by David Gilman
‘Where am I now?’ said Blackstone, needing a sense of direction.
‘Up there,’ the bargeman said, looking towards the broad square that lay above the riverbank, ‘that’s the Place de Grève, and that fancy stone building is the House of Pillars.’ He paused, knowing the name meant nothing to the stranger. ‘The merchants’ house,’ he added, and then with a knowing inflection: ‘There are always Provost’s police around there. If a man wanted to avoid being questioned because he wandered around like a lamb in a slaughterhouse then he should skirt the square and get into those narrow lanes. Crowds swallow strangers.’
It was Blackstone’s turn to heave a sack onto his shoulder and follow the others. The bargeman watched him go, wary of his passenger being accosted after he dropped the sack and melted into the square’s bustling crowd. He did not want anyone ashore to connect the two of them. Blackstone was soon out of sight and the boatman’s part was done. Whatever happened to his human cargo was of no concern to him now.
16
Paris seethed. The right bank of the Seine had expanded beyond the city’s old walls, where trade flourished, unlike the less-populated area on the opposite bank that was dominated by the university, scribes and clerks. Blackstone had never seen such a jostling mass of people. Traffic jammed the streets while touts beckoned customers inside their master’s shops, and merchants called out for passing trade. Stalls were pitched close enough to nudge each other. There was a clamouring of voices from butchers, cloth sellers, cheesemongers and pastry cooks. The dripping quarters of meat attracted flies as the fat was scooped and spread on slices of hard round rye bread cut from the stacked tiers of loaves. Honeycombs of bleached cows’ stomach – tripe favoured as a speciality – were spread on wooden frames like a washerwoman’s drying shirts. River fish glistened, laid out on reed mats, while jugglers entertained at street corners and dice players squatted in doorways as women with trays of vegetables slowed the crowds, showing ankle and cleavage to encourage buyers. Mendicant monks rattled their begging bowls and chanted prayers as the lame and blind sat like bundles of discarded rags in any corner they could find.
Shopkeepers beckoned customers to view the wares on their tables, although the law forbade them from doing so until the buyers had left the neighbouring shop. The hubbub of these raised voices chattered all about Blackstone as the pressing crowds forced him to wind his way like a fish upstream. As desperate as he was to trace Christiana’s whereabouts the vibrant city’s atmosphere caught him in its net as each corner he turned offered him more sights and sounds. To visit Paris had always been a secret desire, but the bounty on his head ensured that the gates of the city stayed closed to him. Hundreds of unnamed streets and alleyways crisscrossed in a bewildering tangle and within a couple of hours he knew that he would never find Christiana among what was said to be more than a hundred thousand souls who populated the French capital. He had to find the apartments where the nobility lodged in the city. Horses and mules forced the throng aside as muleteers yelled and whipped the beasts of burden through the narrow gaps between the half-timbered houses, each floor cantilevered over the one below, restricting the light that reached the streets. Memories clawed at him as he was jostled this way and that by the impatient crowd. The last time he had been in such a labyrinth was at Caen a decade before, when he had fought his way from one corner to the next, searching for another loved one, his brother, in the turmoil of street fighting as Edward’s army flayed the city of its defenders.
The stench of human waste mingled with that of laundry women’s steaming cauldrons and the unmistakable smell from soap makers and bakers who vied for the very air itself against fishmongers who hacked and gutted the day’s catch. The aroma of baked wheat sprinkled with sugar and angelica made a mouth-watering temptation. Despite the cacophony Blackstone heard dogs howling at the sound of a clanging handbell and a raised voice that carried from a nearby square. He brushed aside the grasping fingers of a stallholder trying to pull him into a shop and, as he broke through into the square, he caught a glimpse of a man standing on a stone plinth in front of a fountain. His clothes denoted his authority as he rang the bell in front of the gathering crowd.
‘What’s going on?’ Blackstone asked one of the onlookers.
The man glanced at him. ‘You don’t know that, then you’re not from here.’ He gave Blackstone more serious consideration. ‘Hang onto your purse, stranger. We’ve more purse cutters on these streets than the King has devalued coin in the mint.’ He grinned with a nervous sneer. ‘Unless you’re a King’s man snooping.’
