The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  * * *

  In the dark hours before dawn, Minou sat at her escritoire, hollow with grief. With her quill in hand, and a blank sheet of paper before her, she attempted to compose a letter to Aimeric.

  As light thickened, bringing shape back to the valleys and hills of Puivert, she continued to wrestle with words that would not come, words that were too cruel, too definite, when so much was unclear. Her duty as a sister kept her there, finally writing what needed to be written. Only the barest of facts. That, on the seventh day of June, his cherished sister Alis had been shot by an unknown hand. And that, in the early hours of the eighth day of June, their beloved father’s old heart had finally stopped beating.

  As the first rays of the sun lit the chamber, Minou signed, blotted and sealed the letter, then rang the bell. The servant came to carry it away, words to break another heart.

  PART TWO

  AMSTERDAM & PARIS

  June, July &August 1572

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BEGIJNHOF, AMSTERDAM

  Monday, 9 June 1572

  The bells of Sint Nicolaas church and the Nieuwe Kerk were ringing out over the canals and waterways. In Plaats, buyers and sellers haggled over the price of herring and peat, of slabs of butter on wooden boards and rich, yellow cheese. The shopkeepers piled their wooden shelves high with produce. Women and men rested their legs on stone benches beneath the colonnades of the old medieval Stadhuis, the town hall.

  It was a bright day in Amsterdam. The sun was shining and the streets were busy. Though times were hard, with blockades and hunger stalking the countryside beyond the walls, within there was an atmosphere of summer and plenty. Amsterdam was a city built on trade and finance.

  Cornelia van Raay stood in the shadow outside the gate waiting to be admitted into Begijnhof. Of medium build and stature, her heavy brows and forthright gaze made it seem as if she was frowning even when perfectly content. Today, however, she was anxious. Her father had sent her to deliver a message to one of the inhabitants, Mariken Hassels. Cornelia wished he had not. She disliked the stifled atmosphere within Begijnhof, the religious women scuttling around with their eyes to the ground, too scared to speak or laugh or raise their faces to the sun. But she was an obedient daughter and her father, usually a man of little visible emotion, had seemed much perturbed.

  Cornelia folded her hands and tried to be patient.

  Around her, she heard the familiar melody of Amsterdam. The pull of rope and winch as goods were transported into warehouses in Oudezijds Voorbugwal and Warmoesstraat, where her father’s lucrative business was situated. The air humming with the roll of the cooper’s barrels down rickety wooden pathways lashed together on the quays of Nieuwe Zijde. The swell of shallow-bottomed barges and lighters sailing from Damrak to the harbour, where stevedores loaded and unloaded provisions ferried from the sailing ships anchored beyond the floating palisade in the IJ. A forest of masts, a floating woodland riding at anchor outside the city walls.

  When Cornelia was a child – and before his civic responsibilities as a burgher took up so much of his time – her father used to carry her up to the harbour to inspect his fleet of ships, which transported grain across to the Baltic states and south down into France. She loved to watch the sailors and bargemen of every colour, yelling to one another in unfamiliar tongues as they unloaded their cargo: the pale features of Zeelanders; the brooding eyes of carpenters from Denmark; the pale servants of rich timber merchants from Poland; the lucrative herring fleet; the messenger service carrying letters from Amsterdam to Antwerp and back six times a day. Sometimes, they would return home to their handsome house past In ’t Aepjen, the boarding house on Zeedijk, where it was claimed foreign sailors could pay for their lodgings with monkeys instead of coins.

  Things were hard for many. The wars had destroyed countless thriving businesses, though her father had weathered the storm better than most. She saw the hollow eyes of refugees who came stumbling into the city seeking shelter. She saw the boarded-up warehouses when a merchant went out of business, how their name was painted out and another man’s took its place. Cornelia knew they were lucky.

