Into The Fire (25 page)

‘You did well,’ he says, ‘when a single room in Rheims was going for three marks on the night of the coronation.’

‘We made the arrangement in April,’ she says. ‘Rheims was cheap then.’

In April, he was in Orléans on the English side, still sure of victory.

He says, ‘The Maid told you even then that she would come to Rheims?’

‘She told us in February, when she first came to Chinon.’

And you believed her. You had that much faith. But then you knew her as a child, you were close as two fingers intertwined; you knew what she could do. Do you know who Hanne is? I’m sure you do.

He is spending too much time drinking in the loveliness of Marguerite de Valois, thinking of ways to open her, body and soul. He needs to be gone. He pushes on the bed, trying to rise.

Marguerite moves to help, but he shakes his head and, left alone, he works his good hand underneath him and pushes, slowly. He is standing, if dishevelled and sweat-stained, when a tall, grave man sweeps in, clad in dark, sober velvets and small hat. Marguerite spins to him, bestows on him a smile of such delight as to blind all those caught in its blaze. Tomas is not blind, but then the smile is not for him.

So this is the man you will marry; one of the wealthiest in France.

At first glance, were you a dullard, Jean de Belleville might seem to you a man of limited means. You have to know velvets to see the quality of these, the depth and evenness of the dye, the fine fall of the fabric. His boots are doeskin, lined with swan’s down. His belt is set with silver and small, subtle gems. Marguerite’s future husband is not ostentatious, therefore, but also not unvain.

‘I am told you are fit to see visitors.’ His face is long and lean, his eyes clear and grey. He bows, neatly, nicely, gives a swift, sharp smile, that manages with great economy to convey sympathy and good humour at once. ‘Sieur of Belleville at your service. And this—’ he indicates the serious young man who has entered behind him, ‘is Father Huguet Robèrge, our family priest. He has been helping to care for you these past nine days.’

His hosts are impeccable. Their eyes meet past his shoulder, man and woman, and they share whatever secret is passed by those who plan to share a conjugal bed. Tomas feels like a bystander, and faintly soiled.

And then he watches as both turn back, and his gaze follows theirs, and here is the priest, Huguet Robèrge, sandy-haired, wide-faced, possessed of that evident innocence of soul to which few men aspire and fewer still attain.

There is something here he does not understand, a question asked, an answer, all in silence; a pulse of something raw and powerful and—

Are you lying with the priest, my lady? Your childhood friend? Surely not. He will believe such infidelity of a priest readily enough, but he cannot – will not – believe it of Marguerite de Valois.

Tomas does not say this aloud. Rather, he assays a small bow and doesn’t fall over, which is more cheering than he wishes to acknowledge. He says, ‘At your service, my lord.’ Mindful of the priest, he remembers his own role. ‘May God bless your care of me.’

De Belleville smiles his grave, grey-eyed smile. ‘Thank the Maid. She gave you into our care with orders not to let you die.’

‘And she is at Paris now? Assaulting it?’ Please God, let that be not so or Bedford will find ways to kill his servant that will make a flogging seem like a stubbed toe.

‘Not yet.’ A cloud temporarily obscures the sun that is the lord of Belleville’s visage. He shakes his head. ‘My lord d’Alençon endeavours to persuade the king that Paris must be taken swiftly. There are those who feel … otherwise …’

Regnault de Chartres. Good man.

Guerite says, ‘And Bedford has taken to the field. He brings five thousand against her.’

‘Bedford has …’ Bedford?
Bedford
has taken to the field and he, Tomas, did not know of it. His world sways.

De Belleville steps forward, catches him. ‘Tomas! It is not so bad. He hasn’t engaged yet. He is afraid. Our army is the bigger.’

They are watching him. He presses his palms to his face and finds calm in the dark.

He says, ‘I should be there. With the Maid. I may be one man, but surely God will more likely heed my prayers if I am with the army than not. Messengers must be riding back and forth from here to there. Would it be possible to travel with them, do you think?’

They have considered this, de Belleville, his priest and his betrothed. A glanced confirmation draws all three together, no language needed.

Marguerite is delighted, enchantingly so. ‘The Maid would be very happy to have you back. She believes you are favoured by our father in heaven, and that with your presence on the field, the king will let her fight.’

De Belleville says, ‘Soissons is for France now, and is only a day’s ride east. Then another day on to Compiègne. Can you manage that, do you think? If we started in the morning?’

