Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris

by Tim Willocks

  ‘Grymonde, I’ll take that pistol. Grégoire, the pigs’ ears are done. Bring the bread and the skin of wine, too. Wait for the signal. Come fast, but beware the grease.’

  Tannhauser checked the priming pans and armed both barrels of the pistol. The waterwheels would muffle the shots. He stuck the pistol in the back of his belt with his left hand. He took the skin from Grégoire and poured half a pint down his throat and gave it back.

  ‘Hugon, you come with me.’

  He took his crossbow and drew his sword. He walked down the bridge.

  At the next gap he took a better look down the river and saw a section of the boom. Mainly cargo lighters; the masts of the two fishing boats. He saw the continuing enormities on the beaches of either bank. Rape and murder gangs. A pity about the boom. He pressed on through pools of yellow and black. The bridge vibrated beneath his feet.

  ‘Hugon, how many waterwheels?’

  ‘Twelve. Two of the arches are empty for the boats to pass.’

  ‘Stay here. You can still see the wagon. Wait for my signal to call them.’

  Tannhauser walked on. He saw no guards. He entered the last dark spot. Up ahead, a lantern hung above the exit and a torch burned near the ground, stacked in a bucket.

  A figure appeared, his half-pike planted.

  ‘What news, what news?’ called Tannhauser.

  ‘If there’s news, you’re the one who’s bringing it.’

  The voice that reached him above the din sounded young.

  ‘They left hours ago, or so it feels like. Did they send any word for me?’

  Tannhauser saw his face: an eager lad, no older than Orlandu, and, like Orlandu, seduced by the folly of his elders. He had a white ribbon tied around his forehead to soak up the sweat, or mark him a Catholic. There was no one else behind him. Three guards at each end; two gone to drink and eat with the others. At the sight of Tannhauser, the lad seemed more overawed than afraid.

  ‘So those buggers left you all alone. Which one was in charge?’

  ‘Oudin.’

  ‘Oudin? I might have known. All quiet this end?’

  ‘Apart from the miller, you’re the first I’ve seen all night.’

  The lad smiled. It was a pity he had chosen to stand with scum.

  Tannhauser stabbed him in the heart. He let him drop.

  He turned and found Hugon, closer than he should have been, watching the bleeding youth. He looked at Tannhauser. The boy was hard to read.

  ‘That’ll teach him,’ said Hugon.

  ‘Fetch the wagon.’

  Tannhauser checked the narrow street. It was empty in either direction but for a cart stacked with corpses and aswarm with nocturnal insects. Dockside warehouses. The Conciergerie; the clock tower. He could see the hour hand. Half past ten. He made the pistol safe. He dragged the slain youngster and his pike to the nearest wheel. He ditched the pike and stripped the white ribbon. He tied the ribbon round his own brow.

  He threw the body in the Seine.

  As the others arrived, Tannhauser took the torch from the bucket and set it in an iron ring bolted to the wagon for that purpose. He bridled at being on this side of the bridge. On an island. The Left Bank was a prison wall. With luck, the Millers’ Bridge would not be reinforced before he returned with Carla.

  And Pascale. If he could afford the time.

  The warehouses were lightless. There’d be a quiet spot somewhere. After he found Carla he could bring the wagon back, hide it and its cargo, and then go for Pascale. Carla would have Amparo. A fight would be easier fought without the wagon.

  ‘Won’t that let the soldiers see us?’ Estelle pointed at the torch.

  ‘Well said. But they’ll see us anyway, and since a wagon should have a light, a wagon without one will arouse their suspicion sooner. Hugon?’

  ‘We go left.’ Hugon indicated a turret, not far away. ‘Past the Palais.’

  Tannhauser wanted to see Amparo’s face. He unloaded the crossbow and stowed it in the wagon. He looked at Estelle. Amparo was asleep in her kidskin cradle. His love was a strange feeling, real as the timber under his hand. He turned away, then turned back.

  ‘Where’s Orlandu?’

  ‘He jumped from the wagon, just back there,’ said Estelle.

  She pointed across the bridge.

  ‘He said, “Mattias will understand”.’

  Tannhauser reached into the wagon and grabbed Le Tellier’s sack of pistoles. He ran back down the bridge. One pool of yellow, one of black. The waterwheels churned. More light. He stopped. If Orlandu was gone, he was gone. If not, he was waiting, watching.

