by Kate Mosse
‘Of what was he accused?’
‘Treason.’
‘And was the charge justified?’
‘Possibly,’ Bernard admitted. ‘He was a Huguenot and mixed in those circles. Though that is no justification for what they did to him. Severing a man’s fingers one by one to make him talk . . .’
He stopped and rubbed his eyes, sore and rimmed red from hunching over the accounts ledger in the light of a single candle each night. This month, the receipts from the bookshop would barely cover the monthly lease. He was so tired.
Bernard went to secure his meagre luggage, aware of Cécile waiting patiently. He was grateful to her for not pressing him further. He clung to the conviction that he was doing the best thing by not confiding in Minou. He had sent her to Toulouse for her own safety, for the sake of them all. What else could he do? But it was his fault. If only he had kept his tongue still in his head. He had brought this misfortune upon himself, upon his family, and his conscience would not leave him be. He had never meant to speak his most secret thoughts, but chained to the damp, vile walls of the inquisitional prison, waiting for the torture he knew would come, he had talked to keep the darkness and pain at bay. He had revealed secrets held tight for nearly twenty years.
‘I feared I would die there and no one would know,’ he said. ‘It was that, more than the thought of death itself, that most terrified me. Michel was certain he would hang and, of course, he suffered more. We talked and talked. But then we both believed we had no future. I told him things I should not have said.’ Bernard hesitated. ‘About Minou.’
‘Oh, Bernard,’ Madame Noubel murmured. The pity and the understanding in her voice brought another prick of tears to his eyes. ‘And because Michel came looking for you, and was killed, you have convinced yourself it is all because of what you revealed to him.’
‘How can it not be?’ he cried. ‘Michel and I had not spoken since the day of our release, but out of the blue he comes to Carcassonne. Every soldier in La Cité and the Bastide is mobilised, the tocsin is rung – even though, as Minou told us, the timing of it all made no sense. And then?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Nothing. As quickly as it blew up, the matter is never mentioned again. Bérenger tells me the garrison was ordered never to speak of the murder even amongst themselves.’
‘I agree it is strange, but stranger things happen every day,’ Madame Noubel said. ‘Can you not see your anguish spurs you to read more into this coincidence of events than might be true? Your shame for confiding in Michel drives you to assume this is all connected, but there is no proof. He probably was involved in some Huguenot conspiracy, you admitted as much. That is just as likely – more so – to be the reason for his death.’
‘All I know,’ Bernard said softly, ‘is that I have no peace. I think about it night and day, the consequences of what I said. I am mired in regret and guilt. I have to be sure nothing in Puivert can harm Minou. To do that, I have to go back there.’
‘No, the opposite is true,’ she argued. ‘By returning to Puivert you risk drawing attention to the old story.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘I implore you, stay in Carcassonne.’
Bernard knew if things went ill and he did not return, his children would be left orphaned. Minou would grieve for him. For Aimeric and Alis, he worried less. Minou would continue to be a mother to them, as she had been every day of their lives for the past five years.
‘I have to go, Cécile. After all these years, something is dragging me back to Puivert. The business with Michel. I have to go.’
Madame Noubel held his gaze, then, perhaps seeing the resolve in his eyes, she nodded.
‘Very well, then. Alis will be fine with me. Minou and Aimeric are safe in Toulouse. I still have family in Puivert. I could write and let them know you are coming.’
‘Thank you, but no. It’s better if no one knows.’
She raised her hands. ‘But take care, Bernard. Do not stay away long. These are dangerous times.’
PARIS
The Duke of Guise rode through the streets of Catholic Paris towards the mighty cathedral church of Notre-Dame. His star was rising. He was once more back where he belonged. He was a force to be reckoned with again.
His eldest son, Henri, was riding on one side of him and his brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, on the other. The black manes of the horses shone, their saddles bright and cleaned of mud. Behind them, the duke’s entourage in bright livery and gleaming armour spoke of the conquering army that France needed to see.
