The City of Tears

by Kate Mosse

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Your Crown of Thorns. One day we will return to the Sainte-Chapelle and compare it to the original.’

  Marie became still – the Crown of Thorns, the Sainte-Chapelle. Was it possible she had seen Louis before in Paris? The timing made no sense. If Louis was indeed Vidal’s son – and Vidal had not been seen in Paris since the night of the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre – she would have been no more than seven or eight years old. And Louis not much older.

  A shiver went down her spine at the vision of a boy with a white stripe in his hair reaching out his hand to a little girl …

  ‘Come, it’s not far,’ he’d said, and she had followed.

  The memories became even sharper: a blue chamber of mirror and gilt, the polished virginals, being left alone for hours in the dark, the shouting and ale on a soldier’s breath; a dying man clutching a knife in his hand, the weapon that became her father’s talisman.

  ‘But, there’s the rub,’ Evreux was saying. ‘This here, you see, is just a little too good. Can you see the brushstrokes?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘They are hardly there, but if this truly was an imprint of Christ’s face there would be no man-made marks.’

  Marie quietened her racing thoughts and forced herself to concentrate on the present. Now, more than ever, she had to get away. What if Louis recognised her, too?

  ‘As for the material,’ Vidal continued, ‘that, too, is an excellent match. Possibly this weave does come from the Holy Land. It may have been brought back by a Crusader, centuries ago. Who’s to say?’

  Marie gave a final sharp tug and, at last, got her right hand free. With blind fingers, she started to untie the cord from the chair.

  But she was too late. Vidal suddenly pushed his chair back and stood up. He removed his skull cap, ran his fingers over his bald head, then began to walk slowly towards her. As he drew closer, Marie saw his pallium was decorated with six small crosses, white rather than the customary black.

  She sat very still, keeping her hands behind her.

  ‘Expensive and skilled as this Sudarium is – it would fool any untrained eye – I regret it is a forgery, mademoiselle. What did the person responsible for this hope to achieve by this charade? And why did he send you rather than come in person?’

  Marie forced herself to hold her voice steady. ‘I don’t know what you mean. No one sent me.’

  As he stood towering over her, she could see he was sick. There was a canker on his temple, a grey pallor to his skin and his eyes were sunk in their sockets. All the same, Marie could feel the power of the man.

  ‘Your father,’ Vidal said. ‘Why did he send you?’

  ‘My father is dead this past winter, my lord.’

  He put his arms on either side of her chair. ‘I do not believe you.’

  Marie shrank back. ‘The Sudarium was sold to me as genuine,’ she said, trying to inject a confidence into her voice she did not feel. ‘The priest from whom I acquired it carried it himself over the border from Spain.’

  ‘Is that what he told you to say?’

  ‘It is the truth, my lord.’

  He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Is it? In that case, how did you pay for it? In the usual way women use to get what they want from men?’

  Marie flinched as Vidal put his hand on her breast.

  ‘Father!’

  She saw Vidal’s other hand come up and tried to twist away, but she was too slow. The blow caught her hard on the cheek.

  ‘Father, please!’ Louis protested.

  Vidal ignored him. ‘Where is he?’

  Marie tried to shake free, but he held her shoulder tightly.

  ‘Do you think you can gull me? My son has told me how he found you wandering around Paris years ago. He recognised you. What father would send his daughter to do his traitorous work for him?’

  ‘I swear, I don’t know—’

  Vidal raised his hand again, but this time Louis stepped between them and took the force of the blow. He stumbled back, sending his hat flying to the ground, giving her the final confirmation that Evreux was Vidal. Louis had the same stripe of white hair his father once had.

  ‘She came alone, Father,’ he was saying. ‘I watched her arrive. And the groom remains up at the house.’

  Vidal threw him a contemptuous look. ‘If you believe that, you’re a fool.’ He turned back to Marie. ‘Where is your father, Mademoiselle Reydon? I won’t ask you again.’

