The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  Cornelia blushed and stopped reading. ‘The next few lines are hard to decipher.’

  Minou smiled. ‘You are gracious, Cornelia, but there is no need. Piet knows how his mother was obliged to live. It is how she made the acquaintance of Mariken.’

  Cornelia gave an abrupt nod.

  ‘Lieveling, you are your father’s son and heir. I pray that you will have a good life, a better life without me. I entrust you into Mariken’s care. She will find a good and pious family to take you in. You are quick-witted and able, a son any man in Amsterdam would be proud to call his own. I entrust my soul into God’s care and pray he will keep you in His good grace. Je liefhebbende moeder, your loving mother, Marta Reydon.’

  As Cornelia placed the letter gently on the table, Piet covered his face with his hand and sobbed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  For a moment, the air in the chamber seemed to vibrate with the dusty words of love from a long-dead mother to her son.

  Finally, Piet spoke. ‘Thank you, Cornelia.’

  She bowed her head. ‘It was my honour to read such a letter.’

  ‘Shall I go on?’ Minou said softly, not wanting to rush him until he was ready. Piet nodded, so she took the other document from the table. ‘This must be the testament she refers to. Do you want me to open it?’

  Piet passed her his dagger to use as a paper knife.

  ‘Please, yes.’

  Minou slid the point under the unbroken seal and snapped it open, sending shards of red wax splintering across the surface of the table. She unfolded the heavy parchment and smoothed it flat.

  ‘This is written in French, I assume by your father’s hand. It is an official testament confirming that on the twelfth day of May in 1534, in the church of Sint Nicolaas in Amsterdam, Marta Franssen, spinster of the parish, was married to Philippe du Plessis, the Lord of Radon and Forges.’

  Piet stood and sent his chair flying back.

  ‘Mon coeur, whatever is it?’ Minou said, alarmed at the look on his face. She stood up too. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘That name,’ he said, his eyes flashing. ‘It’s not possible that this could be—’

  ‘The spelling of Reydon rather than Radon, is that what you mean?’

  ‘No! Du Plessis. Philippe du Plessis.’

  Minou shook her head. Piet picked up the testament, as if needing to see it for himself, then tossed it across the table.

  ‘Piet, what does the name matter? Tell me.’

  She watched him run his fingers through his hair, then take a deep breath.

  ‘Philippe du Plessis was a man who took in his young nephew, after the boy’s father – his brother – was executed for treason. He was the man who paid for his nephew’s education in Toulouse. The man who bought his nephew his first living in Saint-Antonin and raised him as his own son.’

  Minou felt the ground go from under her. ‘It cannot be.’

  Alis and Cornelia looked at one another. ‘I don’t understand,’ Alis said. ‘Who is du Plessis’ nephew?’

  ‘Vidal,’ Minou replied, in a voice that seemed to come from a long way away.

  Alis’s colour drained away too.

  ‘Which means you and Vidal are blood cousins?’

  Piet nodded, but did not speak.

  ‘We always suspected he was the cardinal who wrote to Mariken,’ Minou said, ‘though we didn’t know why. Now we do.’

  ZEEDIJK

  ‘Boy! Yes, you. Boy.’

  Frans jolted awake. After opening the door to Juffrouw van Raay – she was a regular visitor to the Reydon household, so he’d had no qualms about admitting her – he’d sat down, thinking to have a few minutes of peace and quiet. The boys’ dormitory was airless and crowded, too much sniffing and farting and, when the candles burnt out, sometimes crying too.

  Frans scrambled to his feet. ‘How now?’

  A man with a mouthful of blackened teeth stepped out from the shadows. ‘Is this the Reydon house?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  The next moment, he was pinned up against the wall with the man’s hand on his throat.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘I’ll ask you again, boy, and this time you will answer.’ Frans tried to nod, but the man had tightened his grip. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he croaked.

  ‘Good. Is this the house of Piet Reydon?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I have a message for him – his ears only – from his comrades. Tell him that it is to happen the day after tomorrow. You tell him that.’

