by Kate Mosse
Vidal considered. There wasn’t a woman or man in Paris who had not heard of René the Florentine, perfumier to Catherine de’ Medici, or that, in addition to his legitimate business, the Italian was also the purveyor of poisons. His shop was never empty.
‘This is common talk in the streets?’
‘The messenger said it is spoken abroad in both Catholic and Protestant quarters.’
Vidal’s fingers drummed harder. This did not suit his purposes at all. If there was rumour of a plot against the Queen of Navarre – even if there was no evidence, but the populace believed it – then relations between the Louvre Palace and the Hôtel de Bourbon would become strained and the marriage might not go ahead.
‘Bring the messenger to me. I would question him myself.’
Xavier raised his hands in apology. ‘I did not think to detain him. He has already gone.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘I know not. I am sorry, sire.’
Vidal frowned. ‘No matter. We have our instructions. We cannot let such gossip distract us from our purpose. It is not for Man to question the ways of God, Xavier, for His wisdom and mercy are beyond our comprehension. The soul of the Queen of Navarre is in His hands.’
‘Yes, your Eminence.’
‘Prepare the horses. I will give my apologies to our host for our premature departure. We leave immediately.’
Xavier’s eyes snapped up. ‘We are not to wait for news from Puivert?’
Vidal understood his concern. The intention had been to remain in Limoges until receiving word his orders had been successfully carried out.
‘The Duke of Guise would have me back in Paris without delay – indeed, he commands it so. I shall be forced to assume the matter has been resolved satisfactorily.’ He paused. ‘However, leave instructions that, should any communication be received, word should instantly be sent after us. I would know for certain.’
‘Very good, sire.’
‘On which point, is there word from Amsterdam?’
Xavier met his eye. ‘The situation was as you thought, Eminence. However, the matter is concluded.’
‘Discreetly?’
‘There is no possibility of any connection being made to you, sire. And there was no evidence – if indeed it ever existed – found in the nun’s quarters. Nothing.’
Vidal exhaled in relief. ‘Good. You have done well, Xavier. I will see you are rewarded for it.’
‘It is my honour to serve, sire.’
A shout in the courtyard below drew Vidal back to the window. The child’s game had shifted from play to battle. Louis had his right fist clenched but it was the other boy – a son of one of the prefects of Limoges – who sported a bloody nose.
Despite the fact that he would be obliged to issue some form of reprimand, Vidal was not displeased. Louis had a fighting spirit, a sharp sense of self-preservation and an apparent lack of conscience. Whether he claimed Louis as his own, or continued the fiction that he was the child of a distant cousin taken into his service out of Christian charity, Vidal believed he would prove himself useful.
‘And what of the boy?’ Xavier asked.
Vidal looked down into the courtyard again. His son seemed to sense he was watching, for he glanced up and without a hint of shame in his face. The briefest of smiles crossed Vidal’s lips. He shut the casement.
‘The boy comes with us to Paris.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT, LANGUEDOC
Evidence of the storm was everywhere, broken branches and twigs strewn on the wet ground. The heavy smell of damp straw and the bright day assailed them as Minou left the family’s private quarters.
As the rising sun painted its pattern upon the grass, the solemn group walked from the upper courtyard and through the castle grounds towards the gatehouse to bid farewell to Aimeric. Marta skipped ahead while Minou and Alis walked at a steadier pace, with little Jean-Jacques jumping between them.
The basse cour courtyard was given over to the working life of the castle – the stables and blacksmith, the kennels for the hunting dogs, the stores of provisions to support the household, the salting house. Each Saturday, the lower courtyard served as the weekly market for Puivert. Tradesmen and artisans had begun to come up from the village as soon as the gates were opened to set up their stalls. Farm women with willow panniers and wide-brimmed hats bearing the first fruits of summer; the cooper and his boy rolling rattling barrels of ale over the drawbridge and into their position in the shadow of the western walls; a poulter with a brood of hens gathered within a makeshift wooden pen. The fires of the forge were already burning, the farrier with his rasp in hand. Even a travelling bookseller appeared with his chap books and pamphlets. Minou had never seen him before and made a mental note to look over his stock.
