by Kate Mosse
Minou stopped. All around, the watch was calling the seventh hour and securing the gates of La Cité for the night. From every window and tavern, candlelight and firelight crept between the slats of shutters. Everything was the same as it always was.
Except for the scent of sandalwood and almonds. Except for the touch of a stranger’s hand upon her cheek.
Piet stood outside the barbican of the Château Comtal. His heart was beating as fast as any love-sick boy.
That same girl from rue du Marché, with her extraordinary, mismatched eyes, the one blue and the other the colour of autumn leaves. Such spirit. Plain, honest clothes hanging well on her tall frame. What was it he had said? He had stammered and babbled like a simpleton. The sight of her had stolen every word from his lips.
Piet gathered his wits and headed to the tavern he had chosen earlier. He pushed open the door and was hit by a wall of noise. He ordered a gage of ale and sat at a table in a dark corner near the fire with a clear view of the door. His hand kept going to his leather satchel, now empty of its precious cargo. The bag of gold coins hung heavy at his waist.
He sipped his ale and took the measure of his drinking companions. All honest-enough-looking men, with the dark skin and black hair of the Midi. A boy came in to fetch home his father, clearly in his cups. A comely landlady stood at the casks, her plump lips set in a permanent smile. The air was blurred with easy conversation and chatter.
Piet held up his tankard. ‘Madame, s’il vous plaît. Another!’
After a second draught, he felt the chill melt from his bones. Did the girl live within La Cité or the Bastide? La Cité surely, for her to be coming in through the gates at such an hour? Why had he not asked her name?
Piet had known many women, some with affection, others as a passing pleasure, though always – or so he hoped – with a measure of satisfaction for both him and the lady. But no one had ever touched his heart before.
He shook his head at how quickly he had been undone. He was a man who had locked away his most private feelings when a boy. Kneeling by the bed of his beloved mother as she was dying, too poor to afford the medicine that might have saved her, Piet had vowed never to allow himself to suffer such loss again.
And yet.
Now here he was, struck by the kind of coup de foudre about which the troubadours sang in the old songs. That moment of the world tilting on its axis. Piet raised his cup in a toast.
‘To you, fair Mademoiselle, whoever you are. I salute you.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The mist had soaked through her clothes and, though she did not feel cold, Minou could not delay returning home any longer. She tiptoed in, hoping to be unobserved, but got no further than hanging her cloak on its hook before her little sister came hurtling along the passageway. Memories of this strangest of days were put to flight.
‘Steady, petite,’ Minou laughed, scooping Alis up in her arms, ‘else you will have me over.’
‘You’re so late!’
Aimeric put his head around the kitchen door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
Minou tousled his hair and laughed as he crossly ducked out of reach. ‘And whoever else might it be, pray?’
Their father was dozing beside the fire. Minou’s heart turned over to see how pallid his skin had become. It stretched thin and taut across the bones of his cheek.
‘Did Papa go out today?’ she said softly. ‘The sun was warm at midday.’
‘Don’t know.’ Aimeric shrugged. ‘I am so hungry, I could eat an ox.’
‘Alis? Did Papa go out?’
‘No, he remained at home.’
‘And you, petite?’
The little girl beamed. ‘I did. And I hardly coughed all day.’
‘That is good news.’
Minou placed a light kiss upon the top of her father’s sleeping head, then turned her attention to preparing supper. Rixende had left a pot bubbling over the fire, beans and turnips flavoured with thyme, bread and a goat’s cheese on the table.
‘Here,’ she said, handing Alis the knives and spoons and giving the plates to Aimeric.
‘How did you pass the day?’
‘Aimeric got into trouble for talking to Marie. We were at the well, and he was saucy. Her mother came to complain.’
Alis darted behind Minou’s back, out of the reach of her brother’s hand, then stuck her tongue out. Minou sighed. Despite their six-year gap in age, they were too alike and argued constantly. Tonight, she had no patience for it. She emptied the sweet biscuits into a bowl and pushed Aimeric’s greedy hand away.
