The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  Marie took a final look at the manor house at the top of the hill and the white tower in the middle of the island, then turned back to the woods. As a Parisian girl born and bred, she had always thought it strange how she felt so at home in woodland. It spoke to her of long and happy summer days, of picnics in the open air and freedom. For a moment, she had an image of a child sitting beside an old man: a table covered with paper and coloured chalk, a map drawn by hand. Feeling loved and cherished.

  ‘Les fantômes d’été,’ she murmured.

  ‘Mademoiselle Cabanel?’

  Marie blinked and was surprised to find herself standing in the Chartres countryside. The ghosts of summers past slipped away.

  ‘We will return at dusk,’ she replied briskly, then turned and walked back to the carriage.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  RUE DE LA POISSONNERIE, CHARTRES

  As the bells of the cathedral were ringing for noontide prayers, Minou, Piet and Antoine le Maistre rode out through the western gates of the city.

  It was the twenty-second day of August. The anniversary of the day Marta had gone missing. The sun was high and the sky was an endless blue, though wisps of flat white cloud on the horizon threatened the weather might turn.

  The three old friends rode in silence, each locked in their own thoughts. To the outside eye, Minou seemed poised and calm. She was wearing her faithful green travelling cloak, in case the sight of it jogged Marta’s memory, and had dressed her hair as she had back in their Parisian days rather than in the contemporary Dutch manner. She had packed her last journal from Puivert and Marta’s old bonnet in her saddlebags. But beneath the surface, her heart was beating like waves crashing over and over on the shore.

  At a junction in the flat green countryside some three leagues out of Chartres, le Maistre pulled up his horse. One road carried on due west, the other small track turned to the left.

  ‘That leads to Evreux’s estates.’

  ‘How far is it?’ Piet asked.

  ‘Some two leagues south,’ le Maistre replied. ‘The lodgings where Cabanel and his daughter are supposed to be staying are on this road itself, some half-hour’s ride further.’

  ‘You’re not certain?’ Piet asked sharply.

  ‘As certain as I can be,’ le Maistre answered, ‘but you know how it is. A message is passed, then passed on, then passed on again. By the time it reaches the ear for which it was intended, the truth has worn thin.’ He pulled a face. ‘Until we arrive and speak to the landlord in person, I cannot be certain. You understand?’

  ‘Piet understands,’ Minou said quickly. ‘We both do.’

  EVREUX ESTATE

  ‘And from His presence earth and sky fled away, and no place was found for them.’

  Vidal was not sure if he spoke the words out loud. He seemed now to exist in a liminal state between waking and sleeping, caught by the pain and the sickness in his head. He felt the weight of the Bible on his lap. It was open at the Book of Revelation, though he had no need of its reassurance. The words were scored on his heart.

  ‘And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Then another book was opened, which is the book of life. And the dead were judged by what was written in the books, according to what they had done.’

  Such dreams. Such terrible, dark dreams. The day of judgement as foretold. Would he be spared long enough to tip the scales back in his favour? To see the white light of Heaven and stand in the company of angels and archangels? If the Cabanel woman brought what she promised, then maybe he would. Except, said the Devil at his shoulder, God will see the false from the true. What Grace could be there?

  ‘Father?’

  Vidal jolted, sending the Bible flying from his knees to the ground.

  ‘Xavier, is that you?’

  ‘It’s me, Father. Louis.’

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The tall windows looking out over the gardens, the glass-fronted shelves. He was in the library, waiting for the sun to set. He remembered now.

  Vidal fixed his eyes on his son. For an instant, he thought he was seeing a reflection of himself in a looking glass. The same dark direct gaze, the tell-tale white strip of hair. Was the boy equal to the task required of him? He wanted to be sure, but Louis kept his thoughts to himself. Vidal never knew what his son was really thinking. For that reason, Xavier didn’t trust him, he never had. Vidal rubbed his hand over the stubble of his shaved head.

  ‘Where is he? I would be ready for our visitor this evening.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father. I’ve looked everywhere – all through the house, his personal quarters, the stables, the kitchens. I even rode up to the village. No one’s seen him.’

  Vidal let his hand drop back into his lap. This lassitude was no good.

  ‘Bring me some wine and my tonic.’

  He watched while Louis poured a generous measure, then tipped a paper twist of powder into the wine and stirred.

  ‘Here you are, Father.’

  Vidal drank deeply, draining the goblet in three mouthfuls. Instantly, his blood started to revive. He held out his cup to be refilled.

  ‘I could do it,’ Louis said, returning with the decanter.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Given Xavier is not here – and you would make your usual preparations – I could serve as barber in his stead? I have watched him often enough with the razor and cloth.’

  Vidal rubbed his hand over his head again, then nodded.

  ‘Take care your hand does not slip.’

  * * *

  By the time Minou, Piet and le Maistre arrived at the coaching house, the sky was grey and the air had cooled. Black clouds now scudded across the horizon as another storm gathered its strength. Minou pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders and wished she had worn warmer riding gloves.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ le Maistre said, jumping down from his horse and vanishing inside.

