Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (15 page)

‘Nicole, drop your sword and give your belt to this lad. Quickly now.’

Nicole unbuckled his belt and handed it Grégoire. He twisted his lips in an attempt to further prove his acquiescence. Tannhauser stepped over and stabbed him and burst his heart. He chased blood from the blade’s grooves. It was at once pristine.

‘Grégoire, give me the sheath for this dagger. Leave the sword here.’

Juste said, ‘You didn’t give them a chance.’

‘A better chance than they’d have given you. Or your brethren.’

Tannhauser plucked the white linen crosses from the dead men’s caps. He retrieved the torch. He gave the crosses to Grégoire and Juste.

‘Wear these on your chest, they will mark you servants of the Pope. And ask Grégoire to teach you the
Ave
. His Latin is excellent.’

Neither dead youth had carried a purse on their homicidal jaunt, the only intelligent, if unwelcome, decision they had made. Tannhauser took the ornate sheath from Grégoire and slid in the dagger and stowed it in his belt. He spoke to Stefano in Italian.

‘You are my accomplice in this.’

‘In what, sire? Two brave loyalists slain in pursuit of a dangerous rebel?’

‘Stefano? You’ve doubled your share of the gold.’

Tannhauser and his band reached the crossroads, where the powder smoke smelled as strong as brimstone and drifted in swags on the hot and windless air. Corpses were everywhere strewn in great numbers. They watched as a dozen dazed prisoners were herded at spear point to stand before a rank of arquebusiers, twice their number. The latter blew on their matches and checked their pans. At a series of commands, they aimed and fired, and the luckless Huguenots were smitten down in a vortex of lead and smoke, some so close to the muzzles that their clothing sprang briefly ablaze. Not all died in the salvo and these lay calling out to God until the Swiss moved among them like gardeners hoeing weeds, and finished them off with their glaives.

Warnings were shouted to those below as corpses were pitched from windows and roofs. Elsewhere, by the light of torches, more guards dragged the dead into leaking, saturated piles, some of them recruiting horses and ropes to the job. Boots, hooves and bodies alike slithered through the puddled blood and churned it up with the street filth into a nocuous batter that was splattered far and wide. A lone gunshot flared beyond the rooftops. There would be a few last hares to flush and run down, and a wagon of sawdust could be put to good use, but on the whole a dirty job appeared well done.

Bells still rang all over the city.

Tannhauser called to a guard who seemed underemployed.

‘You, soldier, run to the church and silence that bell. Corporal?’

He glanced at Stefano. Stefano barked.

‘Do as his Excellency says. Jump to it.’

As they got closer to the Hôtel Béthizy, it was clear that some of the Huguenots had put up a stiff fight while going under, probably in an attempt to reach Admiral Coligny. Among the dead were men with crosses on their caps or white armbands on their sleeves. Wounded Catholics lay on cloaks or blankets, tended by friends. George and Nicole would raise no eyebrows on the Rue Béthizy. Tannhauser pressed on. In that numbed bewilderment that tends to follow a slaughter, no one was inclined to bother them.

The horsemen up the street started forward at the amble. Those in their path made haste for either side of the street. Tannhauser herded the boys out of the thoroughfare. The riders were richly dressed and superbly mounted on some of the finest gaited palfreys in the country. Even by the light of flames the muscles of the horses shimmered like silk, their hooves stepping high through the muck. Tannhauser wanted one. At the head of the column was a man scarcely older than George, but the contrast in character was great. He shouted, as if to reinforce a point.

‘Remember! It is the King’s command!’

Tannhauser realised this was Henri, Duke of Guise, champion of Catholic Paris, and commander of these nocturnal revels. Guise had fought at Saint-Denis, Jarnac and Moncontour, and had even travelled to Hungary to campaign against the Turks. Perhaps for that latter reason in particular, when he saw the Maltese Cross on Tannhauser’s chest he slowed his horse and saluted. Tannhauser didn’t bother to return it. Their eyes met in the torchlight and Guise, giddy on blood and glory, smiled as he rode on by. A number of his followers saluted, too.

At the crossroads, Guise turned south towards the river. As the last of his horsemen rode from sight, the bell of the nearby church stopped tolling. Though others more distant continued, it felt as if silence had fallen.

