by Kate Mosse
‘They should cut them down,’ Aimeric said. ‘The bodies stink.’
‘They’re leaving them as a warning to others.’
‘But it’s been more than a month.’
Minou suspected that leaving the corpses in plain view had achieved the opposite effect. Rather than act as a warning, they served more as a Huguenot call to arms. The rotting corpses were a constant reminder of how the Parliament was partisan and could not be trusted to protect all of its citizens. For, although more than a hundred people had been charged with incitement during the riots, and six condemned to death, at the last moment the Parliament had pardoned the Catholics. Only the four Huguenots had been executed.
In the early weeks of May, disturbances had broken out in different quarters of the city. A series of small fires around Place Saint-Georges were quickly doused. A Catholic priest was found dead near the Porte Villeneuve, his hands and feet bound and his throat cut. In Place du Salin, a young nobleman in yellow hose and cape, was discovered propped up against the door of the inquisitional prison with his tongue cut out. Few ventured out without a weapon concealed beneath their cloaks, in defiance of the terms of the truce. Women did not walk alone in the streets after dark. There were conscripted soldiers and mercenaries everywhere.
Reliable information about the state of affairs outside the Midi was scarce. It was rumoured the Prince of Condé and his Protestant army had taken Orléans and the mighty eastern city of Lyon. His supporters, either at his command or acting of their own volition, had seized and garrisoned towns along the valley of the Loire – Angers, Blois and Tours among them – and attacked Valence on the Rhone. Condé claimed his sole aim was to liberate the King from the pernicious clutches of the Duke of Guise and his allies. The Queen Regent was said to have applied to the King of Spain for military assistance to bring the Huguenots to heel. Another rumour was that letters had been issued stating the Edict of Toleration did not apply to Languedoc as it was a border province. That, in fact, it had never done so.
‘Minou, look,’ Aimeric said. ‘Over there.’
She turned and saw a band of soldiers, in full battle armour, walking into the square.
‘I overheard Uncle say Parliament had changed the terms of the truce Sunday last, with the result that more than two hundred Catholic noblemen and their retinues have been allowed to enter the city.’ Minou frowned. ‘Uncle is delighted, of course.’
‘No, not them,’ Aimeric said, pointing. ‘Beneath the trees in the middle.’
Minou shielded her eyes, then her heart shifted. There, framed by the green branches of the plane trees, stood Piet, his attire sombre, his red hair still muted and his beard grown out. At this distance, he looked rather thinner and his face more finely drawn. She felt a smile come to her lips.
‘He’s seen us,’ Aimeric said. ‘He’s coming this way.’
‘Go to him,’ Minou said, glancing at the soldiers and a flock of black-robed Jacobins who had swept into the square from the Augustinian monastery. ‘I cannot be seen talking to him in so public a place.’
Aimeric ran across the square and Minou lost sight of him and Piet for a moment, her view blocked by the Catholic battalion.
After their accidental meeting in the Eglise Saint-Taur in April, she had seen little of him. Her aunt had been demanding of her company and, more anxious than ever, kept Minou by her side. And whenever she did consider trying to arrange a rendezvous, mounting evidence of how dangerous the streets were held her back. There had been many rumours of soldiers treating any woman out alone as fair game. Blood and petticoat attacks, as they were becoming known.
It was different for Aimeric. Piet had kept his promise to teach her brother how to throw a knife with skill. Sometimes at dusk, if the light was good and the streets quiet, Piet would steal her brother away to the quartier Daurade and there set up a straw man, drilling Aimeric until his shoulders ached and the palms of his hands were sore. He claimed now to be able to hit any target at a distance of several toise – at least three lengths of a man. His devotion to Piet was now equal to that of any medieval squire to his lord, and Minou teased him for it, but she was also grateful that he would carry notes between them. Inoffensive and innocent, unsigned messages of goodwill and remembrance. The crumbs of their conversation in the maison de charité had sustained her through these long weeks.