  ‘Reydon?’ Marie stared at him in confusion. If this was a trick, she had no idea of the purpose of it. ‘I am Marie Cabanel. My father was Pierre Cabanel, captain at arms. He died last January in Rouen, I swear it.’

  ‘Cabanel!’ Vidal laughed. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to come here under your own name, Mademoiselle Reydon. Even for a woman, that would be the height of stupidity. I will ask you one last time. Where is Reydon?’

  Marie braced herself for another slap, when the doors behind them were flung open.

  Marie didn’t understand. Pierre and his brother Jean were standing in the doorway, soaking wet, holding a tall woman in a green cloak captive between them. She had paid them well for their service, but were they now in the pay of Lord Evreux instead?

  * * *

  Minou felt as if she was looking down on herself from a great height. Like the gargoyles of Saint-Nazaire in la Cité that had so scared her when she was little. Everything in the chamber seemed distorted by the flickering candlelight sending long shadows dancing up the wall covered with images of death and dying. Seven gold-edged caskets in a row, like gifts for a king.

  She took in the scene before her in a single blink of her eye. A tall man, dressed in liturgical vestments, a fuzz of white stubble on his head. Beside him, next to an overturned chair, a girl. Pale skin, long brown hair, dressed all in blue, she was being held by a boy the spitting image of Vidal. Almost as if they were dancing.

  Minou caught her breath, feeling as if she was seeing herself in a looking glass. All doubt was gone. She felt dizzy and grateful and wild with relief.

  ‘Marta…’ she said, hardly daring to speak her name.

  The girl didn’t seem to hear her. And though she had prepared herself, Minou felt her heart crack like a piece of ice.

  Then there was a roar in the passageway outside. Seconds later, Piet came charging into the room, knife drawn, defending himself against two armed guards.

  For a moment, Minou watched Vidal sway, as if he’d been struck.

  ‘Seize him!’ he screamed, then turned on the boy. ‘Take the girl away! You know what to do.’

  Louis hesitated, then started to drag Marta, kicking and screaming, towards a door at the rear of the chamber.

  ‘Marta!’ Minou couldn’t let her daughter be taken away.

  Taking her captors by surprise, she broke loose and ran. But almost instantly, they were on her. Minou felt a rough arm go round her neck and pull her backwards off her feet. Dirty fingers were spread across her mouth, disgusting and intimate. For a moment, Minou thought she could hear Piet’s voice, shouting from the other end of the room. But then she heard a grunt as a fist slammed into his stomach, and she knew he was down.

  When she turned back, her daughter was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  Piet tried to raise his head. The pain in his shoulders was so sharp that he groaned.

  ‘Minou…’

  Piet breathed out, then tried again to sit up, more slowly this time.

  Everything hurt. He pulled at his hands, realising that they were tied behind him. He forced himself to open his eyes. He focused on his boots, still wet, then on the stone floor, then on the wooden legs of a chair. Only when the room had stopped spinning did he manage to lift his head and look at the face of the man sitting opposite him.

  ‘Vidal,’ he breathed through swollen lips. He could feel a loose tooth and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.

  ‘As you see.’

  ‘Where’s my wife?’

&n
bsp; Vidal didn’t answer.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Piet met Vidal’s gaze. Instantly, he could see he was sick. His pallor and over-bright eyes spoke of a fever and there was a large growth on his temple. It was extraordinary that a man could be so altered by the passing of years but yet be fundamentally unchanged.

  ‘What have you done with my wife?’

  ‘You’ll be reunited with her soon enough.’ Vidal pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Why did you come, Reydon?’

  ‘You know why I’m here.’

  Piet saw something flash across his old enemy’s face. Anger perhaps? Then he realised, confirmation of what Vidal had dreaded.

  ‘Ah, so the papers came to light in Amsterdam after all. I feared they might. I did everything I could to stop that.’

  ‘I would never have known there was something to find. It was your meddling that brought it all to light.’

  Vidal gave the same odd smile. ‘That, I fear, is the way of things.’

