The Burning Chambers

by Kate Mosse

  Later, I gave my confessor the comfort men desire, even those who stand closest to God’s heart.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LA CITÉ

  From the cover of the apothecary’s doorway, Piet looked out into the street. Steam was rising from the cobblestones. Everything glistened bright with promise. Of his pursuivants, there was no sign.

  Piet stepped out of the doorway, still asking himself the same question. Had he misread the situation? Was it likely that the soldiers knew who he was? No. More probable they had seen a man – a stranger to Carcassonne – making his way by stealth into the cathedral and had gone to investigate. There were rumours aplenty of priests being attacked at prayer. His reaction spoke of guilt and so, of course, they had pursued him.

  On the other hand, what if there was more to it? Piet was certain that he had not been followed from Toulouse to Carcassonne. He’d taken a circuitous route through the Lauragais and would have noticed someone on his tail. Since arriving he had taken every care. His horse was stabled in Trivalle and he had told no one where he was lodging in the Bastide, until Vidal this past hour.

  Heads or tails, a roll of the dice. Should he stay or quit Carcassonne now, while he was still at liberty? Had his description been circulated? Even now were more soldiers looking for him? Had he become a risk to his comrades? Despite every precaution, was there a spy within the group? Either in Toulouse or amongst those with whom he was due to parley at noon? Each Carcassonnais came foresworn, their loyalties vouched for, yet Piet had spent long enough in the melting pot of London to know that any one of them could be a traitor. But he was loath to abandon the rendezvous without due cause.

  The sole question was should he stay until tonight, and meet with Vidal, or leave? He did not want to bring trouble to his friend’s door, yet the estrangement between them lay heavy. Vidal was the first person – the only person – who had touched his heart since his beloved mother, dead for many years now. If he left Carcassonne without seeing him again, the chance to put things right between them would be lost. Perhaps forever.

  Piet continued to where Vidal had said his lodgings were to be found, in the oldest part of La Cité. Red Roman tiles were layered between the grey stones of the towers and he found the house without difficulty. He examined the latch on the garden gate, noted there was a tavern opposite where he could wait out the hours between the lighting of the lamps and their meeting, then moved on.

  A crowd of women and children were gathering around a large well, pails in hand, each waiting their turn to draw water. They looked healthy and well, a sharp contrast to many of the children who came into Piet’s passing care in Toulouse. A little girl with a mass of black curls stood scowling up at a fine-looking boy of perhaps thirteen. Ignoring his sister, he was teasing two older girls. One had the complexion of a milkmaid and was spirited. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink in the pinch of the morning air and her brown eyes sparkled. Her friend was less fortunate. Her skin was pockmarked and her shoulders hunched, as if she passed her days hoping not to be noticed.

  The boy swung his full pail back over the stone ledge, then set a kiss on the lips of the prettier girl.

  ‘Aimeric, how you dare!’ she cried. ‘You are too bold!’

  ‘Ha! If you don’t want to be kissed, Marie, you shouldn’t be so sweet on the eye.’

  ‘I’ll tell my mother!’

  He feigned a swoon. ‘That’s no way to treat an admirer who is sick with love for you!’

  He blew her another heartfelt kiss. This time, she threw out her hand to catch the imagined love-token in the air. Piet found himself smiling. What he would give to be young again and without a care.

  ‘Adieu, Aimeric,’ Marie called.

  The boy took his sister’s hand. ‘Come, Alis,’ he said, then they disappeared into a nearby house with a rambling wild rose over the lintel. Piet watched the plain friend stare at the closed door for a moment, a mixture of jealousy and longing writ clear upon her face, and his heart ached for her.

  Piet made his way down rue Saint-Jean, then through the inner walls into the lists. Ahead, a narrow gate appeared to lead straight out into the countryside.

  ‘En garde.’

  In the tilting yard, two richly dressed boys – no doubt sons of the Seneschal’s household – were practising their strokes under the gimlet eye of their fencing master.

  ‘Appel, parry. Appel, parry. No!’