As for the happenstance that had found them both, on that April evening after Mass, Minou often thought of it. About the great good fortune that should have brought them to the church at the exact same time. Piet had not told her why he was there – any more than she had confided in him – but she couldn’t help seeing it as another sign that their lives were destined to entwine.
‘What did he say?’ she said, when Aimeric returned. ‘Is all well with him? Is Piet –’
‘He wants you to meet him in the side chapel in the church at four o’clock.’
Minou frowned. ‘That’s impossible. I can’t possibly leave the house at that time without being seen.’
‘Piet said to tell you how he would understand if you couldn’t accept the invitation, but that he would not ask if it wasn’t a matter of life or death,’ Aimeric said.
‘Life or death? He used those actual words?’
Aimeric shrugged. ‘Not exactly, but it’s what he meant.’
She glanced over to where Piet was waiting in the green shade of the trees. Minou didn’t really know truly what manner of man he was, yet instinct told her he would not make such a request without good reason.
‘What answer shall I give?’ Aimeric asked.
She took a deep breath. ‘Tell him that I will be there.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CARCASSONNE
The hours, and then the days and weeks after Alis vanished, blurred into one endless and desperate search. Cécile Noubel barely slept. She walked the streets of La Cité and the Bastide, asking friends, neighbours, strangers if they had seen the little girl. No one had.
‘About so high, with wild black hair and eyes as dark. A clever child, serious in her manner.’
She had scoured the dark alleyways where the cutpurses and doxies plied their trade, had worn down the paths along the river and pressed coins into the hands of the bargemen and fishermen. No body had been washed up and, though Cécile could not account for why she was so certain, she remained sure in her heart that Alis was still alive. She believed she had gone with the noblewoman, the lady who had bribed Marie Galy to point out the Joubert house. But whether Alis had gone willingly or been taken by force, she could not bear to consider and had been unable to ascertain.
Under threat of being sent before the Magistrate as an accessory to a kidnapping, Marie had confessed and at least provided a detailed description of the woman and her clothes. Poor Rixende’s account of the afternoon was inconsistent and changed with each telling.
Cécile had written to Minou, to tell her of the tragedy, but had heard nothing back. She intended to send another letter as soon as she had something more to report. Until now, there had been no further news.
Finally, though, there was something. The garrison had been sent away from Carcassonne, to deal with reports of copycat uprisings in the villages of the Midi after confirmation of the massacre at Vassy had been received. Bérenger’s unit had been dispatched to Limoux and had only returned this afternoon. Cécile had gone immediately to find him and for the first time in more than a month, she felt a glimmer of hope.
‘You are absolutely sure it was that same day?’ she asked. ‘Friday the third day of April?’
‘Yes, Madama,’ Bérenger replied. ‘I remember it particularly because it was only a little later that evening we were dispatched to Limoux. It is why I did not hear about how little Alis—’
Madame Noubel held up her hand. ‘You are not to blame, my friend. You have been away from La Cité. But, please tell me clearly what you saw.’
The old soldier nodded, though his face was grey with guilt. ‘I recognised the
carriage as that of the Bishop of Toulouse, because I had seen it recently – around about the time of the murder of that Michel Cazès – carrying a visitor staying in the Episcopal Palace.’ He shook his grizzled head. ‘Strange business. The whole Cité barricaded, the entire garrison set to hunt down the villain, then – pouf! That was that. Orders to forget all about it. Then it turns out to be a local matter after all. Fellow by the name of Alphonse Bonnet, a Bastide man, hung for the crime. Or so they claim. It’s my belief he had nothing to do with it. I think the powers that be needed someone to swing for it and Bonnet was the scapegoat. It’s all very strange.’
‘We discussed Bonnet’s case and I am sorry for his family,’ Madame Noubel said impatiently, ‘but can we return to Alis? I want to be clear. On that Friday afternoon, you saw this carriage leaving La Cité.’
