by Kate Mosse
The boy who’d left her in the blue room. Louis.
Marta’s fingers tightened round the chaplet, feeling shame curdle in her stomach. They were good people. They loved one another, she could see it. If they knew the truth about her, they would despise her. The life she had lived was not one of honour, she knew that, but it was the only life she had.
‘My lady of the mists…’
She shook her head. If they knew what she was, what she had done, they would reject her. They were decent people, how could they possibly accept her as their daughter again? It was no good. She would go to Paris, as she’d always intended. She would tell the Duke of Guise what she knew and throw herself on his mercy. All would yet be well. All would yet be as she’d intended it to be.
As she looked around the room one last time, her eyes alighted on the journal Minou had left. Tears caught in her throat, recalling the last conversation they’d had yesterday evening.
‘I have something for you,’ her mother had said, oddly nervous.
‘Before you do, Madame Reydon, may I say something?’
‘Of course.’
‘I understand you believe there is some connection between us. The resemblance is marked, everyone can see. Our demeanour, our eyes, it is extraordinary. But there is no need for you to feel responsible for me. My father left me well provided for.’
Marta blinked away the memory, the look of devastation in Madame Reydon’s eyes, though she had done her best to hide it. It was then Minou had reached into her pocket and taken out her journal. ‘Take this. Read it if you will.’
‘What is it?’
Minou had forced herself to smile. ‘It’s the story of a girl.’
In the blue light of the afternoon, Marta opened the book and read the first date out loud: ‘Chateau de Puivert. Friday the sixth day of June. Fifteen seventy-two.’
Marta took a final look around the chamber, then slipped the journal into her purse and stole to the stables, where her coach was waiting.
* * *
‘I should talk to her again,’ Minou said. ‘She must return with us to Amsterdam, everyone is waiting.
‘You have done everything you could.’
Minou waved her hand. ‘What of this, mon coeur?’ she said in a falsely bright voice. ‘Even if Louis survived, this is rightfully yours. This is all built on the du Plessis fortune.’
Piet dropped his head between his hands. ‘I cannot believe he’s gone.’
‘Vidal?’ Minou pulled at a thread on the arm of her chair. ‘Vidal believed himself invincible. He never thought that death would come to him – at least, not before he was ready.’ She paused. ‘Do you believe that his death was an accident?’
Piet ran his fingers through his grey hair. ‘It’s hard to say. The boy was shocked at what he’d done, I believe that. In the brief time I spent with Vidal there was a wildness, a zealotry, an obsession with what he thought he would do here.’
‘What did he want?’
Piet sighed. ‘He saw himself as the Priest-Confessor of a new Church, to rival the Catholic League. To rival Rome. The acquisition of relics was the way in which he thought to achieve it.’
‘Power, then.’
Piet thought for a moment. ‘No. He feared the dying of the light. He feared what was to come. Hell, not Heaven. He died afraid, Minou, and unshriven.’
Minou covered his hand with hers. ‘It’s over now. There is nothing more you can do.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come,’ Piet called.
‘Monsieur, your carriage is waiting.’
‘Very well.’
Minou stood up. ‘I’ll go to her now,’ she said quickly. ‘See if she is ready.’
The servant cleared his throat. ‘Mademoiselle Cabanel asked me to give you this, Madame Reydon.’
Minou felt the ground shift from under her. She felt as if she was watching another’s hand reach out and unfold the paper, though she already knew what it would say.
‘Minou, what is it?’
Piet’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.
‘Minou?’
Unable to speak, she handed the note to him. There were only two words, but enough to break her heart in pieces.
Forgive me.
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
ZEEDIJK
Two months later
Wednesday, 31 October
The bells of the Oude Kerk were ringing out over the canals and waterways of Amsterdam. In Plaats, buyers and sellers haggled over the price of herring and peat as they always did. Women and men breathed warm air into their cold hands beneath the colonnades of the old medieval Stadhuis, a predominantly Calvinist council now.
