The Burning Chambers

by Kate Mosse

‘I will rejoice at your departing!’ the woman yelled. ‘Students! You’re idle wastrels, the lot of you! If any of you did but an honest day’s work, you’d not have time to freeze to death.’

  As she slammed the window shut, the women on the street applauded, the men grumbled.

  ‘You shouldn’t let her speak to you like that,’ said a man with pockmarked skin. ‘Got no right to speak to a gentleman of your standing. Not her place.’

  ‘You should report her to the Seneschal,’ said another. ‘Setting about your person like that, it’s common assault.’

  The oldest of the women laughed. ‘Ha! For emptying a pail of water on his head. He’s lucky it wasn’t a piss pot!’

  Amused, Minou walked on, their squabbling growing fainter behind her. She drew level with the stables, where her father kept their old mare, Canigou, then approached the foot of the stone bridge over the river. The Aude was high, but there was no wind and the sails of the Moulin du Roi and the salt mills were quiet. On the far side, the Bastide looked serene in the early light. On the banks, the laundry women were already laying out the day’s first swathes of bleached fabric to dry in the sun. Minou paused to take a sou from her purse then walked the hundred paces across the bridge.

  She handed the coin to the gatekeeper for the toll. He tried it between his teeth and found it to be true. Then the girl known as Minou Joubert crossed the boundary dividing the old Carcassonne from the new.

  I will not allow my inheritance to be taken from me.

  The years of lying beneath his vile and sweating body. The bruises and the indignities, the blows when my flowers came each month. Submitting to his grasping fingers on my breasts, between my legs. His hands twisting my hair at the roots until the blood pinked upon my head. His sour breath. Such degradation at the hands of a pig, for nothing? For the sake of a Will attested some nineteen years past, so he says. His near-death-bed confession, the wanderings of his decaying mind? Or is there some truth in what he says?

  If there is a Will, where might it be? The voices are silent.

  The Book of Ecclesiastes says that to everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.

  Upon this day, with my left hand upon the Holy Catholic Bible and my right freely holding the quill, I set this down. This is my solemn vow that cannot now be broken. I swear by Almighty God that I shall not let the offspring of a Huguenot whore take from me what is rightfully mine.

  I will see them dead first.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LA CITÉ

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been –’ Piet plucked a figure from the air – ‘twelve months since my last confession.’

  From the other side of the confessional in the Cathedral of Saint-Nazaire, he heard a cough. Moving his face closer to the grille that separated priest from penitent, Piet suddenly smelled the distinctive hair oil of his old friend and caught his breath. Strange how a scent, after all this time, could still cause the heart strings to crack.

  He had met Vidal ten years ago, whilst they had been fellow students at the Collège de Foix in Toulouse. The son of a French merchant and Dutch prostitute, who’d had no choice in her profession if she and her son were to eat, Piet was a deserving, if disadvantaged, scholar. Possessed of a quick wit and a few letters of recommendation, he had taken the opportunity of an education in canon law, civil law and theology.

  Vidal came from a branch of a noble, but recently disgraced, Toulousain family. His father had been executed for treason and his lands confiscated. It was only thanks to his uncle, a prominent and wealthy ally of the Guise family, that he had been admitted to the college at all.

  Outsiders both, their intellectual curiosity and application marked them out from the others in their class, most of whom had little interest in scholarship. They quickly formed a bond of friendship, spending much of their time in one another’s company. Drinking, laughing, debating late into the night, they came to know one another’s characters better than they knew their own, faults as well as virtues. They could finish one another’s sentences and knew what the other was thinking before the thought was put into words.

  They were as close as brothers.

  When their studies were concluded, it was no surprise to Piet that Vidal took Holy Orders. How better to restore his family’s fortunes than to be part of the establishment that had stripped them of their ancient rights? Vidal rose up quickly through the ranks: from curate in the parish church of Saint-Antonin-Noble-Val, to a position as priest-confessor to a noble household in the Haute Vallée, before returning as canon at the Cathedral of Saint-Étienne. Already, he was being spoken of as a future Bishop of Toulouse.

