by Kate Mosse
Minou nodded, though from the colour of his face, she did not believe he was as sanguine as he claimed.
‘Look!’ Marta shouted. ‘They are coming.’
In a wave of colour, as the ceremonial trumpets were lifted, the parvis was suddenly filled with music. The crowd shifted: anticipation turned to an excitement that stirred the senses and banished the everyday. Despite her jangled emotions, the collision of her past and their present, Minou felt her spirits lift as the first sharp, cracked notes of the trumpets pierced the air.
‘The bride looks most fine,’ Salvadora said with approval. ‘A true princess of the royal blood.’
Marta sighed. ‘She will be a queen soon, because she is marrying a king.’
Salvadora nodded. ‘Indeed, she will.’
Marguerite of Valois, accompanied by her oldest brother, was dressed in a blue velvet gown embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and a cape of spotted ermine. On her head, she wore a crown and, on her shoulders, a wide, blue, jewel-encrusted mantle with a train of some four ells carried by three princesses. She blazed with diamonds that caught the sun as she walked slowly along the golden walkway towards her bridegroom.
The King looked pale and breathless in the heat. Anxious too, as if fearful of the crowds and the Queen Mother’s displeasure, casting nervous glances as he stumbled forward. Though dressed finely, he was eclipsed by his younger brother, the Duke of Anjou. Anjou’s darker features were complimented perfectly by a pale jewelled cap set around with heavy pearls. Minou had heard the rumours about Anjou’s unnatural tastes and dismissed them as spite. Now she reconsidered. His mignons, their hair curled like his, looked as out of place in the royal party as a troupe of wandering players making an appearance at High Mass.
‘Isn’t she beautiful,’ sighed Marta. ‘Blue is my favourite colour, too.’
The trumpets fell silent and the crowd stilled as the royal party arrived at the west door of the cathedral and were received by the Cardinal of Bourbon.
They were too far away to hear the words of welcome, too far away to see the expression on the faces of those clustered around Navarre and Marguerite. But no one could miss the desperate glance the princess threw at the Duke of Guise, as if willing him to put an end to the charade; nor the moment of silence when Margot refused to give the response and speak her vows; nor how the feeble King, at a sign from the Queen Mother, seemed to push down his sister’s head before the nuptial benediction was quickly spoken.
The trumpets were raised again, the crowds roared. It was done.
‘They are married,’ Piet said with relief.
‘But did she freely assent?’ Minou whispered.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Enough to satisfy the cardinal, it seems.’
Now the new Queen of Navarre accompanied the Valois party along the platform into the cathedral itself, leaving her new husband outside with his Huguenot attendants.
‘It is most irregular,’ Salvadora complained, waving her fan.
‘Why does her husband not go with her?’ Marta asked.
‘The royal party will now hear Mass to celebrate the marriage,’ Piet explained. ‘Navarre does not attend Mass, so—’
‘Because he is one of us, not a Catholic like them?’
‘Exactly so. You do not accompany Aunt Salvadora to Mass, do you?’
Marta pulled a face. ‘No, but I should not care to be left alone outside on my wedding day.’
‘Navarre will not be alone for long. There are three days of feasting and revels to come.’
‘Will they come out again soon?’
‘Quite soon.’
‘Could we not go into the cathedral to watch?’
Minou laughed. ‘Not today, petite.’
‘When?’
‘I’ll take you another day,’ Piet promised. ‘We wouldn’t be allowed in now and, besides, you’d not be able to see a thing for all the people.’
‘Then can we go home?’ Marta whined. ‘It’s too hot and I’m thirsty too.’
‘For once, I am in agreement with Marta,’ said Salvadora, stirring the air with her fan. ‘I do not care for so much sun. It is bad for the complexion.’
Minou was still wondering if the marriage had really taken place in the sight of God. The bride and groom had barely looked at one another. And as she glanced around the parvis, she knew she was not alone in her uncertainty. She forced herself not to look back to the Duke of Guise’s stand. She was still shaken at how the sight of Vidal had undone her so utterly and was worried for Piet.
