He wasn't the only one to be unsettled. Two other people--an old woman and a young man with a taper, whom he thought he recognized as the innkeeper's son--were also padding up the corridor, looking scared.
The youth with the taper raised eyebrows at him. Shadows leapt satanically up from them. "You heard it?" he whispered. "Me too." He turned his ear toward the noises. "Sounds like they're coming from the Saint-Germain gate. Heading for the river. The city."
The old woman's eyes were round and terrified. "Ghosts," she quavered, in a high, thin voice; she had no teeth; "a ghostly army; headless soldiers, come to punish us for our sins..."
"Hush, Grandma," the young man muttered. "Don't you worry; it's not ghosts." But Owain thought he looked even more anxious than before as he pushed her back into her room.
By the time they found an upstairs window, and agonized over the squeak it made as the shutter came back, most of the quiet men outside had gone past. But they could still see their backs, streaming quietly along in the moonlight, toward the riverfront bishops' palaces and the Saint Michael Bridge. Hundreds of them; with streaks and flashes of silver at their sides.
He didn't expect terror at the sight of those flashes of silver. But he remembered this, or something like it. For a moment he was in another time, another place: burrowing into female arms, hiding from the men outside. His mother, perhaps. He could see the fine green stuff of her shawl, the weave up close next to his eyes. He could almost still hear the wild beat of her heart; the soundless sh-sh. They'd been near Glyndwfrdwy, on the sharp wooded hillside, on a quiet evening. There was a luminous sunset; he remembered that. Stars through the young leaves. She'd turned at the first hoofbeats. Quietly, without frightening him, she'd taken him into the shepherd's hut off the track and, tying up their horse inside with them, where the strangers wouldn't see it, squatted down in a corner with him in her arms. The men had ridden purposefully past. Peeping over her shoulder, Owain had counted dozens of them, all with swords or axes. He remembered the long quiet after: the distant whoops and screeches; the flickering lights. She'd put him down, gone to the doorway. "Can we go on now?" he'd whispered pitifully. He was hungry. There'd be supper at Glyndwfrdwy. She was in the doorway. She'd shaken her head without turning, gazing out, he thought, at the evening star, bright in the darkening sky. "We can't go on," she whispered. "We'll stay here, nice and quiet, then go home in the morning." It was only when she came back, and picked him up, and began rocking him and whispering a song about the evening star, that he saw she was crying.
That must have been when Glyndwfrdwy had been burned. They said his mother had died of grief after Glyndwfrdwy.
He wished he could remember her face.
"Not ghosts," he whispered, to reassure this other frightened woman in Paris, tonight, years later; trying to count the bodies, back here in the present. At the speed those men were going, if no one stopped them at the bridge, they'd be on the Island within minutes. They were heading toward the palace. The King was there. Catherine. There were other windows being cautiously opened now, all along the street; other tousled heads and stares following the backs.
"Burgundy," the innkeeper's son breathed; and Owain could see his eyes were shining. He grinned at Owain through his gap teeth. He added, quite a lot louder: "Come on!"
"My apologies for waking you," the young stranger said. "I hope His Majesty wasn't too startled."
He'd been announced as the Lord of l'Isle Adam. Catherine didn't know him. There was a whole Burgundian France she didn't know--the shadow side; the courtiers whose loyalties were to Dijon, not Paris. But she knew this youth's appearance now meant Burgundy was coming. His voice was smooth but the eyes in his blacked-up face flickered with battle fever. His hand was on his sword.
Catherine, in her nightgown and a shawl, standing protectively next to her blinking, bewildered father, inclined her head. Thank God they'd been staying at the well-fortified palace, on the Island, and not at the exposed, innocent Hotel Saint-Paul. She'd ordered the leader of the soldiers outside to be admitted; they hadn't been overrun.
She'd chosen the palace, when they returned to Paris, to protect herself and her father from Charles, who'd likewise chosen the elaborate fortifications of the Louvre for his home. Catherine had done nothing more to try to contact her brother. With a heavy heart, she even kept out of the way now on the rare occasions there were council meetings at the Palace. There was nothing she felt able to do to stop them all living these separate, fortified, lonely lives, building the walls higher and higher around their hearts. She could do no more to reach out to Charles. Even Christine, who had gone to Charles when he arrived in Paris, had not been received. Charles had cut himself off--had chosen to be another enemy.
