The Burning Chambers

by Kate Mosse

  Minou looked for him wherever she went: in the morning in Place Saint-Georges; in the late afternoon from her window, when students swarmed out of the nearby colleges to hand out leaflets and to argue and debate; at dusk, in the university quarter itself, where Piet’s lodgings were to be found, only a stone’s throw from the Boussay residence on rue du Taur.

  Her aunt’s house, ornate and well-appointed, was three-storeys high and built in the traditional red Toulousain brick. The design was Italian, her aunt told her, much like the houses of Venetian or Florentine merchants. Her uncle had employed an architect from Lombardy, at great expense, to create carved pillars in a classical form boasting grapes and ears of corn, sunflowers and vines, acanthus and ivy. Constructed around a small inner courtyard, there were external balconies on the west side of the house, with polished wooden floorboards and shallow stairs. There was even a small private chapel with a painted ceiling. To Minou’s eye, everything was still a little too new, a little garish, as if the house had not yet had time to settle into its own skin.

  ‘Paysanne! You stupid, clumsy girl!’

  Minou pitied the poor servant who was on the receiving end of Madame Montfort’s anger. It did not bode well for the day ahead if she was already in an ill temper. Moments later, the door to her chamber flew open and Madame Montfort stormed in, the house keys pendulous at her waist, followed by a maid struggling beneath the weight of a heavy gown. Her uncle’s widowed sister, Madame Montfort was the one who ran the household rather than her aunt, and always, it seemed, took pleasure in finding fault.

  ‘You have not finished your toilette, Marguerite? You will make us late.’

  Minou felt the familiar twist in her stomach. She had done everything to make herself agreeable, but nothing made any difference. Madame Montfort passed sly comments about Minou’s height – ‘unnatural and mannish’ – commented that to have one blue eye and one brown suggested some ‘moral deficiency’, and judged that to be known by a diminutive at her age was ‘childish’. Minou was careful always to be on her guard. Were her Aunt Boussay not so easily upset, Minou would have tried to talk to her about the influence Madame Montfort wielded.

  ‘I will be ready. The last thing I would wish is to offend my aunt by making her wait upon my arrival.’

  ‘It is God you should fear to offend.’

  Minou held her tongue. Her father had counselled her to keep her opinions to herself. ‘Do not argue or contradict,’ he had warned, ‘for it is a devout and observant household. And guard your brother well. Aimeric is restless and easily bored. He is likely to give offence.’

  Minou had promised she would watch him like a hawk. She assumed, though it was never spoken out loud, that it was her father’s hope that her childless aunt might remember her poor Carcassonnais relations in her Will, perhaps even name Aimeric as her sole heir. Standing at the Porte Narbonnaise in La Cité, with the fierce March wind stealing the breath from her lungs, Minou remembered teasing her father that he was worrying too much. Now, if anything, she feared it was the opposite.

  Madame Montfort finished counting the linens in the chest at the foot of the bed and stood erect, the heavy ring of household keys at her waist, her embroidered sleeves slashed with red silk. Minou felt a sudden, swooping giddiness.

  ‘What is the matter? Are you ill?’

  ‘No. I am tired, nothing more,’ she replied quickly.

  Last evening, the household had sat vigil in preparation for the feast day of a local saint, St Salvador, in the hot and airless private chapel. Minou had hardly dared breathe. The heavy scent of the beeswax candles, the sharp tang of the smelling salts, the click-click of her aunt’s prayer beads, the sourness of the spiced wine taken as the vigil came to its end.

  ‘Indeed? I wonder at it. Your aunt and I find ourselves invigorated by our devotions not fatigued by them.’

  Minou smiled. ‘I do not doubt it, Madame. For my part, after the vigil, I spent time in private prayer. It is that, I fear, that took the remains of the night from me.’

  Madame Montfort’s eyes narrowed. ‘In Toulouse, it is not private prayer that matters, whatever the custom in the countryside.’

  ‘I am unaware of the practices of the country, but in Carcassonne we do not believe public devotion precludes the duty of private protestations of faith. Both are important, are they not?’