She felt a tug on her sleeve.
‘Maman! I am bored with standing, can we go home?’
Minou laid her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘I think that is an excellent idea.’
* * *
Cornelia van Raay watched the Reydon family walk down the wooden steps from their seating. Instantly, she tried to follow. Her new plan was to put the letter into Pieter Reydon’s hand in the street.
‘S’il vous plaît,’ she repeated, attempting to push her way through. The crowd seemed only to grow more impenetrable. ‘Mesdames, s’il vous plaît. Messieurs.’
But now the main spectacle was over, all of Paris had the same idea – heading for banqueting halls or taverns, or home to palaces and convents. Cornelia could not make her way through the mass of people.
She tried to keep Pieter Reydon in her sights – his wife tall and stately beside him – but it was hopeless. Though she pressed and pushed, tried to slip between shoulders and backs, she found herself hemmed in.
In the end, Cornelia gave in to the embrace of the crowd. Her plan would not work. She would have to present herself in their lodgings later, even though the after-effects of the assault upon her in the rue des Barres made her reluctant to return. Her father had urged discretion, but what else could she do?
* * *
‘Follow them!’ Vidal shouted, pushing back through the stand towards Xavier.
The steward snapped to attention. ‘Eminence?’
‘There,’ he pointed. ‘Piet Reydon. Don’t let him out of your sights.’ Vidal couldn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. Not only Reydon, but his wife, too. The false châtelaine, who had stolen his unborn child’s birthright. Xavier had reported the assassin had hit his mark. Evidently, the man had lied. ‘Find out where they are lodging and report back. Make haste!’
‘Sire.’ Xavier bowed, and slipped away.
Since Vidal’s aim in ordering Minou’s killing had been, in part, to keep Reydon in Puivert and away from wagging tongues – at least until he had received confirmation from Amsterdam that the lay sister had left no papers or documents behind – the realisation that the whole family had been under his nose all along in Paris enraged him.
He put his hands to his temples. His headache was worse again.
* * *
Louis watched the exchange between Vidal and Xavier with cold interest. Standing with the other household servants, he hadn’t seen what had so disturbed Vidal, but he realised his father had been shocked to the quick.
Louis waited until Xavier was out of sight, then slipped forward and climbed the steps until he was standing at Vidal’s side.
‘My lord?’
What is it?’ Vidal snapped.
‘Should I accompany Monsieur Xavier in case he has need of assistance? He might be grateful to have a messenger to carry word back to you?’ Louis felt his father’s sharp eyes turn on him, and, involuntarily, he stepped back. ‘I did not mean to speak out of turn.’
He readied himself for a blow, but instead felt the weight of Vidal’s hand on his shoulder.
‘That’s a good idea. Give Xavier whatever help he needs, although—’
Louis looked up. ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Be careful,’ he said with unaccustomed kindness. ‘The streets will be dangerous tonight.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
RUE DES BARRES
Friday, 22 August
Three days of feasting had followed the marr
iage. From dawn to dusk all the bells of Paris peeled in honour of the new Queen and King of Navarre. Ringing for peace and for the union of the most ancient, two most noble, families of France, now joined in union.
Now the celebrations were over. The streets were littered with debris and detritus. Huddles of women and men gathered around braziers in the streets to hear the latest news. Gossip started to spread as to whether the Princess Margot truly had assented. Speculation was rife, too, as to whether the royal marriage had yet been consummated. The appropriate witnesses had been in attendance in the bedchamber, as tradition required, but no one knew for certain.
