by Kate Mosse
‘The boy is strong, healthy. From noble stock.’
‘What proof do you have?’
‘This.’ The boy felt the cap pulled from his head. ‘And his mother’s confession.’
Now he felt the full force of the visitor’s gaze upon him.
‘Look at me, boy. There’s no need to be afraid.’
He raised his head and looked into the face of the stranger for the first time. Tall, with pale skin and dark brows, his cardinal’s red robes were all but concealed by a hooded, black cloak. He had never seen him before.
And yet. There was something.
‘I am not afraid, sire,’ he lied.
‘How old are you?’
‘He has seen nine summers,’ the priest replied.
‘Let him speak for himself. He has a tongue in his head.’
To the boy’s astonishment, the visitor removed one of his leather gloves and reached out to touch the white streak in his hair, the cause of so much of his ill treatment. A devil’s mark, a sign of pestilence. Countless men of the cloth had tried to rid him of it by plucking out the hairs. Always, they grew back whiter than before. The visitor rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, then replaced his glove and nodded.
‘It is not chalk. There is no intent to deceive.’
The visitor gave no indication he had heard, only reached beneath his robes and produced a small hessian bag. The priest’s eyes widened with greed.
‘No more will be spoken of this.’
‘Of course, your Eminence. The boy’s mother died at his birth. He has been raised in the love and affection of our Holy Mother Church. We let him go with great reluctance.’
The visitor ignored his words.
‘Would you come with me, boy? Would you serve me?’
The boy thought of the priest’s flaccid white flesh and his shrivelled member hanging between his thin legs, the quiet weeping of the other boys who failed to understand that showing weakness only encouraged a greater cruelty.
‘Yes, sire.’
The faintest of smiles flickered across the visitor’s face.
‘Very well. If you are to serve me, I should know your name.’
‘Volusien is the name my mother gave me.’
‘But he goes by Louis,’ interrupted the priest. ‘His guardian thought it more suitable for a child of his unfortunate situation.’
The visitor narrowed his eyes. ‘Unfortunate?’
The boy saw the priest flush an ugly red, and he wondered at it, but now the visitor was holding out the bag. The priest stretched out a rapacious hand but, at the last moment – too quickly for Louis to be sure if it was accident or by design – the prize was let fall. The coins rattled loose to the ground.
‘Come, boy.’
He hesitated, caught between excitement and fear. ‘Am I to accompany you now, sire?’
‘You are,’ the cardinal said, turning and walking away.
Louis stood fixed by the sight of his tormentor on his knees harvesting his blood money, and realised he felt nothing. What reserves of pity or compassion Louis had once possessed had been beaten out of him in the orphanage. He did not even feel disgust.
He ran to catch up. Was he to be an equerry or a page? He had dreamt of such things, though never with expectation. He had never known his mother – only that there was some shame about his circumstances and that his guardians resented the care of him.
As they turned the corner of the ruined church, two men stepped out of the shadows. Kerchiefs were tied across their faces and their blades were unsheathed. Louis instantly raised his fists, ready to defend his new master, but instead felt the weight of the visitor’s hand on his head like a blessing.
The cardinal nodded.
The men walked away and out of sight. Moments later, a sound somewhere between a squeal and a grunt split the still air, then silence. The visitor paused, as if to be sure, then continued forward to where a carriage-and-pair stood waiting.
‘Come, boy.’
‘My lord.’
Though Louis had never before left Saint-Antonin and had never received any formal schooling, he was sharp witted. He watched and he listened. So at this extraordinary moment, on this extraordinary day, he recognised the thistle crest and colours of the Duke of Guise.
His head was spinning, wondering if the misery he knew was about to be replaced by something worse. He had no choice but to go. All the same, as he climbed up into the carriage, he found the courage to ask one more question.
‘How should I address you? I would not offend through ignorance.’
The cardinal gave a cold smile. ‘We will see, Volusien known as Louis,’ he replied. ‘We shall see.’
