Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris, Page 2

  ‘As the last thief I met discovered, this gun enforces statutes of its own.’

  To compensate himself, and with the pleasure of a connoisseur in life’s injustices, one of the sergents smirked at the luckless hostler.

  ‘Don’t worry, sire. We’ll make sure this sodomite gets everything he deserves.’

  They left the sergents to rifle Engel’s pockets and walked to the Grand Rue where Tannhauser stopped. Somewhere in this vast midden was Carla, and in her belly was their child. As to her exact location, he had no clue. His hopes of finding her hinged on the assumption that her son, Orlandu, would be rather better informed.

  ‘Grégoire, I want to find the Collège d’Harcourt, on Rue de la Harpe.’

  Grégoire emitted one of his cackles and set off through the crowd.

  Tannhauser followed. They gave a wide berth to a pair of lunatics chained together and shovelling sewage into a cart. They saw a priest and a slattern rutting in an alley, their skirts pulled up round their waists. From Saint-Jacques they turned west into a seething maze, where the buildings were piled so high their roofs almost touched above the thoroughfare. At length they entered a quarter full of students and a corresponding ubiquity of whores. Tannhauser caught fragments of several different tongues. If any among this elite were wrestling with metaphysics, he did not hear them, though he did see one pair wrestling in the filth, to the amusement of drunken friends who spoke in English.

  The stern ambience of the Collège d’Harcourt restored some of Tannhauser’s hopes for the groves of academe. The entrance hall was deserted but for an ancient porter on a high stool in a recess behind a counter. The old man looked as if he hadn’t left the stool in years. He wore a short horsehair periwig a size or more too small and which partly concealed the disease consuming his scalp. Grey lice scouted the wig’s edge above his ears. His eyeballs bulged proud of his cheekbones and flitted back and forth beneath closed, blue-veined lids. Tannhauser rapped on the counter.

  The porter awoke without moving, like a lizard. His eyes were a shocking blue, as if the ancient carcass were inhabited by the spirit of some other being. They took in Tannhauser’s clothes, the white cross on his chest, the cradled rifle. They took in Grégoire, festooned with luggage and dripping sweat. They returned to Tannhauser. They saw everything that he was: a foreign, lowborn killer, upon whom Fate had smiled. The porter despised him. The porter did not speak.

  ‘I’m looking for Orlandu Ludovici.’

  ‘The college term is long over, sire.’ This seemed to gratify the porter. ‘Few of the students remain in these lodgings at this time of year.’

  ‘But do you know Orlandu Ludovici? And is he among those few?’

  ‘The Maltese has not lodged here since, oh, Michaelmas last.’

  ‘Do you know why he moved out?’

  ‘I am not privy to Master Ludovici’s thoughts, still less his motives.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find him, or where he lodges now?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sire.’ This ignorance, too, appeared to please him.

  Tannhauser had been warned that any interaction with Parisian officialdom, no matter how petty, would require considerable tenacity.

  ‘But he remains a member of the college.’

  ‘As far as I know, sire.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I don’t recall, sire.’

  ‘A week? A month?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘You recall his moving out a year ago but not when you last saw him.’

  ‘At my age, sire, memory becomes unreliable.’

  Tannhauser had last written to Orlandu four months ago, before the voyage that had detained him in Velez de la Gomera and parts far beyond. He pointed to the rack of lettered pigeonholes that hung at the rear of the porter’s domain. Filed in the box marked ‘L’, he saw papers. He propped his rifle against the counter.

  ‘Has he any messages or letters?’

  ‘No, sire.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you’d make sure.’

  ‘I am already sure, sire.’

  Tannhauser swung open the hinged flap and strode to the pigeonholes.

  ‘No one is allowed behind the counter, sire.’

  Tannhauser shuffled the papers from box ‘L’ through his fingers. There was nothing for Orlandu. The box marked ‘O’ was empty. He turned.

  There was a smile in the old man’s eyes. His lips didn’t move yet conveyed the depth of his scorn. Tannhauser had the disconcerting sense that the porter had been expecting him, that his visit had been foretold; that the porter knew who he was.