  ‘Orlandu. I do understand. Come with me.’

  Orlandu emerged, from the edge of the darkness. He called out above the roar.

  ‘I can survive in Paris.’

  ‘That’s no trick for the likes of us. Come with me.’

  ‘I can’t face Carla. Not yet. Or you. Tell her –’ His voice broke. ‘I promise I’ll come home. Soon. Tell her I love Amparo. Goodbye, my brother.’

  Tannhauser skated the sack underarm across the grease.

  ‘Enough to live like a duke for a year, if you stay clear of the brothels.’

  The sack stopped at Orlandu’s feet.

  Orlandu stooped and picked up the sack. He skated it back.

  ‘I don’t need it. You will.’

  Tannhauser retrieved the gold.

  Orlandu shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mattias. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Cheer up, man. We met in darker days than this one.’

  Orlandu said, ‘Not near so dark.’

  Tannhauser recalled the Guva.

  And the head of Sabato Svi. And Bors.

  The weight of Amparo’s corpse.

  Those days had been darker for him.

  He gave Orlandu a grin.

  ‘See you take that arm to Monsieur Paré. Tomorrow.’

  Orlandu made an honest attempt to grin back.

  Tannhauser almost turned and left, for there wouldn’t be a better moment; but it was Orlandu’s leave to take, not his. He waited. A damp gust set the lamps to flickering.

  Orlandu wiped his face on his sleeve. He saluted.

  Tannhauser raised his hand.

  Orlandu turned away into the shadows and was gone.

  Tannhauser returned to the wagon.

  Petit Christian coughed and heaved between the front wheels. His feet were shoeless and bleeding. His breeches had been dragged down to his ankles. He was covered, blinded – choked mouth and nostril – with dirty white paste.

  ‘Hugon, take us to Garnier’s house.’

  ‘We’ll pass by the militia at the Pont au Change,’ said Hugon. ‘You might have to teach them, too.’

  ‘Grégoire, can we go around them?’

  ‘It’s a long way. I think we’d pass even more guards.’

  The Pont au Change was lined with shops that dealt in gold and jewels. Private watchmen. Off-duty sergents. But the militia’s job was to block the bridge, not the street that ran past it.

  ‘We don’t look like Huguenots,’ said Hugon.

  ‘Nor like militia, but bravos will do. Lower this sideboard, take those spears, and drop them in the river, but not mine. Shift that cask to this back end. My Infant.’

  ‘Am I due another Immortal?’

  ‘We may both need one. Come on.’

  Tannhauser took Grymonde’s arm and led him to the dead cart. It sang with flies. Tannhauser held his breath and found a pair of male ankles and heaved the body free. He put the ankles in Grymonde’s fists. He took the arms.

  ‘Follow the weight.’

  ‘These must be from the Conciergerie. I heard a whole crowd of heretics surrendered to arrest and were slaughtered in the cells like sheep.’

  They loaded the body face-down, head to the back of the wagon.

  ‘You’re going to trick the guards,’ said Estelle.

  ‘Very good. It’s vile, but it won’t be for long.’

  They collected a second
corpse and loaded it by the first. Tannhauser reckoned it enough. He left the sideboard down. He guided Grymonde to sit beside Grégoire on the bench. They made quite a pair. Tannhauser armed the pistol.

  ‘You three youngsters, if a fight breaks out, jump down and run. Hugon, take both satchels. Make a safe distance, look back. If it’s gone badly, go home to the Yards. My Infant, hide your knives and keep your head down. They might know you.’

  ‘I should hope they do.’

  ‘Grégoire, unhook that chain. Wrap a turn or two around his wrists. And give anyone we meet a big smile. Estelle, Hugon, put those helms on.’

  ‘It’s too big for me,’ said Estelle.

  ‘All the better. My Infant, I might call upon you to laugh, so keep sharp.’

  ‘Laugh? Laugh at what?’

  The mouth of the Pont au Change, a main thoroughfare, was a lot more exposed than the Millers’ Bridge. He had crossed it with Retz. A chain; three militiamen. Like those he had buried in the Seine, they wore only white insignia, not the red and white of the Pilgrims. As Tannhauser strode past, alongside the cart, one hurried over and motioned him to stop. Tannhauser signalled Grégoire to do so.

  ‘Hold there, hold. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Add “monsieur” and you might get an answer.’

