The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  Now, at last, his blood had grown cool.

  Vidal drank another measure of wine, hoping to dull the throbbing in his head. The pain was bad today. The physician had bled him and given him powders, but neither measure had worked.

  Vidal had always accepted that he could not stray from the Catholic Church until his uncle died, not without risking his legacy. He had bided his time. But all the while, he was planning and building up a hidden fortune of his own. Selling indulgences, accepting gifts from grateful widows, his stratagems were various and varied. Finally, he had been in a position to buy this ruined estate outside Chartres, ready to step into his new identity when the time was right.

  Finally, in August 1572, some five months after his uncle’s death, the stars aligned. The attack on de Coligny and the plot to assassinate the Huguenot leadership on St Bartholomew’s Day had given him the chance to disappear.

  Cardinal Valentin had become Lord Evreux.

  But Reydon continued to prey on his mind. In time, Vidal had learnt he and his family had survived the massacre in Paris and had fled to Amsterdam. However, since Xavier had been adamant no proof of his uncle’s ill-advised union or Reydon’s legitimacy existed, Vidal had decided to let him alone, though he had spies keeping an eye out in case things changed. But Reydon was always there in his thoughts, like a splinter beneath his skin. His uncle’s deathbed confession that he had fathered a child had made sure of that.

  Vidal also knew the Duke of Guise had not given up looking for him. Even with the demands of leading the Catholic League, even with the never-ending spiral of wars and treaties, Guise managed to maintain a large network of spies. His tentacles spread into every province of France and, by leaving the duke’s service without permission or his blessing, Vidal had turned his former patron into a dangerous enemy.

  Until recently, his precautions had held. His identity remained secret. But with the eight months of relative peace after the end of the Sixth War, Guise evidently had more time to turn his attention back to his errant confessor. In past weeks, Vidal had received word from several well-trusted informants about a man in the Duke of Guise’s household – a Parisian by the name of Cabanel, formerly a captain in the militia – who had been asking questions in Reims and in Blois.

  For the first time since his disappearance, he felt the breath of Guise’s hounds snapping at his heels. Vidal hadn’t yet decided on his course of action. The temptation to send an assassin to hunt an assassin was strong. It was not conscience that held him back. Vidal had the blood of many on his hands. He had been a feared and effective Inquisitor in Carcassonne and Toulouse in the early days of the wars. In God’s name, he had ordered bodies stretched and flagellated and hanged. He had tracked down heretics and blasphemers with a complete lack of mercy. There had also been other killings of course, for advantage and for revenge, that could not be laid at God’s door.

  But Vidal was also aware that sometimes a trail went cold and also that, by acting too soon, one could end up inviting attention rather than avoiding it.

  For the time being, instinct told him to wait.

  ‘Wait and see,’ he said.

  ‘My lord?’ Louis said.

  Vidal was surprised to realise he had spoken out loud.

  The clock chimed three. Vidal realised that the boy had been working for hours without stopping to take sustenance. His concentration was absolute.

  Louis pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘There. It is done.’

  Vidal felt an unaccustomed quiver of excitement. As he walked over to the table, he was conscious of how much he wanted the boy to have done well.

  Louis flexed his fingers, then stepped back. ‘It is not perfect, my lord, but I can do no better.’

  In the overcast Chartres afternoon, the image seemed to glow and shimmer and dance in front of Vidal’s eyes. Vidal examined the shining halo of colour painted on the simple board, twists of rushes held within a crystal circle. At the top a blue shield showed Christ upon the Cross. Two other smaller discs in the same cobalt blue were equally exquisite, one depicting Saint Louis entering Paris with the relic in his hands and the other the gates of Jerusalem.

  ‘The representations on the shields may not be accurate,’ Louis said. ‘I never got close enough to see properly. I had to guess at the detail of what each might show. I’ve done my best.’

  Vidal straightened up. He could hear the fear in his son’s voice and realised the boy was mistaking his silence for displeasure.

  ‘This is the greatest gift you could have made me.’

  Louis’s face brightened. ‘It pleases you, my lord?’