There had been no hope in Catherine's life since her meeting with Charles. She spent her days with her father. She looked after him. Household money still came from the council, but, now that it was clear that royal father and son were not on good terms and the Armagnac faction was more active and powerful than the King supposedly supported, the money came only fitfully. It didn't matter; there were no visitors. Courtiers could always sense where power lay; and it wasn't here now. So Catherine made do with the reduced number of servants; the limited budget for food. It felt strangely familiar, patching and making do on the edge of the luxury of the palace. She and her father walked or sat in the gardens together every day, feeling the summer on their backs, fretting. King Charles was sane, but could think of nothing but his fears about his wife. When he was sane, there was no one he loved or depended on more than Isabeau.
"Is she all right?" he'd say anxiously. "Can I write to her? Where is she?"
Catherine told him, over and over again: "We'd hear if anything was wrong," and, "Please, Papa, don't worry." There was no point in worrying. Still, she felt as though she and her father were, like Isabeau, in a prison, and one from which she couldn't imagine escape.
When, a couple of days ago, Christine had rushed into her rooms with the extraordinary rumor (which her son Jean de Castel had heard from the de Marles, his employers) that the Queen had got away from her prison with the help of the Duke of Burgundy, Catherine had, for a moment, been too astonished to speak. It must be a joke, she thought. But Christine never teased; there was no laughter in her round eyes now. "No," Catherine had breathed eventually. Burgundy: Isabeau's bitterest enemy. What could those two possibly have found in common?
"I swear by God and all the saints," Christine had said. "I couldn't believe it either."
For a moment, Catherine had looked suspiciously at Christine--all she felt, herself, at the idea of the Duke of Burgundy coming back into her life was utter, childish dread, and now it crossed her mind that Christine might be suppressing excitement. Christine had prospered under Burgundy before; she must have good memories of him, and perhaps she'd be pleased if his luck was changing for the better. But any positive feelings Christine might have had at the bizarre change in the Queen's and Burgundy's fortunes were well suppressed. If anything, Christine had looked worried too: after all, her son worked in the Armagnac administration now. "I was going to go to Poissy to see Marie," was all Christine had said; "but now perhaps I should wait till next year; be here in case of trouble..." Her voice trailed off.
"No," Catherine replied, gaining strength from the other woman's hesitancy, rising to the occasion for both of them. "Go. Take the children; take the women. It's the last year they'll let your grandson into Poissy, isn't it? They'll count him as a man next year. So, let him say his goodbyes to Marie. Don't let the war disrupt that. Go."
It was only after Christine, looking grateful, if still tormented, had bowed out of the room, that Catherine had let her mind away from Christine's family's problems and back to the news about Burgundy and the Queen. Her heart was pounding. Somewhere in the whirlpool of feelings was a grudging admiration for her mother's spirit--Isabeau would never let herself be locked up for the rest of her days without fighting back. Perhaps she, Catherine, sh
ould have shown more spirit herself, and somehow improved her own lot here in Paris in the same way. But Catherine had also felt the prickling awareness of danger close at hand. Her mother and Burgundy wouldn't just stay at Troyes. They'd move, soon.
And now here they were, or their men. Late in the night, with weapons and blacked-up faces. She hadn't thought her mother would put her and her father in such direct danger. She could hear what must be going on out there now, on the Right Bank: riots; a massacre; the mob. She could see the sky all lit up and hear the shouts. But it was important not to show fear. She raised an eyebrow.
"I have a letter for His Majesty from his wife, the Queen," the Lord of l'Isle Adam went on, with the same impeccable politeness. But Catherine could hear the slight trembling of his voice now; she could almost feel the tension vibrating through his body. It made her feel stronger to know this tall young man was also nervous. "May I deliver it?"
L'Isle Adam didn't comment when Catherine, rather than her father, opened and read the letter.
"Papa," she said gently, kneeling down before her father so she could see into his cloudy eyes, and showing him the letter. "Maman is asking us to go to her. She's the guest of my uncle of Burgundy now; and this gentleman will escort us to them. There's nothing to worry about; we'll just go to Maman at Troyes and be together again. She needs us."
