by Kate Mosse
‘Alone?’ Vidal interrupted again.
‘Yes, Monsignor.’
‘Did she have anything with her? A leather satchel, say?’
‘No, though we have reason to believe the pair arrived from Chalabre on horseback. My men are looking for the horses now.’
‘If you do not have her name, tell me what she looks like.’
The captain stumbled. ‘Of more than average height, with straight brown hair. Neither a great beauty, nor, on the other hand, plain.’
‘What colour were her eyes?’ Blanche asked.
The captain faltered. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but it was dark. I did not notice.’
Blanche turned to Vidal. ‘It is her, I am sure of it. Who else? I want her brought here immediately. I shall—’
‘Patience, my lady,’ Vidal said, throwing her a warning look. ‘Let us hear the rest of the good captain’s report.’
Her colour rose but Blanche waved her hand. ‘Very well. Proceed.’
‘The old woman goes by the name of Noubel. Originally from the village here, she was married to one of Cordier’s cousins. She moved away some years ago after she was widowed.’
‘The child had been left in her care in Carcassonne,’ Blanche whispered to Vidal, before turning back to the captain. ‘I did not know she came from Puivert. When exactly did she leave the village?’
‘The apothecary said it was some nineteen years ago, my lady. Or twenty, he was not certain.’
Vidal waved at the captain to continue.
‘Madame Noubel was given admittance into the castle by one of my own men, I regret to say. He has been punished.’
Vidal nodded. ‘Where was this Noubel creature found?’
‘Caught trying to enter the logis.’
‘Looking for the child, no doubt,’ he muttered. ‘What of the men?’
‘Cordier described an old soldier and a boy. They are not yet in our custody. We could not find them in the village, so we believe they have taken refuge in the woods. There is a search party, with a pack of dogs, looking for them now. They won’t get far.’
Vidal raised his hand. ‘I want them taken alive, Captain.’
‘Yes, Monsignor. I gave orders accordingly.’
Blanche seemed to have recovered her equilibrium. ‘You have done well, Captain. I shall see you are rewarded for it.’
He bowed. ‘Thank you, my Lady. What of Monsieur Cordier? He is waiting in the gatehouse.’
‘He too should be rewarded for his service,’ she said, glancing at Vidal.
‘Bonal,’ Vidal called, ‘go with the captain. Escort Cordier out of the castle. The road can be perilous at night.’
Blanche waited until Bonal and the captain’s footsteps had faded away on the winding stone steps before she spoke again.
‘Something is not right,’ she said. The voices were insistent in her head again. ‘What have we forgotten, misunderstood, what?’
Vidal looked at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What do I . . . ?’ She blinked. ‘Nothing.’
‘We must proceed carefully,’ he said. ‘If it is Minou Joubert—’
‘It is, it must be. Though how Madame Noubel comes to be with her, I do not understand.’
‘And assuming the man with Minou Joubert is Reydon,’ he muttered.
‘He said a young man. Could Cordier have been mistaken in the number of people he saw? The captain said the descriptions were not accurate.’
‘What, that there are more than four of them?’ Vidal frowned. ‘And if it is Reydon, why would he leave her and go into the woods?’
‘To hide the Shroud?’
‘Why would he hide it here? On your lands? Safer to keep it with him.’
Blanche put her hand to her head, willing the voices to quieten.
‘Does something ail you?’ Vidal asked.
She quickly smiled. ‘Not at all. I think we should have Minou Joubert brought here now. Find out what she knows.’
Blanche started towards the door, but then felt Vidal’s hand on her arm.
‘Not yet. Let the captain finish his work, Blanche. When he has them all in his custody, we will begin. I have some experience in these matters. It will be easier to persuade each of them to speak if they know we have the others in our care too.’
Blanche frowned. ‘But we have Alis. That will surely loosen her tongue. I cannot wait until morning.’
‘You should rest.’ Vidal started to stroke the back of her neck. ‘I promise you, Blanche, if you question her now, she will hold her tongue. And we will not discover where they have hidden the Shroud. Nor, indeed, where the papers you seek are hidden.’