CHAPTER FOUR
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT, LANGUEDOC
As Minou hurried down the narrow steps from the keep, she heard the first rumble of thunder. She could not believe how the time had flown. She’d intended only to write for a few minutes, but nigh on an hour had passed.
The afternoon shadows had lengthened and the oppressive early heat of the day had been replaced by a silent chill. The air sparked with a sense of threat and menace. Minou shook her head, impatient. There was no prophecy in the sky. A summer storm in the Pyrenees was far from unusual at this time of year. Though the villagers were inclined to see each and every one as a portent of some catastrophe or judgement, she believed it was Nature, not the designs of God, that shaped the world.
Minou paused at the foot of the steps and glanced back at the coat of arms carved above the main door to the tower with the letters b and p – for Bruyère and Puivert. For ten years, she had been Marguerite de Bruyère, Châtelaine of the castle of Puivert, its lands and its living. The Bruyère family had built the fortified square tower in the thirteenth century and, when coming into her unexpected inheritance, Minou had taken the name as her birthright. But although she’d come to love this green valley set in the foothills of the mighty Pyrenees – and was proud of the refuge it had become for all those of the Reformed faith fleeing persecution – the title meant nothing to her. She considered herself a custodian of Puivert, nothing more.
Her married name – Reydon – was a gift bestowed upon her by her husband, Piet, courtesy of the French father he had never known. His affection lay with his Dutch mother, Marta, lying some thirty years dead in a graveyard in Amsterdam. Their daughter was named for her.
The truth was she was still – and ever would be – Minou Joubert. Those two words painted the truest portrait of the woman she was.
* * *
In the woods beyond the castle walls, the assassin jolted awake, his pistol still in his hand.
Had he missed his quarry?
He threw his gaze up to the keep. There was no one there. No glimpse of the green cloak. The door to the roof was still firmly shut. He rubbed his face with a grimy hand, then stiffened at another sound, this time in the undergrowth behind him. He put the pistol down and, slowly, moved his hand to the hunting knife at his waist.
He narrowed his gaze. The rabbit, sensing danger, raised its ears and turned tail. Too slow, too late. The blade flew through the air, striking the animal in its soft, white belly. The assassin went to claim his prey, pulling his weapon free with a gush of guts and fur.
Taking the creature by the scruff of its neck, dripping a trail of blood on the ground, he added it to his sack. Whether or not the Protestant harlot showed her face this afternoon, he’d had a good day’s work all in all.
The assassin wiped the knife on the sleeve of his jerkin, took a mouthful of ale from his flask. He checked that his box of gunpowder and shot were still dry, then settled back to wait. The afternoon was not yet over. There were many hours more of light. It was close to the longest day of the year.
* * *
Composing herself, Minou looked across the courtyard to the main family dwelling as the door opened and her husband strode out.
‘Minou, at last! It’s almost five o’clock.’
She rushed forward and
held out her hands. ‘I am sorry.’
Piet frowned. ‘We have been waiting on your arrival in the solar.’
‘I know.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I was writing and lost track of the hour. Will you forgive me?’
His expression softened. ‘As if, after all this time, I still do not know what happens when the words claim you!’
‘Truly I am sorry.’
A match for one another in height, they walked slowly together back towards the house. Minou could see the spider’s web of lines around her husband’s eyes and how his shoulders hunched, and wondered what was troubling him. She knew the music of Piet’s heart as well as she knew her own. But in the past few weeks – no, longer – she had felt a drift of distance between them. He had taken several unplanned journeys to Carcassonne and, even when at home, he had held his innermost thoughts close.
‘How goes it with you, my love?’ she asked lightly.
‘All is well,’ he said, but his attention was clearly elsewhere.
Since the Battle of Jarnac some three years past – an engagement that had cost Piet the use of his fighting arm – her husband had been obliged to lay down his sword and find other ways of serving the cause. He had organised secure networks of messengers to carry confidential orders, arranged safe passage for their refugee brothers and sisters from Catholic-held cities in France to Huguenot enclaves, and raised significant monies to keep the rebel Calvinist forces in the Dutch Provinces in boot leather.
