The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  * * *

  The boatman started to slow as they drew close, setting his hands at shorter intervals on the chain as he pulled them to the island.

  ‘Are you all right, Mademoiselle Cabanel?’ Louis asked.

  She was sitting bolt upright, clutching the package in front of her like a shield.

  ‘Quite all right, thank you,’ she replied, in a tone that gave the lie to her words.

  Nearly an hour had passed since Marie Cabanel had arrived and Louis’s thoughts were still in turmoil. It didn’t seem possible that the woman come to trade with his father – to deceive his father – was the girl he had abandoned in the blue chamber in the rue du Louvre twelve years previously, but yet there was no doubt. The instant she’d stepped out of the shadow in his father’s study, he’d known. Those eyes were unmistakable.

  Marie Cabanel was Marta Reydon-Joubert.

  It changed everything. Was it possible that the threat to his father’s life – for Louis was sure that the relic was a forgery and being used as a pretext to gain access to the estate – came not from an assassin in the pay of the Duke of Guise but Vidal’s old enemy? Louis knew Piet Reydon haunted his father’s waking hours, especially now his mind was failing. It bordered on an obsession. The mountain of documents and papers he kept in his desk, legal judgements and testimonies, his late uncle’s will, all attested to it.

  What Louis couldn’t work out was whether or not Marta had recognised him, too. She thought she knew him, she had admitted as much, but he didn’t think she was sure. The moment they were inside, Louis had to tell his father who she was. Then it was in his hands.

  In the fading light, Louis glanced down into the water. For an instant, he thought he saw Xavier’s face staring up at him from the shimmering green void beneath the boat. Dead eyes wide open. Startled, Louis pulled back, causing the boat to rock.

  ‘Be careful, else you’ll tip us out. I’m wet enough as it is.’ Marie Cabanel turned to look at him. ‘What’s wrong? You look strange.’

  Her words took him back to his nine-year-old self being challenged by a precocious girl to explain why he had a strange strip of white hair. Self-conscious, Louis pulled his grey cap lower on his forehead.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said unnecessarily, as the boat bumped the shore. ‘Let me help you, mademoiselle.’

  Louis held out his hand. After a moment, Marie took it.

  * * *

  ‘Could you see anything?’ Minou asked quickly, when Piet and le Maistre reappeared. ‘Are they there?’

  Piet shook his head. ‘I can’t be sure without going inside, but the house seems completely deserted.’

  ‘Yet the horses are in the stables,’ le Maistre mused. ‘There was a solitary groom, fast asleep. It’s odd.’

  ‘What about there?’ Minou said, pointing down to the lake below the house. In the dying light of the day, a white tower was just visible in the dusk. ‘There are lights burning.’

  Piet peered. ‘So there are. What do you think, le Maistre? Should we attempt to get into the house or—’

  ‘Of course!’ le Maistre interrupted. ‘It’s common gossip Evreux constructed his own reliquary here. I’d always assumed it was within the house itself, but that could well be it.’

  They all turned towards the lake.

  ‘Listen.’ Minou put her hand on Piet’s arm. ‘Did you hear something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was like the drag of a chain. You know, like at Lastage when the boats are winched out of the water for winter repairs.’

  They all listened, but the evening air was silent now.

  ‘Shall we go down and see, or try to get into the house?’ le Maistre asked. ‘It’s up to you.’

  ‘Minou?’Piet looked at her.

  She thought for a moment. ‘You both sense the house is empty, but the carriage is here, so they have to be somewhere. I think we should go down to the lake and see.’

  Piet nodded. ‘Let’s head for that copse of trees close to the water. We’ll go separately, just in case there’s anyone watching. I’ll go first, then you, Minou. Le Maistre, you go around the far side and see if there’s any sign of life, then join us.’

  * * *

  Piet made his way quickly down the grassy slopes between the house and the lake, running into the rain. Minou waited until he was out of sight, then followed, holding her cloak tight around her neck.