She was nodding her head; smiling; persuading him to accept the inevitable.
Her father didn't look anywhere except back at her. Weakly, trustingly, he acquiesced. "Dear girl...if you say so..." Then he began to look at his hands, flexing them to and fro.
"I won't be a minute, Papa; I'll see our escort out, then we'll pack you up," she said sweetly.
Outside, she said coldly to l'Isle Adam: "I don't know what's going on out there, but whatever it is he mustn't see it. If you truly mean us no harm, you must understand how important that is. I don't want him distressed. We'll need a closed cart to the gate. And quiet streets. And a proper escort."
He nodded seriously. She thought he was relieved that they'd accepted his polite order so sanely.
"We'll go back by the Left Bank," he agreed; "through the University quarter. To the Saint-Germain gate. There's nothing planned there."
Briefly, Catherine was stricken at the thought of everyone on the Right Bank. Christine perhaps; her brother Charles and his wife; all the cousins and friends and servants in houses in the town, around the pleasure gardens of the Hotel Saint-Paul, all along the river. They'd be right in the thick of it.
She pursed her lips. Closed her eyes. Felt dizzy. For a terrifying second, she imagined men--not individual men, but a looming mass of leather jerkins and muscly thighs, and bold, sneering eyes and glittering blades--coming for her. Breath on her face; tearing at her.
But she couldn't think of that now. She had to stay calm. With Christine gone, it was more important than ever for her to be the capable one. She opened her eyes.
Perhaps sensing how close she'd come to panic, l'Isle Adam added, with something like threat in his elegant voice: "But I can't guarantee that the students won't wake up and want to come and join in too. So please hurry."
Owain had put on his clothes and sword and followed the innkeeper's son and all the other curious, wary, excited men--with sticks and poles and bits of wood and daggers out in their hands, and poachers' bags on their shoulders--to the Island; to the palace; and on. The bridges seemed to be unguarded. There were men pouring out of everywhere in the moonlight, and shutters opening on all sides so scared-looking women could peer out after them. To Owain's relief, they went right past the palace. At least, he thought, Catherine was safe inside. But where were they going?
It was only after they'd started streaming over the Exchange Bridge to the town on the Right Bank, behind the quiet soldiers, that the noise started. Owain strained his eyes ahead to see. Outside the Chatelet there were hundreds and hundreds of soldiers already waiting; one force meeting another on the Square. And, as soon as they'd met, the air was rent with yells and curses, and the ghostly reds of fire and blood began to twitch Paris into murderous life.
Owain was swept along with the baying crowd, east toward the Hotel Saint-Paul and the Bastille Saint Anthony. But he was relieved to be out, in the madness, treading lightly, breathing shallowly, with his sword in his hand. The shouts were all about Armagnac and Burgundy, but he could see it was really a night for looters and private revenges. There were already men breaking into wine shops and taverns, under an unearthly flowering of flags bearing the red X of Saint Andrew's cross--Burgundy's emblem.
Greve Square was packed with men writhing against each other, gray and seething, like carp in a barrel. Glassmaking Street was full of broken glass and fighting. He had nowhere special to go; nowhere was particularly safe; he just needed to keep on his feet and watch his back. He kept his distance from the break-ins and gangs of thugs closing in on one victim or another with leering, drunken, sneering cries and eyes full of death. He let his feet guide him toward Old Temple Street. It was somewhere to head for.
It was heaving, even there. Someone had got a bonfire going on the burned-out site where a house had once stood. Owain could see silhouettes dancing around on either side of it, waving another red flag crossed with an X. The smoke caught his eyes.
Over the road, Christine's door was hanging from one hinge.
Owain edged closer, through the jostle of men; alarmed enough, suddenly, to have his hand on his sword, ready to draw.
He saw a rush of big thick men coming out through the broken door, roaring taunts. They were hustling three prisoners in nightclothes whose gray faces were full of dread. Owain didn't recognize the oldest of the men being manhandled; but a younger blond one seemed somehow familiar, though Owain couldn't remember from where. However, the dark one in his thirties, with the long Italian nose and the rumpled black hair, was definitely Jean de Castel, Christine's son.
