The Burning Chambers

by Kate Mosse

  Bernard rubbed the dust from his eyes and his wife slipped away from him, leaving him alone again. A lonely and old man, forced to return to a place of secrets.

  Though it was dusk, sweat soon moistened his brow and his heavy travelling clothes stuck to the small of his back as he trudged on and up the steep hillside. Each step was harder than the one before. Many times, he paused to catch his breath.

  Finally, Bernard rounded the last corner and the castle came into view. He stopped. He could hardly walk in through the gatehouse uninvited and demand admittance. Was he being foolish? Was it likely any evidence would still be here after all these years?

  Bernard glanced back down to the village below, feeling every one of his sixty years. Then, conscious of being visible on the open ground in front of the drawbridge, he stepped quickly off the main path and into the thicket of trees in the deeper woods on the north side of the castle.

  Pushing thin branches back with his hands, he threaded his way gingerly along a narrow path. Footprints in the damp earth, and a few branches snapped at the height of a man’s shoulder, suggested poachers had recently come this way.

  From the shelter of the trees, he could now make out the outline of the Tour Gaillarde and, opposite, the Tour Bossue, where the dungeons were to be found.

  As he drew closer to the keep, he heard the sound of the watch patrolling the perimeter of the castle. He assumed they would withdraw within the walls when night fell. From the highest point of the square tower, a man could see for thirty leagues in every direction: west to Bélesta, north to Chalabre, east to Quillan and, in the distant south, to the great white wall of the Pyrenees.

  There was an opening in the walls of the upper courtyard which used to lead into the kitchen gardens. It was little used and, if his luck held and the gate was unguarded, he thought he could steal in and out of the castle within an hour, without anyone ever seeing him. If the object he sought was there for the finding, it would be in the keep.

  ‘There!’

  They were upon him in an instant. Bernard cried out in pain as his arms were wrenched up behind his back. Then, the hood of a hessian sack was thrown over his head and a kick aimed at the back of his knees, sending him sprawling, chin first, onto the ground. Bernard tasted blood in his mouth and struggled to breathe, as his hands were bound at the wrist. Rope, strong enough to bind an ox.

  ‘Another poacher. That’s the third today.’

  ‘Take him to the Tour Bossue,’ came the order. ‘He can stay there until the mistress returns.’

  ‘Might be in for a long wait. Our noble lady has gone to Toulouse to pray for her husband’s soul, or so they say.’

  The soldiers laughed.

  ‘Pray for his soul! More likely she’ll pray he stays dead and buried in the ground, the old sinner.’

  Bernard felt a rough hand pushing him forward.

  ‘Let’s get him inside, the light’s fading.’

  ‘Or leave him here for the wolves . . .’

  Another stab in his back, perhaps the wooden hilt of a pike. He stumbled forward.

  ‘Get on with it, paysan.’

  He is snared. I set the trap and it is sprung. Though he has pledged his soul to God, he is a man like any other. His body, his hands, his breath declare it to be so. He is made of flesh and blood and desire.

  The keys to the Episcopal Palace will be his if he puts his trust in me. The bishop is old and, so the servants gossip, o’er fond of food and drink. His Excellency’s palate can no longer distinguish sweet from sour. I have what is needed to influence a sudden stopping of the heart or an attack of siege sickness. It is simple.

  Like other men who aspire to greatness, Valentin seeks to leave his mark upon the world. To be remembered in monuments and stone while common men lie forgotten in unmarked graves. I will help raise him up. He will benefit from a noble patroness.

  The disturbance in the streets around the cathedral has quietened, though the night air is alive with the sounds of rioting and looting. My lover will come to me again tonight, however much he tries to resist. His ardour will not let him rest.

  So, to my question. Before I take my leave of Toulouse, should I tell him of the child? When his desire is spent, shall I place his hand upon my belly, let him know he has created the new life quickening inside me?

  Between now and the setting of the sun, I shall pray for guidance. God is merciful. God loves those who serve Him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  TOULOUSE

  Friday, 3rd April

  Minou was floating high above the earth, held by hands as soft as feathers in an endless blue sky, everything full of light. She was weightless and peaceful, no sound and no fear and no pain.

