by Kate Mosse
Minou nodded. ‘On the day your mother died, can you recall her giving you anything? Documents, letters, a package of some kind? Or giving something into Mariken’s safekeeping?’
‘I have racked my brain over and again these past months, but I can’t remember. Only the loss and knowing the world I’d known was ended. I loved her deeply, Minou.’
‘I know,’ she said gently.
‘I was barely older than Marta is now.’ His eyes blazed. ‘If such a thing ever happened to her or Jean-Jacques, I don’t—’
Minou took his hand. ‘If anything happened to us – which, God willing, it will not – our children will never be left alone as you were, mon coeur. They are loved, they have aunts and uncles who care about them.’
For a moment, they sat in silence. His distraction over the summer was explained, the waste of the weeks of distance between them, but what was unclear to her was why Piet had not told her before. There was no shame to the story, nothing that reflected badly upon him.
‘Do you still have Mariken’s letter?’
Piet crossed the chamber, opened their travelling chest and passed it to her.
‘Here.’
Minou read it, alert for hidden information between the lines, then looked into her husband’s face.
‘I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about this when you first received it?’
‘I wanted to. Several times, I tried to. Then, with what happened to Alis – and Bernard’s death – I couldn’t risk causing you further distress. If it was a hoax, then why disturb your peace of mind? I had no way of knowing if the letter was genuine.’
Minou’s thoughts flew back to that day in early June: Aimeric’s departure at sunrise, she and Piet riding out so happily in one another’s company through the woods at midday, their bitter argument spoiling the afternoon, sitting with her beloved father at the trestle table in the glade and seeking his counsel. A snapshot of colours and images, each as vivid and present in her mind as if it were only yesterday.
Then suddenly, Minou realised. She looked down again at the paper.
‘Is it because you saw Vidal’s hand in this that you did not confide in me?’ she said, trying to keep the censure from her voice. From the way his face flushed, she knew her words had hit home. ‘Piet, how could you have so little faith in me?’
‘I understand how much it frustrates you when I think on him,’ he said, not meeting her eye.
Minou swallowed her impatience. ‘I regret how Vidal has any dominion over your thoughts or spirits when there is no justification – you allow him a power over you he should not have.’ She tapped the letter. ‘But this is something. Is there any reason to think Vidal is the French cardinal to whom Mariken refers in her letter? Does he have any connection to Amsterdam in general, or Begijnhof?’
‘Not that I know,’ Piet admitted.
Minou sighed. ‘And this is why you asked Aimeric to make inquiries at the Dutch embassy?’
‘Yes. They, of course, know of Begijnhof, but no one seems to know Mariken in particular.’ A ghost of a smile slipped across his lips. ‘Pieter, that’s how she addresses me, did you see? I’d forgotten my mother called me that.’
Minou handed the letter back. ‘That makes it more likely it is genuine, does it not?’
‘I suppose it does.’ Piet sighed. ‘But if not Vidal, then who? I cannot think of any other French cardinal – anyone, indeed – who would be seeking information about me.’
Minou marvelled at her husband’s innocence. ‘Piet, you are a prominent and outspoken supporter of the rebels. As you just admitted, your role in supporting Calvinist forces in the Dutch Provinces is no secret. The fact that the letter reached you at all is evidence of that. All this of itself is quite enough to bring you to the attention of Catholic factions in Amsterdam. So, though we cannot rule out Vidal being the author of the letter Mariken received, there are other explanations.’
Minou steeled herself to ask the question she had been dreading.
‘Since we have been in Paris, have you sought him out?’
‘Vidal?’ Piet flushed. ‘No, but I saw him once by chance. He’s not lodging with the rest of the Duke of Guise’s party but, rather, is close by in the rue du Louvre.’
Minou touched his hand. ‘How did it affect you?’
He hesitated. ‘I had imagined that moment so many times, Minou, wondering how I might feel – angry, regretful for what was lost, furious for what he did to our family, vengeful, scared even. But though I felt a jolt beneath my ribs, as if I’d been punched, in truth it affected me less than I had expected.’