  Piet had chosen another path.

  ‘And what has happened to keep you so far from God’s grace, my son?’ Vidal asked.

  Putting his kerchief across his mouth, Piet leant towards the grille separating them.

  ‘Father, I have read forbidden books and found much to recommend within them. I have written pamphlets questioning the authority of Holy Scripture and the Church Fathers, I have sworn false oaths, I have taken the Lord’s name in vain. I am guilty of the sin of pride. I have lain with women. I . . . have born false witness.’

  This last confession was, at least, true.

  Piet caught a sharp intake of breath. Was Vidal shocked at the litany of sins or had he recognised his voice?

  ‘Are you heartily sorry for having offended the Lord?’ Vidal said carefully. ‘Do you dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell?’

  Despite himself, Piet felt connected to the familiarity of the ritual, soothed by the knowledge of how very many people had knelt in the same place as he did now, their heads bowed, seeking forgiveness for their sins. For a moment, he felt himself connected to all those who, by this act of confession, had stepped out restored into the world once more.

  All lies, of course. All untrue. Yet it was what gave the old religion such power, such a hold over people’s hearts and minds. Piet was surprised to realise that even now, after all he had seen and suffered in the name of God, he was not immune to the sweet promise of superstition.

  ‘My son?’ Vidal said again. ‘Why have you exiled yourself from our Lord’s grace?’

  This was the moment. There were no castles in the sky, there was no need for other men to speak for him in an ancient language long dead. His fate was in his own hands. Piet had to declare himself now. They had been as close as brothers once, born within a day of each other, in the third month of the same year. But the violent disagreement between them five years ago had never been resolved and, since then, the world had changed for the worse.

  If Piet revealed himself and Vidal summoned the authorities, then he could expect no mercy. He had known men stretched on the rack for less. Then again, if his friend remained the principled man he had been in his youth, there was a chance that all might still be put right between them.

  Piet steeled himself then, and for the first time since walking into the cathedral, he spoke in his own voice, an accent shaped by his childhood in the backstreets of Amsterdam and overlaid with the colours of the Midi.

  ‘I have failed to honour my obligations. To my teachers and my benefactors. To my friends . . .’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘To my friends.’ He swallowed. ‘To those I held dear.’

  ‘Piet, is it you? Can it be?’

  ‘It is good to hear your voice, Vidal,’ he replied, emotion catching in his throat.

  He heard another intake of breath: ‘That is no longer my name.’

  ‘Once it was.’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘Five years. Not so very long.’

  Silence fell dead between them. Then, a slight shifting on the other side of the lattice. Piet hardly dared to breathe.

  ‘My friend, I—’ he began.

  ‘You have no right to call me friend after what you did, what you said. I cannot . . .’

  Vidal’s voice tailed away,
the chasm between them absolute. Then Piet heard a familiar sound, the drumming of fingers against the wooden walls of the confessional. In their youth, whenever Vidal was considering a particularly complex matter of law or doctrine, he had done the same. Beating out a rhythm on his desk, on a bench, on the ground beneath the elm tree in the middle of the courtyard in the Collège de Foix. Vidal claimed it helped him to think clearly. It had driven their tutors and fellow students to distraction.

  Piet waited, but Vidal did not speak. Finally, he had no choice but to return to reciting the old catechism knowing that, as priest-confessor, Vidal would have no choice but to answer.

  ‘For all these and all the sins of my past life,’ Piet said, ‘I ask for God’s pardon. Will you give me absolution, Father?’

  ‘How dare you! It is a serious offence to mock the holy sacrament of confession.’

  ‘That was not my intention.’

  ‘Yet here you are, speaking words which, by your own admission, you believe have no worth. Unless you have come to your senses and returned to the true Church.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ Piet let his head rest briefly against the wooden grille. ‘I do not mean to offend you.’ He paused. ‘You are a difficult man to find, Vidal. I have several times written. Back in Toulouse, I had hoped to lay eyes upon you this past winter.’ He paused again. ‘Did you receive my letters?’

