by Kate Mosse
‘This is ill news indeed,’ Piet said.
Minou stared. ‘I had thought, by my words, to give you comfort. If it is a matter of bearing witness, I will vouch for you. This charge against you should not stand.’
‘It is not that,’ he sighed. ‘I had not known until this instant that it was Michel who was dead.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Michel and I fought together in the Prince of Condé’s army, then our paths took us in different directions. I hadn’t seen him for some five years before that day in the Bastide. He was an honourable man.’
‘Was it a chance meeting? After so long?’
‘It was arranged through a third party. I thought Michel seemed troubled in his spirits, beyond the matter that had brought us into one another’s company. Indeed, he took his leave before our business was concluded. I considered going after him, but did not. I deeply regret that now.’
‘He came in search of my father that same afternoon.’
‘Most likely straight from our rendezvous to your father’s shop. He didn’t say how he and Michel were acquainted?’
‘No. I asked, but he avoided answering.’
Piet gave a long sigh. ‘Is it not absurd, Minou, in the midst of everything that has happened in the past twenty-four hours, all this suffering we see around us, that news of the death of one friend should so affect me?’
‘It is right you grieve for Michel,’ Minou said softly. ‘If we harden our hearts against one death, then soon we lose all compassion.’
‘I have served as a soldier.’
‘You are also a man who mourns the loss of his friend. You are a comrade, a son . . . a husband, too, perhaps?’
Piet shot her a glance, then he smiled. ‘No, not a husband.’
Then, they were leaning into one another. His arm resting against the length of hers. Minou felt heat flood through her. She was aware of every sinew, every muscle, almost touching through their dust-stained clothes. Minou closed her eyes and knew this feeling, at last, was desire.
Now his hand was cradling the back of her neck and drawing her to him. Her fingers were entwining through his as they kissed. Chaste at first, then with a force that took her breath from her.
The taste of sandalwood and almonds.
Piet was the first to pull away. ‘Forgive me. I should not have taken such liberties.’
Minou held his gaze. ‘You took nothing that was not freely given, Monsieur,’ she said, willing her heart to stop thudding so hard. She laid her hand on his arm and Piet covered it with his own.
Then, suddenly, they heard raised voices and the tramp of boots coming towards them, and sprang apart.
‘I cannot be seen here,’ Minou said, panicked.
‘Quickly,’ he said, handing her the cloak. ‘Behind the door.’
Piet waited until she was hidden, then drew his dagger and stepped out, ready to confront whoever was approaching.
‘At last. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘McCone, you should have announced yourself! I have not seen you here before.’ Piet sheathed his blade. ‘I could have had your eye out.’
‘We came to tell you they have agreed to parley.’
‘We?’
‘These gentlemen,’ McCone said, switching from English to awkward French. ‘Comrades from Carcassonne. They say they are known to you.’
Peering through the gap between the door and the frame, Minou saw Piet’s shoulders stiffen.
‘Crompton. I had not heard you were in Toulouse.’
Extraordinary as it seemed, she recognised the young man standing with Crompton. His fresh face, no sign of a beard, and his short yellow cloak and hose – she had seen him in the courtyard of her aunt and uncle’s house. And suddenly, she remembered why he’d seemed familiar: this same man, serenading and reciting intoxicated verse on the streets of Trivalle in Carcassonne before a pail of dirty water was tipped over his head.
‘And Devereux, you are here too?’ Piet said.
He gave a brief bow. ‘Monsieur.’
‘Where are the talks to take place?’
‘At the Augustinian monastery,’ McCone replied. ‘As soon as all parties can be gathered together.’
‘Who speaks for us?’
‘Pastor Barrelles, Saux, Popelinière.’
Piet nodded. ‘I will come with you.’ He turned and whispered to McCone, ‘Might you give me a moment?’
Minou stepped back further into the shadows behind the door.
‘What is it?’ Crompton jibed, trying to peer into the chamber. ‘Have you got a wench in there, a pretty little maid with petticoats around her ears . . .?’
