Paris: The Novel (45 page)

“It has taken time. The plague did not help.”

This was an understatement. In 1348, when the Black Death reached France, it had struck their small village especially hard. Only one of the de Cygne family, a boy of ten, had lived, with only the family motto—“According to God’s will”—to guide him. Clearly God wished the family to survive. And this was enough to keep him going. But life had been hard.

“My own family had an important position at that time,” Le Sourd remarked with a wicked smile. “My great-grandfather was the finest cat-killer in Paris.”

It was true that the Paris authorities, convinced that it was cats rather than rats which carried the plague, had caused huge numbers of them to be killed. Though whether his host was serious or joking, de Cygne wasn’t sure.

“But it was the English who ruined us,” he continued. “My ancestor fell at the battle of Crécy. Ten years later, his son was taken at Poitiers and we had to ransom him. That cost us half our land.”

“He was in good company,” Le Sourd remarked. “The king of France himself was taken at Poitiers, by the Black Prince of England. They put him in the Tower of London.”

“And all France had to pay his ransom,” Villon added sourly. It seemed to Guy de Cygne that the poet didn’t think the king was worth the price.

“Then the English mercenaries came and looted us,” he said.

“They looted half France,” Le Sourd agreed. “A plague of locusts.”

“And we had only a generation to recover from these misfortunes,”
Guy went on, “before the English returned again. My grandfather died at Agincourt.” He paused and looked at them with the pride of a noble whose fortunes might be low, but whose ancestors fought with honor.

Le Sourd nodded slowly. He, who lived by the knife, could respect those who died by the sword. If he wanted an aristocrat at his table, young de Cygne was the real thing. Just as well he hadn’t killed him.

“The ruin of my family was completed,” the young nobleman calmly continued, “by my own father in the time of Joan of Arc.” He paused. “But that may be a story it would bore you to hear.”

“Not at all.” Despite himself, Le Sourd was coming to like this aristocratic boy. “Please continue.”

Young Guy de Cygne was just about to begin when he realized that he could be about to make a terrible mistake. He had forgotten to ascertain Le Sourd’s politics. He thought quickly, but it was too late. He’d have to tell the story as it was, and take a chance.

“Paris was under the rule of Burgundy and England,” he began. “But Joan of Arc had just appeared.”

It had been a miserable period. After the poor king had gone mad, his family had formed a regency council. But regencies usually mean trouble, and soon two factions within the extended royal family were vying for control. One was the Duke of Orléans. The other, also royal, was the Duke of Burgundy. For after the old dukes of Burgundy had died out, and their huge territories, which included many Flemish cloth towns, reverted to the crown, Burgundy had been given to a royal younger son. The Burgundian faction favored the great cloth trade with England, which supplied the wool for their rich Flemish towns. The Orléans faction, known as the Armagnacs, favored rural France.

Soon the factions were fighting in open war. The Duke of Burgundy courted the merchants of Paris, and soon the capital was under Burgundian control, while the mad king’s son, the dauphin, and the dispirited Armagnacs were pushed out to the Loire Valley and old Orléans.

So perhaps it was inevitable that when yet another generation of greedy Plantagenets came, like hyenas, to see what they could tear from the bleeding body of France, the Burgundy faction did a deal with them. After all, England’s wool merchants were their business partners.

They supported the Plantagenets’ bid for the throne of France.

When the strange peasant girl Joan of Arc appeared with her sensational message—“The saints have told me that the dauphin is the true
king of France”—and gave the Armagnacs new spirit, the Burgundians were alarmed. When Joan and the Armagnacs drove the English back and crowned the dauphin in holy Reims, they were horrified.

But then the Burgundians captured Joan of Arc, and sold her to the English—who had her judged a heretic and burned her at the stake.

