By twenty-one he had worked his way through all of Père Jean’s limited library and mastered most of the areas he would need to learn: principally theology, biblical Greek and Hebrew. Now all he could do was await the word of God.
* * *
Just before Sebastian’s twenty-second birthday, his studies officially ended. All that last day, Père Jean had observed his pupil’s distraction. Sebastian’s answers were still correct, but delayed, as though there was an obstacle between his ears and brain. Then, as they were discussing a passage from Boethius, Sebastian asked if it ‘was possible if someone such as me could be called on by the Lord’.
Père Jean stopped and grimaced. Ever since the day he’d first taken Sebastian under his wing, he’d known the question would come. The idea was so ludicrous that he had never considered it seriously. Indeed, he only realised the depth of the boy’s feelings after wandering into the vestry one morning to find him putting on a cincture and alb. They were grotesquely oversized and in almost any other circumstances the scene would have been laughable. Instead it was pitiful, and he always recalled the incident with a sigh. What made the situation even worse was that Sebastian was the best student he had ever had – not just able to read Greek but compose it as well, articulate and with a brutal logic that would have put Loyola himself to shame.
‘Sebastian, I appreciate your desire to go to the seminary. But there are other, more worldly requirements.’
‘Worldly? What do you mean?’
‘I mean money. It costs a great deal to buy a benefice or endow a monastery. I’m afraid ecclesiastical life has changed somewhat since the Lord Jesus’ day.’
‘How much?’ Père Jean saw that same determination in Sebastian’s eyes that he had observed when they first met. He flinched, fearful of crushing closely held dreams.
‘Sebastian, I’m sorry but I have to be honest. There is no possibility whatsoever of you joining the Church. For a start there’s the cost. It’s hundreds of livres – more than you’ll ever earn. Then there’s your ancestry. You’re no fool; you must have noticed everyone else here is of noble blood. Even then I doubt they would admit you.’ He paused, tiptoeing his way through the next sentence. ‘It’s just . . . well . . . that a priest needs to project a certain gravitas . . . to be a representative of God . . . and I’m not sure how easy it would be for you to deliver a sermon when you can barely reach the lectern. I truly am sorry.’ He sighed out the apology, watching Sebastian struggle to hold his features together, the strain warping an already unnatural face. ‘I don’t know if it’s any consolation, but had the circumstances been different, I think you would have made an excellent priest.’
‘Thank you for informing me. I would like to leave now.’ The reply was abrupt, as Sebastian clenched a smile, the corners of his jaw bulging from the tightness of the lock. Père Jean nodded, watching as he placed his books, inkpot, and quills back on their shelves, then folded his papers before stowing them in his bag, even remembering to cross himself before leaving and bow at the doorway as he bade his farewell.
‘Wait...’ Père Jean motioned him back. ‘Maybe there’s something I can do. I mean it’s not much and you’d be taking a chance. There’s someone I know in Paris . . . a Viscount Turenne. He said he had need of a clerk and I’d be delighted to give you a letter of recommendation.’
Warming to the idea, the priest stood up, elated to have found some way to ease his conscience. ‘Yes … yes … there’s enough in the poor box to get you to Paris … and a little left over for lodgings too. I’ll write the letter now, and there’s a daily coach from Coutances. You can make it there yourself, I presume … yes, very good.’
Sebastian agreed, of course. It wasn’t a difficult choice: to spend his days working for a noble house or else trapped in some cramped shack on the outer rim of nowhere. The doubts didn’t arrive until later.
* * *
Before leaving, Sebastian made his farewells, beginning by taking Charles and Audrien to the local tavern for an ale. He hoped they would be impressed, maybe even a little envious. But they weren’t. All he received were a few grunts and a ‘good for you’. They found him an embarrassment, seating him in the darkest corner and barely acknowledging him as he spoke. Not that he cared. As he’d grown through study, so they seemed to have regressed by comparison. Six years had passed and for all their intelligence and opportunity, nothing had changed. They were living in the same village, working the same fields, still dreaming their way through life.
