by Kate Mosse
Vidal looked around the bedchamber that had been a place of satisfaction and refuge for him. Now he saw only signs of his folly. To have placed his reputation in the hands of such a woman . . .
‘Stay with her,’ he commanded. ‘Do not leave her untended even for an instant. When the child is born, this affliction will pass.’
‘Very good, Monsignor.’
Vidal made the sign of the cross above Blanche’s forehead and murmured a benediction, then walked to the table in the corner of the chamber where he had placed the Shroud.
‘Avert your eyes,’ he ordered.
The soldiers and the nurse all turned away.
At last, in the heat and smoke of the burning wood, God had deigned to answer him after so long a silence. His path was suddenly clear. He was impatient to turn his back on Puivert, on Blanche and her bastard child, and never return.
Vidal realised he had set his sights too low. The Bishopric of Toulouse was a rank to aspire to, but why should he not aim higher? Blanche’s patronage, far from helping him to rise, had held him back.
Vidal picked up the leather container. Was it true the Duke of Guise was in Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val, a town Vidal knew well from the early years of his ministry? Indeed, it was in that small town in the Tarn he had first set eyes upon Blanche, an innocent girl mourning the death of her father. Her simple grief had moved him.
Vidal pushed the memory from his mind.
He would go directly to Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val and offer his service to the Duke of Guise and his son. Although Guise’s health was rumoured to be in decline, his was still the strongest voice speaking against Condé and the Huguenot threat and, unlike many of his allies, the duke was a man of genuine devotion. What preferment might His Grace be prepared to offer to one in possession of the true Shroud? Vidal removed the lid, put his hand inside and drew out the fragment of cloth. He felt the texture of the delicate weave beneath his fingers, found the tear in the corner of the material that proclaimed it to be the true relic, and waited. He waited to experience the glory of God made manifest in the world. The grace that passes all understanding.
But in this dull chamber, with the averted eyes of the soldiers and the nurse, the afflicted breathing of Blanche in the bed behind him, it did not come.
Vidal slipped the Shroud back into its case and secured the lid. He would wait for a more propitious, a more private, moment.
‘Where’s Bonal?’ he said roughly. ‘He should be here.’
The soldiers stood to attention. ‘Monsignor?’
‘Go and see.’
The nurse turned around, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘You are leaving, Monsignor?’
‘My responsibilities require my presence elsewhere,’ he said. ‘I will return when I can to see how the Lady Blanche fares. A mind disturbed is no less beloved of God.’
Holding their kerchiefs close to their mouths, they stood as close to the castle compound as they could without risking being seen from the watchtowers.
Piet put his arm around Minou’s waist.
‘What matters now is to find your father, Minou, and Madame Noubel, and get them to safety. Vidal might still be in the château, or he might not, but there will be soldiers and servants.’
‘They must have seen the smoke. Smelt it.’
‘The priest is leaving,’ Alis said. ‘He told his manservant to saddle the horses and meet him at the keep.’
‘Did he say he was returning to Toulouse?’ Piet asked quickly.
‘In fact, no,’ Minou replied. ‘As they left the glade, I heard him tell Bonal they were going to a place called Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val.’
Piet frowned. ‘That is where Vidal’s first parish was.’
‘Does he have family or lands there?’
‘No, but . . .’ He stopped. ‘There was a rumour that the Duke of Guise and his oldest son, Henri, are in the Tarn.’
‘Do you think that’s true?’ Aimeric asked.
‘I don’t know, it might be. It doesn’t matter. Our only concern is to rescue your father and Madame Noubel, and then to get away from Puivert,’ Piet repeated.
Aimeric nodded.
‘While Minou and I attempt to get into the Tour Bossue, can you go to the river, Aimeric, and fetch our horses?’
‘I’ll go now.’
‘Take good care,’ Minou said quickly, as her brother nodded and turned away.