Minou nodded, though she did not quite believe him. ‘Did he see you?’
‘No, I stepped out of sight.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Older, of course, but the trappings of power hang well upon him. As for his face and his manner – the same Vidal. He has with him a small entourage, including a page said to be recently come into his service. As they passed, I saw him. That is to say, the boy.’ Piet paused. ‘He is about nine or ten years of age, I would say.’
Minou stared. ‘Why does this boy interest you?’
‘There was something about him, Minou. The cast of his head, his expression, the way he held himself. To my eye, he bore more than a passing resemblance to Vidal.’
Minou’s eyebrows shot up. ‘His son?’
‘I don’t know. It’s possible, is it not? We know he was responsible for fathering one child, a child who might have been accepted as the rightful heir of Puivert had things gone differently, so why not another?’*
‘That’s possible.’
‘If the page is his son, and Vidal has taken him into his service, that might indicate some remorse for his past actions.’
Minou didn’t answer. Her heart sank as she realised that, even now and after all the misery and spite Vidal had inflicted upon their family, her husband still wanted to believe the dearest friend of his youth, whom he had loved and trusted, had not entirely disappeared. They had been as close as brothers once.
‘Of course, Vidal took a vow of celibacy,’ Piet continued, almost eager, ‘but we know such things happen. Don’t you think it might indicate a softening of his heart?’
‘It is possible,’ Minou answered carefully. ‘Some men find that the hardness of their youth, their intransigence, fades at the birth of a child.’
‘Perhaps, having erred himself, Vidal will be better inclined to forgive the transgressions of others. Perhaps he is making amends for the past.’
Although Minou wanted Piet to worry less, her guts twisted at the hope in his voice. And despite the heat of the day, she shivered, suddenly feeling as if Vidal was in the chamber with them. No longer a ghost from their past, but a very palpable threat.
‘And, I confess it occurred to me that he might also have been behind the assault on Alis.’
Minou’s eyes widened. ‘Why ever would Vidal want to hurt Alis?’
‘Not Alis, you. She was wearing a green dress that day, Minou. It would have been easy to mistake it for your green cloak. In the heat of the moment, I did the same. And no one but you ever went up to the roof.’
‘Why didn’t you say when it happened?’
Piet ran his fingers through his hair. ‘There was no time to share my suspicions with you. Bernard was dead, Alis’s life hung in the balance, and somehow the moment was lost.’ He looked at her. ‘Did it never cross your mind Vidal might have ordered the shooting?’
Minou frowned. ‘My thoughts were focused solely on Alis surviving.’
‘At the time, yes, but afterwards? We both know it cannot have been an accident,’ Piet insisted. ‘It’s against the laws of nature for a shot to go astray that high.’
‘I agree that it was a deliberate act. I also agree that I was most likely the intended victim. From a distance, the colour of Alis’s dress and my cloak might look the same. But Vidal has let us alone for ten years. If he had wished to harm us, he would have done so
before now. Why assume anything has changed?’ She gestured to the letter. ‘Just the coincidence of this and the assault on Alis? You are linking those two things when there is no evidence.’ She hesitated. ‘Besides, if the attack was Vidal’s doing, then surely the bullet would have been intended for you, mon coeur, not me.’
Piet leant forward in his chair. ‘If not Vidal, then who?’
‘Who wrote the letter to Mariken or ordered the attack?’
‘Either, both, I don’t know,’ he cried, his voice brittle with frustration. Then his shoulders slumped. ‘Perhaps you are right, Minou. Perhaps I am seeing connections where none exist.’
Minou kissed his cheek. ‘Ah, have you not learnt after nearly ten years of marriage, that I am usually right? As for this letter from Mariken, with Aimeric’s assistance we will learn what there is to know about the matter. What happened is in the past, try to put Vidal from your mind. He is just a man like any other. Do not give your thoughts to him nor let him steal the sleep from your nights.’