  She met the older woman’s gaze. Minou could see how dearly Madame Montfort wished to strike her a blow across the cheek for her impudence. Her hands tightened until the knuckles were white.

  ‘Your aunt wishes you to accompany her in the procession.’

  ‘I am delighted to do so and honoured by the invitation.’ Then, before she had a moment to think about the wisdom of the question, she added: ‘Is Aimeric also to come?’

  Malice flashed in Madame Montfort’s eyes. ‘Indeed, he is not. It appears that your brother persuaded one of the kitchen boys to bring him something to eat after the vigil concluded. The servant has been beaten. Your brother is confined to his quarters.’

  Minou’s heart sank. Since the purpose of the vigil was to prepare themselves for today’s procession, nothing but water should have passed her brother’s lips. She had explained this to Aimeric several times.

  ‘I will apologise to my aunt and uncle on my brother’s behalf,’ Minou interrupted, unable to listen further. ‘I do not excuse Aimeric’s behaviour, but he is young.’

  ‘He is thirteen! Quite old enough to know better! I’m sure I would not expect any son of mine to so abuse a host’s hospitality.’

  Minou bit her lip. There was no sense in antagonising Madame Montfort further and, on this occasion, Aimeric was at fault.

  ‘The hour grows late,’ Madame Montfort snapped, as if it was Minou who had kept her waiting. ‘Your aunt bade me to invite you to wear this.’

  Minou’s spirits dipped lower. Though she had once been a pretty woman, her aunt was shorter than Minou and stout, so there was little hope that the garments would be a good fit. Madame Boussay loved clothes but had no natural eye for what suited her. Like a magpie, she gathered every crumb of information about what was worn in Paris: the colours that were in favour, those that were not; the width of skirts, of ruffs and partlets, of farthingales, of hoods. Lonely and bored in this big house, her aunt fretted endlessly about every tiny detail of cut or adornment.

  ‘It is most kind of my aunt,’ she said.

  ‘It is not a matter of kindness,’ Madame Montfort snapped, ‘so much as a concern that what passes muster in Carcassonne will not be suitable in a city such as Toulouse.’

  ‘Once more, I fear Carcassonne has been misrepresented to you, Madame. News of the latest fashions of the court reaches us too.’

  ‘Which court?’ Madame Montfort asked sharply. ‘Nérac? I have heard that Huguenots are in the ascendant in certain parts of the Midi. They say the women there, even those of good society, go about in public without corsets and with their hair uncovered. And was there not some trouble with your father’s premises, some accusation of—’

  ‘I was referring to the royal court in Paris. I have no knowledge of the Protestant court of Navarre.’

  ‘How dare you interrupt me?’ Madame Montfort hissed, before remembering that this was her brother’s niece, not a servant. She turned on the chambermaid instead. ‘You! Why are you standing doing nothing? Hurry!’

  The maid rushed to take Minou’s kirtle from the wardrobe, releasing the scent of muslin and powder into the room. Minou stepped into her petticoat and stays, sucking in her breath as the girl pulled the cords, then lifted her arms for the bodice and sleeves.

  Madame Montfort was prowling around the chamber, examining Minou’s personal possessions; fingering her tortoiseshell comb, a lace ruff she was stitching herself, then her mother’s rosary. Plain round beads of box wood and a modest crucifix, it was a far cry from Madame Montfort’s elaborate double-decade of carved ivory beads and a silver cross tied to her belt.

  ‘If you might pin
the partlet tighter at the top . . .’ Minou measured the distance. ‘A pouce, or two.’

  ‘There is no time for such vanity,’ Madame Montfort snapped, ‘it will do as it is. Your whole attention should be on God, Marguerite, not your appearance. Do not be late.’

  The older woman rubbed Minou’s mother’s beads between her fingers, then dropped them back to the nightstand with such a look of scorn that, in that moment, Minou hated her.

  Minou kicked the door shut after her, as she left. ‘Do not be late,’ she mimicked. ‘In Toulouse, it is public prayer that matters.’

  She dragged the comb through her hair, then twisted it roughly into two plaits, before standing back and looking at herself in the pane of the window. Her ill humour vanished. Whatever Madame Montfort’s intention had been, the borrowed gown suited her well. Though the bodice was too large, and the hem of the skirt creased where it had been let down, the texture and sheen of the velvet was beautiful. Minou was not a vain woman but, as she spun round, she took pleasure in how fine she looked.

