by Kate Mosse
‘He goes by the name of Valentin now,’ Minou said. ‘My uncle promotes his petition to be the next Bishop of Toulouse.’ She thought for a moment. ‘The only other frequent visitor of this cabal, though I have not seen him of late, is Phillipe Devereux.’
‘Nor I,’ Piet replied, ‘and good riddance. A man who plays both sides, I have nothing but contempt for him. You were right to try and warn me. I should have listened.’
‘He is also a spy?’
‘He was. His body was found in Place du Salin. How I wish I had trusted my instincts.’
‘It is your nobility of spirit that leads you to see the best in all men.’
Piet shook his head. ‘Would that I deserved your high opinion of me, but it was an English friend, Jasper McCone, who counselled me to hold my tongue.’ He sighed. ‘Devereux’s cousin, Oliver Crompton, has disappeared too. Jasper says he has left the city to join the Prince of Condé’s forces advancing from the north.’
Late afternoon light was shining through the high windows, sending a rainbow of patterned light into the nave. Calm and peaceful, it was impossible at this moment to imagine anything disturbing this timeless tranquillity.
‘Why did you ask me to meet you, Piet?’ Minou asked. ‘Not simply to ask me to go, for you could have sent Aimeric with that message.’
‘I knew you would refuse to leave.’
Minou gave a brief smile. ‘Maybe. I can’t see that the situation now is any different from these past weeks. The truce is still holding. Besides, I can’t leave Toulouse. My aunt relies upon me, I cannot leave her.’ Or you, she thought. How could I leave you? ‘And what would my father say if we arrived back in Carcassonne without warning?’
Piet drew her further back into the shadow of the side chapel and lowered his voice.
‘Minou, listen to me. At first, after the riots, I held to the hope that both the Catholic and our Protestant leaders wanted to find a compromise for the good of Toulouse. I no longer believe that. With each week that passes, there is more evidence of the prejudice of the Parliament against Huguenots. Every miscarriage of justice comes at a cost. Now there are too many of our number whose spirits, heated by news of the success of the campaigns in Orléans and Lyon, want conflict to come.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Condé has levied troops in Blagnac, and other villages around his estates. They plan to enter the city tonight.’
‘What do they intend?’
‘To force Toulouse to implement the Edict of Toleration and treat Huguenots and Catholics the same under the law and in the eyes of God.’
‘By means of an army?’
‘What other way is there now?’ he said. ‘Strength speaks unto strength. There are now thousands of Catholic soldiers in the city. We need to match them in order to bring them back to the negotiating table.’
Minou felt suddenly cold. The idea that a Huguenot army would enter the city by stealth tonight for the sole purpose of forcing a debate seemed the stuff of a child’s game. But she could see Piet wanted to believe it.
‘This is not another rumour?’
‘No.’ Piet took her hand. ‘I beg you, my own love, leave today before the gates are closed for the night. After that, it might be too late.’
‘I cannot leave. I have no means of transport, I have –’
‘The graveyards of history are littered with the bones of those who delayed too long, Minou. I will arrange a horse and carriage to take you out of the city, then an escort to take you across the border into the Aude. You should be safe then.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ she whispered. ‘You put yourself at risk.’
‘My sweet love,’ he said fiercely, ‘return to Carcassonne. I will fear nothing in the battle to come, and be better able to protect all those whose lives are in my hands, if I know you are safe. As soon as all this is passed, I will come to you.’ He cupped her face between his hands and brought his lips to hers. ‘Lieverd. My own darling.’
And hearing those words Minou realised then that he did not expect to survive the battle. She felt a fierce courage surge through her. She put her arms around his waist and held him.
‘Though I hesitate to put you into any danger, there is something else I would have you do for me,’ Piet said, finally pulling away.
‘Anything,’ Minou said.
