by Kate Mosse
CHAPTER NINE
At midday Piet knocked at the appointed house in rue de l’Aigle d’Or and waited to be admitted. He heard footsteps on the stairs, then the door was opened a crack.
He blinked at the unexpected sight of a familiar face.
‘Michel Cazès, by all that’s holy! I had not thought to see you here.’
The door opened wider, Piet stepped inside and the two men shook hands. Five years ago, both new converts to the Huguenot cause, he and Michel had fought shoulder to shoulder in the Prince of Condé’s army: Michel, a professional soldier; Piet, a civilian forced to take up arms to defend what he believed in. Since that time, Piet had not heard word of him.
Time had been cruel. Now bone thin and dressed all in black save for a white ruff and cuffs, Michel’s face was scored with lines. His skin was sallow and his hair turned white. As they embraced, Piet could feel his friend’s ribs beneath his clothes.
‘How goes it with you?’ he said, dismayed by the change in his friend.
Michel raised his arms. ‘As you see, I am still here.’
At the top of the stairs, a dishevelled young man called down to them.
‘Has he given the password?’
‘It is not necessary,’ Michel said. ‘I can vouch for him.’
‘All the same,’ the boy said in his lazy, high-born accent.
Piet exchanged a look with Michel, but obliged. ‘For the Midi.’
As they climbed the steep stairs, he noticed Michel’s breathing was laboured. Twice he had to stop and hold a kerchief scented with balsam to his mouth. Piet also noticed, as Michel clutched at the banister, that two fingers were missing on his right hand.
‘My friend, shall we pause –’
‘I am fine,’ Michel said.
They continued to the top of the building, where Piet opened his cloak to the young man to show he was armed.
‘Per lo Miègjorn,’ Piet said, repeating the password.
The boy stared at the dagger but did not ask him to remove it. His eyes were bloodshot and the stench of yesterday’s ale lay strong on his skin.
‘Come in, Monsieur.’
Piet stepped into a fugged room, the air thick with wood smoke and the scent of stale food. A chicken carcass picked clean sat on a wooden platter on the table, tankards sour with the smell of ale and mead.
‘Let me make the introductions,’ Michel said. ‘Comrades, may I present to you one of the most steadfast soldiers with whom I ever had the honour to serve. Piet Reydon, originally of Amsterdam—’
‘But owing allegiance to the Midi,’ Piet interrupted. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Messieurs.’
He looked around the room. It was a smaller group than he expected, though that was probably a good thing.
‘Our Cerberus, Philippe Devereux, you have already met.’
He gave a half-bow. Closer up, the young man seemed green around the gills. His yellow doublet and hose were stained.
Michel gestured to the window sill. ‘This is our commander, Oliver Crompton,’ he said, stumbling over the English surname, then to a man sitting at the square wooden table. ‘And Alphonse Bonnet, who is in his service.’
Piet nodded at the dark and stocky labourer, his dirty hands cupped around a rough wooden tankard, before turning to his master. Well built, with eyes close set, he wore his black beard trimmed in the English style.
‘Monsieur Piet Reydon.’
Crompton held out his hand. Piet shook it and, as their eyes met, he felt a cool appraisal. His left hand tightened around the strap of his satchel.
‘We have heard much of the charitable work you do for our community in Toulouse. Your reputation precedes you.’
‘Much exaggerated, I am sure.’ He smiled. ‘Crompton?’
‘English father, French mother, and a distant cousin to this young gentleman, who found the lure of the taverns of Trivalle more attractive than his own bed last evening. He is not yet recovered.’
Devereux flushed. ‘On my honour, I drank no more than a gage of ale, perhaps two. I cannot account for why I was so ill affected.’
Crompton shook his head. ‘You find us in the middle of a discussion, Monsieur.’
‘Piet does not have time to waste,’ Michel said. ‘We should proceed to our business.’
‘I am certain he will find much to interest him in our debate.’
Piet waved his hand. ‘Please.’