After a gentle September, when the leaves on the trees were claret and golden and copper, painting Amsterdam bright with their colours, the weather was beginning to turn. There were few masts left in the IJ. The last of the ocean-going ships had all sailed on the October tides. The birds were making their final preparations for the journey south to find the sun. To the Islas Canarias, to Lisbon and Seville, to the Cape of Good Hope.
Minou had finished the last quarter’s accounts. As the air became cooler in the room, she rolled down her sleeves and considered calling Agnes to bring kindling for the fire. She looked at the cold grate. The drawing in of the evenings always saddened her, though she liked the winter in Amsterdam, too, when the canals froze and the children could skate on Singel, tearing up the ice on wooden skates, creating such beautiful white pictures.
She turned back to her papers. They were all expected at Cornelia’s and Alis’s house to honour her feast day. Salvadora was already there, preferring the comfort of Warmoesstraat to the busy working environment of the hofje. Today, Minou was forty-two years of age. She had lived to make old bones. She and Piet, Johannus and Bernarda were all going, together with Frans and Agnes, the two longest-serving residents of their orphanage.
There was only one person missing.
Minou blotted the row of figures. She was glad of the diversion. The Eve of All Hallows was little observed in the Calvinist Church but, on days such as today, she remembered the observations of her Catholic childhood – the rose-water biscuits, the sip of hot wine, the flowers laid on the graves of the dead. She and Aimeric and Alis, standing with their father in the shadow of the Basilica of Saint-Nazaire in Carcassonne, listening to her father speak a prayer at the grave of their mother, before hurrying back inside to the fire.
She opened a brown cardboard file and turned her attention to the latest proposals being advanced by the governors of the new city orphanage, on the site of Saint-Lucie’s Convent, on Kalverstraat. Their success in Zeedijk meant that she and Piet were much in demand to advise. Aunt Salvadora, in residence since August, had proved herself an excellent counsellor, too. She had proved a staunch ally and support in the dark days after her and Piet’s return from Chartres alone.
She pulled the candle towards her and started to read.
‘Moeder.’
Minou looked up. ‘Bernarda, you are ahead of the clock. It’s not yet time to go. Can you amuse yourself for a while longer?’
‘There is someone at the door asking for you. A lady.’
Minou leant back in the chair. ‘Did she give her name? Or what business she had with me?’
The girl frowned. ‘I am not sure. She spoke in French, and so fast. I fear I misunderstood.’
Minou smiled. ‘I’m sure you understood more than you thought. What do you think she said?’
Bernarda looked at her feet. ‘I don’t know. She is very beautiful.’
Minou felt a wave of pity for her awkward daughter, who stumbled and blushed and always felt in the wrong.
‘It doesn’t matter. I am sure you did very well.’ She stood up. ‘Show her in. You go and bid your brother and father get ready. I’m sure it won’t take long. Then, at six o’clock, we shall go to Warmoesstraat and eat pancakes.’
Bernarda’s face brightened. ‘
And drink beer?’
‘Since it is my feast day, you may have a little beer, yes. But only a little, mind. Off you go.’
Minou tidied the papers on the desk. She put the lid on her inkwell and wrapped the tip of her quill so it was ready for the morning.
She heard footsteps and turned to greet the visitor, hoping the matter would not take too long.
The woman came into the chamber in a haze of blue velvet and silk. Minou watched as her eyes went to the tapestry on the wall, then returned to settle on Minou herself. Such extraordinary eyes, one blue and one brown.
‘I am Marta,’ she said.
Minou nodded. There was no need to say more.
EPILOGUE
CHARTRES
February 1594
Ten Years Later
CHARTRES CATHEDRAL
Sunday, 27 February 1594
In the cold sunshine of a February afternoon, Minou and her family stood with the other honoured guests in the soaring nave. Wearing velvet and fur and jewels, diadems and crowns, all had come to witness the first ever crowning of a French king in the mighty cathedral of Chartres.