Stefano said, ‘There is the Hôtel Béthizy.’

The narrow-fronted building and its courtyard were less imposing than Tannhauser had hoped. The second-storey windows gaped open. A variety of armed men milled around the yard. Lying in the gutter beneath the windows was the bloodstained body of an old man in his nightshirt. A gentleman took it upon himself to kick the corpse in the face. A second followed suit. Tannhauser realised who the old man was. A third bravo, not to be outdone, took out his cock and started to piss on the remains of Gaspard de Coligny.

Coligny had come to provoke a war and he had died a fool. Yet he had also been a famous soldier and the spectacle did not sit well with Tannhauser.

He strode over, grabbing a half-pike from a stack against the wall, and struck the pisser in the base of the skull with the iron-shod butt. The pisser dropped at the feet of his companions, whose laughter abruptly ceased, and lay there insensible, pissing on himself. Tannhauser looked at the others and they looked away. He returned the pike.

He grasped each boy by a thin shoulder. He mustered a smile.

‘You two lads have proved yourselves my hardy, stout and resolute mates.’

Grégoire’s mouth fell open. Juste dropped his gaze.

‘But though we have reached one goal, others beckon. Juste, Master Paré may not feel inclined to help us, so you, as his co-religionist, will help me win him over. Grégoire, there are stables hereabouts whose rich and eminent clients will never return to claim their mounts, and I am tired of treading in shit. Go and find me the finest horse in the neighbourhood.’

SYMONNE D’AUBRAY’S
reaction to the news that her house might come under attack was to sit on her bed in her nightgown and stare into the gloom like someone who had lost her wits. Childbearing had left her plump, yet it sat well with her sweet, rosy features. When Carla suggested she get dressed and that they rouse the children, Symonne appeared not to hear a word. She was younger than Carla, twenty-nine years old, and a woman of intelligence and enterprise, but even the most steadfast mind could be undone by fear. Perhaps the poor woman was revisiting memories of her husband, Roger, murdered by a mob during a previous persecution less than a year ago, during the Gastines riots. Carla did not press her. She laid out Symonne’s clothes on the bed.

‘I’ll wake the children. Then I’ll help you put up your hair.’

As Carla reached the door, Symonne said, ‘If we are not prepared to suffer under the cross, we betray our faith in the promise of salvation. These afflictions are imposed by God to test that faith.’

Carla heard the echo of Symonne’s husband in the brave words. In Symonne’s voice, she heard only desperation and defeat. There seemed no point in theological debate. Carla left without speaking.

Her heart pounded and her stomach churned. She thought of Mattias and his strength and wished he were here. She laboured up the stairs, candlestick in hand, already tired, the weight of her child enormous. She woke the housekeeper, Denise and her husband Didier, sleeping in the roof space. She roused the D’Aubray children in their beds. They sat up blinking. Antoinette, at six years old the youngest, asked for water.

‘It’s still dark,’ said Martin, at twelve the eldest.

Carla forced a smile. ‘Martin, you’re the man of the house. I want you to make sure you all get fully dressed as quickly as you can.’

‘Why?’ asked Charité.

‘Do as Martin tells you and come down to the parlour,’ said Carla. ‘Your mother and I will explain everything there.’

‘Should we wash?’ said Martin.

‘No,’ said Carla. ‘Just get dressed. Quickly now. Wear stout shoes.’

Carla went back to her own room and closed the door. She leaned her back against it and caught her breath. The despair she had sensed in Symonne crept into her heart. Despair was more poisonous than fear. She put her hands on her belly and felt her child.

Her body encompassed his; her waters washed around him. Mattias had suggested, though he had taken pains to point out that it was only a speculation based in alchemical possibility, that everything that went through her went through the babe and in some sense found a home in his growing being, for, after all, the babe was a part of her and was being made from her deepest fibre. With this in mind, she had taken pains throughout her pregnancy to share with the babe her most inspired and elevated feelings. Her love for Mattias, her joy in horses and Nature, her exhilaration while riding in the wind, even, while asleep, her most marvellous dreams. In part she had taken this journey to impart to him a love of adventure. She would not nurture him now, at this crucial juncture, the verge of his birth, with fear and despair.