All the bells of the churches and cathedrals were calling the faithful to Mass. François kept his expression sombre and pious, as befitted the occasion, but he felt the bells were ringing for him – the hero of Vassy, the scourge of heresy, the man who would make France strong once more.
‘This homecoming is well done,’ he said to his brother. ‘I applaud your attention and loyalty.’
‘It is no more than is rightly due to your rank and status, Brother.’
François turned and raised his arm to the crowd, then dismounted at the west door of the imposing Gothic cathedral. A messenger ran to the cardinal, bowed low, then pressed a missive into his hand.
‘My lord. Brother,’ he said. ‘Excellent news. The Queen Regent presents her best wishes and welcomes you back to Paris. She would be grateful for your counsel. On behalf of his Majesty the King, she would be delighted to receive you at Court. She says there is much to discuss to your mutual interest.’
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Guise’s narrow face.
‘That is indeed good news,’ the duke said.
LA CITÉ
Vidal carefully smoothed the material flat on the ornate wooden table. He was in the private chambers of the Episcopal Palace in Carcassonne, where he had been staying for the past two weeks as a guest of the bishop. They had talked and agreed terms. Vidal was confident, when the time came for him to launch his suit to be appointed next Bishop of Toulouse, that he would have the support of the cathedral and chapter of Carcassonne.
With a magnifying glass, Vidal examined every stitch of the pale cloth, the silk warp and the linen weft, the ornamental embroidered edging and the exquisite Kufic calligraphy. There were several French churches and monasteries that also claimed to be in possession of some fragment of the Shroud in which the body of Jesus was laid in the sepulchre. Of course, most were of questionable origin. Vidal had many times studied the Shroud of Antioch when it was held in the Eglise Saint-Taur in Toulouse. He now lifted the corner of the cloth, searching for the tiniest tear in the material which he knew should be there, and found nothing. It was a very good copy, of accurate size and fashioned by an expert forger, but it was a copy of the Shroud of Antioch all the same.
Vidal glanced across the chamber to his manservant. ‘A forgery, Bonal. One of the best I have seen, but counterfeit all the same.’
‘I am sorry to hear it, my lord.’
‘So am I.’
Vidal rolled up the delicate cloth and returned it to its leather container.
‘Two things interest me, Bonal. First, why, having been missing for some five years, should the Shroud – the alleged Shroud – suddenly come to light now? I am also interested to know whether the gentleman from whom we acquired it was aware it is a forgery. That’s to say, if he is party to the deception, or whether he has also been duped.’
‘Shall I ask him to wait upon you, my lord?’
Vidal shook his head. ‘He left for Toulouse a week ago, Bonal, in the company of his cousin. I will find occasion to talk to him there.’
‘Are we to return to Toulouse, my lord?’
‘As soon as I have taken my leave of my host, we will.’
‘If I might make so bold, Monsignor . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It occurs to me that the city fathers would be impressed by a man of action. When they consider the nominations for the next Bishop of Toulouse, surely to have retrieved the Shroud would strengthen your position.’
‘I�
��m aware of that, Bonal. Why do you think I’m going to so much trouble?’
‘Of course, Monsignor, forgive me for expressing myself poorly. My suggestion was more that it might be worth making it known that you are, and at your own expense, engaged in the search for the Shroud. It would demonstrate how you not only have money to fund such an endeavour, but also that you are a man of action. Unlike the current Bishop of Toulouse, who speaks much yet does so little.’
‘There is wisdom in what you say, Bonal. I will think on it.’
‘You might even let it be known that your quest has been successful.’
Vidal considered his words. ‘Are you suggesting that I should – though I know it to be false – present this as the true relic recovered?’
Bonal bowed and Vidal realised his servant had lodged an idea in his mind, like a splinter, that would be hard to ignore.
He considered going into Saint-Nazaire to pray for guidance. It was Lent, and the sight of him kneeling before the altar would give comfort to the many novices and young priests of the cathedral. It was the sort of gesture that would not go unnoticed.
