The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  Marta put on her shoes and her cap, then opened the gate and slipped out into the alleyway.

  The sun was cresting the top of the building, flooding the narrow street with light. The many dull hours spent staring out of the window, memorising each and every journey in the carriage, had imprinted the shape of the street upon her memory, so Marta felt perfectly at ease.

  Each of her senses seemed to be vibrating like strings on a lute as she stepped past a woman slumped by the water trough; jumped over a black-and-tan mongrel chewing a bone; avoided a puddle of ale steaming in the heat. With the thrill of transgression, she turned left into the rue des Barres and headed quickly towards the river.

  Marta worried she might be challenged, but although people looked surprised to see a girl unaccompanied, they merely smiled or raised their hats. Her confidence grew. At the junction with the rue de la Mortellerie, she stopped. She closed her eyes and went through the route they’d taken to the wedding: from here down to the river, then west along the bank and over the bridge to the Île de la Cité. It wouldn’t take long. She could see the Sainte-Chapelle and be back within the hour. No one would ever know she had gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ‘Monsieur Joubert,’ the servant announced.

  Minou stood up. ‘Aimeric!’

  Piet clapped him on the back. ‘You are most welcome.’

  ‘Nephew!’ Salvadora’s plump face was wreathed in smiles.

  Aimeric kissed his aunt and his sister in turn, shook Piet’s hand, then unfastened his corse and dagger, put them on the chest with a clatter, and sank into a chair.

  ‘There’s no respite from this heat, even this early in the day.’

  Piet handed him a gage of ale. ‘I hope you’re looking after my dagger well?’ he said, gesturing to the knife he’d loaned Aimeric in Puivert.

  ‘I am, though I’m also delighted to say that I’ve had no cause to use it.’

  ‘What news?’ Minou asked.

  Aimeric took a long gasp of ale. ‘Admiral de Coligny is yet again summoned to the King’s chamber this morning. The King loves him like a father and wishes to please him. It is so regular an occurrence, the Queen Mother is quite perturbed. For his part, all the admiral wants is to be allowed to return to his estates in Châtillon and his wife – she is expecting another child – but the King will not release him.’

  ‘And what of Navarre?’ asked Piet.

  Aimeric shrugged. ‘He’s nowhere to be seen. His interests are limited to carousing, hunting and wenching. He cares not for politics, so absents himself from matters of court. All I pray is that he gives attention enough to his wife, so that she does not rush back into Guise’s arms. Now the marriage has taken place, and the royal family has accepted the Huguenot Navarre into their ranks, the King believes Guise’s power is much reduced.’

  Minou heard the doubt in his voice. ‘But it is not?’

  Aimeric shook his head. ‘Alas, no. There is mounting evidence the terms of the peace are not being observed, particularly in Paris. There have been incidents – a Huguenot killed on the left bank, rumours circulating in les Halles that the Protestant army mustered outside the walls is preparing to storm Paris, allegations of Catholic women being accosted on their way to Mass. The usual kind of rumour and counter-rumour.’

  ‘You think these are falsehoods concocted by Guise?’

  ‘It is hard to separate truth from untruth,’ Aimeric conceded, ‘but there is no doubt Guise wants unrest. He thrives on it. Though he is careful never to speak out of turn, I do not trust him. He gives one message in public from his own mouth, but yet whips up his supporters in anti-Huguenot sentiments in private.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘Guise is a man who enjoys exercising power, regardless of the costs to others or the consequences. He despises the King, he thinks him weak, is jealous of Navarre and, as you know, has vowed to be revenged on de Coligny for his father’s assassination in Orléans. The sooner he leaves Paris, the better.’ Aimeric drained his goblet and put it down on the table. ‘But forgive me, I cast a shadow over our company with my complaints.’

  ‘Is that not what families are for?’ Salvadora answered drily. ‘To listen when all others have lost interest!’

  Aimeric laughed. ‘You are more than kind, dear Aunt.’ He turned to Piet. ‘But the reason I came is that I have news from Amsterdam for you. It’s not much, but you’ll want to hear it.’

