by Kate Mosse
Instantly, Louis’s senses were assailed by the smell of incense and wax and confined air. Along one side of the narrow corridor, black wrought-iron double sconces were set into the wall at intervals. All the candles were burning, their flickering light casting shadows onto the vivid frescoes painted in the alcoves set in the opposite wall: Christ on the Cross at Golgotha, the Roman centurion piercing his side with a lance; Saint Louis in the humble robe of a penitent, bearing the Crown of Thorns through the gates of Paris to the Sainte-Chapelle; Mary Magdalene in the garden of Gethsemane weeping with the Shroud in her hands; Mary, Mother of God, in her sacred robe with the Christ in her arms; a woman wiping Christ’s brow with a cloth; Charlemagne holding a vial of royal blood; Constantine, with his sword in his hand and the mark of the Cross painted in the sky above him.
Louis couldn’t help himself reaching out and tracing the lines.
‘In hoc signo vinces,’ Evreux said. ‘By this sign, wilt thou conquer. The Emperor Constantine was said to have witnessed a portent in the sky before a major battle. Against the odds, he was victorious. That day, in grateful thanks for his deliverance, he converted to Christianity.’
‘And this?’ Louis asked, pointing to an illustration of the labyrinth of Chartres Cathedral.
‘Some say that the bones of Mary Magdalene are buried beneath it.’ Evreux raised his hands. ‘I have yet to be convinced of that.’
‘Why is there a goblet in the painting?’
‘Ah, the legend of the Holy Grail, the cup in which drops of Christ’s blood were caught. That is also associated with the cathedral.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘That stretches my credulity, but the labyrinth itself is a work of exceptional quality. There is transcendence there.’
His voice trailed off. Louis nodded, not wanting to break the spell. He had not seen his father like this for some time. From the moment he had put aside his red cardinal’s robes for those of a nobleman and landowner, his father’s eyes had seemed set on the workings of the earth not those of Heaven. Vidal, honoured confessor to the Duke of Guise, had become Lord Evreux, a wealthy recluse living deep in the Chartres countryside.
Louis had always assumed it was not a love of God that had driven his father’s piety but rather the power conferred on him by his office. His father’s ambition had ultimately been held back by his service to the Duke of Guise rather than helped by it, and Louis understood why he had been forced into hiding – Guise was not a man accustomed to having his wishes ignored or flouted. All the same, Louis had wondered why Vidal had been prepared to give up so much to live like a hermit.
Now he understood.
‘It’s a reliquary,’ he said, glancing up at his father.
Vidal nodded. ‘It has taken many years to complete. I waited ten years before I could transport the first of my treasures, the Shroud of Antioch, from its temporary home to its final resting place here, and begin my life’s work – the glorification of God’s kingdom on earth through the power conferred in me by these holy objects. This heralds a new age of Christian faith based here in Chartres, not Rome.’
‘You’re a relic hunter…’
Vidal smiled. ‘Some would say so. Come, boy.’
They walked a few steps more and came to a halt at the end of the passageway. Evreux pulled back a heavy red curtain to reveal a door with a brass key set waiting in the lock.
‘“For the Lord thy God bringeth thee into a good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys and hills”,’ he recited as he turned the key. ‘The Book of Deuteronomy. Chapter eight, verse seven. For although we have few hills in Chartres, we do have brooks and fountains and this, our island in the lake!’
Louis felt his father’s hand in the small of his back and he was ushered forward into a long and cavernous chamber.
At first sight, it seemed plain after the lavish colours of the passageway. There was a table serving as an altar, and two chairs set in the middle of the room. Two candelabra with pure white candles stood on the floor. There were no windows, only a small door at the far end of the chamber that seemed to lead into an anteroom beyond, but a vast lantern skylight, set into the white plaster and wood ceiling, flooded the chamber with dazzling morning light.
In genuine awe, Louis turned slowly around and around, aware of his father’s eyes upon him.
‘Is this not how we should worship God?’ Vidal said.
‘I have never seen anything like it, my lord,’ he replied honestly.
