The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  ‘– in La Cité.’

  ‘– in La Cité, no more than a step from Gran’père Bernard’s house, where the wild roses grow around the door—’

  Marta’s face momentarily clouded. ‘I miss Gran’père.’

  ‘I know, petite,’ Minou said, sitting in the rocking chair. ‘As do we all.’

  Piet went through the familiar tale, grown threadbare with the retelling, while Minou watched the expressions on their faces: her husband, imbuing the tale with peril and valour, her daughter jumping in whenever he tried to miss a step or change the order of the narrative. She could not help but wonder if Piet still felt the same love for her now? He was courteous and considerate, but Minou felt the distance between them was growing, not diminishing.

  Marta pulled on her father’s sleeve. ‘And then?’

  ‘Careful,’ Minou said. ‘Do not leave a mark on Papa’s robe.’

  ‘My hands are clean. Nurse made me wash them a hundred times.’

  Minou raised her eyebrows. ‘A hundred?’

  ‘At least. Papa, carry on!’

  Piet held up his hands in surrender. ‘It was a cold and dark night in Carcassonne, a long, long time ago. The bells for Vespers had been rung and it was the hour for the lighting of the lamps. It was then that this most beautiful lady appeared before me—’

  ‘Like an angel sent from God.’

  ‘No, not an angel,’ Piet said firmly. ‘A real lady, flesh and blood.’ He reached over and took Minou’s hand. ‘This lady.’

  Marta clapped her hands in delight, as she always did. Piet placed his hand over his heart, as he always did.

  ‘Quietly, petite,’ Minou hushed. ‘Jean-Jacques is already sleeping. And you, mon coeur, you are just as bad.’

  Piet put his finger to his lips and Marta giggled. ‘It was a coup de foudre – a lightning strike,’ he said in a loud whisper.

  ‘You fell hopelessly in love.’

  ‘Hopelessly.’ He pretended to swoon. ‘And though we had not been introduced, I made so bold as to speak to this beautiful lady.’

  ‘And though we had not been introduced,’ Minou said, taking up the story, ‘I was minded to listen.’

  ‘But Papa could not tarry.’

  ‘Indeed, I could not, for I was in Carcassonne on important business.’ Minou pretended not to see a shadow flicker across his face. ‘I was bound to take my leave,’ he continued. ‘So not knowing the name of this beautiful lady, I christened her my—’

  ‘Lady of the mists,’ Marta said triumphantly. ‘That is to say, you, Maman.’

  ‘Me.’ She reached forward and took her daughter’s hand. ‘And then we were married and lived happily for the rest of our days.’

  ‘No,’ Marta protested, ‘you have left out all the in-between.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Minou said firmly. ‘It’s time for you to go to bed. We have an early start tomorrow if we are to make up the time and arrive in Limoges as planned.’

  Marta was tired now, so she didn’t argue. She put her arms around her father’s neck. Piet stood up, carried her across the chamber and laid her gently in her bed.

  ‘Bonne nuit, little one.’

  ‘Good night, Papa,’ Marta replied, her voice heavy with sleep. ‘Good night, lady of the mists.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LIMOGES, LIMOUSIN

  The following day, they made good going and arrived in Limoges as the bells were striking noon.

  Their host, Antoine le Maistre, had once served in the Prince of Condé’s army. Like Piet, he been injured at Jarnac and had then retired to his country estate in the Huguenot-held heartlands of the Limousin. As a welcome gift, his sweet-faced wife presented Minou with a beautiful blue-and-gold champlevé enamel box and went to great trouble to arrange an afternoon banquet with the children, giving Piet some hours alone with his old friend.

  ‘We will not be long,’ Piet said.

  Minou smiled. ‘Take as long as you wish. Madame le Maistre and I will pass a few pleasant hours. To be in a house, to eat at a table and sleep tonight in a clean bed, I am more than content.’ She gestured to the far end of the chamber. ‘And Marta has already taken charge.’

  Piet followed her gaze to where their daughter was marshalling the four le Maistre children – two of whom were older than her – into costumes to perform an entertainment.