‘At a little after five o’clock, it was. I was on duty at the Porte Narbonnaise. The occupant of the carriage was a dark-haired lady, though I caught only a glimpse of her. Very finely dressed. We remarked on it, because we thought it peculiar that there should be a lady travelling in the bishop’s carriage.’
‘Think, now.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Might Alis have been with her?’
‘I wish I could help, Madama, but I couldn’t see inside. The curtains were drawn.’ He sighed. ‘Isn’t it a bad business? And Madomaisèla Minou and Aimeric still in Toulouse.’
‘Can you remember in which direction the carriage turned out of La Cité?’ Cécile pressed. ‘Did the driver give any clue to their destination?’
He shook his head. ‘Not towards the Bastide, that’s all I can say. They went over the drawbridge, then turned to the right.’
‘Towards the mountains?’
‘Not in the direction of Toulouse, I can say that, though who knows which road they took when they were out of sight?’ He gave another weary sigh. ‘I’m sorry I cannot be of more help.’
‘You have done your best,’ Cécile said, turning away to walk home.
‘I’m sure you will find her,’ Bérenger called after her. ‘Things have a habit of working themselves out. Don’t they? Isn’t that what they say?’
Cécile Noubel did not answer. She was sorely disappointed at how little Bérenger knew. As she made her way back towards rue du Trésau, she asked herself the question that had gnawed away at her for these long, dreadful weeks of not knowing. The Jouberts were not a rich family, so why kidnap Alis? And why no ransom note? The obvious answer – that the child was already dead – she refused to entertain.
‘What news?’ Rixende asked, as she walked into the house. ‘Did Bérenger see anything?’
‘No,’ she replied, sitting down in the chair.
‘Nothing?’
Madame Noubel sighed, weary to her bones. ‘Well, he saw a carriage leave via the Porte Narbonnaise and turn towards the mountains rather than the Bastide, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘He noted the crest of the Bishop of Toulouse, though swears the passenger was a woman.’
‘The noblewoman who talked to Marie?’
‘It is possible.’ Cécile Noubel shrugged. ‘Bérenger had the impression she was not alone in the carriage, but could not swear to that.’
‘Oh,’ Rixende said, her face falling. She hesitated. ‘Has there yet been word from Mademoiselle Minou? Does she know little Alis is . . . not here?’
‘No, and I had expected an answer before now.’
‘Perhaps your letter did not reach her?’
Madame Noubel frowned. ‘It is true things take their time these days.’
‘Any word from the master?’
Madame Noubel shook her head. Bernard’s silence worried her too, though it did not surprise her. There were fewer people travelling at present who might deliver a letter. She didn’t know what more to do. She had considered journeying to Toulouse in person, but Bérenger told her large numbers of troops were on the march on the plains of the Lauragais, many without clear command. Besides, if Minou had received her letters, she might even now be making her way back to Carcassonne.
‘Here,’ the maid said, handing her a cup. ‘This will warm you.’
She accepted the drink gratefully. Rixende had done everything she could to make amends and Cécile no longer blamed her. She blamed herself.
Madame Noubel could not share her fears with Rixende – with anyone – but Cécile feared the past had caught up with them. Secrets, in the end, could not remain hidden: Alis’s disappearance; Bernard’s ill-advised expedition to the mountains and his continuing silence; Minou and Aimeric sent away to Toulouse to stay with Florence’s sister – all of it could be traced back to what happened in Puivert those many years ago.
Old crimes cast long shadows . . .
Cécile sat in the kitchen a while longer, watching the mellow afternoon light dance along the top of the wall in the yard. She turned Florence’s old sketch of a map – with her own name now printed on it – over in her hand. The bells of the smaller churches in La Cité began to chime the half-hour, followed by the louder carillon of the cathedral.
She came to a decision. Quickly, she got to her feet.
‘Where are you going, Madame?’ Rixende asked.
‘The reason Bérenger was certain the coach was that of the Bishop of Toulouse was because he had seen it at Place Saint-Nazaire some weeks previously. What if this noblewoman was also a guest at the Episcopal Palace?’
