But if there was one thing prison had taught him, it was when to keep silent. Yes, indeed. Adam du Coeuret giggled, then cleared his throat. ‘I think I shall return to Normandy, monsieur, and take up my profession again. I am forty-five years of age. It is the serene life for me from now on.’
The Governor smiled ruefully, as if he envied the prisoner his good fortune in departing this wretched port. Then he stood and handed several sheets of paper to the guard. ‘These are the official documents for Monsieur du Coeuret’s release. Take him through to the guardhouse and tell them to sign him out.’
The prisoner flinched. He dabbed at his tears with the frayed cuffs of his blouse. ‘Today? I am to leave today, monsieur? Right now?’
‘Yes. Why not? Unless you wish to spend another night with us? Because I feel sure that can be arranged.’
‘Well. No. No. Of course not.’ He glanced around. An unfamiliar taste in his throat. Bilious, salty, as if his heart were attempting to shoulder its way into his mouth.
‘The guardhouse will give you new clothes and some money to see you on your way. Is there anything else from the dungeon you need to take?’
A stupid question. What could he want? Adam du Coeuret shook his head. ‘No, monsieur. Nothing. Thank you.’ He held up his satchel. ‘I have all I need.’
7
The portcullis clanged closed behind him and Adam du Coeuret found himself outside, unshackled, free. It was all so sudden. Was it some sort of horrible trick? His feet were constricted in the tight shoes they had given him. Indeed, it felt decidedly odd to be attired in clothes other than rags. Dressed almost like a real man. The clothes were old, certainly, but not so terrible, taken from some fellow a day or so earlier, they said. Cream-coloured breeches, a blue doublet. It was humid – the morning was bright and monstrous, a too-large beast. He groaned and covered his eyes with his sleeve. In his other hand was the purse of coins they had presented him with. A few écus. Some consolation, at least. It would be enough to get him away from this stinking southern city, but probably not much further. What was the price of things these days? Bread, a portion of soup, a cup of wine? He would almost certainly need some more money, and quickly. He thought of Paris and patted the pocket containing his purse with the map. Soon, he thought. A few days, a week at most.
Thick smells of brine and bilge filled the air. The hark and endless damned hark of gulls, clatter of carts, a crate of chickens cluck-clucking somewhere nearby. Stink and din – that was nothing new. The gentle lap of sea water. Fishbones strewn over the cobbles, handcarts at rest, barrels and baskets stacked high wherever he looked.
He felt fearful, as if the world had grown so much larger and louder in his absence. Or, more likely, he had shrunk. Almost without knowing it, he found himself with his back pressed against the prison’s stone wall, like a child seeking comfort within the folds of his mother’s skirts. There he loitered, in the shadows of the prison, his heart quivering in his chest – still trying to escape – his fingers plucking at his sleeves, leather satchel pressed to his chest.
He stood there for quite some time, thinking. Or not thinking, exactly. Wondering, really, at the machinations of the earth and the heavens. This was a fiendish miracle, almost unheard of. Certainly he had not seen it in any of the readings he had performed for himself. He waved a hand in front of his face, half expecting the buildings, the sky, the weathered sails of feluccas and galleys to vanish, like a vision roughly dreamed. But they all remained stubbornly real. Canvas fluttered in the breeze. He inspected his hand, made a fist, opened it once more. Skin, a few scars, hardened blisters, many years of grime. Fingers, nails. But there was no doubt it was a real thing, this hand, his hand, solid and so useful.
The working day on the docks was already underway. Washerwomen, maids on errands, sailors and children scurried back and forth with bundles of possessions, wooden carts of tools or nets. Italians and southerners and other wicked sorts laughed and cursed in their ugly, rough-hewn dialects. Arabs wearing turbans. A huge Ethiopian fellow arranged piles of crates. It was frightening, that’s what it was. Disconcerting. All these people – having woken at dawn and gnawed at some week-old bread – going about their business, running here and there. Life’s daily struggle. A bell clanged somewhere in the port, clatter of rigging in the breeze. He hefted his purse of coins. A satisfyingly soft, upholstered chink. Really quite reassuring. He repeated the action. This was something, at least.
Adam du Coeuret noticed he was being observed by a scrawny barefooted boy, perhaps ten years old, who was lounging against a pile of nets some distance away. The boy had paused in his whittling of a length of wood with a knife.
After some hesitation Adam du Coeuret motioned for the boy to approach, which he did, spitting stickily as he sauntered over.
‘You off the galleys?’ the boy asked when he was near. He stood at a slight distance, squinting, out of Adam du Coeuret’s reach.
The question took him by surprise; perhaps his clothes were not disguise enough after all? Although his first instinct was, always, to lie, he nodded. ‘But I am free now. As free as you are.’ He held out his unshackled hands and with them indicated his legs, also unchained. ‘As you can plainly see.’
Rather than being afraid or derisive, the boy seemed gratified by the response. ‘My uncle uses convicts from the prison in his workshop. How long were you inside there?’
Adam du Coeuret glanced over at the closed gate. Shapes moved about in the shadows. Guards, prisoners, their forms as slender and indistinguishable as phantoms. ‘Oh, quite a long time. It felt like forever.’