  She knocked again on the gate, but the metal grille remained closed. Had the Sisters forgotten she was here? She understood their caution. In these times of resistance and rebellion, where most other towns in Holland had fallen to the Calvinist rebels, Amsterdam remained a Catholic city, surrounded by Protestants. Soldiers with matchlock muskets patrolled the streets at night. The five city gates were closed when darkness fell and manned day and night to prevent refugees from the wars – or those too ill or diseased – from entering. Special guards held the entrances to the harbour and the IJ at night with floating beams and chains.

  Even so, both within the walls – and outside the gates, at the hedge sermons held in the countryside that drew hundreds of worshippers – skirmishes between the Calvinists and the city’s militia were increasing, as were attacks on Catholic priests and nuns. Cornelia knew the destruction of statues and icons was commonplace enough for any visitor to Begijnhof to be thoroughly investigated before they were admitted.

  Finally, the grille slid back and a narrow face, framed by the distinctive grey headscarf worn by the Beguines, appeared.

  ‘The Mistress will see you now.’

  ‘Dankuwel.’

  The rasp of a bolt and the turn of a heavy key. Cornelia slipped through the gate, which was locked quickly behind her.

  She followed the Beguine through the pretty gardens, spiked with rose trees and thorn bushes and streams, past the small brick church with its high thin tower to the largest of the wooden houses surrounding the green. In silence, they climbed the plain wooden staircase. A knock upon the door, a peremptory instruction to enter, and she was ushered into a large, light room.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  Cornelia bowed her head. ‘It is gracious of you to receive me, Mistress.’

  ‘Your father is a true friend to our community. He is in good health?’

  ‘He is. He is recently returned from France, where he contributed to the building of a new church in Paris.’

  The Mistress nodded, as if no more needed to be said of his piety. ‘You are enquiring after one of our community, Mariken Hassels?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  The abrupt question took Cornelia by surprise. ‘I – because…’

  ‘Why do you wish to see Mariken?’ the Mistress pressed.

  ‘My father –’ She began again. ‘That is to say, Mariken did my father – did me – great service once. She nursed me back to health when our physician had given up hope.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ the Mistress said, her black eyes dark in her heavy face. ‘That was some ten years ago. So although I do not question the gratitude you owe Mariken, my question is why you wish to speak with her now?’

  Cornelia felt her chest tighten. Her father, though by nature a mild-mannered man, had been quite explicit on the point.

  ‘My father impressed upon me it was a private message,’ she replied, ‘for Mariken’s ears only. I would not disobey him.’

  Cornelia raised her eyes and, for a heartbeat, they held one another’s gaze. A battle of wills. Because of Willem van Raay’s financial largesse to Begijnhof and the stature of their family in Amsterdam, Cornelia was gambling that the Mistress would not push her further.

  ‘Of course, my father wished for me to obtain your permission to speak with Mariken, as a matter of courtesy. But forgive me, he was most clear I should pass on the message in person, and to her alone.’

  Cornelia watched irritation flicker across the Mistress’s face, then anger that although her authority was being challenged, financial considerations dictated she could do nothing about it.

  ‘There is a complication,’ she finally admitted. ‘The fact of the matter is that Mariken is no longer with the community.’

  ‘How can that be!’ Cornelia exclaimed, then she remembered herself. ‘Forgive me,
I did not mean to be disrespectful.’

  The Mistress held up her hand. ‘It was a shock to us, too. Mariken had been with us for all of her adult life, some fifty years. That being so, for reasons I do not claim to understand, she chose to leave our community some weeks ago. She gave no prior indication of it, she left no letter, she did not ask permission or seek guidance.’

  ‘You are sure she left voluntarily?’

  ‘You forget yourself.’ The retort was sharp.

  Cornelia apologised again. ‘But is it likely she would simply go?’

  ‘Likely or not, that is what has happened. If you might inform Burgher van Raay of that.’

  Looking back, Cornelia couldn’t say what first drew her attention: the shifting of the air, the way the Mistress’s eyes darted to the right-hand corner of the room, the tenor of her voice. Just a little louder than necessary, just a little clearer than before. Cornelia realised with a jolt that their conversation was being overheard.

