The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  WARMOESSTRAAT

  ‘And this coup is due to take place in two days’ time?’

  ‘My husband assures me the intention is for there to be no bloodshed. He gave me his word on that.’

  Van Raay met her gaze. ‘And you believe him, Madame Reydon?’

  ‘I believe that is what Piet believes,’ Minou answered carefully.

  Van Raay gave a tired smile. ‘But there are no guarantees.’

  ‘In such situations, there never are.’

  ‘No.’

  Cornelia leant forward. ‘Father, what do you think? Might Burgomaster Dircksz concede? You have served alongside him for many years.’

  Van Raay rested his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘We are old men, my dear. We are prisoners of our own experience and, dare I say it, our traditions. Hendrick is a devout Catholic, somewhat unyielding, and a true Christian. It is hard for him to imagine a different order of things.’

  Minou glanced at her friend, then back to their host. ‘Piet believes there are within the town council, a significant minority of men – also pious Catholics – who have lost faith in Dircksz’s leadership. The Calvinists say there are men on the inside who believe Dircksz’s intransigence is damaging Amsterdam almost beyond the point of no return. That it is no longer a matter of faith but rather a betrayal of Amsterdam’s economic future.’ She met his eye. ‘Would you say that was true?’

  Minou could see that Willem van Raay was perturbed by her question. For years she had been his daughter’s friend and Piet Reydon’s wife. That she should have views of her own confused him.

  Cornelia noticed his consternation, too. ‘Minou was – is – Châtelaine of Puivert in Languedoc, Father. She ran the estate for many years on her own.’

  Willem van Raay coughed. ‘I did not mean to suggest otherwise.’ There was another silence while he weighed Minou’s question. ‘Yes, I would consider what you say is a fair assessment of how things stand.’

  Minou breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That is good.’

  ‘Answer me this, Madame Reydon. Do you believe in the inherent goodness of mankind, or that we are all fallen?’

  Minou hid her surprise at the nature of the question. ‘I think perhaps that is the difference between us, Burgher van Raay. You believe in original sin, that man is fallen. We believe that man will be saved through God’s grace and God’s grace alone. We do not need intercession, only our own true spirit.’

  A spark lit the old man’s eyes. ‘I fulfil my Christian duty through alms and charity, as do you, Madame Reydon. Your hofje is fashioned on the very model of a Catholic almshouse.’

  Minou smiled. ‘Exactly. We both believe it our Christian duty to help those in need. Perhaps it matters not where we pray on Sunday for our work to count?’

  Van Raay raised his hand. ‘You cannot expect me to accept that. I fear for the souls of those who have turned away from the true Church.’

  ‘You would call us heretics?’

  ‘I prefer to call you misguided. I pray that you will return to God’s grace and the forgiveness of sins, to the faith of your esteemed aunt.’

  Minou inclined her head. ‘As in my conversations with Salvadora, we must agree to differ.’

  There was another heavy pause. ‘Tell me this, madame. Will we be allowed to worship in peace? Will our churches be taken?’

  Minou felt a stab of doubt. She felt Cornelia’s eyes on her.

  ‘In truth, I do not know,’ she replied.

  Willem van Raay nodded at her honesty. ‘The hour is late. What precisely are you asking of me?’

  ‘I wanted to warn you. And thank you for all you have done for us over these years.’

  Van Raay waved away her gratitude. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What I am asking is this – if the Calvinists behave with honour, is it your opinion that their voices might be heard and their conditions accepted? For the good of Amsterdam and its people?’

  Van Raay pressed his fingers together. ‘If your husband’s conviction that the Geuzen genuinely want a peaceful transition is correct – and if we can mobilise enough voices of moderation within the chamber to support such a move – then, it is possible that Amsterdam can show the world how things might be done.’

  At that moment, the door opened and a flustered servant entered, followed instantly by Piet. Dishevelled and breathless, he blinked in astonishment to see his wife.

  ‘Minou?’