Women bobbed their heads as they walked by, men touched their caps. Minou smiled and raised her hand in greeting to those she knew. It had taken her some time to learn to accept and to acknowledge these signs of fealty. Nothing in her modest upbringing in Carcassonne, or her childhood spent in her father’s bookshop in the Bastide, had prepared her for such status or position.
Minou had come into her unexpected title from her birth mother, Marguerite, for whom she was named. That Bernard and Florence were not her blood parents was a secret that had been kept from her until she was nineteen. So, although Minou felt a gratitude for the woman who had died giving birth to her – and in whose image she was fashioned, tall and pale, with straight brown hair and mismatched eyes – she considered Florence, some fifteen years buried, her true mother. It was love, not blood, that mattered. It was from Florence that she had learnt her life lessons, not least to respect and pay heed to antiquity: ‘Without knowing of the mistakes of the past,’ she used to say, ‘how can we learn not to repeat them? History is our teacher.’
Minou had held the advice close to her heart and so, without intending it, had modelled herself on the great medieval hero of Languedoc, Viscount Trencavel.* She ran her estates in Puivert – their estates – in the same spirit of toleration and was proud that in this, one of the southernmost points of the Midi, Huguenots and Catholics lived side by side as Christian neighbours, not enemies.
When Piet had been away in the early years of the wars, Minou had governed Puivert alone. She had become reliant on her own counsel and instincts, adjudging who was the injured party in a broken engagement or a dowry unpaid; listening to charges of adultery and ill faith and stolen inheritance; protecting the innocent against unwarranted charges and administering justice to the guilty.
‘Merci infiniment, madame,’ said Marta prettily.
Minou looked round to see her daughter accepting a handful of ripe, red cherries from an old woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, in the custom of the mountains. Marta’s pale blue dress, with its delicate cream beads, dazzled in comparison.
‘Mercé a vos, madomaisèla,’ the woman responded in the old language.
Minou had learnt how to fulfil her duties by trial and by error, so it amused her how Marta took it all in her stride. She was very much the treasured daughter of the castle. Minou glanced at her son and wondered if he would be the same. She doubted it. Jean-Jacques was a steady, good-natured child, constant in his emotions, not quicksilver curious like his sister. Jean-Jacques would inspire loyalty. Marta would inspire devotion.
* * *
The assassin jolted awake and slapped his cheeks to sharpen his senses.
Yes, there it was. Close at hand, voices and the sounds of horses, the gust and whinny of their breath, their hooves tramping on damp ground. The noise was coming from somewhere around the main entrance to the castle. Was it her? Was the false châtelaine leaving the castle? His spirits lurched at the thought he might have missed his chance, but then he remembered. He’d heard that her heretic brother was to ride north today. He looked up at the tower and saw there was no one there. The door to the roof remained shut.
The assassin rolled his shoulders and stre
tched his legs to loosen the night from his bones, then undid his hose and pissed against a beech tree.
He took a swig of ale from the bottle, chilled from the dew, and chewed on a mouthful of bread. Then he sat back in pos-ition again, with the wheel-lock pistol balanced across his knees. It was beautiful. Perhaps they would let him keep it when the deed was done.
‘Domine, exaudi orationem meum.’ Lord, hear my prayer.
His blood stirred at the thought of the killing to come.
* * *
Piet and Bernard were waiting at the gatehouse with Aimeric.
Minou watched as father and son embraced one another. She was touched to see her brother was wearing Piet’s old dagger at his waist. A talisman for good fortune? At that moment, Piet dropped his hand on Aimeric’s shoulder and leant in. Minou wondered they still had anything left to say to one another, having talked all night.
‘Why do you whisper?’ demanded Marta. ‘Maman says it is rude to whisper.’