  The sound of their capped foils clashed as they lunged at one another, then lunged again. Neither boy was fleet of foot, nor gave the impression of being interested in their lesson, but the instructor was unrelenting. Piet had taught himself to fight: with bare knuckles, sticks, poniard or sword, whatever got the job done. His methods were effective, if not elegant.

  ‘Again. Try again.’

  There was no one on duty at the gate. A wisp of steam floating up into the cold air pinpointed where the guard had gone to relieve himself. Piet followed the line of the stone barbican down to the river, then retraced his steps to the stables where he had left his horse the previous evening.

  ‘I might have need of my horse tonight, or else early on the morrow,’ he said to the groom, pressing a generous tip into his hand. ‘Can you keep her bridled and ready?’

  ‘As you wish, Monsieur.’

  ‘And there will be another sou for you if you keep your peace. No need for others to know my business.’

  The boy, gap toothed, grinned. ‘I never even saw you.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LA BASTIDE

  The morning trade was brisk. Minou barely had a moment to herself.

  It was not until well past eleven o’clock that she dragged her father’s high stool into the doorway and sat down to rest her feet. She ate the fennel pie, washing the buttery pastry down with ale, then played a wild game of pat-a-cake with the younger Sanchez children until her palms were sore. Musing on the provenance of the letter, she enquired casually of her neighbours if anyone had noticed an early visitor to the shop. No one had.

  The bells were striking the quarter-hour shy of midday when Minou heard shouting. Recognising Madame Noubel’s voice, she stepped out to greet her.

  Cécile Noubel was a popular figure in rue du Marché. She had buried two husbands, the second of whom had settled upon her the deeds to the boarding house. In her autumn years, she finally had the freedom to live as she pleased.

  ‘It is by order of the Seneschal,’ the younger soldier was saying. A bare-faced boy, only a few wisps on his chin, he looked scarcely old enough to carry arms.

  ‘The Seneschal? The Seneschal has no jurisdiction in the Bastide, and he most certainly has no jurisdiction over my boarding house. I pay my taxes. I know my rights.’ She folded her arms. ‘In any case, how do you know the villain is lodging here?’

  ‘We have it on unimpeachable authority,’ the boy was saying.

  ‘That will do,’ the captain cut in. Broad and heavily built, he had a thick brown beard and a vertical scar that ran the length of his left cheek. ‘You are suspected of harbouring a known felon. Our information is that he has taken lodgings in the Bastide. We have authority to search all premises where he might be hiding. Yours included.’

  Other neighbours had come into the street to see what the commotion was, or were watching from their upper windows. Madame Noubel drew herself up. Her colour was high, but she looked solid and immoveable.

  ‘Hiding? Am I to understand that you are accusing me of knowingly harbouring a criminal?’

  ‘Of course not, Madame Noubel,’ the younger man said unhappily, ‘but we are authorised, charged – that is to say, under clear orders – to search your premises. Acting on information received. The charge is serious.’

  She shook her head. ‘If you have a warrant from the Présidial – which, so far as I am aware, is still responsible for the governance of the Bastide, not the Seneschal in La Cité – then show it to me, and I shall give you leave to enter. If you do not have such a warrant, you can go wh
istle!’

  ‘Cinc minuta, Madama,’ the boy pleaded, dropping into the local language in an attempt to get on her good side. ‘It will take but five minutes.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant, or no?’

  The captain pushed him out of the way. ‘Are you refusing to comply with our orders, woman?’

  ‘Sire,’ the boy murmured, ‘Madame Noubel is much respected in Carcassonne. There are many who would speak in her defence.’

  Although the crowd was enjoying the pantomime, Minou noticed the boy kept glancing at the older man and a shiver of alarm went down her spine. Were they even soldiers? They wore military surcoats, but with no insignia.

  The captain prodded the boy in the chest. ‘If you challenge my authority again, paysan,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I’ll have you stripped until you can’t walk for a week.’

  The boy dropped his eyes. ‘Oui, mon Capitaine.’

