Paris The Novel

Chapter Eight




• 1462 •


In the tavern they called the Rising Sun, Jean Le Sourd was holding court. Le Sourd. It meant “the Deaf One.”

Not that Jean Le Sourd was deaf. Not at all. He could have heard a pin drop in the street outside. It was said he could hear men’s thoughts. Certainly, if a man even thought of reaching for a knife, Le Sourd’s own knife would be at that man’s throat before he had a chance and, like as not, have slit that throat from ear to ear, not out of malice, but just as a precaution.

Rouge Gorge, they also called him. Red Throat.

But mostly they called him Le Sourd because, if a man crossed him, he was deaf to all entreaty. There was no second chance. There was no use pleading. There was no mercy. And within the territory comprising a network of a dozen streets on one side of the old market of Les Halles, Jean Le Sourd was king. The Rising Sun tavern was where he liked to hold his court.

Despite its name, there was nothing sunny about the place. The small street in which it was to be found was dark and narrow. The alley that ran down beside it, and where Le Sourd lived, was scarcely wide enough for two cats to walk side by side, and the overhanging stories above drew so close together that a mouse could leap across, and the stench of urine clung to the walls.

And the streets had names befitting their condition: Pute-y-Muse, Lazy Whore; Merdeuse, Shit Street; Tire-Boudin, Cock Puller; and other names worse, far worse. And the people who lived there were whores, and thieves, and pickpockets, and did other things worse, far worse.

Jean Le Sourd was a large, strong man with a great mane of shaggy black hair. He sat at a wooden table in the middle of the tavern. At his table were several men, some who looked like murderers, but one of them, who had an aquiline face and a sallow complexion, looked as if he might be a defrocked priest or scholar. Standing behind Le Sourd was his son Richard, a ten-year-old boy, his face not yet hardened, but with a mop of black hair like his own.

A stooped man came through the door. He was tonsured, suggesting that he might be a cleric of some kind, and he moved with a curious motion, like a bobbing bird. He went straight to the central table and, taking something out from under his shirt, laid it in front of Le Sourd.

Le Sourd picked it up and examined it carefully. It was a pendant on a golden chain.

“Unusual,” said Le Sourd. He passed it across to the man who looked like a scholar. The scholar inspected it, remarked that it wasn’t from Paris and gave it back. Le Sourd turned to the stooping man: “We’ll have to find out what it’s worth. You’ll get your share.”

Those were the rules of Le Sourd’s kingdom. Whatever was stolen was brought to him. He found the market and gave the thief a share. Once or twice men had tried to bypass the system. One was found with his throat slit. Another disappeared.

The stooping man moved to the back of the room to join some of his fellows. Jean Le Sourd resumed his conversation with the scholar. And several minutes passed before the door of the tavern opened again.

This time however, as the newcomer entered, the buzz of conversation died down to a hush.

He was a young man. Twenty years old, perhaps. He had fair hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a short cloak and a sword that immediately proclaimed he was a noble. And the fact that he had entered such a place alone told everyone that he did not know Paris.

It might be dangerous to kill a noble, but the inhabitants of that quarter were no respecters of persons. One of the men nearest the door quietly rose, with a knife in his hand, and stood behind the visitor, awaiting a signal from Le Sourd.

At the same time, the stooping man at the back of the room shifted position slightly, so that he was in the shadows. But he spoke a word to his neighbor, who walked over to Le Sourd and whispered something in his ear.

Le Sourd looked at the intruder thoughtfully, while everyone waited. They all knew what the young man did not: that his chances of leaving the Rising Sun alive were not good. Not good at all.



Guy de Cygne was in Paris for only a week, and this was his second day. His parents had made him come and, from the moment he came through the Porte Saint-Jacques, he couldn’t wait to leave.

For Paris was rotten. It had been rotten a century ago when the Black Death came and killed nearly half its people. It was even more rotten now.

