The Wolves of Paris Read Free Page A

plague and famine. But it would be better than this interminable time on the road. And then there was Lucrezia, and the thought of seeing her again.
    She was widowed. The news had reached all the way to Florence. Lorenzo was sure he wasn’t the only young Italian dreaming of bringing her back to her native land. But how many others would be in Paris tonight? Not many. Lorenzo glanced at Marco. Well, there was at least one other.
    Lorenzo kept his thoughts on Lucrezia until Marco pulled his horse next to Lorenzo’s some time later.
    “If Giuseppe is in trouble with the king, we must be sure to disassociate him from the company.”
    Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “After two decades of service to the family? Doesn’t one usually demand forty pieces of silver before turning a man over to the centurions?”
    “We can only assume the worst.”
    “And that is?”
    “Giuseppe received word of Father’s apoplexy,” Marco said, “assumed we were too young and callow and preoccupied to look after the family interests, and has decided to set himself up on his own.”
    “You credit him with too much imagination,” Lorenzo said.
    “Then what?”
    “Maybe it’s because of the king or his provost.”
    “What, you think they arrested him?”
    “Why not? Charles needs money to fight his wars. Giuseppe balked at committing more funds and Lord Nemours clapped him in irons to force the matter. He is intercepting our correspondence.”
    Marco grunted his disagreement.
    Lorenzo thought his theory not only plausible, but probable as well. The king was already indebted to the Boccaccios for 11,000 florins, and another 115,000 to other Florentines. A staggering sum. His debts rivaled the pope’s. But Charles had his kingdom back. Mostly.
    If simple pecuniary interests were behind Giuseppe’s mysterious silence, the brothers carried the means to resolve the situation. In addition to four carts of spices and silk, they carried a strongbox filled with silver pennies for small expenses, plus notarized cheques, contracts and pledges. If needed, they could raise additional sums equal to the amount already lent. But if that’s what the king was about, Lorenzo was determined to extract favorable terms.
    They passed through a pair of villages on the approach to the city. The road changed from rutted, frozen mud to a gravely base to bits of the old Roman road, flat and well-drained and lined with paving stones. Around midday, they passed the churches and abbeys of Saint-Médard, then the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the flat, flood-prone fields on the left bank of the city. They passed through the gates of the city wall itself, and Lorenzo was pleased to see that Paris had developed on this side of the Seine since his previous visit four years earlier, with older, crumbling buildings shored up, and windlasses lifting stones to repair damaged or partially built churches and monasteries. Burghers built new homes where once sheep had grazed.
    On the other hand, the roads were still filthy with human and animal waste, the butchers piled their offal in vacant fields or dumped it in the river, and entire streets near the more prosperous houses had been foolishly given over to tanners. Tanning was one of the more noxious trades, with masters and apprentices outside in the chill air, scraping hides, rubbing them with chicken feces, or soaking them in pits filled with oak and water. The smell was . . . pungent , to put it kindly. Thank goodness for the cold. In the heat of summer, the stench would be unbearable.
    Lorenzo’s eyes stretched across the river to the Cité, to the towers of Notre Dame, then northwest along the river bank to the manors and grand hôtels stretching along that side of the island. Lucrezia d’Lisle lived in one of those homes. Did she ever think about him? Did she ever think about Marco?
    Lorenzo studied his brother, riding tall in the saddle, as handsome and rich and arrogant looking as Piero de’Medici, and hoped