  ‘What can you see?’ she whispered, when she reached him.

  ‘There’s a boat moored at the jetty there.’ Piet pointed towards the water. ‘And can you see the struts? There’s a chain stretched across the water from here to the island for the pilot to pull the barge across. That must have been the sound you heard.’

  ‘Is there anyone on the boat?’

  ‘Not so far as I can see.’

  ‘So I must have heard it coming back from the island before,’ Minou said. ‘But what about a boatman, is he there?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  As they waited for Antoine to join them, the last of the light faded from the sky and a brisk wind started to blow. A mist rose lightly up from the surface of the shallow lake, shrouding everything in a strange grey light. The evening lament of nightjars and nightingales began to fill the air.

  ‘What news?’ Piet asked when le Maistre reappeared.

  ‘There are two men watching the reliquary from the far side of the lake.’

  ‘Cabanel?’

  ‘I have never seen the man, but it stands to reason.’

  ‘And the other?’

  Le Maistre shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you see her?’ Minou said, her words coming out in a rush. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Madame Reydon.’

  Piet squeezed her arm. ‘At the very least, it suggests Cabanel thinks Vidal is on the island. If he’s there, then surely his daughter will be with him.’

  Minou was aware they were making too many assumptions to suit the story they wanted to be told. She didn’t know what they should do next. Wait, watch, try to intervene? All possibilities carried some measure of risk. They couldn’t do nothing, but what if their actions put Marta in danger?

  ‘You’re quite sure she wasn’t there?’

  ‘She might have been concealed in the trees,’ le Maistre said doubtfully. He turned to Piet. ‘What do you want to do now?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I will cross to the reliquary and—’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Minou said.

  Piet sighed. ‘Very well. Le Maistre, you keep watch on Cabanel and his accomplice. If they cross to the reliquary, follow them.’

  ‘I’ve seen two guards patrolling the island,’ he said. ‘There could be more. A circuit lasts some quarter of an hour.’

  ‘In which case, I shall time it so they do not see me. Shall we rendezvous back here in an hour to report what we have discovered?’

  Le Maistre nodded. ‘Good hunting, my friend.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  THE RELIQUARY

  As they walked into the white tower, Marie’s senses were assailed by the smell of incense and wax in the confined air.

  They were in a long and narrow corridor lit by candles set in wrought-iron double sconces along the wall. The dancing flames cast light on the wall opposite, illuminating a sequence of religious paintings in the alcoves: Christ on the Cross at Golgotha, the Crown of Thorns being carried to the Sainte-Chapelle, all images of the Passion.

  ‘It is not much further,’ Louis said.

  As they drew level with a painting of St Veronica, Marie stopped. The replica of the Veil she carried was excellent, but was it good enough to convince a relic hunter such as Lord Evreux, Guise’s cardinal, as her father had believed him to be? She didn’t know.

  She realised Evreux’s son was staring at her again. She spun round, so they were standing face to face.

  ‘Have I done something to offend you that you should so fix yo
ur attention upon me?’

  ‘Why, does my attention distress you?’

  ‘It is impertinent.’

  He gave a mock bow. ‘In which case, my apologies.’

  Marie felt her temper rise. ‘And uncivil. You didn’t even pay me the courtesy of telling me your name.’

  A smile flickered in his eyes. ‘What need you with my name, Marie Cabanel? It is my father you have come to see. I am Lord Evreux’s son, is that not enough?’

  Marie frowned. ‘Why do you keep saying my name as if there is some mystery to it?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ he said, sounding genuinely interested.

  Again, she felt the full force of his gaze. ‘Know what?’

  He whistled. ‘My God, you really don’t know…’

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked curtly, impatience making her short tempered.

  ‘If that is all that concerns you, that is easy enough to remedy. It’s Louis.’ He gave a deep bow. ‘At your service.’

  * * *

  Antoine le Maistre retraced his steps around the edge of the lake.

