Giving a histrionic sigh, as if giving up waiting on my friends, I walked to the door. Once back on the square, I looked about me, not finding it difficult to play the confused tourist seeking her bearings. My survey revealed J-F waiting in the same doorway. As soon as he saw me, he set off, heading north. Hesitating slightly, trying to seem as if I was having difficulty deciding my route, I followed him. If my pursuers had any decency they would prevent a lone stranger heading off in completely the wrong direction, but it seemed that decency was in short supply in Paris at the moment. And if I was being tailed, I could not tell it. They were good at their job, whoever they were.
J-F turned left, then right, leading us into a warren of alleyways. They stank of the familiar scents of piss and dung, intermixed with the acrid odour of rotting fish and garlic – something the streets of London lacked and, in my opinion, it did nothing to improve the bouquet. Thinking it would look suspicious if I seemed too obvious in my attempt to lose my pursuers, I stood at the corner of the street indecisively, trying to make out the sign. A gaggle of rouged women pushed past me, giving me a dirty look. This was clearly their spot and they thought I was invading. I quickly started walking again but, in that short interval, I had lost sight of J-F. It was no laughing matter to lose one’s guide in such a neighbourhood. I stopped again, this time because I really was undecided as to where to go next. An arm reached out from a doorway and yanked me inside, smothering my cry.
‘Quiet,’ whispered J-F. ‘You have two trackers. Let’s give them a little time to realize they’ve lost you.’
Taking my hand, he led me under the wooden stairwell and out of sight. We crouched together in the dark, saying nothing as we listened to the sounds outside. I heard feet running past and then back again. Shouts. Curses. I was shivering but J-F was unconcerned. He played with my old pink ribbon, knotting, unknotting, and reknotting it into increasingly complicated patterns.
‘What’s going on?’ I whispered. ‘What if they start searching the buildings?’
‘They won’t. Just about now, Annette should be appearing at the end of the street dressed in a cloak like yours. She’s going to lead them into the Marais and then turn back so they can see they’ve been chasing the wrong goose.’ He flicked the ribbon into the air, letting it fall back into his lap. ‘You were in there for hours. Did they give you a hard time?’
I shook my head. ‘No, it was just very boring. They kept me waiting.’
J-F frowned. ‘See, I told you: rich men, rulers – they’re all the same. They all keep the common folk waiting.’ He ducked his head around the staircase. The sounds had died down. ‘Come on, Cat, time to go. I don’t like hanging around here longer than is strictly necessary.’
‘Why not?’ I asked, following him out into the passageway. Suddenly J-F stiffened.
‘Because, mademoiselle,’ said a man’s voice, ‘this is not his patch and he knows it. Our rules say that he should ask permission from our bishop before setting a foot here.’ The speaker stepped into sight, blocking the route to the courtyard. He was a young man of about twenty, the length of his face marked by a scar that pulled one eyelid down. Quick as an eel, J-F spun round to bolt for the door but three men dropped lightly over the banisters from above, sealing off that exit. J-F grabbed my arm.
‘We have a slight complication, Cat,’ he whispered.
Complication! I knew an ambush when I saw one.
‘Keep quiet. This is not about you – it’s about me,’ J-F warned.
‘Who’s the bishop?’ I asked.
‘The bishop, Mademoiselle Anglaise,’ declared the scarred man, ‘is the leader of the Worshipful Company of the Notre Dame Thieves.’ He pulled me away from J-F. ‘Your friend here is the King of the Vagabonds of the Tuileries and Palais Royal.’ He gave a nod to his men and they pinned J-F’s arms to his side, slipping a hood over his head. ‘And right now, the bishop wants to have a few spiritual words with the king.’
‘You’re not going to harm him, are you?’ I asked anxiously as they dragged J-F into the street.
Scarface gave me a bitter smile. ‘No, mademoiselle, we have you for that.’
‘What!’
He produced a second hood and whipped it over my head before I could cry out. Next he threw me over his shoulder and jogged off after his mates, taking so little care that I was thrown against the doorpost with a stunning blow. Dazed and half suffocated, I bumped up and down on his shoulder. Only now did I regret that I had been so eager to throw off my government followers: surely even they would have intervened to stop this? Scarface had indicated that I was there only as leverage on J-F and I did not relish a role that pitted the amount of pain the little thief king could bear to see me suffer against whatever business it was they wanted to conduct.
After what seemed like hours of this treatment, though it was probably only minutes, I was bounced down a flight of stairs and thrown to the floor. Bruised and humiliated, I reached to pull off my hood.
‘Don’t touch it!’ said Scarface brutally. ‘No one sees the bishop face to face unless he says so!’
I wasn’t going to stand for this – I was going to breathe at least. I freed my nose and mouth. ‘Why? What’s wrong with him? Has he got a particularly ugly face? Warts? Snout like a pig?’ Scarface aimed a kick at me but I heard it coming and flinched out of the way. ‘You should tell him that good cosmetics can do a lot for even the most hopeless cases.’ I scrambled to take cover behind something. ‘Then the rest of us might be able to breathe in his oh-so-holy presence.’
‘Firecracker, this is not a good time to go off!’ hissed J-F somewhere on my right.
Someone came to stand before me, two brown boots in line with my knees. A hand reached down and took off my hood. I blinked in the light.