by Tim Willocks
Octavien looked at the boy. His resolve wavered.
Benedykt’s malice exceeded his pain. ‘Octavien! Kill him.’
Tannhauser drove a knee into his chin and splayed him on the floor.
Octavien had turned a shade paler. He put his hand on his rapier.
‘Will you be known as a coward?’ asked Dominic Le Tellier. ‘Or does your challenge stand?’
Tannhauser stared at him.
The captain retreated to stand behind his guards.
Octavien said, ‘The challenge stands.’
Tannhauser said, ‘Then the choice of time, place and weapons is mine.’
No one took exception to this ordinance of the Code.
‘Now is the time. In the courtyard. With those.’
Tannhauser pointed above the gateway. Mounted on the wall was a pair of ball-and-chain maces, their iron-bound handles crossed. A murmur. Octavien turned paler still.
‘I’ve no skill with such a weapon,’ he said.
Neither had Tannhauser. He smiled.
‘Then I will instruct you.’
In the courtyard the crowd formed a square in which the duellists would contest their lives. Tannhauser gave his belted sword and dagger to Grégoire.
‘Grégoire, you’re my second.’
He pointed out Octavien, who was in conference with his kin.
‘I’m going to kill that man, do you understand?’
Grégoire passed his tongue over his sundered lip and licked mucus from his gums.
‘If anyone else enters this square, you must bring me my sword. Run as fast as you can. Grip it tight by the scabbard and hold the hilt towards me. Show me, now.’
Grégoire kicked his shoes off. Blistered and bleeding toes poked from holes in his new socks. He took a breath and gripped the sword by the scabbard. He proffered the hilt.
‘Like this?’
‘Perfect. You will make a fine second.’
‘Are you going to die, sire?’
‘Not today.’
He took up the mace. The chain clanked as he examined the links to make sure they were sound. The tarnished iron sphere, the size of a large apple, was welded about its surface with blunt pyramidal spikes, designed to destroy plate armour. Tannhauser had never used one in combat. He had chosen the mace because the choice itself had defeated Octavien already. He could see the brothers clustered around him, bemoaning the injustice of it all and further undermining his spirit. Benedykt was sobbing, and this time not from pain.
The sun had dropped below the roof of the West Wing, whose new tiles and chimneys were chased in a virulent red. Tannhauser hefted the mace with his left hand and swung it and the swivel spun. He turned his back to the sunset and started forward. Silence fell on the crowd. Tannhauser went down on one knee and crossed himself and rose to his feet. He sensed that many eyes were on him. He took in the Huguenot spectators with a slow turn of his head.
‘Does Octavien intend to fight in the dark?
Octavien parted from his brothers, their hands slapping his back, their last words of advice lost in the gloaming. As he approached he took an underhand swing with his mace and shifted to correct his balance as its weight arced behind him. He would aim for the legs, the best of his options. He circled to Tannhauser’s right and tried some footwork and again he almost stumbled.
Tannhauser advanced head-on, his mace held limp before his chest, the haft in his left hand. In this fight he was the bigger dog and he stared Octavien full in the eyes. Had he been the underdog, and times enough it had been so, he would have stared at the mouth, for the eyes of the stronger are a dark abyss inviting one to fall. Octavien tried to match his gaze. Tannhauser bore down. Three yards. Octavien still circled, still whirled his mace, the mace still the master of the man, the man puzzled more and more by the fact that Tannhauser did not wield his weapon.
Tannhauser stopped. ‘Yield,’ he said.
Octavien’s lips compressed and signalled his move. He struck out for Tannhauser’s thigh, as expected, but he lost control of the tension in the chain, thrusting the haft too eagerly, too far in advance of the arc, and the chain clanked and the swing was slow. Tannhauser pulled his left foot back, avoiding the blow by inches, and grabbed the ball of his mace in the palm of his right hand. The momentum of Octavien’s swing wrapped his right arm across his chest.
Tannhauser shifted his weight and lunged, the iron ball cocked to the crook of his neck, like an artilleryman in a wager to heave a cannon shot. With the whole of his bodyweight behind it, he shoved the ball of the mace through Octavien’s face. The force of the impact shivered up his arm.
