‘This man has my son?’ she asked as soon as she sat.
The stranger glanced at her, then at Lesage, who spoke to him in a foreign tongue before turning back to her. She heard her son’s name, her own name.
‘What did he say?’ she said. ‘Is this the fellow we hoped to meet? Does he know something?’
‘Yes,’ said Lesage. ‘It’s him. But you have to speak quietly. Please. He says he has your boy and that he is in a house outside Paris.’
Her relief was immediate and intense. She crossed herself. Under her breath she thanked the Virgin. ‘And he’s alive?’
‘Yes, of course. Of course, madame. He is talking the language of my country. You know, we are fortunate I can speak with him.’
Charlotte was aware of the stranger’s idle gaze, like that of a sceptical buyer inspecting a cut of meat. The Norman and Lesage conferred again in their own language. One or two words she recognised, but nothing else. The two men haggled further.
She grew impatient. ‘Can he get my son for me? Can we see him?’
Both men ignored her. Finally, Lesage leaned across to whisper in her ear. ‘Yes, but he wants money in exchange for him.’
‘My son is not his property to sell, monsieur. He was stolen from me. Does he even know that?’
‘This is Paris, madame, not the provinces.’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
Lesage looked aggrieved. ‘Of course I am, madame.’
‘But I have no money.’
The stranger smiled a benign, wet-lipped smile, slid the stem of his pipe into his mouth and puffed repeatedly until smoke bobbed from its bowl. Then, taking the pipe from his mouth and jabbing it occasionally at Lesage for emphasis, he launched into a long and croaky monologue.
When he had finished, Lesage turned once more to Charlotte. ‘He says your son is well and seems a good boy. He is safe for now, but another person is interested in buying him –’
‘But Nicolas is my own son! I do not need to buy his release.’
‘Quiet, woman. Keep your voice low. Someone is coming to buy him tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Who?’
Lesage asked the swindler. ‘Another witch, he says.’
‘For what reason?’
Lesage hesitated, frowning, but the stranger, perhaps sensing the juncture at which the translation had faltered, drew his pipe stem across his whiskered throat.
Charlotte’s heart felt as if it had been drained of its blood. ‘But Nicolas is my son,’ she whispered weakly. ‘Did you tell him that? That he’s my son?’
The vile Norman shrugged and muttered some more before looking away. She did not need to understand his language to know how inconsequential he thought her. She resisted an urge to strike him.
Lesage, perhaps sensing her anger, placed a hand on her arm. ‘Stay calm, woman. He says if the boy is truly your son then you will be glad to pay for his safe return. He says the other party has promised one hundred and fifty livres. If we want him, we need to offer at least the same amount.’
Charlotte sat quietly. Her mouth was dry and her hands were shaking in her lap. Men, she thought, who are so full of wickedness and deceit. She took Lesage’s cup, filled it with wine, and drank. The liquid burned her throat. Instinctively, she pressed one hand to the book in her dress pocket. Her son. Her poor son in the control of these hideous men. How had such darkness come to pass? How could the world be so evil? Your blood, your blood, your blood. The fire crackled and spat as several of its glowing logs collapsed in the grate, prompting the tavern keeper to waddle over and prod at it with his poker before returning to his corner stool. Sparks swirled into the chimney and were quickly spent. Lesage shifted on the bench beside her.
She had an idea. ‘You will get your money, monsieur,’ she hissed at Willem the Norman. ‘Tomorrow I will give you two hundred livres for my son.’ The man stared at her and in his blank gaze Charlotte detected a mute challenge. ‘And tell him,’ she added, ‘that if any harm comes to Nicolas, then I will send you to murder him.’
The two men conferred a moment longer, then Willem belched and rose to his feet. ‘I will see you tomorrow morning, monsieur,’ he said to Lesage in Charlotte’s language. ‘But don’t bring this woman or the arrangement is off. I don’t trust her.’ He listed, then blew Charlotte a kiss before weaving out the door into the street.
