CHAPTER FOUR
Catherine
Lyon, France
19 April 1685
Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Lyon was the last place Catherine Gillet should have been trying to go to on the Thursday of Holy Week—or any day, for that matter. Yet despite the risks she simply could not stay away.
With a tug at the black mourning veil covering her face, she stepped through the wide front center doors of the massive church, paused long enough for her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior, and then angled toward the nearest row of chairs. After quickly slipping onto a seat, she took in a deep breath and forced herself to look toward the front of the sanctuary, to the sight of the coffin.
She could not believe her Uncle Edouard was gone. Yes, he had made some terrible choices in the past eight months, ones that had left him estranged from much of the family. But prior to that he had been a big part of their lives, and Catherine missed him. Now she was here to mourn his passing, whether that was against the rules or not.
She missed his daughter, Amelie, even more. Scanning the small crowd gathered near the nave, Catherine search for the beloved cousin she had not seen or spoken with since last summer. Sadly, it did not look as if she were present. Thus far, except for the monks seated together behind the coffin, the only people here were old, unlike Amelie, who was just nineteen.
Blowing out a breath, Catherine told herself to relax, that surely her cousin would arrive soon. The convent where Amelie had been sequestered was nearly prison-like in its protectiveness, but the powers that be had to let a young woman attend her father’s funeral. To do otherwise would be unspeakably cruel.
Then again, Amelie’s entire internment there had been cruel, the misguided act of a man who had convinced himself his decisions—to convert from his Huguenot faith, to send his daughter off to be cloistered following the death of her husband, to essentially cut off himself and Amelie from the entire family—was in all their best interests. Now he was gone, and here Catherine sat on this chilly April afternoon, waiting for his funeral service to begin.
Her brother, Jules, would be furious if he knew she was here, as would plenty of others on both sides. Huguenots were forbidden to attend Catholic services, but Catherine had never been one to follow rules if she believed them to be foolish. She deserved the right to observe her beloved uncle’s passing, not to mention that she would not have missed this chance to see Amelie for all the world, not even under threat of capture and punishment.
And, really, what difference did it make? Life for Huguenots throughout France had been getting so much worse. The threat of persecution hung over her head almost constantly these days regardless of where she went or what she did.
Catherine’s thoughts were interrupted by a strong scent tickling her nose. Turning, she saw two boys making their way down the aisle, waving incense. Behind them came Father Philippe, a friend of her brother’s and the first person she had spotted here who would be able to recognize her. She turned her head away and tugged again at her veil, hoping it sufficiently obscured her features.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Father Philippe continue up the aisle without hesitation, his stocky form moving slowly behind the altar boys and their swinging orbs of incense. Either the priest had not spotted her or he was acting as if he had not. If the latter, she knew it would not be the first time he had turned a blind eye toward something he did not personally consider an infraction. Among her family at least, he was known to be sympathetic to the Huguenots’ plight.
As Protestants, the Huguenots viewed the Christian life as simple belief in God centered around His sovereignty in salvation and all things. And though they avoided any semblance of ritual and pageantry, Catherine had always secretly enjoyed the beauty of the Catholic churches, which were so elaborately adorned.
For as long as she could remember, she had been curious about the inside of this striking cathedral and had peeked through the door several times over the years. But she had certainly never sat down and allowed herself to absorb it all, never attended an actual service. Her father would not have allowed it. Despite the fact that this was where King Henri IV, hero of the Huguenots because he believed everyone had the right to worship as they pleased, had gotten married eighty-five years before, Papa always maintained his conviction that this church was full of idolatry, that there was no hope inside, that God had no part in it.
Catherine disagreed, though she would never say as much aloud. Here she felt a rush of emotion along with an underlying sense of peace. God’s peace. As a Huguenot, she may have disagreed with various tenants of the Catholic religion, but her sense of the Lord’s presence told her that it was not up to her father or anyone else to determine which places God did and did not sanction.
She was also moved by the beauty of the statues. As the monks began to chant, she focused on an icon of the Madonna to the right of the altar. When she was a child, she had thought the statues of Mary were in honor of her own mother, who died when Catherine was just four years old. Her only memory of Maman was when she was ill, a shawl wrapped around her head and draping down over her frail body as she sat up to comfort her little girl. When Catherine first saw a figure of a Madonna soon after, she recognized not just the shawl but also her mother’s pale, luminescent skin and sorrowful yet peaceful expression.
Catherine’s gaze continued on to the astronomical clock, which stood as tall as three men behind Father Philippe. She loved the way the clock’s hands moved, tick-by-tick, a reliable given in their rapidly changing world. She had heard once that the clock was built in the fourteenth century, long before her ancestors had broken off from the Catholic faith to become Protestants.
And though she dearly loved her own house of worship, the Temple de Lyon, it had been built in the simple, unadorned style of the Huguenots. There, no giant clock ticked along with their prayers. No blessed mother graced their worship.