  Piet took stock of his situation. The chamber was empty apart from the two of them, though he had no doubt the guards were outside the door. He didn’t know where Minou had been taken. The odds were against him. The best he could do was to keep Vidal talking for as long as possible and pray that le Maistre found a way to help them.

  ‘Did you kill her?’ he asked.

  ‘Your whore of a mother? You overestimate my power, Reydon. I was no more than a babe-in-arms when she died.’

  ‘Mariken Hassels from the Begijnhof community knew the truth.’ Piet kept his voice steady. ‘And my mother and father – your uncle – were legitimately married, as you know.’

  ‘There is no proof of it.’

  Piet met his gaze. ‘There is a document attesting to it.’

  ‘Which you now have?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Piet caught his breath. ‘How long have you known we are cousins?’

  Vidal drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, a gesture Piet remembered well.

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘My uncle confessed to the liaison on his death bed.’

  ‘Their marriage,’ Piet said again, then even though he knew it was a mistake, he asked: ‘Did du Plessis talk of her?’

  ‘Your mother?’ Vidal said with contempt. ‘No. She meant nothing to him. An indiscretion from his youth.’

  Piet forced himself to keep calm. He could not let Vidal provoke him.

  ‘Did he know he had a son?’

  ‘Would it matter if he had?’

  ‘It matters a great deal,’ Piet said, struggling to keep the anger from his voice. ‘Isn’t that what all this is about? And you evidently have a son of your own. Do you acknowledge him as such?’

  Vidal glanced to the door at the rear of the room. ‘The boy is useful. If he ceases to be of use, I will send him back to where he came from.’

  ‘You have no love for him?’

  He laughed. ‘I have no use for such mewling emotions, Reydon.’

  ‘Did you order the attack on my wife in Puivert?’

  Vidal pretended to think. ‘I don’t—’

  Finally, his temper snapped. ‘Answer me!’

  Vidal gave the same, slow smile Piet remembered from their student days in Toulouse.

  ‘Very well. Did I attempt to rid Puivert of the false châtelaine? Yes. It turned out the man chosen to carry out the task was not equal to it. He shot the wrong Huguenot whore.’

  Piet shook his head. ‘Alis was wearing a green dress that day.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s what happened. Alis, yes. I remember her.’ Vidal paused. ‘In truth, I simply intended to detain you in Languedoc while I ascertained where my uncle’s confession of his childhood mistake might be.’

  Piet stared at him in horror. ‘That was your reason? You would kill so casually?’

  Vidal swept his arm around the chamber. ‘All this comes at a cost, Reydon, you should know that. In any case, the assassin failed. You and your family came to Paris all the same. And I gather Puivert has now returned to the true Church without my further intervention. I live only to serve God.’

  ‘So I see.’ Piet looked at him. ‘Though you appear much elevated in rank since last I saw you. I was under the impression that only a Pope was permitted to wear a pallium.’

  Vidal gave a wry smile. ‘I see you have not forgotten everything we were taught in our seminary days.’ He fingered the silk. ‘Though you will see I have made a modification of my own. White crosses instead of black, as a reminder of the joyous rebellion of St Bartholomew’s Day where God’s true Church started to take back control from the false Christians.’

  Piet could see zeal shining in Vidal’s eyes. ‘Is Guise aware of this?’

  ‘I do not have to account to anyone.’

  ‘You have been hiding from him for years.’

  ‘Guise will not live for ever.’

  ‘Maybe not. But you will be judged for your sins, Vidal. In the final reckoning, you will be called to account. You are a murderer and a thief.’

  ‘And you are a heretic,’ Vidal shouted. ‘You will be judged more harshly than I.’ He sat back in the chair, his expression exultant. ‘Look what I have done. This is the beginning of a new era, a new Church, with me at its head. Sacred relics gathered for the glory of God. My place in Heaven is secure.’

  Piet laughed. ‘You forget that I know you. You don’t believe that these relics matter, whether their provenance is authentic or not.’

  ‘You have no idea what I believe,’ Vidal mocked. ‘But to send your daughter to do – well, to do what, Reydon? Did you really think I would be so easily deceived? I learnt the tricks of that trade from you, remember.’