  ‘Kleine schat.’

  A man’s voice, and then a woman murmuring: ‘She is waking, Monsieur.’

  Minou felt gentle hands arranging a cloth behind her head. As she withdrew, the woman whispered in her ear.

  ‘He has hardly left your side.’

  ‘Take this for your trouble. My thanks.’

  Minou felt the curve of a strong arm around her back.

  ‘Can you sit? Take care not to put any weight on your left shoulder, for—’

  She put her right hand to the ground, sending a whip-crack of pain shooting up her arm, and yelped.

  ‘– it will be painful!’

  ‘That hurt.’

  ‘Your shoulder is badly bruised, but not broken. You were lucky.’

  ‘Lucky!’

  Her eyes flickered open to see her cloak was laid over her legs and her left arm was strapped against her chest in a white triangle of cotton.

  Minou turned her head. Piet was sitting beside her on a low chest. Plain clothes, an open jerkin, his hair that peculiar sooty black. So close that she could feel the warmth of his breath.

  He smiled. ‘I would say so, yes. This far to the left and you would have had a cracked skull. What, in the name of God, possessed you to rush into the middle of the fray?’

  She frowned. ‘There was a child, kneeling in the middle of the street, the men fighting all around her. Is she . . . ?’

  ‘We have her. She’s safe.’

  ‘I have a sister, Alis,’ she said, feeling the need to explain. ‘She is much the same age . . .’

  ‘Minou,’ he said, his tone part exasperation, part affection, and she felt her heart shift.

  ‘You remember my name.’

  His eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Of course. You gave it to me as a keepsake, remember?’

  ‘So I did.’ Minou closed her eyes. ‘She was praying, Piet. In the middle of that chaos and strife, the ugliness of it, that little girl was praying. She believed God would spare her.’

  ‘If it is not heresy to say so, Mademoiselle Minou, it was you who saved her life. Not God.’

  ‘And you, mine. And for that, I thank you.’

  ‘Consider it a debt repaid. Were it not for your assistance in March, I would now be languishing in the Seneschal’s prison in Carcassonne.’

  Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled herself up to a sitting position. Every muscle in her body, her back, her head, ached.

  ‘My aunt was also caught up in the disturbance this afternoon. I think she was taken away before the worst of it, but I would know that she is safe.’

  Piet laughed. ‘Not this afternoon, but yesterday,’ he said. ‘It is Friday. You have been lost to us for many hours.’

  Minou felt her head spin. ‘That cannot be! My brother, my aunt, they will be desperate for news of me, I must go.’ She tried to stand up, but a wave of nausea gripped her, and she sat back again.

  ‘You cannot leave at the moment, even if you had strength enough,’ Piet said. ‘The streets are too dangerous. We are waiting to hear news of a truce.’

  Minou struggled to stand again. ‘But I must go.’

  ‘I give you my word, as soon as it is safe, I will take you home. For now, you should rest. Here.’ He handed her a goblet of wine. ‘This will help.
What is the name of your aunt? I will enquire.’

  ‘Boussay,’ she replied. ‘Salvadora Boussay.’

  Piet’s face darkened. ‘Boussay,’ he repeated.

  ‘Do you know her?’ she said.

  ‘No, but if it is the same family, I know of her husband. I will be back presently.’

  When Piet left, Minou leant back against the wall and took in her surroundings. She was in a small anteroom with plain white-washed walls. A shelf of heavy ledgers ran above a long counter that filled the entire wall, with papers, ink and quills and an accounts book left open beside a wooden abacus. Diamonds of sunlight were filtered through the leaded glass window on the opposite wall.

  Piet had left the door ajar, so Minou could see through to the long, wide room beyond, much like a dormitory in a convent. All along one side stood a row of living compartments, divided from one another by heavy red curtains. Each space contained a bed with a small low chair set at the foot and an individual chest. In the middle of the room, makeshift beds had been set, and grey and blue blankets spread on the tiled floor, where the injured lay, many like her sporting bandages or dressings. Women moved in and out of her sight line, carrying pails of water and white muslin bandages.