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ Frans repeated, struggling to breathe.

  ‘That’s it.’

  The man gave a final clench of his hand, then let him go. Frans fell to his knees, clutching his throat.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ the man said, then melted back into the shadows of the street.

  Frans bent over and vomited. Now he remembered the man’s name – Joost Wouter, one of Houtman’s men.

  He knew Houtman all right. On his knees at the Calvinist service on Sundays, but on his knees in a very different position every other day of the week. And him a married man with six children to support.

  * * *

  Piet was pacing up and down the chamber.

  ‘Vidal must know that we are cousins, it’s the only explanation.’

  ‘And was seeking confirmation from Mariken?’

  Piet snatched up the testament. ‘Or he knew this existed and wanted to destroy it.’

  ‘Is Philippe du Plessis still alive?’ Alis said.

  Piet shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There must be a reason this all began when it did after all this time,’ Minou reasoned. ‘The letter to Mariken, the attack at Puivert. Vidal had let us alone for ten years. But if du Plessis was dying, he might well have confessed his sins – and indiscretions of his youth – on his deathbed.’

  Piet paused. ‘Yes, which means it might have only been then, that winter or spring of 1572, that Vidal realised there was someone who had a better claim on his uncle’s estates.’

  ‘And to learn that man was you, Piet. Can you imagine his shock?’

  ‘When we were students, Vidal told me his uncle had never married and so, as his sole heir, he stood to come into a significant fortune.’

  ‘It should be possible to find out if du Plessis is dead. We know where his estates are; the letter tells us. We should start there.’ Minou snapped her fingers. ‘And if Vidal became very wealthy overnight, then what need would he have to stay in the service of the Duke of Guise? That also makes sense of why he disappeared. If we assume Guise refused to release him, Vidal might have taken his chance during the chaos of the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre to vanish.’

  Piet’s eyes blazed. ‘You think Vidal is alive?’

  ‘If the conversation Alis overheard in Reims can be believed, it seems likely.’

  ‘Why would Guise not release him?’ Alis said.

  Minou frowned. ‘Vidal was Guise’s personal confessor. He will have heard many things of great privacy and discretion: his litany of faults and sins – we know what manner of man Guise is. Especially now he leads the Catholic League, he would not want the possibility of Vidal betraying him or revealing his impieties.’

  ‘And Guise is a vengeful man,’ Piet added. ‘He would punish Vidal as an example to others that no one, however exalted, is beyond his reach.’ He frowned. ‘Vidal cannot be on his uncle’s estates. Guise would have found him long ago. So where is he?’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  ‘Excuse me, Madame Reydon.’

  Minou turned round. ‘Frans, you startled me! You should be in bed.’

  ‘I have a message for the master.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Piet waved his hand. ‘Let him come in.’

  Frans glanced at the women.

  ‘It is for your ears only.’

  ‘Don’t be r
idiculous,’ Piet said. ‘Out with it.’

  Frans edged further into the chamber. ‘He told me to tell you that it is to happen the day after tomorrow.’

  Piet’s demeanour changed. ‘He? Who brought this message?’

  ‘A man just a few minutes past. He didn’t give me his family name, but I know him. Joost Wouter. He’s one of Houtman’s men.’

  Slowly, Piet put his dagger back into his belt and turned to Minou, the momentous events of the evening seemingly forgotten.

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘Now?’ she said. ‘At this time of night?’ Minou gestured to the documents on the table. ‘After this?’

  He took her hand. ‘I won’t be long.’

  * * *

  ‘What’s happening?’ Alis asked, the moment Piet had left the chamber.

  In the excitement of Cornelia’s discovery, Minou had allowed what Piet had told her earlier about the planned coup to slip from her mind. Now her fears came storming back. She dropped her hands to her sides.

  ‘Do you know where Piet is going?’ Alis persisted.

  ‘No,’ Minou replied, more sharply than she intended.

  ‘But you do know what the message means, I can see it in your expression.’

  ‘Do you?’ Cornelia asked.