‘After supper. Don’t spoil your appetite.’
‘I won’t! I told you, I could eat an ox!’
Minou said the Grace their mother always spoke and their eager ‘Amen’s woke their father, who joined them at the table. She intended to tell him about Michel and Madame Noubel’s misfortune, but there would be time enough later when Alis and Aimeric were in bed.
‘We were busy today,’ she said. ‘Charles was babbling about the clouds again. I played pat-a-cake with the younger Sanchez children until my hands were sore. I even sold that volume of verse by Anna Bijns.’
She was delighted to see the news brought a smile to his careworn face.
‘Well, I confess I am surprised. I had never thought to find a home for it, but I could not resist the purchase. Such fine paper, such an elegant binding for so slim a volume. I acquired it from a Dutch printer, a man from a noble family whose passion is for books rather than ships. His workshop is on the Kalverstraat.’
‘Did you go back to Amsterdam on your travels in January?’ she asked. It was only a casual enquiry, intended to keep the conversation light, but a shadow fell instantly over her father’s face.
‘No, I did not.’
Minou wondered what she might say to recapture his light-hearted mood, but he had withdrawn back into himself. Cursing her unintended mistake, she was even grateful when Aimeric challenged Alis to a game of draughts, though it was bound to end in an argument.
To the percussive accompaniment of the counters on the wooden board, she cleared the table then settled herself by the fire and let her thoughts roam unchecked. From time to time, she glanced at her father. What was burdening him so? What had stolen the joy of his life from him? Then she thought of the touch of the stranger’s hand upon her cheek, and she could not help but smile.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Alis asked, snuggling up to her with sleepy eyes.
‘Nothing.’
‘It must be a nice nothing, for you look happy.’
Minou laughed. ‘We have much to be thankful for. But now, it is long past your bedtime. You too, Aimeric.’
‘Why should I go to my bed at the same time as Alis? I am thirteen. She is a baby, I should—’
‘Au lit,’ Minou said sternly. ‘Bid Papa goodnight, both of you.’
‘Bonne nuit, Papa,’ Alis said obediently, coughing a little. Bernard rested his hand on her head, then patted his son on the shoulder.
‘Soon things will be better,’ he said to Minou. ‘Come the spring, I will be myself again.’
On an impulse, she put an affectionate hand on his shoulder, but he flinched and pulled away.
‘When Aimeric and Alis are settled,’ she said, ‘I would speak with you, Father. On a serious matter.’
He sighed. ‘I am weary, Minou. Can’t it wait until morning?’
‘If you will forgive me, I would rather tonight. It is important.’
He sighed again. ‘Very well, I shall be here. Warming my bones by the fire. Indeed, there are matters I need to discuss with you, too. Your aunt requires an answer.’
‘Crompton?’ Michel said. ‘I had not thought to see you here.’ Then, peering through the wreath of fog, he realised he was in error. ‘Forgive me, Monsieur. In the mist, I mistook you for another.’
‘No matter,’ the man said, passing by. ‘Goodnight to you.’
Michel trudged slowly up towards the Porte d’Aude, every sine
w of his body aching. He knew he had little time left. It was a struggle to breathe, as the hard fist of disease pushed the air from his lungs. How many weeks? When the hour came, would he find peace? Would he be forgiven for his sins and welcomed into God’s presence?
In truth, he did not know.
He was late coming to La Cité, though he supposed he was more likely to find Joubert at home at this hour – if he could find the house in the dark. His exertions of the afternoon had left him exhausted and he had slept longer than he had intended.
Had he done the right thing by not speaking directly to Minou? He thought he had, for he did not know how much or how little her father had told her of her situation, and he did not wish to alarm her.
The towers loomed above him and the Château Comtal stood, half hidden and insubstantial in the mist. Michel paused, waiting for the shaking in his legs to pass. He had not gone more than a few paces further, when he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He heard the sound of breathing in the night air, somewhere behind him, and he looked over his shoulder.