Lesage turned to her with an expression on his face that might have been vindication or incomprehension.
She spoke before he could object. ‘That treasure you mentioned? You said it was in Paris. Take me there. Now. Tonight.’
He paused for a moment, thoughtful. Then a delighted smile broke across his mouth. He got to his feet and leaned over her until his face was directly in front of hers. ‘Ah,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Yes, indeed. Of course, of course. Come outside, madame, where we might talk without being overheard. This is a serious business.’
Outside it was cold and Charlotte drew her shawl about her shoulders as Lesage, with a hand on her back, steered her deeper into the darkness away from the tavern. The voices of boatmen echoed from across the nearby river. ‘Watch out! Careful of the rope . . .’ Laughter, singing, clank of chains, the hollow thump of oar against hull.
‘Where is this money?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Oh, it is somewhere in Paris.’
Furious, Charlotte grabbed the lapels of Lesage’s tunic and pressed him against a wall. These disgusting men with their hearts bulging with treachery. ‘Where is it? I have had enough of your riddles. Do you know or not? Where is it? Tell me now.’
‘I will tell you,’ he said with a smug grin, his palms raised in surrender. ‘I will. I will. But do you not think I deserve some . . . reward if I complete such a task?’
‘I was warned not to bargain with a creature like you. Shall I send you back immediately? Tonight? A few words from me is all it takes to cast you down again, monsieur.’
‘Wait, madame. Wait! Wait! Listen to me. You could send me back, but then you would not have time enough to locate such a sum of money. More than one hundred and fifty livres. Can you conjure such a sum?’
Charlotte didn’t answer.
‘Your son will be sold tomorrow and, well, I do not wish to think what might become of him. There is untold wickedness in Paris. Besides, you will never survive here without me. I know Paris, all its streets, almost every one of its people. You . . . you need me. You are your son’s only hope and I am your only hope.’
The horrible man was right; she didn’t have enough time to summon anyone else to help her. He was right, too, about her chances of surviving in this city alone; it was doubtful she could even find her way back to the widow Simon’s lodging house in the dark. These realisations filled her with a cold despair. Had he planned it this way all along, conspired in his language with the horrible Willem? Was there no end to his trickery and mischief? She let go of his jacket. ‘What, then?’
‘Listen, madame. It’s a simple request, one I have already made. I will help you locate the treasure if you pledge to free me from your servitude.’
‘This is an ambitious request, monsieur.’
‘And I am an ambitious man. But you can surely see my predicament? If I help you find the boy, you will send me back. And if I don’t find him, you will send me back. Please. I can’t return. I have done all you asked. It is not so much, is it? You are condemning me to a terrible fate. Have mercy on me.’
Charlotte hesitated. ‘Show me the map.’
Lesage rummaged through his coat pockets, eventually brandishing a purse from which he drew a square of paper. He glanced around to ensure they were alone, then unfolded it.
The map was brown with age and deeply creased. In the dim light Charlotte could make out letters and symbols, the faint outlines of streets and buildings. Along one edge of the paper were scrawled rows of
words and a drawing of a lascivious, prancing figure – a loathsome, goatish manikin, not unlike Lesage. She shivered at the sight of it. Lesage snatched the map out of sight, deftly refolded it and returned it back inside his coat.
‘How do you know it is a true map?’ Charlotte asked. ‘That this fellow who gave it to you was not a swindler?’
Lesage appeared dumbfounded by the question. ‘What, madame? Well, I . . . The man who gave it to me, he had it on very good authority that the . . . money in question was buried by –’
‘But was he not a criminal like yourself? What did you give him in exchange?’
‘I promised to pray for his soul.’
She laughed. ‘A man such as yourself? Praying like a good Christian?’
‘A person in an unfortunate predicament will make all sorts of deals to save themselves – or, indeed, to save the ones they love.’
