by Kate Mosse
‘Is it in your possession?’ Vidal said. His voice seemed to come from a long way away. ‘Do you have it?’
‘No.’
Piet’s eyes could not focus. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. No more words would come. His jaw was locked shut. He closed his eyes, willing the spinning to stop.
‘I am . . . the wine –’
He looked down into the deep red liquid, then up to his friend’s face. Vidal looked himself, yet utterly transformed. Was he experiencing the same light-headedness, the same nausea?
Piet watched the goblet slip from his paralysed fingers, clattering down onto the rug, sending the remains of the thick red wine spilling on the wooden floor. He tried to stand, but his legs would not obey. His vision blurred and he saw two figures, then three, crossing the room and pulling open the door. Heard them calling for help and the sound of running feet upon the stairs.
Then, nothing.
The Protestant contagion spreads unchecked. They swarm like rats through our towns and villages and cities, breathing Catholic air, infecting God’s own lands. The Huguenot pastors, traitors to France, encourage civil disobedience and should be hanged for it: in Pamiers, Bélesta, Chalabre, the cancer is spreading throughout the Haute Vallée. There have been uprisings in Tarascon and Ornolac. Even here, in the village.
I have no doubt this pestilence will be defeated. And I confess such disorder serves my purpose. For what is one death, when the gibbets are full? What is a murder, when the streets are running with the blood of many? Our petty, insignificant hates and passions do not disappear when war comes. Feuds and petitions and forfeits continue unchecked beneath the surface. The vast and the insignificantly small exist side by side.
I would leave the castle, but I cannot yet take that risk. Though my husband’s health is broken, too far ruined beyond the skill of any apothecary to recover, yet without my presence to keep his tongue silent in his mouth, he might yet speak. If he denounces me, then I am lost. At night, as his body becomes accustomed to the poison, he cries out.
For now, I must stay and prepare my widow’s weeds. Once he is dead, then I will go to my lover. We complete one another, he and I, though he pretends not to know it. What is noble and pious in our souls is a perfect match.
There was a time when the shadows of the castle gave us the solitude we needed, but there can be other places. When I bind his wrists with cords of red velvet, it is a marriage of equals. Pleasure and pain. As our Lord taught us, we must each suffer to be reborn.
I will tell him of the creature that grows inside me. A gift from God. It will please him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LA CITÉ
Sunday, 1st March
Minou rose still heavy with sleep and opened the shutters wide. She could not remember when she had slept for so long, so dreamlessly.
A pale mist hung over La Cité, obscuring the face of the sun, but the sky behind it was bright and the air fresh. She felt brim full of hope. It was the first day of March. Her time was her own. After Mass, she would go with Alis down to the stables in Trivalle and take their father’s faithful dun mare, Canigou, out for an airing.
Minou was surprised to find Alis and Aimeric alone in the kitchen, drinking warmed milk from wide earthenware bowls. A loaf of fresh bread, a pat of newly churned butter on a wooden platter and a glistening square of honeycomb stood on the table.
‘How now, my little chicks, you are out of bed early.’
Alis shook her head. ‘’Tis you who is late. It is past eleven. You have missed Mass.’
Minou looked around the kitchen, suddenly realising what else had snagged her attention. The chair by the fire was empty.
‘Where is Papa?’ she said.
Aimeric shrugged. ‘He went out.’
‘That’s wonderful news. Where did he go?’
He shrugged again and pulled on his boots. ‘I don’t know.’
‘He went with an old lady,’ Alis said, upending her bowl to drain the last of her milk. ‘It was she who brought us the honey.’
‘Did the lady give her name?’
‘I can’t remember.’ The little girl frowned. ‘She had a lump on the side of her head, the size of an egg. She said you were expecting her to call.’
‘Ah, Madame Noubel. Yes, I was expecting a visit, though not so early.’
‘I told you, silly. It is nearly noon. You have slept the morning away and that is why Madame Cordier –’ Alis’s expression lightened. ‘Cordier, that was the name she gave, not Noubel.’
Minou looked from one to the other. ‘Which is it, Noubel or Cordier?’
Aimeric stopped in the doorway. ‘Cordier was the name Father used. “Madame Cordier,” he said, and he sounded surprised. Then she said, “I go by the name of Noubel now, Bernard, remember,” which didn’t surprise me, for she was exceedingly old. She has probably had several husbands.’
‘Aimeric!’ Minou chided, as he slipped into the passageway. ‘Aimeric! Come back. I need you –’
His answer was the sound of the front door slamming shut.
‘The lady seemed very kind,’ Alis said. ‘Did I do wrong to invite her to come in?’
‘Not at all, petite. She is a kind person and a good neighbour of ours in the Bastide.’ Minou smiled. ‘But are you certain Papa did not say where they were going?’
‘I am. Only that we were not to leave the house until you rose. And that Aimeric should not let the fire go out.’
They both looked to the hearth where the fading embers spoke of Aimeric’s failure to fulfil that responsibility.
‘He is wilful,’ Alis said solemnly.
‘Wilful! Wherever did you hear such a word?’
‘Marie’s mother said it to Papa yesterday.’