‘That’s enough, Crompton,’ McCone said.
‘Wait there,’ Piet snapped, stepping back into the room and closing the door.
‘I am sorry you should have been subject to such distasteful comments,’ he whispered. ‘Men’s conversation, when unrestrained by a woman’s presence, can—’
‘I grew up in a garrison town, Piet. I have heard every insult under the sun.’
‘Nonetheless, I apologise.’
Minou took his hand. ‘The young man, Devereux, I think—’
Piet put his finger to his lip. ‘Say nothing, they will hear.’
‘But Devereux is a protégé of my—’
A violent banging on the door drowned out her words.
‘Reydon! Are you coming or not?’
‘J’arrive!’ Piet shouted back, then spun back to face her. ‘Stay here. Your clothes mark you out.’
Annoyed by his high-handed manner, Minou took a step back.
‘I am not yours to command.’
Piet stopped, his fingers on the door handle. ‘Have I done something to offend you, I—’
More hammering on the door. ‘Make haste!’
‘All I was saying is that it would be unwise for you to go out into the streets unaccompanied. The situation is—’
‘I am capable of looking after myself,’ Minou replied coolly. ‘I am not your responsibility. Go. Your comrades are waiting.’ Cross with herself, and with Piet, Minou leant back against the wall, listening to the sound of his footsteps growing fainter, and wondered about Devereux. What was the Christian name he had given in rue Trivalle? Minou cast her mind back to that bright February morning, and the memory came.
Philippe. Philippe Devereux. In Carcassonne, he boasted of being a guest of the bishop at Saint-Nazaire. Then, in the courtyard in Toulouse before the procession, he was clearly at home in the company of her uncle, the friar and the Catholic arms dealer, Delpech. Yet here he was, in the Protestant almshouse with the leaders of the Huguenot resistance in Toulouse.
Who was he? Where did his loyalties lie?
The bishop’s carriage is fast and his four horses strong. God willing, I will be there by nightfall. I am furnished with letters of introduction and have lodgings arranged suitable to my rank and position.
There are many who talk of Carcassonne with a catch in the breath, as if speaking of a lover. A crown of stone set upon a green hill, a medieval citadel that stands monument to the romance of the past. A symbol of the independence of the Midi.
Traitors, all.
Raymond-Roger Trencavel, Viscount of Carcassonne, was the failed leader of a failed rebellion. An apostate who encouraged heresy to flourish within his lands, who gave shelter to infidels and blasphemers, Cathars and Saracens and Jews? He died in his own dungeons. Was that not the Lord’s judgement on a man who turned away from our Holy Mother Church?
Then, as now, what France should most fear is the enemy within.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
TOULOUSE
Confused by Minou’s sudden coldness, Piet stormed through the long dormitory of the almshouse. What reason did she have to be so scornful? He was only being mindful of her reputation and he did not see why that should have so offended her. He was tempted to go back and ask her to explain herself. He hated that they had parted bad friends.
‘Have you heard a single word I’ve said?’ asked McCone.
‘Forgive me.’ Piet jolted back to the present. ‘My mind is overcharged with thinking. What did you say?’
‘I said that Jean de Mansencal is to preside over the negotiations.’
Piet made himself concentrate. ‘Well, that is welcome news.’
‘Isn’t he the President of the Parliament?’ Crompton said. ‘Presumably, therefore, he is a Catholic? Why, then, is his appointment good news for us?’
‘Because his son, who is at the university,’ Piet explained coldly, ‘converted to the Reformed Church. Mansencal is also known to be a fair man. I think he will seek to find a workable solution.’
‘I agree,’ McCone said.
‘Who else is to be in the chamber?’
‘Four of the eight capitouls,’ McCone replied, ‘the Seneschal of Toulouse and eight other senior judges from the Parliament.’