Vidal decided against it. His thoughts would not be still and he was now impatient to be gone. Too much time had been wasted on acquiring this false relic. Now, the hints Piet had dropped – about not letting any harm come to the Shroud – made sense. He suspected Piet was responsible for the forgery, too.
He was also frustrated with himself. Two weeks ago, buoyed by the belief that the true relic was about to come into his possession, Vidal had allowed nostalgia for their shared past to influence his decision. Rather than handing Piet over to the Carcassonne garrison, to be held on the charge of murdering Michel Cazès, he had ordered Bonal to let him go free. He had, too, a genuine concern for any testimony Piet might give under duress.
‘You say Reydon gives his services at the Huguenot almshouse in Toulouse.’
‘Yes, Monsignor. A breeding ground for heresy, though they claim to be engaged only in charitable works.’
‘When I am bishop, I will close it down . . .’ He waved his hand. ‘But, meanwhile, we will have no trouble laying our hands on him.’
THE BASTIDE
‘But that is half what the books are worth,’ Bernard protested. ‘Less than half. The English Book of Hours alone would raise more than you offer for my entire stock.’
The rival bookseller scratched at a pustule on his face until it started to bleed. Minou had warned him their neighbour was rarely there and had let his shop fall into disrepair. The thought of his treasures, his beautiful books, in the hands of such an uncouth individual filled him with despair.
The man shrugged. ‘You’re the one who came seeking me out, Joubert, not the other way around. I said I might be able to take a few volumes off your hands. Not all the foreign stuff. But stories, you know.’ His eyes sparked. ‘With a bit of spice to them, that kind of thing.’
‘I had thought to receive a fair price,’ Bernard countered weakly.
‘Monsieur Joubert, we are businessmen, you and I. You need to raise a little capital, I’m prepared to help you out. A favour, if you will. It’s up to you. If you don’t want to sell, it’s all the same to me.’
The man turned to go back inside. Bernard felt his heart crack. To give away so much of what he and Florence had worked for – that Minou had struggled to keep going during this long winter – was a betrayal. But he had no choice. He needed to leave Cécile with enough money to look after Alis while he was gone, to fund the return journey to Puivert and provide lodging while he was in the mountains.
‘No, wait,’ he said. ‘I accept your price.’
At that moment, Charles Sanchez came shambling down rue du Marché babbling under his breath.
‘Bloody idiot,’ the man shouted. ‘Get away with you. Go on or I’ll set the dogs on you!’
‘He means no harm,’ Bernard muttered.
‘The clouds have secrets, secrets, the clouds have secrets,’ Charles chanted, his words getting faster and faster as he ran. ‘Sshh. Don’t tell, a secret. Don’t tell!’
He ran to the end of the street and only just avoided falling under the wheels of a carriage being driven at speed up rue Carrière Mage. Bernard recognised, with a start, the black doors and golden crest of the insignia of the Bishop of Toulouse. He had grim cause to remember it. He had last seen the coach standing outside the courthouse when he and Michel were released from prison. Why should it now be in Carcassonne?
‘Well?’
‘Come inside, Monsieur,’ Bernard said, despising himself for even speaking to such a man. ‘We can conclude our business in private.’
He is dead, and I rejoice at it.
My husband, the blackest villain that ever drew breath, is dead. May his body rot in the cold ground. May his soul be in torment forever.
The funeral will take place one week from today. I will stand at his graveside, veiled and robed in black, and weep. I will play my part. The wronged wife who yet remained dutiful and constant and virtuous to the end. Once I have sole possession of these lands, who will doubt my version of the story? Who will dare raise their voice to tell a different tale?
Despite my attempts to stop his mouth, in his dying days he cried out. Rumours of a Will attested that altered the succession and disposition of his lands. Truth, or delirium? If true, who told him and when? The servants whisper and gossip of it, despite the promise of punishment. Like smoke through the cracks in the walls, the story of an heir to Puivert is slipping out beyond the castle to the village.