Nominally monarch for five years, ne the Catholic League nor Catherine de’ Medici had been prepared to accept a Huguenot on the throne of France, so the wars had dragged on. Now, at last, Guise was dead and, pragmatic to the last, in order to win Paris over, Navarre had converted to Catholicism in July 1593. Though his decision had not pleased many, Minou believed it was the best chance of a lasting peace for a generation. Salvadora, having despised Navarre for years, was now his greatest advocate. A prince of the royal blood, indeed.
Minou turned to smile at Piet, his eyes shining bright with the occasion. All the Huguenot nobility were here, standing shoulder to shoulder with their Catholic brothers and sisters. Alis and Cornelia had remained in Amsterdam with Salvadora, who was too frail to travel, but everyone else had come with them: Johannus, Bernarda and Marta.
Henri of Navarre stepped up to the altar where the Bishop of Chartres stood waiting. Dressed in a crimson satin shirt, he kissed the sword of Charlemagne, then prostrated himself before the altar.
‘Why is his Queen Marguerite not with him?’
Minou smiled at her eight-year-old granddaughter. ‘They are estranged.’
‘What does estranged mean? And why is he lying down?’
Minou put her finger to her lips. ‘It’s a tradition.’
The Bishop of Chartres prayed over the King, anointing him on the head, on his chest, between the shoulders and on the elbows, each time saying the same words.
‘Ugno te in Regem.’
‘Why does he keep saying the same thing always?’
‘Hush,’ Marta whispered. ‘You must not talk.’
Minou and Piet grinned at one another, remembering every occasion in Marta’s childhood when they’d had to beg Marta to hold her tongue. They knew nothing about the father of Marta’s child – she had refused to speak of what had happened or where she had been in the two months since leaving Chartres in August 1584 and arriving in Amsterdam on the eve of All Saints nearly ten weeks later – but, in her temperament and character, the little girl was the mirror image of her mother: quicksilver smart, impatient, bold beyond her years.
Navarre stood to be vested in a blue tunic sewn with gold lilies and a chasuble damascened with pomegranates, then he knelt again to be anointed in the palms of his hands.
‘Why is it taking so long?’
This time, Bernarda put her arm around her little niece’s shoulder.
Gloves, velvet boots, the ring and the sceptre were then presented to the King by the lords of the realm, then finally the bishop took the crown from the altar and placed it upon his head.
‘Vive le Roi! Long live the King. Vive le Roi!’
The cry echoed around the cathedral, spreading out into the streets where the crowds had gathered. Then the hautboys, bugles, trumpets, fifes and drums sounded, the cannons roared out the salute, the musketeers fired volley after volley and the Te Deum was sung. Minou put her hand upon Piet’s cheek. His hair was white now, but his spirit was undimmed.
‘This is a great day.’
‘France is finally united once more. A new era begins.’
Smiling, Minou turned to Marta and was astonished at the change that had come over her daughter. Her eyes were wide with shock and the colour had drained from her face.
‘Whatever is it? What’s the matter?’
Shaking her head, Marta clamped her hand over her mouth.
Minou followed the line of her gaze. Up towards the altar, where the noblemen of Chartres were providing a guard of honour around the new king. In the middle of the row stood a tall, dark-haired man with a stripe of white in his hair.
She turned cold. Minou looked back to her daughter, then at her granddaughter, who was tracing patterns in the dust with the toe of her shoe. And she realised.
‘It was him?’ she said in a horrified whisper. ‘He’s Louise’s father?’
Marta met her mother’s eye, then she nodded.
Outside, heralds threw gold and silver coins into the crowd.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are so many generous people who’ve given practical, professional and enthusiastic support during the writing of The City of Tears:
My dear friend and publisher at Mantle, Maria Rejt, and the entire London Pan Mac gang, especially Anthony Forbes Watson, Josie Humber, Kate Green, Sarah Arratoon, Lara Borlenghi, Jeremy Trevathan, Sara Lloyd, Kate Tolley, James Annal, Stuart Dwyer, Brid Enright, Anna Bond, Charlotte Williams, Jonathan Atkins, Laura Ricchetti, Cormac Kinsella; and everyone at Pan Mac Australia, New Zealand and India, and Terry Morris and Veronica Napier at Pan Mac South Africa.