‘If you will forgive me for presuming to issue orders, Madame Boussay, could you and Alis wait in the woods? Once we are all together, we can decide what to do for the best.’
She inclined her head. ‘We will be fine here, Monsieur Reydon.’
‘We can’t go down to the village,’ Minou said. ‘If the soldiers are looking for us, it is the first place they will search. We should head back to Chalabre.’
‘But if they think we’re dead,’ Alis said, ‘why will they be looking for us?’
‘That might be true at the moment, petite, but when Bonal does not return, Vidal will send someone to look for him and discover us gone.’
‘Then you will have to be quick,’ Madame Boussay said firmly. ‘Alis, we will seat ourselves here and you can tell me about life in La Cité. I regret I have never had the opportunity to visit.’
‘Come, mon coeur,’ Minou said to Piet. ‘The sooner we start this, the sooner we will return.’
Her aunt’s eyebrows shot up at the endearment.
‘Is Piet your husband now?’ Alis asked innocently.
‘Not yet,’ Minou laughed, hugging her. ‘But when the time is right, yes. We hope to be married.’
Valentin. An undistinguished choice at his ordination. The name of an Italian martyr, not French, and a February feast day. In England, where heresy pollutes every part of life, he is a patron saint of lovers.
The voices in my head are sleeping now, but there is too much talking in the chamber. The soldiers and the drunken nurse, her breath stinking of ale, bowing and scraping.
‘A time to be born, to be . . .’
The pressure of a hand upon my forehead.
‘She has a fever, Monsignor.’
‘I am aware of that.’
Valentin speaks and they obey him. How should that be? Are these not my lands? Without me, he is nothing. He has no jurisdiction here. No authority. He is not beloved of God. The Lord does not speak to him.
But he loved me once, didn’t he?
The creature in my womb is trying to kill me. I can feel it, writhing in my belly. A succubus sucking the life from me.
‘I will return when I can to see how the Lady Blanche fares. A mind disturbed is no less beloved of God.’
He thinks I cannot hear him. His specious and lying tongue. It is his own ambition taking him away, not his service to God.
Footsteps across the chamber. He is leaving. The soldiers are leaving. A moment, then the stinking, foul breath of the nurse gone too.
A fiend, set to torment me.
The voices are whispering now. Quick, now. Go, now.
Beneath the bedsheet, the blood is flowing. I understand now it is God moving inside me. The Lord’s blood was shed for us and for many for the remission of sins.
‘A time to break down, and a time to build up, a time to . . .’
No, that was not right.
I am standing. Walking across the chamber. I have no need of cloaks of gold or satin for God is by my side. And I have what I need. The soldiers had not dared to search me and Valentin can no longer bear to touch me. I have still my rosary beads and my knife.
Down the winding stairs of the keep into the burning chambers of the woods where Minou Joubert is waiting.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
PUIVERT VILLAGE
‘Bring as many men as you can muster,’ Bérenger said. ‘We need horses, traps and carts. Bring pails for dirt. We can suffocate the fires, put them out one by one.’
‘I will.’ Lizier nodded. ‘They’re saying terrible things are happening. Paul Cordier found with
his neck broken, many dead within the woods. Two of the guard, terrified, deserted at first light and fled here, saying the mistress has lost her wits.’ He peered up and down the street. ‘When Guilhem comes, he’ll tell us what’s what.’
Despite the urgency, Bérenger stopped. ‘My friend, I have ill news.’
The old man’s eyes clouded. ‘My nephew? My Guilhem is one of those who is dead?’
Bérenger put his hand on Lizier’s shoulder. ‘He died defending others. He was a valiant young man, courageous.’
‘He was that.’
‘You should be proud of him, Achille. Because of him, other lives will be saved.’
A single tear rolled down Lizier’s withered cheek. ‘It’s not right when the old outlive the young. They have all gone before me.’
‘I know.’
For a moment, the two old men stood there remembering those they had lost. Old warhorses both, they had fought in the Italian campaigns and seen many of their number fall. Then Lizier wiped his eyes, leaving a black smear across his face, and squared his shoulders.
