The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

‘And there was no one else? You are sure of it?’

  The captain hesitated. ‘No, my lord.’

  Guise took a final sweeping gaze around the room. He did not look convinced.

  ‘This is the house of Cardinal Valentin – Vidal, by his given name. I would be distressed if anything ill has befallen him. But I would be even more displeased were I to discover that he had – of his own accord – taken himself from Paris without permission. That I would consider an act of gross disloyalty.’ He produced a coin. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  Cabanel’s eyes glinted. ‘Yes, my lord Guise.’

  ‘If you procure the information I seek, you will be well rewarded for it. I do not care how long it takes, or how much it costs, I would know where Vidal has gone.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ÎLE DE LOUVIERS

  Minou followed Cornelia through the wild streets in the darkness, cradling her son’s warm body hidden beneath the folds of her cloak. She could not think, she could not allow herself to feel. Over the sounds of distant fighting, she could hear the rasping sound of Salvadora’s wheezing as she struggled to keep up. Staying close to her side, Piet carried her casket with her journal and other treasures in his arm, dagger drawn in his left hand.

  Minou could not bear to look at him.

  Every step away from the rue des Barres was a betrayal of her daughter. And though her head told her there was no hope of finding Marta in this terror and chaos, her heart told her she was betraying her own flesh and blood.

  Many others were heading for the river, so their little band found themselves caught in a huddled stream of refugees. Someone trod on the hem of her cloak, tightening the ribbon at her neck. An elbow dug into her ribs. She was trapped in a miasma of sweat and the sour breath of strangers.

  Twice before, Minou had been caught on the streets when anarchy took over. When she was a child of some seven or eight summers, the age Marta was now, in Carcassonne. She could still remember how tightly her own mother had gripped her hand and made her feel safe despite the roar of the mob. How she averted Minou’s eyes away from the bodies lynched and twisting on the gibbet.

  Then again, ten years ago in Toulouse at the beginning of the first of the religious wars. On that day in May, Piet had thrown himself into the fray, defending those who could not defend themselves. He had stood tall in the face of danger, not run from it. He had shown no fear.

  On that day, Piet had saved her.

  But now? Though she did not judge his motive – she accepted he was acting out of love for her and their son – his actions were destroying her.

  ‘Everything will be all right, mon brave,’ she whispered to Jean-Jacques, trying to anchor herself through the love she felt for her son. ‘Maman won’t leave you.’

  The fierce looks on the faces all around them drove Minou on; the hatred and malice transforming decent people into monsters. In this, Piet was right. Paris had turned on them. She realised they could not stay in the city and hope to survive.

  They were now at the easternmost point of the city walls near the Bastille, a quartier Minou barely knew.

  ‘This way,’ Cornelia whispered.

  They turned to the right and walked fast towards the city walls. Piet went to step forward, but Cornelia threw out her hand to stop him.

  ‘Let me. They know me.’

  Minou watched a huddled conversation, then Cornelia pressed a coin into the hand of one of the guards on duty. To her astonishment, he unbolted the gate and ushered them swiftly through.

  Quickly, Cornelia led them all the way along the Quai des Célestins towards the wharves opposite the Île de Louviers, where several barges were bobbing in the water. Minou walked faster, more nervous now they had nearly made it.

  Then, on a gangway ahead, a single word. ‘Heretics!’

  Cornelia gestured them back out of sight. They waited, holding their breath, and Minou saw to her horror a mob had trapped a family on a wooden jetty: an old man – the grandfather perhaps – his daughter and three little girls, their sombre clothing betraying them for Huguenots.

  ‘Traitors! Infecting France with your heresy.’

  Words, sharp as thorns, baiting, taunting, jeering. Minou saw a bearded man take hold of the grandfather and shove him into the water, then reach for one of the children. The mother attempted to intervene.

  ‘I beg you,’ she screamed. ‘They cannot swim.’

  ‘Your God will save them if he sees fit,’ the man laughed, then grabbed the smallest of the girls and tossed her into the river as if she was nothing.