Worse, despite plague, famine and war, like a pestiferous plant, Paris had grown. On the Right Bank, they had built a new fortification line, hundreds of yards beyond the old wall of Philip Augustus, so that the Louvre was now well inside the city gates, and the former Temple too. Country lanes had turned into narrow streets, orchards into tenements, streams into open sewers. And two hundred thousand souls now dwelt in this dark, godforsaken city.

Had God truly forsaken Paris? Certainly. For over a century, God had forsaken France itself. And why? Few Frenchmen had any doubt.

Because of the Templar’s curse.

Young Guy de Cygne’s father had explained it to him when Guy was still a boy.

“After King Philip the Fair arrested the Templars, he tortured some of them for years. He got his puppet pope to disband the order all over Christendom. Finally, he took Jacques de Molay, the Grand Master—a man of unimpeachable character—and burned him at the stake. And as he burned, de Molay cursed the king and all who had destroyed the Templars.”

“And did it work?” Guy had asked.

“Certainly.”

Within the year, both the king and his pope were dead. But that was only the beginning. Within a few years, all King Philip’s sons were dead as well, and another branch of the family, the Valois, took over.

Even that was not enough. King Philip’s daughter had married the Plantagenet king of England, and soon the pushy Plantagenets were after the throne of France as well.

For more than a hundred years, an on-and-off war had continued. Before and after the Black Death, England’s longbowmen had smashed the chivalry of France at the battles of Crécy and Poitiers. The Plantagenets had taken Aquitaine and half of Brittany. Scotland, France’s ancient ally, had deflected the English for a while. But at the end of the dismal fourteenth century, the king of France had gone mad; and in the chaos that ensued, the greedy Plantagenets came back once more, to see what else they could grab.

By the time Guy’s father was a boy, Henry V of England had smashed the French at Agincourt, and married the French king’s daughter. It seemed the Plantagenets would be kings of France as well.

And then, at last, God showed his mercy. Just as He had a thousand years before, when He inspired Saint Geneviève to save Paris from Attila the Hun, He sent the peasant girl Joan of Arc to inspire the men of France. Her career had been brief. But her legacy had lived on. Gradually the English had been pushed back. By now they were almost out.

So had the Templar’s curse been lifted from forsaken France? Had Christendom returned to its normal state?

Perhaps. At least there was now a single pope, in Rome. After seventy years of French popes at Avignon, then another half century of rival popes and antipopes, the Catholic schism was over.

But what was Paris? A sink of iniquity. A place of darkness. And judging by what he saw before him now, in the tavern of the Rising Sun, it did not seem to Guy de Cygne that there was any good day dawning.



Le Sourd gave a single rap upon the table, and the tavern fell silent. He gazed at the young noble.

“You are a stranger here, monsieur. Can we help you?” The tone was quiet, but it was clear that he was in charge.

“I am searching for something,” Guy replied calmly. He was not sure how much danger he was in, but ever since he was a little boy, his father had told him: “In front of animals, or a mob, never show fear.”

“What is it you seek?”

“A gold pendant. It was on a chain. It is not of great value, but it was given to me by my grandmother just before she died, and for that reason I would not lose it for all the world.”

“But why do you come here, monsieur, to the tavern of the Rising Sun, where there are only honest men and poets?”

If there was some ironic humor in this, the young man ignored it.

“I saw the man who robbed me. I followed him. And I am sure he came in here.”

“No one has come through the door in the last hour, except yourself,” Le Sourd answered blandly. “Isn’t that right?” he asked the room, and forty throats echoed his sentiments, until Le Sourd raised his hand and they instantly fell silent.

Young Guy de Cygne let his gaze travel around the tavern. It was hard to see into the shadows.

“You will not mind, then, if I satisfy myself that the man I seek has not slipped in by some other entrance,” he replied coolly.

Le Sourd gazed at him. This young aristocrat might be a stranger, but he could not fail to realize that he was at their mercy. The cool effrontery, the reckless courage of the fellow appealed to the ruler of thieves.

