Warlord(61)

As we approached the half-built wall of the city of Paris, the metal-stone chinking sound intensified and mingled with the cries of workmen, the sharp crack of axe on wood, and the rumble and crash of falling rubble. At the Porte St Martin, I announced myself as a pilgrim wishing to pray at the cathedral of Notre-Dame before a most sacred relic, a lock of the Virgin’s hair. I paid the toll to the Provost’s men-at-arms and entered the city itself. As we emerged from the gatehouse, I looked to my right and beheld a huge finished wall, four times as high as a tall man and dotted with strong round towers every sixty yards, which curved around and down to the right towards the River Seine. It was a fortification to daunt even King Richard’s mighty castle-breakers. To my left, however, there was a stretch of half-built wall, thirty yards long and teeming with workmen even at that early hour, and then, almost shockingly – nothing; only the wide vegetable gardens of the householders of this suburb of Paris, open to the world, with no obstacle to an invader more impressive than an occasional sheep hurdle, low garden wall and rickety wooden hut.



We rode almost due south down the Rue St Martin into the city of Paris, our horses making easy progress on the broad stone-paved road, which Matthew told us had been laid down hundreds of years ago by the Romans, although the stones were now covered with a thick layer of dried black mud. This part of the French capital, to the north of the River Seine, sometimes called the Right Bank, or the Ville de Paris, was its mercantile heart – and evidence of the city’s trading wealth was everywhere. The houses that lined the street on either side were mostly tall, well-built structures of wood, wattle and lime-plaster, two and sometimes three storeys high, the wooden beams and corner posts carved and decorated in neat geometrical patterns. There were numerous churches too, the wealthier ones, and the grander houses, being built of pale local stone. Sudden wafts of incense made the horses snort, and the singing of monks could be plainly heard as we passed these houses of God and clopped along down the Rue St Martin.

The ground floors of many of the larger dwellings we passed served as shops, with a counter opening on to the street displaying the wares of the owner: wrought gold and silver trinkets, bright orange Scandinavian amber, fine Spanish swords and costly armour, exquisite Italian glassware for the table, fat beeswax candles and pungent spices from the Orient, beautifully worked leather goods – all were on offer, should we have a mind to buy. Pastry sellers, with huge square trays hung around their necks, strutted through the crowds, offering delicious-smelling savouries of chopped ham with pepper or soft cheese and egg in fragrant flaky casings. The shouts of a dozen wine-criers from the taverns filled the air, promising the delights of such-and-such a wine available at such-and-such a price at such-and-such a tavern. One of these men, beating loudly on an earthenware jug of wine with a stick to bring attention to his wares, lifted the jug towards Thomas for a sniff of the deep red liquid, and I saw my squire blanch and gag – almost to the point of vomiting up his breakfast. He was suffering this morning after a night of revelry with the students – although the young clerks themselves seemed to be unaffected by their drinking bout, which had kept them up long past midnight.

We were within a bow-shot of the Seine by now, and we turned sharply right on to Ruga Sancti Germani, the long road that ran almost parallel with the river. After two hundred yards, riding past the bloody reek of the shambles, a wide open space where the city’s meat was slaughtered, its stalls bedecked with swinging carcasses and red-raw joints encased in creamy fat, we stopped at a crossroads where the other great north–south road of Paris, the Rue St-Denis, crossed the Sancti Germani. To my left, a short way down the Rue St-Denis, was the mighty Seine and ahead of it rose the strong tower of the Grand Chastelet – the fortification that guarded the northern part of the Grand-Pont, the gateway to the water-lapped, beating heart of Paris, the Île de la Cité.

The Grand-Pont was where Father Jean had last set eyes on my father Henry, before he had set out for England. But it was no lonely spot for a tearful leave-taking between friends who would never meet again, as I had imagined it in Normandy. As we rode through the portcullis under the imposing bulk of the Chastelet tower and on to the bridge itself, I saw that the Grand-Pont was a hive of activity, even busier than the merchant-teeming Ville de Paris that we had just ridden through. About eighteen foot wide and a hundred yards long, the bridge was lined with narrow, shallow houses on each side; a few, a very few had the look of dwelling places, most were given over to the changeurs, the men who made their living by exchanging foreign coins into Parisian silver pennies. I stopped my horse and, digging a handful of the Tourangeaux silver out of my money belt, perhaps half a mark, I changed it into deniers parisis – frowning at the fee that the Frenchman demanded for this slight but essential service.