He braced his shoulder and followed through.
The sound of the iron on flesh and bone broke the silence. Blood spattered Tannhauser’s chest. Octavien uttered a dull cry and hurtled to the ground. Tannhauser stood over him and looked down. The iron ball had caved in the left side of his face from the upper jaw unto the brow. His eye appeared to have vanished upward, into his skull. The blunt spikes had ploughed runnels through the muscle and skin of his cheek. Bloody teeth gaped through the rents.
‘The surgeons have healed worse,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Yield.’
Octavien shook his head. Tannhauser looked around the square of dour men. None spoke. The brothers were in shock. Tannhauser took the haft in his right hand and raised the mace.
‘I ask him a third time to yield.’
Octavien shook his head.
Tannhauser estimated the strength required to punch a hole through the vault of Octavien’s skull. His muscles decided they didn’t want to do it. There was no morality in the decision, just an arm that had had its fill. He had had his fill, too. He turned away, towards Grégoire.
Grégoire exploded into a sprint.
Tannhauser looked back. Benedykt was lumbering across the square, a sword in his left hand, his face crazed. He let out a roar. At the sound of the roar, the other two brothers followed him. Tannhauser turned to the slap of bare feet as Grégoire extended the sword.
‘Brave boy. Get back.’
Tannhauser spun with his sword to meet Benedykt’s charge. The brute was beyond reason, his rapier extended to run him through. Tannhauser let him come. As the thrust was launched he side-stepped right and parried, his heavier blade swatting the rapier aside across Benedykt’s body. Benedykt’s impetus carried him past a pace too far. Tannhauser followed him round, the rotation of his body at one with the rotation of the chain, and lashed the mace through the inner side of Benedykt’s lower left leg. He felt the shinbone shatter like porcelain, and to that very bone was Benedykt’s weight committed as he stalled his rush. Benedykt fell screaming, on his face.
Tannhauser glanced athwart his shoulder as the third brother ran at his back. Sword and dagger, right and left. He had not the fury of Benedykt, nor the skill of Octavien. Or perhaps he knew that his actions were those of a scoundrel. He hesitated. Tannhauser stepped and spun to his left, covering and parrying, and swung the mace from maximum vantage, all his might in the blow. The ball hummed through its arc and flailed the scoundrel through the ear. His skull collapsed and an eyeball burst from its hole amid bloody fragments. Groans and whistles of approval rose from the crowd and the carcass dropped. Tannhauser turned to the fourth and last of the brothers.
The stripling, for he was fourteen at most, stood with a sword in hand, agape at the speed with which his family had ceased to exist. He was fair of face. He stared at Tannhauser without any notion of what to do. Tannhauser turned to Benedykt, who sat panting like some foundered beast in a swill of gore.
‘Die in the blood of your kin, for it’s you that spilt it.’
Tannhauser maced him with the motion one might use to split a log and this time his arm was willing. The ball lodged so deep in the vault of Benedykt’s skull that it looked as if it had grown out from within it. Blood cascaded over his shoulders in remarkable quantity. Tannhauser let go of the haft and Benedykt dragged it with him as he toppled.
Octav
ien was choking on the spillings of his shattered sinuses. Tannhauser stabbed him in the heart. He turned and looked at the stripling. He had no intention of harming him, but he gave the lad the respect apt to the field. He had little else to offer.
‘No dishonour falls on you. Shall we two make peace?’
The stripling did not answer. He was yet too bewildered for sorrow.
‘Tell me your name,’ said Tannhauser.
‘Justus.’ His voice caught. ‘They, my brothers, called me Juste. I am the last.’
‘Sheath your sword, Juste. Go to your Huguenot companions.’
Juste clenched his lips to stifle his emotion. His sword clattered to the stones.
‘Pick it up. Show them some pride. And go.’
Juste’s shoulders trembled. He picked up the fallen sword and sheathed it. He turned and stumbled away. Tannhauser spat gall. He watched Dominic Le Tellier approach with his two Scots Guard. Dominic stopped before him.
‘By the laws of the Duello the bodies are yours to do with as you please.’