Minou shook her head. ‘Remind me who Marie is?’
‘The girl Aimeric loves. He says he will marry her as soon as he is old enough and can support a wife.’
‘Ah, I remember, though he is rather too young to be thinking of marriage yet awhile. In any case, did you not tell me Marie’s mother does not approve of the match?’
‘She does not,’ Alis said, taking the conversation seriously. ‘Marie is very pretty. She has many suitors and says she intends to wed a rich man. I cannot see why she would favour Aimeric.’
Minou laughed. ‘That is because he is your brother. You cannot see the virtues in him that others might. I wonder if you might like to go for a ride. Canigou has not been out of the stables for some time. Do you feel you could manage that?’
Alis clapped her hands. ‘Yes! Can we go now? Marie says there is a family of otters with kits beneath the bridge. I would see them for myself.’
‘Very well, but you must wrap up warmly. Have you had your medicine today?’
Alis nodded. ‘And the lady brought me some liquorice to help my cough.’
‘That was kind of her. Shall we take something with us, a little bread and cheese, then we can stay out for as long as we wish.’
‘Until the cold gets us!’
Minou ruffled her hair. ‘Until the cold gets us.’
Minou and Alis made their way down the slopes below the Porte d’Aude, hand in hand, following the line of the barbican.
It was heavy going and the brambles scratched at their skirts. By the time they reached the Moulin du Roi the bottom of Minou’s cloak was soaking wet.
‘Are you warm enough, petite?’ she asked, while her sister paused to get her breath.
‘Too much warm,’ Alis giggled, then squealed at a sudden splash in the water.
Minou laughed. ‘It’s only a river eel,’ she said, pointing to the thick black tail disappearing into the muddy shallows. ‘See? They will not harm us if we do not trouble them.’
At this point of the river the Aude was wide and shallow, running fast, as the melt water came down from the mountains. The wooden paddles of the mills rattled like a round of applause.
‘Don’t tire yourself,’ she cried, as Alis ran ahead along the marsh
y path, setting a fast pace.
Minou breathed in the rich, earthy smell of leaf and moss on the marshland, rejoicing in the fact that the world was coming back to life after its winter hibernation. Soon it would be spring.
‘On the other bank, below the hospital buildings, that’s where Marie said she saw the otters.’
‘Very well. When we have fetched Canigou, we can ride across the bridge to the Bastide, then down to the water. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
The water cast bright reflections on the underside of the old stone bridge across the river. As they drew closer to Trivalle, Minou caught the smell of the stables, the distinctive miasma of dung and straw, tempered by the heat of the forge and the dusty scent of the horses’ winter coats.
‘You never go down to the river alone, do you?’ she asked suddenly. Rixende did her best, but she was a careless guardian and Minou worried about what went on when she was in the bookshop and not there to supervise.
Alis shook her head. ‘Aimeric said I should not. He says there are villains who would steal girls like me and sell me for a slave.’
Minou frowned. ‘He has no business scaring you like that.’
Alis raised her chin defiantly. ‘I am never scared.’
‘I am sure you are the bravest girl ever, but you could find yourself face to face with a wild dog or a snake or even –’ she tickled her – ‘mean-spirited boys who might throw stones at you.’
Giggling, Alis slipped out of her grasp and climbed up onto the trunk of a fallen tree.
‘Careful you don’t slip into the water,’ Minou said.
‘Can you see it?’ Alis asked, pointing to a spot on the opposite bank. ‘The holt is there.’
Minou peered. ‘I am not sure . . .’
‘You have to let your eyes become accustomed. Then, if you are still, the kits show themselves.’
Minou looked across. In the dappled spring light, flickering like candles upon the water, her eyes were caught by something at the foot of the bridge. She edged closer, realising she was looking at a piece of fabric. Black cloth.
Minou shielded her eyes. Not a log or a stump, or flotsam. There was no doubt. The body of a man was lying on the stone ledge beneath the closest arch, half in and half out of the water. Suddenly, the cloak fell away from his face and Minou saw a shock of white hair and a ruff stained red at the neck. The river shifted again and his hands broke the surface of the water. Two fingers were missing on the right hand.
Minou lifted Alis down from the tree. ‘We must go.’
‘But I am not tired at all,’ Alis wailed. ‘We have only just arrived. We have not yet seen the otters and—’
‘Petite, don’t argue. Just come.’
At that moment, the alarum bell began to toll out across the countryside. Loud and discordant, setting the tranquillity of the day to flight. Minou felt her sister clutch her fingers tighter.
‘What’s happening?’ Alis said in a small voice. ‘Why are the bells ringing?’
Minou was almost running now, pulling her sister along behind her towards the safety of the quartier Trivalle.
‘They are calling us back to La Cité before they close the gates. Hurry, now. As quick as you can.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
VASSY
North-East France
It was the worst time of year for a journey. The cold had given way to endless rain, and the ground beneath his horse’s hooves was slippery, clagged in mud. François, Duke of Guise, put his damp leather glove to the raw scar on his cheek and pressed, to try to take away the ache.