“Please do so,” he said.

Guy de Cygne moved swiftly around the big room. He knew he might be about to die, but he could not go back now. In the shadows, he found the stooping man.

“This is him,” he said. “He’s tonsured like a priest, but this is him.” He’d heard there were cutpurses and other rogues in Paris who tonsured themselves in the hope of being tried by the protective Church courts instead of the harsher provost. He assumed this fellow must be one of them.

“Connard!” Le Sourd called out to the stooping man. “Let this gentleman search you.”

The stooping man submitted. Guy de Cygne found nothing.

“This man of God has been here all day,” declared Le Sourd. “But I can think of others in the quarter who resemble him. It must have been one of them.” He paused. And now his voice became soft and dangerous. “I hope you will not call me a liar, monsieur.”

Guy de Cygne had been made a fool of. He knew it and they knew it. But there could be no mistaking Le Sourd’s meaning: call him a liar in this den of iniquity, and he’d be dead.

Yet he must retain some honor.

“I have no reason to call you a liar,” he answered calmly. He moved carefully to a place where he could draw his sword and use it. If they attacked him, he could probably kill two or three before they brought him down. The men in the room noticed, but nobody moved.

And now Le Sourd had an idea. He glanced at his son, who was watching carefully. Richard knew that his father’s word was law. He knew that his father could kill this young noble if he chose. This was his father’s power.

Should he show the boy something even better? Should he humiliate this noble, make him apologize to the stooped man before he left? The young noble might refuse, in which case he’d have to kill him. Or he might accept and leave with his tail between his legs. But either way, it was a petty gesture, unworthy of a father who, in his own way, still wanted to be a hero to his son.

No. He would show the boy his father’s magnificence. For wasn’t he a monarch in his own small kingdom? And weren’t the great nobles men like himself, but on a larger scale?

“Perhaps I may be able to help you, monsieur. I invite you to sit at my table.”

Guy de Cygne stared at him. This was obviously a trap. He’d be unable to see behind him, or to draw his sword. The quickest way to get his throat cut. Le Sourd read his thoughts.

“You are my guest, monsieur, and under my protection. It would be an insult to refuse me.”

Still de Cygne hesitated. But then the scholarly-looking man sitting on Le Sourd’s right came to his aid.

“You may safely sit, sir,” he said in a voice that was clearly educated. “And I advise you to do so.”

Thinking that this might be the last thing he did, Guy de Cygne sat down in the place offered, opposite Le Sourd, with half the tavern behind him.

Le Sourd ordered his son, like a young squire, to pour their guest a goblet of wine.

“I am Jean, called Le Sourd,” he introduced himself. “This gentleman”—he indicated the scholar—“is my friend Master François Villon. He is a notable poet, his uncle is a professor at the university”—he grinned—“and he has twice been banished for murder.”

“Which I did not commit,” said the poet.

“Which he did not commit,” Le Sourd continued. “So you see, monsieur, that you are in the company of distinguished and honest men.” He glanced at young Richard. “And this young fellow who poured your wine is my son.”

The name of Villon meant nothing to Guy de Cygne. He noticed that the poet had just peeled an apple with a long, sharp dagger which rested on the table. He suspected that the dagger had been used for less domestic purposes. He gave a faint nod to them all.

“I am Guy de Cygne, from the valley of the Loire.”

Le Sourd glanced at Villon.

“I’ve heard the name,” the poet remarked. “Noble family.”

Le Sourd was satisfied. It was the first time a noble had sat at his table. Now he’d let Richard see that his father knew how to conduct himself with an aristocrat.

“There are many fine estates in the valley of the Loire,” Le Sourd remarked as he handed the young man a dish of sweetmeats.

“And many, like ours, that have been ruined,” de Cygne replied frankly.

“That is unfortunate. May we ask how that came about?”

It was none of this evil man’s business, Guy de Cygne thought. But situated as he was, he may as well play along, so he answered honestly.

