Paris: The Novel

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 hissword, 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. Hescarcely 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