‘You are going to request an audience with the Bishop of Carcassonne?’
For the first time in weeks, Cécile laughed. ‘No. I cannot imagine he would be prepared to receive me. But someone will have heard something. And if we at least discover this woman’s name, then we might know where to start looking for Alis. Don’t you have a cousin who works in the kitchens?’
‘Yes,’ Rixende said, brightening at the thought of being useful.
Madame Noubel pulled her shawl over her shoulders. ‘Come. We’ll go together. You can make the introduction.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
TOULOUSE
Vidal looked down at the broken body of Oliver Crompton, slumped ragged on the spiked chair. His arms were still shackled to the wooden arms of the interrogation seat, metal hoops holding his wrists in place. A thick leather strap around his forehead kept his chin from falling forward to his chest. The tip of a shattered collarbone jutted at a grotesque angle through grey skin.
‘He was more resilient than I expected,’ said the other man. ‘I did not think he would survive so long.’
‘The Devil protects his own,’ Vidal said, unwilling to concede either the courage or the strength of the man. To endure five weeks of intermittent torture was exceptional.
‘His cousin, on the other hand, sang like a bird.’
‘Oh? What did Devereux say?’
‘That, as we thought, plans to embed Huguenot spies within Catholic households throughout the city were well advanced. That the maison de charité in rue du Périgord is indeed being used to store weapons and harbour soldiers. That they are aware that the spate of recent assaults on lone women, alleged to be perpetrated by Huguenots, are in fact being orchestrated by Catholic militias.’
Vidal paused. ‘It was unwise to dispose of Devereux’s body so ostentatiously.’
‘I disagree. It is a lesson to any other who might attempt to benefit from selling intelligence to both sides that we, at least, will not tolerate it. However highly born the man, he will be brought to account.’
‘You should know.’ Vidal turned back to Crompton. ‘Did he speak?’
For the first time, the man looked uncomfortable. ‘I concede it is possible Crompton did not know he had purchased a forgery.’
‘We were acting on intelligence supplied by you.’
‘The information was from a reliable source.’ The man held Vidal’s gaze. ‘But if he was not guilty of that charge, he was still a heretic. God will punish him hereafter, is that not your belief?’
Vidal fixed him with a wintry look. ‘It is not ours to reason or sp
eculate on the ways of the Lord.’
The other man snorted. ‘I do not see the Lord’s hand in any of this, only our very urgent need to identify the traitors within our midst who are in the pay of Condé.’
‘And that’, Vidal said, dropping his voice so the guards could not hear them, ‘might be said to be heresy.’
The man laughed. ‘You don’t believe that, so save your sermonising for the pulpit.’ He glanced at Crompton, then back to Vidal. ‘Whilst we are on the matter of our need for accurate information, I still do not understand your continuing reluctance to arrest Piet Reydon. I know you were once boon companions, but in these final hours surely the time for such sentiment is over. He is – by his own admission – a Huguenot and, as such, a traitor to the Crown. Bring him in.’
‘He is more use to us at large.’
‘So you have repeatedly said, yet nothing has come of it. If it is true the Huguenots intend to attack tonight, then time has run out.’
Vidal clenched his fist. ‘If we had left Crompton free to come and go, we would have learnt more of this Huguenot plot than by these means.’
‘Perhaps. I intend to leave Toulouse tonight, before the trouble begins. I assume you will be taking similar precautions?’
‘I will withdraw to the quartier Saint-Cyprien across the river.’
‘In which case, even more reason to arrest Reydon now while you still have the chance. Not least that if you continue to protect him, some might begin to question your loyalty to the King.’
Vidal suddenly grabbed the other man by the throat, surprising them both, and shoved him back against the wall of the rack room.
‘None could doubt my loyalty to the Catholic cause,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘You, on the other hand? You, McCone, are a man who, by your presence here and with your every breath, betrays the land of your birth and your Queen. So, do not dare to lecture me.’ He held him for a moment longer, then released him. ‘Guard!’