‘We?’

‘Father Huguet and I also have reason to be with the Maid. We waited only until you were fit. We can provide a carriage for you—’

‘I can ride.’ Tomas pulls a grimace. ‘If you have a quiet horse?’

‘I’m sure one can be found.’ De Belleville bows once more. He is the perfect foil to Marguerite; manly enough to complement her, but graceful, cultured, the soul of tact. He says, ‘We would be honoured if you would share dinner with us tonight, so that you are fortified for your journey.’

Dinner is in the classic order, well presented, but not overly fancy: oxtail soup flavoured with anise and ginger; carp baked in saffron with verjuice, violently orange, but the flavour bursts like small miracles across his tongue; a blancmange of chicken ground into milk and almonds, and then suckling rabbit, roasted with wild garlic and pepper: uncoloured, unfancy and unforgettable. The wine is good, the music subtle and inoffensive. He has stood guard at meals like this, but never eaten one.

The de Bellevilles – he includes Huguet Robèrge, the priest is so evidently a part of the family – treat him as a friend. He responds in kind with smiles and laughter and clever compliments in Scots, English, French and Latin so they think him at least a graduate of some university – Paris, most likely – only too modest to mention it. He is happy in their company, and they with his. This is his strategy, and if he takes some pleasure from it, who will say he is wrong? He drinks in the night as a gift.

In the morning, they give him a pacing palfrey with a long, smooth, mile-eating gait that does not jolt his elbow. He rides right-handed, with the left strapped across his chest under his friar’s robes. The sun shines. He has the company of Jean de Belleville, Huguet Robèrge and eight men at arms who have sworn to defend his life with their own. He has rarely felt safer.

On reaching Compiègne, Tomas and his companions learn that the Maid is with the army at Montépilloy, half a day’s ride away. They set an easy pace and arrive in time for evening prayers.

Her army is smaller than it was; only eight thousand strong.

Bedford’s army, by contrast –
Bedford
is here! Tomas has to get him a message, but cannot think how – is five thousand, and has drawn up in a field not far away.

The travellers have arrived, it seems, just in time for battle. It is the fourteenth of August, four weeks to the day since the king was anointed in Rheims. The month has been lost thanks to Regnault de Chartres, without whom the Maid’s army would have been in Paris by now.

The Maid is in her tent with her entourage: d’Alençon and La Hire, Jean d’Aulon and Louis de Coutes. Tomas pauses at the door, kneels on one knee. These four have been with her since the beginning. Any one of them could recognize him. He has almost forgotten that danger. He is thinner now than he has ever been, and his slung arm changes his shape. He slouches his shoulders, endeavours to look godly. Nobody rises to kill him.

‘Brother Tomas!’ The Maid makes the three strides to reach him, raises him to standing.

The jolt of her touch is as it was at Jargeau, a stunning of his thoughts, a silencing of his speech. She presses a kiss to each cheek, swift, sure, dry, affectionate. He has to think of war and water or he will disgrace himself; his tunic is not such as will disguise a man’s leaping member.

‘My lady.’ He looks down, away from her. ‘I owe you my life.’

She shakes her head cheerfully. ‘If you must thank anyone, thank my horse; without him they would have got away. But we are glad to see you. You brought us luck at Troyes and will do so here, too. With you at our side, and the help of our father in heaven, we shall face Bedford and show him what French heart can do.’

‘You will prevail, lady, I am sure of it.’ What else can he say? And actually, he has walked through the army. He has tasted its heart, and its certainty. Self-belief is nine points of any battle. He cannot imagine this one defeated. Not just now.

She is delighted with him. A hand claps his shoulder, his good one. ‘Tomas, sleep now. Tomorrow we shall take on the might of England, and win.’

They give him a tent with half a dozen other priests; newcomers, most of them, men who have joined her army since the coronation at Rheims. They do not speak to him, but pray by turns through the watches of the night. If he had any idea of sneaking out in the dark to Bedford, he forgets it. One day he will do so. For now, all he can do is watch and wait and pray. He is closer to her inner circle. He is not in it. Getting there is his priority. He prays through compline and then sleeps, ready for the morning.

LISE BRESSARD SAYS
, ‘That was fun.’

It is evening. The trolls of the press pack have returned to their burrows to write up tomorrow’s copy. Lise has returned to the police station unharmed, unassailed. Her eyes shine with the adrenalin of the day.