  ‘We have to do something,’ Piet protested.

  ‘It is terrible, but we cannot. They would turn on us too.’

  A roar went up from the mob as the mother and the two remaining children were thrown into the stinking river Seine, already a graveyard for too many. Minou put her hands over Jean-Jacques’ ears.

  Salvadora was sobbing, ‘I am too old for such sights. I cannot go on.’

  ‘We won’t leave you behind,’ Piet said, putting his arm around her. ‘Lean on me.’

  Minou turned away.

  As soon as the mob had moved on, Cornelia beckoned for them to continue.

  ‘It’s not much further,’ she said. ‘The last wharf.’

  They stepped down from the quay and hurried along the wooden jetty where Willem van Raay’s barge was moored. Two crewmen were waiting by the gangplank, their eyes darting fearfully to left and right. Minou saw relief in their eyes as they stood to attention.

  Cornelia spoke a few words in a language she could not understand. Dutch, of course.

  The barge was one of the finest Minou had ever seen. Sitting low in the water, there was a large central cabin in the middle of the vessel and curved wooden benches along the sides. There were four oarsmen, two on either side, and at the back of the boat, an ensign with the trading colours of Amsterdam and what Minou presumed was the van Raay family crest.

  ‘I told them that you are my friends,’ Cornelia said, as they stepped down into the boat, ‘and warned them they are to say nothing if we are stopped. Monsieur Reydon, it would be best if you remained out of sight until we are well clear of Paris. Madame Boussay, you, too, perhaps, might be more comfortable below?’

  Piet looked as if he wanted to protest, but he accepted Cornelia’s advice.

  ‘Come, Salvadora,’ he said, ‘let me help you. Minou?’

  ‘I will remain here, if Cornelia will permit me.’

  ‘If you wish it.’

  Piet hesitated, then took Jean-Jacques from her arms, handed him to the nurse, then offered his arm to Salvadora and they disappeared below deck.

  ‘Roeien!’ Cornelia commanded the crew.

  They immediately untied the rope and hauled it on board. There was a lurch as they pushed the craft away from the jetty. The oarsmen began to row away from the bank and into the middle of the current.

  ‘Good,’ Cornelia said, though her face was drawn and pale with worry. ‘If there is no barricade at the head of the river, we have a chance.’

  The air was filled with sounds of screaming, of cannon, of death. So many people thrashed in the water, crying out as the river and the weeds pulled them under. The sky was bright with fire, orange flames licking the black night sky. It looked as if whole quartiers, on both sides of the Seine, were burning.

  Still they kept going, the oars dipping in and out of the water, until they came level with the last of the towers in the city walls.

  Then, just as Minou thought they were safe, a shout went up. She turned and saw a boat chasing through the water behind them.

  ‘In the name of the King, I order you to stop!’

  The vessel came alongside them. As well as a captain, in royal livery, she could see four archers and two guards with firearms.

  ‘State your business,’ the commander called.

  ‘I am Cornelia van Raay from Amsterdam.’ Minou marvelled at how calm she sounded. ‘I am in Paris on my father’s business.’ She wav
ed to their ensign. ‘His fleet is anchored in Rouen. In the light of what is happening – no doubt some new outrage perpetrated by the Protestants – I judged it expedient to leave.’

  The boat bobbed closer, so near that Minou could see the lines of sweat on the commander’s brow.

  ‘Why not wait until morning?’

  Cornelia managed to smile. ‘I would not risk my father’s cargo for the sake of a few hours.’

  The captain sent his eyes prying up and down the barge.

  ‘What manner of business has your father?’

  ‘He is a grain merchant, monsieur, and a Catholic benefactor.’

  The commander put one foot on the edge of the barge, as if staking a claim, and pointed at Minou.

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘My father’s wife,’ Cornelia said quickly. ‘My lady has been in Paris to visit her relations. We are returning now to Amsterdam.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘No one else,’ Cornelia lied. She gestured. ‘You are welcome to board and see for yourself, monsieur.’