As Louis’s eyes became accustomed to the dancing light and shadow, he could see the frescoes in this inner sanctum covered the entire left-hand wall. In front of each, on a pedestal, was a gold casket with glass sides.
‘We shall begin your religious education here,’ Vidal said. ‘Come closer. What do you see?’
‘That these paintings were done by the same hand?’
His father nodded. ‘That is true, but I meant rather what they depict.’
‘They are the Stations of the Cross,’ Louis replied, remembering the walls of the church in Saint-Antonin before the Huguenots razed it to the ground.
‘So you know some things, good. Originally, the stations were actual places for pilgrims to pray on the Via Dolorosa, the Road of Sorrows, the route along which Christ walked to his Crucifixion at Golgotha. Over time, painted illustrations of each of the seven stations began to grace the walls of churches and cathedrals too.’
‘Why seven?’
Vidal signalled his approval. ‘That is a question that theologians and learned men have debated for centuries. Rome considers these seven scenes to be the most theologically significant. I, however, believe that if we wish to bring believers back to the one true Church, then there should be more – twelve, or even fourteen stations – telling the whole story from Pontius Pilate sentencing Christ to death all the way to Christ’s Ascension into Heaven to sit at the right hand of His Father.’ Louis saw how his father’s eyes glinted with zeal. ‘One day it will happen. Change is coming.’
He beckoned Louis forward. ‘This is the first station. After being condemned to death, Christ takes up his cross. And this relic, the first in my collection, purports to be a piece of the True Cross.’
Louis looked into the casket to see a piece of blackened wood the width of a man’s hand lying on a cushion of white satin.
Vidal moved to the second tableau. ‘This next is where Jesus falls.’
The casket beneath was empty. ‘You have no relic for this?’
‘Not yet,’ he replied, moving to the third station.
‘This casket is empty too.’
‘This is why we are here.’ Vidal removed the lid and handed it to Louis. ‘This fresco of the third station shows the moment when Jesus meets his mother, Mary, on his way to Golgotha.’ He put his hand beneath his doublet and pulled out the length of material he had taken from the cathedral.
Despite himself, Louis was caught up in the mystery of the moment. ‘What is it, my lord?’
‘The Sancta Camisia. Formerly of Chartres Cathedral and now so much safer in our reliquary, away from the thieving hands of greedy priests. It is said to be a fragment of the Holy Tunic worn by Our Lady at the moment of Christ’s birth.’
Louis watched his father carefully drape the delicate fabric over a small wooden frame.
‘Replace the lid.’
He obeyed. ‘But will not the priests see it is missing and raise the alarm?’
‘Ah, an exchange was made well before yesterday afternoon. A copy of the Holy Robe, an excellent one, has been displayed in the reliquary in Chartres Cathedral since Whitsun. Yesterday was merely a matter of payment for that earlier sleight of hand and to take possession of the original.’ Vidal tapped the lid of the casket. ‘It is a trick I learnt from an old friend, Piet Reydon. It was he who was responsible for helping me acquire the very first of the treasures in my collection, the Shroud of Antioch.’
With a jolt, Louis suddenly thought of the girl with the mismatched ey
es. He had never told his father about following her to Admiral de Coligny’s lodgings, then imprisoning her in the blue room.
‘The man you sent me to watch in the rue des Barres?’
Vidal raised his eyebrows. ‘I had forgotten you’d had sight of him. Yes. It was Reydon who taught me that if the copy is fine enough, an accurate match for what the common people expect to see, then they will accept it. Faith in its properties is more important than the object itself.’
‘Monsieur Reydon sold you the relic?’
Vidal laughed. ‘It was not quite how the transaction took place.’
His father walked past the fourth fresco, gesturing at another empty casket. ‘This is awaiting the Sudarium, the Veil of Veronica. There are several claiming to be the original cloth with which St Veronica wiped Christ’s face on the Via Dolorosa, lost during the Sack of Rome in 1527. Some say it never left Rome, others claim it was taken to Vienna. I consider Alicante more likely, but I have had no success finding it yet.’