In the makeshift camps and medieval alleyways, tempers were running high. Irritations broke out over every inch of ground, knives were quickly drawn and insults thrown like stones. Bruised faces, bruised honour. Everywhere, the stench of men and women in confined quarters pervaded the air. In the grand houses and boulevards, wives argued with husbands and servants complained about the endless demands of foreign guests. Neighbours, who once had passed the time of day in the streets, were short-tempered and ill-humoured in the stifling August heat. And in the Louvre Palace, the Guise residence and the Bourbon Palace, the three factions were as divided as they had ever been. Liquor and spectacle had painted over their differences for a while, but now, like smouldering ashes about to burst into flame again, old grievances resurfaced. Guise was always there, stirring up trouble. Each day, if the King called for de Coligny to advise him, the Queen Mother – united with the Duke of Guise on this one point that Huguenot influence should be limited – flooded the chambers with spies, unwilling to let them be alone.
Only Minou and Piet held themselves apart. Delighting in one another’s company, as if they were newly marrieds, they had no need of banquets or masques.
RUE DU LOUVRE
‘And?’ Vidal demanded.
Louis watched Xavier bow his head.
‘Reydon has not left the rue des Barres since the wedding, Eminence.’
‘He has attended none of the celebrations?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Visitors?’
‘None to speak of.’
Though Louis knew Xavier would punish him, he touched his father’s sleeve all the same.
‘What is it, boy?’
‘My lord, the lady’s brother has several times gone to the house. He is in the service of Admiral de Coligny.’
‘Is this so?’ Vidal demanded.
Xavier threw a sideways look at Louis. ‘Forgive me, yes. I forgot. I did observe him entering the lodgings on one occasion.’
Louis cleared his throat. ‘Also, there was a woman watching the house this morning.’
Vidal turned on his steward. ‘Why did you not tell me this?’
‘The boy is mistaken.’
‘Are you mistaken, Louis? Speak.’
‘No, my lord. A woman of some twenty years, of neither high birth nor low,’ Louis replied, ignoring the warning in Xavier’s eyes. ‘From her clothing, I would say she is a foreigner. She arrived at first light.’
‘She does not approach the house?’
Louis set a look of regret on his face. ‘Monsieur Xavier ordered me to return with him, so I can’t answer for the past hour…’
‘Then “Monsieur” Xavier will return to the rue des Barres and find out who she is.’ Vidal waved his arm. ‘Get out of my sight.’
With a villainous final look at Louis, the steward withdrew. Louis knew he would pay for it later with a whipping, but he didn’t care.
For the second time, he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
‘Are you hungry, boy?’
Louis pretended to consider. ‘Only if it pleases you, my lord.’
‘You will dine with me tonight. For now, go to the kitchens and tell them to give you whatever you want. Then return to the rue des Barres. Report back to me what Xavier is doing.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Louis knew better than to show it, but inside his spirits were soaring.
RUE DES BARRES
‘She’s gone,’ Piet said, standing at the casement with his hand on the glass.
Minou looked up from her book. ‘Who’s gone, mon coeur?’
‘There was a woman earlier, standing by the back door into the sacristy of the church. She seemed to be watching the house.’
Minou put her book on the oak chest beside her chair and joined him at the window.
‘Are you sure?’
‘It seemed that way.’ Piet frowned. ‘Do you think it’s the same woman who came looking for me the day before the wedding?’
‘She could be.’ Minou looked towards Saint-Gervais. ‘Did you recognise her?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve reached the point where everyone looks familiar. We have been in Paris too long.’
‘Maman,’ cried Marta, running in. ‘Please, please, please can we go out today.’
‘I’m sorry, petite, but Jean-Jacques is still unwell. I don’t want to leave him until the fever breaks.’
The little girl spun round. ‘Papa, will you take me? You promised we would visit Notre-Dame and that was three days ago. Though, in point of fact, I think I would rather go to the pilgrim church.’
‘Saint-Jacques-de-la-Boucherie?’
‘Yes. There were so many shells dropped on the ground, I wanted one. They fall from their robes, I think.’
Piet ruffled her hair. ‘I promise I will take you, but not today. I am waiting for your uncle to arrive. You’ll have to entertain yourself this morning.’
Marta crossed her arms in a sulk. ‘There’s nothing to do. And Jean-Jacques never stops crying.’