‘Did you kill someone?’
He swung his gaze around to the boy. ‘No, no, no, no. Nothing like that.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘Oh, I don’t think that matters now, does it? They have pardoned me anyway. Our King himself has pardoned me. Apologised, in fact. Yes, most gracious they were. I have been summoned to court to see the King. You wouldn’t hold a man’s past against him, would you? You wouldn’t appreciate it, I’m sure, if I mocked you for some foolishness you did as a child. Some petty thing. Pulling your sister’s hair, for instance, calling her terrible names or something.’
‘I don’t have a sister.’
It was all he could do not to clip the insolent fool over the head. ‘Well. You know what I mean.’
The idiot seemed to consider this deeply as he leaned down to scratch his calf with the tip of his knife before jamming the knife into his belt. ‘I suppose not. Not many get out of there alive, you know.’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘You must know someone in authority.’
‘I wish.’
‘Or you must have prayed very hard.’
‘Oh, I did that.’
‘And God listened to your prayers.’
‘Ha. Well. Someone certainly listened to my prayers. Tell me. What’s your name, boy?’
‘Armand.’
‘Well, Armand, I need your help with something. I require some supplies. I need’ – he indicated his notched, bristly scalp – ‘a hat of some sort, first of all. One cannot visit the King bare-headed. And I need some other things. And do you know of an apothecary shop in Marseille, by chance? I require a few . . . personal articles. Some wax and saltpetre, among others. An apothecary would carry such things. Could you show me where in the town I might find such a place?’
‘What will you give me if I do?’
He had anticipated this and held up his hand in a gesture calculated to demonstrate the degree of thought he had given the matter and how bounteous he intended to be. ‘Ah. Good question. I can give you, Armand, one whole livre. A fair exchange, I think.’
The boy looked around. ‘Very well.’ But, frustratingly, he gave no indication of movement other than to hold out his hand for payment.
Adam du Coeuret smiled and wagged a finger. ‘No. A
fter we arrive. How do I know you won’t run away with the coin?’
‘How do I know you won’t refuse to pay me when we get there?’
The little prick. Adam du Coeuret squeezed out a smile. ‘Quite. Yes. Good thinking.’ He fished a coin from his purse and dropped it into the boy’s grubby, outstretched palm.
‘What’s your name, monsieur?’ Armand asked.
Adam du Coeuret was taken by surprise. ‘My name?’ It was a question he hadn’t been asked in some time, although he had been certainly preparing an answer. Oh yes. Over and again he had considered a new name, for a man’s name contained so much, didn’t it? A fresh start was what he needed, a whole new beginning. The options had been numerous and, of course, he’d had many years in which to refine this name, as if it were a small but perfect sculpture. His new name, he felt sure, would impress people of quality and grant him access to the finest houses. It was a summation of all he’d learned, a reflection of his personality. So, on the one hand, he was pleased to be asked his name at this juncture, and yet, to be brutally honest, he was also slightly disappointed that the first person to hear it was to be a boy standing among the fish scales and seagull shit on a greasy Mediterranean dock. Never mind. That was the way it was. It was probably a good thing to be able to test his new name on a mere boy.
‘My name is . . . Lesage,’ he whispered in the manner he had rehearsed over the years, the word drawn out and complemented with a little revolving wave of his right hand in front of his stomach, as if it were itself a minor spell.
Armand turned and started walking away. ‘I know a place. This way, monsieur.’
Lesage hesitated for a few moments before pushing off the wall, out of its shade, and scurrying after Armand. He followed the boy as they left the dock area and turned down narrower, ever darker streets. Armand skipped across the cobbles, hopping over piles of food scraps and grimy puddles. He was agile, and doubtless he was a fast runner. They turned down another alleyway, this one narrower than the previous one. More piles of filth, a cat darting across their path.
Lesage glanced around to make sure there was no one about before he gave a yelp, as of pain, and crouched down. ‘My ankle. Something has bitten me. Ouch! My foot.’
Armand, several steps ahead of him, turned around as Lesage groaned once more and made a great fuss of unbuckling his shoe. The boy sauntered back.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Something has attacked me.’
Armand squatted beside him on the dirty ground and peered at Lesage’s ankle. Before he had found his balance, however, Lesage shoved the boy as hard as he could and sent him sprawling onto his arse. Then he grabbed Armand’s bare foot and twisted until the boy cried out and was compelled to flip onto his stomach to avoid wrenching his own ankle. Before the boy could fight back, Lesage pulled the boy’s knife from his belt, easy as you like. One does not endure years in the galleys without learning a trick or two.
‘Ha! There. Now. Give me back my coin.’
‘Don’t kill me. Help!’
With his knee firmly in the boy’s back, Lesage pressed the knife to his neck. ‘Hush, boy. Don’t say another word or I’ll cut your throat. Just the money. Give it to me and I won’t kill you.’
Armand released the coin from his hand and Lesage snatched it up off the ground.
‘Now,’ Lesage said, ‘don’t move.’ He pocketed the coin and looked around. Still there was no one in sight. He heard people laughing in a nearby street, again the ringing bell, a merchant’s hoarse cry.