Catherine returned her gaze to the Madonna up front, but the sight of the casket interrupted her thoughts. She could not believe Uncle Edouard was dead. Her own father had passed three years ago, when she was just fifteen, after which her only uncle had become a surrogate father of sorts, as loving to her as he had been to his own child—until, that is, he chose to convert and send Amelie away to a convent five miles out of town. Catherine felt sure his actions had come not from personal conviction but rather to protect his daughter’s life in the wake of her husband’s death as a martyr. Catherine suspected Uncle Edouard had also done it to save the family’s printing business from the increasingly harsh, anti-Huguenot laws of the king.
“Convert or lose everything” was the refrain echoing across France, and many, her uncle included, chose to do exactly that. Uncle Edouard continued to work in the family business after the conversion, but otherwise, out of necessity, he had pretty much been cast from their lives. Jules had forbidden Catherine from having any contact with the man at all. She had not even been allowed to visit the family print shop or warehouse on the chance she might run into him there. And that was such a pity. Maybe if she had been allowed to speak with him when he was still alive, they could have found a way to make their peace. Perhaps she might even have convinced him to bring Amelie back home.
Thinking once more of her cousin, Catherine took another look around at the growing crowd of attendees and had to admit that Amelie still was not among them. She did recognize someone else, however, and the sight caused her to gasp. Her grandmother was there, sitting in a pew near the front, dressed all in black. And though her face was also obscured by a veil, Catherine knew without a doubt that it was she. Grand-Mère’s stately demeanor, elegant posture, and finely tailored clothing easily gave her away. How heartbreaking this must be for her, Catherine thought, to bury her last child.
Uncle Edouard’s death had come as a shock to all of them, but especially to dear Grand-Mère. Uncle Edouard had stayed late at the print shop, alone, three nights before, and Jules had found him dead the next morning.
The physician said his heart had failed.
Catherine dabbed at her eyes and focused on Father Philippe, who was now speaking in Latin from the marble pulpit. Thanks to her years of study in the language, she understood what he was saying, how Edouard’s death was not the end, but that for the Lord’s faithful, death meant life.
“This is the communion of saints,” he continued, still in Latin, “that we profess our faith in the Apostles’ Creed. We believe in the Holy Ghost, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting.”
“Amen,” Catherine whispered. She believed in the catholic—universal—church too. She just wished it did not involve so much conflict.
After several readings and more prayer, Father Philippe spoke specifically of Uncle Edouard, saying he had been a good man, a good father, and a good son. He did not mention Edouard’s wife, who had died from consumption, the same illness that took Catherine’s mother near the same time, fourteen years ago. The two had been sisters, coming when they were girls to Lyon from the Plateau Vivarais-Lignon in the mountains southwest of the city. The two sisters married the Gillet brothers, Edouard and Thomas, making Amelie and Catherine double cousins. They had been as close as sisters their entire lives until they were forced to part. Now that Uncle Edouard was gone, surely they would be reunited soon, whether Amelie had been allowed to come here today or not.
After the eulogy was communion, and then the service would be done. As parishioners rose to partake in the sacrament, Catherine glanced toward the doors behind her and wondered if she should slip out now. Even if Father Philippe had chosen to look the other way about her presence here, she did not want to force his hand. Besides, Grand-Mère would be startled to see her, so perhaps it would be best to connect elsewhere, away from prying eyes.
Catherine rose and moved quietly toward the narthex. She was not sorry she had come, for it had been important to her to have this final farewell. Now she needed to find out about the absence of her cousin, which had been both shocking and deeply disappointing. This was not the end of things with regard to Amelie, not in the least. In fact, now that Uncle Edouard no longer stood in the way, it was time to bring his daughter back home for good.
Catherine made her way through the dim light, opened the door, and slipped outside without too much noise. After softly closing it behind her, she turned to go—and stopped short, startled to see Pierre Talbot standing in the shade of a nearby tree, looking as if he had been waiting for her to emerge. Her heart stirred at the sight of him—at his broad shoulders, handsome face, and dark, wavy hair—even as she braced herself for the reprimand to come. Swallowing hard, she moved toward her betrothed, not lifting her veil until she was right in front of him.
“I thought I would find you here,” he said, pulling off his hat as he stood up straight and locked his deep blue eyes on hers.
Rather than being upset, his expression held only compassion. She sighed in relief.
“Are you all right?” He reached out to brush his fingertips across the back of her hand.
Somehow, the kindness of his concern was nearly her undoing. She had remained stoic for the most part when she was inside the church, alone, but now that she was out here and face-to-face with someone who cared about her, it was all she could do not to sob aloud.
The man she had known and loved for years was now gazing down at her with such tenderness that she felt as if her heart might break. Turning away, she closed her eyes and took in a breath, a few tears slipping through as she managed to gain control.
He squeezed her hand and pulled her close until they were almost touching but not quite. Pierre was a gentleman, after all.
“I am so sorry.” His voice was deep and steady. “At least you were able to see Amelie, oui?”
Catherine shook her head as the tears started to flow. He brushed his free hand against her face and then looked past her, toward the cathedral, and pulled it back.
“People are starting to stare. We can talk later.”
She pulled her veil down again. “Yes. And you should be getting back to work anyway, I imagine.”