  He watched Cabanel and his associate climb up onto the island, before stepping out of the cover of the trees to follow. He had thought himself unobserved and safe. But suddenly he’d felt the air move behind him, and now the point of a knife was pressing at his back.

  ‘You’re making a mistake, friend.’

  ‘No mistake.’ The man laughed, then plunged the knife between his ribs.

  Le Maistre gasped as the blade went in, cleanly and expertly. For a moment, he felt no sensation at all. Then he felt the first blossoming of blood beneath his chemise, and a terrible cold like a winter’s frost reaching right to the tips of his fingers. He fell down to his knees and tasted blood in his throat.

  Why couldn’t he breathe?

  He didn’t understand. The man spoke with a local accent, but Cabanel was supposedly a Parisian? The knife wound began to ache, intensifying until there was no part of his body that wasn’t afflicted.

  Everything seemed suddenly bright. Now the pain was melting away. He could see the face of his dear wife. She was smiling and holding out her hands to him. Their children were there, too, just as he remembered them before the soldiers came.

  He almost laughed. He had survived seven wars, had fought nobly and with courage at the sides of the great Huguenot commanders of the age. But in the end he would die at the hands of a hired assassin. He wanted to shout out a warning to Piet and to Minou, but his words were trapped in his throat.

  Le Maistre was aware of the man grasping his doublet and rolling him over in the water. Then, the pressure of a boot on his neck, holding him under. As oblivion rushed into his lungs, he saw his wife and children again.

  They were waiting for him.

  * * *

  Marie frowned, another memory slipping quicksilver fast through her mind. Why did his words sound familiar, why did his name?

  Louis pulled back a heavy red curtain. ‘We’re here.’

  She managed to gather her wits. ‘Is Lord Evreux within?’

  In reply, she felt the press of his hand in the small of her back propelling her through the door. Marie found herself standing in a cavernous chamber of light and shadow. There was an altar in the middle of the room with two ecclesiastical chairs in front. Tall candelabra stood like sentinels either side of them, their flickering light sending shadows dancing into the corners of the chamber. A full moon shone down through the vast lantern skylight in the ceiling, bathing everything in a strange, white light. At the far end of the room, she could just make out another, smaller, door.

  As Marie’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she realised there were frescoes on the walls in here, too. Seven paintings, each with a casket in front, a single flame burning before each one. And despite her fear of what might happen, Marie’s eyes sparkled with wonder.

  ‘I felt the same when I came here for the first time,’ Louis said quietly at her shoulder. ‘It is magnificent.’

  ‘It is. Relics for each of the seven Stations of the Cross.’

  ‘Yes, only the sixth of our caskets is empty.’

  Marie was abruptly brought back to the matter in hand. ‘Though not for much longer,’ she said, with a confidence she did not feel.

  Louis laughed. ‘If what you have brought us is genuine.’

  ‘I have it on good authority, though I am no expert.’

  ‘Yet you are bold enough to come here to offer this relic to me.’

  Marie jumped at the voice coming out of the darkness. She had thought they were alone. Louis’s hand lightly touched hers as he took the carton from her, then walked towards the voice.

  ‘Thank you, Louis. This is the Sudarium?’

  Marie turned in the direction of the voice. A man in liturgical vestments was now sitting in one of the cathedra chairs. He was wearing a white chasuble, with a red pallium and stole, the silk shimmering in the candlelight. Marie was uncertain. Her father had told her Vidal had relinquished his office of cardinal and taken a new identity to avoid being captured, yet here he sat now attired like a bishop.

  ‘Mademoiselle Cabanel says it is.’

  Marie waited for Evreux to rise and greet her. He did not. She waited for him to introduce himself. He did not. Nerves fluttered against her ribs as she watched Louis hand over the relic, then lean forward and whisper in his father’s ear.

  Both men turned to look at her. The family resemblance was so strong, there could be no doubt they were father and son. Why were they staring?

