The Burning Chambers

by Kate Mosse

  ‘And as for the humanist college next door, that attracts the most unsavoury types, I cannot begin to tell you. Atheists, Moors with skin as black as coal.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there were Jews in there as well, though of course it is the Huguenots who are the worst. Quite taking over the whole street, and the quartier Daurade, too. I am certain it was Protestants responsible for the loss of our priceless relic from the Eglise Saint-Taur.’

  Minou was becoming a little dazed with the leaps and jumps of conversation. ‘A relic, Aunt?’

  ‘Don’t you remember? It was quite the scandal. The Shroud of Antioch was stolen from the reliquary in plain view, five years ago it must have been. It is not the entire winding cloth, of course, just a part of it, but even so. I wonder that you can’t remember, it was quite a scandal.’

  Minou smiled warmly. ‘I have only been in Toulouse for a little over three weeks, dear Aunt.’

  ‘Well, so you have! You are so much one of the family now, I forget.’ She gave an extravagant flap of her fan, then dropped her voice again. ‘I am a charitable woman, Niece. Live and let live is my motto. But I tell you, I hardly recognise my own city with all these outsiders moving in. I wouldn’t mind if they kept themselves to themselves, but they are always out there shouting about this grievance or that. It is to be hoped that now they have built themselves a temple, they will stay inside it and not spoil things for everyone else.’ She sighed. ‘But I digress. The point of what I am saying is that Monsieur Boussay always puts my needs above his own.’

  ‘I have observed it.’ Minou spoke carefully, though in truth he bullied his wife and never failed to point out her inadequacies and shortcomings.

  Madame Boussay seemed on the verge of launching into another circuitous tale when the steward, Martineau, clapped his hands.

  ‘Mesdames, messieurs, s’il vous plaît. Pray be silent for Monsieur Boussay.’

  Minou hid a smile, imagining how her father would react to such self-important posturing. Her uncle was not even a capitoul, merely the secretary to one, but he gave the impression that he was the most important man in the Hôtel de Ville.

  The steward clapped again. ‘My lords and ladies, I present to you, Monsieur Boussay.’

  Minou’s uncle strode into the courtyard, his frame swaddled in official garments, sporting a ruff too tight for his fat neck. Three men were with him. She grimaced at the sight of the Abbot of the order of the Preaching Friars. A weasel-eyed man, with wandering hands, he had pushed her against a wall the last time he had visited and tried to kiss her. Damp hands and wet lips, gasping like a landed fish.

  The second wore similar robes to her uncle, another secretary to a capitoul – from the Hôtel de Ville, she assumed. The third was younger, dressed in a yellow doublet and silk hose, with short padded breeches and a Spanish cloak. Minou frowned. He looked familiar, though she could not place him. Sensing her scrutiny, he looked over and nodded a greeting, but without giving the impression that he recognised her in return. All four men looked to be in ill temper.

  Monsieur Boussay did not apologise to his wife for keeping her waiting.

  ‘Wife,’ he said sharply.

  Minou saw the pleasure slip from her aunt’s face as she gently put her hand in the small of her back to propel her forward to her husband’s side, and felt her wince.

  ‘Is something wrong, Aunt?’ she asked.

  ‘No, nothing,’ she said, glancing at her husband. ‘I am a little stiff this morning, that is all.’

  Madame Boussay placed her hand on her husband’s arm. The servants opened wide the gates that gave from the courtyard and Monsieur Boussay and his wife led their guests out into the street. Minou could not help glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the university buildings. For the hundredth time, she cursed the modesty that had prevented her asking for the precise address of Piet’s lodgings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The letter was written in the same hand with the same wax seal. Vidal had prayed for guidance again and again. God had remained silent.

  He had never intended things to go so far. A winter’s night six months past. Bare skin wrapped in furs, his blood heated by the wine and the exhilaration of the illicit chase, a kind of madness had come over him.

