by Kate Mosse
‘Are you certain I can’t give you something to drink before you go?’ Achille Lizier said, resenting the attention his nephew was receiving.
For the first time, his aunt’s composure cracked and Aimeric grinned. The small house was dark and filthy, showing clearly the lack of a woman’s touch. He could not imagine his aunt accepting even a cup of wine from Lizier’s dirty hands.
‘You are most kind, but no. You are quite sure you do not mind continuing to watch Canigou for a while longer?’
‘It is my honour,’ he said, with a crooked half-bow.
Madame Boussay smiled. ‘As a final request, Lizier, might you spare your nephew for a few minutes to accompany us back to our carriage? Having not been blessed with a son of my own, though of course Aimeric is a great comfort to me, I am interested to hear about life as a soldier in a household such as Puivert.’
Lizier puffed his chest with pride. ‘Of course, of course. Guilhem, you heard what she said. Go with Madame Boussay to her carriage.’
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT
‘And don’t get up to mischief today,’ the nurse threatened, ‘else I’ll take a rod to you. Do you hear me?’
The instant Alis heard the key turn in the lock, she rushed back to her bed and plumped her pillow beneath the blanket, so it looked as if she was still sleeping. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, but it might delay the discovery of her disappearance for a while.
Alis removed her stockings and hid them under the mattress, remembering how Aimeric always told her that bare feet were best for getting a good grip when climbing, then tucked her skirts into her undergarments and clambered up onto the sill.
In the daylight, the drop looked worse.
Alis sat with her legs dangling out of the window, willing herself the courage to go through with it. She inched closer to the edge, trying not to imagine what it would feel like if she slipped and fell. She was about to let herself go, when everything went wrong. The door opened and the nurse returned.
‘I forgot—’
She saw Alis balanced on the ledge, screamed and rushed across the chamber. Alis felt a sharp pain in her scalp as she was grabbed by her hair and pulled down off the sill. Then she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and the chamber was suddenly full, as the priest, his manservant Bonal and Blanche de Bruyère appeared in the doorway.
‘How many times must you be told not to leave the brat alone?’
‘Forgive me, my lady, I—’
‘Silence!’ Blanche shouted. ‘I will decide what to do with you later.’
Alis was trying to slip out of the chamber, but Bonal caught her round the waist and threw her roughly onto a chair.
Blanche crossed the room. ‘You had your chance to be treated civilly. Now you will stay like this until your sister comes. Tie her hands.’
‘No!’
Bonal pulled Alis’s arms through the wooden struts and tied her wrists. Alis bit her lip until she tasted blood, determined not to cry.
‘Minou will come,’ she shouted defiantly, then cowered back as the manservant raised his hand.
‘Leave her,’ the priest commanded.
Alis looked at him. Long red robes, tall. He was wearing a biretta, but she could see his black hair was slashed through with a streak of white.
She had seen him before. Where? She ran through her memory, like rooms crowded with images, until she found it. Standing on the doorstep in La Cité, looking out for Minou in the cold February mist. Minou had been late that night coming back from the bookshop, and Alis was worried. This priest had walked past and into rue Notre-Dame, then into the garden of the Fournier house.
The Fournier house, where Aimeric had met the man accused of murder, where blood had been smeared all over the walls. He had told them all about it. Alis shivered, terrified for the first time since arriving in Puivert.
And as if sensing it, the priest took a step towards her. He was so close she could smell the oil on his hair and the faint scent of incense in his robes.
He bent down and put his hands on her right shoulder, his thumb and forefinger pressing uncomfortably between the joints.
‘Answer me truthfully and no one will hurt you. But if you lie, God will know and I will know. It is a sin to lie and sinners must be punished. Do you understand?’
Alis could not speak. Her breath felt as sharp as pine needles in her throat.
‘Do you understand?’ Blanche said. ‘Answer.’
Alis nodded.
‘Tell me,’ the priest continued, ‘did your sister talk about what would happen when she was rich? When she came into her inheritance? Did she promise you a pony, perhaps, or a new gown?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Monsieur.’