  Minou and Piet dismounted. Through the open door, she could see the coach house was crowded. Long wooden tables and benches, occupied mostly by men. A full-figured matron was setting platters of bread and dried ham along the centre of the board, with plates of sweet cochelin biscuits and sliced plums. A servant ran up and down the rows filling wooden tankards with ale from a jug. It was exactly the sort of place where people might come and go without comment or notice. A place in which to wait out of the sight of prying eyes.

  Shortly, le Maistre returned. ‘This is what I know. The landlord confirms he rented two rooms on the second floor in June to a Pierre Cabanel and his daughter. She came first, to check the chambers were suitable on account of her father being an invalid from the wars.’

  ‘An invalid!’ Piet exclaimed.

  ‘I imagine that was merely an excuse to keep him hidden. The landlord admits he rarely saw him. All his meals were taken up to him. The rent was paid on time. The pair of them were quiet and caused no trouble.’

  ‘What about the girl?’ Minou said anxiously.

  Le Maistre raised his eyebrows. ‘The good landlord was most struck with Mademoiselle Cabanel. Charming, polite. Fine clothes. He described her in great detail and, though the man’s a drunk, I have no doubt it is the same young woman I saw in Chartres. He could not stop talking about the beauty of her eyes. She led him to believe they had relatives in Chartres itself. Unlike her father, she did sometimes ride out.’

  Minou looked up at the windows overlooking the courtyard. Her legs felt suddenly weak. ‘Are they here now?’

  Le Maistre’s expression changed. ‘I regret to say, as of this morning, they are not. Mademoiselle Cabanel settled their outstanding bill early, and with great haste, then they left before the sun had risen.’

  Minou felt a crushing disappointment. To be so close, and yet be frustrated again, she couldn’t endure it.

  ‘Why so suddenly?’ Piet asked. ‘Did the landlord say?’

  Le Maistre shook his head. ‘No, nor where they were going. He did mention, how
ever, that a messenger arrived for Mademoiselle Cabanel before dawn. Fair woke the whole house with his banging.’

  Piet looked at Minou. ‘What if Cabanel discovered that Evreux is not Vidal?’

  Minou gathered her thoughts. ‘No, I think it’s more likely he received confirmation that he is. I think Cabanel has gone to kill him.’

  She felt Piet’s eyes upon her. ‘You are saying we should follow?’

  ‘I don’t see what else we can do. If I’m wrong, there’s no way of finding them now. They could be anywhere. Our best chance is to go to Evreux’s estate and hope to find Cabanel and his –’ Minou checked herself. She was now so convinced that it was Marta they were tracking down, that she could no longer bear to refer to her as Marie Cabanel. ‘Our daughter is in grave danger.’

  ‘If it’s her,’ Piet said softly.

  Minou turned away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  EVREUX ESTATE

  Marie shot out her hand to steady herself, as the carriage turned sharply off the road onto the long drive leading to Evreux’s manor house.

  At last it was dusk. Pierre and his brother Jean should already be in position in the woods beside the lake. She closed her mind to what would happen if Evreux broke his usual habit and remained in the manor house itself. It would leave her with only the groom to protect her, should there be trouble.

  Marie was more nervous than she could remember. Her hand went to her father’s knife at her waist, hidden beneath the folds of her cloak. She could look after herself. Had she not survived alone these past seven months?

  She had dressed with care – elegant, but not too much so. Her hair was rolled beneath a coif and blue hat, so the shimmering tones of her brown hair were visible. Rather than a gown, she wore a doublet shaping to a point at her waist. A wide skirt over a French farthingale, also blue, completed her outfit with a white ruff of cutwork lace.

  The carriage continued on in a straight line to the manor house. Marie took another deep breath. Then she placed her hands firmly in her lap, pressing down on the carton containing the Sudarium, to stop them from shaking.

  As she stepped down from the carriage, it began to rain.

  ‘Wait here,’ she ordered the groom.

  It was oddly quiet. There was no one in sight, no servants or gardeners, no guards on duty, no signs of life at all. As Marie walked along the path through a formal garden of box and privet towards the front door, she was conscious of the tread of her feet on the damp ground and the rustling of her skirts. She glanced up, sensing someone watching, but the mullioned windows were dark and she could see no one.

  Marie reached up to the heavy black iron ring. She knocked and the sound echoed inside the house. Then, the sound of feet and a bolt being shot.

  A servant in black livery stood on the threshold. ‘Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Lord Evreux is expecting me,’ she said, finding a confident smile.

  He inclined his head. ‘If you will follow me.’

  As Marie stepped into the tiled entrance hall, she heard the heavy front door close behind her and she shivered.

  * * *

  From the first-floor gallery at the far end of the hall, Louis was watching.

  She was younger than he had expected. She was well dressed and assured, but he was still surprised she had come unchaperoned. It was possible she had a maid or a bodyguard in the carriage, but it seemed exceedingly stupid that she should have entered the house alone.

  He watched as the servant led her across the hallway and into the library, as agreed. His father’s orders were to leave her for some few minutes, then to present himself and explain that Lord Evreux would receive her in the reliquary itself.