  The following morning, he had woken with regret and shame and swore it would never happen again. For a few days, he kept his word. Then there had been another night, then a third and a fourth. He assumed the affair would finish when the Church summoned him back, though he knew he would miss the comfort she gave him. Mountains, hills, the roads between them. Yet, she had come. She was here in Toulouse, installed within a stone’s throw of the chapter house, waiting for him.

  He could ill afford any whisper of scandal. What might be kept secret within the walls of a château perched high above a mountain village could never be so in Toulouse. People looked to him. His actions, his words, his presence at every moment of significance – all were under scrutiny. He believed he had every chance of being named as the next Bishop of Toulouse and, though he was young, he was sure he could muster enough support in Rome to be appointed a cardinal soon after that.

  No, the affair had to stop, but he had to end it carefully and with propriety. They must remain cordial with one another for, though she was only a woman, she was not an enemy he would wish to have. Indeed, it was her strength that had first attracted him to her. He had decided to go to her today only to tell her that their intimacy could not continue.

  Vidal’s thoughts slipped to the Shroud, as so often they did. Bonal’s suggestion that he might produce the counterfeit Shroud, and challenge any to distinguish it from the true relic, still whispered in his ear.

  He shook his head. The imprint of the body of the Son of God was what gave the holy relic its potency, its grace. The fragment he had in his possession, however exquisite a forgery, was a piece of material, nothing more, nothing less. A replica could not work miracles.

  Yet, the idea did not entirely leave him.

  Vidal summoned his servant, changed into dark robes and a long black cloak that would afford him anonymity, then set off with Bonal at his side, still appalled that she had established herself so close to the Episcopal Palace. Fortunately, at this hour, most of his brother priests would be at prayer.

  He knew the house in the Impasses Sainte-Anne by reputation. The lower level fashioned from the usual red brick of Toulouse, with the upper storeys half-timbered and washed pink. There was a small courtyard at the rear of the house where she said she would be waiting.

  At the gate, he stopped. ‘Keep watch, I shall not be long,’ he ordered Bonal.

  ‘You have an appointment with Monsieur Delpech at—’

  ‘I am well aware of that.’

  Bonal slipped away and Vidal stood, his hand on the latch, undecided. Then, he saw her beside an apple tree, flowering white with the lightest of spring blossoms at the tips of its branches, and his heart leapt in his chest. With the sun behind her, she was a dark angel, her unbound black hair shining like jet. Vidal knew he should turn back.

  But at that moment she looked up and her face was radiant. He felt powerless to resist the summons.

  He stepped into the garden.

  ‘I feared you would not come,’ she said as he drew level with her.

  ‘I cannot stay.’

  He felt the warm tips of her fingers brush against his, then her hands gentle around his wrist.

  ‘Then I ask for your forgiveness for writing to you, when I promised I would not, but I had to see you.’

  ‘Someone will notice us,’ he murmured, looking up at the windows overlooking the courtyard.

  ‘There is no one else here,’ she said, tightening her grip. He felt her other hand steal beneath the folds of his robes. ‘I made sure of it.’

  ‘Blanche, no,’ he murmured, trying to push her away.

  She tilted her face and he caught the scent of her perfume. He tried to ignore the stir
rings of desire.

  ‘Why do you speak harshly?’ she said. ‘Have you not missed me? Have you not lacked my company, my lord?’

  ‘It is too dangerous. People are not so immersed in their own business in Toulouse that they don’t have eyes to see. The situation is delicate,’ he rebuked her. ‘I cannot be caught in any wrong-doing.’

  ‘How can this be wrong?’ she murmured, bringing her mouth close to his ear.

  ‘You know why, I made a vow of chastity . . .’

  ‘An unnatural vow,’ she whispered, ‘one the early Church Fathers were not obliged to take.’

  As always, her theological knowledge took him by surprise. He did not think it was right for a woman to debate such things and yet – she impressed him.

  ‘Things are different now.’

  ‘Not so different.’

  Vidal placed his hands on her arms and attempted to put a distance between them. But, somehow, she was pressing against him, so close he could feel the beating of her heart. His blood rose again.

  ‘Have I done something to offend you?’ she murmured. ‘When last you left me, your words were warm. Full of love.’