  A shopkeeper, Tannhauser guessed, used to shouting at draymen, of which he seemed to suppose him an example. Tannhauser stood where the torch burned about a yard behind his right shoulder. The shopkeeper took in the blood and the weapons.

  ‘Monsieur, where have you come from?’

  ‘Les Halles, where there’s a sight more to do than here.’

  The shopkeeper looked at the children in their massive helmets. At the slumped giant on the seat and the hideous grin of the driver. The corpses and the bald dog. At the creature caked in flour and excrement, vomiting raw sewage beneath the wagon. He had no idea what to make of the tableau, though self-importance shielded him from alarm. He frowned.

  ‘You crossed the Millers’ Bridge. That’s not regular.’

  ‘Take it up with Oudin and the rest. They thought it regular enough. So did Bernard Garnier, who sent me that way to avoid your chains. They delayed his expedition, you’ll remember.’

  The shopkeeper did remember.

  ‘The captain will be back shortly. As will I, to return across the Millers’ Bridge.’

  ‘There’s a curfew. It’s dangerous to be out. What’s your business?’

  ‘Garnier’s business. I’ll wait, if you so order. But you must ask him yourself.’

  The shopkeeper looked him straight in the eye and at once regretted it.

  Tannhauser smiled to stop him turning away.

  ‘The captain’s testy tonight. So am I. But he can afford to be, he’s the captain. Call your mates over. Mates! Here!’

  The shopkeeper didn’t like this, though he had no more instinct for danger than his companions. They propped their pole arms by the chain and hurried over. They were sturdier types. Artisans. By the look of his hands one of them was a dyer.

  Tannhauser nodded and they nodded back.

  ‘Let’s try this wine,’ he said. ‘I have high hopes for it.’

  Tannhauser squatted and opened the spigot and drank. He stood up.

  ‘I’ve tasted better. At least, I did once, and long ago.’

  The artisans didn’t wait for the shopkeeper’s approval.

  ‘You want to know why Garnier’s in such a mood?’ said Tannhauser.

  The shopkeeper’s manner changed. A gossiper offered some gold.

  ‘He lost some Pilgrims tonight. The Confraternity.’

  ‘Is that so? We heard a rumour he went up into the Yards.’

  ‘So did we and horrible it was,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Even the girls are more dangerous than the bite of a rabid dog.’ He winked at Estelle, her eyes agleam in the dark beneath her helmet. ‘But you know Garnier. He got what he wanted, and those beggars won’t soon forget him. You’ve heard of the Infant?’

  Tannhauser heard Grymonde shift his weight on the bench.

  The shopkeeper shook his head. The dyer straightened up from his second helping of wine, while the other ducked to his third.

  ‘The Cockaigne Infant? Grymonde? Who hasn’t? He’d cut your throat for a shilling and give you eleven pence change.’

  Tannhauser heard Grymonde sigh.

  ‘I’ll not ask where you tasted better wine, my friend, for it wasn’t in Paris. This goes down sweet as cow’s milk.’

  ‘We’ve spent our lives drinking pickle juice, and never even knew it.’

  ‘Take the cask, mates,’ said Tannhauser. ‘It’s yours.’

  Two jaws dropped. The shopkeeper shook his head.

  ‘We’re here to serve Christ and the King, not bib wine.’

  ‘They’re not drinking pickle juice in the Louvre,’ said Tannhauser, ‘or in the monasteries, which, by the way, is where I once tasted better. Are we Calvinists?’

  Tannhauser laughed. The two joined in. They eyed the cask.

  ‘There’s more where that came from and it didn’t cost a sou,’ said Tannhauser. ‘So drink and be merry. Or, if that’s against regulations, take it home for your wives.’

  The artisans seized the cask between them before their comrade could object.

  ‘Monsieur, tell me,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘what happened to the Infant?’

  ‘See for yourself,’ said Tannhauser. ‘There he sits.’

  His voice was swamped by a bellow of crazed mirth.

  The artisans fled with their cask. They stowed it and grabbed their spears. The shopkeeper slid behind them and they gathered at a safe distance to gape at Grymonde.

  Grymonde rolled his head in their direction. In the shifting torchlight, the moist white bores of his eye sockets yawned without expression above the huge bared teeth, as if created to give the watchers a glimpse of Hell’s ante-room.