My fabulous agent, Mark Lucas, and everyone in my corner at The Soho Agency and ILA, including Niamh O’Grady, Alice Saunders, Nicki Kennedy, Sam Edenborough, Jenny Robson, Katherine West, Alice Natali and George Lucas at Inkwell Management in New York.
I’m lucky to have so many exceptional foreign publishers and translators, in particular: Maaike le Noble, Frederika van Traa and Jorien de Vries at Meulenhoff-Boekerij, and Rienk Tychon for his superb help with sixteenth-century Dutch history (and spellings!); my editor Catherine Richards at Minotaur Books, and the whole St Martin’s team in New York, including Hector DeJean, Danielle Prielipp and Nettie Finn; everyone at Planeta de Libros, especially Míriam Vall Rosinach; at Sonatine Éditions Marie Misandeau, Carine Fannius, Auxanne Bourreille and Muriel Arles; Lena Schaefer, Stefanie Zeller and Barbara Fischer at Bastei Lübbe; everyone at Newton Crompton Editori.
Many thanks for superb advice from Dr Emily Guerry (Senior Lecturer in Medieval History at the University of Kent and Director of the Centre for Medieval and Early Modern Studies) about the Sainte-Chapelle and sixteenth-century Paris (any mistakes are mine!); Dr Diana Winch, Director of the Huguenot Museum, and her team; Dr Tessa Murdoch FSA, for so many helpful introductions to Huguenot organisations in New Paltz, New York and South Carolina; the staff of the Huguenot Museum in Franschhoek, South Africa. Huge thanks to Alain Pignon, Manager du centre-ville de Carcassonne (who knows everything there is to know about Carcassonnais history) and to Christine and Adélaïde Pujol for their hospitality at the Hôtel de la Cité over many years.
I was so grateful to be invited by Nederlands Letterenfonds/Dutch Foundation for Literature to be Writer in Residence in Amsterdam in April 2019 while researching this novel. My special thanks to Maaike Pereboom.
All writers know how family, friends and neighbours help keep daily life going during the writing of a book, bringing coffee, wine and good cheer from the outside world, so special thanks to: Jon Evans, Clare Parsons, Tony Langham, Jill Green, Anthony Horowitz, Saira Keevil, Stefan van Raay (who also allowed me to ‘borrow’ his name), Linda and Roger Heald, Dale Rooks, Syl Saller, Tessa Ross, Margaret Dascalopoulos, Sylvia Horton, Pierre Sanchez and Chantal Bilautou.
All love and thanks to my family, especially my legendary mother-in-l
aw Rosie Turner; my brothers-in-law Mark Huxley and photographer Benjamin Graham, who’s so generous with his time and always on hand to step in; my lovely sister Caroline Matthews; my brilliant sister Beth Huxley (and Thea and Ellen) for her endless support (not limited to dog-walking, balloon-buying and tea-making!); to Ollie Burston for puzzle-doing and cheese; and to the memory of my parents, Richard and Barbara Mosse, much loved and much missed.
Finally, as always, I could do none of this without my beloved husband Greg Mosse – my first love and first reader – and our brilliant, amazing (grown-up!) children Martha Mosse and Felix Mosse. Were it not for you three, there’d be little point to any of it. I’m so proud of you.
ALSO BY KATE MOSSE
The Burning Chambers Series
The Burning Chambers
The Languedoc Trilogy
Labyrinth
Sepulchre
Citadel
Other Fiction & Stories
The Winter Ghosts
The Mistletoe Bride & Other Haunting Tales
The Taxidermist’s Daughter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATE MOSSE is a multiple New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author with sales of more than eight million copies in thirty-eight languages. Her previous novels include Labyrinth, Sepulchre, The Winter Ghosts, Citadel, The Taxidermist’s Daughter, and The Burning Chambers. Kate is the founder director of the Women’s Prize for Fiction, a visiting professor at the University of Chichester, and in June 2013, was awarded an Officer of the Order of the British Empire for services to literature. She divides her time between Chichester in the United Kingdom and Carcassonne in France. You can sign up for email updates here.
