by Tim Willocks
‘They’re happy tears,’ said Estelle.
‘Mine, too. Leave the satchel here, it’s heavy.’
‘No, I need the satchel. I can carry it. I’m strong.’
‘I know you are.’ Carla saw that the argument would take some winning. She abandoned it. ‘Take care of your sister. Take her to the convent. Don’t tell them what happened here. Say you found Amparo on their step. Do you understand?’
Estelle nodded, as if she were used to much more intricate deceptions.
‘Then come back here, but be very careful of the soldiers.’
‘They won’t see me. If they did, they’d never catch me.’
‘Wait for a big man called Mattias Tannhauser. Can you say that?’
‘Mattias Tannzer. Is he the chevalier?’
‘Yes. He is Amparo’s father. He will come. His hair is almost your colour, but not as long. He is fierce and brave, like you, but don’t be afraid. Tell him what happened.’
Carla put Amparo in Estelle’s arms. Amparo cooed beneath the scarf.
‘An angel will come with you. Alice saw her. She’ll keep you safe.’
Estelle took all this in with an aplomb that amazed Carla; and gave her hope.
‘I’m going to stay here with Alice. Can I kiss you?’
‘You’re my sister.’
Carla kissed her on the cheek. She kissed Amparo again.
The worst of it was done.
‘You’re the best sister in all the world,’ said Carla. ‘Now go.’
Estelle ran away across the roof and Carla could hardly watch, though she did. Estelle took short, quick, light steps on her tiptoes, her bare feet as sure as a squirrel’s. She skipped up onto the ridge and kept going at the same pace, Amparo in her left arm, her right hand steadying the satchel behind her back, leaning forward into the motion, flying above the mist.
Carla was flooded with disbelief at what she had just done. She almost called Estelle back. She almost tried to follow her. But the girl’s speed was proof that the decision was right.
Carla was about to give in to the sobs that were waiting inside her, when she realised that the night had fallen quiet. Random shouts from the soldiery, but no gunfire, no cacophony. She glanced across the yard. The other roofs were empty. With Grymonde’s death, the kingdom of Cockaigne had died, too, and its subjects had melted away into the Yards.
She turned back to watch Estelle. The girl was still running, her wild hair streaming above the wilderness of tiles. Then, as if they had passed through some warp in the smoking night, Estelle and Amparo were gone.
Carla heard footsteps on the stairs.
Carla drew a breath and held it. She let it go. She found her steel. She thought of Mattias. The pale horseman would come. Like her, he charged towards the Fire.
The door crashed open behind her, as if kicked. She turned.
Dominic Le Tellier stopped and looked at her. He held a bloody sword. He glanced to the edge of the roof, and in her gut she knew he was thinking of throwing her off. She heard other, heavier footsteps mount the stairs, the clatter of armour. Her contempt wasn’t difficult to summon.
‘Captain Le Tellier.’
Dominic shuffled, as if condemned by the sound of his own name.
‘Better use your sword, or I promise I will take you with me.’
Dominic’s mouth drooped open and he looked at the edge again.
‘I already know you for a clown. Now I see you are a base coward, too.’
A huge, breathless figure struggled from the doorway and shouldered Dominic aside. He was a brute, thick in the chest and tall, taller than Mattias. His sword was clean. In his other hand he held a lamp. He saw her and sheathed his sword and pulled off his helmet. He bowed.
‘Lady Carla de La Penautier? Captain Bernard Garnier, at your service.’
Carla curtsied and Garnier’s brows rose with joy.
‘Captain Garnier, you have saved me from a beast too vile to deserve a name.’
Garnier’s pride added another inch to his enormous height.
‘It was nothing, my lady. You do me an honour too great to be named.’
‘Such is the honour you have won. I am weak. Would you help me?’
Garnier was far from refined, but his mind was practical and quick.
‘With your gentle permission, my lady, I will light your way ahead of you down the stair, and though I am in no sense worthy, if you feel the need, and with all respect, I invite you to take what support you may deem proper and fitting from my back.’
Carla swayed with fatigue. She had him. She bound him tight.
