by Kate Mosse
The slap took Minou by surprise, sending her stumbling against the stone balustrade of the loggia.
‘Madame Montfort!’
She had arrived home to find her with the steward, Martineau, whispering together in the courtyard. Madame Montfort had pulled something from her pocket and had passed it to him. He had looked down, appeared to count, then nodded and vanished into the house. Minou had waited, until she thought Madame Montfort had also gone.
‘Madame!’ she shouted, deflecting a second blow.
‘Where have you been?’ Madame Montfort’s face was ugly with fury, and something else: guilt, Minou realised. ‘Your aunt has not been able to rest for fear something ill had befallen you, yet here you are, skulking back like some kitchen girl on heat.’
Minou stared, incredulous. ‘You forget yourself.’
‘It is you who forget yourself,’ she hissed. ‘You are nothing in this house, nothing. You and your uncouth, vulgar brother, poor relations come to leech upon your betters. You bring this fine household into disrepute. Staying out all night, like a common doxy.’
‘You cannot possibly imagine—’
‘Did you think no one would mark your wanton behaviour? Did you?’
Madame Montfort was shouting so loudly that a serving girl stuck her nose out to see what was happening, and was furiously waved away.
‘This is unwarranted calumny,’ Minou protested, but the older woman grasped her arm.
‘How dare you think you can do as you please? Salvadora might be taken in by you, but I am not and neither is my brother. You need to learn to show respect to your betters. Well, this will give you time to reflect upon your failings.’
Without warning, Minou found herself being dragged down the steps below the loggia. Before she could take in what was happening, Madame Montfort had opened a small wooden door and pushed her roughly inside the basement. Then there was a click of a key in the lock, and Minou realised she was imprisoned.
For a moment, she just stood listening as the footsteps on the far side of the door grew faint with the clinking of the heavy ring of keys at Madame Montfort’s waist. Minou couldn’t comprehend what had caused Madame Montfort to so completely lose control of herself. To raise her hand to Minou, to treat her like a servant, that was far beyond her authority.
Was it prompted by what she had been doing with the steward Martineau? The guilt in her eyes when she had turned and seen Minou watching her?
Weary, and with her shoulder throbbing, Minou sat heavily on the top step. Her nose was filled with the sour smell of must and damp wood. The swish of a rat turning tail made her shudder. She felt sorry for herself, but she was determined not to give way. Not after everything she had witnessed and endured and survived.
Slowly, her eyes grew accustomed to the semi-gloom. A criss-crossed lattice of red bricks at ground-floor level allowed both fresh air and daylight into the cellar. She had never noticed the grille from the courtyard. Gradually, she made out that the entire wall opposite was lined with cases, barrels and wooden chests, stacked from the rough earth floor to the brick ceiling.
Minou went over to get a closer look. Many of the crates had the letter D branded in ink upon the side. She realised she was not the only recent guest. Set neatly on top of one of the barrels were two plain cups. She sniffed and smelt the remains of ale. There was also a half-eaten loaf of bread which, although dry and as hard as rock, was not mouldy. Victuals for the men who had brought the barrels down?
Minou traced her fingers over the surface of the nearest barrel and found a fingerhole in the lid. She pulled carefully at the wood, easing it up until she could see inside. She had expected to see grain or flour, but this was something else. Minou pulled up her sleeve, ignoring the ache in her muscles, then wiggled her wrist inside. Her fingers found grit, like coarse sand or the rough dust that caught between the cobbles in La Cité. She held it up so that it caught the light.
A black powder, not the colour of earth.
Minou looked around, at all the other barrels and the long, flat chests. Using a thin piece of wood as a lever, she jemmied off the lid of one of the widest crates. A score of arquebuses laid one on top of another, wrapped in oiled cloth. Inside, the lid was branded the word DELPECH.
She had no need to look inside any other of the boxes to know that she would see other weapons. A private arsenal, but why here? Her uncle was not a military man. Then another thought suddenly struck her. Madame Montfort could not be aware of the cache of gunpowder and weapons, for surely she would not have locked her down here had she known?