  Minou hesitated, caught between loyalty to her husband and gratitude to her friends who had saved their lives not once, but many times over. Her heart started to thud at the thought that she was about to betray her husband. She didn’t see it in such a way, but would Piet? Until Cornelia had arrived, the dilemma about whether to speak had preyed endlessly on her. She didn’t challenge the justice of his cause, only his willingness to put all ties of friendship and family obligation to one side in the service of it.

  Minou did not know Willem van Raay well – he had always kept a respectful distance. But from Salvadora, Minou had gathered fragments about his character: that he loved his city and did his duty; that he had a beautiful singing voice, deep and sonorous; that he was pious; that he always attended Mass and went to Confession every Friday without fail; that he remained devoted to the memory of his dead wife.

  That he had raised an exceptional daughter.

  Minou knew how much she had owed to her own beloved father, and how she would have done anything to protect him. Did she not owe as much to Cornelia? It was not a matter of betraying her husband, but rather of honouring their friendship.

  ‘Cornelia, will you take me to your father?’

  Cornelia’s eyes widened. ‘At this hour of the night? He will long be in bed.’

  ‘I am aware it is late. All the same…’

  Cornelia met her gaze, then nodded. ‘Very well.’

  ‘What about me?’ Alis said. ‘What shall I do?’

  Minou’s face softened. ‘You should go to bed. It has been a long day. You must be greatly fatigued.’

  ‘What shall I tell Piet if he comes back before you return?’

  ‘Tell him I have escorted Cornelia back to Warmoesstraat. He knows how dangerous the streets can be at this time of the night.’

  ‘It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ Cornelia said, holding out her hand. ‘Tot ziens. That’s to say, goodnight.’

  ‘Tot ziens,’ Alis repeated, and both women smiled.

  Minou kissed her sister on the forehead. ‘Do not worry, sweet Alis. I’ll be back before sunrise.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  RUE VIEILLE DU TEMPLE, PARIS

  ‘What do you mean, nothing?’ demanded Guise. ‘For six years you have lived at my expense, Cabanel. In that time you have brought me fragments of rumours, but no useful information whatsoever.’

  Cabanel had been summoned to Guise’s presence unexpectedly and had not had a chance to prepare his report. He was tongue-tied and nervous. He tried not to stare at the vivid scar on the duke’s face.

  ‘My lord, I have not been idle—’

  Guise interrupted. ‘Nor have you been successful.’

  Cabanel held his ground. ‘Even now, there are so many people unaccounted for after the massacre and the records—’

  ‘St Bartholomew’s Day massacre!’ Guise raged. ‘How much longer is that to be used as a justification for every failure! Someone of Cardinal Valentin’s importance does not simply disappear.’

  ‘These past five years, I have searched every cloister, every religious house, every monastery, scoured the records of the smallest of churches as well as—’

  ‘I don’t want excuses, Cabanel. I have charged you to find my confessor. If truly you have searched all of Paris, then clearly he is not in Paris.’

  ‘I have travelled to Saint-Antonin, to Toulouse, to his late uncle’s estates.’

  ‘Then look harder. Vidal is not unknown to the common people. He has characteristics that make him distinctive.’

  Cabanel paused. ‘But if he is dead, sire?’

  The Duke of Guise stepped towards him. ‘Then bring me his body, Cabanel. I have rewarded you well for your service, but I am running out of patience. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sire. And if – when – I do find him?’

  Guise held his gaze. ‘Those who do not keep their vows, who betray their betters who have raised them to higher things, they should suffer the same fate as heretics and traitors. Is that clear, Cabanel?’

  At a noise in the lobby, Guise drew his dagger. Cabanel was aware the duke lived with the constant threat of assassination. He had many enemies on his own side, as well as within the Huguenot camp. Guise’s personal bodyguard was said to be even larger than that of the King himself.

  ‘Who goes there?’

  A guard pushed a pretty girl in an indigo dress into the chamber.

  ‘I found her wandering around in the corridor, my lord Guise.’