‘Why should I believe such a thing? Do you take me for a fool, monsieur?’
‘No, no, no. Why would you mock me so cruelly? You have my word, madame.’
‘The word of a . . . what?’
Lesage squared his shoulders. ‘A man. That’s all. Not the most upstanding, certainly – I admit that in front of you and in front of God Almighty himself – but not the worst, either. I make my confession. I have atoned for my sins. I have been a slave. Madame, please, I . . . A fellow in the galleys gave it to me: Bertrand. He was a master blacksmith from Avignon. I had done him a few favours while we were chained together. Assisted him. He loved me like a brother. He . . . he threw himself from the boat one very hot summer because he knew he would never be released and couldn’t bear the agony of it any longer. He wanted me to share in the fortune that he was unable to possess. So it is a true map, madame, he swore it upon his loving mother’s grave. I have carried it with me for three years. Hidden it from the authorities, and from the other men who would give anything to know where such a fortune is buried.’
‘Why have you not taken this treasure already?’
‘Because not any person can say the words of the spell and have them work. I told you this already. It needs to be someone . . . like you, Madame Picot. Someone with particular skills, you see. Not just anyone can attempt it or they would be destroyed immediately. You have the black book with such a spell. And a witch’s knife. The money is guarded by ferocious spirits, who must first be cast aside.’
‘More ferocious than yourself?’
‘What?’ he stammered, apparently affronted at her insinuation. ‘Yes! Of course. Much more ferocious than me.’
‘What if the money is not there? Someone might already have taken it. Or it was never there at all.’
Lesage cleared his throat. ‘Then all of us – you, me and your son – are in serious trouble, madame.’
She gazed up over the pitched roofs of houses. Low on the grubby horizon there loomed a mountainous fortress, larger than anything she had ever seen. The building, or group of buildings, was utterly dark against the sky, except for a lantern burning in one of its high windows like the glowing eye of a silent, stooping giant. ‘Is that the home of our King?’
‘What? That? No, that is not the palace, madame. That is the Bastille. The prison.’
Charlotte was so tired, and her palm was sore where Madame Rolland had cut her. Her heart keened at the memory of Saint-Gilles – its owls in the trees like solemn watchmen, its smoky familiarity. How she wished she had never left. Might it have been better to die of fever in her own country than travel all this way to meet death in this shabby city full of strangers, this city of crows?
Lesage, perhaps sensing her momentary vulnerability, pressed his case. ‘I am assisting you, Madame Picot. Remember that. Did I not escort you safely to Paris from the provinces? Find you lodgings? Have I not located your son? Who else might have been able to accomplish these things? I ask you. Who else? You know nobody here. Do I not deserve a tiny something? My freedom is not so much to give in return for your own son, is it? Hardly anything at all, when you think about it.’
She looked at the wretched creature she had summoned. On their journey to Paris with the troubadours, Charlotte had observed Lesage as he slept with his arms flung above him as if warding off his own ravenous spirits. Sometimes his head was uncovered and she had seen the scars gleaming among the bristles of his shorn scalp, the twitch of his dreaming cheek, the ways he whimpered and thrashed. And, strangely enough, she had pitied him on those nights, as – even more strangely – she pitied him again upon consideration of his greasy cheeks and little yellow teeth. It’s true, she thought. It’s true my heart is so disordered. Besides, he was right; it was not so much to ask for her son’s return. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘When I have my son safely in my arms, I shall release you.’
Lesage clapped his hands together. ‘And what of the money, madame? If there is as much treasure as I’ve been led to believe, then there will be a substantial amount left over – even after we have paid for your son’s release.’
‘I only wish to have Nicolas back. Now, let’s go. Quickly.’
Lesage bobbed up and down with excitement, but made no move to leave. Instead, he thrust out his hand to formalise their compact. ‘Do I have your solemn word, madame?’
Charlotte hesitated; Madame Rolland had warned her against bargaining with such a scoundrel, but what else could she do? ‘Yes. You have my word.’
