have made up the sisters, he thought, to stop me asking about his master.

‘Is he a young man?’

‘Who?’ said Mr Tull.

‘Your master.’

‘No, he claims to be as old as Charlemagne.’

‘Is he the Silver Blade?’

Mr Tull was beginning to feel too tired to be bothered with any more questions. He yawned and said, ‘Let’s talk about something different. Have you a sweetheart?’

‘Lots,’ said Anselm quickly. ‘No, really, Mr Tull, I am interested in what you have to say, honest I am.’

‘Sure you are. I’m just going to close my eyes. You should do the same,’ Mr Tull muttered. His French was never good at the best of times.

‘Who is your master? What’s his name?’ asked Anselm.

Mr Tull’s lids closed over his eyes and his head lolled forward as a drunken sleep began to overtake him.

Anselm, desperate now to know, asked again.

‘Your master, what name did you say?’

Gently, Mr Tull began to snore.

Anselm was having none of it. He shook him and asked the question again.

More asleep than awake, Mr Tull said, ‘My master is the devil.’

Chapter Four

I
f you were an owl that evening, swooping over the wind-tossed trees, you would see with your round wise eyes the chateau of the Duc de Bourcy and the surrounding woods spread out beneath you. And there, where the trees are thickest, you might catch the glimmer of a light bouncing from one bare branch to another. And if, from curiosity, you were to fly closer still, you would not be surprised to see Mr Tull driving his hired cart and horse, with the butcher sitting hunched beside him while Anselm, feet dangling, sat at the back. They were making their way unobserved, or so they hoped, towards the chateau.

The success of these robberies lay in Mr Tull’s ability to plan for all emergencies. In this alone he was neat and methodical. The cart carried blankets, a saddle, some rope, pistols, an axe and his house-breaking tools wrapped in a leather pouch. Never did he undertake a job without an accurate layout of the chateau he was going to raid. This one had proved easy. A servant who had once been in the Duke’s employment had furnished him with detailed plans.

Mr Tull and his two accomplices saw the work they did as a necessity, not so much breaking the law, more supporting the Revolution. After all, Citizen Loup and his son were thought of as heroes in their community. If tonight they were to stumble upon anyone who was pig-headed enough to stand in their way, they would kill him without a moment’s regret.

The three were soaked through and none of them was in a particularly good humour, each for very different reasons. Mr Tull had drunk more than he should have and his head was throbbing badly. Anselm was fed up at having to leave the innkeeper’s daughter, who had so willingly given of her kisses. As for the butcher, the pain in his chest was even worse.

‘You got everything you need?’ asked Mr Tull as the cart came to a halt. ‘The clocks, remember the clocks. Tall ones, small ones as long as they’re ornate. And don’t forget the paintings, of course.’

‘Shut up, you fat gutted dog,’ said the butcher. ‘We’ve been over this more times than I care to say. What, you don’t trust me? Think yourself better than me, do you?

Think I wouldn’t recognise the hen painter?’

‘No, no. And the painter’s
name
is Poussin,’ said Mr Tull.

‘I don’t care what the scum was called. Be careful how you talk to me, citizen. Remember,
rosbif
, we’re all equal.’

‘And I’m an Englishman.’

‘You’ll be a dead one if you don’t shut that potato trap of yours.’

Mr Tull felt rattled. Never had the butcher been quite as touchy as he was tonight. The horse snorted and stamped its hooves.