Piet had followed reports of the Protestant rebellion there with great attention. When word of the success of the Watergeuzen, the Sea Beggars, vanquishing the Spanish forces in the north reached Puivert, Minou remembered how it had grieved him that he had not been alongside them on the battlefield, especially now as Amsterdam was teetering on the brink between the old faith and the new.
She glanced at him. Minou thought he’d accepted his situation, but perhaps she was mistaken. It was why her decision about Paris was so important. It would be a chance for Piet not only to be reacquainted with many of his former comrades but also to be at the heart of things once more. God willing, the adventure would give back to her husband something of what he had lost.
‘Are you resolved, Minou?’ he said, as they reached the threshold.
‘I am,’ she lied.
A rumble of thunder rolled over the distant hills.
‘You are sure? We could wait another day if—’
Minou squeezed his arm, touched by the hope in his voice. ‘You have done nothing but wait, my love. The anniversary has come and gone, everyone is here assembled, June advances.’ There was another rumble of dry thunder, then a cuckoo calling. ‘There. No truer herald of the arrival of summer than that. There will be rain before nightfall.’
She heard him take a deep breath. ‘Minou, before we go in, there is something I must tell you … something I have wanted to say for some time.’
Minou felt her heart lurch. ‘You can tell me anything, you know that.’
‘Some weeks past, I learnt—’
‘Maman!’ their daughter shouted, leaning dangerously out from the casement overlooking the courtyard. ‘Hurry! We are all quite fatigued with waiting!’
‘Marta!’ Minou waved her hand. ‘It is not at all safe to hang out of the window like that, go back inside.’
‘Then come quickly.’
‘We will be there presently.’
Minou turned back to Piet. ‘Really, Marta is too bold. Quite fearless.’ She rested her hand on his cheek, feeling the stubble of his trimmed red beard, flecked with grey now, rough beneath her fingers. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me, mon coeur?’
Piet smiled. ‘No matter. It can wait. We are summoned!’
Minou laughed. ‘Mademoiselle Marta can be patient a moment longer.’
‘Not for all the violets in Toulouse would I try her patience further. We should go in.’
In the months and endless years to come, when Minou looked back, she saw this first quiet misunderstanding as the tipping point: that briefest of beats in time when – had Marta not called out – a different story might have been told.
But as Minou stood with her Piet in the upper courtyard of the château de Puivert on that day in June, she could not possibly have imagined how all the grief and pain she had suffered in the past would be as nothing compared to the loss and despair to come.
CHAPTER FIVE
The main family living room, the solar, occupied the entire length of the first floor of the castle. A generous and comfortable chamber, benefiting from the best of the afternoon light, it was one of the first alterations they had made when taking possession of the castle. Minou had demolished several internal walls and reconfigured the stairwells and corridors so that no memory of the old chamber – or the abuses that had taken place within it – remained.
Three tall double-casement windows with latticed lights, each framed by brocade curtains, looked south over the upper courtyard. Above the door, a heavy single curtain hung on a brass pole. In summer it was held back by a thick rope tie, and kept drawn in winter to keep out the icy winds sweeping down from the mountains. There was a limestone fireplace with two wooden settles positioned at right angles on either side of the hearth with several upholstered footstools and high-back chairs set about. At the far end, a large dining table of walnut with two long benches filled the space, with an answering dresser and chest where the table linen and crockery were stored.
What gave the chamber its particular character were the wall hangings. Filling the space from floor to ceiling were two tapestries, commissioned by Minou from a Huguenot weaver in Carcassonne: one was a representation of Puivert; another was an artist’s impression of Begijnhof, the religious community in Amsterdam nestled between Singel and Kalverstraat. A third, much smaller, was a family portrait completed last winter.