  ‘So late and yet another guest…’ Willem van Raay observed wryly.

  ‘Burgher van Raay, forgive my intrusion at this hour, but there is something urgent I must tell you.’

  Van Raay began to laugh.

  ‘Father?’ Cornelia rushed to him, astonished by his behaviour.

  He waved her away. ‘Bring wine for our visitor.’

  ‘But it is half past one in the morning!’

  ‘The sun is over the yard arm somewhere,’ he exclaimed, falling into another bout of laughing.

  Cornelia started to laugh too, then Minou joined in. Piet looked on, bewildered.

  The hand of the clock clicked and rang its hesitant chime, moments before the bells of Sint Nicolaas came clamouring into the chamber and drowned them all out.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  EVREUX ESTATE, CHARTRES

  Sunday, 25 May 1578

  Louis felt the cover being dragged from his bed. Instantly, he was on his feet, his heart pounding, back in the days of the orphanage. Then he remembered. Those days were dead and gone.

  ‘Get up!’ Xavier shouted. ‘Lord Evreux requires your presence.’

  Louis was as tall as Xavier now, no longer a helpless child who could be beaten into silence. And, these days, he was confident in his father’s regard. Didn’t the fact that Lord Evreux had taken him to Chartres yesterday prove it?

  Louis reached for his jerkin. ‘You should not talk to me like that.’

  Xavier poked him in the chest. ‘I’ll talk to you any damn way I choose, boy. You might have him fooled, but not me. He is at the jetty.’

  ‘Down at the lake?’

  Xavier was already striding from the chamber. ‘Hurry,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Don’t keep Lord Evreux waiting.’

  Louis watched him go, hating him with every sinew of his body. He shivered. It was early. The first glimmers of light were only just coming through his window. He scooped cold water from the bowl on his chest of drawers, washed his face and his hands, then dressed and hurried down the corridor.

  Outside, the dawn was breaking.

  CHARTRES CATHEDRAL

  No one worried when the priest failed to observe Matins. On days of no particular religious significance, even on a Sunday, the Chapter was prepared to turn a blind eye to an occasional absence.

  When dawn came creeping through the stained glass of the cathedral, a few eyebrows were raised when his stall was still empty at Lauds.

  Now it was six o’clock and the prayers for Prime were nearly over.

  ‘Perhaps he has been taken ill?’ whispered one of the novices. He was a new recruit from Brittany, pale and brimming with religious fervour, uncompromising and zealous. He was yet to learn the customs of the Chapter.

  ‘He’s likely overslept,’ a voice beside him countered, aware that the absent priest was just as likely to be found in the arms of a woman in the rue du Cheval Blanc than on his knees in the cathedral. ‘We all need a little help getting up,’ he added, then laughed at his own joke.

  The novice frowned and resumed his murmuring of the office until the prayers were done. ‘Sancta Maria et omnes sancti. Amen.’

  He crossed himself and genuflected before the altar, then went to the north transept to hang up his surplice.

  The sun had not yet fully risen, but there was light enough to see something on the flagstones. He stopped. His father was a butcher; he knew the smell of blood. Holding up the hem of his cassock, he knelt. A viscous ribbon of red led his eye across the stone floor and under the door of the vestry. His heart thudding,
the novice pushed open the door.

  At first, he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. A black cloud of buzzing insects. Then, the sacrilege became clear – flies swarming around the body, the jagged skin of a throat cut from ear to ear, the halo of blood around the priest’s head, his blue-veined hands clutching a leather bag to his chest like a shield. The key to the reliquary of the Sancta Camisia was lying by his side.

  Despite his childhood spent in the slaughterhouse, the novice staggered back, then screamed.

  EVREUX ESTATE

  Louis emerged into the sunrise.

  From the top of the gardens by the manor house itself, he could see all the way down across the sweeping lawns to the lake that sat at the heart of the estate. The ornate white crenellations of the Italianate tower on the small island were just visible through the early morning mist rising off the water.