Blanche leant back against him and felt him stir. The priest stepped back into the shadows and the man took his place.
She sighed. ‘Very well, we will wait until dawn. But if Reydon is not caught by then, I will have her brought to me.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
PUIVERT
In the gloom of the cell in the Tour Bossue, Minou sat holding her father’s hand.
All the distance of the past months, the silences and shadows, had been banished by the joy of finding one another again. They had talked and talked of what had happened since they had parted at the Porte Narbonnaise in La Cité on that chill March day. Stories laced with guilt and regret. Minou spoke of life in the Boussay household, the horror of the massacre, and how his letters had been withheld. She decided not to tell her father about Blanche’s letter, or Alis’s kidnapping, yet. She did not want to cause him more pain, and knew she would have to choose the right moment to tell him. In his turn, Bernard talked of his capture and long captivity. Why he had come to Puivert in the first instance was still not clear to her, but as she was on the point of pressing him, the cell door had opened again and Madame Noubel was pushed roughly inside.
They all felt the same confusion of delight and anguish at how they came to find themselves in one another’s company. Madame Noubel explained what had happened to Alis and how Bérenger had accompanied her to Puivert. Minou, of course, knew her little sister was a hostage. But for Bernard to learn his younger daughter had been held for so many weeks in the same castle that was his prison, distressed him into silence, as Minou had feared it might.
The hourly chiming of the bell in the village marked time as they talked. Every now and again, they caught the echo of a shout in the woods beyond the compound, the baying of hunting dogs which chilled the blood.
‘They are still searching,’ Minou said.
‘If something ill befalls Bérenger, I will never forgive myself,’ Cécile Noubel said. ‘None of this is his fault.’
‘It’s no one’s fault but the author of it,’ said Minou.
‘Bérenger is a good friend to our family,’ Bernard said. ‘Has always been.’
Minou nodded, but she was thinking of Piet. Though she had told them in Toulouse how her path had crossed with Madame Noubel’s erstwhile lodger – and how much Aimeric admired him – she had not confided more to her father here in the cell.
Minou traced a pattern in the straw with the toe of her boot, occasionally glancing up. Bernard stood beneath the narrow window. She could not but notice how thin he had grown. At the same time, Minou detected a new stoicism, even resolve, in him.
‘To think Aimeric is with Salvadora Boussay in the village,’ he said suddenly. ‘To think of it, Cécile.’
‘They seemed at ease with one another. Fond, even.’
Minou smiled. ‘He hated living in Toulouse. So to learn they both got safely away, but have also found some pleasure in one another’s company, is a great relief.’
‘Where are they now?’ Bernard asked.
‘They are waiting in Anne Gabignaud’s cottage,’ Cécile replied. ‘If we do not come by morning, they will raise the alarm.’
‘What alarm?’ Bernard said. ‘The village and the soldiers here are in the employ of Blanche de Bruyère.’
Madame Noubel frowned. ‘I know, b
ut Madame Boussay is not without influence.’
‘Who is Madame Gabignaud?’ Minou asked.
‘She was, for some thirty years, the midwife in Puivert. She died last winter.’
‘Was murdered, in fact, old Lizier told me,’ Bernard said. ‘She was worried about something in the days before her death. She gave him a letter to be taken to Carcassonne.’
‘To whom?’
Bernard shook his head. ‘Lizier didn’t know. He cannot read.’
Minou caught her breath. ‘It was for me. A warning, though I didn’t realise it at first.’
‘To you!’ Cécile exclaimed.
‘Tell us,’ her father said quietly.
When she finished explaining about the strange note delivered to her in the bookshop, with what she now knew to be the Bruyère seal, Minou saw a glance pass between the two old friends. The three of them had filled the hours with talk about the present and the future, but no one yet had had the courage to lay bare the past.