  Minou held her breath, praying he would not come on board and that no one below made a sound. Her heart was thudding so loudly in her chest, she could not believe that he did not hear it.

  The commander removed his boot and stepped back. ‘That will not be necessary, mademoiselle –’

  ‘Van Raay,’ Cornelia said, her voice still as clear as a bell. ‘My father will hear of your courtesy. God save the King.’

  The commander saluted, then his boat turned in the water and headed back towards the bank.

  Cornelia stood watching, then collapsed on the seat beside Minou, breathing heavily.

  Minou put her hand on the young woman’s arm. ‘Thank you, Cornelia.’

  Her friend didn’t answer, just sat clutching the bench with white knuckles. Then she gave a long sigh, and raised her head.

  ‘Ga door,’ she instructed the crew. Continue on.

  Minou touched the old twine betrothal ring that she had made the day before Piet had asked her to be his wife. Since she and Piet had found their way back to one another’s hearts in Paris, she had worn it every day next to her silver wedding ring. Minou looked down at the twist of twine in her palm, then hurled it out onto the black waters of the Seine. What need had she for such mementos of affection now?

  Minou turned around and watched as Paris got smaller and smaller behind them. She wondered if they were merely postponing the hour of their death and if, at this moment, she even cared.

  ‘Forgive me, petite,’ she murmured into the darkness, still hoping against all hope that Marta was still alive. And that, somehow, she might hear her voice.

  PART THREE

  AMSTERDAM & CHARTRES

  May 1578

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Six Years Later

  ZEEDIJK, AMSTERDAM

  Saturday, 24 May 1578

  Minou shook the water from her hands. She stepped forward onto the stone terrace that ran the length of the long building and turned them over to dry in the sun.

  They were the hands of a working woman now.

  After a particularly hard winter and a dispiriting spring of rain, fog and squalling winds, May had arrived suddenly in Amsterdam with clear skies, white-frost nights and warm bright days. The leaves on the apple trees had turned a pale silver-green and clouds of white blossom filled the boughs. The grass was dotted with clover, yarrow, dog daisies and celandine. As the days grew longer, the garden was becoming beautiful again.

  ‘Doucement,’ Minou called out, as one of the older boys barrelled into a pale, undernourished girl who had not spoken since she’d arrived. ‘Be careful, Frans. Voorzichtig!’

  The boy waved an apology. Minou looked out over the wooden railing that divided the terrace from the orchard, wondering if she should further intervene. Then one of their longest-term residents, Agnes – a child from Brielle whose entire family had been murdered in the early years of the Revolt – put her arm around the new girl and led her away to sit quietly.

  ‘Voorzichtig!’ Minou called again. Frans took no notice.

  She gave a wry smile. Though she’d attempted to master the language, the hard-edged Dutch words felt uncomfortable to her and the bolder children, like Frans, sometimes pretended they did not understand. Still, Minou persisted – so many of their orphans were from Zeeland or Friesland, occasionally Flanders – though often she had to rely on her own children to help. Both Jean-Jacques, now eight years of age, and little Bernarda, who had turned five last week, spoke Dutch as their mother tongue.

  She had high hopes of this year’s crop of apples in the orchard, a tiny Eden in the heart of the beleaguered city they now called home. Minou knew she should feel lucky. Mostly, she did. She woke each morning with a roof over her head and in the company of those she cared for. And though the streets were often dangerous as the war against Spanish occupation dragged on – as sailors carried their grudges off their ships and into the city, and there was often not quite enough food – their family’s survival was a miracle when so many had died. She was grateful for their lives in a world turned upside down. Though it was not God she thanked for their deliverance, but Cornelia van Raay.

  From the moment Cornelia had presented herself at their front door in the rue des Barres six years ago – the day Minou thought of as marking the end of her previous life – the young Dutchwoman had become one of their family. She had a strength and a resourcefulness that belied her privileged upbringing. She had got them away from Paris, when most every other vessel was turned back or attacked. In the grim weeks that had followed the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre, and the savagery and mob violence incited against Huguenots had spread to other cities in France, Cornelia had hidden them aboard her father’s cargo ship anchored in Rouen until it was safe to move on. And it was Cornelia who had brought them, finally, in the winter of 1572, to Amsterdam. Salvadora had been suffering from gout and a palsy; Jean-Jacques was a bag of bones; Piet was silent, in conflict with himself and his conscience; and Minou, afflicted by sickness from the quickening of an unwanted child in her womb, was still numb from the loss of Marta and Aimeric.