  ‘You know who I am.’

  ‘A gentleman of very great eminence, I am sure, sire.’

  ‘Orlandu must have friends, tutors.’

  ‘No doubt, sire. But it’s not my job to be expert in such matters.’

  ‘Is there anyone else here I can question?’

  ‘On a Saturday, sire?’

  ‘Then, so far as the college is concerned, Orlandu has vanished.’

  ‘There are ten thousand students in Paris, sire, from all over Europe. Who knows what such young men get up to? Especially in times such as these?’

  ‘Orlandu is my stepson. He is dear to me.’

  The porter’s indifference had been hardened by an endless horde of whining youths, each of whom believed himself the most notable person in the world. Perhaps a whiff of royal intimacy would loosen his tongue.

  ‘Orlandu may be with his mother, Lady Carla, Countess of La Penautier. She was the Queen’s guest at the royal wedding. Do you know where I might find her?’

  ‘If you don’t know where your wife is, sire, how should I?’

  Tannhauser ignored the pain in his skull and deployed a final stratagem.

  ‘If you have any information at all that would help me find Orlandu, or Lady Carla, I can show my gratitude with gold. A contribution to the college, perhaps.’

  The porter arched a hairless brow as victory was delivered into his hands.

  ‘A bribe? You do me a grave injustice, sire.’

  Tannhauser had offered said bribe with all due delicacy. Any insult offered lay in the porter’s reply and the old scab knew it. Tannhauser dropped the papers and put an index finger against the old man’s chest. He sensed the mean, sinewy carcass under the greasy coat. He pushed the porter backwards from the stool. The porter’s limbs jerked outward as he crashed to the floor. The groan that arose therefrom was the first sincere sound to have escaped his lips. Tannhauser ignored him. He rummaged beneath the counter and found paper and ink. Amid a bundle of used quills he found one whose tip looked functional. He wrote in Italian, in a crude hand.

  Dearest Orlandu, I am in Paris. I do not yet have lodgings. Leave a message here, at the college. Tell me where I can find you and your mother.

  He paused. He had little faith that Orlandu would find the message in the near future, or that, even if he did, the porter would not tamper with any reply. He had noted a tavern on the opposite corner of the street.

  He added: Leave a copy at the Red Ox. I must find Carla at once.

  He searched his mind for the date. Tomorrow was the feast of Saint Bartholomew the Apostle. He signed his name and dated the message p.m. Saturday 23rd August 1572. He flapped the paper to dry the ink. He looked at Grégoire, who observed the proceedings with wide eyes, an open mouth and a runny nose.

  ‘The taverns,’ said Tannhauser. ‘We will search the student taverns.’

  Tannhauser folded the paper twice and wrote ‘LUDOVICI’ and ‘MATTIAS’ on the back. The letters that identified the pigeonholes were painted on wooden tags nailed above the slots. He prised the ‘L’ tag free and used it to pin the message to the box where its title could be read from beyond the counter. He returned to the porter and kicked him in the ribs.

  ‘Get up.’

  Despite his apparent decrepitude, the porter scrambled to his feet with an agility a younger man might have envied. Indeed, denuded o
f the wig, and with his face taut with rage, the porter might have passed for fifty rather than seventy. His scalp was a mass of scabby, peeling lesions. Tannhauser stepped back in case they were catching. He retrieved his rifle and nodded at the pigeonholes.

  ‘Make sure my message reaches Master Ludovici.’

  Out in the street, the sun was hotter, the crowds denser, the stench more odious than before. Tannhauser scraped his fingernails through his beard. Sweat crawled down his flanks. His eyes felt gritty. He wanted a bath, if such existed in Paris. He wanted his horse back, so he might ride above the slime congealing on his boots. Grégoire pointed at a long row of clamourous, overcrowded pigsties.

  ‘The student taverns.’

  The first three alehouses roared with drink and argumentation but proved barren in respect of his search. In each he had the landlord bellow Orlandu’s name above the din, but no one responded. When this tactic failed in the fourth, the Red Ox, Tannhauser took a table near the door. He ordered wine, a cold goose pie and two roasted pullets. The conversation of the surrounding clientele had an undertow of dread. Some urgent news had broken, it seemed. Tannhauser tried to catch the gist but he was tired, and his ear was poorly attuned to the local accents.