  Salvadora looked from Piet to her nephew, then she gathered up her embroidery and slowly stood up.

  ‘Minou, we should withdraw. The gentlemen need to talk.’

  Minou felt her colour rise. It was ridiculous that, after all these years, Salvadora still would not accept that she and Piet ran their affairs together.

  ‘That is thoughtful,’ Piet said quickly, ‘but I would like Minou to stay.’

  Salvadora pursed her lips. ‘If you wish it so,’ she said, her voice sharp with disapproval. She starred at Minou. ‘Will we lunch at two o’clock as usual?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt.’

  ‘In which case, I shall see you at table.’ Her face softened as she turned. ‘Nephew, it has been a pleasure to see you, though too fleeting as usual. I hope you will come again soon.’

  Aimeric escorted her to the door, then came back into the room whistling.

  ‘She is displeased with you, Sister!’

  ‘Salvadora hasn’t forgiven me for failing to accompany her to the Sainte-Chapelle as I’d promised.’

  ‘Well, for your sake, I hope it blows over soon. It will be a long journey back to Puivert if not…’

  Piet closed the door. ‘What do you have to tell me?’

  Aimeric threw a glance at Minou.

  ‘I have told Minou everything, as I should have done before – and, indeed, as you urged me to do. She has forgiven me for my tardiness.’

  ‘And other faults,’ she said, squeezing Piet’s arm.

  Aimeric smiled. ‘I am glad. When we talked before, Minou, you said that a woman had come to the house asking for Piet?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The day before the wedding.’

  ‘I believe I know who she is. A woman called Cornelia van Raay. She’s the only child of a wealthy Catholic Dutch grain merchant, Willem van Raay, who lives in Amsterdam, but has many business interests here in Paris. He is well regarded. From what I can gather, van Raay sent his daughter to Paris to find you, Piet.’

  ‘Why would he think to seek me here rather than in Puivert?’

  Aimeric raised his hands. ‘Since every Huguenot nobleman and landowner was invited to the wedding, it was a reasonable assumption you would be in Paris in August too. I also discovered that van Raay is a major benefactor of Begijnhof. In Mariken Hassels’s letter to you, did she not write she had asked a friend for assistance? I assume it was van Raay.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Piet said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. ‘I’d hoped for more.’

  ‘I said it was not much.’

  For a moment, they were silent.

  ‘Earlier today, I noticed someone in the street watching the house. It might be the same woman as was previously here – the maid’s description was so vague as to be useless.’ Piet frowned. ‘Though she was dressed plainly, and without any attendants; could she have been Cornelia van Raay?’

  ‘But if it was her,’ Minou mused, ‘and her purpose is to speak with you, then why has she not presented herself? It doesn’t make sense.’

  Piet shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  Minou turned to Aimeric. ‘Do you know where Mademoiselle van Raay is lodging? We could seek her out rather than wait for her to return.’

  ‘Rumour has it she is staying on one of her father’s barges.’

  ‘Where on the river is it moored?’

  ‘That I don’t know, but I can find out.’

  Piet nodded. ‘If it is van Raay’s daughter, and she has information to share, that would be most welcome. The uncertainty has been preying on m
y mind for too long. I would have the matter resolved, for all of our sakes.’

  Aimeric looked at him. ‘And if the French cardinal does turn out to be Vidal?’

  Piet frowned. ‘We will cross that bridge if, and when, we come to it.’

  Remembering the wave of pure terror that had swept through her at the sight of Vidal in the wedding stands, Minou marvelled at the steadiness in her husband’s voice. She had not told him, for fear of making the incident seem more significant than it was. But since then, Minou felt Vidal was living beneath her skin. Every nerve seemed raw with dread. She had barely slept last night for thinking he was but a few streets away.

  ‘I am grateful for all you have done, Aimeric.’ Piet held up the jug of ale. ‘Will you take another gage before you go?’

  ‘I can think of nothing I’d like more, but I have been away from Admiral de Coligny for too long as it is. I need to see him safely back to our quarters.’ Aimeric stood up. ‘Might I dine with you tomorrow instead? I would see my nephew and niece before you return to Puivert.’