  By force of will, she kept her gaze fixed on the older woman’s face.

  ‘My father will be most distressed to hear this news. I will explain you did everything you could to help.’

  ‘Just so.’ The Mistress inclined her head, then added, as if it was of no consequence at all, ‘Might I now ask you what was the message?’

  Cornelia smiled. ‘Only that there was nothing to report,’ she lied.

  Her expression did not change, but Cornelia sensed a loosening of her shoulders, the slightest exhalation of trapped breath.

  ‘I don’t know what he means by that,’ Cornelia said, ‘but since Mariken is no longer here, I imagine this will be the end of the matter.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for granting me an audience.’

  Now there was no mistaking the older woman’s relief.

  ‘It was my duty. As I said previously, your father has been a loyal and generous friend to our community.’

  ‘And will continue to be so.’ Cornelia bowed her head. ‘I will not take up any more of your time.’

  The Mistress reached out for a small bell sitting on the table beside her chair. Again, in that instance, Cornelia saw her eyes slip once more to the corner of the room. This time, she spied a pair of dark eyes looking back at them from behind the screen.

  ‘May God go with you, child.’

  Cornelia crossed herself, then stepped back.

  She had hoped to speak to other women of the community, in case Mariken might have confided in anyone in the days before her departure, but there was no opportunity. The same Beguine who had shown her into the compound returned, leading her back through the gardens past the wooden houses and the old church. Before she knew it, Cornelia was standing again on the little bridge looking back at Begijnhof. An island community ringed by water, divided by water, in the heart of the teeming city. A sanctuary or a prison?

  As Cornelia retraced her steps towards Warmoesstraat, she replayed in her mind the message she was supposed to have passed to Mariken: that the boy Pieter Reydon had lived to adulthood and now prospered in Languedoc. A Huguenot convert, he was married with two children, a daughter and a son, and his family estate in Puivert – inherited through his wife, Marguerite Joubert – was some leagues south of Carcassonne.

  That he had no idea of his birthright.

  Cornelia suspected that, far from being the end of the matter, it was only the beginning and, despite the heat of the Amsterdam day, she shivered.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Three Weeks Later

  CHTEAU DE PUIVERT, LANGUEDOC

  Sunday, 29 June

  Beneath the light of a full moon, the marshal of the stables at the château de Puivert was making the final preparations for the family’s journey to Paris.

  The horses were shod and rested, the bridles and harnesses ribboned and repaired. Every stirrup and buckle had been cleaned and cleaned again. The leather saddles and saddlebags glistened with beeswax and the scent of ash. The carriages for the family and open traps for the household servants and luggage gleamed, with every wooden spoke and axle checked and tested.

  At eight o’clock, a service would be held in the chapel to bless their forthcoming endeavours, and then their adventure would begin.

  So far as the eye could see, there were signs of a glorious, abundant summer: fields of filigree flax swaying in the wind, the blue flowers peeking out from the thin, green stalks and silver-grey olive groves; in the orchard, blood-red cherries and the first of the new crop of apples, russet and gold.

  But for Minou, the beauty of the world and the rhythms of her own heart were at odds with one another. Their departure could not come soon enough. For ten years their sanctuary, her father’s death and the unexplained assault on Alis had stolen her peace at Puivert. Too often she found herself reliving every moment of that long day, brooding on what might have happened differently. She discerned in Piet the same restlessness to be gone. Memories that hitherto had been rendered harmless by time, secrets of the past dulled by the passing of the years, were suddenly sharp and vivid once more. Not knowing whether Aimeric had yet received her letter also gnawed away at her. As did her grief at having to bury their father without either her brother or her sister at her side.

  From the outside at least, Minou and Piet’s intimacy seemed restored. They were united in their shared grief for Bernard and their concern at leaving Alis behind. But beneath the surface, the reserve between them remained. Their conversation was gentle and mostly practical, neither wishing to upset the status quo. Minou’s hope was that Paris, a place with no shared memories, would give them the space to find their way back to one another.