Two labourers in leather jerkins and coarse, long breeches, stepped out from the sharp corner at rue Saint-Nazaire. Their faces were covered by kerchiefs tied across their mouths and their plain woollen caps pulled low on their brow. One was holding a club.
Michel heard the men’s footsteps following as he tried to hurry, stumbling on the slippery cobblestones. They were getting closer. Ahead, he could see lights. If he could but make it further into La Cité.
The first blow caught him on his left temple, sending him sprawling to the ground. His nose struck a stone step and he felt the bone shatter. A second strike fell, this time to the back of his head. Michel threw up his hands to protect himself, but he was powerless against the onslaught of kicks to his ribs, his back, his hands. Then, an explosion of pain as the heel of a boot crushed down on his ankle and Michel howled. He was aware of being hauled upright, then being dragged between his assailants back down the cobbled alleyway towards the Porte d’Aude.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’
The sound of the watchman gave Michel hope. He tried to call out, but he gagged on the blood filling his mouth.
‘Forgive the disturbance,’ Michel heard an educated voice call back. The gentleman who had passed him earlier? Was he with them? ‘Our friend is in his cups. We are taking him home to bed.’
‘The Lord have pity on his wife,’ the sergeant-at-arms said, and both men laughed.
Michel felt the tips of his toes dragging uselessly over the stones. Then, the sensation of passing away from the lit streets of La Cité into the velvet black of the countryside beyond the walls.
‘Let me know when ’tis done,’ the same voice said. ‘No witnesses.’
‘What in the name of God are you doing?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ the man slurred, swaying on his feet. His breath was sour with ale and his eyes rimmed with smoke and argument. The doxy took her chance to pull her torn bodice over her breast, and slink back out of his reach.
‘You’ve had enough, sirrah,’ Piet said, standing between them. ‘Go back inside. She’s not for you.’
The tavern door tipped open, then shut again, spilling a ladder of passing light onto the woman. Long enough to reveal the mark of a hand on her cheek and scratches on her pale shoulders.
‘Leave, Monsieur. This is over.’
‘I said, what business is this of yours?’ The drunk tilted forwards and back, raising his fists like a bare-knuckle fighter ready to brawl. ‘Do you want to fight me for her? For that, for that doxy, that putane? Not even worth the price of a loaf of mouldy bread, not even . . .’
Piet glanced at the man’s waist and saw no weapon. ‘Go back inside. I will not warn you again.’
‘Warn me,’ he spluttered, ‘warn me? Who do you think you are, to tell me what to do? The “lady” and I agreed terms, then she tried to cheat me. I thought to teach her a lesson. A pox-ridden whore, she tried to cheat me.’
The man sprang forward, clamping one hand around the girl’s neck and hitting her on the side of the head with the other. She flailed at him, but he was emboldened by drink and squeezed tighter.
Piet grabbed him by his jerkin and jerked him backwards, landing a punch in his soft belly, then one on his jaw. The man spun around, then collapsed on his knees on the cobblestones. Moments later, he began to snore.
‘Go home, Mademoiselle,’ Piet said again. ‘I make no judgement on the arrangement between you, only that men when intoxicated do not always keep to their side of the bargain.’
The whore stepped back out of the shadows. ‘You are a gentleman, Monsieur. My lodgings are in Place Saint-Nazaire. Business is excellent in that quartier, if you ever need a little company. No charge.’
‘Go home, Mademoiselle,’ Piet repeated, and turned away. The sound of her laughter followed him all the way to Vidal’s lodgings in rue de Notre Dame. He crept into the dark garden, where he found a battered pail, full of water. He broke the thin layer of ice, washed the fight from his hands and then, drying them on the lining of his cloak, approached the door.
By the time Minou came back to the kitchen, having settled Alis and stood over Aimeric while he rattled through his prayers, her father’s chair was empty.