“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?”

Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?

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.”

Frères humains qui après nous vivez

N’ayez les cœurs contre nous endurcis

Car, si pitié de nous pauvres avez

Dieu en aura plus tôt de vous mercis

Brothers who are alive today, when we

are gone, do not be hard, but pity us

Beg God’s forgiveness for us now, that He

may sooner pity you, when you are dust.

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.”

This grandiloquent statement was probably true. Even the thieves in the other quarters of the city would respect the protection of a powerful chief like Le Sourd. And had Guy de Cygne been a native of Paris, he would have understood that he had just been given a gift worth far more than his golden trinket from the Holy Land.

But he raised his goblet of wine all the same, and thanked his host for his hospitality and friendship. And Le Sourd glanced at his son, and then looked around the tavern like a satisfied monarch, and told himself again that the kings of the feudal world were, after all, nothing more than himself writ large—in which belief, it must be said, he was entirely correct.

“My son, Richard, will accompany you to where you are staying so that we may know how to find you,” he said. And although Guy wasn’t delighted by the idea of taking Le Sourd’s son to the house of his father’s friend, it seemed the only way to get his pendant back. So after renewed expressions of mutual esteem, he and Richard set off.



He met the girl the next day. The Renard family lived in a fine house on the Right Bank near the river. She wasn’t so bad. Her name was Cécile. She had red hair and a pale oval face. Some people would have thought her beautiful. His father’s friend, who knew the Renard family well, came with him, and on their way back he told Guy: “She likes you. So did her parents. It’s up to you now, young man.” And his tone of voice said: “If you turn down this dowry, you’re a fool.”

“Does she want to live in the country?” Guy had asked.

“Of course she does.”

“She didn’t say much, but her family talked about Paris a lot.”

“Naturally. That’s all she knows. She’ll love the country when she gets there.” His father’s friend smiled. “You might as well say an unmarried girl’s a virgin, therefore she won’t enjoy being married.”

He was quite surprised when they returned to find Le Sourd’s son, Richard, awaiting them. He came forward and made a polite bow with his shaggy black locks. As he looked up at de Cygne, he smiled.

“I have good news, monsieur,” he said. And he held out his hand. “Is this the one?”

It was. So the rogue had had it all the time, as Guy had thought. But he kept up the little comedy.

“And what is the ransom demanded?” he inquired.

“Nothing, monsieur. My father was able to persuade the man who had it to part with it for nothing. My father told him that, perhaps, this good deed might save his soul.”

“Let us hope so,” said Guy. It was hard not to smile at the rogue’s cheek.

“My father sends you his respects, monsieur. Is there any message I should take back to him?”

Guy de Cygne considered. He knew what he thought: that Le Sourd was a thief and prince of thieves. On the other hand, the thief had given him back his pendant.

“Please tell your father that Guy de Cygne thanks him for his hospitality, and thanks him for his help.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” The boy smiled. “May God keep you.”

“And you too.”

That night Guy de Cygne thought long and hard. There were terms the nobles used for marrying a rich bourgeoise: “Putting gold on the coat of arms.” Or, less lovely: “Putting dung on your land.”

Cécile Renard was all right. He imagined he could love her, but he doubted that she’d be happy in the country, and this troubled him a little. But then he thought of what her dowry could bring. He would be able to enlarge the estate. He could make improvements to the manor house.

He knew his duty. Before he went to bed, he said his prayers. He knew, he told God, that he should honor his father and mother, and if he married the girl, he’d certainly be doing that. But the family motto also came into his mind. “According to God’s will.” He would be guided by it. If God sent him a sign—if, for instance, his bride should die before their wedding day—that would be a clear signal that God did not want the marriage. But if there was no sign, he’d take it as consent. And he gave the Almighty the assurance that he would try to make the girl’s life pleasant, if it could be done.



The marriage took place three months later. The ceremony was in Paris, at the house of the Renard family.