Now they were determined to make their fortunes as wool merchants in Caen, and after a few mugs of ale they seemed to forget him entirely and began animatedly discussing plans to raise enough money for a part-share in a boat. The fact they knew nobody in the trade nor anything about wool or how to sell it didn’t seem to concern them. Instead, they sat spread-legged, imagining how they would spend their eventual profits, intoxicated with their own grandeur and puff.
Sebastian tried to make a few suggestions, that maybe they might consider working for someone else first, just to learn the business, or find out the risk of capsizing or losing a cargo, perhaps. They didn’t listen, nodding with rictus sincerity before explaining that they had already considered his point or else dismissing it as an irrelevance. Eventually he realised there was no point arguing and spent the remainder of the evening concealing an ever-growing desire to leave. It seemed odd to him that they had once appeared such vast figures. Now they seemed far smaller than him.
* * *
On announcing his departure, Sebastian expected his mother to be pleased, but she wasn’t. Instead, she jerked back in her chair as if slapped, and stammered out a multitude of reasons why not to go: that he would lose his money; that he had no understanding of the real world; that he would be abandoned in the wilderness of Paris, unable to return home. There was desperation in her voice, and for the first time he realised she had never truly considered he might leave. It seemed like betrayal – that for all her words of encouragement, she never really believed in him. Not that he let her know. Instead, he gave the warmest smile he could muster and tried to calm her, promising to be careful.
‘Besides, Maman, there’s no changing the fact you’re getting older. You won’t be around forever. I’ll have to look after myself one day.’ She nodded but he could see she didn’t mean it. Her eyes and mouth were skewed with pain. Even so, neither of them wanted to sour their last hours together and they spent the rest of the day reminiscing as they prepared for the journey: washing clothes, darning holes and packing food. Despite his mother’s veneer of normality, Sebastian could see the strain in her movements, tight and stiff-jointed, as if she was struggling to keep her body under control. For a moment he considered staying, but one look at the narrow walls of the cottage and the sodden grey outside was enough to banish any doubts. Even at the last, as they hugged goodbye, she struggled to release him, clamping him to her so tight that he could feel the impress of her body, her warmth remaining on him long after they waved goodbye.
* * *
Leaving Camoches for perhaps the final time, Sebastian felt more excited than afraid. He remembered his childhood years spent staring up the muddy track, determined to escape. From the cart he could see boundless countryside: grey shale and rock giving way to distant fields and scattered villages, the peaks and forest of Swiss Normandy a tangle of faraway green to his left, patched by vast shadows from the cloudbanks above. Overwhelmed by the view, he felt like an explorer surveying the unknown. The border was forty miles to the south, beyond it Maine and Brittany. Some four hundred miles further lay Arles, then the Mediterranean. From there he could find boats travelling the trade routes, or journey by caravan along the Silk Road. He imagined landscapes and civilisations: red desert set against a flaming sun, the great Khan’s imperial palace at Shangdu, high mountains shearing tattered cloud – and it wasn’t until dusk that his imagination gave way to deep and untroubled sleep.
* * *
Paris was like nothing
Sebastian had ever seen, an entire world crammed into three square miles. In the battle for space, everyone built up, out, under, in between, any way they could. Buildings overflowed the bridges, their backs hanging over empty air, supported by flimsy brackets of struts and beams. Wooden tenements, erected to absurd heights, twisted into knots under their own weight. High stone walls pressed out from the great houses and churches in an attempt to keep the world at bay. Cellars flanked the roadsides, tunnelling down into candlelit murk, while hovels were squeezed into chinks only a few feet wide. Between them, the people scrummed through the needling streets, trying to navigate their kinks and jags, never stopping, always hurrying. Humanity gushing in all directions, orderless – a river that had broken its banks and was simply trying to find the fastest way down, spilling through side roads, alleyways, in a churn and tumble of chatter and colour. Far above, flocks of starlings lived off the mess, roiling in clouds that folded through themselves into chaotic forms, mirroring the jostle below.