The two men stepped apart. Piet stroked his daughter’s long brown hair. ‘There are some things that are not for young ears.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Things,’ Aimeric repeated, his black eyes sparkling.
‘I don’t think that is fair. Maman says—’
‘No more, petite,’ Minou said, drawing Marta to her. ‘Stand with me.’
She thought Aimeric looked fine in his black doublet and hose. His wild hair was tamed beneath a felt cap and his beard trimmed to a perfect point. The country landowner was gone, he was now every bit the soldier once more.
‘I wish with all my heart he would not go,’ Alis whispered. ‘Are there not others who stand as high in the admiral’s esteem? What need Monsieur de Coligny of our brother?’
‘It is his duty,’ Minou replied. ‘He has pledged his service.’
‘Paris is so distant.’
‘No further than his previous postings, Alis, and hasn’t he always come back to us?’
‘But what if —’
Minou squeezed her sister’s hand fondly. ‘Give him your blessing. Let him leave with proud words in his heart.’
Alis hesitated, then stepped forward, her green dress vivid beside her brother’s black clothing. Her face was drawn but, from the set of her jaw, Minou knew she would not cloud his departure with her melancholy.
‘Though the very air in Paris pulses with papistry, fire-and-brimstone preachers on every street corner, Brother, I dare say there is much to amuse and engage, too.’
Aimeric smiled. ‘I will shut my ears to any and all corruption.’
‘You will cut a fine figure, I have no doubt. But stay out of trouble, do you hear? Be guided by caution as much as by courage –’
‘Because brothers are little devils,’ Marta added.
Alis smiled gratefully. ‘Exactly so. Because brothers, little and less so, are devils.’
Taking everyone by surprise, Alis threw her arms around Aimeric, hugged him, then strode away back across the courtyard towards the house without another word.
‘What’s the matter with Aunt Alis?’ Marta said. ‘Where’s she going?’
‘She is sad,’ Piet replied. ‘What say you and I go and amuse her? You can challenge her to a game of Queen’s Chess.’
‘Chess is boring. I don’t—’
‘In which case you can help me with mapping our route.’
Instantly, Marta brightened. ‘Can I use Gran’père’s box compass?’
‘If you ask his permission to do so,’ Minou said, ‘and if he says you may, then yes.’
‘Can I borrow it, Gran’père Bernard?’
Bernard steadied his stick. ‘Let us go and find it. Give me your arm, Marta, and we shall walk together.’
‘I’ll go with her to make sure she doesn’t wreak some new havoc.’ Piet grinned, hoisting Jean-Jacques up onto his shoulders. ‘We shall be in the solar, my love, when you are ready to join us.’
Minou watched them go, three generations – her father, her husband and her son, with her quicksilver daughter leading the way across the courtyard. Then she turned back to Aimeric and held out her hand.
‘I shall lack your company.’
‘And I yours. These weeks here at Puivert have been quite like old times. The Joubert family together again.’
‘It has been a pleasure to have you with us for so long. I hope your wife will forgive us for keeping you.’ Minou hesitated. ‘Did you and Piet resolve matters between you last evening? You were talking late into the night.’
Aimeric nodded. ‘There is much to attend to. Despite the terms of the peace, some territories are less safe than others. Piet is right to take such care in the planning.’
‘That is all?’ Minou asked lightly. ‘Nothing more than that?’
‘What more should there be?’
‘He does not seem distracted to you?’
Aimeric frowned. ‘Piet has matters on his mind, of course, but nothing out of the ordinary. A great deal is riding on this wedding going ahead without mishap.’
‘It’s just…’ Minou stopped, not sure what she was trying to say. ‘Piet did not give you any other reason for his distraction. He did not confide in you?’
Aimeric shook his head. ‘No. That is to say, he did ask that I should seek news from Amsterdam when I arrived in Paris. He’s followed the uprising there against the Spanish occupation closely and would hear first-hand reports of how things are going.’