It had to be said that they did the thing handsomely—far more so than the de Cygne family could have done at their crumbling manor. But there was something that his parents were able to do that clearly satisfied the bourgeois Renards.

They were able to summon noble kinsmen that Guy had hardly known he had. He might not be making a noble marriage, but it seemed the news that he was marrying an heiress was enough for all kinds of family friendships to be renewed. A score of noble names appeared, with their sons and daughters. If the Renards had been counting on this, then they had received their part of the bargain.

Even before the marriage took place, Guy suddenly found himself with kinsmen who declared that his bride was charming, and sweet, and all the other things that are said of a rich young girl—as long as she doesn’t make herself unpleasant—when she arrives on the social scene. Cécile seemed delighted by their friendly attentions, and was promised all kinds of amusement when she came to the country. As for Guy, his kinsmen soon introduced him to their own friends so that, by the time he married, he was on friendly terms with young men who belonged to some of the greatest families in the land.

The wedding was a success in every way. By the third day, he and Cécile had decided that they liked each other very much indeed. Meanwhile, a week of gaiety in Paris was called for, before he took her down to the valley of the Loire, to see the modest estate which so urgently needed her love.

He was in a company of a dozen nobles, three days after the marriage, when they had dismounted to wander through the great market of Les Halles. And he was just standing beside a brightly colored stall that offered herbs and spices when he heard a cry from nearby.

It was Charles, son of the Comte de Grenache, with whom he’d been riding only minutes before. He ran over to him.

“What’s the matter?” Guy asked.

“Someone just stole my purse. It was hanging on my belt, on a strap, and the cursed fellow must have cut it off with a knife. My God he was fast.” Charles de Grenache shook his head. “I had thirty francs in there.”

“Did you see him?”

“I’m not certain, but I think so. A fellow with a stoop. Tonsured like a priest. His head bobbed like a pigeon.” The young aristocrat looked around. “He just vanished in the crowd. I’ll never see him again. Or my money.”

Guy smiled.

“As it happens,” he said, “I may be able to help you there.”



It took only a few moments for Guy to explain what he required. One of the party, a young squire, volunteered to go with him. Then, leaving the others in the market, Guy and the young squire set out.

They moved swiftly and by the most direct way, to a street where they could see the door of the Rising Sun. They hadn’t long to wait. Having taken a more circuitous route, the stooped man appeared from an alley, and having glanced behind him furtively, went in through the tavern door.

Guy gave him time to get well inside, and then, keeping the squire with him, he strolled casually to the tavern and opened the door.



Jean Le Sourd was in a good mood. He sat with his son beside him at his table, on which the leather purse had just been placed. He poured out the gold and silver coins and quickly reckoned. Thirty francs’ worth. He scooped the money back into the purse, and nodded to the stooping man.

“You’ll get your share,” he said.

“How much?”

“Whatever I give you,” said Le Sourd sharply. “Sit down.”

As the stooped man was about to turn away, there was a movement at the door, and Le Sourd looked up in surprise to see the fair-haired young noble who’d come there three months ago enter with a youth.

Was it possible the stooped man had stolen from him again? He looked inquiringly at the cutpurse, who gave a shrug which said, “I’ve no idea.”

De Cygne was looking at him and smiling.

“I hoped I’d find you here,” he said. “I am in Paris only another day.” He paused. “You said I was welcome at your table. Is the offer still good?”

Le Sourd kept his eyes on him thoughtfully, at the same time taking the purse off the table and placing it at his feet.

“Of course.” He glanced at the door, and one of his men slipped out.

De Cygne turned to the youth.

“Go to my father and say I shall return in an hour or two. Tell him I am dining with friends.”

He advanced toward the table, gave a friendly nod to young Richard, and addressed his host again.

“I have not forgotten your kindness to me, you see. And I came to tell you my good fortune. I was married, two days ago, here in Paris.”

“Ah.” Le Sourd nodded. “To the heiress.”