A noise above startled her. Hastily, Minou put the lid back into place and straightened the loose cover on the barrel of gunpowder. Listening to the footsteps on the floorboards over her head, she tried to work out which room the sound came from. She counted the steps down, and the orientation of the door in the courtyard, and realised she was beneath the private chapel.
Then she had a more encouraging thought. Was it not probable that there was a way into the cellars from the house itself? Even at night, when there were fewer eyes to see, the commotion of men carrying heavy barrels and crates would have been hard to conceal from the road outside. All the rooms of the house overlooked the courtyard at one aspect or another. Someone would have seen something.
Invigorated, Minou began methodically to work her way along the wall, looking for some inconsistency in the surface of the bricks. She squeezed her hands into gaps between the stacked boxes, rolled the barrels to one side and back, paddling to find a latch or a handle.
At last, the sore tips of her fingers found a beam sitting out proud from the wall. With renewed energy, Minou lifted and dragged and pushed six wooden boxes aside until she could see. She smiled.
Her instincts were right. Set within the wall was a low door. Two metal hinges, clearly oiled and in working order, and an arched keyhole.
There was no key.
Piet stood under the overhang of the houses on rue des Arts, and peered out.
The main entrance to the Augustinian monastery was guarded by the Seneschal’s halberdiers, as the messenger had reported, and there were private soldiers patrolling the periphery. The monastery once had been one of the most influential in Toulouse, but fire and a lightning strike on the bell tower had left much of the building in disrepair.
Having watched for a few minutes, Piet decided his best point of entry was through the church. He knew there was a door that gave directly onto the street to allow the civilian congregation to join the monks for services. If he could access the nave, he would have a fighting chance to get through into the cloister itself. In appearance, he looked little different from any of the Huguenot leaders gathered within. If luck was on his side, no one would challenge him once he was inside.
Suddenly he thought of Vidal, their conversation in the confessional of Saint-Nazaire in Carcassonne. A lifetime ago, it seemed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CARCASSONNE
‘Your tongue is too sharp, Marie Galy,’ Bérenger muttered. ‘You’ll cut yourself one of these days.’
Marie tossed her head back, and laughed, delighted to have got a rise out of the old soldier.
‘You’re not my father. You can stop your ears if it’s not to your liking.’
She stepped up to the stone parapet around the well.
‘Your cheek will lead you into serious trouble,’ Bérenger said. ‘Mark my words.’
Marie heard his companion whisper how very fair she was on the eyes.
‘She’s too saucy,’ Bérenger grumbled.
‘I don’t mind it,’ the boy said, looking back over his shoulder.
Marie sent him a dazzling smile and a little wave of her fingers, causing him to blush brick red and stumble on the cobbled stones.
‘Come on,’ ordered Bérenger, continuing his patrol to the Château Comtal.
Marie was on the point of returning to her chores, when she saw an elegant and finely dressed lady walking towards Place d
u Grand Puits. She put her pail on the ground and watched. Such a graceful walk, her back as straight as a board, her shadow slender and elongated in the late afternoon sunshine. She had marble-white skin and glossy dark hair, black as a crow’s wing, just visible beneath her embroidered hood. And such fine clothes. The crimson cloak trimmed with red satin, the slashes in her sleeves the colour of irises.
The noblewoman stopped and looked around as if trying to find her bearings. Marie took her chance.
‘May I help you, my lady?’ she said, stepping down from the well. ‘I know La Cité well.’
The woman turned. Marie saw how her brows were shaped like crescent moons above her dark, glinting eyes.
‘I would know where the house of the Joubert family is to be found.’
Even the woman’s voice was unlike any Marie had ever heard. Thick and rich, like honey dripping from a spoon.
‘I know it. Aimeric is –’ She stopped herself, remembering Madame Noubel had told her to say nothing if anyone came asking.