‘A broader back I could not wish for. Please, take this as my token.’
Carla pulled the blue silk scarf from around her neck and held it out.
‘My lady.’ Garnier looked close to tears. ‘I can’t, I am not of noble blood –’
‘Nobler than most who claim to be so. Take it, captain. It would please me.’
Garnier took the scarf as if it had graced the shoulders of the Holy Virgin. He held it before him, uncertain of how to treat it. Carla took the scarf from Garnier’s hand and holding either end she tossed it over his head and across his shoulders. Garnier sank to one knee. Carla clasped her hands, lest he should try to kiss one. She sensed Dominic, dumbfounded, close by, but didn’t look at him.
‘Now, Captain Garnier, you may guide me down the stairs. I shall need to ride. A wagon, a cart. My ordeal. I am weak.’
‘My lady, yes, we have carts, the beggars’ carts.’
Carla put a hand on his arm as she walked to the door, and was glad of it. She followed Garnier down the stairs. At the door of the birthing room she stopped.
‘I have a lady companion who must come with me, to tend my needs.’
Carla stepped into the birthing room.
As if her very womb screamed in protest, she was pierced by the most awful pang she had known all day. She clutched herself with both arms. She couldn’t breathe. Though her heart almost burst inside her chest, though her anguish could not be measured and threatened to dissolve her steel, she determined not to let them see her grief. That was what Alice would have wanted.
She heard a coarse, hag’s laugh, just behind her.
That was what Alice did want.
Carla had a new angel at her shoulder.
The old woman sat in her chair, by the bed upon which she had helped so many sisters to bring forth life. Her shapeless body seemed almost peaceful. Her hands were laced across her stomach. Her chin sat on her chest. Her full, purple lips were bowed almost in a smile, as if she were only napping, and dreaming of honeyed quinces and wine. Thus had Alice met Death, with an embrace.
A crimson apron of blood draped her, chin to lap.
Carla turned and looked at Garnier.
Whatever he saw in her eyes drove him backwards.
‘Who did this?’
Her voice surprised her. Garnier raised his hands and brows. Clearly, he was not guilty. He looked back at Dominic Le Tellier, who clearly was.
‘This woman was my mother.’
Dominic scoffed. He started to speak. Carla cut him off.
‘You base cesspit trash. I will see you hanged for this cowardly murder.’
Dominic essayed a smirk of defiance. Carla saw his fear.
‘Believe it, knave. If I have to kneel before the Queen and pledge her my soul.’
‘My lady,’ said Garnier, rising to his part, ‘would you like her body taken to church? I can have her rest in Saint-Jacques itself, if it should console you.’
‘No church stands that is worthy to house her bones. Leave her as she sits.’
Carla swept past them and down the stair.
She paused in the kitchen where she and Alice had sipped rosehip tea. She saw the deck of cards on the table. She went over and took them and slipped them into the pocket of her frock. She saw her gambo violl in its case and told Garnier to fetch it. For a moment she almost insisted on staying, though she knew they wouldn
’t let her. She had felt more at home here, she had learned more worth the knowing than in all the fine abodes she had ever dwelt in. She didn’t want to leave its spirit behind. But she didn’t need to. Alice was with her.
On the doorstep she stopped as a terrible sound cleaved the night. Her body checked her with a visceral dismay. The sound was a roar of outrage more than of pain, for to the latter he would no more admit than would have Prometheus as the eagle ate his liver. A woman’s spite echoed from the walls of the yard.
‘There’s your Samson for you, you ugly bastard.’
The rage that split the darkness had erupted from the throat of Grymonde.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Yards
THE STAIRWELL STANK of such noxious filth that Tannhauser worried for the calluses on Grégoire’s feet. He set down his weapons by Joco’s door. Grégoire knocked.
‘Who’s that? Jesus wept!’
A cry of pain and self-pity identified Joco and his ribs.
‘News from his Excellency Le Tellier! Le Tellier!’