He continued past the next two stations without pausing, then stopped in front of the seventh and last casket.
‘This is what Reydon brought me,’ he said. ‘The Shroud of Antioch.’
Louis peered at the shimmering cloth, studied the ornamental stitching and the strange writing, and felt something stir in his chest. It was an uncomfortable sensation.
‘What are those letters?’
‘Kufic. It’s one of the oldest forms of calligraphy in the world.’
‘It is beautiful.’
Vidal nodded. ‘It is.’
Wanting to slip out from under the Shroud’s spell, Louis moved quickly back along the wall to one of the frescoes they had missed.
‘What about this one?’
His father raised his eyebrows. ‘I believe you know. At least, Xavier always told me you did.’
‘My lord?’
‘When we rested the horses overnight when I first brought you to Chartres, on the eve of the Paris massacre, he accused you of looking inside the chest we’d brought with us, against his express orders.’
Louis felt himself blush, remembering how he’d taunted the steward and kicked a piece of wood across the refectory floor to distract him for long enough to lift the lid.
‘Xavier wanted to beat you for it. He thought then – and still thinks – that you are disobedient, that you are dangerously disloyal.’ His father’s hand was suddenly on the back of his neck, his fingers pinching into Louis’s skin. ‘Are you disloyal, boy?’
‘No, my lord,’ Louis said, trying not to flinch or look away. ‘But I owe my duty and loyalty to you, no other.’
Vidal held his gaze. ‘Well answered. But remember this. Xavier has served me faithfully for more years than you have spent on this earth. Do not make an enemy of him.’
Then as if the conversation had never happened, Vidal released him. Louis swallowed a sigh of relief.
‘Come and look upon what my steward did not want you to see.’
Inside the casket in front of the sixth station, a single thin evergreen thorn, as long as Louis’s hand, lay on a fold of white silk. Unexceptional. It could have been cut from any bush or tree on their estates.
‘A holy thorn from the Crown relic.’
Vidal nodded. ‘If I could have found a craftsman capable of reproducing the entire Crown, I would have done so. I expended too much time and a great deal of effort attempting to find such a craftsman – in France, in the Levant, in the Holy Land – but there was no one. In the Sainte-Chapelle, I visited the grande châsse itself many times. The Crown is so delicate, and never unaccompanied, that it was impossible to observe it for long enough, closely enough.’ He tapped the glass. ‘For now, this single spine must suffice, but one day the Crown of Thorns will sit here.’
His father’s words in his ears, Louis looked at the caskets.
‘My lord, does it matter if it is the actual relic rather than a copy?’
Vidal turned to look at him. ‘All things must be true and valuable of themselves in the service of God, Louis. A relic touched by Notre Dame or our Lord, these are things beyond price.’ He paused. ‘However, if the people believe and invest their faith and trust in an object, even if it might be a copy rather than the true relic, then God’s purpose is also fulfilled. As I said, Reydon taught me that, too.’
Louis threw his mind back, remembering all those hot August days crouched on the platform of the mighty reliquary of the Sainte-Chapelle, looking down on the tiny people below. He closed his eyes and pictured the dimensions of the Crown.
‘I could draw it, my lord.’
The atmosphere sharpened. ‘You consider yourself more gifted than the finest artists in France? Are you so proud?’
‘No, my lord, but I believe I could sketch it well enough for an expert forger to copy.’
Now he knew he had Vidal’s entire attention.
‘How so, boy?’
‘During our time in Paris, I was much in Xavier’s company. When he went to the Sainte-Chapelle, on your service, I accompanied him. I passed many hours in the company of the Holy Crown.’
‘How could you observe it at close quarters when I could not?’
Louis hesitated. ‘I climbed onto the narrow ledge at the top of the grande châsse, my lord, and hid there. No one saw me.’
A long, slow smile broke across Vidal’s face. ‘Well, well, well, Volusien known as Louis.’ He paused. ‘You remember, that was how you were first presented to me?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, delighted that his father had not forgotten. ‘Though if it pleases you, I prefer Louis.’
