The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  ‘Minou,’ Piet said lightly, ‘will you speak?’

  Then he smiled and, even after ten years of companionship, her heart sang. She felt her indecision leave her. Whatever doubts she had, she owed it to her husband to be by his side in Paris.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘My thanks for your patience,’ she said, looking around the chamber. ‘And I ask your forgiveness for my poor time-keeping.’

  At the sound of her voice, everyone fell silent. Bernard turned in his chair. Aunt Salvadora folded her fan and placed it in her lap. Alis stopped pacing and stood beside Aimeric. Even little Jean-Jacques felt the gravity of the moment and stopped kicking his fat little feet as Marta sprang up onto the bench beside the nurse and whispered at her brother to be still.

  ‘I am grateful, too, that no one –’ Minou glanced at her daughter – ‘almost no one has attempted to rush me to make my decision.’

  ‘But you say we should always speak the truth,’ Marta protested.

  ‘Hush,’ said Piet, putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘Let Maman speak.’

  ‘It is an honour that our family has been invited to attend the royal wedding. For some –’ she looked at Aimeric – ‘to be present on this auspicious day is a matter of duty. For others, it is a matter of reconciliation.’ She looked to her husband, and he smiled his encouragement.

  ‘Catherine de’ Medici and Jeanne de Navarre. Two queens, two mothers, adversaries for many years. Through this marriage contract, they signal their intent to put aside their differences in order to rebuild a land fit not only for their children, but also for their children’s children. If Marguerite de Valois – Margot – can take the Protestant Henri of Bourbon for her lawful husband, then surely all Catholics can learn to live in peace with their Huguenot neighbours.’

  ‘Well said,’ said Bernard. ‘Is not that so, Salvadora?’

  ‘Indeed, it is.’

  Minou looked at each of her family in turn. ‘You all know how hard I have found it to arbitrate between what I consider is in the best interests of our family, and what are our responsibilities to our friends and comrades. But, after much reflection, I consider it will be an honour to stand witness, after these long years of war, to this agreement brokered between former enemies.’ Her gaze came to rest on Piet. ‘That being so, I propose we should all accept the invitation and travel with you to Paris for the wedding.’

  For a moment, as everyone in the chamber took a moment to absorb what she had said, the air seemed to shimmer and pulse. Then, Marta clapped her hands and the world came rushing back.

  ‘I am glad,’ Piet said, his eyes sparkling as he took Minou’s hand. ‘So very glad.’

  Aimeric laughed. ‘Brother, did you not know what your wife intended?’

  Piet flushed. ‘I was confident in your sister’s decision!’

  ‘As was I, though I admit as much on my own selfish account as for any nobler purpose. I am summoned to rejoin Admiral de Coligny’s entourage. He has stayed away from Paris of late – hence my liberty to return to Languedoc for these weeks – but now the King calls for him and he cannot refuse. Knowing you all are somewhere within the city walls will make the discharging of my official duties all the more pleasant.’

  Minou smiled. ‘And it will be a joy to have the benefit of your companionship there, brother.’ She waved her hand, taking in the room. ‘Of course, there is no obligation for anyone else to come, though all are welcome.’

  Bernard shook his head. ‘I am too old for such a journey, Filha. I shall return to Carcassonne and look forward to hearing all about it when you return.’

  ‘We will lack your company, but I quite understand. What of you, dear Aunt?’

  Salvadora flicked open her fan, sending a single black feather dropping to the ground. ‘How you think I would deprive myself of such a spectacle, I cannot imagine! It will be the wedding of the age. Though the Queen of Navarre might be misguided in her faith, her son is a prince of the royal blood and was indeed born a Catholic –’

  ‘Though a convert to the Reformed Religion as soon as he could speak,’ Alis said under her breath.