“Oui.” He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll see you soon.”
She watched as he hurried back toward rue Saint Jean. She had thought since she was a child that she might marry him some day, but it was not until about two years ago that she knew she would, and that he desired the same in return. If not for all the upheaval and conflict and persecution of the Huguenots, they would have married by now. She hoped their day would come soon.
When Pierre disappeared around the curve in the narrow street, she turned her attention to the cathedral doors just as her grandmother emerged. Catherine managed to catch the woman’s eye, and then she stepped back into the shadows to wait for grandmother to join her.
“What are you doing here?” Grand-Mère drew close, grasping Catherine’s wrist.
“The same as you.” She gave a nod toward the door of the cathedral. “I left a few minutes early, to be safe.”
“I see.” The older woman’s lips pursed in displeasure, but she held her tongue, apparently seeing the hypocrisy in reprimanding her granddaughter for doing the very thing she had done herself.
“Amelie did not come,” Catherine said.
Grand-Mère looked equally disappointed. “I thought for sure she would.”
A horse plodded through the square, towing a wagon. The driver stopped it at the door of the church as six men carried out the casket.
Catherine pulled her grandmother close. Her uncle would be the first in three generations of the family not to be buried in the simple Protestant graveyard outside of town. “Are you going to the cemetery?”
Grand-Mère lifted her veil, revealing her silver hair, and peered intently at her son’s casket. “There is no reason. He is gone.”
Catherine nodded. “Which is why Amelie no longer has to stay in the convent.”
“Shh.” Her grandmother led Catherine to the side of the cathedral, back toward the garden. Once they were alone, Grand-Mère said, “Do not speak of it now. You do not know who may be listening.”
“But how could they not let her out for her own father’s funeral? That is unconscionable.”
“Oui. I agree.”
“Someone needs to go and get her, as soon as possible. And then we need to come up with a plan of escape. Obviously Jules is not capable of making a decision.”
“Stop,” Grand-Mère whispered. “It’s not just us he is concerned about. Others would suffer too.” Her expression was fierce for a moment before softening again. “We can talk back at the house. You will come home with me.”
Catherine hesitated, for she had a different destination in mind. “I told Cook I would get bread.”
“Then we will stop at the boulangerie on the way.”
“Non,” Catherine said. “I need the fresh air. We’ll speak later.”
Grand-Mère frowned. “What about the dragoons?”
Catherine reached up and pulled the veil back down over her face. “I’ll be fine, see? The dragoons will think I am a good Catholic girl on her way home from mass and leave me alone.”
The dragoons had recently grown in number in Lyon, under order of le Roi Soleil—Louis XIV—and though they were said to be converting Protestants back to Catholicism, they were, in fact, either by personal choice or a covert order, doing far more than that. Often obnoxious and cruel, they sometimes seemed no better than animals as they intimidated, tormented, and even outright tortured the Huguenots they encountered.
Catherine could not imagine how such behavior was allowed, much less sanctioned, by the king. There were those who claimed Louis’s motives were pure, that he loved his subjects so much he wanted them to share his faith. Others thought perhaps he just wanted everyone and everything to revolve around him, that because he was Catholic, everyone under his domain should be Catholic as well. Or maybe, as Jules believed, his actions were solely about
economics. With loans from the Vatican came pressure to convert the Huguenots. And Louis needed those loans to support his extravagant lifestyle, including his expansion and remodel of the palace of Versailles.
Whatever the reason, the Sun King’s handling of the situation had become more and more unreasonable, wreaking havoc on Catherine’s friends and family. It was too late for Uncle Edouard, but it was time to bring Amelie home. Then as soon as she was back with them, they all could finally leave the country together and go somewhere new, someplace where they would no longer be at risk of persecution simply because of their faith.
After helping her grandmother into the family carriage with the assistance of their coachman, Monsieur Roen, Catherine hurried down rue Saint Jean and into a traboule, one of Lyon’s numerous interior pedestrian passageways. Built for foot traffic only, the traboules were paved in stone and mostly narrow, except where they opened up to reveal sunny courtyards here and there along the way.
First created by silk weavers as a means for transporting fabric to the river quickly and safely even in inclement weather, the corridors bisected buildings across Lyon, allowing pedestrians to move directly through the middle of long city blocks despite the structures that would otherwise stand in the way. For Catherine, the traboules were not just quicker but also offered a more discreet method for getting where she needed to be. And though they were not guaranteed to be dragoon-free, they still offered a better option than openly roaming the streets.
Catherine squinted in the dim light as she moved along through the passageway. Just as her eyes had begun to adapt, she found herself emerging into the brightness of an open courtyard. As she did, she glanced off to the side and noticed a pair of young women, chatting and giggling together. Moving back into the traboule and continuing onward, she thought of her beloved cousin and how the two of them used to be that way.
All through her childhood, Catherine had been closer to Amelie than to anyone else in the world. Both had the chestnut-colored hair, brown eyes, and grace of their mothers, although Amelie was a year older than Catherine and far more poised. The two girls had shared the same tutor, learning Latin and English, studying geography, their catechism, and the Scriptures together.
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