  With little fuss, Cornelia also continued to search for the documents entrusted to Mariken. As the daughter of a respected Catholic merchant, she was able to ask questions that Minou, as a Huguenot refugee, could not. But though Cornelia visited cloister after cloister – in search of the friend to whom Mariken had given the papers pertaining to Piet’s birthright – she learnt nothing.

  Cornelia had found them lodgings, then persuaded her father to help negotiate the purchase of this modest corner plot from the former monastery of the Brown Friars. Like most of Amsterdam’s monasteries and convents on the Oude Zijde, the oldest part of the city, taxes had driven the Brown Friars into poverty and out of business. Only the hated Grey Friars cloister, a stone’s throw from Minou’s front door, had been spared.

  Minou looked at their slim, four-storeyed house with pride. Built at the eastern end of Zeedijk, one of the original dykes of medieval Amsterdam that curved along the northern boundary of the city at the harbour, their plot sat on the far corner of a square opposite Sint Antoniespoort, the main gate into Amsterdam from the east.

  The terrace gave onto a small orchard, where the children could play in the afternoons. As their makeshift community grew, they needed more space. Willem van Raay had acquired the Brown Friars’ old stable block for them to convert into sleeping and living accommodation.

  Their hofje – almshouse – was arranged along the same lines as the almshouse for Huguenot refugees Piet had previously worked in, in the rue du Périgord in Toulouse. Anyone in need had been welcome. Now, some sixteen years later in Amsterdam, he and Minou cared for scores of displaced children, innocent victims of the wars in France and the Dutch Provinces, who found their way to Amsterdam. Refugees like them. It gave them a chance to express their gratitude to the city that had offered them sanctuary. For Minou at least, it was a way of a
ssuaging the burden on her heart.

  Little by little, they had fashioned new lives for themselves in the city of tears, as Minou had thought of Amsterdam when she’d first arrived, broken-hearted. They became accustomed to eating pancakes and perch and soused herring instead of pan de blat, goat’s cheese and fresh figs, to drinking sour Dutch beer instead of wine from Tarascon; to wearing close-fitted coif bonnets and plain collars rather than embroidered hoods and ruffs. Minou learnt to care for another daughter, Bernarda, born in the spring of 1573, though to her shame she could never learn to love her. Named in honour of Minou’s father, Bernarda was blessed with Piet’s russet hair and Jean-Jacques’ freckled complexion. She looked nothing like Marta.

  In the summer of 1573, word finally reached them that, two months after the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre in Paris, Puivert had been attacked by Catholic forces. They learnt that Alis, despite her injuries, had managed to escape and was believed to be in the Huguenot stronghold of La Rochelle on the Atlantic coast.

  Minou had waited for further news. But the weeks passed, then years, and there was no word. Gradually, she was forced to accept that Alis, like Aimeric and Marta, was lost to her too.

  From then on, Minou tried to close her eyes and ears to the ghosts of the past. So when she thought she saw her daughter’s face in the stone colonnades of the medieval town hall on Plaats, she turned away. When she glimpsed a black-haired man like Aimeric taking the air in Oudezijds Voorburgwal, or heard a spirited young woman the spit of Alis bartering with a bookseller on Kalverstraat, she knew not to be deceived. She could not let her tattered heart be ripped open all over again.

  In the displacement of so many thousands of people, the wars that ravaged France and the Dutch Provinces, the bloody violence of the Revolt against Spanish rule, the day-to-day battle for survival, the hunger and the fragile peace within Amsterdam, the cautious rebuilding of their lives in a new city, stories of the past were forgotten.

  Minou told herself all that mattered now was the present.