‘Before you arrived, Michel was saying he believes the rights of worship granted to Huguenots in the Edict of Toleration were made in good faith, whereas my noble cousin here does not.’
‘The Edict is not worth the paper it’s written on,’ Devereux interrupted.
‘It has saved lives,’ Michel said quietly.
Crompton laughed. ‘Michel here believes the Queen Regent wishes for the discord between Catholics and Protestants to end. I do not.’
‘I do not deny there are others who see things differently. All I say is that we should not be the ones to precipitate further conflict. We will be judged the harsher if it appears as if we refused to accept the olive branch offered.’
‘This Edict,’ Crompton countered, ‘like all those that have been issued before, is a thing of smoke and mirrors. It is intended to give the illusion of compromise between the demands of the Catholics – by which I mean the Duke of Guise and his allies – and the moderate Catholics within the court. The Guise faction has no intention of honouring it, none whatsoever.’
‘You cannot know that,’ Michel said, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. ‘Guise is sequestered in his estates in Joinville. His influence is waning.’
‘If you believe that, you’re a fool!’ Devereux said.
‘Philippe, remember your manners,’ Crompton warned.
‘Papist dogs!’ growled Bonnet, slopping ale onto the table.
‘Guise and his brother have not been at court for some eighteen months,’ Michel continued, struggling to breathe evenly. ‘It is dangerous to portray every Catholic in the same light. It is what Guise says of us, cannot you see? He claims all Protestants are traitors to France, rebels intent on bringing down the state. He knows it to be untrue, but repeats it endlessly nevertheless.’
Piet had been party to many such conversations and the question was always the same: after years of persecution under Henri II, why should they believe his mother, Catherine, the Queen Regent, now intended to treat them fairly?
‘Come,’ Devereux drawled. ‘You well know that if a lie is repeated often enough, in the face of the clearest evidence to the contrary, even the most level-headed of men start to believe in it. Falsehood easily becomes accepted truth.’
Michel shook his head. ‘Things are not black and white. There are, on their side, as many moderate Catholics, who wish to reach a compromise, as there are those on our side who work for peace and justice.’
Crompton leant forward. ‘Are these the same “moderate Catholics” who stood by and watched the violent suppression of our brethren after the Conspiracy of Amboise?’
‘That was an amateurish and ill-advised plot, which turned many against us,’ Michel replied.
Piet put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Michel is right. The Conspiracy hardened attitudes against us. Don’t forget that the Duke of Guise is, to many, the saviour of France. It was he who sent the English packing and returned Calais to French hands.’ He turned to Crompton. ‘Forgive me if I offend you by speaking plainly.’
Crompton shook his head. ‘I take no offence. My sword is for France. My mother had no choice in the matter of my conception and so, though I thank my father for the gift of life and his English name, I curse him in every other respect.’ He held Piet’s eye. ‘The same for you? Mixed blood. You are Dutch perhaps?’
Piet smiled, but had no intention of speaking of his private circumstances in a chamber of strangers. ‘For many of us, our loyalties are complicated. We each must choose our allegiance according to our own conscience.’
‘If we allow them to strike first, we lose the advantage,’ Crompton pressed. ‘As a soldier, you of all people should understand that.’
‘But we have no advantage!’ Michel cried. ‘They have the full might of the state on their side. We do not want war.’
‘We do not, but I fear that is exactly what Guise wants. Civil war. He will not be content until he has driven every Huguenot from France. It is said our Prince of Condé has issued a letter requesting arms and a levy to secure Toulouse. If that is so, should Carcassonne not follow where Toulouse leads?’ He paused. ‘Is that correct, Reydon?’
Piet had no more intention of revealing any information about the situation in Toulouse than gossiping about himself. He was here to do business, nothing more.
‘A rumour, that is all.’
Alphonse Bonnet slapped his hand on the table. ‘Papist vermin! Kennel rats.’
Crompton ignored him. ‘Speak, Reydon,’ he said, and Piet felt the atmosphere in the chamber sharpen. ‘You are amongst comrades.’