They stopped talking as they walked through the kitchens and out into a passageway leading to a little-used door at the back of the building. Piet nodded to the soldier on duty, who let them pass. An unpleasant man, he thought. Too eager to draw his sword and cut others down to size.
They came out into rue du Périgord.
‘I still say it’s a trap,’ Crompton argued. Devereux shrugged, but did not comment.
‘Are Saux’s men still holding the cathedral precincts?’ Piet asked.
McCone shook his head. ‘He withdrew most of his forces to protect Huguenot businesses in the Daurade district, where the worst of the looting was taking place. Catholic gangs forced their way into shops, smashing windows, ransacking premises.’
‘What of the town guard?’
‘They claim they were summoned but did not intervene. The faubourg of Saint-Michel was also attacked. Some twenty or so are said to have died there.’
‘All Huguenots?’
‘Mostly, yes. Students, legal clerks, artisans.’
‘Where else have the bodies been taken? The Hôtel de Ville?’
‘Yes, though Assézat and Ganelon attempted to take it back with some five hundred Catholic troops.’
‘Five hundred? That many?’
‘I imagine the numbers are exaggerated, but I suspect there is truth in the report the capitouls tried to storm the building.’
Piet stopped in the street. ‘What of Hunault? He will help us. Is he yet back in Toulouse?’
‘I heard he is still in Orléans with the Prince of Condé,’ Crompton said.
Piet turned to face him. ‘Do you believe that?’
‘Who can tell? Too many missives are being intercepted. All I know is that Condé’s men in Toulouse are currently under Saux’s command. But I repeat what I said before. This is a trap. The Catholics have no need to negotiate with us. They outnumber us ten to one. They want to trick our leadership into gathering in one place, then arrest them all.’
Piet shook his head. ‘You do not understand the character of Toulouse, Crompton. This is a city of merchants, of trade. It is the threat of damage to property – to Catholic interests – that forces them to negotiate with us, not the loss of more Protestant lives.’
As they reached the junction, a small boy leapt forward with a note. Crompton held out his hand, but the child sidestepped him.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but the letter is for Monsieur Devereux.’
‘I had not realised you were so well-connected in Toulouse, cousin,’ Crompton said sharply.
And Piet, suddenly remembering how Minou had been trying to tell him something about Devereux, cursed himself for not listening.
‘I know one or two men of influence who are sympathetic to our cause,’ Devereux said lightly, opening the letter. ‘No more than that.’
‘Well?’ Crompton said.
Devereux folded the letter and put it in his doublet. ‘It seems the negotiations are delayed until four o’clock.’
‘Is your informant reliable, Devereux?’ Piet asked. ‘Someone you trust.’
‘In so far as one can be sure of these things, yes. But, by your leave, I will verify it for myself.’ He bowed. ‘Gentlemen.’
‘Where are you going?’ Crompton called after him, but his cousin did not answer. He turned on Piet and McCone. ‘What are we supposed to do now? Sit around like whores waiting for ships to come into port?’
‘Is it a good sign the talks are delayed, Jasper?’ Piet asked.
‘Hard to say.’
He frowned. ‘Do we actually know how many have been injured or killed? Not only our own people, but Catholics, too?’
‘You are too compassionate. We cannot expect our people not to retaliate when attacked,’ Crompton replied.
Piet stared at him. ‘Our people? You are welcome in Toulouse, Crompton, but this is our city, not yours. We do not need outsiders telling us what to do.’
‘Outsiders!’ Crompton sneered. ‘Men of Toulouse, men of Carcassonne, we are all Huguenots. The time for parochial divisions is past. You do not have the forces to withstand these attacks without reinforcements.’
‘I am aware of our capabilities,’ Piet replied.
‘Then you will also be aware that Catholics in Toulouse are stock-piling weapons. They are preparing for war, even if you are not. Did you not hear that the Parliament has again withdrawn the right of Protestants to bear arms within the city walls?’
‘Yet you still carry your sword,’ Piet said, ‘as do I. As do we all. You should not believe everything you hear.’
