The Burning Chambers

by Kate Mosse

  At the west end of the chamber, a raised dais had been installed and furnished with five high-backed ecclesiastical chairs. A pass door led directly from the dais into an antechamber, shielded by a tapestry of St Augustine himself. Below the stage, at a long oak bench, two scribes sat, their heads bowed, white quills and inkhorns set before them, waiting to record the words of the discussion.

  Piet was too high up to distinguish any man’s expression below, but their style of clothing marked their allegiance. A huddle of men in the red and purple of the cathedral chapter; the black and grey of the lawyers and attorneys-at-law; the gold-trimmed robes of the judges and the green and military blues of the town guard. Piet cast his eye around until he saw the Huguenot leaders, Saux, La Popelinière and the pastor, Jean Barrelles, amongst them. A day and a half since the riots had started, tempers were still high.

  ‘We will not agree to that,’ someone declared.

  An explosion of complaint, everyone talking at the same time. Fingers jabbing at the air, a priest raising his hands, the Seneschal of Toulouse summoning a servant to bring him more wine. Presiding over the whole was the President of the Parliament, Jean de Mansencal.

  The sharp rap of a gavel. ‘I will have silence!’

  ‘You insult the King by refusing to honour the statutes of—’

  ‘And you offend God by your . . .’

  Piet saw Saux turn away, his fists clenched.

  ‘Order! I will have order,’ one of the judges shouted. ‘My lords, gentlemen all, please. Let us put this issue to one side for now, and instead address –’

  His suggestion was drowned in another wave of angry shouting. Piet sent his eyes around the chamber, noticing Toulouse’s most notorious dealer of weapons and arms, Pierre Delpech, standing in the Catholic corner with a corpulent man, whose forehead glistened with sweat.

  ‘There is no key,’ Minou said out loud.

  Her voice echoed in the dank, vaulted cellar. But then, what else should she expect? If this was the concealed way in and out of the cellar through the house, it was obvious the key would be on the far side of the door.

  All at once, she heard a different tread above her head. Moments passed, then she heard a scuffling.

  ‘Minou?’ hissed a voice. ‘Are you there?’

  Her heart leapt with relief.

  ‘Aimeric,’ she said, pressing both hands to the door. ‘Is there a key on your side?’ She heard the latch turn, then the door was pushed open and her brother was standing there, grinning in triumph.

  ‘You brilliant, brilliant boy.’

  He threw his arms around her.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ he blurted out. ‘When they came back yesterday without you, I thought you’d been killed, even though old witch Montfort said you’d run away.’

  ‘Run away! You could not think I would go anywhere without you. As if I would ever leave you behind.’

  Awkward about his show of affection, Aimeric stepped back.

  ‘I didn’t believe it, but she claimed she saw you in the arms of a soldier – a Huguenot – and that you had gone with him.’

  Minou’s colour rose. ‘Madame Montfort is a vile and unpleasant woman, who lets her imagination – and her tongue – run away with her.’ She frowned. ‘What of our aunt? Did she believe Madame Montfort’s lies?’

  Aimeric shrugged. ‘No one tells me anything, but she’s been in her chamber crying all the time.’ He paused. ‘I am glad you are safe.’

  Minou hugged him tight. ‘As you can see, all is well, even if I am a little dusty. Come.’

  She pulled the door to the cellar shut, and they began to walk along the passageway that led back up into the main house.

  ‘Madame Montfort said that the Huguenots attacked the St Salvador procession. Is that true?’ Aimeric asked.

  ‘No. It was the Catholics who attacked a Protestant funeral cortège, nothing to do with the procession. We were caught in the middle of the fighting.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come home with them?’

  ‘We became separated and I was struck.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Madame Montfort was right in one particular. It was a Huguenot who came to my aid. It was Piet, Aimeric. He took me to safety in the almshouse in rue du Périgord, and stayed with me until I recovered consciousness this morning.’

  ‘Piet!’ Aimeric’s eyes blazed. ‘I knew he would make it out of Carcassonne. Did he speak of me? Did he say how I helped him?’