  Piet’s breath caught in his throat. ‘My daughter?’

  Vidal waved his hand dismissively. ‘There is no one else here, Reydon. There is no need for these charades.’

  Piet couldn’t speak. He had never allowed himself to believe that Cabanel’s daughter could possibly be Marta – though he had realised they had to see for themselves – but what if it was true? What if their daughter was alive? What if she was here?

  A myriad memories rushed into Piet’s mind. All the moments of joy and sweetness he had suppressed for twelve years, knowing they would be too much to bear, now came flooding back to him: carrying Marta on his shoulders through the basse cour in Puivert, teaching her to play Queen’s Chess, lifting her onto a horse for the first time.

  Then, scouring the streets of Paris in desperation, the white crosses painted on the doors and white armbands. The massacre. Leaving without her. There were no words that would ever expiate his guilt.

  ‘Where is she?’ he said in a hollow whisper.

  Vidal gestured to the door at the rear of the chamber, as if the question was of no matter.

  ‘How did you know it was her?’ Piet managed to ask.

  Vidal waved his arm. ‘Extraordinary, really. It seems my son found her wandering in the rue du Béthisy two days before the St Bartholomew’s Day rebellion and took her away from the fray. He only told me of this tonight. He saved her life, of that I have no doubt. When she arrived here calling herself Marie Cabanel, he recognised her and I realised you’d sent her.’

  Piet’s thoughts were spinning. Could it be true Vidal had no idea that Marta had been lost to them?

  ‘So, I will ask again,’ Vidal said abruptly. ‘Why are you here, Reydon? You can’t imagine that I will relinquish my inheritance?’

  ‘I am my father’s heir.’

  ‘My uncle didn’t even know you existed.’ For a moment, Vidal’s eyes drifted, then another change seemed to come over him. ‘You should not have come,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘None of you. Look around you. Only one casket remains to be filled. You have taught your daughter well. The copy she brought to me tonight was excellent. Not quite good enough, but excellent all the same.’ Vidal’s right hand briefly touched the replica Sudarium. ‘I will place this excellent copy in the sixth
casket. It might prove useful until the true relic comes to light.’

  Then he reached out and took a knife from the altar. ‘All this is for God’s glory, Reydon. He will understand. He will forgive me for what I do in his name.’

  Piet stared at the blade. It had been twelve years, but he would recognise his knife anywhere. The one he’d given to Aimeric when he rode out from Puivert for the last time.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  Vidal raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s your daughter’s weapon, surely you know that?’ He turned the point towards Piet. ‘We’re wasting time. You and I have stood on opposite sides for too long. I will not let you take from me what it rightfully mine. That you should be foolish enough to come here surprises me. I confess, I shall sleep easier at night without you haunting my dreams.’

  ‘The inheritance will come to me,’ Piet said, trying to keep him talking.

  ‘You will be dead, Reydon. Guards!’

  ‘Have you no courage to do the deed yourself?’

  Vidal held the point close to Piet’s throat, then withdrew. ‘I would not sully my hands with your blood.’

  The two soldiers stepped back into the chamber.

  Piet tried to resist as he was dragged to his feet, but there was nothing he could do. His hands were tied and they were armed, Vidal too. Thinking furiously, he realised his only chance was to attempt to get away from the guards once they were outside. Then, he had to find Minou and … and his daughter.

  ‘Guards!’ Vidal called after them. ‘Where is my son?’

  ‘He is waiting at the quayside,’ one replied.

  ‘Send him here to me.’

  ‘Very good, my lord.’

  Piet felt the guard’s hand on the back of his neck, forcing him forward and into the passageway. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Vidal’s son stepping back into an alcove. Piet wondered how long he’d been there. And if he’d heard his father disavow him.

  CHAPTER NINETY

  When Minou came round, it was to the sound of water and the smell of damp underground tunnels. In the distance, muffled by the thick stone, she could hear the steady rhythm of heavy rain on the lake.