The Siege of Malta had taught her that hope, and faith in God, could conquer desperation even at its darkest, and that when hope and faith were exhausted there remained yet a final refuge in defiance. She thought again of Mattias. She should have been more patient. She shouldn’t have left on such a whim. She heard him laugh, as if to say he would have expected no less, and she saw his face, and she thought that her heart might burst.

She heard a sound from the street and went to the window. Twelve armed men marched south in the direction of the Place de Grève. Though incapable of keeping in step and not in uniform, one carried a drum and another a flag. Each wore a white band around his arm and a white cross pinned to his hat.

Carla leaned out over the window sill.

‘Messieurs! Good sirs, your attention, please.’

‘That’s a Huguenot house,’ said one.

‘Remember Roger D’Aubray?’ said a second.

‘Aye and he was a right bastard.’

Their leader looked up without stopping. ‘Stay indoors.’

‘We are threatened with burglary and murder by a gang of criminals –’

‘The Huguenots are in revolt. We militia are called out to stop them.’

‘They’ve tried to kill the King!’

‘God save His Majesty!’ A rough cheer was joined.

‘I am no Huguenot.’ The words almost stuck in Carla’s throat. ‘I am a Catholic noblewoman in grave danger. There are children here.’

‘Stay home and lock your doors. It’s the safest place.’

‘We are not safe.’

Her baby kicked. Anger flared inside her. The candle flame trembled.

‘On your honour. Will not any of you brave men stay to defend me?’

The militia marched on without another word. As their torches disappeared into the darkness, Carla sensed figures moving in the shadows on the far side of the street. She heard a dog bark. Another replied and then another. She was sure she heard a voice curse. Then she wasn’t sure. She closed the window. She fingered the small gold crucifix at her throat.

The house could not be defended against determined invaders. The new style was far from the miniature forts of the old. The windows were too many; it was designed to let light in, not to keep burglars out. On the streets three women, four children and a manservant would be devoured. Estelle said that they were coming for Carla, the woman from the south. Was her presence a danger to the family? Should she escape the house alone with Altan Savas, as he had suggested? The Temple wasn’t far, a quarter-hour even at her pace. Could she leave Symonne and her children to their fate? The siege had also imbued her with the ethic of loyalty. But she realised that if deserting them might save her baby, she would. She would let them all die.

She thanked God that Orlandu was not here. She wished Mattias was.

She felt a moment of absolute helplessness. She had a sudden urge to surrender, to give herself over to these unknown enemies, to abandon resistance. The idea produced a sense of relief. She remembered she had once seen a sheep surprised by one of her dogs. The sheep stood quite still while the dog tore at its throat. It made no attempt to run or to shy away from the teeth. When the dog paused to choke up a mouthful of wool, the sheep stood quivering on the spot, waiting for the dog to resume its attack. The spectacle of a terror so profound had disturbed her. She had felt no pity for the sheep; only disgust. The sheep had deserved to die. Symonne downstairs was in the same state as that sheep. The dog had gone on to kill a dozen more in a frenzy, and Carla hadn’t been able to stop him.

Carla had to move.

She went back to the children’s room and found them half-dressed and squabbling. Again she ordered them below. Antoinette, who was still in her nightgown, started crying. Charité took her hand.

‘To the parlour, now.’ Carla stamped her foot. ‘You can cry down there.’

In the parlour their instruments were still laid out from recent rehearsals. Carla had no plan but the instruments offered a means of keeping the children occupied, and a disciplined routine with which they were familiar.

‘Everybody sit down and tune up.’

‘But it’s still dark,’ whined Lucien. ‘And I’m hungry.’

‘Martin, I leave you in charge. If you’re not ready when I return, there will be trouble.’

The other room on this floor was the master bedroom. Carla looked in on Symonne. She hadn’t moved, her clothes still spread on the bed beside her. Carla left her alone and found Denise and Didier had come down. She could not imagine either of them would be anything other than a handicap in the coming fight. She wished she had left them asleep. Martin issued half-hearted orders. Gut strings pinged.

‘Denise, make the children some breakfast,’ said Carla. ‘Didier, let us see if we can help Altan Savas. Madame is unwell. Do exactly as I say.’