Vaugirard. It’s only five or six miles.”
Shuddering at the thought of a six-mile walk through the snow, Charles said earnestly, “But if we ran into trouble, which is the rector’s fear, wouldn’t we be much more vulnerable?”
Damiot glowered at the patiently waiting gray. “Not as vulnerable as I’ll be on that thing.”
“He’s not even as tall as the gelding, and the gelding is only somewhat over average. Didn’t you ride before you entered the Society?”
“My father has a coach. Or I walked.”
“But you have ridden before.” Charles looked at him in growing dismay. “Haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Damiot said sadly.
The brother finished tightening the black horse’s girth, handed Charles the reins, and untethered the gray.
“Come on, mon pere,” he said kindly to Damiot, who trailed after the horse, looking like a Christian martyr on his way to the Roman arena. “I’ll help you mount.”
Charles led the gelding into the stable court, gathered his cassock out of the way, and sprang into the saddle. The horse shook his head and danced sideways and Charles let him, taking a moment to get a sense of the animal with his knees and hands, before pulling him back to good manners.
With the help of the brother and the stableyard pas de mule, the triangular iron mounting block, Damiot clambered astride the gray, which stood placidly. When Damiot was settled, the horse heaved a long-suffering sigh. The lay brother and Charles exchanged glances, shaking with smothered laughter.
“Have a good ride, mon pere, maitre,” the brother said as he opened the gate. “And, maitre, if you have a chance, a good run wouldn’t come amiss to Flamme. God go with you.”
“And God be with you,” Charles returned, as he rode through.
The gray gelding, who had quickly assessed the situation, took charge of his rider and followed Charles. “Pray for me,” Damiot muttered to the brother, clutching the pommel.
At a slow walk, they followed the lane and turned toward the rue St. Jacques on the side street that led past the old Les Cholets building. Charles recognized one of Reine’s beggars sitting on what was left of Les Cholets’ wall and raised a hand in greeting. He and Damiot turned south at the rue St. Jacques, and Charles reined in to ride beside Damiot and assessed his meager skills. Suddenly, the gray gelding stopped, spread his stance, and pissed mightily.
“Ah, une tres bonne annee, mes bons Jesuites,” the Necessity Man called from the street’s edge. “I don’t have a bucket big enough to offer your horse, that’s sure!” Charles and Damiot laughed, and the Necessity Man walked ponderously across the cobbles toward them, wrapped in his enormous cloak and hefting his pair of buckets, with his string of old theatre masks hanging from his shoulder. “But if I did, which mask do you think he’d want to wear?” Avoiding the steaming river of piss running from under the horse, he put down the buckets, courteously doffed his battered black hat, and then held up a papier-mache mask crowned with molting laurel leaves. “This one, maybe?” he chortled. “He pisses like a Hero!”
“See, mon pere?” Charles laughed, “Your mount is a hero!”
“A hero named Ox?” But Damiot was laughing, too.
The Necessity Man moved a little closer. His fat, shining face grew serious. “Where are you going, if I may ask?”
“To Vaugirard,” Charles said, wondering why the man had asked.
“Out of Paris, that’s good. But be on your guard, that ugly song’s doing its work. It’s a holiday and Vaugirard’s full of taverns. Last night, I heard new verses.” He jerked his head vaguely toward the Place Maubert. “Want to know who you’ve killed now?” His eyes were mocking, but it was friendly mockery. “They’ve added in the poor girl’s mother. Poisoned her, that verse says. Next thing you know, they’ll be blaming Adam’s death on you! But don’t worry overmuch, mes peres, your Saint Ignatius was a soldier, he’ll smite their balls off. When he gets around to it. Sooner the better, I say.”
Rumbling with laughter, he picked up his buckets and started toward the river, scanning the mostly empty street for customers. New Year’s Day being a holiday for visiting and eating, Charles thought that there would probably be no lack of men needing his services later in the day.
“So Pere Le Picart was right to have us ride together,” Charles said, as they started moving again.
“My least honorable parts hurt already.”
“Our Savior rode. On a donkey, but still.”
“I’d rather ride a donkey.”
“Believe me, you wouldn’t. I’ve ridden a donkey.”
Damiot grunted. “Take my mind off my suffering. What are we going to do when we get to Vaugirard? All Pere Le Picart told me was that you were working with Lieutenant-General La Reynie to help him prove that the Society had no hand in these murders.”
“I’m looking for a servant who worked in the Mynette household. An Italian named Paul Saglio. I’ve been told that he tried to seduce Martine Mynette when her mother was ill, and she turned him out of the house. He was furious, and there’s some thought that he may have come back and killed her.”
“How do you know he’s in Vaugirard?”
“He may have a new situation there.”
“May have?” Damiot groaned. “So this may be for nothing. If he is there, what are we going to do, knock on every door and ask politely whether they employ a servant who murdered his former mistress?”
“Something like that,” Charles said vaguely, looking hungrily at the road stretching in front of them as they passed between the large houses built on the site of the massive old St. Jacques gate. Beyond the houses, the road was less hemmed with stone and begged for galloping hooves.
The lay brother had said that a good run wouldn’t come amiss to Flamme, and it certainly wouldn’t come amiss to Charles. But not yet, he decided, as a pair of cantering horses came from behind and passed them, their riders closely wrapped and squinting against the cold wind. In the distance, a line of laden mules was coming into view, and a cart lumbered out of a side road and turned toward the city.
He held the gelding to Boeuf’s sedate speed and turned toward Damiot. “Here’s how I’m hoping to find Saglio, without alarming him enough to make him run. If he’s in Vaugirard, the parish priest has probably heard of him. We’ll tell the priest that we’ve been ordered to find former Mynette servants, because there may be small legacies under Mademoiselle Martine Mynette’s will.”
“Are there legacies?”
“We’re only saying there may be legacies. There aren’t, because the girl died before her donation was found, but we have to say something.”
Damiot snorted. “And if this priest has heard that the Society is being accused of her death?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said impatiently. “We’ll know what our lines are when he says his.”
“Nothing that sounds that simple ever is.” Damiot looked glumly at the dome of the Val de Grace convent coming into sight above a line of trees. “We take the next right-hand turning. Between Val de Grace and the Port Royal convent.”
They weren’t in open country yet, but the religious enclosures were surrounded by large gardens and orchards and the private houses were fewer. The wind had grown blessedly quiet, and as the sun climbed, shortening the shadows following them along the western edge of the road, Charles could almost imagine that there was warmth in the light. Almost, but not quite. He shifted the reins to his right hand so he could warm his numb fingers under his cloak.
When they turned, just before Port Royal, the road became a dirt track with gentle vine-covered slopes on its right, and flatter fields on the south side. Beyond the fields, which would be planted with rye and barley in the spring, was a cluster of low hills.
“That’s Mont Parnasse,” Damiot said. “Quite a comedown from the Greek Mont Parnasse, home of Apollo and the Muses, wouldn’t you say?”
“I hope the Muses and Apollo are wearing more than they normally seem to.” Charles was studying the track underfoot and as far in front of them as he could see. “Pere Damiot, the brother in our stable said that Flamme needs a good run. And so do I! We’ll wait for you where the track crosses the rue Vaugirard.”
“But what if this horse runs, too?” Damiot’s eyes were wide with fright. “What do I do?”
“Wrap your arms around his neck and don’t fall off,” Charles said heartlessly. “But he won’t; he knows you