  Minou laughed. ‘In point of fact, he did. And, for my part, I scolded him for putting you at risk. He intends to make amends by teaching you to throw a knife, as he promised.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘We’ll have to see.’ The smile faded from her face. ‘The fact of it is that Piet is a Huguenot. Our uncle is one of the leading Catholics in Toulouse, and nurses a profound dislike of Protestants. At the moment, with everything so unsettled, it will be difficult.’

  ‘But I’m not Catholic,’ Aimeric exclaimed. ‘I mean, I am, but it makes no difference to me. I like Piet.’

  ‘These days, petit, it makes every difference, whether we like it or not. But, from what I overheard, the two sides are meeting this afternoon to negotiate a truce. God willing, everything will be resolved. Toulouse will return to normal.’

  They had climbed the last step and come out in the private chapel. It was calm, everything still and quiet. The unlit candles, the silver offertory plate, the hassocks with the Boussay crest on them neatly placed before the altar. Minou brushed a cobweb from her hair, then shut the small cellar door behind them. She ran her hand over the wood. The door was completely flat, designed to fit precisely into the section of the wainscoting. From this side, save for the keyhole, it was hard to see there was a door there at all.

  ‘How did you even know this was here? Or even to come looking for me in the cellar?’

  ‘The kitchen maid saw you arguing with Madame Montfort in the courtyard and ran to tell me. When I came looking and there was no sign of you, I guessed what had happened.’

  Aimeric sat himself down in the narrow, straight-backed pew and stretched out his legs. ‘Nicer here when there’s no one around,’ he said. ‘Peaceful.’

  Minou frowned. ‘Madame Montfort’s behaviour was extraordinary. She was talking to Steward Martineau in the courtyard. The next thing I know, she struck me and locked me down there.’

  ‘They are always conspiring together. She steals things, and Martineau smuggles them out of the house when they think no one’s watching.’

  Minou sat down beside him. ‘You can’t be suggesting she is a thief? I dislike her too, but you’re letting your imagination get the better of you.’

  Aimeric shrugged. ‘I’ve seen her. They meet here in the chapel, or sometimes Uncle’s study in the afternoon when everyone is sleeping. She has the keys to every cupboard, every chamber. Sometimes it’s something small, other times I’ve seen him sneaking out through the kitchen yard carrying a flour sack. A candlestick went missing last week.’ He gestured to the altar and Minou noticed that the two bases did not match. ‘One of the chambermaids was blamed, but I’m sure Madame Montfort took it. And Aunt Boussay is always losing things. A brooch, a necklace. I heard Uncle shouting at her again last week for being careless.’

  If Aimeric was right, Minou thought, it might well account not only for Madame Montfort’s panic earlier, but also why she had always so resented their presence in the household.

  ‘There’s a quantity of barrels and crates being stored in the cellar,’ she said, glancing at the door. ‘Gunpowder, guns, shot.’

  Aimeric’s dark eyes blazed. ‘That’s what they’ve been doing at night.’

  ‘You knew?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not what it was they were bringing into the house, but I knew they were up to something. When I can’t sleep at night, I sometimes go outside to the balcony.’ He sighed. ‘It reminds me of sitting with Bérenger on the battlements of La Cité, watching the stars.’

  Minou squeezed his hand
. ‘I’m sorry you are so unhappy.’

  He shrugged again. ‘I’m getting used to it. Anyway, half the houses in the city are being used to store weapons now.’

  ‘I was not aware of that. And I cannot believe Madame Montfort is either, otherwise why would she have put me down there in the first place?’

  ‘I wager she does, but she and Martineau are becoming careless now Uncle is so rarely here.’ He paused, then looked down at his feet. ‘But you are all right, aren’t you? No one hurt you, or . . .’

  Minou put her arm around his shoulder. ‘All is well, my brave little brother. Is Uncle here now?’

  ‘No. He went out at midday and has not returned.’

  ‘I need to speak to our aunt, to put right any falsehoods Madame Montfort has put in her head. Can you keep watch? It will not take long.’