‘God willing, tonight will pass with no loss of life.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘There is something of great value I would like to be taken to safety in case, for whatever reason, I cannot later retrieve it. There’s no one else I dare ask.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll show you,’ Piet said, quickly drawing her to the back of the narrow chapel and crouching down in front of the wall. ‘See? It is hidden here.’
‘What is it?’ she asked again, watching as he eased a loose brick out of the wall and set it to one side.
‘A fragment of the Holy Shroud, said to have been brought back by Crusaders from the Holy Land.’
‘The Shroud of Antioch.’
His eyes widened. ‘You know of it?’
‘My aunt told me it was taken some years ago, that’s all I know.’
‘It was stolen. Later, it found its way into my possession. When the time came, I found I could not bring myself to let it be bartered away.’ He flushed. ‘It is an object of exceptional beauty.’
Minou smiled. ‘I understand.’
‘I had a replica made and hid the original where it had always been. Here, in this church. I cannot bear the thought of it being damaged, or destroyed, if things tonight should go ill.’
Frowning, she crouched down and peered into the dark cavity at the base of the wall. ‘How long ago did you discover this hiding place?’
‘Four winters past,’ he said. ‘Why?’
Many years after her aunt had gone looking for somewhere to conceal her treasured gift within this same church.
‘Are there other such hiding spaces left within the walls?’
‘I don’t know of any. I learnt of this place from the old priest who was affiliated with the Collège de Foix when I was a student.’
Minou watched, as Piet gently drew out a square of rough grey cloth.
‘I wrapped the Shroud in a scrap of my old military cloak for safe-keeping,’ Piet said, holding the material softly in his hands.
Minou hesitated. ‘Is there anything else inside the cavity?’
He looked up at her. ‘Should there be?’
‘There might be a book.’
His eyes sparked with enquiry, but he reached his hand back into the darkness. ‘I can’t find anything.’
‘To one side, or further back perhaps?’
Piet lay down and worked the full length of his arm into the dust and the cobwebs.
‘Hold fast, there is something here. I can feel some kind of cord and . . . a small bag.’
Minou hardly dared breathe, realising how much she wanted her aunt’s story to be true, as Piet slowly pulled out a black velvet drawstring purse.
She smiled. ‘I had no real expectation it would be here. My aunt told me she had, some years ago, hidden something within the church.’
‘What is it?’
‘A bible, which was sent to her by my mother as a gift to mark the occasion of my birth. Of course, there should be no reason for you to have both found the same place of concealment, except that it was the same old priest who had told her of it.’
‘And in my urgency, I didn’t think to look to see if the space was empty or not.’ Piet passed her the bag. ‘Will you open it?’
Minou picked away the cobwebs and dust, untied the drawstring at the neck and took out the bible.
‘Well,’ Piet said, glancing up to heaven. ‘Someone was watching over her.’
Minou nodded. It was just as her aunt had described. Blue leather boards with a brighter blue silk ribbon to mark the pages.
She opened it. ‘And the text is in French.’
The sound of the outer church door sil
enced them. Sounds of the street filtered in from outside. The rumble of the wheels of a cart, the whisper of the door to the church shutting again, the air slipping out.
‘Can you see anyone?’ Piet hissed.
Minou peered out of the side chapel, then darted back into the shadows.
‘No one. Perhaps it was the old woman with her violets. She was on the step when I came in.’
They were both nervous now and feeling the pressure of time passing. Piet quickly pushed back the brick into place, placed the Shroud carefully into his satchel and handed it to Minou.
‘You are sure you are willing to do this?’
‘It will be safe in Carcassonne,’ she said, then put the bible inside the bag as well. ‘This too, treasures both.’
He stroked her cheek. ‘Thank you.’
‘All will be well, I am sure of it.’
Piet nodded, though his expression told a different story. ‘A carriage and horse will be waiting for you and Aimeric in the stables on rue des Pénitents Gris at seven o’clock this evening.’
Minou looked down at the battered leather case, then slung the strap over her shoulder beneath her cloak. ‘What if you find yourself trapped here in Toulouse? What then?’