It had been in the first, magic moment, Guy de Cygne now explained, when Joan had arrived in the Loire Valley with her message from God, that his father had made a dangerous journey. Determined to play his part, he was ready to sell some more of his remaining land to equip himself for the fight. He tried to transact the business in Orléans, but the city was so depressed that he could get no takers. He knew a merchant in Paris, however, whom he could trust; also an old aunt he had not seen in years. Using the plausible story that he had come to see the old lady, he managed to get into the city, and sell his land. The merchant, who was a secret Armagnac himself, even promised that if de Cygne found the money within five years, he could have his land back.

“Well pleased with this, and with a small chest of coins, my father passed a night in a tavern before leaving the city. There were Englishmen there, but to them, he was just another Frenchman. A party of Burgundian soldiers became suspicious of him, however. One of them knocked him on the head, and when he woke up, both his money and his horse were gone.”

Guy de Cygne stopped and looked at Le Sourd. Had the story been a mistake? Many of the Parisians had preferred the Burgundian party and their merchants. Was he about to lose the sympathy of his host? Was he going to get his throat cut?

He saw Le Sourd raise his hand. He reached for his sword. But the hand came down on his shoulder.

“Damned Burgundians,” the big man roared. “If there’s one thing I hate more than an Englishman, it’s a Burgundian. So your father could not fight?” he asked.

“Not armed and mounted as he wished. So he went on foot as a humble man-at-arms. He said it was his pilgrimage.”

“Ah. Bravo, young man!” cried Le Sourd. “Magnificent!” He seized his goblet and raised it. “Let us drink to the Maid of Orléans,” he called, “to Joan of Arc and all who fought for her.”

Guy de Cygne allowed himself to smile. It was all right. He’d taken a chance and it had paid off.

For as it happened, though the stories about his ancestors had all been
true, the one about his father was not. He’d made it up on the spur of the moment. The truth—that his father, as a young man, had stupidly gambled away some of his small inheritance—was hardly heroic. But the tale he had told was much better, and it amused him that this villainous rogue had believed it.

When the toast had been drunk, his host turned to him in a manner that was almost solicitous.

“So tell me, monsieur, have you come to Paris to serve our new king?” he inquired.

It was only a year since King Louis XI of France had come to the throne. But it was already clear that the new king meant to make changes. Louis’s father had been content enough, thanks to Joan of Arc, to keep his battered kingdom. King Louis had made no secret of the fact that he wanted far more. Ambitious, cunning and ruthless, he intended to destroy all opposition, and raise France to glory, and he’d do whatever it took.

And if Guy de Cygne’s family could have afforded armor and a fine warhorse, then this might have been an option. But they couldn’t, and their reason for sending him to Paris was more prosaic.

“I have come here to meet my bride,” he answered, without enthusiasm.

It was a friend of his father’s who’d arranged the business. The girl was from a rich merchant family, and Guy’s parents had been well satisfied with the dowry offered. But his father had left Guy a choice. “Go to Paris and meet the girl,” he’d instructed. “If you truly dislike each other, we’ll call it off. Although,” he added, “I’ve known couples who got on perfectly well for years without liking each other in the least.” He shrugged. “However, I suppose you may as well like each other at first.” Guy was due to meet the girl the following day.

“Your bride is noble?” asked Le Sourd.

“She is of a merchant family,” de Cygne said quietly. His lack of enthusiasm was evident.

Villon, who’d been listening carefully, shook his head.

“Take care, young man,” the poet cautioned. “This is Paris, not the countryside. Do not despise the Third Estate.” Of the Three Estates that the kings of France occasionally summoned to advise them and vote them taxes, the first two, the nobles and the Church, had traditionally been more important. But times had changed. “Even back in the days of Crécy and Poitiers,” Villon continued, “don’t forget that Étienne Marcel, the city provost and leader of the merchants and artisans, practically ruled
Paris. It was he who made the great ditch and ramparts that became the new wall. Even the king had cause to fear him. Today, the richest merchants live like nobles, and you despise them at your peril.”

“It is true,” Le Sourd said quietly, “but I have a feeling that Monsieur de Cygne would rather marry a woman of noble birth.”

And Guy de Cygne blushed.