‘Or robes for your father? A carriage?’
‘My aunt and uncle are wealthy, but we don’t have anything.’
Alis saw him glance at Lady Blanche.
‘Very well. Tell me instead about your sister’s friend, Monsieur Reydon. Have you heard of him? Piet Reydon.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘If we catch him, he will hang, and your brother with him. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ she cried, struggling to get free.
‘No one is angry with you yet, Alis. If you tell us what you know, no one will hurt you.’
Alis tried not to give anything away. Aimeric always teased her for having too honest a face. She tried to think of something else. Her tabby kitten and the otters on the river bank, gentle things that didn’t hurt at all. But now the priest was squeezing her face between his fingers and forcing tears into her eyes.
‘Do you know this Reydon?’
She couldn’t help answering truthfully. Minou had told her the name of the man she had met, the same man whom Aimeric had helped.
‘Yes,’ Alis answered.
‘You see, that’s better. God loves you when you tell the truth. Is he with your sister?’
‘Why would he be with Minou?’
‘Where do you think they are? Has she forgotten you?’
‘She loves me,’ Alis said in a small voice.
‘Then perhaps it is time for you to remind her of it,’ he said, clicking his fingers. ‘Bonal, fetch paper and ink. Do you know your letters, Alis?’
Alis was going to lie, then she saw the nurse out of the corner of her eye and knew she would be punished for pretending. The nurse had seen her writing often enough. She nodded again.
‘Good. I shall tell you what you are to write. While we’re waiting for Bonal to return, shall we try again with some of my questions? You might answer better than before.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Did your sister tell you about a Will? You understand what a Will is?’
‘It is to say who has your belongings when you die.’
‘Clever girl. Think hard before you answer. Did Minou tell you where she had hidden the Will? Do you know where to find it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Alis felt she was trapped inside a nightmare. She didn’t know what the priest was talking about, but he kept asking the same question.
Why wouldn’t they believe her?
‘Where did Minou conceal the Will?’ Vidal pressed, his voice silky with persuasion. ‘Did she show you? Or does she carry it with her for safekeeping? Nothing bad will happen to you if you tell us the truth.’
‘Please, I have never heard anything about a Will. Never.’
‘Did she promise you beautiful things when she was rich? Is that why she went to Toulouse? Think carefully before you answer, Alis. God commands us to tell the truth. He sees everything. He will know if you lie.’
PUIVERT VILLAGE
‘Do you not know me, Paul?’ Madame Noubel asked again.
She was dismayed by her cousin’s stained hose and threadbare doublet, the fastenings hanging loose on a snagged thread. A stink of stale wine hung about him, as if he had not washed for days. Beside her, B�
�renger shuffled his feet, clearly also embarrassed by the dissolute state of her kinsman.
‘Cécile Noubel. Cordier, as was. I was married to your cousin Arnaud, a long time in the past now. Surely you remember?’
The apothecary swayed on unsteady legs, staring with eyes blurred by drink.
‘Cécile?’ he slurred. ‘You left. Went to Carcassonne.’
Madame Noubel glanced at Bérenger. ‘That’s right, when Arnaud passed on.’ She took a step forward. ‘We have come in the hope of some information about the village, Paul. I hoped you might be able to help.’
‘Me? I know nothing. Better to know nothing. I can’t help you.’
Madame Noubel looked doubtfully about the cottage, its windows in a state of disrepair and tiles missing from the roof.
‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ she said. ‘An apothecary now, and your own house.’
Her first husband, Arnaud Cordier, had been older than her by some twenty years and in poor health. She had spent most of her married life as a nurse not a wife. The Cordier family was large, lots of cousins and half-cousins and in-laws, but she remembered Paul, an unpopular child, a gossip, always telling tales and betraying secrets. She knew she could coax him to talk.
‘What ails you?’ she asked kindly.