Piet smiled. ‘I have been finding ways in and out of this city for many years. I give you my word I will find you again.’
The bells in the high tower above began to ring for the fifth hour, and they stood side by side, their hands clasped, until the echo had died away in the shimmering air.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Some half an hour after he and Minou had parted, Piet was standing in the stables in rue des Pénitents Gris confirming the arrangements.
‘But you understand that it is essential they leave the city tonight,’ Piet said again.
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
Piet placed his hand on the withers of a bay mare tethered in the corner of the stables, as if to anchor himself.
‘And that—’
‘There will be two passengers,’ the groom interrupted, repeating the instructions he had been given. ‘You said. A lady and a young gentleman. Escort them to Pech David, where a second carriage will be waiting to take them on to Carcassonne.’
‘Do not leave them. Stay until you are sure the next escort is there, ready to take them on. And heed this. Take them out of the city via the covered bridge. Do not pass by the Porte Villeneuve.’
Piet knew he should be more circumspect in what he said, but if Condé’s troops did attempt to enter via the Porte Villeneuve at nine o’clock this evening, he wanted to be certain Minou was nowhere near.
The boy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
‘The covered bridge would be the customary route out of the city to the south. For my own safety, is there some particular reason to avoid the Porte Villeneuve tonight?’
‘It’s a private matter,’ Piet said quickly, vexed that he was handling the situation badly. He was finding it hard to think. ‘An argument. In the quartier Villeneuve, there is a Catholic relative who might cause trouble.’
‘There is nothing illegal in this matter?’
‘Not at all,’ he said, trying to make light of things. ‘A family dispute, nothing more.’
He pressed a second coin into the boy’s hand. ‘There will be another such when you return.’
Piet feared the groom might be a coward, but it was too late to find another to take his place. Troubled in his spirits, he walked back out into the late afternoon sunshine and crossed the road.
Piet thought it a mistake to attempt to take the city, especially now the coup had been brought forward by one week for fear the plan had been discovered. As Crompton had said, the Catholic forces outnumbered them ten to one, and that was some weeks back. He had no hope the citizens of Toulouse would heed their call to arms and protect their Huguenot neighbours. Above all, he wished fervently he could take Minou to safety himself. But he knew that was impossible. Rightly or wrongly, his first duty lay with his comrades. Tonight, he would stand beside them.
God willing, he would not fall beside them.
Deep in thought, Piet pushed opened the door to his lodgings and walked quietly up the stairs. Then, on the second landing, he stopped, alerted by some sixth sense. Something was different, something was changed.
He pressed himself back into the shadows and carefully drew his sword. Could it be McCone waiting for him in his chamber? He dismissed it. Surely Jasper would have heard his footsteps and called out?
Then Piet caught the breath of an old but familiar scent – the oil Vidal used upon his hair. Vidal. Yes, of course. But why had he come?
Piet tried to harden his heart. Vidal was on the opposite side of the door, he knew it. His erstwhile friend, who had drugged his wine and framed him to be hung as a murderer. Who else could it have been?
But what if Vidal was the solitary voice among his comrades wanting, even at this eleventh hour, to halt the bloody conflict?
Rather than turn away, Piet found himself moving towards his chamber, unable to resist seeing Vidal one last time. He reached out with his left hand and slowly pushed open the door.
There, sitting in his red robes in a chair in the middle of the room, was Vidal. He appeared to be alone and unarmed. Piet hesitated, then sheathed his sword.
‘What are you doing here, Vidal?’ he asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.
‘Seize him,’ was the response. And the guards waiting in the blind spot behind the jamb, leapt forward.
CARCASSONNE
‘What are you doing?’ Rixende wailed as Cécile Noubel came back into the kitchen carrying a travelling case. ‘Are you going away?’