  A wave of panic rushed through her. How stupid to have let herself be brought to the island. If something went awry, Pierre and his brother were too far away to help her, and her groom had remained at the house with the carriage. She took a deep breath. Her only chance was to stand firm. She could not allow fear or guilt to give her away.

  Marie stepped forward. ‘Lord Evreux, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Who sent you?’

  Evreux’s voice was cold.

  ‘No one sent me, my lord.’ Her courage faltered. ‘I have brought you the most extraordinary and beautiful object, one which will – from what your son has shown me – complete your collection.’

  She drew closer. Now she could see he was wearing a red velvet camauro, the cap only the Pope himself was authorised to wear. Her confusion grew.

  ‘Are you an honest woman?’

  She met his gaze. ‘I am, my lord.’

  Vidal looked up at his son, then back to Marie. ‘All the same, it would be best to be certain. Bind her.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  Minou and Piet waited until the guards had begun another circuit, then climbed out of the boat onto the shore. Quickly, they shook the rain from their clothes, then ran through the puddles towards the white tower.

  ‘What if they notice the boat has been brought back?’ Minou whispered.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do about that.’ He caught his breath. ‘Perhaps we should wait for le Maistre to—’

  ‘We’re not turning back now. I have to know.’

  Stooping beneath the height of the balustrade, Minou darted up the steps. She felt fearless, full of valour and adventure. Minou remembered how, before they were husband and wife, she’d run hand in hand with Piet through the streets of Toulouse: evading soldiers, helping innocent women and children to safety, then riding through the night to Puivert to rescue Alis and their beloved father, held captive in the castle. She had been courageous then.

  In the space between one beat of her heart and the next, Minou allowed herself to stand momentarily in the company of the ghosts of the past, with those she had loved and lost, the missing and the dead. Then she took a deep breath.

  But not Marta. Marta was not dead.

  Minou beckoned at Piet to join her, then pushed at the heavy door. To her amazement, it swung open.

  ‘Minou, wait,’ Piet said, slipping in front. He peered inside, then nodded. ‘It’s clear.’

/>   Now it was Minou who hesitated. ‘What if we’re wrong? What if they are in the house after all?’

  ‘Someone’s been here recently,’ Piet whispered. ‘Look, the candles are newly lit. Pull the door to, so the guards don’t notice.’

  Expecting to be challenged at any moment, Minou moved silently along the corridor with Piet behind her. She was aware of the paintings on the walls but she took nothing in. Her entire focus was the door at the far end of the passageway and what lay behind it. A heavy red curtain had been pulled to one side and a narrow band of light was just visible between the edges of the door and the frame.

  Then, behind them in the corridor, she heard the sound of feet.

  * * *

  ‘Hold the lamp higher,’ Vidal instructed.

  Louis did so, sending light flooding across the fragment of cloth lying on the altar.

  Tied to the chair, Marie struggled desperately to loosen the cords around her wrists without drawing their attention. She’d tried to run the instant she realised Vidal meant to take her hostage, but Louis had blocked her exit. He’d found her father’s knife at her belt and taken it, then bound her wrists and slipped a loop through the rail at the back of the chair to secure her in place. But the bindings were not tight. If she could slip her hands free, there was a chance she could get away while their attention was focused on the relic. Louis hadn’t locked the door when they’d entered the chamber and there appeared to be no servants or guards on duty.

  ‘Do you see, Louis? This is supposed to be the imprint of Christ’s face.’

  Hearing the doubt in Evreux’s voice, Marie desperately tugged at the cords binding her wrists.

  ‘Several times before, I have been offered an artefact purporting to be the veil with which St Veronica wiped Christ’s face on the Via Dolorosa. Some say it never left Rome, others claim it was taken to Vienna or San Jaén, or Alicante, where Mademoiselle Cabanel claims to have found this.’ Vidal looked down at the cloth. ‘And this is very good. Excellent work, in fact. Almost to your standard, Louis.’