  ‘At your service,’ Aimeric said with a flourish. ‘Leave it to me.’

  Delpech was signalling to someone at the far end of the chamber, out of Piet’s line of vision, beckoning for him to join him. Others, soldiers and monks, were slipping in at the back of the room to hear the verdict.

  The scribe passed a parchment to a servant, who took it to Jean de Mansencal. He read it, nodded his approval, then rose to his feet. The chamber fell silent.

  ‘By the authority invested in me,’ he pronounced, ‘and in the presence of honourable capitouls of the Hôtel de Ville, his noble excellency the Seneschal of Toulouse, and my fellow judges of the Parliament, these are the terms of truce as agreed on this, the third day of April, Friday, in the year of grace of our Lord fifteen hundred and sixty-two.’

  Piet realised he was holding his breath. Would the decision be just? Would it be fair? Was this to be the moment when Toulouse turned away from civil war or marched towards it? There was a price to be paid, but who would be called upon to pay it?

  ‘This day it is decreed,’ de Mansencal read, ‘that the powers and rights set down in the Edict of Toleration of January last shall be upheld. Thereby, under said conditions, it is agreed that the Huguenot community of Toulouse shall be permitted to maintain, at its own expense, a force of no more than two hundred unarmed militia to protect their persons and property.’

  A bellow went up from all sides of the chamber. It was both too much, and yet not enough.

  ‘With equal consideration and’ – de Mansencal had to raise his voice to be heard – ‘and with equal consideration and under the same conditions, as set down in the Edict of Toleration, the Catholic community shall be allowed to recruit a force of similar number and to serve under four professional captains, responsible for the levy of the town militia, these four to be under the control of the Town Council.’

  Another uproar of complaint. They were like schoolchildren, Piet thought with disgust, objecting for the sake of it. The lives of innocent people were at stake, yet they behaved as if it was a game.

  ‘All other soldiers,’ de Mansencal continued, all but shouting the verdict now, ‘whether their presence within the city limits is by invitation, as part of a private militia, or as a volunteer – save those retained by the conditions hitherto laid down – shall withdraw immediately from Toulouse. It will be considered a breach of the terms of this truce for the tocsin bell to be rung or for any other call to arms to be issued. Finally, it is agreed by the leadership of both parties as set down here this day, that my officials – together with those of the Hôtel de Ville – shall undertake an investigation into those responsible for the damage to property and loss of life from midday on the second of April until noon today and punish those deemed culpable.’

  One of the judges banged his gavel and de Mansencal raised his hand.

  ‘Hear ye, in the sight of God and in the name of His Royal Majesty the King and her most noble Excellency, the Queen Regent, this is the decision of these here assembled. It is the duty of every man to uphold the terms of the truce for the good of Toulouse. Vive le Roi. God save the King.’

  At a signal, the trumpeters played a flourish, forestalling any questions, and the President exited the chamber, followed by the other judges, the Seneschal’s entourage and the eight capitouls.

  For a moment, there was silence. Then, pandemonium. Men headed for the doors, pushing and elbowing one another aside in their haste to return to their own territories and report the decision.

  High in his eyrie, Piet leant back against the pillar. Was there any chance of a fair investigation to identify the true perpetrators of the disorder, Catholic as well as Huguenot, or would innocent men hang for the sake of re-establishing public order? Each side would pretend to honour the terms of the peace whilst shoring up its own defences. If Toulouse had been flooded with weapons before the riots, from this moment on it would get worse. Men like Delpech, he thought bitterly, would profit.

  Piet peered down, looking to see if the weapons dealer was still there. He saw Delpech walking through the chamber flanked by a clutch of lesser officials from the Town Council and several churchmen, including a canon from the cathedral. He saw a tall and imposing man who, in the stuffy heat of the chamber, briefly removed his biretta, smoothed down his hair, then replaced it. Black hair with a white streak.

  Vidal.