“It turns out she is an angel. I am taking her down to our poor manor this week.”

“An angel of mercy. The fields will rejoice.”

“No doubt. May I sit down?”

The man at the door came back in and signaled that the coast was clear, and the visitor had come alone.

“Of course.” Le Sourd smiled expansively. “Wine for our friend,” he called.

It seemed he could relax a little. This show of courtesy was more than he’d expected, but one never knew with these nobles. He gave his son a look that told him to take note of this courtesy to his father.

“Master Villon is not here?” de Cygne asked.

“No, monsieur. He is away.”

So they talked of this and that. De Cygne could not ask Le Sourd much of what he’d been doing, since he’d only been robbing people. But young Richard wanted to know about the wedding, and so, without making too much of the disparity between the richness of the scene and the poverty of the tavern, he was able to describe the bright clothes of the men and women, and the food. “A great haunch of venison. A boar’s head stuffed with sweetmeats, a huge pie made from—I don’t know—a hundred pigeons. Ah,” he told the boy cheerfully, “the smell of it …”

“And wine, monsieur?”

“All you could drink.”

“And many guests?” asked his host.

“I never realized,” Guy smiled, “I had so many friends.”

“Keep your money, monsieur, that your friendships may last.”

“I know,” Guy answered quietly. “Remember, I have been poor.” And reading the other’s thoughts: “The estate has value, of course, but not until money is spent on it.”

They continued awhile. They discussed the doings of the king. Guy even suggested that perhaps, one of these days, he might be in a position to have the verses of Master Villon printed. And this, he noted, seemed to evoke a response of genuine enthusiasm in his host.

And then the tavern door burst open.



Le Sourd looked up. Through the door came a young man with a drawn sword. Moving swiftly forward he gave a loud cry: “In the name of the king, nobody move!”

The man by the door leaped toward his back with his knife, but let out a scream as a second swordsman, coming through the door, put a blade through his ribs from behind. More men were pouring through the entrance now; five, ten, fifteen, fanning out through the room with swords drawn. Even the thieves and murderers who filled the place knew at once that they hadn’t a chance. These invaders were young knights, trained in the use of arms. By coming in the king’s name, they had all the legal excuse they needed. And they had one other advantage also. They were noblemen, and as such they were ruthless.

When a huntsman killed a deer, he might see the beauty and the nobility of the creature, as he did in much of God’s creation. But when a knight was confronted by such men as kept company in the Rising Sun, he’d kill them with no more compunction than he’d use toward a sewer rat. And Le Sourd’s men knew it.

While Le Sourd’s attention was distracted by the men who were pouring in through the door, something else was happening at his own table.

Guy de Cygne had suddenly leaped up from the bench, drawn his sword, and by the time Le Sourd turned back to him, he found that he was looking along a blade whose point was tilted tight under his chin.

And as young Richard reached for his knife to protect his father, Le Sourd’s voice called out with an urgency and command that could not be ignored: “Leave your knife, my son. Keep still.”

Then, in the heavy-breathing silence that followed, Guy de Cygne’s voice came crisply: “This is your man, Grenache. The purse is by his feet.”

Le Sourd watched as the young man who’d been first through the door advanced to his table. Carefully, with the point of his sword, Charles de Grenache felt for the purse, and drew it across the floor until he could see it clearly. Still using the sword point, he lifted the purse and let it fall upon the table.

“That is my purse,” he confirmed. He turned and surveyed the room until his eyes rested upon the stooped man. “And that’s the fellow who took it,” he added.

“He works for this villain,” said de Cygne. “They all do. That’s why he’s got the purse now. He’s called Le Sourd.”



Le Sourd was a hard man. He’d killed many times. He’d been cautious when de Cygne had first arrived, and he cursed himself now, for allowing the young man to ambush him.

Yet even so, he was taken aback by the completeness of the transformation. The courtesy de Cygne had shown, the confidences he’d shared, had vanished so suddenly, it was as if they had never been there at all. Vicious though he was himself, Le Sourd was astonished. He stared at the young noble with hurt and almost disbelief.