‘Each of us knows we might not survive the night,’ Minou said. Her voice sounded too loud in the confined space. ‘Even if we live to see the sun rise, we cannot know what Blanche de Bruyère intends to do.’
‘Guilhem will help,’ Bernard said quickly. ‘You say you came to the castle with him, Cécile?’
‘That’s right.’
He frowned. ‘He must have been sent on duty elsewhere. Normally, he would come to the Tour Bossue.’
‘Perhaps he’s part of the search party in the woods,’ Madame Noubel said, though her expression was rigid. They had caught her and, given that she had been brought into Puivert by Guilhem, she feared for the boy. ‘I’m sure that’s it.’
Minou nodded. ‘Anything might happen. Our friends might be able to help us, they might not. But, at this moment, we have to assume we are on our own.’ She smiled at her father across the silver light of the cell, hoping to reassure him. ‘The time has come. All those weeks ago, in rue du Trésau, you would not confide in me.’
‘I could not.’
‘I tried to respect your decision.’
‘I regret my caution now. If I had trusted you, as Cécile counselled me, we might not find ourselves in so grievous a situation now.’
Still he hesitated. Minou could see the habit of keeping his own counsel ran so deep in him that it was hard to break.
‘It is what Florence would have wanted, Bernard,’ Cécile said.
‘No more secrets, Father.’
In the woods, a crescendo of barking from the hunting dogs shattered the silence. Bernard jolted and looked to the window, then back to his daughter.
‘Very well,’ he said, his voice a mixture of defeat and relief. Minou waited. The only sound was the hiss of the torches burning in the passageway and howling from the dogs, more distant now, in the woods.
Finally, he began.
‘Some twenty years ago, I was engaged as scribe to the Seigneur of Puivert. Florence was employed as lady-in-waiting to his young wife. Florence and I were recently married and had moved to quarters within the castle. Straight away, we realised our master was a hard man. He was not pious, though he made great show of being so. He imposed higher taxes than any of the other landowners hereabouts. The penalties for poaching or trespassing were harsh. I had to record the fines and punishments meted out, so saw it all at first hand. The women of the village knew to keep out of his way. He was also obsessed with having a son to inherit the estates and secure his legacy, even though it was believed he had bought the title from another.’
‘He was a vile, damnèd man,’ Cécile said.
‘He was. When Florence and I first went to the château, we knew none of this. We learnt quickly enough, though. All I ask, Minou,’ he said, ‘is that you understand that I was only ever trying to do what I thought was best.’
Minou took his hand. ‘You have always done your best for us all – me, Aimeric and Alis.’
‘I made many mistakes. Too many.’ Bernard leant back against the wall. ‘Though I think much of what I am about to say will not come as a surprise to you.’
Through the window, the clouds scudded across the face of the moon. A single band of white light shone through the narrow opening, turning the straw on the ground to silver. Bernard put his hands on his knees, as if to anchor himself, then he began again. This time, his words were soft and elegant and Minou realised he was telling a story he had told himself many times before.
‘You were born at dusk on the last day of October. The Eve of All Saints. It was a cold day in a wet autumn, grey showers trailing on a bitter wind. The air was thick with the smell of wood fires burning. To mark the feast day, sprigs of box wood and rosemary had been tied to the doors of the village houses to ward off evil spirits. At each road crossing and mountain track, informal shrines had sprung up. Posies of flowers wrapped in bright ribbon, invocations and scribbled prayers in the old language on scraps of cloth. The Seigneur was in the chapel. I may wrong him, but I doubt if he was at prayer. He was waiting for news to come down from the logis.’
He glanced at Minou. ‘The thirty-first of October in the year fifteen hundred and forty-two.’
The atmosphere in the cell seemed to sharpen, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
‘Do you understand, Minou?’ he said quietly, his question rippling the surface of the silence like a stone falling into water.