  ‘They are to do a masque,’ Minou said wryly.

  Piet raised his eyebrows. ‘Lord…’

  ‘Of the royal wedding! Needless to say, Marta is Marguerite de Valois.’

  ‘Of course. And which of the boys is to be her beau?’

  Minou smiled. ‘She is asking Monsieur le Maistre’s two older sons questions to decide between them.’

  Piet laughed. ‘Don’t allow her to be too bold, mind. I would like to be invited to stay here again on our way back to Carcassonne in September!’

  ‘Don’t worry. Go. Enjoy the companionship of your friend. We will see one another again at dinner.’

  * * *

  ‘This is our local vin paille,’ le Maistre said, handing Piet a goblet of rich yellow wine. ‘Many of the vineyards were destroyed during the wars but now, our vignerons are starting again to produce wines to grace any table.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Piet took an appreciative sip, then looked around the room. ‘You have a beautiful home, le Maistre. Do you enjoy life away from the battlefield?’

  His host laughed. ‘I was never like you, Reydon. I fought out of necessity and duty, because there was no choice. Us or them, no man could stand aside while his comrades fell.’ He paused. ‘But every night in the field, in my orisons I asked God to spare me in order that I could come back to this. The life of a country landowner suits me. I am happy sitting by my hearth with my good wife and children, attending church on Sunday and serving on the Consistory, helping to keep our city safe and pious and respectful of God’s commands. I hope never to have to pick up my sword again.’

  Piet laughed, though he shook his head. ‘I am happy that the Lord was listening to you, my friend.’

  ‘How goes it with you?’

  ‘Well.’ Piet hesitated. ‘I envy you your contentment. My wife is the finest of women, our lands are beautiful, my children … We have been able to do a great deal of good for our cause. But, I confess, I miss the thrill of the battlefield. I would that I could still serve.’ He raised his dead hand. ‘You remember Jarnac?’

  Le Maistre nodded. ‘You were injured, of course I remember – though not before saving the lives of four of our men.’

  ‘I’ve trained myself to hold my dagger in my left hand. Were it not for the fact that I can no longer grip the hilt of a sword, I would be fighting alongside our Protestant brothers in the Dutch provinces against the Spanish occupation.’

  ‘Does your wife know you feel thus?’

  Piet smiled. ‘Yes. Minou does everything within her power to help me see the goodness in our lives.’

  ‘She’s a wise woman.’ Le Maistre studied him over the rim of his goblet. ‘Though you wish, from time to time, she would not worry so…’

  Piet grinned. ‘But listen to me, so full of complaint. Tell me, le Maistre, are the rumours I am hearing about the death of the Queen of Navarre true?’

  The two old friends took their drinks to the settle, and sat.

  ‘It is hard to divide truth from falsehood these days,’ le Maistre said, ‘and the news takes a while to reach us here. But what appears to be beyond doubt is that the Queen passed away on the ninth day of June in the Hôtel de Bourbon in Paris. The common gossip holds that she was poisoned by the Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici.’

  Piet’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Is there cause for such an allegation?’

  ‘The long enmity between the two ladies and the fact that, some five days before her death, she received a gift of a pair of white leather gloves from the Queen Mother.’

  ‘Said to be infused with poison?’

  Le Maistre shrugged. ‘That’s what is spoke
n, in both Protestant and Catholic quarters.’

  ‘But to what purpose? The Queen of Navarre brokered the marriage deal between her son and Catherine’s daughter herself.’

  ‘I only report what I’ve heard,’ le Maistre said.

  Piet thought for a moment. ‘And what of the bride-to-be? The stories of her notorious affair with the Duke of Guise have reached even as far as Languedoc. Will she consent to marry Navarre? He is a king, it’s true, but of a southern kingdom and a Huguenot to boot?’

  Le Maistre gave a wry smile. ‘I think it unlikely Marguerite de Valois will have much choice in the matter.’

  ‘So the Pope has given his dispensation for the union to go ahead?’

  ‘That I do not know.’ Le Maistre refilled their goblets. ‘Take good care of your family in Paris, Reydon. By the sounds of things, the city is even more divided than usual.’