  ‘He is a prince of the royal blood,’ Aunt Boussay repeated firmly. Her expression softened. ‘And to see Paris at last. Notre-Dame and the Sainte-Chapelle, where the holiest of the relics of the Passion are to be seen: the Crown of Thorns, a piece of the true Cross—’

  ‘Of old wood, more like…’

  Minou muttered a warning. ‘Alis…’

  ‘Whenever my official duties permit me to do so, I shall be honoured to show you the sights, dear Aunt,’ Aimeric said quickly, frowning at his little sister.

  Marta picked up the stray black feather and tickled Jean-Jacques under his chin, then slipped it into the folds of her skirt.

  ‘I, too, have given the matter due consideration,’ she said in her solemn voice. ‘I shall accompany you and Papa to Paris, not least of all to keep an eye on this little devil.’

  ‘Really!’ protested Salvadora. ‘Minou, you should not allow her to speak like—’

  ‘But he is!’ Marta insisted.

  Salvadora pursed her lips. ‘Well, it is impolite to say so.’

  ‘All brothers are devils, Marta,’ Alis grinned, pointing at Aimeric, ‘which is why I, too, feel obliged to come to Paris. To keep an eye on him!’

  Aimeric clamped his hand to his chest. ‘You wound me!’

  ‘Is that true, Maman?’ Marta demanded.

  ‘What is true, is that your Aunt Alis and Uncle Aimeric have spent a lifetime teasing one another! Pay them no heed.’

  ‘Come, sit with me, Marta,’ Alis said, leading her to the table. ‘We can talk of vexatious brothers and how to tame them!’

  Piet turned to Aimeric. ‘Is it still your intention to leave tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. I will travel via Chalabre to bid farewell to my wife, then ride on to join my comrades in Saint-Antonin. All being well, I should be in Paris by the end of June.’

  ‘Might you be able to secure suitable lodgings for us?’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Given the wedding itself is on the eighteenth day, I think we should aim to arrive during the first week of August – when, God willing, the city should not yet be too crowded – and depart after the celebrations are completed, a day or two past the Feast Day of St Bartholomew. That will allow us some three weeks in Paris.’ He looked to Minou. ‘That should be sufficient, do not you think?’

  Minou smiled. ‘Quite sufficient.’

  Salvadora brandished her fan at Aimeric. ‘I would be close to the Louvre Palace, nephew. On the grand rue Saint-Martin or the rue Vieille du Temple. Not in some insalubrious district.’

  ‘The university quarter on the left bank might be better,’ Bernard said mildly. ‘The air is cleaner there.’

  Salvadora tutted. ‘Appropriate lodgings I said, Bernard. I do not wish to be among tradesmen, or poets or—’

  ‘Protestants?’ called Alis.

  Aimeric’s lips twitched. ‘I give you my word, revered Aunt, that I will keep you safe from the contaminating evils of poetry and the printing presses of the Sorbonne.’

  His aunt narrowed her eyes. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’

  ‘I do,’ he answered fondly. ‘I shall secure lodgings appropriate to everyone’s needs. Have no fear.’

  ‘That is settled,’ Piet said, his voice alive with the promise of the adventure. ‘I propose we should leave around the longest day, some two weeks hence, and take our time to travel.’

  ‘Do you have a route in mind?’ Aimeric asked.

  Piet glanced, almost shyly, at Minou and all at once, she understood. Though he had been waiting on her decision, he had already been planning for her and the family to go with him. Was that what he had been on the point of confessing earlier?

  Her responsibilities acquitted, Minou took a cup of wine from the dresser and raised it in a toast to her husband.

  Piet smiled with relief at her blessing. ‘Indeed yes,’
he said, turning back to his brother-in-law. ‘I have some thoughts.’

  * * *

  In the forest beyond the castle walls, a blackbird called to its mate. A fox made its stealthy way along a woodland path, a buck and doe broke cover to forage for food in the glades. In the mountains, eagles wheeled and soared, riding the currents of the stormy air.

  Still the assassin watched. He had no hope now of fulfilling his mission before night fell. He wondered what had happened to change the usual pattern of things, for he had no doubt the intelligence he had been given was good. Every afternoon, the heretic went to the top of the tower. Why not today?