Le Sourd glanced up at his son. Young Richard was taking everything in, that was clear. He was learning about the world. He had seen a noble blush from embarrassment, and now he should see his father save the noble further embarrassment by changing the subject. And amazed at his own fineness, Le Sourd now turned to the poet, like a king in his court, and said: “Give us one of your verses, Master Villon.”

“As you like,” said the poet. He reached down into a leather satchel at his feet and drew out some sheets of paper on which long columns of verse could be seen in his spiky, scholarly hand. “Last year,” he explained, “I finished a long poem called ‘The Testament.’ It has several parts. Here is a pair of ballads from it.”

The first was a short, clever ballad asking what had become of the classical gods, of Abelard and Héloïse, and even Joan of Arc. It was simple, but elegant, and a little melancholy as it echoed the passing of time. At the end of each verse came the haunting refrain: “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”

The second was similar in form, and spoke of the vanished rulers of the earth, not without humor. Where was the famous Pope Callixtus, the king of Scots, the Bourbon duke; where was the worthy king of Spain, of whom he did not know the name? And again, with each verse, a refrain: “And where is mighty Charlemagne?”

“Excellent,” said his host. “And is there anything new?”

“I have started something. Some fragments so far.” He shrugged. “I hope to finish it before my ruin.”

It was a poem about a group of men in jail, awaiting execution. He had written only a couple of verses so far. But as he read them, a strange quiet fell over all the men listening. For it was a fate, like as not, that awaited themselves one day, and his words were sad, and dark, yet full of pity.

And as Guy de Cygne heard Villon recite his verses, he could not help being struck by the haunting melody in them. Whoever he might be, this fellow was clearly a scholar, yet one who lived with murderers. He might be a thief himself, yet he could write poetry that moved the other thieves.

When Villon was done, there was a brief silence.

“Master Villon,” said Le Sourd, “your poems should be printed.”

“I agree,” said the poet with an ironic smile, “but I can’t afford it.”

“Could your uncle the professor help?”

“He can tolerate me, occasionally. That is all.” Villon shrugged. “It is my fault.”

Le Sourd nodded, took a long sip of his wine, then turned to de Cygne.

“Master Villon is fine, is he not?”

“I agree.”

Le Sourd gazed around the room, and nodded to himself thoughtfully, then shrugged.

“This is our life,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then, after another sip of wine, he turned to his guest and the matter still in hand. “So, Monsieur de Cygne, let us return to the question of your missing pendant. Can you describe it to me?”

“It is gold. There’s a design upon it, from Byzantium, I believe. My grandmother always told me her father got it in the Holy Land.”

“I cannot tell you where this pendant is, monsieur,” said Le Sourd, “but if I make inquiries in this quarter, I may find the man who has it. But theft is like war. Whoever has your pendant will want a ransom before he yields it up.”

“I can offer a hundred francs,” said de Cygne. When one of the king’s new francs was officially the same as an old-fashioned livre, a pound of silver, it had once been a lot of money. But time and devaluation had done their work. A hundred francs was now a modest sum.

“I should think it’s worth more than that,” said Le Sourd.

“It may be, but that’s all I can afford.”

“Well then,” said his host, “I promise nothing, but let me see if I can recover it for you. I have influence in this quarter. Would this be agreeable to you?”

Guy de Cygne gazed at him. He wasn’t deceived. This rogue probably knew where the pendant was at this very moment. But if courtesy was the way to get it back, then so be it.

“You are very kind,” he said. “I should be in your debt.”

“Then let us drink to that,” cried Le Sourd, suddenly cheerful. “Will you raise your goblet with me, as a man of honor? I know that this place is not where you would normally come, monsieur, but”—he looked around the room and spoke the words clearly so that every man in the place should hear—“you are welcome at my table anytime, and from this day, all men here are your friends.” He paused and looked at de Cygne in a way that indicated that he too, in his own way, was a man of honor. “Should you ever be in trouble in the streets of Paris, monsieur, tell them that Jean Le Sourd is your friend, and you will never be harmed.”