  ‘Is that why you have chosen to remain in Limoges?’

  Le Maistre shook his head. ‘I have everything I need here, Reydon. I have no need for my face to be seen in the crowd by our leaders, noble as they are. This simple life is enough for me.’

  * * *

  Minou and Piet took their leave from Limoges in the middle of the last week of July.

  The confinement in one another’s company, night and day, started to take their toll. Everyone was quick to temper. Marta in particular became more restless and inclined to quarrel. Jean-Jacques was plagued with colic, so when the nurse’s back was turned attending to the stricken little boy, Marta took to wandering off on her own. Salvadora complained about everything, from the hardness of the beds to the paucity of their diet to the dismal weather. And Piet, frustrated by the petty irritations of their travelling life, took to riding ahead of the carriage to arrange their lodgings for their night, and rejoining them only when dusk was falling.

  Minou started to wish they had remained in Puivert.

  The further north they travelled – from areas mostly sympathetic to the Huguenot cause into Catholic-held territories – the rumblings of discontent grew louder. Taxes had been raised to pay for the royal wedding, even higher than during the wars, and after three years of poor harvests, people were suffering. Catholics blamed the Huguenots, the Protestants blamed the papists; the legacy of the past ten years of civil war was now evident in every town in which they stopped.

  July tipped over into August.

  Some ten leagues north of Orléans, the taphouses were buzzing with stories of how the bridegroom-to-be, Henri of Navarre, had arrived in Paris with nine hundred Huguenot armed noblemen at his side. To honour his royal mother, or to avenge her death, no one knew. To honour the terms of the marriage contract or to challenge it, the gossip was divided.

  As they crossed into the Catholic heartlands around Paris, whispers that a Huguenot army was intending to march upon the royal city to prevent the wedding filled the taverns. One thousand men, ten thousand, and, as le Maistre had warned, it was impossible to separate true report from false.

  On their last night on the road, in airless lodgings some ten leagues south of their destination, Piet stayed awake. Minou watched him from the bed, his right arm resting on his leg drawn up on the bench in the window, barely moving, looking down across the plains to the city walls of Paris below. Only the occasional sigh and the way his green eyes flickered in his drawn face revealed how deeply his thoughts held him.

  Minou slipped from beneath the sheets and sat silently beside him in the casement, her head resting on his shoulder. She could sense the anxiety moving in him now the journey’s end was in sight. Minou felt a fluttering of anticipation. As she waited for the dawn, she remembered how she had felt when glimpsing Toulouse for the first time. A gentle spring day, with Aimeric reluctant and homesick, in a carriage taking them to a new, unknown life. She had been a girl then, innocent and hopeful, dreaming of a boy.

  Dreaming of this boy.

  Minou squeezed Piet’s arm. Despite everything and all that had happened, they were together still and she loved him.

  ‘I am still your lady of the mists,’ she whispered, though he seemed not to hear. ‘You have my heart.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Two Weeks Later

  RUE DES BARRES, PARIS

  Sunday, 17 August

  The maid stood shuffling from foot to foot in the doorway.

  ‘A gentleman is here to see you,’ she said, pulling at her apron.

  Minou looked up from her journal. ‘What manner of gentleman?’

  ‘One of them, my lady.’ She sniffed. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, that’s to say a soldier…’

  Minou sighed. ‘Go and ask his name and his business.’

  The servants in their rented lodgings made few attempts to hide their dislike of the Protestants in Paris, seeming to forget their guests were Huguenots, too. All the same, Minou liked the house. Though the quartier Saint-Gervais was in the heart of Catholic Paris, rather than in the university quarter where the majority of Huguenots were lodging, it suited them well. It was a four-storeyed corner building, with an entrance hall favoured by a small square window overlooking the street, and a steep wooden staircase winding up the centre of the house like a spine. The main family living room on the first floor had generous windows facing north and west and was full of light. On the second floor, there was a good library and, above that on the third floor, comfortable sleeping quarters large enough to accommodate everyone. The entire top floor of the house was given over to the nursery, with a single window in the eaves that looked out over the apse and transepts of the Église Saint-Gervais.