  ‘Give me an Immortal, you bastards!’

  ‘As you see,’ said Tannhauser, ‘he’s lost his mind.’

  Grymonde rattled his chains. The militiamen took a step backwards.

  ‘The movement of the wagon seems to soothe him,’ said Tannhauser. ‘But if you reckon we ought to wait for the captain, we could drug him with a few pints of wine.’

  ‘Chevalier!’ roared Grymonde, into the shopkeeper’s face. ‘A cup of wine!’

  ‘You be on your way, friend,’ said the dyer. ‘And gramercy for the cask.’

  The shopkeeper did not countermand this suggestion.

  ‘I’ve probably told you more than I ought to,’ said Tannhauser, ‘so if Garnier asks, tell him Petit Christian has the matter well in hand, and leave it at that.’

  Grymonde guffawed with such violence the guards fell back further.

  ‘If he doesn’t ask, it’s a sleeping dog you can let lie or not as you choose.’

  ‘Christian?’ said the dyer to Tannhauser. ‘What’s he saying?’

  The genuine Petit Christian was wheezing some word, over and over, as if in a chant. Faecal matter sprayed from his lips and nostrils, as if his inner organs were coated with the stuff. When he blinked, the whites of his eyeballs could not be seen, for they were coated, too.

  ‘Ordure!’ whined Petit Christian. ‘Ordure!’

  ‘Perhaps it’s the title of his next play,’ said Tannhauser.

  The wagon shook with Grymonde’s laughter.

  ‘Rough way to travel,’ said the dyer. ‘What did the poor bastard do?’

  ‘He was the lover of Marcel Le Tellier –’ began Tannhauser.

  Grymonde’s laughter pealed towards the sky.

  ‘Whom he murdered in a jealous rage.’

  The guards stared at the befouled writer with heightened disgust.

  ‘Who would have thought?’ said the shopkeeper.

  ‘Aye,’ said the dyer. ‘Murder’s one thing, but fucking a policeman?’

  ‘Why was he jealous?’ asked the shopkeeper.

  ‘Who knows what our
betters get up to?’ said Tannhauser.

  The second artisan hefted his pike. ‘Do you mind?’

  Tannhauser was about to tell him they didn’t have the time, but he caught Estelle looking at him. She pushed her helm back, so he would not mistake her meaning.

  Tannhauser turned to the artisan with the pike.

  ‘As long as you don’t kill him, or vex the horse, help yourself.’

  The artisan squatted down. Bone crunched as he stabbed Christian in the ankles and feet. Christian stopped chanting and screamed. The shopkeeper borrowed the dyer’s halberd and slashed at the playwright’s buttocks. Probably their first blood, but it would give them something to brag about.

  ‘Well, mates, I’m on my way. God bless the King and the Pope in Rome.’

  The blessing was returned with enthusiasm. They all but cheered him off.

  Tannhauser walked on. The wagon creaked into motion behind him.

  ‘Christian!’ called the shopkeeper. ‘Who are the children?’

  Tannhauser called back over his shoulder.

  ‘The children are mine.’

  They swung south, away from the river. Garnier lived on the first street to the east. In case their new friends were watching, Tannhauser kept going south to the next street before he turned. The City was quiet. They’d been cleansing it all day. He disarmed the pistol. At a pile of trash heaped behind a tavern, he rolled the corpses off the wagon. They turned north, back towards the river and Bernard Garnier’s.

  It had to be getting close to eleven o’clock.

  If he took Carla and the wagon to the warehouses, and hid them there, he was sure he could return past the shopkeeper’s crew on foot without being seen. The moon was in the west. The shadows were as black as the North Sea. From the warehouses he could get to Irène’s in ten minutes. That meant leaving Carla alone for half an hour; or more. That much time didn’t sit well with him. The longer the Millers’ Bridge was unguarded, the more likely it was to be guarded when they returned. If he took Carla across right now, they’d be back in the Ville in twenty minutes, instead of fifty.

  In that case, if he wanted to fetch Pascale, he’d still have to leave Carla alone, for even longer. He could leave her in Cockaigne. No one else was going back there tonight. But if he returned for Pascale, with another double crossing of the river in his way, midnight would be long gone before they reached the gate, and the Pilgrims would be waiting. To bring Pascale to Cockaigne would cost him an hour. An hour could cost his wife and child their lives.