I took a deep breath. ‘I. .’ I began feebly.
Suddenly, her grip on my arm tightened. ‘To your left, Roger,’ she whispered excitedly. ‘There!’ She pointed with her other hand. ‘He’s just disappeared into one of those alleyways. Quick! We can catch him if we run!’
‘Who?’ I demanded distractedly. ‘Who’s just-’
‘Raoul d’Harcourt! I only caught a glimpse, but I’m certain it was him.’
‘Raoul d’Harcourt? But-’
‘Oh, come on!’ she cried impatiently, and, hitching up her skirts, began to run.
I followed her across the busy street and into the narrow opening between two houses, but here we came to a stop. Unlike most of the alleyways off the Rue de la Barillerie, it led nowhere, a six-foot-high wall at the end making it impossible to proceed any further, while the walls of the two enclosing houses rose solidly on either side. Of Raoul d’Harcourt — or whatever his real name was — there was no sign.
‘There must be a door somewhere,’ Eloise insisted. ‘He can’t just have vanished into thin air.’
But there was no trace of a door or window, and it was only as we were about to leave, defeated, and as my eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, that I became aware of a number of stones in the end wall standing proud of the surface, enabling a fit man to gain a toehold and thus climb over it. Cursing, I clambered up, but our quarry had long gone, vanishing into the noise and bustle of the next street.
‘Shit!’ I said, brushing down the front of my green tunic and noticing a dark stain on one knee of my brown hose. They were already snagged in various places and it was only by the grace of God that I hadn’t just ripped them on one of the projecting stones. It was not that I was growing particular in my dress, but I had no doubt at all that Timothy would subtract money for any damage done from whatever payment was due to me on our return to London.
I took back my cloak from Eloise, who had been holding it while I scaled the wall, and wrapped it round me. The November day had suddenly grown extremely cold, with a sharp wind blowing off the Seine, and as we re-entered the Rue de la Barillerie, a shaft of light from an upstairs window showed frost already glittering on the paving stones. It was going to be a bitter night. Moreover, I was suddenly conscious of the non-stop pealing of the church bells echoing and re-echoing in my ears, making my head ache.
I asked almost angrily, ‘Are you sure it was Raoul d’Harcourt that you saw? The light is poor. You could easily have been mistaken.’
‘No, I’m certain it was him.’
Her confidence riled me. ‘I don’t see how you could possibly tell. You admitted yourself a glimpse was all you had.’
‘Then where did he go, if not over that wall? And why would he do that unless to avoid a meeting with us?’
‘Perhaps you were wrong in thinking anyone entered the alleyway at all.’
We were still arguing when Marthe, who had seen us coming, opened the door of our lodgings and urged us, with many gestures, to come in out of the cold.
John Bradshaw was in the parlour, warming his hands at the fire and shivering slightly as if he, too, had just got in. Our raised voices must have preceded us because as we joined him, he said, in a voice that trembled with exasperation, ‘For the love of God, can’t you two make friends? Must you be forever squabbling like a pair of children?’ But when he heard what the argument was about, he took the possible sighting of the Frenchman far more seriously than I had expected him to, opening the window and staring uneasily out into the street. ‘I’ll send Philip to go and look around,’ he decided. ‘He’s done nothing all day but loaf around the kitchen.’
It struck me that he had never really liked Philip from the very beginning, but that his dislike had increased during our travels. I supposed — no, I knew — that Philip could be awkward and that the loss of Jeanne had made him more so. Indeed, there had been times during the past week when I had found it difficult to keep my hands off him. All the same, I could not help wondering why John had risked the displeasure of both Duke Richard and Timothy Plummer in order to bring Philip with us. There must have been other old soldiers he could have hired to help with the horses, old friends from those long-ago days when our armies had fought and rampaged their way across France.
Philip, when he finally answered John’s summons, had reverted to his former surly mood, doing as he was bidden with a look of sullen defiance. As he let himself out into the street, I noticed that he had a great bruise covering almost the whole of one cheek. When he had gone, I looked an enquiry at John, who grimaced sheepishly, hunching his shoulders.
‘Mea culpa,’ he admitted. ‘I shouldn’t have done it, I know. It was wrong of me. But he makes me so angry.’
Before I could answer, there was a knock on the street door, and when I opened it, Jules pushed past me, addressing himself immediately to John in a stream of rapid French. When he had finished, John swore.
‘It seems,’ he said to Eloise, ‘that your cousin Maître le Daim has postponed his visit until the middle of the week. We shall be here for a few days more yet.’
Nineteen
Philip discovered no trace of Raoul d’Harcourt, nor had I expected him to. In fact, I doubted if he had even tried to find the man, and on his return half an hour later, his breath smelled suspiciously of wine. The information that Maître le Daim’s visit to Paris had been delayed affected him less than the rest of us, but then he was already in an ugly mood. For my own part, the news came as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it meant a longer stay in the city, but on the other, that was to my advantage. It gave me more time to search for Robin Gaunt, for I had made up my mind that when Eloise’s part had been played, and the necessary facts obtained from her cousin Olivier (or not), that would be the end of our mission and we would all return to England. Quite when I had reached this momentous decision I wasn’t sure, but probably sometime during the previous day when the enormity and nigh impossibility of the task imposed upon me by the duke had struck home with even greater force than before.
Eloise and John Bradshaw both appeared disheartened by the check to our immediate plans, but again this worked in my favour. Eloise’s amorous mood seemed to have been dissipated, and the remainder of Sunday was spent in desultory speculation between her and John as to the likelihood of the Fleming actually making the journey to Paris at all, King Louis’ fickleness of purpose being notorious. We all went early to bed, and, loitering by the parlour fire, I gave Eloise time enough to fall asleep before going upstairs myself.
For the next three days, Philip and I scoured the city, all three parts of it, making ourselves understood with increasing success but to no avail. An elderly Englishman called Robin Gaunt remained as elusive as I had always supposed he would be. Eloise grew ever more indignant at my protracted absences and refused to accept my excuse that I was fulfilling my role as a wealthy haberdasher, buying and selling wares to my French counterparts.
‘Nonsense!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why are you taking Philip with you?’
‘As my servant. A prosperous merchant must have a servant. Besides, another man is added protection. Two are less likely to be set upon than one.’
‘You’d do better with my company,’ she snapped. ‘What can you and Philip possibly achieve when neither of you speaks the language?’
‘You know John says you must stay here, just in case your cousin arrives unexpectedly.’
The same reason kept Jules from accompanying us as he waited hour by hour for news from whoever his informant was that Olivier le Daim was at last approaching, or had entered, the city. But Philip and I returned, footsore and weary, to the house in the Rue de la Barillerie at sunset on Wednesday evening to learn that Jules’s latest information suggested Olivier might not be setting out from Plessis-les-Tours until the following Monday.