  ‘I have sworn my love to God.’

  She gave a light and pretty laugh. Vidal tried to bring the old saints to mind, their fortitude in the face of temptation.

  ‘This is a sin,’ he tried to say. ‘We wrong my vows, and yours to your husband –’

  ‘That is what I came to tell you,’ she said, untying the ribbon at her neck. ‘My husband is dead and buried, may the Lord God bless his soul.’ She crossed herself. ‘I belong to no man now.’

  Vidal found himself cupping her beautiful face in his hands. ‘Dead? This is sudden.’

  ‘It was not unexpected. His health was failing.’

  ‘I am sorry not to have been with you in this time of such grievous loss.’

  She dipped her eyes. ‘My husband is at last released from his suffering,’ she said. ‘He is in a better place. I mourn him, but his passing leaves me free to bestow my love where I will.’

  ‘Blanche, you are minded to misconstrue my meaning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You may be released from your conjugal vows, but I am not released from mine. My heart and soul are pledged to God, you know it. We cannot meet any more.’

  He felt her stiffen in his arms. ‘You have no further need of me?’

  ‘No, not that,’ he said, pity weakening his resolve. ‘Never that. But I made a—’

  ‘What can I do to prove my love for you?’ she said, her voice so soft, so beguiling. ‘To prove my duty to God. For by serving you, I serve Him. If I have not pleased you, then give me penance. Tell me what I must do to make things right between us.’

  Vidal entwined his fingers with hers. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. You are beautiful and generous, you are –’

  The ribbon of her cloak came fully undone and it fell from her shoulders to the ground, the pale blue material pooling like water. He saw that she wore nothing but a shift beneath. The contours of her body, the generous curve of her breasts and waist, the swell of her belly, she was even more beautiful than he remembered.

  ‘This cannot . . .’ he murmured, though the words caught in his throat.

  In his imagination, Vidal forced himself onto his knees before the grand altar of the cathedral. Again, he tried to fill his head with images of the vaulted stone ceiling and the rose window, the bloodied hands and feet of Jesus upon the cross. He tried to replace the beating of his pulse with the melody of the choir, their voices soaring through the nave and up to the highest rafters. The promise of the resurrection and the life to come for those who followed Him and obeyed God’s laws.

  She slipped her hand between his legs. ‘I wish only to give you comfort. You toil so hard for the good of others.’

  Vidal closed his eyes, helpless to withstand the soft whispering of her voice.

  ‘Those days after you had gone,’ she was saying, ‘I could not sleep or eat or drink. I was sick for the lack of you.’

  He wanted to resist, to speak, but his throat was dry. Taking her into his arms, he carried her into the hidden shadows of the loggia.

  ‘In Toulouse, they are talking of you as the future bishop,’ she murmured. ‘By Michaelmas next, even an archbishop, the youngest in Languedoc for many summers. I can help you be the man you were meant to be,’ she said, and he knew he was lost. ‘The greatest man of your age.’

  He forgot the windows overlooking the courtyard, the sounds of Toulouse coming to life all around them, as he worked her shift up and over her smooth, white skin. He did not heed the rattle of a pail in the street or the bells of the cathedral or the restless presence of Bonal keeping watch outside the gate. He was aware of nothing but the movement of his body inside hers, desire blotting out any thought.

  ‘Did you discover the information that I asked of you?’ she murmured into his ear.

  Vidal did not answer. He could not. He had lost any sense of where he was. Then he felt his head dragged back and the rough twist of her fingers in his hair, an exquisite jolt of pain as she bit his lip.

  ‘Where is the Joubert family to be found?’ she said, pressing her hand across his mouth. ‘You promised you would discover this for me.’ Vidal did not reply, but Blanche pushed harder until he thought his lungs would burst.

  ‘Carcassonne,’ he gasped.