  Then Louis spied his father standing by the jetty down at the water’s edge, and he ran.

  His father removed the damp cloth he was holding to his temple. ‘You have kept me waiting.’

  ‘Forgive me, I came as fast as I could.’ Louis looked at his father’s pale face. ‘Are you quite well, my lord?’

  ‘A headache, nothing more. Come.’

  His father’s headaches had been more frequent of late. The apothecary had bled him, but so far as Louis could tell, it didn’t seem to have done any good.

  Louis followed Vidal onto the jetty, where a boatman waited. ‘Are we to go across to the island?’

  Evreux didn’t answer, simply gestured that he should get into the flat-bottomed boat and sit at the front. Louis was a strong swimmer, but he disliked the way the craft rocked low in the water, so he climbed over the wooden benches to the bow and clasped his hands tight to the gunwales.

  The craft lurched again as his father got in and settled himself in the stern. The boatman pushed out and jumped in, then reached up to the heavy iron chain that hung from a pole connecting the shore to the island. Slowly, hand over hand, he began to pull them across the water.

  As they drew closer to the white rectangular tower, Louis felt a stab of excitement. His father had never brought him to the island before.

  ‘Why are we here, my lord?’ he asked, turning around in the bow.

  ‘You ask too many questions.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Louis apologised again. ‘I’m sorry.’

  His father laughed. ‘Thrice before the cock has crowed. Should I call you Peter?’

  ‘Peter, my lord?’

  Vidal raised his eyebrows. ‘For a child raised in a monastery orphanage, your spiritual education is woefully poor. We must remedy that.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  ZEEDIJK, AMSTERDAM

  Outside, the first rays of sun were rising over Amsterdam, painting the walls of the city bright with morning. Inside Minou’s bedchamber, the light was still dim.

  ‘The children will wonder where I am,’ said Minou, rolling over to face her husband.

  Piet moved closer, so that their noses were almost touching.

  ‘I should get up,’ she said.

  ‘You can grant me a few more moments of your company,’ he replied softly, winding his fingers through her long brown hair, which lay fanned upon the pillow. ‘Agnes can manage. And Alis is here now.’

  Minou smiled at him. His beloved face, his russet beard and hair flecked with grey. When they had first met, he’d taken a great deal of trouble to darken the colour. His pale northern looks and red hair had stood out among the darker skinned, dark-haired men of Languedoc. In Amsterdam, he looked like a native.

  ‘Did you sleep?’ she asked.

  It had been three o’clock when they’d finally taken their leave of Cornelia and her father. Almost four before they were in their bed, holding hands and talking in the dark. Minou supposed she must have slept, for the day was seeping around the edge of the shutters, but she had no memory of having done so. Her limbs felt heavy and she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Not much.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘Did you?’

  ‘A little. Every word of our conversation was going around in my head until I felt quite mad with thinking.’

  Piet propped himself up on his elbow. ‘Me too. The situation is so fragile. One wrong word, from either side, a stone thrown or a guard with a grudge, and that will be that. Until last evening, I truly believed there was no intention to violence. But Houtman…’

  ‘I know,’ Minou said, realising how much it mattered to him that she believed he had been acting in good faith. ‘You did the right thing, mon coeur. You did not sacrifice our friends for an idea. You gave them fair warning.’

  ‘No, you did.’

  She kissed his lips. ‘What do you think he will do? Can he be trusted?’

  ‘I don’t know Burgher van Raay well,’ Piet replied. ‘He is known to be a man of principle and piety but, above all, he is a man of commerce. I pray that will guide his actions. I hope he will go into the chamber and speak for moderation.’

  ‘He will not flee?’

  Piet considered. ‘I don’t think so. If van Raay’s voice prevails, we just need to make sure that Houtman’s men follow their orders.’

  The silence closed around them. Everything that could be said had already been said. Now, it was only a question of waiting.

  For a while, they lay gently in one another’s arms. Minou realised how long it had been since they had last done so. The loss of Marta had taken their intimacy from them, like so much else.