  ‘Oui, mon Capitaine,’ the captain mimicked. ‘You are a maggot, a kennel rat. You Southerners are all the same. Get on with it. Search the rooms. Every last corner of this boarding house. If the felon is here, use any force necessary to subdue him, but do not kill him. Now!’ he shouted, spraying beads of spittle onto the boy’s cheek. ‘Unless your sympathy for these peasants means you would rather keep their company in gaol?’

  In that instant, a cloud crossed the face of the noonday sun, plunging the street into grey shadow, and everything seemed to happen at once. Minou stepped closer. The boy moved awkwardly to the door, as the captain barged Madame Noubel aside to get past. He did not push hard, but she was taken off balance and fell heavily against the frame of the door, cracking her head.

  Blood oozed from the wound, staining her white bonnet a vivid red and a shrill scream rang out. Monsieur Sanchez stepped forward just as Minou began to run.

  ‘Stay back,’ the captain shouted, ‘all of you, else you will find yourselves arrested and charged with obstructing the Seneschal’s orders. Do you understand? We seek a murderer. The law is the law, in Carcassonne as much as in the more civilised regions of France.’

  Minou heard the warning but pushed through to the front of the crowd. The soldier turned on her.

  ‘You. Tend to this harridan, this shrew. Perhaps a spell in the pillory will teach her to curb her tongue.’

  Boiling with fury, Minou crouched beside her friend. Madame Noubel’s eyes were closed and a thin trail of blood was dripping down her cheek.

  ‘Madame,’ she whispered, ‘it is me, Minou. Do not speak, but nod if you can hear me.’

  The slightest movement told Minou that her message was heard. She took a kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed away the blood.

  ‘Any person still here by the time our search is concluded,’ the captain yelled, ‘will run the risk of finding themselves detained at the Seneschal’s pleasure.’ He grabbed Minou by the arm and dragged her to her feet. ‘This woman must be able to sit unaided and answer to her own name. I will hold you responsible if she cannot. Do you understand?’

  Minou nodded. He shook her again.

  ‘Cat got your tongue? Do. You. Understand?’

  Minou raised her eyes and answered. ‘I do.’

  He held her arm for a moment longer, then shrugged her away from him and stormed into the boarding house.

  The instant he’d gone, Madame Noubel’s eyes opened.

  ‘He knocked me down. Without provocation, he knocked me down.’

  ‘I think it was an accident,’ Minou said cautiously.

  ‘Accident or no, the result is the same! Did he apologise? Do I not own my house? I shall report him—’

  ‘Hold still, Madame Noubel, you are still bleeding.’

  ‘“By order of the Seneschal”! The Seneschal has no authority in the Bastide. I have run these lodgings for a dozen years without a single complaint.’

  Minou glanced up at the boarding house, where the sounds of rooms being ransacked filtered out through the open windows. She was certain Madame Noubel should not antagonise such a man. Accident or no, there was something lawless about him. The local man, the boy soldier, clearly thought the same.

  ‘Madame, come away and I will dress your wound.’

  ‘How dare he treat me like some – some miscreant. I am a respectable widow . . . such things do not happen in Carcassonne.’

  ‘We should leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ Madame Noubel, despite the shock, was outraged.

  ‘I do not think you should be here when they come back out. Though they claim to come from the Seneschal, I do not believe it. Would a captain of the royal garrison behave to you as he did? Besides, the Seneschal’s men wear blue. These ruffians are in green and with no markings.’

  ‘But I asked to see their warrant—’

  ‘Which they did not show you,’ Minou said, glancing again at the boarding house. ‘I am sure they are private soldiers. Or worse, mercenaries.’

  ‘I have done nothing wrong. I will not be driven from my own home.’

  ‘Please, Madame. Only until the so-called captain’s temper has cooled. If they do not find the man they seek—’

  ‘They will not, for he went out at first light and has not returned.’

  ‘Then the captain’s displeasure will certainly increase. He will look for someone to blame.’

  Madame Noubel frowned. ‘My lodger seemed a pleasant enough fellow. Not from around here, but courteous. Hair the colour of a fox’s tail.’