  ‘It does. This is the Crown of Thorns in every particular. It is a match for its size, its shape, the beauty of its design.’

  Louis exhaled. ‘It is good enough to place it in the reliquary?’

  Vidal stared, surprised by the boy misunderstanding. Then, aware of a sense of pride in his son’s work, he smiled.

  ‘That is not its purpose, Louis. What we will do now is to find a craftsman capable of making a fair copy of the Crown itself. Then we will return to the Sainte-Chapelle. Paris is safe for now, but the threat from the heretic Navarre, and his fellow iconoclasts, is ever present.’

  He watched Louis’s features change as he understood. ‘As with the Shroud of Antioch and the Sancta Camisia.’

  Vidal smiled. ‘The holiest of relics should be kept safe and well away from the hands of those who would destroy them. All the better to glorify God’s purpose.’ He paused. ‘You have a great talent, Louis.’

  The boy blushed.

  For the first time since the death of the only woman he had ever loved – he held Reydon responsible for that – Vidal felt his heart moved. For the first time, he put his arms around his son’s shoulders and embraced him. At last, he was claiming him completely as his own.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  SINT ANTONIESPOORT, AMSTERDAM

  Frantically, Minou looked around, trying to see if there was any possible way for her to get into Sint Antoniespoort.

  She patrolled the moat, but all the wooden gates set within the stone arches were bolted with heavy iron bars and latched, and the main gate was guarded by two armed sentries. There was also an iron grille across the sluice gates to stop any trying to approach the tower through the sewers. There was no possibility of her gaining admittance without being seen. Minou looked up at the windows. All were shuttered and, again, in full view.

  Then she had the glimmering of an idea. If she could not find a way to get in unseen, then she would have to do so in plain sight. She cast her eyes around the square until she lighted upon an old woman. Wearing a threadbare worsted cloak with a brown hood, nondescript and commonplace, she carried a wicker basket with a red-and-white cloth across the top. That would do well for Minou’s purposes. Better still, the woman looked to be heading towards Sint Antoniespoort itself – perhaps delivering bread and herring to a son or husband stationed within the tower? Even on a day like today, ordinary life went on.

  Quickly, Minou fell into step beside her. ‘How now, Mevrouw, it is a fair afternoon, is it not?’

  The old woman turned, her eyes suspicious. ‘I’ve known worse.’

  ‘I hope you will forgive me for intruding upon your peace, but I have a proposition. A friend wagered me – you know the way of these things – that I could not find someone willing to exchange her cloak for mine. I told him he was wrong and accepted the wager.’

  The woman stopped. ‘Why should you wish to? Is your cloak of so poor a quality?’

  ‘No indeed, the opposite is true,’ Minou replied, offering the fabric of her own softly spun wool. She twitched it open, revealing its rich silk lining, the colour of cherries.

  The old woman rubbed the cloth between her fingers. ‘This is not from Amsterdam.’

  ‘No. I am charged with exchanging my garment, fine as it is, with one of local provenance. Such as yours, Mevrouw. That is the wager.’

  ‘Su
ch as mine?’

  ‘Yes. It is foolish, I know, but I would not have my friend think I have failed in the task with which he charged me.’

  ‘He?’ she snorted derisively. ‘It’s like that, then. Aren’t you a bit old for that kind of a game?’

  Minou shrugged. ‘What can I say? He would make a good match. I am a widow. I have no father or brothers. No sons either,’ she added, feeling uncomfortable with the lie.

  The woman sneered. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Already into my fourth decade.’

  ‘Not a good age to seek a new match.’

  ‘No,’ Minou agreed. ‘My first husband was killed in the siege of Haarlem.’

  ‘By Catholics?’ Minou was trying to decide where the woman’s allegiance might lie, when she spat on the ground. ‘Two of my sons died when those Spanish dogs took the city.’

  ‘So many good men dead.’

  For a moment, the old woman was silent. Minou prayed she was weighing up the bargain.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, suddenly sly. ‘I am delivering this to my nephew in Sint Antoniespoort. If you are still here when I come out, we’ll see.’