  Minou could remember vividly the last time they had lain together as true husband and wife. The morning of the royal wedding, the August heat, the illicit knowledge that they should be dressing, but yet remaining tangled beneath the covers for another kiss. Bernarda had been conceived that day, though Minou had not known it until they were many leagues away from Paris.

  One daughter for another.

  Minou was fond of her youngest child, of course, though she could not help but find her timidity tiresome. And in her most private moments she knew she would never forgive her for not being Marta and felt guilty for that.

  ‘Do you love me still?’ Piet whispered.

  The doubt in his voice made her heart crack. ‘My love, how can you ask such a thing?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have been a poor husband. I have been neglectful, I—’

  Minou put her finger on his lips. ‘No more of this. You are a good man, Piet, a good father. You have done the best you could. As have I. No one could ask more.’

  She leant forward, allowing her hair to fall across his bare skin like a veil, and kissed him on the mouth.

  ‘Sandalwood, as it ever was.’

  He looked up at her with desire in his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No more words, my lord,’ she said. Minou eased her chemise from her shoulders, then lay back down alongside him. She could feel the heat of his skin.

  ‘Minou.’ The word slipped from between his lips, as he turned back towards her.

  She placed her hands on his back, her fingers splayed wide in the shape of stars, and welcomed the force in him. He was breathing faster now, harder, driven by the memory of all they had lost, until finally he cried out her name once more. He shuddered, then was still.

  Gradually, the roaring in her head faded away until nothing remained but the hushed silence of the room and the sounds of Amsterdam awakening in the street outside. They knew nothing but each other, lovers once more. Piet moved his head to her shoulder and rested it there, his tears damp on her skin. She felt him growing heavy in her arms as he slipped into sleep.

  Reconciled. At peace.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  EVREUX ESTATE, CHARTRES

  As they drew closer to the island, Louis could see the tall, white rectangular tower was far bigger than it looked from the shore, and even more magnificent.

  Built in the Italian style he remembered from the Guise house in Paris, th
e façade was perfect and smooth, the pediment precisely in its centre, the angles identical, the pilasters undamaged. At each corner stood an ornamental square turret.

  Louis wondered what it was. A folly? Or a chapel? He dismissed the idea. There was a place of worship within the house for their private use and a small church on the outskirts of the estate for the labourers and their families.

  The boat rocked as the pilot jumped out, secured the craft to a wooden pole set into the water, then offered his hand to Lord Evreux. Louis followed.

  ‘This is all reclaimed land,’ his father explained, as if showing a prospective purchaser around. ‘Beneath the tower and antechamber, there’s a channel with a sluice feeding into the lake, in case the water gets too high. As you can see, the lake is in a dip – on the site of an ancient dew pond, in fact – so the building is at risk of flooding.’

  ‘Has it ever flooded?’

  Vidal shook his head. ‘Never. I hired Dutch engineers from Amsterdam to build the chamber beneath with a sluice to control the water. Their knowledge of such engineering is second to none. The tower is the work of Italian stonemasons I had brought here from Venice.’

  ‘It must have cost a great deal.’

  Vidal smiled. ‘Indeed, but you will learn in time that the best craftsmen are worth paying for.’

  They walked from the landing platform across stone tiles in silence. In the centre of the white tower was an ornately carved wooden door, with a smaller door set within it. The door was accessed by stone steps sweeping up from the left and complemented by a running balustrade in front. A single round window was set in the middle of the building below the gable, like a giant eye, reflecting the rays of the rising sun.

  Louis squinted up at the stone carving on the tympanum, shielding his eyes, and realised it was a scene from the Passion of Christ. So was it a church after all?

  ‘My lord, what is this place?’ he ventured to ask.

  His father smiled. ‘You will see soon enough, boy. Come.’

  Vidal opened the door with a heavy iron key. For a moment, they stood at the entrance with the sun behind them, their shadows elongated and monstrous, then they stepped inside.