To her surprise, her husband smiled and, for the first time in many weeks, she saw desire flicker in his eyes.
‘Why, my lady of the mists? Do you have another suggestion for how to keep sleep at bay?’
Minou blushed. ‘I might…’ She stepped out of his reach. ‘But now, I must go and find Salvadora. She’s been waiting nigh on an hour for us to depart for the Sainte-Chapelle. There are limits to even her patience.’
Piet groaned. ‘What of tonight?’
She grinned. ‘We shall see, my love. We shall see.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LA SAINTE-CHAPELLE, ÎLE DE LA CITÉ
Salvadora Boussay sat back in the carriage, her heart racing. Her chemise was slick against her back and her palms sweated within her gloves. She agitated the confined air with her fan, but there was no respite.
She had not seen the man for ten years, but there was no doubt it was him. Here in Paris. A cardinal now, his robes proclaimed it. Even standing in the crowd of worshippers, she had sensed his malevolence and cold ambition.
Salvadora was a proud woman. She had lived her entire life believing that ladies should not draw attention to themselves. Yet today she had first quarrelled with her niece and then, in the Sainte-Chapelle of all places, she had made a fool of herself. Crying out unguarded, almost falling over at the sight of him, allowing strangers’ hands to touch her. She felt humiliated, an emotion she thought she had left behind her. Years of brutal treatment at the hands of her husband – where every transgression, however minor, might bring down his fist, a stick, a belt upon her back – had conditioned Salvadora to feel always ashamed.
The carriage lurched around a corner and Salvadora threw out her hand to stop herself from sliding from the seat. Her thoughts continued to taunt her. For all the talk around the fireside of how they lived side by side in different faiths, Salvadora still prayed each night that her family would return to the true Church. In particular, she prayed for Aimeric’s salvation for, although she was fond of her nieces, he was her favourite. The son she’d never had. She had carried a child once, but a particularly unrestrained beating had denied her not only that joy, but also the possibility ever after.
The wheels rattled, shaking her bones over the cobbles.
Had Aimeric not been born a Catholic? Baptised a Catholic? And had not his own father – God rest his soul – remained faithful to God unto death? It was only Aimeric’s childhood admiration for Piet that had led him to the doors of the Huguenot Temple. And because Minou was an obedient wife, respecting her husband’s judgement and guidance, she’d had no choice but to follow, taking Alis too.
She wished Bernard was still here. He would know what to do. Her brother-in-law had possessed the rare ability of being able to give good counsel with a fair and dispassionate eye. He never judged, merely offered practical advice that always soothed.
Salvadora’s thoughts twisted back upon themselves. What were a few years upon this earth compared to the life to come? What if her family had shut themselves out of God’s love for eternity? Wasn’t it her Christian duty to bring them back to the one true Church?
So, although she had been looking forward to admiring the beauty of the Sainte-Chapelle today, she had gone as much in pilgrimage. To pray in the place where prayer and miracles were seamed in the very fabric of the building.
But instead of finding peace, she had seen him. The words of supplication had died on her lips because Vidal had been there too.
Salvadora closed her eyes to pray. ‘Blessed lady, filled with compassion for those who invoke thee, and with love for those who suffer, heavily laden with the weight of my troubles, I cast myself at thy feet and humbly beg of thee to take the present affair which I recommend to thee under thy special protection…’
The carriage came to an abrupt halt, rocking as the coachman jumped down and opened the door. Salvadora lifted the gauze curtain, a scant protection against the dust of Paris, and saw that they were back in the rue des Barres.
She sat a moment longer, distressed that prayer had not calmed her spirits. As she walked back into the corner house, the bells of Saint-Gervais ringing for Vespers behind her, she could still feel the murderous black eyes of the cardinal on her back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HÔTEL DE BOURBON
In the Hôtel de Bourbon, Aimeric heard the bells of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois ring for Vespers. His eyes were wet with grief for his father and his sister.