Vidal raised his hand. ‘Let us return to the house, Louis. Then you will show me what you can do. I hope, for your sake, you have not exaggerated your talent.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
ZEEDIJK, AMSTERDAM
When Minou next awoke, the chamber was empty. For a moment, she felt like a young bride again, remembering the pleasure of being loved for the first time. But when she sat up, against pillows that held her husband’s scent, Minou felt the creak and ache of age in her bones, and laughed.
She threw the sheets back and got up. She used the pot, then splashed cold water on her face and dressed quickly. A thin canvas corset over her smock and a light farthingale beneath. Though the burghers’ wives wore rigid hoops beneath their skirts, Minou had long since forsaken fashion for practicality. She dressed now for days of physical labour.
Minou took her favourite green dress from the wardrobe, laced it up the front and attached an open collar. Stockings, and shoes with red soles, were her only concession to the changing times.
Having opened the shutters, she went to the dressing table and began to brush her hair. One hundred strokes morning and evening, as her mother had taught her so long ago in Carcassonne and as she had taught Alis and, later, Marta. Now, Bernarda. As she counted, her eye drifted to the enamel box given to her by Antoine le Maistre’s wife all those years past – Piet had told her last evening that he was a widower now and living in Amsterdam, a major financial donor of the Calvinist rebels.
Next to it was her wooden casket, the one significant object not lost to her from Puivert and the flight from Paris. Minou opened the lid: the plain Bible, the only heirloom from her birth mother; the chalk map of Carcassonne Alis remembered too; her tourmaline birthstone ring set in silver, which she rarely wore now. But she no longer had the wooden rosary with a silver cross, a relic of her previous Catholic life. Minou hadn’t even noticed it was missing until they’d reached Amsterdam.
Minou looked down at her ring finger, remembering how she had thrown the twine betrothal ring she had made into the dark waters of the Seine. A gesture, she supposed, of how the trust between them had been broken. Did she feel the same now? Could last night begin at last to repair the damage done between them?
She hoped it could. Minou caught her breath, realising that without even noticing it happen, finally she had forgiven Piet. He was still the love of her life. Smiling,
she picked up her journal. Alis’s words last evening had reminded her of how much she had enjoyed writing, another pleasure that had been stolen from her by the senselessness of the wars. But Alis was safe now and Minou realised she was free to remember with pleasure those long, summer writing afternoons spent on the roof of the keep. Once, writing had helped her make sense of what she felt. It had been her daily conversation with herself. Then the keep had become the place where Alis had nearly been killed, and Minou had lost heart.
She unknotted the leather tie and opened the journal, releasing the scent of Languedoc and the Puivert woods. Pine and beech and the heat of the Midi. She turned to the last entry – Friday, the sixth of June 1572 – almost six years ago.
Minou exhaled, remembering how she’d passed that afternoon wrestling with her conscience and trying to decide if they should accompany Piet to Paris or not. If only she had chosen otherwise, how different their lives would have been.
Then she pulled herself up. They would not have lost Marta, that was undeniable. She would not be living every day with a hole in her heart, wondering if her daughter was alive. But Aimeric would still have been in Paris, and Piet alongside him. They would have been caught up in the massacre. And months later, Puivert would still have been attacked too.
What if.
Minou felt a wave of sadness wash over her. There was no sense in regretting the decisions of the past. She couldn’t go back. All she could do was to make the best of the present and cherish what they still had.
Alis was here. She had survived.
Today, she would show her sister the city Minou had come to love. They would go to the cloth merchants on Rokin and buy fabric to make Alis some new clothes. Then, she would take her to Kalverstraat, where the artists’ ateliers and book binders had their studios, and buy herself a new quill and inkwell. After tomorrow – God willing, if all went peacefully – Alis would start to settle into life in Amsterdam, and she would begin to write again. Minou took a final glance at the empty page in the journal and imagined inscribing today’s date: the twenty-sixth day of May 1578.