The woman’s expression softened. ‘Your discretion becomes you well,’ she said, putting her hand into a velvet purse tied with a twisted blue cord at her wrist. ‘I see no reason why you should be disadvantaged for that. My thanks.’
She pressed a coin, bright and clean, into her hand. Marie smiled and dropped a curtsey. Surely Madame Noubel did not mean she could not talk to someone such as this? A noblewoman, so exquisitely attired and gracious.
‘Tell me about this Aimeric,’ the woman said. ‘Is there some understanding between you?’
Marie tossed her head. ‘He would say so. For my part, I am in no hurry. I would make a better match than a bookseller’s son.’
‘A bookseller, do you say?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
The woman smiled. Marie noted how her teeth were perfectly even, and perfectly white.
‘Then that is indeed the house I seek.’
TOULOUSE
‘The lady has quit her lodgings,’ Bonal said.
Vidal paused at the foot of the grand stone staircase of the Augustinian monastery. The wide brick corridors and vaulted ceilings were filled with the echoes of men’s voices, the rattle of armour and swords and soldiers’ boots. The monks moved through their contemplative spaces like black ghosts in their mendicant robes.
‘When?’
‘Yesterday, shortly after dawn.’
Vidal’s grip tightened on the balustrade. ‘How is it possible she was able to leave Toulouse? Were not all the gates in the cathedral quarter barred the instant the disturbance broke out?’
Bonal drew closer. ‘It appears the lady managed to secure the use of the bishop’s own carriage, and since the closest gate to her lodgings, the Porte Montolieu, was under a Catholic guard, they let it through.’
‘Without checking who was inside.’
‘It seems so, my lord.’
Conflicting emotions battled in Vidal’s chest: anger that she had gone without his knowledge; fury at how easily she seemed to have been able to commandeer a carriage from the bishop’s palace; finally, and he was ashamed of it, an aching disappointment. Though Vidal had prayed for forgiveness for his human frailty, God had not yet given him the strength to resist her temptation.
Vidal did not doubt the value of her continuing patronage. Though he had the support of men of commerce and law within Toulouse, he had no noble voice speaking in his favour. This was, of course, not the moment to launch his petition to be the next Bishop of Toulouse. The situation within the city was too fragile. But as soon as the next phase of the inevitable conflict began, neither his role, nor the incumbent bishop’s negligent inaction, would go unnoticed.
Then he would act.
‘Is it known if His Eminence approved the use of his carriage in person?’ he asked.
‘It is rumoured that he did.’
Vidal raised his eyebrows. ‘A story that began with you, Bonal?’
‘I thought it was my duty to share what I believed to be true.’
‘Quite right,’ Vidal said, allowing a brief smile to touch his lips. ‘Knowledge of any such lapses of judgement, or transgressions of so grave a nature, must be in the public interest.’ He moved towards the staircase. ‘I would be informed when she has arrived back in Puivert. Have a messenger sent after her.’
Bonal cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, Monsignor, but the stable boy says he heard mention of Carcassonne.’
Vidal turned again. ‘Carcassonne?’
‘That was the order given to the driver, so he says.’
‘Did you question him yourself? Was he certain?’
‘Most certain. The boy seemed trustworthy.’
Vidal hesitated. ‘What of our Dutch friend? Where is he?’
‘He was in the Huguenot tavern, then went to quartier Daurade.’
‘Did he approach the tailor’s workshop?’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t see you?’ Vidal said sharply.
‘No one saw me, Monsignor.’
Vidal frowned. ‘No one doubts the man died a natural death?’
‘No. It was common knowledge that his heart was weak.’
Vidal nodded and moved towards the staircase, then stopped again. ‘And, Bonal, find out why the lady has gone to Carcassonne. It may be an innocent arrangement of long standing, but I would know the reason for it all the same.’
CARCASSONNE
Rixende opened the front door to find Marie Galy standing on the step.