  Minou smiled. ‘I would be most grateful, not least because Marta has declared herself bored with our company at the dinner table and has been demanding guests to amuse her!’

  Aimeric grinned, looking for a moment like the boy he’d once been.

  ‘Marta is so like Alis at the same age. She was always bored, always complaining about having nothing to do. Give my apologies to dear Salvadora for taking my leave without saying goodbye to her. I will make it up to her tomorrow evening.’ Aimeric buckled his corse and dagger. ‘As soon as I find out where the van Raay barge is moored, I will send word. In the meantime, if Mademoiselle van Raay returns – if it is indeed her – will you get word to me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Piet clasped his hand. ‘Again, my heartfelt thanks.’

  ‘À demain,’ Minou said. ‘We will dine at six.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  RUE DE BÉTHISY

  Marta rubbed her eyes. Though she had been trying to pretend otherwise for some time, the plain truth was she was lost.

  The streets looked different on foot. So many landmarks she thought she recognised were unfamiliar when she drew near. This time she had been so sure. But as she looked up at the unfamiliar spire, having been drawn by the bells, she wished there were not so many churches in Paris.

  Her eyes filled again with tears. What would Aunt Alis say? She was always brave. Marta frowned. Her aunt would tell her to keep going and that things would come right in the end. But clouds had covered the sun so she no longer knew which way to go. If she could get to the river, that would be a start.

  Marta blinked away her misery and tramped on, telling herself all would be well. It was still an adventure, but she was tired. Her fingers slipped into her pocket, looking for a coin. With a jolt, she felt the wooden beads she had taken from her mother’s jewellery box. She had meant to put them back, but with the wedding and her brother’s endless crying it had slipped her mind.

  She turned the corner and suddenly, with the wonderful sensation of the ground becoming firm beneath her feet once more, Marta knew where she was. This was the rue de Béthisy, where her uncle was lodging. Maman had pointed out the house, half concealed behind high stone walls, when they’d first arrived in Paris.

  The rest of the street was made up of half-timbered houses, white plaster between the diagonal struts on all the upper floors – Papa had explained it was to stop fire from taking hold of the wood – with overhanging first-floor chambers, like eyebrows scowling down upon the narrow street.

  Marta smiled, her spirits instantly restored at this evidence of her own resourcefulness. She was on the point of stepping forward when she heard the noise of boots behind her. She looked behind her to see a cohort of men in black livery marching towards her. As they drew closer, Marta saw the soldiers were surrounding a man of noble bearing, late in years, in austere black doublet and hose, a stiff starched ruff at his neck, and a white beard trimmed to a point. With a jolt, she recognised Admiral de Coligny, who seemed unperturbed by all the attention. Rather, he was studying a document in his hands. Then, to her dismay, Marta saw her Uncle Aimeric approach him. She would be in great trouble if her Uncle spied her here unaccompanied. Lightning quick, she jumped back into the shadow of the nearest building.

  Everything seemed to happen at once.

  The admiral stopped suddenly. As he turned, to show the document to Aimeric, a shot rang out. The deafening report echoed in the narrow street, bouncing off the walls of the houses.

  Shocked, Marta looked up in time to see a puff of powder in a first-floor window opposite and the flash of silver of a muzzle being withdrawn.

  Then, a woman screamed and the street exploded in chaos – shouted orders, soldiers pushing through the crowd. The admiral was now clutching his elbow as blood pumped through his fingers. Marta saw her uncle hurry de Coligny into the safety of their lodgings; at the same time the soldiers stormed the house opposite, kicking in the door and sending splinters of wood flying. Moments later, they shouted from the first-floor window that the assassin had fled.

  The woman was still screaming. Marta put her hands over her ears, too terrified to move. Her view was mostly blocked by the soldiers, but she caught an occasional glimpse of the silver tip of a sword or the pale shaft of a pike on the dry ground. There was a pool of blood on the cobblestones where the admiral had been hit.

  Marta realised her cheek was wet. She couldn’t find her kerchief, so she took off her cap and wiped her face. There were smears of red on the pristine white linen. Her stitched initials – M R J – were hidden beneath vivid smudges of blood.