‘Fill the pewter flagon, Rixende,’ she said, ‘the one with the lid that does not leak. Ale not wine. And wrap the last of the bread and goat’s cheese.’ Her calm voice belied the chaos of emotion she was feeling. ‘And the fresh root liquorice, all of it. It might be hard to come by further south.’
‘What did you learn at the bishop’s palace?’ Rixende said, firing the question like an arrow. Having made the introduction to her cousin, Madame Noubel had firmly shut the door on their conversation. ‘Did anyone know anything about the visitor, where she came from? Would anyone speak to you? And what of the bishop himself? My cousin says he has been unwell these past two weeks, and—’
‘Rixende, be quiet.’
The maid’s doleful eyes filled with tears. ‘I am sorry, I don’t mean to let my tongue run on, but I just –’
Cécile put her hands on her shoulders. ‘Rixende, listen to me. I need you to do what I ask without question, else I will forget something of importance, or . . .’ She broke off, trying to calm her own nerves. ‘Or I will lose the courage to go through with what needs to be done. Do you understand?’
Rixende looked at her dumbly, but she nodded. A drab streak of a girl, Cécile thought, but well-meaning. She had become fond of her, despite everything.
‘Good. Now, do you know where Monsieur Joubert kept his compass?’
‘Did he not take it with him?’
Madame Noubel sighed. ‘I don’t know. Could you look?’
Rixende fished in the long, shallow drawer of the kitchen table. ‘It is usually kept in here,’ she said, finding the small walnut box and handing it over.
Cécile held the box flat in the palm of her hand for a moment, then opened it. She took it to the doorway, knowing how easily a compass could lose its bearings, and held it to the sun.
‘A quarter past five, and south-south-west,’ she said, ‘which seems about right.’
‘I wonder why the master left it behind.’
Cécile sighed again. ‘I dare say because he knew where he was going.’
It took another quarter of an hour to settle the arrangements. She shuttered the windows and had Rixende lay a fire in the hearth ready to be lit. Plates, bowls and jugs were put clean and in their place. If Minou should come back, she wanted it to be a familiar homecoming, even though no one
would be there to greet her.
She hesitated, then stretched up and took Florence’s old map of Carcassonne from the mantle. It was this, more than anything she had learnt at the bishop’s palace this afternoon, that gave credence to the story. She pulled from her pocket a purloined note Rixende’s cousin had given her, and compared the handwriting.
A perfect match. Identical.
The cousin had been delighted to gossip about the noblewoman who had come to stay in April and had set the palace on its heels. The lady had come furnished with letters of introduction from a Monsignor Valentin, a canon from the cathedral in Toulouse who had himself been a guest of the Bishop of Carcassonne in March.
‘I don’t know, Madame,’ she had said, diverted into another story. ‘Some say he was here to investigate the murder back in the spring, though he arrived before that. Alphonse Bonnet was hung for the crime, though no one really believed he’d done it, and now it seems he was in the stocks in the Bastide in plain view, so how he could have been cutting Michel Cazès’s throat at the same time, I don’t know. I heard the reason the Monsignor was in La Cité was to do with some relic.’
‘The lady?’ Cécile had prompted, interested only in Alis.
It seemed the noble guest had arrived from Toulouse on the first Friday of April, the intention being she would stay in the palace for a few days before returning to her estates in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The cousin remembered the day particularly because a banquet, suitable for the lady’s high position, was being prepared when, without warning, she took her leave.
‘What was the noblewoman’s name?’ Cécile asked again. ‘Where does she come from?’
‘Puivert,’ had come the answer. ‘Blanche de Bruyère, widow of the late Seigneur. Do you know the place?’
Cécile’s heart skipped a beat. ‘I knew it once.’
‘Well, there’s a thing. She left this,’ she added, handing her a piece of paper with a family crest and insignia. ‘In the middle of writing a letter, I suppose, when she was called upon. And I tell you something else for nothing. Though she took pains to hide it, the lady was with child. Odd, we thought it, that she should be travelling so far from home at such a time.’