She was vexed, but also relieved. She did want to tell him about the strange visitor to the bookshop, Michel. On the other hand, she had no appetite for discussing what was to become of Aimeric and whether or not they should accept the invitation for him to go to Toulouse to lodge with their aunt and uncle.
Minou took an iron and poked at the fire, causing the last of the wood to collapse in a cloud of ash. She damped down the embers and put the guard in place. Idly she picked up her mother’s map from the mantelpiece and looked at the landmarks of her life sketched out in the chalk: the outline in red for La Cité, in green for the Bastide, blue for the river in between, their bookshop and their house coloured in a deep yellow.
She took a final glance around the kitchen: at the table laid ready for the morning, at Rixende’s apron hanging on the back of the door, at the books on the dresser. All the things that gave their little home its character. Everything was the same as it had been at the start of this day, only she was different. Minou knew it, in her heart and her bones.
My husband is as helpless now as an infant new born. I can do with him as I wish. Run my finger down his cheek or twist my bodkin on his skin until the blood comes. Score my initials with a knife on his chest as he once marked me with bruises.
His arms are dead weights. I lift his hands, then let them drop. A marionette with no strings, he cannot prevent me. His body lies useless beneath the blanket, stewing in his own vile juices. He, who ruled by fear and his fist, is now dependent on others for everything.
It is in such things that I see the grace of God. This is God’s judgement. His will. This is retribution. A fierce and terrible reckoning.
He cannot speak now, I have made sure of that too. The same potion has sapped, little by little, the strength of every muscle: fingers, toes, manhood, and now his tongue. It has thinned his blood. Sweet wines from the Orient and spices from the Indies, masking the bitter taste. Yet his eyes are sharp and clear. He has not lost his wits and, in this too, I see the grace of God. It is a delicious purgatory. He is trapped, knowing and silenced, within a husk of a body that no longer obeys him. He knows I am the architect of his illness. He knows that it is a time of reckoning. That after the years of my ill-use, the tables now are turned.
My husband wants me to show mercy, but I will not. He prays that I might show him pity, though he would despise me if I did. When I go down to the chapel to pray for the easing of his suffering, I leave the doors ajar so that he can hear how God mocks him. How I mock him.
And I shall let him live a while longer to learn what it means to dread the sound of footsteps in the night. Just as I lay, night after night, praying he would not come to my bed. Praying to the Virgin to protect
me.
If the household is surprised by the solicitude I am showing, they know better than to voice it out loud. For when he dies, I shall be mistress here and they will have me to answer to. Those who have heard the rumours of an heir to Puivert know better than to speak it in my hearing.
God forgive me, I shall have my sport a while longer. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. What are we but God’s creatures to command?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LA CITÉ
Piet and Vidal sat on opposite sides of the hearth. It was an elegant and well-appointed room, with generous sills and mullioned windows giving over the street. A large stone chimney and fireplace, with gleaming fire irons, a set of hand bellows and a basket of chopped logs set beside it, occupied one wall. Elsewhere, the chamber was graced with signs of devotion: a wooden crucifix above the high door, an exquisite wall hanging showing St Michel leading the archangels into battle and, between the windows, a painting in oils of St Anne. The furniture was simple, but well crafted: two polished wooden chairs, with curved arms and embroidered cushions, a table between. A box library, offering deep shelves on all four sides, was filled with religious texts in Latin, French and German. Did they belong to Vidal, or to the house itself? To Piet’s eyes, everything seemed pristine, as if barely used.
The candles had burnt low and the air was hot with their words. It reminded Piet of their student days in Toulouse and of how much he missed them. Then, what united them was greater than what divided them. Faith and the years had driven them further apart, yet Piet remained hopeful. And if two men of such opposed views were prepared to try to find a spirit of agreement, then surely others might do the same?
‘What I am saying is that the Edict offers us—’
‘Us? You admit to being a Huguenot?’
‘Admit?’ Piet chided mildly. ‘I did not think a private conversation between old friends constituted any kind of confession.’