He cursed the position he found himself in. The bonds of friendship made him wish to ally himself with Michel, whom he knew to be a man of honour and courage. Had any of the others in this chamber ever seen action on the battlefield? Yet at the same time, he knew how often good men – and Michel was a good man – imputed noble motives to others while failing to see the treachery around them.
He smiled. ‘It is not modesty that prevents me from expressing my views, Crompton, so much as the fact that I have witnessed how harm can be done by those who proffer an opinion when they are only in partial possession of the facts. A man might do better to hold his tongue than scatter words without a care as to where they might land.’
Devereux laughed.
‘But you must be aware of the murder of Jean Roset,’ Crompton said, ‘an innocent man shot at worship by a member of the Toulouse town guard supposedly set to protect Huguenots? And the attack on Protestants in Place Saint-Georges a week ago?’
Piet held his gaze. ‘I am well aware of the situation in Toulouse. I was there and I can tell you Roset’s death, though a tragedy, was an accident. Regardless, the soldier in question was arrested.’
‘But it is not only Toulouse,’ Devereux pressed. ‘A devout Huguenot, a midwife as I heard it, was found murdered in her bed in the village of Puivert. Punished only for the crime of her faith.’
‘In Puivert . . .’ Michel muttered. He tried to stand, but his legs shook fiercely. Piet tried to help, but was waved away. ‘It will pass, it will pass.’
‘What do you say to that, Reydon?’ Crompton asked.
‘I know nothing of Puivert,’ he said, wondering why Michel was suddenly so distressed. ‘What I do know is that the situation of our Protestant sisters and brothers varies from region to region, hence my reluctance to offer advice. What holds true for Toulouse might not be so for Carcassonne.’
‘Then you agree,’ Devereux said, ‘that we should sit on our hands and do nothing?’
Piet wondered at his confidence, which belied both his age and his dissolute appearance.
‘If you are asking whether I agree that there is danger in us being perceived as the aggressor,’ he replied carefully, ‘then yes, I do. It will only justify prejudice against us and give licence for greater persecution. And there are Catholics at Court, who supported the amnesty for Huguenot prisoners in January which resulted in many of our comrades being released from gaol.’
‘I –’ Michel gasped. Piet waited until his friend caught his breath. ‘We do not have the benefit of numbers,’ he finally managed to say. ‘We should not o’er press our cause beyond our ability to deliver it.’
‘And then what?’ Crompton demanded. ‘Fall to our knees like nuns and pray all will be well? That is your counsel? Reydon, what say you to this?’
‘My counsel is that we should all wait, and hope that the Edict will be fully implemented and that the situation will calm.’
Crompton’s eyes sharpened. ‘But if it does not?’
Piet glanced again at Michel, but answered honestly. ‘If it does not, then we will be forced to act. If the truce does not hold, if our limited freedoms and liberties are denied us, we will fight for them.’
Devereux smiled, the tip of his tongue just visible.
‘So in fact, Monsieur Reydon, we are in accord.’
‘It is the ghost of a dream,’ Michel whispered, ‘to think we can take up arms against the Catholic Church and hope to win. Against Guise. Our only chance of survival lies in accepting what we have been offered. If it comes to war, we will be defeated. We will lose everything.’
‘It will not come to war,’ Piet said, placing his hand upon Michel’s arm. ‘War is in neither side’s interest.’
‘I need some air,’ Michel said abruptly. ‘Crompton, Devereux, if you will excuse me. Piet, it has been a pleasure to see you again.’
He picked up his hat and unsteadily walked from the room.
Piet followed after him. ‘My friend, wait!’
Michel stopped, his hand on the wooden banister.
‘You have business to conduct. Go back inside.’
‘The transaction will take but minutes, then you and I can talk. Tell me where might I find you.’
Michel hesitated, then shook his head. ‘It’s too late,’ he said softly, then continued his heavy descent down the staircase.
Piet wanted to go after him, find out what ailed him, but he stopped himself. He was in Carcassonne for a reason, one reason only. Afterwards, he would seek Michel out. There would be time enough later.