  Disgusted, she flung the cap away from her. She couldn’t bear to touch it now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  RUE DES BARRES

  The clock chimed the quarter-hour. Minou, Piet and Salvadora were sitting at the lunch table with full serving dishes and empty plates in front of them.

  ‘Forgive me for speaking plainly, Niece, I do not see why we should all be inconvenienced by the child.’

  Minou glanced at the door. ‘I understand your vexation, Aunt, but—’

  Salvadora kept talking. ‘If Marta is thoughtless enough not to come to dine when called, then so be it. To miss a meal might teach her better manners.’

  ‘Salvadora, please.’ Minou was not sure she could cope with much more ill temper. She was frustrated too, but she was also worn to a thread by her aunt’s endless complaints. ‘The nurse should have brought her down at two o’clock as usual. I don’t know why she has not.’

  ‘I’ll fetch her,’ Piet offered, dropping his napkin onto the table.

  ‘No, I’ll go,’ Minou said, seeing a chance of escape. She pushed back her chair. ‘I would like to check on our little warrior in any case. It is miserable for Jean-Jacques to be so afflicted. You both, please start. I’ll bring Marta down with me in a while.’

  Ignoring Piet’s look of desperation at being left alone with Salvadora, Minou went up to the nursery. It wasn’t just the oppressive afternoon heat that made each step such a labour, but the nagging sense that they had overstayed their time in Paris. Everything seemed a little tawdry now, worn out. It was as if the curtains had been drawn back at the end of a masque to reveal a stage made only of paper and paste. The stink of the streets, the sour waft of the river, the rancid stench of the abattoirs and slaughterhouses now the wind had changed direction, seemed to seep through the walls.

  ‘Petite, it’s time to eat,’ Minou called out as she pushed open the nursery door.

  The chamber was empty: a tousled blanket in Jean-Jacques’ cot, an earthenware cup by the nurse’s chair, Marta’s chalks scattered on the table beside a half-finished drawing of the princess in her wedding gown, evidence of the morning’s activities, but abandoned now. Motes of dust floated in the hot and silent air.

  Minou retraced her steps, peering into each room as she passed until finally, a lank streak of a maid in the kitchen said she’d been sen
t to draw water for the little boy to bathe some half-hour past. So she went through into the courtyard, expecting to see both children there.

  Beneath the plane tree, Jean-Jacques was laughing and splashing in an oval wooden tub. The nurse, her sleeves folded back and smiling, was tipping water over his head.

  ‘My lady.’

  ‘He seems much improved.’ Minou chucked him under the chin. Jean-Jacques giggled. ‘How now, mon brave!’

  ‘He is ordinarily such a happy soul, it broke my heart to hear him cry so, my lady.’

  Minou bent down and scooped a cascade of water over her son’s naked, round belly. He squealed with delight.

  ‘And where is Marta?’

  ‘I thought Mademoiselle Marta was with you in the dining room, my lady.’ The nurse lifted Jean-Jacques out of the water and placed him on a drying cloth on her lap. ‘There, that’s right, little soldier. All better now.’

  ‘No. I have not seen her since first thing this morning.’

  The nurse frowned. ‘She said she was going downstairs to ask you and the master if she might be taken on an expedition.’

  ‘She did, but since we were expecting Monsieur Joubert to call, I bid her return to the nursery.’

  ‘She didn’t come back up to me, my lady.’

  Minou felt a shiver of unease. ‘When did you last have sight of her?’

  The nurse started to look flustered. ‘I was tending to this little one, waiting for the gripe to pass. Mademoiselle Marta was drawing. He was awake all the night, the poor scrap, he wouldn’t settle. When, finally, the attack passed, he slept and I might have closed my eyes for a moment.’

  ‘You fell asleep.’

  ‘Upon my word, it was only for a moment. She’ll be hiding somewhere. She won’t have gone far. Begging your pardon, madame, but you know how she is.’

  ‘Tend to Jean-Jacques,’ Minou said, concern making her sharp. ‘I will find her. As you say, there are plenty of places to hide.’