As he approached the heart of the city, the space continued to tighten. The buildings closed in and the crowds became thicker, the sky ever-narrowing. Lost in the crush, Sebastian soon lost all sense of where he was. The tide was overpowering and, unable to fight, he allowed himself to be carried along. All he could see were legs: stockinged, knickerbocked, bare, in hose – pounding, thumping, stamping legs. Giant centipedes advancing from all directions, cutting in and out of the shadows. He tried to navigate between them, but found himself caught in a clatter of knees and hips. Senseless, there was no order or pattern to the movement, that same milling of penned animals circling for escape. Occasionally the jostle would be interrupted by some piece of human flotsam littering the street, a beggar with a seamed face or a drunkard peering up from the gutter with a single fiery eye. But no matter the shock, he could never stop or stare – the crowd bustling him ever forward.
* * *
The Place de Seine was a narrow cul-de-sac off the main thoroughfare with a high terrace of stone on either side. Remarkably it was paved, unlike the dung-trampled tracks which surrounded it, and Sebastian immediately had a sense both of wealth and of not belonging. Nearby, a ginger dog did not appear quite so impressed and was relieving itself by a doorway, the liquid following a jagged course down the cobbles. Nevertheless, he was glad of the quiet and took a moment to collect himself. Of all the houses, the viscount’s was the most impressive. It stood at the end, flanked by its peers. Built in the baroque style with a pediment, it was walled with Oise stone, the balconies and high windows of leaded glass a testament to its owner’s position.
Pausing to check Père Jean’s introduction was still safe in his pocket, he pulled the bell and waited to be let in. A servant appeared, who seemed bemused by his size but after taking his name and examining the letter ushered him through nonetheless. Inside was a palace in miniature: hung with portraits and chandeliers, flagged in marble, with a carved staircase and hammer-beam ceiling. What struck him most of all was a contemplative silence which took him back to long afternoons in the transept studying Saint Jerome.
Once the master had been informed of his arrival, he was led into the main room where the viscount was waiting. Sebastian had never met a nobleman. He expected solemnity, jewels and ermine, and was taken aback to see a dishevelled figure stamping around the room in a stained robe, unwigged and muttering to himself. The man was middle-aged, with thin lips and pinched features that looked starved of comfort or rest. Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Sebastian at first – though when he did, it was with familiar disbelief.
‘What’s he doing here? I didn’t ask for a dwarf,’ he barked at the footman, ignoring his visitor completely.
‘He’s a clerk, Your Lordship. He has a letter of recommendation.’
‘Hmmm . . . Give it to me.’
Sebastian presented the letter, proffering it like some holy text. The viscount showed no such reverence – plucking it from his hands, taking a brief glance and returning it in a crumple.
‘Yes, the name, it’s familiar . . . that priest, what was he called again?’
‘Père Jean, Your Lordship.’
‘Yes, Père Jean. He says you are an educated man.’ He spoke with an air of distaste that had taken many years to cultivate. ‘Are you?’
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘We’d better find out.’ And with that, he glanced over at a loose pamphlet on a side table.
‘This should suffice. I want the front page copied. You have an hour.’ He handed it over before turning to the footman. ‘Show him to my study. And give the man a quill and ink.’
After responding with a bow, the footman led Sebastian up a carved oaken staircase into a panelled study – dark-lacquered, its air heavy with the scent of burnt cedar from the hearth. Then, after laying out the materials as instructed, he informed Sebastian he would be returning in precisely one hour’s time and expected the copy to be complete.
It was a straightforward task, no longer than forty minutes at most and Sebastian worked confidently, intent on rewarding himself with a quick look though the viscount’s library once he had finished. Then, just as he was beginning the final paragraph, he spilled the inkwell. It was an innocent mistake, merely a nick on the lip as he pulled out the quill, but impossible to contain. A moment later there was ink everywhere, streaming a gush across the desk. Despite his best attempts to daub away the damage with a handkerchief, it was futile. The copy was ruined, smeared and scabbed with black crusts. The footman didn’t even bother to look at it, observing the stain on the top of the bureau with horror and immediately shouting for assistance. Ordering the housemaids to clean up this godforsaken mess, he promptly marched over, grasped him by the arm and escorted him straight to the back entrance. Then, with a slam of the door, Sebastian found himself abandoned to the street.