‘I do,’ she said, astonished at how calm she felt. ‘I didn’t understand what it meant when I was younger, only that I knew I was different from my brother and sister. Aimeric and Alis, everything of their character and appearance spoke of a family resemblance. And when they stood next to Mother, they were like reflections in her glass: short and strong, where I am tall and thin; their skin dark, where mine is pale; all three of them with a mass of black curls, where my hair hangs as straight as a rod.’
She felt her father’s eyes fix on her. ‘And what of me?’
‘I was not sure if you were my blood father or not,’ she said. ‘But even if not, it makes no difference. You raised me and taught me to love books, Mother taught me how to think.’ She caught her breath. ‘You both loved me. That is what matters. Not blood.’
In the pale moonlight filtering into the cell, she saw him smile.
‘Florence and I loved you as much as if you were our own child,’ he said, his voice cracked with emotion. ‘Sometimes it felt as though we loved you more, though I am ashamed to admit it.’
Minou reached out and squeezed his hand.
Cécile Noubel chuckled. ‘And didn’t I say you were a fool for imagining Minou would think anything else?’ she said gruffly, a catch in her throat. ‘You have been a good father, Bernard Joubert.’
Minou turned to Madame Noubel. ‘And you were there,’ she said, a statement not a question.
‘Yes. I was Cécile Cordier then.’
‘Tell me,’ she said.
Bernard nodded. ‘But you will help me, Cécile? If I forget anything, or my memory betrays me. Might we tell the story together?’
‘We will.’
Now the atmosphere in the cell seemed to shift, to settle. Then, as they began to talk – a duet of their memories – Minou was taken back nineteen years. To the day she was born.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT
31st October 1542
In the main bedchamber in the logis, the fire had burned low. The flames cracked with the last of the dried hawthorn taken from the valley of the river Blau in summer. Fresh straw lay on the floorboards around the bed, perfumed with dried herbs – rosemary and wild thyme – gathered from the hills around Puivert.
The bed curtains held the scent of winters past and the echo of the voices of all the women who had laboured in this chamber to bring Catholic daughters and sons into the world, their secrets kept safe in the embroidered folds of the hangings.
For hours, the servants had gone to and fro carrying copper pans of warm water up from the kitchens below, replacing t
he stained cloths with fresh strips of cotton. It was taking too long, the servants whispered. So much blood and yet still no child. They knew if their mistress was delivered of another daughter it would go ill for her. The master wanted a son. If it was a boy and did not survive, it would go ill for them all, especially the midwife, Anne Gabignaud.
The Seigneur had stationed the captain of his guard inside the chamber. A thin, birdlike man, with hooked face and craven manners, he was both disliked and feared. His master’s spy. The scribe had also been ordered to be present. Unlike the captain, Bernard Joubert knew a birthing chamber was no place for men. He had set himself in the furthest corner to preserve the chatelaine’s modesty.
Joubert’s wife Florence, lady-in-waiting to Marguerite de Puivert, was at the bedside. Another woman from the village, Cécile Cordier, was also in attendance.
‘How much longer?’ the captain demanded, restless with waiting. His future was dependent on the fortunes of the de Bruyère family and his master’s goodwill.
‘Nature will take her course,’ the midwife replied. ‘These things cannot be hurried.’
Marguerite de Bruyère cried out as another contraction racked her weakened frame, and the captain stepped back in disgust.
Anne Gabignaud’s expression had not altered during the twelve hours of the labour, but the truth shone clear in her eyes. She had seen more than fifty summers – and assisted at the births of many daughters and sons of Puivert – and did not believe the lady would survive her ordeal. Her will was spent, her body torn. The only question now was whether or not the child might be saved.
Florence Joubert was stroking Marguerite’s head. Cécile Cordier passed to the midwife the things she needed – olive oil to help move things along, clean cloths, a tincture of warm honey and garlic to soothe the lady’s dry lips.
‘You are showing great fortitude,’ Florence whispered, her face flushed with concern. ‘You are nearly there.’
Marguerite cried out again and, this time, Madame Gabignaud made a decision. If she could not save her charge, she could at least afford her privacy and dignity at the hour of her departing. She drew Florence to her.