Instead of releasing her after they had shaken, Lesage raised her hand to his lips and kissed it fervently, as if she were a womanly cardinal and he a grateful supplicant. ‘Thank you. Thank you, madame. Now. We should go immediately. The quicker we get there, the sooner you might be reunited with your beloved son. We have no time to waste. The treasure is buried in a cellar west of here. Do you have your black book with you?’
She retrieved her book from its pocket.
‘Very well. Now. The map says that the spell requires a crow to offer these spirits in return. But it must be a stolen crow, not bought. Let me think. Yes! We can go past the bird market at the quay. Come. This way. Yes. This way, madame.’
Charlotte followed him once more through the Paris streets. Around them, she heard the city’s inhabitants. Men sighing at their nocturnal labours, women murmuring in their dreams, arguments, babies mewling. Some of the houses looming over them were so high it was impossible to see the night sky. Paris. A dark and terrible place, almost treeless, where one could barely tell whether it was night or day, let alone what season it might be.
Perhaps divining her apprehension, Lesage glanced at her and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Madame Picot. We will be able to free your son soon enough.’
She didn’t answer, but was grateful for his reassurances. He was certainly an intriguing combination of characteristics; at times malign, at others quite tender. She hitched her dress to step over a ditch.
Stealing a crow was no problem for Lesage, who had clearly done this kind of thing – among worse crimes, no doubt – many times before. Charlotte waited in the shadows near the river while he crept among the crooning birds and their sleeping handlers and emerged shortly afterwards with a tiny wooden cage doused in black cloth.
They pressed on through the city. More muddy streets and tilting houses. Eventually, Lesage stopped in front of a large stone building. Bidding her to be silent, he ushered her through a low, broken gate into an empty courtyard. There were no animals, no signs of human habitation, although the night air was thick with the smell of pigeon shit.
Lesage pulled out his map and squinted at it, turning it this way and that and mumbling to himself. Finally, he motioned for Charlotte to follow him across the courtyard, where he squatted by a trapdoor. He produced a tinderbox with which he managed to light a candle stub he took from his satchel. ‘Help me with this,’ he said.
They lifted the heavy, creaking trapdoor as quietly they could. Stone stairs disappeared into the darkness beyo
nd the candle’s light, and Charlotte felt on her cheek an exhalation of stale subterranean air that carried on it smells of mildew, cold rock and sour wine. Lesage looked up at her and grinned. In the candlelight he resembled a gargoyle invested with life; his face shone with sweat and his cheek twitched.
He tapped the map triumphantly. ‘It’s down here. Yes. You see? Exactly as the map indicates.’
Lesage turned around and began clambering backwards down the stairs. He motioned for her to do the same. Charlotte followed him, but before closing the trapdoor she heard a series of high-pitched squeaks and glanced back in time to see a cat trotting jauntily across the courtyard with a baby rat wriggling in its jaws.
24
The stairs were extremely steep and Lesage’s breast swelled with excitement with each step downwards. He could scarcely believe how well his plan was coming to fruition. Not only would he soon be free of this damnable witch, he would be wealthier than he had ever dreamed. Thousands of livres, buried by some foolish old duke many years before. Money. Freedom. Soon he would have plenty of both.
At the bottom of the stairs, Lesage held the candle aloft. Although its light was thin as gruel, he could see they were in a large and crumbling cellar with high, vaulted ceilings. It was the cellar of the townhouse for a former monastery, where the monks stored olives and wine to sell at market. It was damp. Hot candle wax dripped onto his knuckles. He consulted his map again. His hands were shaking and his breathing was shallow. He was so excited that he stared at the map for some time, uncomprehending, before realising he was holding it the wrong way around. ‘Ah. In the . . . south wall there should be a door leading to another part of the cellar. The money is behind a rock in a tunnel through there. Come. It’s this way.’
City of Crows Page 22