8
Charlotte woke on her back with a start. Clotted breath and a dry hack in her throat. A comforting scent of wood smoke filled her nostrils. With much effort, she turned her head and gazed around. Firelight flickering on a stone ceiling, several candles, bundles of herbs, a shelf crowded with bottles, and there, in the shadows, a human-shaped form slumped in a corner. She attempted to hoist herself onto her elbows, but the weight of her body – combined with the heavy bedding arranged over her – prompted such pain through her left shoulder that she cried out and immediately fell back.
After some shuffling out of her line of sight, an old woman’s face appeared over her. The face was thin, deeply lined, the head covered with a tattered bonnet. A severe mouth, stony blue eyes and a gathering of white bristles at her flabby throat. The woman raised a wooden candlestick, in which a candle fizzled, to peer down at her. Charlotte was too terrified to speak.
‘Ah,’ the woman said, ‘you have returned.’
Charlotte nodded. It was all the movement she was capable of. In the woman’s eyes she saw her own reflection – a pale-faced woman with dark hair adrift in a blue pool. Thin and frightened. Her throat was so dry, as if it were lined with cloth. She raised one hand to the bandages at her shoulder. ‘What about Nicolas? Where is my son?’
‘Your son? No. There was no one else. I found only you, madame. On the ground up by the chestnut tree. So much blood there will surely grow a hanging tree on that hill. You’re lucky I happened past, for I do not go that way often. I heard the commotion.’
‘Please, madame. Where am I?’
The old woman exhaled. Then, in a whimsical, rasping voice: ‘Where are you indeed. And where did you come from, woman? A long way, I think. Probably as far as one can go from here without being lost altogether.’
‘Some men took my son. What would they want with him?’
The woman pursed her lips and shook her head, but it was unclear whether she was communicating a lack of information on the matter or reluctance to reveal what she knew.
Charlotte closed her eyes. Her son, dear God. Again she attempted to sit up, again she sank back onto the bed. ‘We fell asleep in the hot afternoon and when I woke, some men were taking him away and he was screaming. I must find them. He’s only a boy.’
And she began, inevitably, to weep.
The old woman grunted. ‘I’ve heard that men like that take young children to Paris, where they sell them as servants.’
‘All the way to Paris?’
The stranger mopped Charlotte’s forehead with a damp cloth, rinsed it in a wooden bowl, then wiped her face again. ‘But they will be far from here. Do your weeping now, woman, and be done with it. Your heart is disordered. What else did they do with you? Anything?’
She knew what the woman meant, but could detect no further signs of injury or misuse along the length of her body. She shook her head. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘I found you yesterday. You’re lucky – the injury is not as bad as it looks. You should not die of it, that’s for certain. You are Madeleine Beaufort’s daughter, are you not?’
‘Yes.’ Charlotte stared at the ceiling overhead, which appeared to be hewn roughly from rock. Firelight played comfortingly on its irregular surface and this reminded her briefly of the curious stories her mother used to tell her, and which she, in turn, had related over the years to her own children: of the monkey and the cat; of the north wind and the sun. Foolish things to pass the time, to encourage sleep or to reassure them that everything was right with the world. Lies, one might say.
‘But where are we now, madame? A cave?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘I am stronger than I look, madame. One learns to manage. I have carried heavier loads than you.’
Charlotte crossed herself. ‘Pater noster. Save me from this place.’ She struggled to a sitting position, wincing with the pain and effort of it. ‘I have to go and find my son. There is no time to waste.’
The old woman clucked her tongue. ‘But they might have gone anywhere, woman. Do you have some army I do not know about? A horse hidden away nearby, perhaps?’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘No. Of course not.’
‘I did not think so. No. How will you catch up to them? They will be many leagues away already.’
‘Why are you afraid of me?’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘Oh, you should be.’
Charlotte cowered. ‘Are you planning to harm me, madame?’
‘Me? Of course not. I’m probably the only person who can help you.’
She stared at the old woman, who stared back at her in return. The woman’s cheeks were sunken, her skin as brown as hide. Her hands, too, were knobbly and gnarled, blackened by dirt and burned by the sun. She had long, thick fingernails but her mouth possessed so few teeth that when she spoke, her tongue resembled a pink and fleshy eel squirming in its dark, glistening den. She wore a dress – dark blue but much worn and faded – and wooden sabots, also in very ill repair.
‘Who are you, madame?’ Charlotte asked.
The old woman considered her. ‘My name is Marie Rolland,’ she said at last.
‘You live here alone?’
‘Yes.’
Charlotte ran a hand over her bandaged chest gingerly, as if testing a portion of the earth suspected of harbouring dangerous hollows and swamps. She lifted aside her filthy, bloodstained undershirt and peered down at herself. There, in the flickering light, above the fleshy swell of her left breast, was her wound. It had been crudely stitched with twine and was blackly and thickly scabbed. She ran her fingertips along its raised and roughly puckered length. It looked horrible. The skin around the wound was hot, tender to the touch, and slightly brown, smeared with some sort of sticky paste.
City of Crows Page 6