  He heard mention of the Queen, Catherine de Medici; and of her son, King Charles; and of his brother, Henri, Duc d’Anjou; and of the Duc de Guise, the Catholic champion of Paris. More often than he liked, he heard the name of Gaspard Coligny, the Huguenot demagogue and Grand Admiral of France. The man had starved Paris in ’67; his German mercenaries had despoiled much of the country; and now, so rumour had it, he hungered for conflict with Spain in the Netherlands. The same cast of imbeciles and villains had thrice plunged France into the horrors of civil war.

  Tannhauser had abandoned all involvement and even interest in political matters, for there was nothing he could do to alter their course. The high and the mighty remained spellbound by their own self-importance; their basest emotions turned history’s wheels. The rulers of France were no more corrupt and incompetent than those who governed anywhere else, but because he had come to love the country, their crimes caused him a deeper despair. He brightened as the drink and the pie arrived.

  The serving girl was unsure as to whether Grégoire was to be included in the meal. When Tannhauser indicated that he was, the boy was more surprised than she. Grégoire appeared not to have eaten so well since the milk from his mother’s breast, if he had ever known that pleasure. Tannhauser had changed the boy’s destiny on a whim. As a child his own life had changed on the impulse of a stranger. He might have picked someone better made, who might have lent him more prestige; but his heart rebelled against the notion. He had chosen this boy, and he would do right by him.

  Grégoire exploded in a fit of violent coughing. When he turned beetroot-red, on the way to turning blue, Tannhauser rose and pounded the flat of his hand between his shoulders. Fragments of pie scattered the table and the boy heaved for breath. He snorted hard and more detritus flew from his nostrils.

  ‘Take small bites and chew twelve times. Can you count to twelve?’

  ‘I can count to fifty.’

  ‘Then you’re better informed than most but twelve will do.’

  As Grégoire followed these orders, he caught sight of something behind Tannhauser, and his face once again turned red and he lowered his eyes to his plate in shame. Tannhauser turned.

  At the next table a pair of students sniggered while twisting their lips into grotesque shapes and mimicking an idiot’s speech. Two girls in their early teens sat with them, though neither seemed impressed by their companions’ antics. Tannhauser wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stared at the students, who must have been the worse for wine for this entertained them, too.

  ‘If you find misfortune amusing, I can give you plenty to laugh about.’

  This too provoked a titter, more likely due to nerves than insolence, but a man was entitled to enjoy a pie without scum making mock of his lackey. By the time he was on his feet, he had one youth by the throat. The other lurched from the bench but Tannhauser seized a handful of his hair. He let them get a closer look at his face and they wilted in his hands. He dragged them to the door and into the street.

  He hauled them towards the open sewer, where mounds of filth lay in stagnant pools awaiting the shovels of the lunatics. He slammed their skulls together and left them sprawled in the ordure. He returned to the tavern. Standing in the doorway was the taller of the two girls. Her fists were clenched by her sides. He noted that both her hands were stained with ink. She stuck her chin out at him.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  Her eyes were dark and fierce, her hair as blue as a raven and cut short, almost like a boy’s. She was skinny and he guessed her age at around thirteen. She wasn’t exactly pretty but she lacked for nothing in spirit, which in his book was the better end of the bargain. She wore no face paint but her fury lent high colour to her cheeks.

  Tannhauser dipped his head in courtesy.

  ‘A lesson in manners will stand them in good stead.’

  ‘Manners?’

  She seemed to imply that his own were less than impeccable.

  ‘You forget I invited them to apologise.’

  ‘They were cruel to your boy, yes. But you attacked them before they had a chance to reply.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me if our recollections differ.’

  She glared at him, unwilling to relinquish her ground. Tannhauser looked over his shoulder. The youths had clambered as far as their hands and knees, and were assessing the damage to their clothing, which was catastrophic. They saw him watching them and must have seen the girl, too. They stood up and fled.