As Minou stood with Piet on the threshold, she enjoyed a rare moment of seeing her loved ones unobserved: her father Bernard, his old eyes clouded and unseeing now but his wisdom undimmed; her sister Alis with her dark Midi complexion and her wild black curls tamed into a long plait, her solid and sturdy frame speaking of strength more than grace; next, her brother Aimeric, also stocky and strong and, though twenty-three years to Alis’s seventeen, so alike her that they might be taken for twins. He stood in conversation with their Aunt Salvadora, her double-chins swaddled in her black widow’s hood. Finally, Marta and two-year-old Jean-Jacques, listening to their grandfather recite a story of chevaliers and the Carcassonne court in medieval times that Minou remembered from her own childhood days.
Where their daughter favoured Minou in her appearance – not least in having the same mismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown – their son had Piet’s colouring: russet hair, green eyes and a freckled skin that owed more to his Dutch mother than his French ancestors.
Then the creak of a loose floorboard gave their presence away.
‘Enfin,’ cried Marta, throwing herself down from the window seat. ‘We are all quite worn out with waiting.’
‘You must learn to be patient, petite,’ Minou said fondly.
‘Aunt Salvadora says that in the royal rooms in the Louvre Palace, the most noble ladies wear skirts this wide.’ Marta spread her arms. ‘Too big to get through a doorway without turning sideways. Is that so? Because how would—’
‘That is not at all what I said,’ Salvadora objected. ‘I was explaining how the fashions of the court are intended to demonstrate the elegance and grandeur of the crown. Our noble king – and his sister and brothers – represent the best of France and, thus, must pay heed to the impression they give. In portraiture, as in their daily lives.’
Minou saw Aimeric and Alis exchange a look. They had no regard for the Valois court. Aunt Boussay was another matter. Despite her affection for her nieces and nephew – and theirs for her – Salvadora held true to the old faith in which she had been raised. Despite the rumours about King Charles, his tantrums and ill health – not to speak o
f the common knowledge that it was Catherine de’ Medici, the Queen Mother, who truly ruled at court – Madame Boussay would hear no word of censure against the royal family. Her admiration remained steadfast.
‘The ladies and gentlemen of the Paris court wear elegant attire for official occasions, but dress with less grandeur for the everyday, like us.’ Minou gestured to the delicate family tapestry on the wall. ‘Papa does not wear his blue doublet with the silver slits except on special occasions, does he?’
Marta, considering herself wise at seven years old, mused: ‘Nor I my jewelled hood. It is for best only.’
‘Exactly so.’ Minou stroked her daughter’s cheek. ‘It is the same even in the Louvre Palace.’
The child nodded. ‘It is wise for even queens and princesses to have everyday clothes, for how else would they be able to play?’
Everyone laughed, even Salvadora, and Minou felt a surge of gratitude for the love and companionship they all shared. She glanced back at the tapestry. She and Piet were sitting clothed in gold thread and adorned in silver and jewelled beads: on cushions in front of them sat Marta in her bleached-white cap beside two-year-old Jean-Jacques in velvet breeches with his wooden rattle. The colours were vibrant and the stitching full of life, of movement. Though no bigger than a lady’s shawl, it was Minou’s favourite. Of all of the tapestries, it spoke most to who they were.
Were they to risk all this for Paris?
Minou pulled herself up at such a thought coming unbidden into her mind. Certainly, the journey would be long. Certainly, the steady pattern of their lives, which had been hard won, would be disrupted. But whatever discomforts they might endure, seeing Paris with their own eyes would surely be worth it? To stand before the mighty towers of the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame and witness history as it was made was not an honour to be missed.
Minou was conscious of Piet’s eyes fixed upon her. No man could have worked harder to promote a message of tolerance, nor to attempt to bring those of differing faiths to common ground. Her husband believed not only that a permanent peace was possible, but also that the majority of women and men of France – Catholic or Huguenot – wanted it. He cited their own family as proof of it. While Bernard, like Salvadora, remained within the old faith, they had brought their children up in the light of the Reformed Church. If their family could manage to accommodate and respect one another’s differences over a decade of civil war, why not other families also?