  He heard the changing of the watch at dusk. He saw the lamps in the towers lit, one by one. An owl came out to hunt. Finally, as the light faded from the sky, the assassin took shelter in the deeper recesses of the wood. He laid down the pistol, covered his box of gunpowder tightly to keep it dry, then reached in his pocket for the meagre rations he had left, and settled back against the trunk of a beech tree to pass the night.

  ‘If not today, then tomorrow,’ he said, zeal burning in his eyes. ‘The Lord’s will be done.’

  * * *

  Little by little, the day sank down behind the hills.

  Aunt Boussay returned to her needlepoint. Alis took Marta to see the kittens in the kitchen gardens. Jean-Jacques slithered from his nurse’s lap and stumbled back to his grandfather begging for the end of the story.

  Minou sat on the bench in the long windows, listening to the tempest. It gave her pleasure to watch Piet, as excited as any boy planning his first hunt, leaning over the table with his leather jerkin untied and his sleeves rolled up. Aware of her observance, he turned. He gestured to the chaos of papers and maps on the table.

  ‘Would you like to see what—’

  Minou held up her hand. ‘Two heads are better than three. I am content to leave the planning to you and Aimeric.’

  ‘You are sure of that, my lady of the mists?’

  Minou smiled. ‘Quite sure, my lord. Indeed, I am grateful not to have to think on it.’

  When the bells of Saint-Marcel struck the ninth hour, the nurse took the children to their beds and the servants brought wine and victuals for supper. As the bells were tolling ten, Bernard retired, followed shortly afterwards by Salvadora. The candles danced and guttered. Alis stayed a little longer, offering suggestions and commentary, then took herself to her chamber. At the approach of midnight, with no sign that Piet or Aimeric had exhausted their discussions, Minou also withdrew.

  Finally, the storm broke with wild winds and rain lashing against the glass. She was bone tired, but when she got to her chamber, she found she could not settle. The voices in her head were too clamorous.

  At two o’clock, she rose and opened the casement to freshen the air in the room. She heard the indistinct voices of her husband and brother, now standing in the courtyard below, then returned to her tangled bedsheets, wondering what kept them from their beds.

  Finally, the tempest blew itself out. All the same, it was still not until a pale dawn came creeping across the sill, that Minou surrendered to the inky arms of sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LIMOGES, LIMOUSIN

  Saturday, 7 June

  Vidal du Plessis – known now as his Eminence, Cardinal Valentin – looked down from the window to the small courtyard below, which was bathed in morning light. The boy was playing with other children.

  The more Vidal watched, the more he observed how Louis held himself apart. Vidal approved of such caution. To be part of the group without drawing attention, all the better to watch and listen, showed good judgement. Yes, he approved.

  They had ridden north all the previous day and through the night, covering some fifty leagues distance from Saint-Antonin to reach the outskirts of Limoges by morning. But although Vidal had taken refreshment and bathed his temples, he remained fatigued, short tempered. The relentless rattling of the carriage wheels continued to reverberate in his skull. Every bone in his body ached. His head ached.

  He turned away from the casement and cast his eye around the well-appointed chamber. Limoges fell within one of the principalities controlled by Jeanne d’Albret, the Huguenot Queen of Navarre, and was currently under the control of Huguenot forces. However, a handful of noble estates had been left in Catholic hands, not out of compassion or mercy, but because the Queen admired the enamel boxes and trinkets produced in Limoges itself. Papist or not, she did not want those businesses destroyed.

  Vidal considered the situation absurd and resented being confined in this enclave surrounded on all sides by heretics. Only a few weeks more, he told himself, then he could return to his purpose. Come the feast day of the Nativity of Our Lady in September, he would be free to return to his private estate outside Chartres, purchased with the promise of his inheritance from his wealthy uncle, Philippe du Plessis, and fulfil the next stage of his life’s plan. Having had no son of his own, Vidal was his sole heir.

  At least, Vidal had thought it so. He shook his head, unwilling to entertain such troublesome thoughts, then wished he had not. His temples started to pound.