  She had spent most of her remaining days with Alis. Though still confined to bed, her sister was showing signs of a fuller recovery than the doctor had first diagnosed. Some significant measure of feeling had returned to her legs and her spirits were lighter.

  ‘While I’m gone, you must follow Dr Gabignaud’s instructions to the letter,’ Minou repeated. ‘He is confident there is no permanent damage.’

  ‘You truly think I’ll walk again?’

  ‘In time, I do. I believe it and so should you.’

  Alis’s dark eyes glistened with frustration. ‘I hate being waited on. Not to be able to go outside or to ride, it’s torment.’

  ‘You have to be patient.’

  Alis sighed. ‘Can you do one last thing for me?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Take Salvadora with you to Paris! She is threatening to stay here, to nurse me, and, truly, I could not bear it.’

  ‘Alis!’

  ‘I swear on my life, Minou, that if I have to endure one more day of her talking about the unsurpassable beauty of Marguerite de Valois and the glories of the royal family, I shall throw myself out of the window and be done with it!’

  * * *

  At first, the going was easy.

  The weather was kind. The colours of summer painted Languedoc brilliant with pinks and yellows and violets. For the first hundred leagues, the sun was warm, yet lacking the fierce heat and dust of the Midi that would come with August. Cloudbursts of rain at night kept the ground soft for the horses and, each morning, ushered in air mild and fresh with promise.

  Wherever possible, Piet had plotted their route through Huguenot-held territories or across lands that had avoided the worst excesses of civil unrest. They stayed in the houses of friends and colleagues of the Reformed faith when they could. On the rare occasions when they found themselves without an introduction, wayside lodging houses mostly proved adequate for a night or two.

  Chalabre, Toulouse, Saint-Antonin and on. During those early days of July, their slow passage was pleasurable. Since no one but Piet had travelled beyond the boundaries of Languedoc before, there was much to amuse and engage: Jean-Jacques, soothed by the steady rolling of the carriage wheels, sat plump on his nurse’s lap pointing at birds, at weasels and stoats; Marta asked endless questions – about why the buildings were brick not stone, why the roofs were made of timber no
t tile, why those toiling in the fields wore different clothes, why and why and why.

  ‘Hush now,’ Minou admonished, when Piet’s patience began to wear thin. ‘Let Papa be.’

  Dust and dirt, Minou felt the passage of France beneath the wheels of their cart, beneath the hooves of their horses, as they journeyed from south to north. The colours of the Midi gave way to the overcast skies at the heart of the country, the sabots of the mountains replaced by the leather shoes in the valleys of the Massif Central.

  In a blaze of purple lavender and pink dogbane, the Joubert family crossed into Berry. The old language of Occitan vanished, replaced by the sharper tones of the langue l’Oil. The skies were overcast and the people working in the fields looked grey.

  * * *

  ‘Papa, tell me the story of how you and Maman met,’ Marta pleaded.

  They were in a boarding house south of Limoges. It was a stormy evening in mid-July and torrential rain had confined them to their quarters. They had taken a modest but clean room of white-washed walls and plain wooden furniture, large enough to sleep the whole family, but the taphouse below was noisy. Salvadora had insisted on her own room – which could not be too close to the kitchens or the stables, not on the ground floor where the men were drinking, and not in the attic where there were bound to be fleas. It had taken all of Minou’s patience not to lose her temper.

  ‘You have heard it a thousand times,’ Piet protested.

  Marta tilted her head. ‘But I like to hear it.’

  ‘Papa is tired, petite,’ Minou admonished. ‘And you should be in bed.’

  ‘I’m not at all tired.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Piet said. He got up from the window ledge, sat down on the end of their pallet bed and pulled his daughter onto his lap. ‘The very first time I set eyes upon your mother—’