He pushed and shoved with all his might, and managed to get himself close enough that he was walking along in step with the men holding Jean de Castel. "What's going on here?" he yelled--you had to yell to be heard by now--and the nearest man, a thug with a butcher's apron and a broken nose, turned round and gave him a joyous, deranged look as he screeched back, "Bloody Armagnacs! Big cheeses too! This here"--and he jerked his head toward the oldest man--"is only the bloody Chancellor, isn't it!"
Owain felt sick as the dark tide of memory rushed through him. Jean de Castel's friend Jean de Marle, the handsome blond man who'd taken Christine's son off to work for his father, the Chancellor. That must be him. They'd been hiding at the de Pizan house. They'd been caught.
He had to do something.
He stopped as the next thought struck him. What if Christine was here too? And the young wife, Jehanette? The children? Servants? What would this mob do to them? Hardly knowing what he was saying, he yelled, "Any women in there?" and twisted his face into a leer. The thug grinned knowingly back at him. "Nah, mate. Not that we didn't look. This is it."
One less thing to worry about, then. Owain kept pace as the knot of men stumbled over the road toward the bonfire; but there were so many of them. They were closing in on the older de Marle now; but he was big and strong, despite his gray hair, and when the first one stepped inside the circle of legs and chests and landed a punch on his mouth he swayed but stayed upright, close to the leaping flames, with his lip coming up blue under the red and a mixture of shock and fury in his eyes. Then, with a howl, he flung himself at his attacker.
All hell broke loose. Suddenly there were men everywhere, fighting, rolling, snorting, grunting; teeth and eyes and snot and blood and sound; men on the ground; one screaming when he got too close to the fire and his sleeve caught alight. Owain couldn't even see either of the de Marles, the press was so thick; but all at once, as he was pushed out of one fight, then another, he found himself close enough to Jeande Castel to grab him by the arm, shout, "This one's mine," and pull him away.
He saw the other man'
s eyes fix on him; measuring the best way to knock him down. Don't fight me, he mouthed; and Jean de Castel looked again, in a lightning flash of astonishment and recognition; and all at once they were out of it, and running as fast as their legs would take them, away from the bonfire, away from Old Temple Street, down the back alley Jean de Castel had dived into that, a moment later, brought them out into the narrow confines of Monkey Street, and quiet.
"Where...are...the...women?" Owain panted, as soon as he had enough breath back.
"...Poissy...safe..." Jean de Marle panted back, with shoulders and head heavy on the alleyway wall. "Seeing...Marie...Thank...God." He raised his head; grinned. Blew out breath. Added: "Thank you."
They let themselves be carried along by the tide for the rest of the night. They didn't think of heroics. Whenever they saw a knot of people moving in on a victim, they slipped backward into the shadows and danced nervously on. As day broke, Owain and Jean de Castel made their exhausted way back south over the bridges, through the debris of the city, over the glass and charred wood and bodies and looted houses and strewn gold coins and trinkets and household goods and prone bodies, either dead or drunk, to the inn inside the Saint-Germain gate.
Now the danger that had kept them light on their toes and light-headed with sheer relief at being alive was passing, Jean had fallen grimly quiet. Owain knew Jean would be reproaching himself for leaving his friends to a lynch mob. It was very likely that the de Marles would both be dead. "There was nothing you could have done," he said sympathetically. Jean nodded. But if that thought brought him comfort, it didn't show on his ravaged face.
The inn was untouched except for a couple of broken shutters on the ground floor. The innkeeper's son had a stab wound to the arm, and was sprawled on a bench, being bandaged up by the old woman. But although he was pale with sleeplessness and blood loss, he looked happy.
He winked when he saw Owain. "Do all right, did you, mate?" he asked cheerfully. Owain nodded without speaking. "Yeah," the youth went on, as if Owain had answered; "me too. We were in the goldsmiths'"--over the other side--went straight there--best place to be, my mate said--and you wouldn't believe what they've got in there, some of them..." He patted his pockets. They chinked. "Rich bastards," he said contemplatively. Then, as if remembering what the point of the night's violence was supposed to have been, he added, more fiercely: "Armagnacs, the bloody lot of them. Been stealing our money for years."
The Queen's Lover: A Novel Page 18