But then he saw, in a flash, into Guy de Cygne’s soul. The young man had been poor. Now he was rich. But it hardly made a difference. For Guy de Cygne was noble. And Jean Le Sourd was not. And it was that social chasm, more even than the fact he was a thief, that made the difference between them.

Before, the young man had to wear a mask. Now, backed by his noble friends, the mask was dropped.

To Guy de Cygne the hospitality of a Le Sourd was nothing. The friendship, the gift: nothing. His honor—for even thieves have honor—nothing. His son, nothing. His very soul—for even thieves have souls to be saved—also, nothing. He was less than a horse, less than a dog. He scarcely had the merit of a rat. Because he was not noble. Jean Le Sourd understood, and he looked at his son, and he knew bitterness.

“Well, Le Sourd,” said Charles de Grenache, “you and your stooping friend are going to hang.”



It was a month later that they brought Jean Le Sourd to execution. He and the stooping man had been kept in the Châtelet’s stout jail. Naturally, the provost had ordered them tortured. It was assumed that Le Sourd in particular had murders to his name, and the provost wanted confessions. It took a little while, but he got them. After a certain amount of pain, most men would confess to anything if they knew they were going to die anyway. It was only reasonable.

The stooping man’s claims to be a churchman had been easily disposed of. He had no proof, and he couldn’t read. They’d hanged him the day before on one of the city gallows. But Le Sourd was special. They needed to make an example of him. And the crowds always liked to see a powerful villain die.

Early in the morning, they’d erected a gallows with a high platform in the open spaces of Les Halles, his center of operations. The whole market would be there to watch. And it was a sunny day as well.

But they had let him see his son.

“Are you going to watch?” he asked the boy.

“I don’t know. Do you want me to?”

“They’ll take me from the Châtelet to Les Halles in a cart, so that everyone can see me. You can watch that. Then go away. You know what they’re going to do to me? Hang me for a while, then cut my head off.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to see that.”

“All right.”

“Go away just before we enter Les Halles. Otherwise you’ll be tempted to stay.”

“Will you look for me in the crowd? I don’t know where I shall be.”

“No. I shan’t look for you. Don’t try to wave at me or anything. I shall stand proud. Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Did you see Master Villon?”

“No. I don’t think he’s in Paris.”

“He’ll go the same way as me, you know.”

“You’d have been all right if it wasn’t for that cursed de Cygne.”

His father shook his head.

“I’d have swung for something sooner or later. I could have swung so many times before.”

“If he comes back, I’ll kill him.”

“No you won’t. That’s an order. I don’t want you to swing as well.”

“What am I to do, Papa?” The boy’s voice suddenly started to break down.

“Get yourself apprenticed to a trade. You know where the money’s hidden. Enough there to pay a master to take you on. I was going to get you apprenticed to someone next year.”

“Why?”

“Not much money in thieving really. And you never have any peace. And then … there’s this.” He shrugged. “It’s my fault. I’ve taught you all I know about thieving, which is a lot, and it’s still a waste of time.”

“I dunno, Papa.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I wish I had a mother.”

“Well you don’t, so do as I say.”

“I suppose so.”

“As for de Cygne. Leave him alone. You’ll probably never see him again, but leave him alone. But there’s one thing you’ve got to know. About the nobles—not just de Cygne, all of them. They don’t care. Just remember that. Do what you have to do with them, because they have the power. I don’t know if they’ll always have it, but they do now, and they’ll have it as long as you live, my son. So don’t ever go against them. But just remember, no matter what they say, don’t ever trust them. Because they don’t care about you, and they never will, because you’re not one of them.”

He looked up. The jailor had come in.

“Say good-bye to your father now,” he said to his son. They kissed. “Now go.”

An hour later Richard heard the crowd roar, and knew that he didn’t have a father anymore.