  Vidal was a star in the firmament of the Catholic Church. Having risen to prominence quickly during the wars, and with little opposition, he had long ago shaken the dust from his southern heels and aligned himself to the North. He was a personal confessor to the Duke of Guise himself and, for ten years, had profited from the misery of civil war. He was now wealthy, he was powerful. But at this particular moment, for his private ambition to be realised, he needed the current cessation in hostilities to hold. Until Michaelmas at least, when the last of his arrangements would be in place. Then the country could go to the Devil, for all Vidal cared.

  Yet, for all his influence, Vidal felt matters slipping out of his control. The situation in Amsterdam – though he had taken steps to contain it – gave him cause for concern. He had money enough for the time being, but a claim against his uncle’s estate would ruin him. His plans were costly. And his current sojourn in Languedoc had served to confirm that the feverish atmosphere in Paris was repeated the length and breadth of the country. France was a tinder box of resentments, disagreements and grudges.

  Everything depended upon the royal wedding going ahead. Though the marriage contract had been agreed between the Queen Mother and the Queen of Navarre in April – and an August date set for the ceremony – the Louvre Palace was still waiting for dispensation from his holiness the Pope. That was just one obstacle. There were others, not least the Duke of Guise’s continuing love affair with the bride-to-be.

  Vidal wiped his face with his kerchief, the furrows on his brow evidence of ten years’ service to the Guise family. He neither knew nor cared if there was genuine affection between Marguerite of Valois and Guise. However, he was certain that when – if – Guise did show his hand, it would not be love sickness which moved him to action but rather an implacable hatred of his rival, Henri of Navarre. That the Huguenot was about to be married into the Catholic royal family, so uniting the Bourbon and Valois dynasties, was a savage blow to Guise’s own ambitions. Vidal had no doubt his master would do anything he could to destabilise the alliance.

  His fingers began to tap on the back of his chair, accelerating as his vision took hold. No, he could not waver now. And though God had long since stopped listening, Vidal raised his eyes towards Heaven.

  ‘Your Eminence.’

  Vidal turned. His steward, Xavier, stood in the doorway. The man was as pale as milk, despite the southern sun, and his eyes were a sickly yellow. Yet he was robust and never faltered.

  ‘What is it?’ he said sharply, replacing his red biretta on his head.

  ‘Forgive me for intruding upon your repose, sire, but word has come from Paris.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Vidal held out his hand for the letter. Xavier crossed the room in two strides, gave the missive into his master’s hands, then stepped respectfully back.

  Vidal broke the familiar wax
seal, already a little cracked from the journey, and scanned the words. He frowned, read them again a second time to be certain there was no mistake, then held the parchment to the candle and watched it flame.

  ‘Eminence?’

  He tossed the blackened remains into the cold grate. ‘We are summoned to return immediately to Paris. It seems the Queen of Navarre is unwell. A fever.’

  ‘Was she previously in ill health?’

  ‘I believe she was,’ Vidal replied carefully.

  ‘Then it is to be hoped that her Majesty recovers, although…’

  Vidal narrowed his gaze. He had a network of spies working the length and breadth of the country – and beyond – of whom Xavier was one of the most reliable. He did not enquire how the man acquired his information, nor from whom, but his intelligence was rarely at fault. The ends always justified the means in the service of Christ.

  Vidal waved his hand. ‘Although?’

  ‘I would not wish to talk out of turn, my lord.’

  ‘I will not censure you if your words are not to my liking. Speak.’

  The steward hesitated. ‘Though I am sure it is a common fever…’

  ‘Do not try my patience, Xavier.’

  ‘The messenger who brought the letter confided that, but three days previously, Catherine de’ Medici had made a gift of gloves to her royal guest.’

  Vidal’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Perfumed gloves?’

  ‘Fashioned by her own glove maker,’ Xavier elaborated, ‘they are said to have been delivered by the Queen Mother herself to the Hôtel de Bourbon, where the Queen of Navarre is currently residing.’