‘Feed them to the dogs,’ said Tannhauser.
‘As you wish.’
The Huguenots forming the square began to break up. Dominic nodded to his guards. Instead of tending to the corpses, they moved to take up positions surrounding Tannhauser, halberds at the ready. To their surprise and unease, Tannhauser moved backwards, at the same time circling so that one was obliged to line up behind the other. Neither of the guards looked like a master, or even a killer. From this angle he could take the first at the knees and be onto the second. He smiled.
‘Hold fast,’ ordered Dominic.
The guards stopped in their cramped formation.
Tannhauser continued circling, counting on the guards to hold their ground, which they did. As he stopped within range of Dominic, the latter realised his error but could hardly retreat.
‘Explain this treachery or there’ll be more than the dogs can stomach.’
‘You are under arrest,’ said Dominic.
‘I’ve broken no law.’
‘It is a measure for your own protection.’
‘From whom?’
‘These men will take you to your quarters, which I assure you are most civilised.’
Tannhauser flicked his sword and stippled the buff of Dominic’s chest with Octavien’s blood. Dominic flinched. The guards tensed. Again Dominic swallowed the insult. His master had a minion with unusual self-control. It suited Tannhauser to be seen as a man with none.
‘I’ll not surrender my weapons to anyone lesser in rank than Alberte Gondi.’
This gave Dominic pause. ‘A gentleman can be trusted with his sword, even in confinement,’ he said. ‘You may take your lackey, too. You have my word there need be no more bloodshed.’
‘Tell me who you serve.’
‘I can’t.’
Tannhauser raised the sword point to Dominic’s throat.
Dominic said, ‘It’s enough you know I’d choose your mercy over his.’
Some intrigue was mounted. By whom? Why? He could kill these three with less trouble than the first. He doubted anyone watching would try to prevent him leaving the courtyard. Then he would be on the run, in a strange city on a hot night, where his only friends were a stable boy and two half-grown girls. Could he call on Arnauld or Retz? Both were waist-deep in their own complots, and their fealty to a man who had killed three palace guards could not be counted on. If he ran, he would have to make a fugitive of Carla, too, or she would be questioned. What that might mean was best not imagined.
He saw Petit Christian watching from the gateway.
If he killed Dominic, the deformed playwright would raise the alarm. They knew Carla’s location better than Tannhauser did. He didn’t see how he could reach Carla much ahead of a pursuit, if at all. He struggled with his instincts. He had surrendered once before. But he had to do what he reckoned best for Carla. If they had him where they wanted him, at least for the moment, Carla would be safe. Or as safe as she currently was. He thought of Altan Savas and felt some comfort.
‘Where am I to be confined?’
‘Gentlemen prisoners are kept in the East Wing.’
The cell was a suite comprised of a parlour, a study and a bedroom. Numerous men of noble estate had given their kings reason to confine them. Some had gone from here to the block; others had been released or restored to high office. Coligny himself had once been sentenced to death before regaining favour. There was no reason to embitter a foe who might one day become an ally by shoving him in a dungeon with the rabble.
Dusk had fallen and candles lit the gloom. Tannhauser found a pitcher of water in a basin. He quenched his thirst. He washed the blood from his hands. Sooner or later whoever had concocted this riddle would make himself known. Until then there was no point dwelling on it. His worry for Carla was extreme but she’d survived this long without him; at least he hoped so. In the study he found a desk equipped with pen, paper, sealing wax and ink. He doubted Guzman could read but if Fortune would place the letter in his hand, he could have someone read it for him. Tannhauser wrote the message in both Italian and French.
Guzman, I am imprisoned on the second floor of the East Wing. Get me out, at once. I will be in your debt. Your brother from the Bastion of Castile – Mattias Tannhauser.
He sealed the letter with wax. On the front he printed: Albert Gondi, Comte de Retz. Few would dare break the seal, and if Retz was the reader, so much the better.
Carla’s image returned to his mind. He shouldn’t have made the voyage to North Africa at such a time. But was the world to grind to a halt on account of a baby? What had Petit Christian told him of Carla’s location? He couldn’t remember. He turned to ask Grégoire; but the boy had not been present at that conversation. Gallows. A church. Symonne, widow of some Huguenot rabble-raiser.