  Her aunt had given her an embroidered red cloak as a welcoming gift and she had worn it most days. But it would not match the brown dress, so she decided to wear her own green travelling cloak instead. Taking it from the hook on the back of the door, Minou was vexed to see it was still splattered with mud from her journey from Carcassonne.

  Minou laid the cloak on the table and, using the stiff boot brush, rubbed vigorously, hard strokes back and forth, until the bristles snagged and the heavy wool rucked. She thrust impatient fingers into the lining to get rid of the obstruction, and drew out the letter with the red seal: the two initials, a B and a P, the hideous creature with talons and a forked tail. And her full name drawn in rough block capitals – MADEMOISELLE MARGUERITE JOUBERT.

  In an instant, Minou was back in her father’s bookshop picking up the letter from beneath the mat. She remembered with a thud of her heart how she had intended to speak to her father. Then the maelstrom of events, of the rest of that day and the next, that had pushed it from her mind. How extraordinary that it had been nestling inside her cloak all this time.

  SHE KNOWS THAT YOU LIVE.

  Minou held the note a moment longer, wondering again who had sent it and why, before hiding it beneath her mattress.

  Since arriving in Toulouse, Minou had twice written to her father and paid a travelling pedlar to take her letters. He was a Carcassonnais man, so she was hopeful they had been delivered even though she had not yet received any reply. All the same, she resolved to write again this evening to ask what her father thought of the strange, haunting message.

  For the first time since her arrival in Toulouse, Minou felt truly homesick.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Piet looked out of his casement window onto rue des Pénitents Gris, and saw only shadows. A stooped woman was walking slowly up and down with a panier brim-full of purple violets cradled in her arms. A pair of students looked around to see if they were being observed before rattling on the handle of the Protestant bookshop. There was nothing unusual to see, nothing out of place.

  Even so . . .

  For the past few weeks, Piet had felt sure he was being followed. Going to and from his lodgings to the almshouse in rue du Périgord, walking to the temple and back, he had felt a pricking on the back of his neck, an uneasiness beneath his ribs.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ McCone asked. ‘Are you expecting someone?’

  ‘No. At least, I had hoped for a message. It’s not important.’ Piet had delivered the letter some days past and had expected a reply before now. He turned. ‘My apologies, McCone. I am a poor host.’ He picked up the jug of wine from the table and held it up. ‘Can I refill your cup? What you English call a splash of Dutch courage.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ McCone pulled at a loose thread on his black cloak. ‘I would that today was over.’

  ‘At what time is the funeral?’

  ‘At noon.’

  The woman who had died was the wife of the most generous of the supporters of the temple, a Protestant merchant with whom McCone had built a friendship.

  ‘The cortège will make its way through faubourg Saint-Michel to our burial ground near the Porte Villeneuve.’

  ‘Is Jean Barrelles attending?’

  ‘Yes. Though he does not approve of such Catholic rituals, her husband wishes there to be some marking of the moment. He has asked Pastor Barrelles to say a prayer in the temple once she is laid in the ground.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Piet said. He had come to like McCone, enough to invite him to his lodgings today. He hadn’t yet taken him to the almshouse, though he would. All the same, he was still careful. He could look a Dutchman in the eye, a Frenchman in the eye, and read the truth of their character. But an Englishman? So much of what they meant lay unsaid beneath the surface of their words.

  ‘You don’t sympathise with Barrelles’ stance?’

  Piet shrugged. ‘I am aware Calvin preaches against such old ways, but I believe these rituals are as much for us left behind as for the person who has passed to a better place. Can they do any harm?’

  McCone shook his head. ‘How could they?’

  For a moment, they were silent, their sombre moods reflected in the furrow of their foreheads and darkened eyes.

  ‘You were a student here in Toulouse?’ McCone asked.

  ‘I was.’ Piet leant back on the window ledge. ‘Why do you ask?’