Grégoire did his best and, whether or not the words were comprehensible, his voice wasn’t one to evoke alarm. When Frogier opened the door, his sword held down by his thigh, Tannhauser stabbed him through the forearm and twisted and the sword dropped. Tannhauser knocked his tooth down his throat with an elbow strike. Frogier’s cap flew off. Tannhauser kneed him in the bladder hard enough to lift him off the floor. He pulled and sheathed the dagger and threw the sergent face-down. He took Frogier’s knife, and the sword, and checked the kitchen and found it empty and tossed the knife inside.
Frogier regurgitated a copious swill of grey liquid but was too stunned to lift his face from it. Tannhauser stood on his left wrist to splay the hand and stomped the edge of his heel through the base of his thumb. The knuckle popped like a walnut. Frogier screamed and squirmed. Tannhauser bent over him.
‘Your archery days are over. The rest of your days are yours to win or lose.’
Lucifer trotted in and busied himself with a frenzy of sniffing and pissing. Frogier’s bow and quiver lay at the foot of the stinking mattress. Tannhauser slung them across his chest.
‘You, Joco, get up. Take me to Cockaigne.’
Joco, with many groans to demonstrate his valour, propped himself up on his elbows. ‘Sire, I can’t walk, it’s my back. I believe it’s nigh broke.’
Tannhauser swiped his left ear off. He misjudged the keenness of Frogier’s sword and cut Joco’s shoulder to the collarbone. The wound was nasty but not lethal.
‘Get up or I’ll hack your feet off and find someone else.’
Joco hauled himself upright and stood with his hands on his knees, wheezing and bleeding. A watchman’s lantern hung on the wall: a candle in a glazed case attached by a chain to a stick. The stump had a good few hours in it. He told Grégoire to light it from the candle on the table. The lad had been warned to expect some violence; he handled himself well. Tannhauser told Frogier to get to his feet. He told Grégoire to give the lamp to the sergent, and to take the spontone and wait for him in the street. He threw the sword in the kitchen. He retrieved the crossbow and let Frogier see the bolt.
‘You told Le Tellier everything.’
‘Excellency, what else could I do? Please, don’t kill me.’
‘You can’t be blamed for buttering the wrong parsnips.’
‘Excellency, I pray that in your wisdom you see it that way.’
Tannhauser heard a dull crackle of sound, muffled by countless buildings but unmistakable. A short volley of muskets, perhaps half a mile to the north.
‘Put your cap on. Don’t let Joco fall down the stairs. Hurry.’
Tannhauser took the lantern from Frogier and gave it to Grégoire in exchange for the spontone. Again he heard the distant pop of guns; individual fire. He kept count while he gave orders. He told them not to speak. He had Joco throw his right arm over Frogier’s neck; the sergent held Joco around the waist. Joco’s rib injury was real; if pushed too hard, he’d curl up and wait to be killed.
‘I don’t care if either of you live or die,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Get me to Cockaigne and we’ll see how tender I feel. As the sergent knows, I’m given to whims.’
The gunfire had ceased. Seven muskets. In the dark, with near twenty steps to reload, there’d be four minutes before the next round. He set the pair off in front of him and had Grégoire walk behind him with the lamp. They headed due west.
The pace was miserable. Joco moaned with each short step he took. At the first corner they turned north. The musketry crackled again. They seemed hardly any closer and were still on city streets. Tannhauser fought an urge to pursue the gunfire alone. He knew what the Yards represented; he had encountered such warrens in Naples. Their denizens built them into labyrinths as a defence against the law. Sound might take one to within a stone’s throw, yet leave one trapped in miles of blind ginnels and winding alleys. The moon wouldn’t be high enough to help for an hour or more.
He dropped back a pace and rested the tip of the spontone against Joco’s back. By means of judicious pricks, and at the price of heightened bleating, he doubled their speed.
They passed rows of shuttered shop fronts and four watchmen, each of whom found it prudent to mind his own business, especially as the sergent made no complaint. They passed several taverns and two cross streets. The muskets started to fire again, closer but still too far for Tannhauser’s liking.