  Vidal did not answer. ‘The question is why you should be looking for me at all. What do you want, Piet?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Piet sighed. ‘At least . . . I would give you an explanation.’

  ‘An apology?’

  ‘An explanation,’ Piet repeated. ‘The misunderstanding between us—’

  ‘A misunderstanding! Is that what you call it? Is that how you have salved your conscience these past years?’

  Piet put his hand on the partition. ‘You are still angry.’

  ‘Does that surprise you? I loved you as a brother, put my trust in you, and you repaid that love by stealing—’

  ‘No! Not that!’ Piet exclaimed. ‘I know you believe I betrayed our friendship, Vidal, and yes, the evidence points to it. But, on my honour, I am not a thief. I have many times attempted to find you, in the hope of healing the rift between us.’

  Piet heard Vidal sigh. He hoped, suddenly, that his words had pierced his friend’s armour.

  ‘How did you know I was in Carcassonne?’ Vidal asked eventually.

  ‘A manservant at Saint-Étienne. I paid handsomely for the information. Then again, I paid him well to pass on my letters to you, and it seems he did not.’

  Piet’s hand went to the leather satchel slung across his shoulder. He was in Carcassonne on a different mission. It was a strange coincidence that, having finally given up hope of ever seeing Vidal again, he should catch sight of him this morning. A coincidence, for what else could it be? Those who knew Piet was in Carcassonne could be counted upon the fingers of one hand. He had kept the details of his journey to himself. Not a soul knew where he was lodging.

  ‘All I am asking, Vidal,’ he said steadily, ‘is for an hour of your time – half an hour, if that is all you will grant me. The breach between us lies heavy on my heart.’

  Piet stopped. He knew if he pushed his friend, it would result in an opposite outcome. He could hear the steady beat of his own heart as he waited. All the words, said and unsaid since the fierce argument that had ended their friendship, seemed to hang in the air.

  ‘Did you steal the Shroud?’ Vidal asked.

  There was no warmth in his voice and, yet, Piet felt a flicker of hope. For Vidal to be asking the question at all, surely meant he had doubts that Piet was guilty of the charge levelled against him.

  ‘I did not,’ he said in a level voice.

  ‘But you knew the theft was to be attempted?’

  ‘Vidal, meet with me away from here, and I will try to answer all of your questions, I give you my word.’

  ‘Your word! This from a man who has already confessed to swearing false oaths. Your word means nothing! I ask you again. Even if it was not your hand that took it, did you know that such a crime was to be attempted? Yes, or no?’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Piet said.

  ‘It is that simple. Either you are a thief – in thought, if not in deed – or your conscience is clear.’

  ‘Nothing is simple in this world, Vidal. As a priest, you above all men must know this. Please, my friend.’ He paused, then said it again. ‘Alsjeblieft, mijn vriend.’

  Behind the lattice, Piet sensed Vidal recoil and he knew his words had hit their mark. When they were students, he had taught Vidal a few words of his mother’s tongue.

  ‘That was unfair.’

  ‘Let me put my case,’ Piet replied. ‘If I have still not persuaded you to think better of me, then on my honour I will—’

  ‘What? Hand yourself over to the authorities?’

  Piet sighed. ‘Trouble you no further.’

  He ran through the hours ahead in his mind. His rendezvous was at noon but, after that, his time was his own. He had intended to return immediately to Toulouse but, if Vidal was prepared to meet him, there was good reason to delay his departure until the following morning.

  ‘If you do not feel it is politic to talk here in La Cité, Vidal, come to the Bastide. I’m lodging in a boarding house in rue du Marché. The owner, Madame Noubel, is a widow and discreet. We would not be disturbed. Save for an hour at midday, I shall be there all the afternoon and evening.’

  Vidal laughed. ‘I do not think so. The Bastide is more sympathetic to men of your persuasion, shall I say, than of mine. My robes mark me out. I would not risk those streets.’