The weather had been against them all the way. A bitter wind, storms, few places to shelter. The further west they rode, the greater his fury at how ill-used he was. His household and his brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, rode in sombre silence behind him. The bellies of the horses were crusted dark by the splash of the mud beneath their hooves and their heads were low. The rain fell like a steady drumbeat, bouncing off the helmets and breastplates of the duke’s armed guards. The pennants, bearing the antique coat of arms of Guise, hung drab and limp on their poles.
The duke himself was soaked to the bone. His cloak lay heavy on his shoulders, his white ruff flattened by the storm. His crucifix hung like a piece of white bone on its black velvet ribbon. He glanced at his brother. The cardinal’s expression reflected what he was feeling: that it was a mistake to leave the comforts and security of their estates in Joinville and head west to a reception that was far from certain.
The birthday celebrations on his estates in the Duchy of Lorraine, his forty-third by the grace of God, had been accompanied by all the ceremony and expense due to his status. But none of it – the banquet, the masque, the players celebrating his life and times – had quelled his concerns at his loss of influence. He – the hero of Metz, of Renty, of Calais, the former Grand Chamberlain of France, standing at the right hand of the old King – was no longer welcome at court. The Queen Regent did not trust him and instead turned to those who promoted the Huguenot cause, permitting their pernicious influence to spread throughout the land.
Guise had quit the court two years previously, after the accession to the throne of Charles IX, then a boy of nine who had wept most of the way through his coronation and who still slept in his mother’s bed. The duke’s intention in taking his leave – that his absence would prove such a loss to the Queen that she would summon him immediately back – had backfired and he had quickly come to regret his decision. Guise sensed the same grievance in his entourage. They were loyal citizens, good Catholics all, who felt their exile to the north-eastern corner of the kingdom keenly.
It had been a gamble. He and Catherine had long been at loggerheads. She blamed him for stirring up trouble between the Reformers and her Catholic allies. He believed the ‘Medici sow’ was a pernicious influence, and furthermore had not taken pains enough to hide his opinion. That the boy King himself was unsatisfactory – fanatical about hunting, yet delicate and sickly and prone to temper tantrums when he did not get his own way – no one, bar the Queen herself, would deny. He was not worthy to be seen as God’s representative.
As they came out from the woods into the open fields surrounding Vassy, Guise dug his spurs sharply into his horse’s flank and broke into a gallop. He heard the hooves of the horses echoing down the line to the soldiers at the very back and felt a surge of determination. No doubt, he had been away from court too long. The traitor Condé, architect of the attempt to kidnap him and his brother at Amboise, was still at large and Coligny was back in favour, consolidating Huguenot influence at Court. They were the enemy within. The Queen’s weakness would split the kingdom in two.
They had to be stopped.
‘Boy!’ he shouted.
His equerry was immediately at his side.
‘What town is this?’ Guise demanded, gesturing to the spires and grey slate roofs of a modest town some way in the distance. It could have been anywhere. They had been riding through the dull Champagne landscape for hours.
‘It is Vassy, my lord,’ the boy replied quickly.
Guise was surprised. ‘Vassy, you say.’ He had some limited claims of suzerainty over the town.
An idea came to him. Though the duke never failed to attend Mass on Sunday, even in the glorious days when he rode out onto the battlefield at the head of a grand army, he did not deceive himself that each of his followers shared the same sense of piety. Most soldiers were more interested in their stomachs than their souls. Moreover, in this season of Lent, they felt the lack of meat and proper victuals. Perhaps he should stop and give his troops a few hours’ respite from the rain and the wind?
After they had given thanks to God, he would make sure his men were fed and warmed with a draught of ale before they rode on. François had no intention of arriving in Paris wet and saddle sore, with an entourage as exhausted and tawdry as any band of mercenaries. He was the former Grand Chancellor. He would ensure that the entire Court witnessed his glorious return.
‘Yes, my lord,’ the equerry said.
Guise sighed. His head ached and his legs pained him. Had he become too old for this young man’s game? He grunted. No, he would not submit to age. Though his star might have waned, there was time yet to restore his fortunes. He looked to the heavens.
If only the rain would stop.
After another half-hour’s riding, Guise could no longer feel his hands. He pulled roughly at his reins and his stallion reared again. Its hooves churned over in the mud, but the animal held its ground.
He raised an arm and his entourage started to pull up behind him with a rattling of harness, the rumble of cartwheels and grunting pack animals as the column of men and beasts came to a halt.
‘What is it?’ the cardinal asked.
‘Quite.’ Guise stared at the wooden structure looming ahead of them in the large flat countryside. ‘That is the question.’
His brother followed his gaze. A broad wooden-framed barn, as tall as it was wide, stood impressive and dominant in the flat countryside outside the walls of the town. A tiled sloped roof, in the Norman style, solid walls and a run of windows upon the upper level. The spire of the church of Vassy, in the heart of the town, was dwarfed behind it.
‘Do you mean that barn, Brother?’ the cardinal said.
‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘That very large, very new, very ostentatious barn. More than a barn, a building. Outside the walls of my vassal town.’
The cardinal suddenly understood. ‘A Protestant temple, think you?’
‘Do you have a better explanation?’
‘A barn for storing . . .’ He stopped. ‘No, you may well be right.’