‘You should be sympathetic not impatient,’ Minou reprimanded her. ‘He is so little.’
‘He’s a nuisance.’
‘Marta, that’s unkind.’
The child’s face brightened with a new idea. ‘What if I ask Great-aunt Boussay to take me to the Sainte-Chapelle? If she agrees, may I go?’
Piet put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Since you were not taken to the Sainte-Chapelle because you were disobedient – and you offended Aunt Salvadora with your saucy questions – she is hardly likely to take you now, is she?’
‘I wish Aunt Alis was here, she would take me.’ The little girl stamped her foot. ‘I shall die of boredom, and then you’ll be sorry.’
Marta flounced from the room.
‘Only three days more, then we’ll be on our way.’ Minou sighed. Since the wedding – since catching sight of Vidal – her peace of mind had been destroyed. Even now, the tips of her toes and fingers tingled with the memory of it. She glanced at her husband. ‘Are you really waiting for Aimeric?’
Piet grinned. ‘But of course! It’s wrong to lie, isn’t that what you counsel Marta?’
She laughed. ‘For all the good that does.’ Her face grew serious again. ‘Does his coming mean he has word from Amsterdam?’
‘I hope so. This waiting for news is setting my nerves on edge.’ Piet turned back to the window. ‘I wonder what the woman wanted?’
Minou put her arm around his waist. ‘If she comes back, I will go down and speak to her. Try not to worry.’
* * *
Cornelia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then, bracing her forearm on the edge of the water trough, she tried to stand up.
She’d hoped the nausea that had confined her to her quarters on the river these past three days had passed. But the sheer effort of walking from the mooring to this quartier seemed to have brought it back worse than ever. She had been on the point of approaching the Reydon lodgings this morning when the first attack took her. She had only just made it into the dank alleyway, to this private spot behind an animals’ drinking trough, before she was sick.
Now she felt hollow and light-headed. With her kerchief, she dabbed sweat from her temples and the base of her throat. How could she present herself to Pieter Reydon in this condition?
Cornelia took a few deep breaths and waited for the
shivering to stop. The alleyway was secluded, as she’d learnt to her peril some days previously, but an unexpected advantage was that she could overhear snippets of conversation when the servants came out into the courtyard garden. So she’d learnt that Pieter Reydon was at home today; that the Huguenot soldier with the untamed black hair – whom even the Catholic maids of the household admired – was Madame Reydon’s brother; that the girl was seven years old and considered saucy; and that the two-year-old little boy was often afflicted by ailments of the digestion.
As if in sympathy, Cornelia’s stomach twisted again. Not a morsel of food had passed her lips for days, so how could the sickness still have such a hold? This must be the fault of the under-cooked pork she had bought on the day of the wedding from a street vendor. She prayed it was bad meat, for the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. She’d heard the sailors and bargemen whispering about an outbreak of camp sickness upstream of the Île de Louviers.
‘Rotten meat, that’s all,’ she just had time to think before another spasm twisted her stomach, and she doubled over again.
* * *
In the nursery, Marta watched the soft puff of the nurse’s sweaty upper lip as she breathed in and out, until she was certain she was fast asleep. Her red, rough hands lay still in her lap, her cheeks were flushed and her cap had slipped, revealing strands of thin, grey hair.
Avoiding the noisiest floorboards, Marta tiptoed across the chamber and peeked into her brother’s cradle. His arms were thrown wide above his head and his fat little legs spread like the points of a star. She touched his forehead and felt his skin was cool. He would not wake for hours.
Picking up her shoes and cap, Marta pinched the latch between her thumb and forefinger to quieten the door, then carefully made her way all the way down the stairs, especially quietly past the first-floor chamber – where she could hear the murmur of her parents’ voices behind the closed door – then, avoiding the kitchens too, she tiptoed out into the courtyard.
A delicious shiver went down her spine. She would be in more trouble than ever if she was caught but, since she had no intention of being caught, she felt only excitement.