A magnificent building, covering a plot of land once occupied by some three hundred dwellings overlooking the river to the south, the embellishments and ornaments of the Bourbon Palace made it one of the most admired townhouses in Paris. The grande salle was larger than even the most sumptuous room within the Louvre Palace and so was to host the masque commissioned by the Queen Mother for the wedding celebrations.
However, his thoughts now were only of his wise and honourable father. Some two months cold in the ground without Aimeric even knowing. He could not bear it. It seemed impossible that he would never see Bernard’s gentle face again, that he would never sit beside the fire in his little house in the rue du Trésau in Carcassonne and listen to his stories of the past.
Aimeric looked out of the first-floor window to the street below. For two days, the people had been gathering to secure their place ahead of tomorrow’s wedding, lining the route along which the royal party would process from the Louvre Palace to Notre-Dame cathedral, where the nuptials would take place. He wondered what his father would have thought of the spectacle? His eyes brimmed with tears again. Now he would never know.
With the crowds had come the entertainers, the cutpurses, doxies and tricksters. The smell of rôtisserie and pâtisserie from the street sellers seeped through the cracks in the open windows. From time to time, Aimeric caught the cheers for the burst of a flame-thrower’s fire or a roar for tumblers executing their tricks. He wished he could take innocent pleasure in the delights of Paris. But, each nightfall, he could only see how the tension and belligerence slunk back into the crowded streets.
His thoughts returned to his sister. That Alis had suffered so violent an assault on her person, that she had nearly died and he had not known it, distressed him more than he could say. He felt as if he had failed her and was failing her still. She was his boon companion, the greatest friend he had ever had.
But behind the shock and grief, his thoughts had been turning. Though his time with Minou had been over too quickly, he couldn’t help but wonder why Piet had not mentioned the events in Puivert nor made any reference to Vidal. His thoughts had been focused on Amsterdam, he understood that, but all the same. Though Minou had not said as much, the instant she had told him of the circumstances of the attack on Alis, Aimeric had suspected Vidal might be behind it. He was a malignant and vengeful man, he pursued his enemies and acted solely in his own self-interest.
Aimeric shut his eyes. His faith would give him the strength to hold firm. There would be time eno
ugh to grieve and pay his respects to his father when he returned to Languedoc in the autumn, to spend time with his beloved Alis.
But for now, his heart and his sword belonged to de Coligny. Aimeric rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was not the time to mourn. That would come later, in the privacy of his own quarters. He had to force his thoughts back to the present.
Admiral de Coligny was in private consultation with Henri of Navarre, in an attempt to encourage the young king to take a greater interest in affairs of state: topics would range from discussions about the role of the Huguenot armies in the Dutch Provinces and the patchy implementation of the current peace agreement, to the arrangements for his own wedding. Though charming and beloved by his men, Henri was as bawdy as any rank-and-file soldier. Pleasure and drinking amused him more than prayer or politics, and he was easily distracted by a pretty face. High born or a village girl in a summer orchard, he made no distinction. He loved easily and completely, until another caught his eye. How Navarre would fare with the Valois Princess Marguerite, Margot – who was a match for him in wit and influence – Aimeric could not imagine. By reputation, both were independent, manipulative, amoral and used to getting their own way.
Though de Coligny was back in favour with the King, Aimeric also knew his influence sat uneasily with the Queen Mother, who saw her own influence slipping with her sickly son.
The admiral wanted to believe a lasting peace was possible. The Queen Mother was a pragmatist, prepared to compromise if it suited her aims. The King was under her thumb and had no views of his own. The main obstacle to peace was the Catholic Duke of Guise. He hated de Coligny, blaming him for his father’s death at Orléans, and had vowed to avenge him. It was common knowledge that Guise was in discussions with Spain, seeking to promote a Catholic alliance to stand against the emerging Protestant nations.