  Cabanel felt his bowels turn to water.

  ‘My lord, forgive me. This is my daughter. She was in my company when you summoned me, but not wishing to keep you waiting, I brought her with—’

  ‘Enough.’

  Guise put his poniard back in its sheath and beckoned her forward.

  ‘What is your name, girl?’

  ‘Marie Cabanel.’

  ‘Show due respect,’ her father hissed.

  ‘My name is Marie Cabanel, my lord Guise,’ she said quietly, dropping a curtsey.

  To Cabanel’s relief, Guise appeared to be charmed.

  ‘How old are you, Marie Cabanel?’

  ‘I have seen thirteen summers, my lord, but I am advanced for my age.’

  Cabanel started to apologise. ‘My lord, she—’

  Guise held up his hand. ‘Be quiet, man.’ He lowered his face to her level. ‘You are bold, child.’

  Marie did not look away. ‘I have been raised to tell the truth, my lord.’

  Guise smiled. ‘Have you indeed.’ He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Are you a good Christian? Do you serve God in thought and deed?’

  ‘I go to Confession on Friday, Mass on Sunday, and say my prayers every night.’

  Cabanel was terrified that Marie would offend the pious and devout Guise with her impertinence. She never had learnt to mind her tongue.

  ‘How did you get that scar?’ she asked, touching the duke’s face.

  ‘Marie!’ Cabanel exclaimed. To his astonishment, Guise laughed.

  ‘Extraordinary eyes,’ he muttered, then released her. ‘Cabanel, take your daughter away. And do better. I want the cardinal found, and dealt with. It causes a sickness in me even to suspect that he still lives.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Cabanel bowed, then grabbed his daughter roughly by the arm and marched her from the chamber.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  LASTAGE, AMSTERDAM

  It was nigh on midnight when Piet approached the meeting house in Lastage. He heard footsteps ahead in the dark, so he stepped back out of sight until he saw who it was.

  ‘Le Maistre,’ he cried, advancing on his old friend, ‘by all that’s holy! I
had not known you were in Amsterdam.’

  Piet had not heard word of Antoine le Maistre for more than six years. The last time he had seen him was when he and Minou had broken their long journey in Limoges en route to the royal wedding in Paris.

  The two men embraced.

  ‘Reydon, by all that’s holy! I am delighted to see you.’

  ‘How goes it with you?’ Piet asked, dismayed by the change in his friend. Time had been cruel. Now bone thin, le Maistre’s skin was sallow and scored with lines. His hair was as white as snow. As they pulled apart, Piet could feel his friend’s ribs beneath his clothes. Melancholy seemed to hang about him like mist.

  Antoine raised his hands. ‘As you see, I still walk this earth.’

  ‘How fares your family?’

  Le Maistre shook his head. ‘I have no family now. Our lands were besieged during the last war.’ He sighed. ‘I was not there to defend them. They left no one alive.’

  ‘My friend, I’m sorry.’ Piet thought of le Maistre’s sweet-faced wife and his apple-cheeked children and the happy days they had spent in Limoges that July.

  ‘We live in troubled times, Reydon,’ le Maistre said quietly. ‘After that tragedy, there was nothing to keep me in Limoges, so I came north to offer my sword. What of you?’

  ‘We live here in Amsterdam now. Puivert was taken, so after what happened on St Bartholomew’s Day, we could not return home.’

  ‘Are your wife and children with you?’

  A shadow passed over Piet’s face. ‘We lost our eldest daughter, Marta, in the Paris massacre. Missing, rather than dead, but all the same. My brother-in-law, also.’

  ‘I am sorry, too, for your loss.’

  Piet nodded. ‘But Minou is well, our son thrives and our youngest daughter, Bernarda. Named for Minou’s father, of course. And just today, Minou’s sister, Alis, who we had not heard of since the raid on Puivert, arrived in Amsterdam to join us.’ He slapped le Maistre on the arm. ‘I have much to be thankful for.’

  For a moment more, the two men stood in silence with their ghosts.