‘Those few who failed to succumb to cousin Luc’s charm I have terrified into submission. I let them catch me, and then let them see that it was me, and not you. The effect, I have to say, was gratifying. I have rarely heard apologies so profoundly expressed. Even the most dimwitted of them has realized that you’re under the Family’s protection. I’ll be surprised if they hinder you again.’

Picaut hears something sour under all the enthusiasm. Curious, she says, ‘You don’t like being the Family’s enforcer?’

A shrug. ‘It’s not a role I would have chosen. But the cross dressing was quite enchanting.’ Lise slips out of Picaut’s jacket. Her smile is brief and alive and all Luc. ‘We should do it more often.’

‘I’m not sure your jacket is built for it. I walked into a church and out again and I think even that may have destroyed it.’

‘Yours, on the other hand, could survive an earthquake. It probably has. I return it in exactly the condition in which I received it. I am thinking I should have one.’

‘Your family would fall into fits.’

‘Precisely so.’

They embrace fully, heartily, as if they were not caught on either side of a knife blade with the cutting edge between. Lise leaves.

At five thirty, the team assembles in Picaut’s glass-walled office to share the spoils – all but Rollo, who came in early and was sent out again straightaway.

Picaut has collated the individual reports on her laptop, printed the resulting timetable and pinned it to the cork board that is the hub of any investigation.

Iain Holloway: Known Movements

WEDNESDAY 19 FEBRUARY (Garonne):

10:24 Eurostar, LONDON ST PANCRAS ‐> PARIS GARE DU NORD AT 13:47. CTV footage clearly shows him at the station.

14:15 ‐> MAISON FAVART (
4* luxury boutique hotel booked on the Internet from London 3 days prior to arrival – data from Patrice Lacroix (PL)
).

21:00 dines at the TERMINUS NORD. Returns to hotel at 23:27.
Time unaccounted: 2 hours.

THURSDAY 20 FEBRUARY (Sylvie & Rollo):

Departs 08:15 ‐> metro ‐> PARIS GARE D’AUSTERLITZ ‐> Blois, arriving at 13:41 [check].

Taxi ‐> Hôtel de l’Abeille (
4* boutique hotel, booked London, PL confirms
). Pays for 3 nights.

Departs hotel approx. 14:00. Returns 23:50.

Time unaccounted: nearly 10 hours.

FRIDAY 21 FEBRUARY (Sylvie & Rollo):

Departs 11:03 (hotel staff assessment: late riser, late breakfast, tips well).

18:00 returns, dines, works in his room till late. Maid reports light on and computer working at 02:00.

Hotel server logs activity until 03:18.

Time unaccounted: nearly 7 hours.

SATURDAY 22 FEBRUARY (Sylvie & Rollo):

08:30 breakfast, departs.

The hotel never saw him again. They have his overnight wash bag, a pair of very English striped pyjamas and a case for an iPhone. They were not expecting him to leave.

09:00 Meung-sur-Loire station by train.

Taxi to Cléry St André – the same taxi he had taken for the past two days.

13:00 approx – returns to Meung-sur-Loire. Agitated. Train to Orléans.

18:00 ORLÉANS – checks in at the MAISON LOIRETTE (
1*, off-grid
.
Where does he find these places if they’re not on the net? PL
). Pays cash.

Staff assessment: a man in grief. Claims his wife has died and he needs some peace away from the world. Tips handsomely, in euros.

20:00 eats at next door restaurant, returns at 21:00, works on his computer all night. (
PL – without wifi? What is he doing?
)

Time unaccounted: 4 hours then 3 hours.

SUNDAY 23 FEBRUARY (Picaut):

06:30 checks out. Agitated.

17:00 checks in to Hôtel Carcassonne – 1* but ‘family run’ and books usually by word of mouth. (
Again no wifi! PL
).

Dead by 02:00 on Monday 24th.

Time unaccounted: 10.5 hours.

They all study the page. Sylvie says, ‘He went from four star to one star in a hurry, didn’t he?’

‘And no Wi-Fi, which, as Patrice will tell you, is almost impossible. In Orléans, everyone is on the net. So we can assume some of the lost time on Friday was spent finding one of the few off-grid hotels in the city.’ Picaut is sitting on the table with her laptop balanced across her knees. Her gaze sweeps them.