  ‘Why don’t I do that service for you after the trouble there today?’ Minou said quickly. ‘There was a shot fired, before all the trouble in Plaats began. Or so I heard.’

  The old woman glanced over her shoulder to the looted Brown Friars cloister, and spat again. ‘Amsterdam’s better off without them. They should be strung up, the lot of them.’

  Minou refused to be diverted. ‘My cloak for yours – a straight exchange – and a chore completed on your behalf.’

  The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘Your bonnet looks to be linen.’

  Minou held her gaze. ‘It is.’

  ‘A straight exchange. My cloak for your cloak and bonnet?’

  ‘A straight exchange.’

  The woman sucked her teeth. ‘What about my basket? I would not wish to lose that.’

  ‘I will return it to your door if you tell me where you live.’

  ‘You could do, I suppose.’

  Minou held her breath. The tough old woman knew her cloak was worth a fraction of Minou’s, but she wanted to drive a harder bargain.

  ‘Your voice. You’re not from here. How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘I was born here,’ Minou answered quickly, stealing Piet’s history for her own. She’d learnt how suspicious Amsterdammers could be of anyone from outside Holland. ‘But my mother died, so to my ill fortune I was taken to be raised by my grandmother in Flanders.’

  ‘That is bad luck.’ The woman sucked her teeth again. ‘My nephew is in the gatehouse. You’ll have to climb right up.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  Finally, the woman nodded. She untied her shabby cloak and handed it over with the basket, then accepted Minou’s cloak and bonnet in return. She tied the ribbon firmly beneath her sagging chin.

  ‘His name’s Joost. Joost Wouter. He’s usually stationed at the top of the tower. There are three pass doors. Make sure you give the basket only to him, they’re all thieves.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘It’s done. No buyer’s remorse. No changing your mind. It’s not how we do it here.’

  ‘A deal is a deal,’ Minou said quickly. The easy part was done.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  SINT ANTONIESPOORT

  A hessian hood was being dragged over Piet’s head. He struggled, but there was nothing he could do.

  With his arms tied behind his back, Piet was pushed forwards at the hard end of a musket. Unable to see, he stumbled and slipped on the stone steps. He didn’t understand what had gone wrong. Everything had seemed to be going to plan. When Houtman’s men marched Willem van Raay away from Plaats, Piet had followed, as previously agreed. But as soon as he stepped through the gatehouse into the courtyard, rather than finding Willem and Houtman waiting for him, he’d been seized. Piet had landed a few good punches, but it had been four men attacking him. One of them had been Wouter.

  ‘Naar beneden,’ a voice commanded, ordering him down the stairs.

  The lower they went, the more the temperature dropped. Piet could sense the dripping moisture on the brick walls. Through the muffled hessian, he could hear the rushing of the water through the sluice gate. The stench grew worse as they descended, a poisonous stew of fear and excrement and blood. Piet had heard rumours of a hidden prison beneath Sint Antoniespoort, but had thought it a fiction. In this city of canals and dykes, there were few cellars and, in the end, the water always won. Yet here he was, being taken to a hidden Amsterdam he had not wanted to believe existed.

  With a final jab in the back from the guard, Piet stumbled on a slimy step. As the hood was ripped from his head, he heard a heavy door being shut and bolted behind him.

  Piet blinked, letting his eyes acclimatise to the cramped, dark chamber. There were no windows and no other way out save the door through which he had entered.

  Then he felt bile rise in his throat. Bloodstains covered the ground and the walls. Two leather straps hung from metal rings set into the brickwork. A chatte de griffe, the spikes stiff with dry brown blood, lay on a table next to an ink horn and a quill. Piet remembered such torture chambers below the streets of Toulouse, where the Inquisition interrogated their prisoners. Minou’s beloved late father had suffered in such a place. Many of his former comrades had died in such a place.

  But that was France some fifteen years ago. This was Amsterdam.

  ‘On whose order am I here?’ Piet demanded.

  Now he could just make out the outlines of two men, their faces masked by the shadows. One with the silhouette of a soldier, jerkin and breeches. The other in longer robes.

  ‘Why am I here? Tell me.’