The sound of clinker and bridle as Aimeric’s groom arrived with his piebald palfrey brought their conversation to a close. Beyond the gates, his travelling companions were now waiting: three fellow soldiers armed and already mounted. Plain livery, nothing to mark them out. They would don the insignia of Admiral de Coligny once reunited with their comrades in Saint-Antonin.
She saw Aimeric’s eyes glint with purpose and, though she wished to question him further, she knew her brother’s thoughts were already on the road ahead.
‘God speed,’ she said brightly.
‘Take good care of my niece and nephew.’
‘I will.’ She squeezed his hands. ‘Until we are together again in Paris.’
‘Until Paris.’
The groom cupped his hands and Aimeric leapt up into the saddle. He snapped his reins and the horse leapt forward.
‘Hie!’
As he crossed the drawbridge, Aimeric turned and raised his hand in a last farewell. Then he pressed his knees into the horse’s flank and broke into a gallop, his men following at his heels.
CHAPTER NINE
PUIVERT WOODS
Two horses, a grey stallion and a bay mare, crested the brow of the hill.
Manes and tails flying, the thunder of their hooves reverberated through the damp earth as they galloped across the plains of the river valley, before turning up towards the woods.
The sun was high in the sky and the hills were alive with colour – yellow-tipped broom and purple cypress, pink and white meadow flowers. On the ground, a carpet of silver-coated leaves. Twigs and dead branches, brought down in last night’s storm, snapped under the iron shoes. The tones of the riders’ apparel were needlepoint bright. Minou’s old green cloak and red skirts, Piet’s forget-me-not blue doublet and hose. Feathers in each cap.
After the emotion of Aimeric’s leave-taking, Minou suggested they should excuse themselves from the normal business of the castle and blow the cobwebs away. At ten o’clock, she and Piet had set out to ride north along the river valley. The plan was to meet Salvadora, Bernard and the children in their favourite bower in the woods to dine, before returning home to Puivert in the mid-afternoon.
As she drove her horse faster, Minou did not believe there was any freedom on God’s earth that could compare to the joy of riding through the forest in summer beneath the cloudless blue of the Midi sky, when the going was firm but not too hard, when the sun was bright but not fierce.
‘The prize is mine,’ she cried. Taking her husband by surprise, she gripped h
er reins and flexed her whip.
‘Par force!’
The bay leapt forward, neck stretched, the white blaze on her nose a perfect diamond. Minou pulled quickly away, flying up the last of the track to the outskirts of the woods, some three hundred acres of forest that lay to the north of the château de Puivert.
At the brow of the hill, Minou slowed to a lazy trot, then into a walk. She loosened the reins, let her hands rest on the pommel of her saddle and followed the track that led to the glade where they were to rendezvous.
‘Brava,’ she said, patting her mare’s steaming coat.
Dappled light filtered through the canopy of leaves, transforming the mossy ground beneath them into a patchwork of shifting shapes. A sweet breeze rustled the underside of the leaves, turning the green to white, to silver, back to a shimmering green.
Minou pulled up as her destination came into view. Ahead, in the heart of the glade, the servants were setting the midday table beneath a line of beech trees. The corners of the white linen cloth were being lifted lightly, then let drop, by each gentle gust of wind. A handcart, used to transport the victuals, wine and crockery, stood close by. A little further away, the large trap, its wooden arms pointing to Heaven, tilted back on two large wheels. The sturdy bay carthorse, tethered to an alder tree, was grazing nearby.
Her father was established with Marta at a small, folding table a few paces from the makeshift kitchen. Minou marvelled again at how, of all the family, Bernard was able always to still her daughter’s restless spirits. With him, Marta was never bored.
The nurse was sitting with Jean-Jacques on a blanket in the shade and Minou was pleased to see Salvadora had joined the party. She considered eating en plein air a ridiculous affectation. But Minou was disappointed not to see Alis. She knew her sister’s need to mourn the loss of Aimeric, her boon companion, in private. At the same time, it would not do to let her brood.
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT
Alis stared blindly through the window of the chapel.