‘Oh. It’s you,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
Rixende disliked Marie Galy. Most girls did. She was too fond of herself, considered herself prettier than everyone else and made no attempts to pretend otherwise. Rixende had seen the way even Aimeric looked at Marie, with a mixture of hunger and admiration. She was not alone in resenting the fact that there was always a boy who would offer to help Marie to carry her pail of water or basket of logs when the rest of them were left to struggle.
‘What do you want?’
Marie gave a haughty smile. ‘I am sure I want nothing of you, Rixende, but there is a friend of Monsieur Joubert who would pay her respects.’
‘You know full well the master is not here,’ Rixende snapped, starting to close the door. She did not intend to have her afternoon wasted by Marie Galy, making herself important as usual.
Marie’s slim foot shot out and blocked the gap. ‘I’m sure I don’t know anything of the kind. Come, he is always here. Everyone knows he has barely set foot outside the house since the feast of Epiphany.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong!’ Rixende was pleased to be able to put Marie in her place. ‘He took his leave before Passiontide.’
‘Where did he go, Rixende?’
A wine-stain flush spread across Rixende’s pock-marked skin when she realised she’d given herself away. Madame Noubel had been quite clear that she was to keep that information to herself.
‘I can’t say.’
Rixende didn’t believe it really was a secret. Everyone knew everyone else’s business in La Cité.
‘Leaving Alis in the care of Madame Noubel,’ Marie sneered. ‘I see, that’s why she’s always here.’
‘Well, she’s in the Bastide today,’ Rixende snapped. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, some of us have things to do.’
She slammed the door. Any encounter with Marie always left her with the sense she had been judged and found wanting. Then, turning back to her chores, she smelt burning.
‘No . . .’ Rixende wailed.
The pan of milk she had left on the fire had boiled over. The only way Alis would take her medicine was if it was mixed in milk with a little honey. Rixende seized the handle, hoping to save a little of it, then let out a howl. The pan slipped from her scalded fingers and clattered to the ground, spilling what little remained over the tiles.
‘Minou?’
Alis, curled upon her father’s chair, jolted awake and the kitten leapt off her lap. Rixende was alarmed to see the g
irl’s colour so high.
‘No, it’s me,’ she said, fussing to tuck the blanket around the girl’s legs. ‘It’s nothing. I dropped the pan and the noise woke you. Go back to sleep.’
Alis stared up at her. ‘Minou hasn’t come home?’
Rixende’s heart turned over. She hated to see the little girl getting more sickly, thinner, by the day. In truth, though she would lose her daily wage, she was starting to hope Madame Noubel would return to the Bastide and take Alis with her. The little girl’s sadness was too much to bear.
Alis closed her eyes. Soon, her troubled breathing became steady again. Without Aimeric and Minou to play with her, she rarely went out. She was tiny, all skin and bone. Her black curls lay damp and flat on her cheeks.
Rixende bustled about, clearing up the mess on the floor, opening the door to let the acrid smell out. She could do very little to ease Alis’s suffering. The only thing she could do was make sure she had what she needed to soothe her cough. Another root of liquorice. Warm milk, honey, and the linctus.
She looked out of the window, at the light of the early evening dancing along the top of the wall at the rear of the house. It would only take a moment. Alis was sleeping again, Madame Noubel was not due back until dusk. If she went quickly, she could run home and borrow a quart of milk from her mother and be back within the half-hour.
Rixende took an earthenware jug from its hook, made sure the fire was safe, then slipped out the back door into the yard and into the street beyond.
No one would ever know she had gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
TOULOUSE
High above the debating chamber, Piet balanced his way along the narrow stone ridge at the top of the staircase, then vaulted the balustrade and dropped down onto the balcony out of sight.
Far below him, he saw a mass of faces. The room was cavernous. Red brick walls soared to a vaulted ceiling. On the south side, six tall arched windows of plain glass, many times the height of a man, overlooked the colonnades of the cloister and the refectory. On the north side were rows of wooden stalls where the monks were accustomed to sit.
