Paris: The Novel

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    “Here,” she said. “It’s for you.”
    “For me?”
    “If they come for you, use it. Don’t hesitate. You won’t have any time. They’ll mean business. But if you can kill them, or wound them, maybe it’ll stop him trying again. It’s your only hope.”
    He took the knife. He weighed it in his hand, and pursed his lips. She saw him glance around.
    And suddenly she thought she read his thoughts. The one thing she hadn’t allowed for. Could it be so? Was he wondering whether he should use the knife to kill her? To get her out of the way? Nobody had seen them. If she was dead, he could be thinking, her uncle would never discover his identity.
    How could she have been so foolish? She’d brought the knife only to make her story seem more convincing. And she’d been so busy plotting her own revenge that she’d overlooked this weakness in the plan. She froze.
    But then he shook his head and gave her back the knife.
    “I have a weapon of my own,” he said. Though whether she had been wrong, or he had calculated the odds and decided against killing her, or his conscience had intervened, she would never know.
    “I must go before I am missed,” she said. “But take care, my Roland. I fear we may never see each other again. May God protect you.” And pushingthe knife back into her girdle, and covering her head with her shawl, she hurried out of the churchyard.
    As she went back down the street toward the river, she wondered happily how many sleepless nights and nightmares he would suffer, and whether he would run away from Paris. And oh, the pleasure of watching the cocky little swine while he squirmed.
    Revenge was sweet.

    The rest of that day did not go well for Roland. He tried to go about his business. He attended a lecture. He went to his usual tavern, where he met some friends. He longed to share his troubles with them, but didn’t feel that he could. He bought bread, a little cured meat and some beans, and took them back to his lodgings.
    The room where he lodged was up a creaking wooden staircase. The door had a bolt, and he wondered whether to add a second one. But he decided there was no point. A couple of determined men could break it down anyway. There was a heavy oak chest, however. He could drag it over to the door. If he laid his mattress beside the chest, he’d be sure to wake up instantly as soon as anyone tried to break in.
    The window worried him. It was only ten feet above the street. But it was narrow and the shutters were stout. He might be able to defend it.
    As for a weapon, he did have a dagger. He wished he had a sword, but a student couldn’t walk around the streets with that. The dagger was long and made to be used in battle. It had belonged to his grandfather. He tested the blade. It was sharp. Even if several men battered down the door, he ought to be able to kill one of them, maybe two.
    He stayed indoors until evening, ate his food, set up his barricade and prepared for the dangerous night.
    But he couldn’t sleep. Each creak he heard made him start. Around midnight something outside, a rat probably, disturbed a little pile of faggots, one of which fell with a soft click on the cobbles. In a flash, Roland was up, waiting beside the window, dagger in hand, not daring to signal his presence by opening the shutters but straining every nerve to hear if anyone was in the street, or coming up the stairs. He stayed there almost half an hour before lying down again, still listening.
    And as he listened, thoughts chased through his head. Why had he gotten involved with Martine? If only he’d been chaste. If only he’d beena Temple Knight. And what should he do? Could he return home? How would he explain it to his father? His family would be furious. He was supposed to be helping them and he’d let them all down. He dreaded the thought of facing them almost as much as he dreaded mutilation.
    The hours passed. He didn’t even doze. At dawn, he started violently again, as someone threw slops from a window down into the street. And by the time the city gates were opening, and people were moving about in the streets, he staggered down the stairs, hollow-eyed, to face the day.
    He had to attend his first lecture early that morning. He didn’t want to go out unarmed. But a student couldn’t wander around with a weapon in his belt. How could he keep it under his hand unseen? After looking around his possessions he hit upon a solution. He had a roll of cheap parchments,