I have looked in every place. In my husband’s private chambers, in his estate offices, in every corner of the keep and musicians’ gallery, and discovered nothing. I should take comfort in this, for if I cannot find the Will, then what chance of another finding it?
I must secure my position.
When my husband’s coffin is in the ground, I will let it be known that there is a quickening in my belly. How my last gift, as an obedient wife, was to give to my dying husband the comfort he craved and how, from that act of duty, came this longed-for blessing. My belly is swollen and, the Lord knows, I am too ripe to pass for being in the first months of pregnancy. But I am carrying low and my winter clothes are heavy.
In fact, this too will help my cause. My condition will explain my husband’s last, delirious confession of a child. Not one of years past, but rather a child as yet unborn. There are few who will doubt it for, as the maids of the village know, my honourable husband was ruled by what hung between his legs. That he was no longer capable is knowledge that only he and I shared. That the creature growing in my belly is not his, is known only to me and to God.
Next, I shall declare it is my intention to undertake a pilgrimage to seek the Lord’s blessing for the safe deliverance of the child. My absence from the castle estate so soon after my husband’s death must be accounted for. There was a time when I thought my lover might be persuaded to act on my behalf. But God has shown me that this duty is mine. It is as it is written.
There is a time to be born. There is also a time to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TOULOUSE
Thursday, 2nd April
Minou opened her casement window and looked out over rue du Taur.
Winter had given way to spring. On the plains beyond Toulouse, she could see the first shoots of barley and wheat. White hawthorn and glimpses of yellow broom in the hedgerows. Within the city walls, and along the banks of the river Garonne, trees were coming back into leaf. Toulouse was a city of shimmering greens, the skies above la ville rose a forget-me-not blue, white clouds and purple violets flourishing in window boxes. When the sun rose at dawn and fell back to earth at dusk, it lit the rust-brick buildings, sparking like a tinder box, until the whole city glistened a fiery copper and gold.
Here, now, was home.
It was barely three weeks since Minou had stood with her arm on Aimeric’s shoulder, looking down on Toulouse from a distance. Not even one month, yet she fe
lt as if she had lived here all her life. Of course, she missed her father and her little sister’s sweet company, and worried about them. From time to time, she thought fondly of their neighbours in rue du Marché, but with each passing day Carcassonne drifted further away. A place she thought of with affection and nostalgia but, like a favourite toy from childhood gathering dust on a shelf, it belonged to a life now gone.
Minou spent much of her time within the confines of her aunt’s house – in Toulouse it was not considered appropriate for a young woman of a good family to go about unchaperoned – so she took every opportunity to accompany her aunt when she went out. Minou was beguiled by the monumental churches and the Basilica, the sweeping arches and soaring bell towers piercing the skyline. She visited the modest medieval convents standing cheek by jowl with the imposing monasteries of the teaching friars, the twisted gargoyles of the Augustinians and the octagonal spire of the Jacobins, like an ornate dovecote fashioned in the same red brick that gave Toulouse its affectionate name. She revelled in the wide modern streets so generous that two carriages could pass one another side by side. She saw, from a distance in the fields beyond the Porte Villeneuve, the magnificent new Huguenot temple, with its soaring wooden steeple and roof.
Even the river in Toulouse was grander, the broadest stretch of water Minou had ever seen. Four times as wide as the Aude, the Garonne was filled with boats and cargo ships catching the wind to sail down to Bordeaux and away to sea. Pleasure barges that carried the noble families of Toulouse to masques and entertainments in grand houses further downstream. On the far side of the river was the garden suburb of Saint-Cyprien, linked to Toulouse by a covered bridge, crammed with shops offering the finest cloth from the Orient, spices from the Indies, jewels and stalls selling the wonderful blue dye, pastel, on which Toulouse’s modern prosperity was founded.
And somewhere in this teeming city was Piet.