  The Englishman shrugged. ‘No reason. Curiosity. You know more of doctrine, of the law also, than most common soldiers. Or labourers,’ he said, gesturing to Piet’s clothing. ‘You know the city well and speak of past events here as if you were witness to them.’ McCone paused. ‘Men listen to you. They would follow if you chose to lead them, Joubert.’

  The borrowed name still caught Piet by surprise. Several times it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell McCone the truth, but somehow the right moment never came.

  ‘Toulouse has the leaders she needs in Saux and Hunault,’ he said. ‘I am content to follow and to give my service in other ways.’

  ‘How goes it at the almshouse?’

  ‘We are full to overflowing,’ Piet said. ‘So many women and children left without any means of support. Refugees mostly, fleeing the conflict in the north, but we also house other desperate souls from within the city.’ He shrugged. ‘We do what we can.’

  ‘It is good work.’

  Piet took a sip of his drink. ‘To satisfy your curiosity, I was a student in Toulouse, but at the Collège de Foix rather than the university.’ He laughed at the surprise on the Englishman’s face. ‘Yes, I spent my formative years in the company of monks, priests and the most pious – not to say indulged – of Toulouse’s favoured Catholic sons. Many of them went straight into Holy Orders without ever experiencing life, others to run their family business or manage their fathers’ estates.’ He raised his hands. ‘But it was a good education. I have no complaints. I had hoped to be a lawyer or a notary, but it was not to be.’

  ‘What prevented you?’

  ‘Everything the monks taught me conspired to make me less of a Catholic, not more. Made me doubt their words and their methods. The whole machinery of the Church seemed designed to benefit the few, the bishops and the clergy, at the expense of the many. By the time my studies were complete, I was looking for different answers. I heard a Huguenot pastor preaching in Place Saint-Georges one day and what he said impressed me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you return to Amsterdam?’

  ‘There’s nothing left for me there,’ he said, not inclined to share his memories of his mother. ‘After finishing my studies, I spent time in England, before finding myself fighting in the Prince of Condé’s army in the Loire. The soldier’s life was not for me either, so I returned to Toulouse to do what I could here.’

  McCone nodded. ‘Things were different in England. I was an apprentice to a master carpenter, but these were the years of Queen Mary and the pyres were burning day and night. I
fled to Geneva, thinking to study under Calvin. But the moment I set foot in the city I realised I hadn’t the wit or the fire in my belly to become a preacher.’ McCone smiled ruefully. ‘And, to speak plainly, I realised that in truth all I wanted was to have enough to eat, companionship, a roof over my head and to be allowed to pass the Lord’s day in peace. I had no desire to convert men or force them to my way of thinking.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Piet said. ‘To be treated fairly, for all men to be allowed to live as they choose within the law. Not to have every waking minute of every day determined by one’s faith.’ He nodded. ‘I believe we understand one another, English.’

  McCone smiled. ‘I think we do.’

  Vidal looked from the window of his priest’s cell into the physic garden. The herb beds were rich and full of leaf, the first purple sprigs of lavender coming into flower. On the far side of the cloisters, the soft yellow glow from the candles in the cathedral sent diamonds of coloured light flickering like fireflies. He could hear the murmur of his brother clergy preparing for the noonday prayers and wondered if his absence would be noticed.

  At a knock at the door, Vidal crossed himself and touched his fingers to his lips, then stood up. He had been there so long that his knees left an imprint in the embroidered hassock of the prie-dieu. Vidal had prayed for guidance, but there had been only silence.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  Bonal entered the chamber.

  ‘Well? Has he talked?’

  ‘He has not.’

  Vidal turned around, hearing the hesitation in the servant’s voice. ‘He has said nothing? Nothing at all?’

  ‘No, Monsignor.’

  ‘They stretched him?’

  ‘They did.’

  Vidal frowned. ‘And, even then, you are telling me he did not reveal the name of the man who commissioned him to make a copy of the Shroud?’

  Bonal shifted uneasily. ‘The inquisitor sends his humble apologies, but has bid me inform you that the gaoler, such was his desire to provide you with the information you require, did not exercise appropriate caution. The forger had, so it seems, a weak heart. His constitution was unable to withstand even the most moderate persuasion.’