‘I will gather everyone I can, women and children too. The Bruyère family has done enough damage to Puivert. I know better than most. Time for it to end.’
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT
Minou and Piet had made their way unseen through the small stone gate in the walls, through the kitchen garden and into the lower courtyard.
They heard footsteps in the logis, so ducked out of sight and waited, but no one came out and the door remained closed. Every now and again, a grey ribbon of smoke appeared in the sky above the castle, then was carried away on the wind.
Minou thought it was strangely quiet for mid-morning and wondered if news of the fire had already spread to the household. But it suited their purposes. They kept moving, alert to every sound, keeping to the shadows.
Another noise stopped them, this time seeming to come from the keep. Quickly, they hid beneath the high steps, waiting until again the sound had receded, then pressed on to the small stone arch that linked the basse cour to the lower courtyard.
‘My father said the main courtyard is like a market square. Artisans and stalls selling bread and cloth all along the walls. With luck, we might be able to conceal ourselves behind an awning and tables.’
‘He is well informed.’
‘He said he can hear the sounds of the traders, but it is mostly from what his student, Guilhem, has told him.’
Piet stopped. ‘Guilhem is dead, my love. I found him slain in the woods last evening.’
‘Oh.’ Minou fell silent for a moment. ‘I grieve for Jeannette. She talked so sweetly about the life they would have together. She was so proud of how he had learnt to read and write in French.’ She shook her head. ‘And my poor, poor father. He had become fond of him.’
‘I can be the bearer of the ill news.’
‘No, I’ll do it.’ Minou took his hand. ‘I’ll tell him when the time is right.’
They walked a few steps further in silence. ‘Even if we get past the guards, have you considered how we are going to get into the dungeon itself? The cell will be locked and the door is designed to withstand any assault.’
Piet put his hand into his doublet and pulled out a ring of keys.
‘I took these from Guilhem’s body last night,’ he said quietly. ‘This might be the final – the greatest – service he does for your father. Saving his life.’
* * *
Blanche looked up into the blue canopy of the sky and wondered why the sun was so high.
Was it morning?
Morning glory. God’s recreation of the day. Was it summer now?
She was standing in the shadow of the battlements. The air was filled with the scent of ash and burning. The Christian martyrs of old, broken on the wheel or the cross or burnt on the pyre. Refusing to recant their faith. Their souls rising to heaven in columns of fire.
But she was still bound to the earth. Her work was not yet done. She had to return to the woods where Minou Joubert was waiting to be saved. The child was with her too. The girl who had saved her life, so the apothecary said. She looked down and saw her shift was heavy with blood.
She walked past the Tour Vert, through the kitchen garden to the small gate in the wall. Valentin had opened it and must have left it unlocked. That was wrong. Her own servants knew better. Her enemies would come inside and kill them all.
Why did they do his bidding now? Was she not Chatelaine of Puivert? Her hands went to her rosary and the clicking of the ivory beads soothed her. So too did the cold blade of the knife. She twisted it until she felt the relief of blood on her palm.
Minou looked at the gatehouse. It was like a block from a child’s building set, squat and rectangular.
‘Why are there no soldiers on duty?’ she whispered.
‘Perhaps there isn’t a watch kept on the inside of the castle during daylight hours,’ Piet said.
‘There’s no one on duty outside the Tour Bossue either,’ she said.
Piet looked around. ‘Most of the traders’ stalls are boarded up.’
‘They have fled because of the fire?’
Piet frowned. ‘I don’t know.’
Blanche stepped out through the gate. A black column of smoke spiralled up from the heart of the woods. The burning and cracking of the fire. Ash, like black snow, danced lightly above the tree line. She could smell charred flesh, like the spit at a winter’s banquet, sweet in the air.
Then she saw them. Facing away from her, a woman and a girl. They seemed to be looking down the valley towards Chalabre.