  At first, relief surged through him, then a rat-a-tat of a myriad images assaulted his senses, flashing in and out of his mind as in a drug-induced dream: Vidal’s red robes sweeping into the Saint-Nazaire cathedral at dawn; the Fournier house like the setting for a masque, a sleight of hand of make-believe and mirrors; the drugged wine; lying cold on the ground in the shadow of the medieval Cité walls.

  So much trouble, and for what? For the Shroud of Antioch?

  Piet knew the answer was yes. It was an object of great and holy significance for the Catholic Church, a relic said to be able to work miracles. Vidal would do everything he could to get it back.

  And then, as always, the same question like a splinter beneath his skin: why would Vidal go to such trouble to catch him, to question him, only to let him go? There could only be one answer. Piet could no longer deny it. It was because, for now at least, he was more use to Vidal at liberty than in prison. And Vidal had arranged to have him followed. It was not his overcharged imagination, but the truth.

  Piet felt cut adrift, exhausted by the days of fighting and suffering, the lack of sleep and living on his wits. He had no choice but to accept that the man who had been his greatest friend was now his most dangerous enemy. Vidal, alive not dead. Not imprisoned, but here, clearly a man of influence and power in the heart of the beast.

  His relief at Vidal’s deliverance died, leaving in its place the cold, bitter taste of betrayal.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CARCASSONNE

  Blanche pressed another coin into Marie’s hand. ‘I have no further need of your assistance.’

  ‘If there was a position in your service, my lady, would you consider me? I am a hard worker, I would travel anywhere, the further away from Carcassonne the better, and I—’

  ‘Enough.’ Having gathered the information she needed, Blanche wanted rid of the girl. ‘I have no need of a lady’s maid.’

  Marie flushed. Blanche waited for the girl to vanish into one of the alleyways leading from the square. She then summoned her manservant, who had been following at a discreet distance since they had left the bishop’s palace.

  ‘Prepare the carriage for immediate departure. We will continue to Puivert as soon as my business here is concluded.’

  He bowed and took his leave.

  Blanche walked to the Joubert house. A wild rose trailed, uncut, above the lintel. From Marie, she knew the household was made up of Joubert himself – his wife having died in the last plague epidemic some five years previously – and his three children: a nineteen-year-old called Marguerite, known as Minou, who was unmarried and still lived at home; a thirteen-year-old boy by the name of Aimeric, and a younger girl called Alis.

  Blanche considered the possibilities. It was frustrating to discover the two oldest were
currently in Toulouse. At seven years old, Alis was too young to be of interest. If only Blanche had known this, she would not have come to Carcassonne.

  No matter. God was at her side. All things happened for a reason and in accordance with His plan.

  Blanche crossed herself, then knocked on the door. Marie Galy had a low opinion of the Joubert maid, dismissing her as dim-witted and clumsy. She did not therefore anticipate any difficulty in gaining access. Beyond that, she had no plan. She waited. When the maid did not come, she tried the handle and discovered the door was unlocked.

  Her first impression was of a well-kept house. The maid was clearly not as much of a slattern as Marie had led her to believe. The hooks in the passageway shone, a wooden chest polished as bright as a looking glass. Blanche opened the lid, releasing the familiar smell of beeswax. A pile of neatly folded linen lay inside, threadbare but carefully stitched. A possible hiding place for a document of value? She lifted the cloth, but her eye saw nothing of interest.

  She followed a smell of burnt milk to the kitchen, prepared to confront the maid at work, but that room was empty too. The blackened pan stood just outside the open back door. Beyond the small yard, a gate to the street was swinging. Had the maid been in her service, Blanche would have had her beaten for such slackness.

  She opened the dresser and started to search through the drawers, finding nothing of note. She regretted not going first to the Joubert bookshop in the Bastide. It was more likely any legal documents would be kept there, rather than in the family home. Then again, it was Minou she wanted.

  Only when she turned towards the fireplace did Blanche see a sleeping child was curled in a chair with a kitten on her lap.

  Was this Alis?

  Blanche took a step forward, startling the cat. It shot from the girl’s lap, a streak of tabby fur, out into the yard.