  As he came to his end, Vidal called out her name, no longer caring who might hear. He did not see the look of satisfaction in her dark eyes nor the blood – his blood – on her lips.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A deputation was waiting at the corner of rue du Taur. Minou watched her uncle confer with the arms dealer, Delpech, their heads together. Then, without a word, they swept away in the direction of the Hôtel de Ville, with the young man in the yellow cloak and the friar following in their wake. Madame Boussay offered a half-wave as her husband left, which went unacknowledged.

  He was a boorish man, Minou thought, offended on her aunt’s behalf, as they continued into the oldest quarter of Toulouse. Here, among the half-timbered houses and narrow passageways, the street names were a living reminder of the medieval trades that had brought prosperity to the city in the past: the money lenders, the cauldron makers, the butchers, the candle makers, the wool merchants and the men of law.

  The sun rose higher as they walked slowly into Place du Salin, the site of the old salt market, where the trees were coming into leaf. Silver bark and the shoots budding green. Minou could not help but admire the buildings of the Treasury and Royal Mint, the imposing bevelled windows and ornate carved frames of the Parliament itself, everything speaking of power and permanence. On the corner of the square, the inquisitional court and prison stood cheek by jowl with the modern dwellings built to house the magistrates and clerks, the barristers and attorneys-at-law.

  Finally, they went through the gate set deep within the high red walls, across the grassed moat and out into the southern suburb of Saint-Michel.

  ‘Though we are no longer quite within the boundary of the city,’ her aunt could not help saying, ‘this district is one of distinction. A very good neighbourhood.’

  ‘It seems so,’ Minou replied loyally.

  The Boussay party joined the crowd waiting outside the parish church of St Salvador. The white surplice of the priest snapped around his legs in the wind. The silver cross, polished and gleaming, caught the midday sun and sent dancing light up and along the red-brick face work of the west door of the parish church. The air was full of sound, of notes finding their pitch, as the musicians made ready. Tabors and gitterns, bagpipes with their fat leather bellies and lutes crafted from box wood. The rattle and shimmer of the mummers’ tambourines.

  ‘Did I tell you, Niece, I am named for St Salvador?’ her aunt whispered, though there was no need. ‘It was my mother’s choice, and though I am sure I am at fault, I have always felt blessed to have so distinctive a name.’

  ‘As you should, Aunt. It is a most gracious name.�
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  Her aunt smiled, dimpling her cheeks. ‘I was married at this church. Such a beautiful wedding, everyone remarked upon it. No one could remember such a lavish celebration in this suburb before, not a soul.’

  ‘Do tell me,’ Minou said, though her aunt needed little encouragement to do so.

  ‘It was a bright day, not cold, though I was all but dumb with fright. I was younger than you are now. All those eyes upon me, I was not used to it. I could barely utter my marriage vows. But it was such a good match and my mother wept that I had been chosen by such a gentleman.’ She clasped Minou’s hand, almost dropping her fan. One white feather came loose. It fluttered in the breeze for an instant, before falling to the cobblestones. ‘But I confess it grieves me, Niece, to think you have been robbed of the experience of having your mother there to see you married. My poor sister, taken from us before her time. It fair breaks my heart.’

  Minou smiled. ‘Please, do not worry. I do miss her company and guidance but, in faith, I do not think the occasion of my marriage will be worse than any other day on that account.’ She squeezed her aunt’s soft arm. ‘And besides, if I marry, you will be there, dear Aunt, and stand for my mother.’

  Madame Boussay blushed. ‘Well, well, how charming that you would want me . . . and should say so. Well . . .’ Her voice fell away, plump with pleasure. ‘And, of course, I would be honoured. I dearly would have loved a daughter of my own, but the Lord did not see fit to bless us with the gift of children.’ She tapped Minou on the arm. ‘But what mean you by “if”? Of course, you will marry. You should marry, every girl should. I had already been married some four years by the time I was your age. Do you not have a suitor?’ She dropped her voice lower. ‘If it is a dowry you lack, well, whatever Monsieur Boussay might have to say about it, I like to think I know my duty to my own flesh and blood.’

  ‘That is generous of you, Aunt, but I am in no hurry to wed. I am taking great pleasure in my time here in Toulouse and have no desire to bring it to an end.’