Minou Joubert and Alis? Could it be? No, they were in the woods. She had given orders for them to be taken there. They had been tied close by the pyre, she remembered.
Blanche moved forward. Her bare feet were silent on the grass. She watched as the girl lifted her hand and waved her arm in a wide arc, attracting the attention of someone else. Blanche listened, then heard the clump and fall of horses’ hooves coming up the track.
Why did they have their backs to the beautiful fire? Did they not understand it would take them closer to God?
She could hear their voices now. Always, voices. But not speaking to her. Not meant for her. Closer. Almost there. The whispering should stop. She would stop it. No more talking. Blanche shifted the hilt of the dagger in her hand. She was within striking distance. Then a bird, startled, flew up out of the undergrowth, and the child suddenly turned.
For a moment, their eyes locked.
Then the girl screamed. Blanche attacked just as the figure turned, putting herself in front of the child as the knife came down.
Metal sliding through flesh. Striking bone, something hard.
Blanche smiled. Her work was done. Now might she be granted peace? No more whispering. She had done what God commanded. Now she could rest.
She pulled the knife back to deliver a second blow, but the woman was falling to the ground already. A tangle of flesh and blood and velvet. Such fine clothes. Had Minou Joubert been dressed in such fine clothes? The hood sliding back from the face.
It was not Minou Joubert.
‘Aunt!’ the child was screaming.
Blanche staggered back from the body. How could this happen? Then, on the periphery of her vision, a young man, leading two horses, appeared on the brow of the hill. He saw them, dropped the reins and started to run towards them.
The child was sobbing, shrill and endless.
‘Aunt, wake up . . .’
Blanche put her hands over her ears. Feeling the drip of blood trickling down her forearm from the knife and the inside of her thighs.
Not Minou Joubert.
She took a further step back. Another sound behind her. Out of her domain, through the unlocked gate, now others were coming. A thin old man, stumbling as if the world was too bright, and an old, weathered woman. A man with red hair, like the heretic Queen of England.
And her, the one she was supposed to have killed. God willed it.
Blanche looked down at the body on the ground. Not Minou Joubert. She saw the child attempt to stem the bleeding with her tiny hands. A flash of memory. White fingers, the stone floor of the chapel, pain cleaving her own body in two.
Her head was filled with shouting. Echoing. Chastising. How had she got it so wrong? The voices told her to kill the child, but she had misunderstood. She thought they meant the child of the Huguenot whore, but that was wrong. She understood now.
Blanche looked down at her belly and felt the creature writhing inside. Her enemies were all around. She was beset on all sides like God’s people of old. They were coming from the château through the open gate and from her villages in the valley and the ghost armies from the blackened woods walked with them.
These were the last days, the final days, when darkness covers the earth. The end of time.
Blanche glanced up at the keep and, for a fleeting moment, the smallest of moments between one heartbeat and the next, she thought she saw a face at the casement looking down.
‘Valentin . . .’ she murmured, then remembered he had left her.
Blanche pressed her hands against her skin, to find the place. There was a moment of stillness. Then she smiled and turned the knife on herself.
‘A time to keep silence.’
She thrust the knife again, lower down this time, into her womb. Straight away, the voices in her head stopped. They were pleased with her, yes. Quiet. Peaceful now. The air shimmered and glistered, then settled.
No more words.
‘Minou,’ Alis cried. ‘She won’t wake up.’
Minou cradled her aunt’s head in her lap.
‘Aunt.’ Aimeric was crouched beside Madame Boussay on the ground, pressing his kerchief against the wound. ‘Don’t sleep. Look at me. Try to open your eyes.’
‘Ah, Nephew. Always so loud.’
‘Please, Aunt,’ he sobbed.
‘I really am very cold, Aimeric,’ she said, ‘though it is such a pleasant day.’ She turned her head. ‘Are you here too, Minou?’
‘I’m here, Aunt.’