  ‘Madame Boussay has not been brought here,’ Piet said, coming back into the antechamber and closing the door. ‘I think it is unlikely she would be, but I have asked to be told if anyone hears something to the contrary.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Minou said. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘The maison de charité in rue du Périgord.’

  She smiled, for of course she had walked past it many times. The only Protestant almshouse in Toulouse, next to the humanist college, it was one of the establishments her uncle was trying to have shut down.

  ‘This seemed the safest place to bring our wounded and dead.’

  ‘You are a Huguenot, Piet?’

  ‘I am.’

  She held his gaze. ‘I am Catholic.’

  ‘I had guessed as much.’ He gestured to the rosary at her waist. ‘The fact that your uncle is Monsieur Boussay confirms it.’

  ‘Yet someone brought me here.’

  ‘Me.’ A smile flickered across Piet’s lips. ‘I carried you here myself, having first dispatched the man who attacked you.’

  ‘Dispatched! You mean – you did not . . . ?’

  ‘Kill him, no, though I confess I wanted to. I give no quarter to men, be they Catholic or Protestant, who assault women and children.’ He frowned. ‘Tell me, what manner of man is your uncle? I know he is secretary to a capitoul, but is he a fair man?’

  Minou shook her head. ‘I regret he thinks any concession given to the Reformed Religion is a concession too many.’

  Piet leant forward. ‘But what of you, Minou? Do you share his opinions?’

  She tilted her head. ‘I was raised a Catholic, but with a mind open to the faiths and opinions of others. I think I told you my father has a bookshop in Carcassonne? He stocks texts to satisfy all tastes.’

  ‘The Catholics of Toulouse are not minded to be so tolerant.’

  ‘My father would say a man’s faith is his own business, provided he respects the laws of the land. A woman’s too, for my sex are as capable of rational thought and devotion as any man. And what I witnessed in rue Nazareth only confirmed what I have long thought, that much of this current conflict is fuelled by a desire for power rather than by any true piety. It is that which caused yesterday’s riots, not any love of God.’ Minou looked up, then saw Piet staring intently at her. ‘I’m sorry. I spoke too forcefully.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I am of the same opinion.’ He smiled. ‘It seems we are not, in point of fact, on opposite sides at all.’

  Minou felt the knot of emotion in her chest untangle. For so many weeks, she had imagined how it might feel to see Piet again. Flesh and blood, not a half-remembered figure in her mind. What she had not expected was that it would feel so normal.

  ‘The funeral was for the wife of a Huguenot merchant,’ Piet said, steering the conversation to less dangerous ground. ‘A man much respected in our community, a friend of a good friend of mine, and his wife was greatly liked. However, her family are Catholic and wished her to have a Catholic burial. When they came face to face with your procession . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘Everything turned ugly so quickly.’

  ‘It did.’

  He started to slide the beads of the abacus back and forth. Minou closed her eyes, taking comfort in the gentle tap, tap of the wood on the frame.

  ‘But, tell me this, Minou. How is it you come to be in Toulouse at all? How long have you been here?’

  Minou smiled. In her imagined conversations with him, she had overlooked the fact that he did not know how much her circumstances had changed since they had last been together.

  ‘For almost a month we have been lodging with our aunt and uncle in rue du Taur. My aunt is my late mother’s sister and, though there was a long-standing estrangement between the families, I like her very much. She is kind and good-hearted. My father hopes that Aimeric will benefit from Monsieur Boussay’s patronage.’

  Piet’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Aimeric, did you say? I met a boy of that name in Carcassonne. Wild black hair, mischievous, sharp.’

  ‘My brother, yes,’ she said, then waved her finger at him. ‘In fact, I own I was much vexed when I heard how you put him at risk by asking for his help. I mean it,’ she scolded, when Piet grinned. ‘Bribing him to break into the Fourniers’ house, then again to steal out of La Cité to fetch your horse, even though a curfew was declared. You could have had him arrested.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Piet replied, with mock contrition, ‘though I venture to suggest Aimeric can look after himself.’