  ‘The captain threatened to put you in the pillory,’ Minou said, her voice urgent now.

  ‘He would not dare. On what charge?’

  ‘I fear it will not matter.’

  All at once, the fight went out of Madame Noubel and she looked every one of her three-score years. ‘But what of my house?’ she said. ‘It is all I have. If they damage . . .’

  Charles had been hovering in the doorway of his father’s shop. Loud noises frightened him, but Minou thought he would help so long as the soldiers remained out of sight.

  ‘I will ask Monsieur Sanchez to keep watch for you,’ she said, helping Madame Noubel to her feet. ‘Come.’

  ‘Another cold day,’ Charles muttered, scuttling towards them with his strange, lolloping gait. ‘Cold, cold, cold, cold. Set to be fine, fine all day, all day. So say the clouds.’

  ‘Charles, listen to me. Take Madame Noubel into my father’s shop. Into the bookshop, yes? Go all the way through to the room at the back where the paper and ink are stored.’

  His simple face lit up. ‘Look but not touch. Monsieur Joubert say not to touch.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘And it is a secret. No one must know, do you understand?’

  Piet had witnessed the whole incident from the corner of rue du Grand Séminaire.

  He watched his landlady arguing with the soldiers and then saw the attack. He saw a tall young woman, with milk-white skin and long straight brown hair, smuggle her away from under the captain’s nose. He saw a strange boy, a simpleton, help them. It went against his nature not to intervene, but on this occasion, he could not.

  He pressed the leather satchel to his side to reassure himself the contents were safe. The situation here proved that his reactions in the cathedral earlier had been correct. Two private soldiers in green surcoats in La Cité, two others searching his lodgings in the Bastide. Were they the same men?

  Piet had spent much of his life expecting to have it taken from him. Feeling the touch of steel at his throat, the phantom ache of powder shot in his guts.

  He was not Languedoc born, but it was his adoptive land and it had made him welcome. A refugee with no home, he felt a blood loyalty for this corner of France as strong as any native-born man. Tolerance and dignity and freedom: Piet was ready to lay down his life to defend these principles.

  He was engaged in a battle for the very soul of France, a battle that would define how men could live and be free. Catholic or Protestant, Jew or Saracen, even those of no religion. He had learnt to trust his instinct
s and his instincts were telling him to get out while he had the chance. But he had made a vow, unbreakable in the eyes of God, and he would fulfil it.

  Minou waited until Charles had taken Madame Noubel safely into the bookshop, then sat on the step holding the bloodied kerchief in her lap. She was only just in time. A thud of boots on the stairs, then the sergeant-at-arms reappeared, carrying a small wooden travelling chest and a leather-bound ledger, the captain fulminating at his heels.

  ‘Where’s the old woman?’ he demanded. ‘I told you to tend her.’

  ‘Upon my word, I do not know.’ She held out the bloody handkerchief. ‘The stink of it sent me into a faint. When I came to, she had gone.’

  His eyes sharpened in anger but, this time, he controlled his temper.

  ‘Captain Bonal—’

  The captain turned on his subordinate. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Mon Capitaine, forgive me,’ the young soldier corrected himself, ‘but I do not believe Madame Noubel is implicated in any wrong-doing or that this maid knows anything. The villain signed the register in a false name. We have this.’ He held up the chest with trembling hands. ‘We can set a guard. He is bound to return.’

  The captain hesitated, then nodded. ‘Count yourself lucky,’ he growled, jabbing a grimy finger at Minou, ‘that I do not put you in the pillory in the shrew’s place. Get out of my sight.’

  Minou got to her feet and, forcing herself not to break into a run, moved quickly away, feeling the captain’s hostile eyes on her back. She refused to give him the satisfaction of letting her fear show. Only when she had rounded the corner, did her courage forsake her. She held out her arms. Her hands were shaking, but she felt exhilarated and foolhardy, brave and honourable and proud. Minou leant back against the wall, barely able to countenance how reckless she had been.

  Then she began to laugh.