‘Nothing,’ he mumbled, attempting to shut the door. ‘Why do you torment me? It’s none of your business. You left Puivert, you got away. You don’t live here now, you’ve got no right to judge. You don’t know what it’s like.’
Cécile’s curiosity sharpened. Why was he so frightened? Why was he inebriated at this hour in the morning? Was it habitual, or had something in particular caused him to take solace in the bottle?
‘I’ve not come to cause trouble,’ she soothed.
‘Leave me alone! A man has to think of himself. What was I supposed to do?’
‘No call to take on so, Sénher,’ Bérenger intervened, stepping between them.
Several times on their tiring journey from Carcassonne to Puivert, Madame Noubel had been grateful of his solid presence, but there was no need here.
She put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right, Bérenger,’ she said mildly, ‘Paul and I are kin. Listen to me, Cousin, we are seeking a child. A girl of seven years old called Alis. We have reason to believe she was brought to Puivert some weeks ago. Her father is possibly somewhere in the district also. Arrived at Easter, or roundabout. Have you heard anything? Talk of strangers in the village? Or the château?’
From his pallor and the violent shake of his hands, the way he glanced up at the hill behind them, then away, she knew he did.
‘Might I come inside?’ she said. Before he had another chance to prevent her, she stepped past him into the house. ‘We will talk of the old times, Cousin, then you can tell me what you know.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
‘Bérenger!’ Aimeric shouted with delight.
Leaving his aunt and Guilhem Lizier staring after him, he ran the length of the street to where his old adversary was standing outside the house at the far end of the village.
‘Steady, boy, you’ll have me over.’
‘Bérenger, I can’t believe it’s you. Why are you here? How?’
‘I might ask the same of you,’ Bérenger replied gruffly, discomfited by the affectionate greeting. ‘Last I heard, you were in Toulouse, causing havoc there no doubt.’ He looked along the street. ‘Is Madomaisèla Minou with you?’
Aimeric’s face fell. ‘We were separated trying to get out of the city before the fighting began, and Piet . . .’ He stopped, suddenly remembering the previous time when Bérenger had been pursuing Piet through the streets of La Cité, assuming him to be the murderer of Michel Cazès. ‘Our carriage was stopped at the checkpoint on the bridge in Toulouse,’ he said sombrely. ‘Minou ran back into the city to draw the soldiers away from us. I don’t know what happened to her after that.’ He swallowed hard. ‘She is supposed to meet us here.’
‘I see you have your sister’s cloak, though,’ Bérenger said, pointing at the green woollen garment. ‘Grown out of everything of your own, have you?’
Aimeric coloured. ‘She asked me to take care of it for her, that’s all. But in faith, Bérenger, why are you in Puivert? The Seneschal’s authority can’t stretch all the way down here.’
‘Happen it does, in a manner of speaking. We’re still within the boundaries of Aude.’
‘The garrison’s been sent here?’
‘No.’ Bérenger held up a hand. ‘Look, it’s not my place to say. Bide a while until Madame Noubel comes out. I warrant she won’t be much longer.’
‘She is here too?’
‘Madame Noubel has family here. Cousin of her late husband. Her first husband, that is. Drab excuse of a man, Cordier is, though he’s supposed to be educated.’
Aimeric’s eyes grew wider, remembering the conversation between Achille Lizier and his aunt. ‘This is Paul Cordier’s house?’
Bérenger frowned. ‘How do you come to know of him?’
Aimeric was saved from explaining by the breathless arrival of Madame Boussay. Guilhem was with her.
‘You should not run off, Nephew. It is most discourteous.’
‘I’m sorry, Aunt.’
‘The fault is mine,’ Bérenger said. ‘The boy was so taken aback to see me here I dare say he forgot his manners. Not for the first time, I should add.’
Madame Boussay looked suspiciously at him. ‘Who are you?’