‘No, I’m a stranger here,’ Blackstone assured him, aware that not only his size made him stand out among the crowd but also his ignorance.
‘Aye, your accent’s not from here – that’s obvious.’ He looked Blackstone up and down. ‘We get plenty of foreigners at the university. You’re too old for that though, I’d say, and looking at your clothes and hands I’d reckon you were a working man.’
Blackstone had kept the scarred side of his face behind his hood, concealed from the man’s inquisitive gaze. ‘I’m a stonemason.’
The man nodded as if accepting Blackstone’s explanation and gestured towards the square. ‘That’s the Master Crier. He has all the news of the day. Takes it across the city so each quarter gets told what it must. Not that there’s much to tell unless we’re to have another bastard tax raised.’
The Master Crier bellowed above the clanging bell: ‘Pray for the souls of the dead and for your own sins as this bell tolls,’ he called as the clanging went on a moment longer. He was flanked by half a dozen assistants who carried small scrolls that they handed to him in turn; he then pronounced each decree, his voice carrying across the crowds. There was to be the funeral of a grain trader and the two houses he owned would be put up for sale. A child he described by name and age had gone missing from its neighbourhood. A fair was to be held two weeks hence and three children were to be baptised that Sunday.
As the Master Crier moved away to take his news to another square, jugglers and musicians quickly took advantage of the vacated space and tried to keep the attention of the ready-made audience. The man next to Blackstone turned away but Blackstone caught hold of his tunic. ‘Friend, I need some help.’ The man tugged free. He had no desire to befriend a stranger in a crowd, not one as dangerous-looking as this one, whose weather-beaten face he could now see. Blackstone quickly pulled the cowl back over his head. ‘If I was to look for a gentlewoman—’
Before he could utter another word the man guffawed. ‘You what!’
The shout caused others to stop and stare. The last thing Blackstone wanted. He turned away, stooping his shoulders, trying to make himself less obvious.
‘He’s after a whore who can pretend she’s a gentlewoman!’ the man shouted to the amusement of those around him.
‘No, not a whore,’ Blackstone quickly insisted. There was little choice now but to brazen out the confrontation.
‘The bathhouse two squares from here!’ one of the men shouted, biting into an apple and grabbing his crotch. ‘Forbidden fruit, stranger. There’re rumours that noblewomen visit to have the pleasure of a working man!’
‘My wife … she’s an embroiderer, and she’s here somewhere. She works for a gentlewoman is what I meant.’
The apple chewer laughed, mouth open, pulped apple blanketing his tongue. Thuggish-looking, he had the air of a man who could handle himself in a fight. ‘You need good money for Parisienne whores, my friend. How much you got then? I’ll take you where you want to go. But it’ll cost you.’ Spittle mixed with apple sprayed his front. The man seemed more foolish than brave to challenge Blackstone, but he noticed four others like him who stayed a few paces back. They were obviously a street gang and strangers were easy prey no matter how tall they stood.
The first man Blackstone had spoken to became aware of the gathering threat. ‘Leave him be. He’s looking for his wife is all.’
The thug grunted an unintelligible
response but Blackstone saw his sleight of hand easily enough. A quick stabbing of the Samaritan would cause sufficient uproar for the street gang to seize a stranger’s purse. It didn’t have to be a killing. A distraction would be enough. The thug’s hand now held the blade low beside his leg, ready to rip upwards without being seen. Blackstone took a stride forward and quickly eased the intended victim aside. His other fist came up swiftly and caught the knifeman like a mallet beneath his chin. What had been a grin became a mangled, choking gasp as shattered teeth tore into his tongue. Before the man fell back into the crowd Blackstone had already kicked the fallen knife away and turned, hoping the panic would cover his retreat. The man he had saved brushed past him. ‘This way! The Provost’s men will be on us.’