Seven guns. How many Pilgrims? There was vanity in numbers as well as safety. Forty? There could be twice that; more. Too many to beard, with Carla at risk. He had left Garnier on good terms. Why not join them? Convince Garnier to take Carla to the Temple, and hobnob with the brethren. It would be a sight more glorious than the Hôtel Le Tellier. Dominic would object, but, as Tannhauser would point out, the great Garnier was answerable to no one but the King. Had Marcel told Garnier about the militia slaughtered at the printer’s? The story would hardly help persuade the Pilgrims to rescue Carla, and Marcel had a strong reason not to tell it: if Marcel wanted Tannhauser for his own purposes, he wouldn’t want Garnier muddying the water with his rage.
‘Frogier, what orders did you sergents receive concerning me?’
‘Excellency, we were to report any sighting and if possible keep a watch on you. It was my sworn duty to –’
‘I was not to be arrested?’
‘For what, Excellency?’
‘Killing nineteen militiamen?’
Frogier laughed with fear.
‘No, no, there was no suggestion your Excellency was a felon. Rather that you were urgently sought for high matters of state. Which is the only reason I did my sworn –’
‘What do you know of this attack on the Yards?’
‘Nothing, Excellency. I was ordered to guard the hovel where you found me.’
‘So where is the redhead, Typhaine?’ asked Tannhauser.
‘Forgive me – I’m addled by pain. She agreed to take Christian to Cockaigne.’
The street began to slope upwards. The gradient was mild but Joco seized the excuse to slow down. Tannhauser jabbed the spear into the dark stain on his shirt. The street narrowed. Three men stepped from a tavern, a few steps beyond Frogier. Their bulk blocked the way. They turned to study the strange procession and saw Tannhauser, naked to the waist and festooned with weapons. They’d had their share of wine but Tannhauser sensed no belligerence. He let Frogier feel the spear point.
‘Good evening, lads. The sergent here will pay an écu d’or to any man can guide us to Cockaigne. Are any of you willing?’
Two of the men looked at the third, who wiped his mouth on his wrist.
‘No man here knows the way.’
‘Will you step back into the tavern while we pass?’
Tannhauser didn’t want them behind him. He prodded Frogier.
‘The sergent will buy you a jug. A deep one.’
Frogier fumbled in his pocket with his good hand. He produced two coins and held them out
and the third man took them. The men went back inside. Tannhauser told Grégoire to watch their backs and pushed on. They crossed another street and beyond it the hill became steeper. They headed east a short way, then turned north into an alley too cramped to permit two men abreast. The stench worsened.
They were in the Yards.
‘Joco,’ said Frogier, ‘hold onto the back of my belt.’
Joco did so and they continued upwards. The alley wound about, east and again north. The next round of musketry was overdue. Was the engagement over? Tannhauser’s impatience intensified. He had to reach Cockaigne before they left.
Joco stopped with a grunt up ahead of him. Tannhauser jabbed him. The instant Joco squealed, Frogier made his move: he spun and shoved Joco backwards with all his weight. As the spear tip slid in between the ribs, Tannhauser pulled it back, but the body was falling, down the slope, head arched backwards with the force of Frogier’s charge. He let go of the shaft and stepped back and the counterweight spiked into the mud. Joco impaled himself through the lung.
Tannhauser raised the crossbow as Joco twisted and fell and shot the black shape lunging for the gloom. Frogier sobbed and dropped. Tannhauser pulled the spontone from Joco, who was racked with wet coughs. He stepped over him and beckoned Grégoire to follow with the lamp.
Frogier was doubled over on his side, weeping. The bolt had disappeared through his lower back. Tannhauser shoved him supine with the spike. The tip of the bolt stuck eight inches clear of his stomach. Tannhauser propped the spontone and the crossbow on the wall of a mud hovel. Tannhauser stooped and took Frogier’s cap from his head. He wrapped the cap around the bloody bolt head and ripped the shaft free of his entrails. Frogier screamed. Tannhauser unbuckled Frogier’s belt and stripped it off.
‘Grégoire, where’s your hellhound?’
Gregoire lifted the lamp and pointed. Lucifer stood with his ears cocked, watching Joco’s liquid gasps as if awaiting the chance to lick the blood from his beard.
‘Leash him with this. Let’s hope they set fire to their own dogs.’