  ‘You see? No harm done that a soak in the river won’t repair.’

  He turned back to the girl. She was not mollified.

  ‘Though if I may say so,’ he continued, ‘abandoning you to the company of a brute is a black mark against their gallantry.’

  ‘I am not in your company.’

  ‘Then accept my invitation to share our table, and make it so. Mattias Tannhauser, Count of La Penautier, Magistral Knight of the Order of Saint John.’

  She did not reply but no longer clenched her fists.

  ‘I’m hardly an hour in this city, and for the first time, too. So far I’ve found the natives less than cordial.’

  She folded her arms beneath her breasts. ‘I do not wonder.’

  Tannhauser inclined his head in acceptance of this rebuke.

  ‘In any event, I apologise for any distress I may have caused you.’

  Her lips were compressed, as if now she were as vexed with herself as she was with him. She looked away and stood aside. Tannhauser bowed again and went indoors.

  The roasted chickens had arrived on a large platter. Tannhauser dismembered them and told Grégoire to fill his plate. The boy turned aside to expel a green pea from one nostril, then set to. As Tannhauser ate, he brooded on what to do next.

  He was here, indirectly, because of the wedding of the King’s sister, Marguerite Valois, to her cousin Henri Bourbon, Prince of Navarre, which had taken place the previous Monday. Marguerite was a Catholic, the daughter of Catherine de Medici. Catherine was Italian, a species generally loathed by the French, and credited, even by her devotees, with diabolic powers. She had ruled the country since her husband’s death in ’59. Because Charles IX, now twenty-two, remained little more than a monstrous child, Catherine, despite her son’s fantasies, continued to do so.

  In the eyes of many, Catherine’s policy of toleration towards the Huguenots had caused three civil wars. The marriage of Marguerite to the Protestant Henri, neither of them twenty years old, represented Catherine’s latest effort to secure the fragile peace between provincial warlords. The union was at best unpopular, not least with the newly-weds. Much of the Huguenot nobility, and most Catholic Parisians, considered it an abomination.

  Such Tannhauser had gleaned on his journey north.

  D
uring the week now ending, which had followed the royal wedding, numerous grand balls, tilts, masques and feasts had been held in celebration. According to the letter that Tannhauser had discovered on returning home from the sea, Carla had been invited ‘by the Queen’ to perform at the climactic gala on Friday the 22nd – last night – in the Louvre palace.

  Carla’s mastery of the viola da gamba was no news to Tannhauser; she had bewitched him with her music before he had ever set eyes on her. That her fame had spread quite so far had surprised him. She had assured him that she would be safe, for an armed escort had been sent to bring her to Paris. She was also under the protection of the one man Tannhauser suspected he might not best in combat, the Serb and former janissary Altan Savas. The letter had contained no details as to where Carla would be quartered in the city, because at that time she had not known herself. She had made plain her intention of contacting Orlandu on her arrival. Now that his hopes of finding Orlandu were thwarted, he was left with only one avenue to explore.

  ‘The Louvre,’ he said to Grégoire.

  Grégoire nodded and smiled.

  The sight of his gums made Tannhauser want to turn away. He didn’t.

  As for the Louvre, Tannhauser did not relish the prospect. Once inside, numberless practitioners of virtuoso obstructiveness would stand between him and whoever it was might know of Carla’s whereabouts.

  The royal household, the Maison du Roi, was a vast and parasitic entourage. Thousands of functionaries, in scores of different departments, competed to squander the nation’s wealth in a frenzy of extravagance and corruption. The largest department was the Bouche du Roi: the King’s mouth. By all accounts the King could not put his shirt on, the ‘Chamber’ being the second largest department, without a dozen men in attendance, most of them nobles on enormous public pensions; and His Majesty’s every royal stool – the expulsion of which required the nobles to assemble at the royal commode – was the subject of scrupulous study, though what fragrant auguries might be writ there, Tannhauser could not guess. He doubted that Catherine de Medici, prior to the ball, had been aware of Carla’s existence. But someone in that palace had put Carla’s name on a list, and had organised her travel and accommodations.