The crowd engulfed them as Blackstone, keeping pace with his guide, weaved his way from the square into a side alley, and then turned again into another. The dank shadows quickly hid them. By the time they had moved several streets away, the turmoil in the square had subsided. Finally the man stopped and ushered Blackstone into a doorway, looking back cautiously the way they had come.
‘You’re the kind of man who brings trouble with him. I thank you for saving me from injury. No women are allowed in the bathhouses, or vagabonds, so keep yourself clear of them. Stay on this street until you see the sign of the tooth puller and then listen for the crier’s bell again. Across that square is where the embroiderers work, next to the hatters; that’s where they ply their trade. Godspeed, stranger.’ And with that his guide ducked away into another alley.
Blackstone soon found the square the man had described and, as the Master Crier repeated his news, Blackstone moved quickly around the edge of the crowd and into the streets on the far side. Small enclaves of women sat in various doorways, or at tables, examples of their skill laid tenderly on washed hessian, beneath a canopy that offered some protection from dust and showers of rain. Some of the pouches and linen cloths were stitched with muted autumnal dyed threads, others with veins of colour. There were costs involved in buying the materials and, despite their skills, these women relied on work from noblewomen as well as street selling. As he walked along he tried to think who might have sold Christiana’s piece of linen, the piece that Blackstone well knew was more likely stolen from her without her knowing it.
He went from one group of women to another. Most ignored the dirty-looking labourer; others shook their heads when the questions were asked. After an hour of edging down the street, going from stall to stall, he realized that this last group of embroiderers were all that remained between him and the next row of shopkeepers who had bolts of cloth and swathes of multi-coloured material on sale. He stepped closer to the women who, with outstretched hands holding their cherished work, called for him to buy. Others, like those before them, took one look at his shabby clothing and made no effort. They huddled and whispered, slyly glancing at him. A man as rough as he would barely have a penny to his name, let alone enough money to buy a delicate piece of stitched beauty for a woman. A whore’s man, no doubt. His bristles barely hid the wicked scar that was etched from forehead to chin down his grimy face.
‘Don’t let him put his filthy hands on that, Mathilde!’ one of the women cried to another who had offered her work to Blackstone. ‘Mind your purse! He’s a wicked look about him.’
Blackstone stopped as the woman called Mathilde kept her nerve and her offering.
‘Even a common man can know beauty when he sees it,’ she said to him. ‘Look, sir, look. See my skill? A man could not fail to win a woman’s heart with such a gift, wouldn’t you say?’
Blackstone looked at the simple but elegant depiction of a rosebud and the skill required to embroider the creeper that entwined itself around its stem like a lover’s arms.
‘I would,’ answered Blackstone.
‘Then—’
‘I’ll buy it from you, if you can help me,’ he said, interrupting her sales patter.
‘Count your fingers, Mathilde. If you let him take that from your hand, there’ll be some missing!’ her friend warned again.
Blackstone saw the woman was losing her nerve.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said.
‘But … you have not asked the price,’ the woman spluttered, barely able to conceal her joy at snaring a country bumpkin. ‘Five deniers …’ she said.
‘No. I will give you three, though you know it’s worth two,’ answered Blackstone. ‘You have already more than doubled the price because you think me a fool,’ he told her and dropped the coins into her outstretched hands, but made no attempt to take the cloth and its embroidered pattern.
It was a good profit. Her fist closed over coins and material as the thought of keeping both went through her mind. At worst this rough-looking man would call the Provost’s men, an argument would take place and the other women would back her story that the man tried to take the cloth without paying. Except for one of them – Isabeau. She would always find a way to stab her in the back, jealous of her skills. Old bitch. Her hand unclasped and passed the cloth to Blackstone. She grumbled as she untied her purse and dropped in the coins. ‘That’s a good piece of silk thread you have there. At a good price.’
‘It’s a piece taken from a lady, cut from a bolt, likely without her knowing; someone you sell work to,’ Blackstone told her and saw that he was probably right about the theft. He showed her Christiana’s stained needlework. ‘Have you seen this before?’