  ‘In which case,’ Piet pressed, ‘I will come to your lodgings. Or anywhere that pleases you. Choose a place and a time, and I will be there.’

  Vidal’s fingers began to drum again on the worn wooden partition. Piet prayed his old friend had not lost his habit of curiosity. A dangerous quality in a priest, their teachers at the Collège de Foix had cautioned, where submission and obedience counted for so much.

  ‘I will be as mist within fog,’ Piet reassured him. ‘No one will see me.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The drumming got louder, more insistent. Then, just as abruptly, Vidal stopped.

  ‘Very well,’ he said.

  ‘Dank je wel,’ Piet breathed his thanks. ‘Where will I find you?’

  ‘My rooms are in rue de Notre Dame, in the oldest part of La Cité,’ he answered, brisk now that he had reached a decision. ‘A fine stone building, some three storeys high, you cannot mistake it. There is a garden at the back of the house. I will see to it that the gate is left unlocked. Come after Compline, there will be few abroad at that hour, but take every care not to be seen. Every care. No one must have any cause to associate us.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Piet said again.

  ‘Do not thank me,’ Vidal answered sharply. ‘I promise no more than that I will listen.’

  Suddenly, a sound reverberated through the stone alleyways of the nave. A creak, then the gravelled scrape of the heavy north doors against the flagstones.

  Another penitent come at dawn to Confession?

  Piet cursed himself for having acted on impulse, but the sight of Vidal walking alone into the cathedral had been too good a piece of fortune to let go. The older part of his soul, raised on miracles and relics, might have said it was a sign. His modern mind dismissed such medieval thoughts. It was Man, not God, who made the world turn.

  Piet heard footsteps and his hand stole to his poniard. How many doors were there in and out of the cathedral? Several, no doubt, but he had failed to mark them. He strained to listen. Two pairs of feet rather than one? Soft, as if intending not to be heard.

  ‘Piet?’

  ‘We have company,’ he whispered.

  With the tip of his blade, Piet lifted the curtain and peered out into the nave. At first, he could see nothing. Then, in weak morning light filtering through the windows behind
the altar, Piet spied two men advancing with their weapons drawn.

  ‘Is it usual for members of the garrison to enter a holy place armed?’ he asked. ‘Or without the permission of the bishop?’

  In Toulouse, altercations between Huguenots and Catholics were commonplace, resulting in more soldiers – both private militias and recruits in the town guard – on the streets. He had not thought such levels of unrest had spread yet to Carcassonne.

  ‘Are they of the garrison?’ Vidal asked urgently. ‘Can you see the royal crest?’

  Piet peered into the gloom. ‘I can see little to distinguish them.’

  ‘The Seneschal’s livery is blue.’

  ‘These men are wearing green.’ He dropped his voice further. ‘Vidal, if they should approach you, deny all knowledge of me. You saw no one. No one came to confession this morning. Not even a soldier would risk damning his soul by harming a priest in a state of grace.’

  The assurance stuck in his throat. These were times of blood and disorder. Piet had seen enough on his journey south to Languedoc to know that a church was no longer a place of sanctuary, if, indeed, it had ever been. He looked out again. The soldiers were moving across the transept now and searching the side chapel behind the chancel. It would not be long before they moved their attention to this side of the cathedral. He could not be discovered here.

  ‘I entered through the north doors,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Save those, what other exits are there?’

  ‘There is a door into the bishop’s palace set in the west wall, and another beneath the rose window, though I fear they will be locked at this hour.’ He paused for a moment. ‘In the southeast corner of the cathedral there are another two doors. One leads to the tomb of Bishop Radulphe, a dead end. The other, to the sacristy. Forbidden to all but the bishop and his acolytes. It leads directly out into the cloisters.’

  ‘Will not the sacristy door also be locked?’

  ‘It is kept open to allow the canons access day and night. Once there, keep the refectory and infirmary buildings to your right, and you will find a gate that takes you out into Place Saint-Nazaire.’