‘Bérenger,’ Aimeric jumped in. ‘From the garrison in La Cité. We are old friends. He came with Madame Noubel, who’s inside – this is Paul Cordier’s house.’ He turned back to Bérenger. ‘This is my noble aunt, Madame Boussay, from Toulouse. And Guilhem Lizier, who’s in service at the château. From what Guilhem tells us, we think Alis is there. Possibly my father also.’
Bérenger looked him in the eye. ‘You know your sister is missing?’
Aimeric nodded. ‘Minou received a letter from—’
At that moment, Cordier’s door opened and Cécile Noubel came out.
‘Aimeric? Can it be?’
‘Madame Noubel!’ Aimeric cried, beginning the introductions all over again. ‘And this is my aunt, Madame Boussay.’
For a moment, the two ladies stared at one another. Neither wished to be the first to speak, neither was sure what to say. Then, Cécile inclined her head.
‘Madame Boussay, I heard a great deal about you from Florence. Your sister always talked fondly of you.’
Aimeric watched his aunt’s face soften. ‘Cécile Cordier. You were a dear friend to Florence, her matron of honour, I believe.’ She held out her hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’
CHALABRE
Minou and Piet rode in single file along the green valley of the Blau, keeping to the shade of the overhanging trees, the gentle rhythm of the horses’ hooves on the stone and earth track soothing them. Nearby, the river sang its ancient song, flowing over the rocks and roots in flecks of silver and white. Sparrows dipped in and out of hedgerow nests, making the leaves shiver, and there was a steady humming of bees and a chorus of cicadas on the grasslands above the banks.
Minou felt a curious mix of tranquillity and apprehension. From time to time, aware of Piet’s eyes on her, she turned and smiled at the man who would be her husband.
Then she thought of what lay ahead.
For all her fighting talk, she was terrified. She was haunted by thoughts of how poor a condition Alis might be in, that none of them would ever see their little house in rue du Trésau again.
They might not even survive the night.
‘How goes it with you?’ Piet called. ‘Shall we rest a while?’
Minou smiled over her shoulder at him. ‘No. It can’t be much further.’
He pressed his horse forward and drew level as the path widened out. ‘If you are sure, my Lady of the Mists.’
‘Your Lady of the Glades wishes to keep going,’ she teased.
The path ca
me to a dead end at a low waterfall, so they turned their horses onto a farm track that sloped steeply alongside a field of barley.
‘I still don’t understand why Blanche de Bruyère is so desperate to get you to come to Puivert that she would take Alis hostage,’ Piet said. ‘Your father is not a rich man. What can she possibly want?’
Like light shining through a winter window, Minou suddenly had an image of herself holding the hidden Will in her hands in her bedchamber in Toulouse, the faded black ink on the yellow parchment.
This is the day of my death. As the Lord God is my witness, here, by my own hand, do I set this down. My last Will and Testament.
With a jolt, she realised she had never told Piet about what she had found concealed within the bible, nor what she thought it signified.
‘Minou? Do you know what she wants?’ Piet said.
‘I think I do,’ she said. ‘It is not even anything to do with me as myself, but rather the threat I represent to her position.’
‘Now it is you who speaks in riddles,’ he teased, echoing her words to him in Chalabre. ‘What do you mean?’
Minou waved her hand, taking in the hills and the woodlands, the crops and the road winding into the distance to Puivert.
‘I mean this,’ she said. ‘All of this.’
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT
Blanche stretched her arms above her head, letting her black hair fall away from her white skin.
She had arranged the sheet across her belly, to shield the baby from his gaze. Though Valentin liked to feel his child moving beneath the velvet and lace of her clothes, she suspected the sight of her belly swollen and uncovered would please him less.
And he had changed. He seemed consumed by ambition for its own sake, not for the glory of God. The voices in her head whispered that he was turning away from the Lord, almost constantly now.
‘Come back to bed,’ she said. He was solicitous of her condition, but Blanche knew there were still many ways for pleasure to be given and accepted. ‘I would have you beside me.’
Instead he walked to the window and looked down over the lower courtyard.
‘A man approaches,’ he said.