‘Grégoire, where are the gallows?’
‘The Place de Grève, sire.’
The Place de Grève. North on the Rue du Temple. It came back to him. A fine house with a double façade. Three honeybees above the door. On the west side of the street. Symonne D’Aubray. He noted it on paper. He put down the pen.
‘Grégoire, I’ve a labour worthy of Hercules to set you.’
‘Hercules?’
‘A hero of mighty strength and courage.’
‘I’m not very strong,’ said Grégoire.
‘It’s the courage that counts. Are you game?’
‘Yes.’
The boy had put his shoes back on. Tannhauser tucked his shirt in and tidied up his slops. He wiped his face and hands and smoothed his hair with a wet neckerchief. The lad would not pass as a page to the Duc d’Anjou, but neither did he look like a beggar just in from the street.
‘Do you remember Guzman, the Spaniard?’
Grégoire nodded.
‘Find him and give him this letter. Bring Guzman back here to set me free.’
Tannhauser held out the letter.
Grégoire took it as if it were a fragment of the True Cross.
‘You must walk these halls as if you walked them every day. Hold the letter out before you – just so. Perfect. If anyone stops you, show him the name on the front. Retz is a man of great importance and with luck they won’t interfere. If you are asked any questions, recite an Ave.’
‘An Ave Maria?’
‘Exactly. Shout it as loud as you can and with passion. No one will understand a word you say. Do you remember the first grand building we entered?’
‘Where the men wore dogs around their necks?’
‘That’s the place that Retz is most likely to be – upstairs in conference with the King – and that’s where you’ll find Guzman, if you find him at all.’
‘I will find him.’
‘If you don’t, do not think you have failed me.’
‘I will not fail you.’
Tannhauser summoned the guard by means of a chain by the heavy door that rang a bell.
‘My page has an urgent message
for the Comte de Retz.’
The guard frowned at Grégoire, who held out the letter like a talisman.
‘I was with Retz this afternoon,’ said Tannhauser. ‘His mood is testy. Tell me your name.’
‘I’ll see your page through the gates at once, sire.’
Tannhauser tossed the guard a silver franc. He motioned to Grégoire.
‘Good luck, lad.’
Grégoire bowed. The door closed. The key turned.
The bedroom was dark. By the candlelight from the parlour Tannhauser glimpsed a bed. His exhaustion was so deep he was almost glad to be in gaol. He stripped his weapons, his boots and his shirt, and did what good sense demanded. He lay on the bed, and thought not of his troubles, and fell into a sound sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Lady from the South
CARLA AWOKE FOR the third time that night with a desire to use the pot, and she sighed. The moonlight was so bright it might have been dawn. Her back ached, as usual, as did her ribs and much else, but the pain that sometimes extended down her leg had remitted. She put her hand on her belly, wherein her babe was sleeping. She was reluctant to wake him again. Once roused, his energies would thwart her own rest.
She was sure she carried a son. His kicks and punches – his impatience to enter the world – seemed altogether too masculine. She thought of Mattias, as she thought of him a hundred times a day, and she smiled. Boy or girl, the baby had inherited his spirit. She could feel the two of them, father and child, connected to each other through her. The feeling made her happy when she was sad. It helped make Mattias’s absence tolerable. It helped keep him alive in her heart until the day she would fall in love with him, all over again.
She cast aside the sheet, which was limp with humidity, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She pushed herself upright. She prided herself on being a woman of vigour, but the weight of the child had lately seemed enormous, as did the bulge swelling over her thighs. The transformation of her body continued to amaze her. She pulled her nightgown above the bulge and tucked it beneath her breasts, which were also enlarged. By her reckoning she was thirty-eight weeks along. She braced her arms and lowered herself into a squat beside the bed. Squatting was one of few postures she found comfortable. She drew the pot beneath her and relieved herself. The volume was small. In another hour, she’d probably have to relieve herself again. Some women, she had been assured, adored pregnancy, but despite its wonders, Carla was not one of them.