  ‘That is not my point at all,’ she said, trying to sound sombre.

  ‘In faith, I do apologise. Truly. But I tell you, I owe my liberty to your brother. If he had not been so sharp-witted, I would without doubt have been languishing in prison now. It seems I am in your family’s debt twice over.’

  Minou continued to frown. He nudged her arm.

  ‘But am I forgiven?’

  ‘Are you truly sorry?’

  Piet put his hand to his heart. ‘Truly, I am.’

  ‘Well, then we will say no more about it.’ She smiled. ‘Aimeric also claims you promised to teach him a trick with a knife? Some manner of throwing which captured his imagination. He has not stopped talking of it.’

  ‘Indeed, I did. Now I know we are neighbours, I will do my best to keep my word.’ Piet ran his fingers through his hair, bringing away flakes of charcoal and black soot. Minou laughed.

  ‘A precaution, though not one that proves long-lasting!’

  ‘As a disguise, it serves. Your true colour would stand out in a crowd.’

  He laughed. ‘My friend tells me I am as a twin to the Queen of England.’

  ‘May I ask you something?’

  ‘There is no question you might ask that I will not answer.’

  ‘What does kleine schat mean? You said it when I was waking up.’

  To Minou’s surprise, Piet looked away. ‘Ah, I did not realise I had spoken out loud.’ He smiled. ‘It means “little treasure”. It’s what my mother called me when she tucked me into my bed at night. I lived my earliest years in Amsterdam.’

  ‘It is a city my father much enjoys to visit.’

  ‘It is a wonderful city.’

  ‘Does she live there still?’

  Piet shook his head. ‘She died many winters past, when I was seven years old, but her grave is there. One day, I will return.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Minou, remembering how bitterly Aimeric had mourned the death of their mother, took Piet’s hand, not caring if the gesture was too forward.

  ‘You loved her very much,’ she said softly.

  ‘I did.’ He paused. ‘Yes, I did. It’s a long time ago now.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you cannot still mourn he
r absence.’

  For a long moment, they sat in silence. Then, becoming aware again of the hubbub in the dormitory outside the private chamber, Minou squeezed his fingers, then withdrew her hand.

  ‘Aimeric said the Fournier house was empty,’ Minou said, sensing she should change the subject.

  Piet cleared his throat. ‘That’s right. Not a stick of furniture, nothing. On the previous evening, the apartment had been well furnished. A lit fire, tapestries upon the wall, a library.’

  ‘He said there was blood by the windows. Is that true? Aimeric has a tendency to embellish the facts for the sake of his story.’

  ‘Quite true. Aimeric is observant. He has the makings of a fine soldier. A good eye, courage, a sharp wit.’

  ‘My father would rather he was a gentleman or a scholar. It is one of the reasons he sent him here to Toulouse. He cannot accept that it is not Aimeric’s nature to spend his life among books.’

  ‘Aimeric must find his own path in the world,’ Piet said, ‘as must we all.’

  A volley of shouting from the room beyond their chamber interrupted their quiet conversation. Piet went to the door and looked out.

  ‘You should go,’ Minou said. ‘I have trespassed too long on your time.’

  ‘They will manage without me a moment longer. There is something else I would ask of you.’

  She hesitated, then gave his own words back to him. ‘There is no question you might ask that I will not answer.’

  ‘So, again, we are well matched. That day in Carcassonne, why were you so sure I was innocent? Why did you help me to escape?’

  Minou had asked herself that same question many times. Why had she – who kept her own counsel and relied on no one – so completely believed in this stranger?

  This Huguenot stranger.

  In plain language, she explained about the visitor to the bookshop, about finding his corpse beneath the bridge the next morning before the tocsin was rung, of her father’s reaction when he heard of the death.

  ‘So, it seemed all but impossible that you could be responsible. For how could the search for Michel’s murderer have begun before he was even dead?’