* * *
Sebastian never made a conscious decision to beg. He was an educated man and thought such things beneath him. But it wasn’t long before Père Jean’s money ran out and thirst and hunger took their toll. His first steps were tentative, simply asking for a little food and drink as he knocked on doors in a futile search for work. Another week went by before he started asking for a few sous to pay for lodgings for the night. After that it was only a short step to requesting passers-by for a little assistance as he made his rounds. A week or so later he stopped bothering with the doors at all. Oddly, the hardest part wasn’t the beginning but the end, the moment when he couldn’t delude himself any longer and finally walked out to join his peers on the streets.
Most of his early successes came through perseverance, people paying simply to be rid of him. Masquerading as a poet, he would perform verses for whatever people could spare. But he was no rhymer. He coupled ‘you’ with ‘blue’, ‘star’ with ‘afar’, while his lines lacked metre and were little more than cliché. Nevertheless, he slowly rediscovered that feral intelligence – dormant since childhood – as he progressed from shrew to rat, learning to fend for himself and seize whatever came his way. He soon discovered how entertaining a child would always earn a coin from its mother, or playing a pipe was a good way to draw attention – while always being aware of the dogs it would also attract. He learned to sift the good person from the bad with the quickest of looks, and to see the opportunity in every glance and casual ‘good day’. He took care to work in the mornings and on Mondays when wallets were full, and never bother with a Saturday, when the poor box would inevitably receive whatever pickings were left. And most often he would ply his trade near an almshouse or a church, because the poor gave more than the rich, perhaps because they better knew the pain of going without.
His favoured tool was the rancid scrap of bread. After placing a crust on the road, he would wait for the approaching footsteps of a passer-by, then rush out of an alleyway and pretend to consume it. After which and most importantly, would come the moment of realisation, when he would look up at the horrified stranger before trying to conceal the tid
bit beneath his jerkin. It was always this final act – the embarrassment of the man fallen on hard times – that drew the sympathy and then the coin.
Naturally he made use of his size. The first time was an accident, a simple bump on a street. Used to collisions from passers-by, he barely gave it a thought. It was only when the man asked if he was hurt that he had the wherewithal to limp and was rewarded with three sous for his pain. After repeating the trick a number of times, he would hold a tray of stale buns for effect – favouring the dusted variety due to both their whiteness in the mud and the way the flour concealed the hard rind beneath. After a while it came so instinctive that even in later life he would feel the knock of a hip or elbow and struggle not to throw himself to the ground.
Over time he came to learn the city. The great arteries that quartered it, each named after its saint: Denis, Martin, Jacques and Antoine. The crammed Marais and Notre Dame which lay at its heart, along with a number of the muddy, nameless trails in between. He even came to take a certain pride in his work. The country was suffering and Paris too, the people burdened with taxes as Richelieu tried to buy his way out of war with Spain. Life was becoming harder and hungrier. Pitches that had once been plentiful were now long dry, and the competition was growing more bitter by the day. Many had simply given up, lying in doorways or down side streets, waiting for a death that was sure enough to come. But in spite of it all, Sebastian endured, grinding out the days with as much humour as he could manage. And when he looked at the misery around him, it was with grim pleasure, his achievement magnified by the failure of so many others greater and stronger than him.
However, he knew it was a life that couldn’t last. Despite his nose for danger, it hadn’t been enough to keep him entirely safe. There had been incidents – thugs slitting his clothes for the coins sewn into the seams, numerous tramplings beneath the crowd – while his tongue had got him into more than enough trouble. The final straw came one evening when he spotted a soldier weaving across the street, clearly the worse for wear and an easy target. Having exhausted his buns, he improvised with whatever items he had to hand, thrusting everything into a sack and scurrying into the man’s path. While the fall wasn’t his best, it was passable enough and he lay on the ground, clutching his ankle, awaiting the usual voice of concern and helping hand. Hearing nothing, he assumed he had somehow failed to catch the soldier’s attention and let out another groan. But instead of assistance, he received a boot in the ribs that had him clutching his side in pain.
The Cardinal's Man Page 3