‘There are Catholic soldiers going from house to house, searching cellars and attics for men and weapons. They seek to disarm us and then, when we can no longer defend ourselves, they will round everyone up.’
‘Gentlemen, please,’ McCone said. ‘It helps no one if we fall out among ourselves.’
Crompton jabbed his finger at Piet. ‘I don’t believe there’s any hope of a lasting truce. Royal authority is weak, the Parliament and the Town Council confound one another at every turn. Why should they find common ground for the good of Toulouse now? Of the capitouls, only two have Protestant sympathies, two keep their allegiances hidden and the remaining four are zealous Catholics. If there is truth in the rumour that Condé and his army are marching on Orléans, it seems obvious that the authorities here will assume the same fate will befall Toulouse and act accordingly. It is what I would do.’
Piet kept his voice level. ‘You may be right, but I say we have no choice but to give our support to the negotiations. It’s our best chance of preventing further bloodshed. If you do not wish to be party to that, that is a matter for you.’
‘We came to offer our swords to Toulouse,’ Crompton said, offended. ‘We will keep our word.’
‘In which case, you are welcome to accompany us.’
‘Where to?’
‘I am going to the quartier Daurade to see what help I might give. McCone, will you come?’
‘I will.’
‘How can we assist?’ Crompton said.
Piet sighed. ‘If the damage is as extensive as it sounds, they will need as many hands as possible to help repair houses and shops attacked during the looting last night.’ He started walking. ‘Are you coming with us, or no? It’s all the same to me.’
Crompton hesitated, looking along the empty street as if he expected his cousin to reappear.
‘No. I’ll meet you at the tavern later.’
Minou was frustrated with herself.
Why, after the sweetness of their last meeting, had she picked a quarrel with Piet? He had not intended to offend. His failure to listen was no more than a measure of his distraction. Though it was true she hated being told what to do, and that made her peevish, she wished they had not parted bad friends.
At the same time, she had no intention of waiting until Piet returned. Now he knew she was living only a street away, he could find her again if he wanted to.
Minou was light-headed from lack of food, and the muscles in her shoulder and neck were aching, but o
nly a few steps would see her home. She was desperate to see Aimeric and to check that her aunt was safe.
For a moment, the memory of the chaos rushed back into her mind, the horror of it, and she shuddered. The armed mob, the stones and the wooden clubs. The sense of the world spiralling out of control into anarchy.
Minou slipped her arm out of the muslin sling, then examined her clothes. Piet was right, she looked Catholic. Quickly, she untied her mother’s rosary from her waist and put the beads into her pocket. She could do nothing about the quality of her expensive velvet skirt, but she removed the lace collar and cuffs to make her appearance plainer.
She stepped out into the long dormitory, which was even bigger than she had first thought. There was even a modest altar at the far end. Women were bustling to and fro with bowls of water and ointments, but it seemed calmer. At the opposite end, was a wide doorway. There, on the ground, Minou could see bodies motionless beneath heavy woollen blankets. Pale squares of fabric covered each face.
She remembered Piet saying she had been lucky; now she understood. She had not realised so many had died.
Suddenly, Minou felt a tug on her skirt, and she jumped.
‘Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît.’
Though she was anxious to be gone, she recognised the little boy from rue Nazareth. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, shivering, his face pale. She crouched down beside him.
‘Hello, petit homme. Louis, is that right? How goes it with you?’
‘I can’t find my grandfather. They told me to stay here and not to move. But I have waited and waited. No one has come.’
Her heart went out to him. ‘When did you arrive? Was it today? When it was light?’
He shook his head. ‘Dark,’ he whispered. ‘All dark.’
‘Louis, I am Minou,’ she said. ‘You remember me, yes?’ He nodded. ‘Good. So now we are reacquainted, what say you that we look for your grandfather together?’
Praying the old man would not be found among the dead, Minou took his hand. As they went from cubicle to cubicle, Louis became more confident, his voice a little firmer.