CHAPTER TEN
Michel walked away from rue de l’Aigle d’Or as fast as his failing body would allow. A whisper of despair slipped from between his dry lips. He could not remember when he last had drunk or eaten anything. He had no appetite these days.
All the tell-tale arguments – about Place Saint-Georges, Amboise, Condé, Jean Roset – were swirling around in his head, stinking of treachery. But only a traitor would know the significance of so minor an event, so far away. The final slip, when it had come, had been so small, that none but Michel would have heard it for what it was or recognised the perfidy beneath. In truth, it was only confirmation of what he had long suspected. The inconsistencies, the contradictions. Today, there could be no more doubt. Today, the villain had condemned himself out of his own mouth. It had been all Michel could do not to draw his knife and finish him then, but he knew he hadn’t the strength to do it cleanly.
What of the others? Traitors too?
And Piet? Had he also sold his sword twice over? Claiming to fight for one cause, whilst promoting another? Michel pressed his hand to his chest to steady his stuttering heart. No, not that. He would swear on his dead mother’s life that Piet was an honourable man.
Or despite his convictions, could he be wrong about him too? Once Michel would have been sure in his judgements. What had happened in the oubliettes had stripped every shred of confidence from him.
Michel looked around at the people in the Grande Place, now shrouded in the beginnings of an afternoon mist. He wondered if their lives were as simple and honest as they appeared? A solitary troubadour was singing, despite the chill. The mournful melody touched him. It was a relief to know that there were at least still things of beauty in this broken world.
The damp mist caught in his throat. Michel raised his kerchief to his mouth and it came away spotted in blood. Each time, a little more than before. The apothecary said he was unlikely to see another summer.
He wrapped his arms around his emaciated frame until the palsy had passed. Michel was afraid. He had learnt the true meaning of fear, not on the battlefields of France, but in the dungeons of the Inquisition in Toulouse. Such terrible cruelty carr
ied out in the name of God.
Michel still did not know who had denounced him, or why, only that, shortly after the feast of Epiphany, he had been arrested and charged with treason. In those dark January days, Michel learnt how any man would throw truth to the dogs when confronted with rope or pincer. He learnt how pain would make any man swear black was white and white was black. It had taken the severing of but two of his fingers before he admitted to his part in a conspiracy that existed only in the minds of the inquisitors.
A bookseller, Bernard Joubert, had been imprisoned with him. Accused of selling seditious and heretical materials, when interrogated by the inquisitors, he had argued how it was possible to be both a good Catholic and stock works of literature and theology that reflected alternative points of view. His defence: that without understanding what the Reformers preached it was impossible to reason with them and, so, defeat their position. In knowledge lay power.
Joubert had not been stretched, but he had felt the vicious claws of the chatte de griffe on his skin. A whip as vicious as any on the slave ships, sharp nails set into the leather thongs, an instrument that stripped a man’s skin from his back.
Unlike Michel, Joubert had withstood.
As they sat chained side by side in their stinking cell, the two men had spoken their innermost secrets to one another to keep the terror at bay. Surrounded by the stench of blood and death, by the pitiful cries of those whose bones were broken beyond repair, Bernard had spoken of his beloved wife Florence, five years dead, and of his three children; of his bookshop in rue du Marché and their house in La Cité, with wild roses trailing across the lintel. Of a secret Bernard had kept these many years.
And in return? Michel buried his head in his hands in shame.
When he and Joubert were released, without expectation and without charge, they had parted at the prison gates. At the time, it had seemed a miracle. Now Michel understood it was because of the amnesty of prisoners set down in the Edict.
Not all had been so fortunate. The scaffold had earnt its keep.
But though Michel had his liberty, the true horror had begun after he had left the gaol. The strange kindness he had received at the hands of the unknown noblewoman, being nursed at her expense in a house in the shadow of the cathedral in Toulouse. The wine, a warm bed and ointments for his wounds. This was the source of Michel’s shame, that he had traded Joubert’s secret for his own comfort.