  The stables were set some distance from the house, so the air was clean, and a small internal courtyard, next to the kitchens and servants’ quarters, provided welcome shade in the hot afternoons. A discreet latched wooden gate gave into an alleyway. From there, it was only a few steps to the Place Saint-Gervais, where, at midday, they could hear the cries of the men who came to repay and settle debts beneath the elm tree that stood in front of the imposing Gothic church. Marta had taken to mimicking them in her games and was trying to teach Jean-Jacques to do the same.

  ‘Attendez-moi, sols l’olme, attendez-moi.’

  In the late afternoon, Minou watched the nuns flock into the church from their maison à colombages, like black birds, to Vespers, then back to their half-timbered dwelling after their orisons. Most convenient, the house was a mere fifteen minutes’ walk from the house in rue de Béthisy where Admiral de Coligny was lodging with his entourage, Aimeric amongst them.

  White friars and black were everywhere, the Cistercians and Franciscans, the Jesuits, the Augustinians. The air was heavy with papistry and incense, yet Minou did not find it oppressive. Towers and spires split the skyline, some thirty-nine different parishes each dedicated to its own saint. On the rue Saint-Jacques stood the medieval tower and Église Saint-Jacques-de-la-Boucherie, the starting point on the journey to Santiago de Compostela, the travellers wearing scallop shells pinned to their clothes to mark them for pilgrims.

  Most days since their arrival in Paris, Minou had set out to explore, accompanied sometimes by Salvadora and the children, sometimes alone: walking round the marshy swamplands of the Marais and the fortress prison of the Bastille; admiring the flying buttresses and splendour of Église Saint-Eustach, growing more magnificent each day as the stonemasons worked; visiting the market place at les Halles and the flower sellers down at the river. Too often, Minou thought of things she would like to tell her father, in the joy of the moment forgetting he was gone. Then, the same dull ache of grief would come over her and she would mourn his passing as if it had only just happened. She lacked her sister’s company too. Though Alis despised anything that smacked of idolatry, Minou thought she would have loved Paris all the same.

  Minou knew she walked and walked, in part, to combat the loneliness she felt at the lack of Piet’s company. He was rarely at home. A few days past, when rearranging her possessions in her wooden casket, her fingers had touched th
e loop of dried twine. She had fashioned it herself the day before Piet had asked her to be his wife so they could travel as husband and wife. She’d smiled at the memory: May 1562 with the sun rising over the Pyrenees, their faces flushed with sleep, an overnight hideaway on their flight from Toulouse. Piet had been a blushing boy, promising to buy her a true ring to mark their betrothal as soon as he could.

  They had been so full of hope then.

  Minou had held the delicate memento in her hand a moment, then slipped it onto her ring finger, though she did not think Piet had noticed. And since her hope that they would find their way back to one another’s affections more easily in unfamiliar surroundings had not been realised, she continued to map Paris with her feet, the twine betrothal ring sitting next to her silver wedding band.

  Minou soon learnt that the footprint of the old medieval town sat in sharp contrast to the white marble of the Italianate palaces and new manor houses of the great Catholic families with their turrets and grey slate roofs. The rue Vieille du Temple was where the privileged households of the Catholic nobility, chief amongst them the Duke of Guise, were situated, the finest manor houses and Gothic palaces, the seat of government and commerce. Orchards hidden behind high walls.

  But for her, nowhere showed the marriage of the old capital of Gaul and the beating heart of the emerging France more than the Louvre Palace itself. The transformation of the Louvre from fort to palace had begun in the reign of King François I. Though only the bare bones of the medieval fortress remained – its defensive moats and walls overlooking the Seine – everywhere Minou went, she heard talk of the glories of the new palace: how courtiers could walk from the workaday military corridors through chamber after chamber into the inner sanctum of the royal family; of high ceilings and tapestries; of the paintings and sculptures of an Italian artist, Leonardo da Vinci, who had designed the new west wing and the Salle des Caryatides; how the Queen Mother was having a new palace built next to the Louvre, on the site of the Tuileries, once an old tile factory.