She took it reluctantly from him. ‘An amateur’s hand, I can tell you that – but a good one,’ she conceded. ‘The futaine is of good enough quality,’ she told him, her finger tracing the few strands of cotton mixed with silk. ‘A coarse linen to stitch. Not a noblewoman, that’s for certain. And she’s no guild member, either.’ She handed it back. ‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘And if it were offered would you buy it? In order to sell it on.’
‘We have our own to sell. Superior work, as you can see,’ she said defiantly.
He ignored her self-regard. ‘And no person, man or woman, has come here and shown such an embroidered cloth to any of you and asked the same question?’
The piece of cloth passed through the women’s hands as they all looked at Christiana’s embroidery.
The old woman at the end of the stalls barely glanced his way. ‘You want to sell that get yourself over to the whores by the riverbank. They’ll buy a piece of cloth even though it’s not fancy,’ she said.
‘He’s not trying to sell it, Isabeau! Merciful Mother of God, you witter like an old crone,’ Mathilde rebuked her, and glanced warily at Blackstone. ‘This is little more than an old bloodstained rag. Not even a whore would want it,’ she said.
Blackstone showed no sign of displeasure. He simply nodded and tucked the cloth away. ‘How do I get to the noblemen’s quarter? There’s a grand street somewhere, isn’t there?’
‘Ha! You’ll get short shrift knocking on their doors. If their dogs don’t have you the constables will,’ said one of the women.
The women murmured amused agreement among themselves.
‘Find your way north, and you’ll start to see the big houses, big windows and courtyards,’ said Mathilde, relenting because he had paid her well. ‘Up past the market and graveyard towards the Porte Saint-Denis.’
The woman called Isabeau chirped in from the end of the table. ‘You’ll not get there before dark, so you’ll spend the night in a doorway with the beggars and get yourself a good kicking from the nightwatchmen,’ she said.
Blackstone knew he needed no issue with anyone official. ‘Is there a tavern nearby that might not steal a man’s boots in the night?’ he asked.
‘Take your pick. They’ll only take your boots once your throat’s been slit,’ Mathilde answered as the other women laughed with her.
‘Get yourself to the Half Wheel. There’s no bed, but there’s food and a hearth,’ Isabeau told him. ‘Across a dozen streets, up that way. You’ll see their sign. As big as a nobleman’s door,
it is.’
Their blank stares told him there was nothing more to be got from them. But it confirmed that Christiana had not yet reached these stallholders and, to his mind, that someone had used an unsuspecting Joanne de Ruymont to draw Christiana into the city. And to make him follow. As he turned into the crowd the woman who had given him the name of the tavern gathered her pieces into a broad cloth, which she tied off in a neat bundle.
‘Isabeau!’ one of the embroiderers called. ‘You’re packing up so early?’
‘I’m cold and I’m hungry. There’s no trade today, and it’s almost gone anyway,’ the woman answered.
‘Some of us have sold fine pieces at a good price,’ the embroiderer teased. ‘Your fingers are too bent and crippled for fine stitching. Perhaps it’s time you went over to the bakers’ quarter and started making meat pies with hands like those! You’ll starve to death otherwise.’
The other women laughed and bent their heads back to the work beneath their fingers. Old age was coming to them all, and sooner or later they would end up like poor old Isabeau, and when that day came they could only hope for a rich woman’s charity that might allow them to stitch hems on undershirts before being cast into the street. Such was any woman’s life. Better to be a baker’s wife; at least they wouldn’t starve.
Blackstone eased his way through the crowds. Paris was a confusing jumble of alleyways, dead ends and thoroughfares. Only a few doorways had any distinguishing marks above them, and most likely they were occupied by someone with money or who held some kind of minor status. He was a long way from the merchants’ houses, but women from all walks of life bustled around him dressed in bright colours, some with their wimples fastened to plaited hair, surcoats trimmed with fine embroidery, as they sought out bolts of cloth or silks. A number of the women had a maidservant accompanying them carrying a basket of bought items. Any one of these women could have been Christiana, who always wore a simple coif instead of an elaborate or fashionable wimple to conceal her auburn hair.