  Louis still thought this a mistake. But as the hands of the clock had turned, his father had seemed more his usual self. His wits were sharp, he’d shaken off his lethargy and taken pleasure in the arrangements. If his eyes shone just a little too brightly, and his moments seemed charged with an energy lacking in previous months, Louis decided to see this as a sign of improvement. And, finally, he had let Louis help him dress. He had not asked after Xavier since.

  Louis waited for the servant to withdraw, then walked down the stairs and towards the library, ready to play his part.

  * * *

  As soon as the servant left her alone, Marie opened the window and poured the wine into the flower bed below, then put the empty goblet back on the pewter tray.

  She was not so green as to accept sustenance in a stranger’s house. Though she had never been into the Louvre Palace, it was common knowledge the court was plagued by the fear of poisoning. The King had his own taster sample every dish, even kissing the plates and napkins before the royal hand would touch them. The Queen Mother, too. So many spices from the Indus could be used to mask the presence of henbane or belladonna and a strongly flavoured wine could be drugged.

  A clock chimed the quarter-hour.

  Marie took down a book, admiring the quality of the binding, then replaced it. She walked a little further, her fingers running along the spines of the books until she had reached the end of the shelf. Then, bored with the library, she went to the double doors and opened them into the room beyond.

  This next chamber was more to her taste. Well appointed and light, it was filled with rosewood furniture. A walnut tallboy that shone golden in the reflected rays of the setting sun, embroidered silk cushions and silver-white upholstery the colour of apple blossom. There was much to admire.

  Her attention was caught by a beautiful enamel box. Fashioned in the champlevé style so popular in Limoges, golden figures danced and revelled on a blue background – satyrs and nymphs – a banquet in the woods. Marie turned it over in her hand, sure she had seen one just like it somewhere before. A memory started to whisper in her mind, speaking of a warm summer’s afternoon in the company of children, the gift of a box as alike to this as to be its twin. A blue dress and a white cap with—

  ‘Would you care to tell me what you are doing in here?’

  Caught unawares, Marie nearly dropped the trinket. Composing herself, she placed it carefully back on the table while she gathered her wits.

  ‘You startled me,’ she said, turning towards the voice.

  The tall young man held his stance in the doorway on the far side of the room. Marie approved of what she saw. Tall and broad, his dark beard was well-trimmed to a point and his long black hair was combed back from his forehead beneath a grey velvet hat. He wore pale hose, a doublet with jewelled buttons fastened at the side in the modern fashion, a cutwork linen collar rather than a ruff.

  ‘Who are you?’

  He laughed. ‘More to the point, who are you?’

  ‘I am waiting for Lord Evreux. He is expecting me.’

  ‘Is he now?’

  ‘Yes, though I doubt it is any business of yours.’

  He continued to stare at her from the doorway.

  ‘Except that these happen to be my father’s private chambers and you were shown to the library. Try again, Mademoiselle Cabanel.’

  Marie felt her face flush, but she decided to brazen it out. ‘The door was ajar.’

  He folded his arms. Something about the gesture sent another recollection scuttling through her mind. She racked her brain, but the memory wouldn’t come.

  ‘Forgive me, but might we have met previously?’

  ‘Have you been to Chartres before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then, I cannot think so.’

  Marie stared at him, bewildered by his odd conversation. She waited for him to say something more, but he continued to stand in silence.

  ‘Your father is expecting me,’ she said eventually. ‘I have something of great value to show him.’

  Marie stepped forward, into the light, holding the carton out before her. To her astonishment, he turned white.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ she asked, growing impatient with his behaviour. ‘Where is Lord Evreux? Our appointment was at this hour. Why is he n
ot here to greet me? Is he so discourteous?’

  ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle Cabanel,’ the young man said, suddenly charming again. ‘I am charged to take you to my father. He will receive you in the reliquary. He thought it was more appropriate given the nature of your visit.’

  Though this was what Marie had planned for, she felt suddenly afraid. Then Evreux’s son reached out his hand towards her, and something about that gesture, too, was familiar. A shiver went down her spine.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Minou, Piet and Antoine le Maistre dismounted and led their horses through the woods, the sound of their hooves muffled on the damp ground.

  They saw no one, heard no one.

  Dusk was giving way to night, bringing with it a chill, damp breeze. Beyond the shelter of the trees, the drizzle had turned to rain.

  They got as close as they could without being seen. The carriage they had glimpsed turning into the estate from the road was now standing in front of the manor house, but there were no lights burning in the windows. Even the servants’ quarters and stables appeared to be deserted.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Piet whispered. ‘Could Vidal – Evreux – have left?’

  Le Maistre shook his head. ‘We would have seen. We’ve been watching all afternoon.’

  ‘Could he have gone by another route? Through the woods, perhaps?’

  ‘It’s possible, but not if the household had gone with him. This is the only passable way in and out.’

  ‘Let me check the house first,’ Piet said. ‘It may be that all the living quarters are at the rear of the building.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ le Maistre replied.

  ‘Be careful,’ Minou whispered, squeezing Piet’s arm.

  She watched the two men slip from the cover of the woods, using the box hedge of the formal gardens for cover, then approach the house and disappear from view.