  From the shadows, he heard a counter question. ‘Why do you think you are here?’

  Piet’s heart sped up. He knew that voice – formal, precise, measured – but yet, it couldn’t be. He had to be wrong.

  ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Monsieur,’ Piet said, ‘will you identify yourself?’

  ‘Monsieur?’ the second man sneered. ‘You are in Amsterdam now. You foreigners are all the same.’

  Piet’s stomach clenched. This voice he recognised for certain. ‘Houtman! What in the name of God is going on?’

  Clapping slowly, Houtman stepped out of the shadows. ‘Are you as much of a fool as you seem, Reydon?’

  As Houtman shifted position, Piet had a clear view of his companion’s face behind him. The confirmation of what he’d been unwilling to believe hit Piet like a blow to the chest. Willem van Raay. The man who had helped his family, who’d acted on their behalf, the man he’d therefore warned of the coup, this was the man standing in front of him as if their friendship meant nothing.

  ‘Willem?’ Piet said in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Van Raay said nothing.

  Houtman poked Piet hard in the chest. ‘Can you imagine my surprise, Huguenot, when Burgher van Raay informed me that I had a spy within my ranks.’

  Piet turned cold. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Houtman gave a bark of laughter. ‘What kind of vermin leaves his comrades, having sworn an oath of loyalty and of silence, then goes instantly to someone whose allegiance is to our enemies?’ He jabbed him again. ‘What kind of traitor does that?’

  ‘I can explain.’

  Van Raay raised his hand. ‘There is nothing to explain. It was an act of treachery.’

  Houtman laughed. ‘We are Amsterdammers, Burgher van Raay and I. Do you really think we intend to let foreigners instruct us on how to run our city?’

  ‘What of our shared cause?’

  Houtman was now standing eye to eye with Piet. ‘Don’t you understand? There is no shared cause. The new Amsterdam belongs to us. To Holland, not to a ragtag alliance of refugees. Certainly not to you, Huguenot.’

  Piet was desperately trying to see a way out of his situation. Wor
ds not weapons, as Minou had said. The thought of his beloved wife renewed his determination. After everything they had endured, it couldn’t end like this. He had to keep them talking.

  ‘Houtman, you have no regard for me, that I know. I also know you don’t trust me, though I give you my word my motives for speaking to Burgher van Raay were honourable. I owe him as much loyalty for his steadfast support of my family and our hofje as I owe loyalty to our cause. Our shared cause, as I’d thought. You also know that I have served Holland well. What has been achieved in Amsterdam today is nothing short of a miracle. The peaceful transfer of power. History will judge you as playing a crucial part.’ He looked around the prison chamber. ‘Don’t jeopardise your reputation.’

  ‘And there it is,’ Houtman snarled. ‘That familiar French arrogance. Can you truly think that the unfortunate death of one man will change things? You put too high a value on your own head.’

  ‘How would my death benefit you, Houtman?’ Piet asked wearily, then turned to the man he’d thought his friend. ‘Or you, Willem? For the sake of the friendship between our two families, I beg you not to be party to this. This is a personal matter between Houtman and I.’ He turned back. ‘Isn’t that so? This is nothing to do with loyalty or commitment to our cause, and you know it.’

  Without warning, Houtman punched him in the stomach. Piet staggered back, the air struck out of him, but stayed on his feet.

  ‘A Huguenot dog who spills his guts like a virgin in a flophouse is of no use to us.’

  Piet heard the rasp of the knife being drawn out of its sheath, and turned cold.

  ‘Let’s have one less foreigner in our city,’ Houtman said, lunging forward with his dagger.

  This time, Piet was ready. Shifting his weight to his right leg, he kicked out with his left, slamming his boot into Houtman’s wrist. The dagger went skidding across the flagstones.

  Houtman screamed, the sound reverberating off the damp walls, then dropped to his knees, his eyes wide in surprise. Piet didn’t understand; he might have broken the man’s wrist, but nothing worse. But now Houtman was toppling sideways, making no attempt to break his fall. His head hit the ground with a crack but, this time, no sound came from his lips.