by Kate Mosse
PUIVERT
Alis’s spirits were low.
It had been weeks and weeks, and still no word. Minou loved her – was she not her favourite sister? – but Alis was starting to lose hope. Lady Blanche was losing patience, too. The maids said she spent endless hours at the top of the keep looking out for signs of a visitor.
In the logis, Alis heard the sound of a door opening and she ran across the grass towards the keep. For weeks now she had wanted to see the musicians’ gallery. When she was in her cups, the nurse talked of the old days when singers and players came from all around to perform for the household. Of how the candlelight flickering on the vaulted ceiling and the delicate carvings on the corbels and pillars were a marvel to behold. Alis wanted to see for herself. She ran up the long, steep flight of steps. The Bruyère coat of arms was engraved above the main door with some ferocious beast. She thought it was ugly.
Alis pushed open the wooden door and stepped into the lowest room of the tower. All was quiet. There was no noise, no sign that anyone else was in here at all. She looked up at the spiralling stone stairs, going up and up. They were steep and dark. The chapel was on the first floor, with the musicians’ gallery on the floor above. She knew where she was going. There was a final flight of stairs up to the roof.
Putting her left hand on the wall to guide her, Alis started to climb. Round and round, higher and higher. At regular intervals, narrow windows were carved into the thick walls, like the arrow slits carved deep in the bastions of La Cité. The steps were uneven beneath her feet, worn away in places by generations of soldiers and members of the Bruyère family, but Alis was careful and did not slip.
On the first level, she stopped to look into the chapel. On the keystone at the centre of the doorway was a carving of a saint wrestling a lion. Beyond the threshold into the square room, she could see the high vaulted ceiling and a small altar, lit by a glancing ray of sunshine.
She stepped inside.
There were two large windows on either side of the chamber with inbuilt stone benches. From the northern window, Alis could make out the woodlands and valleys that lay beyond the castle. The southern window looked down towards the village of Puivert, the glass coloured a delicate pink by the rays of the setting sun.
Alis crossed the room. On the wall behind the altar hung an embroidered tapestry. She stepped forward and stood beneath it, the words in gold thread telling verses from the Book of Ecclesiastes.
‘“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven”,’ Alis began. ‘“A time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to—”’
‘How dare you come here!’
Startled, she spun round. To her horror Alis saw Blanche de Bruyère sitting on the stone bench in the southern window, holding a letter in her hand.
‘I— I meant no harm,’ Alis stammered.
‘You are supposed to be confined to your quarters.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Alis babbled, taking small steps backwards. ‘I only wanted to see where the musicians—’
‘Yet here you are in the chapel,’ Blanche said in a hard voice. ‘Have you come to pray? Are you a good girl? Do you honour God? Fear God?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alis said, taking another step backwards.
‘Come here.’
Alis was too scared to move. She could see Blanche was very angry. Her face was drained of colour and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. She had loosened the collar of her gown and her forehead was bare and slick with sweat.
‘Are you unwell?’ The words were out of Alis’s mouth before she had a chance to check them.
‘How dare you be impertinent. Where is the nurse? Where –’
Blanche tried to stand up, but suddenly she clutched her stomach and fell back to the bench. Alis saw a ribbon of bright red blood trickling down from the stone seat to the floor.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Damn you.’
Blanche’s curse was lost in cry of pain, then she pressed her hands to her belly as another bloom of red cascaded onto the chapel’s stone floor.
No longer caring if she was doing wrong, Alis turned and ran to fetch help.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
TOULOUSE
The first explosion was heard at nine o’clock in the evening. The sound echoed briefly through the night air, the rumble of masonry falling, but the charge did little damage. No one was hurt.
Toulouse was holding her breath.
Under the cover of the ten o’clock bells, Captain Saux and a small band of Huguenot soldiers came into Toulouse via the Porte Villeneuve. There were no Catholics waiting to ambush them, only allies and comrades assembled inside the walls. Piet Reydon was among them.
With little noise, they moved through the streets to the heart of the city. Within an hour, they took control of the Hôtel de Ville, taking three capitouls and their staff hostage. Saux decided to set up his campaign headquarters there. No blood was spilt.
Toulouse gave a sigh of relief.
Minou, who had fled back to the Boussay residence in rue du Taur, knew none of this. Her gratitude at discovering the house still deserted had gone, leaving her with a deep sense of dread. There was at least food enough and, when she went down to the cellar, she discovered the barrels of powder, shot and crates of guns had gone. If the house was no longer being used to store weapons, then perhaps Monsieur Boussay would have no reason to return. In truth, she had no way of knowing what the next hours might hold.
Minou sat at the window of her chamber and waited, a watcher in the darkness. She thought of Aimeric, hoping he and Madame Boussay had made it safely to Pech David and that, when she did not arrive, he would remember her orders and head south. There was great danger in the expedition, and her aunt’s condition would make it more challenging still, but they were safer away from Toulouse. She wished she had kept the bible with her, but there had been no time.
She thought of Alis, a prisoner for five weeks in Puivert, her mind tortured with the blackest thoughts of her sister terrified and alone, believing she had been abandoned. What if they never found her? What if Alis was already dead? She took a deep breath, fighting the tears that had been threatening ever since she had taken her leave of Piet in the church some six hours ago.
Minou blinked them away. She would not give in.
PUIVERT
‘Is she going to die?’
The nurse, stinking of ale and sweat, tried to pull Alis away from the apothecary, who had been summoned from the village. They were standing outside the chamber where Blanche lay sleeping.
Cordier shook his head. ‘A scare, that is all. Your mistress must rest.’
‘She’s not my mistress,’ Alis said.
‘That’ll do,’ the nurse said sharply.
Alis tried again. If she could make him listen, might he not take her away with him when he left the castle? ‘You don’t understand, I’m not a servant. She made me—’
‘That’s enough,’ the nurse said, pinching her. ‘Stop your mouth.’
Alis flinched. The nurse was always harsher when she woke after drinking.
The apothecary observed them both with distaste. ‘The Lady Blanche has lost a lot of blood,’ he said, ‘but she is otherwise in good health. If she rests and does not tax herself, there may be no further danger.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No one can be sure in such matters.’ He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘When will her own physician be returning to Puivert?’
Alis suddenly saw the beads of perspiration on his temples and realised he was scared too. Hopes of him helping her faded a little.
‘Out of the goodness of her heart, my lady sent him to tend to the priest in Tarascon,’ simpered the nurse. ‘A hunting injury that is taking too long to heal. She is generous to the clergy serving God within her lands.’
By the way she was speaking, Alis realised it was something the nurse had overheard and hoped to receive credit for repeating. The apothecary waved h
er words away.
‘When is her own physician expected? That is the question I asked you.’
‘Tomorrow, maybe the day after. Why should I know?’
‘What about the baby?’ Alis asked, expecting another pinch. When it didn’t come, she understood the nurse also wanted to know but didn’t dare ask.
‘The baby is alive, I felt it move,’ Cordier said, closing his bag in his haste to be gone. ‘Everything is in God’s hands.’
Knowing this was her last chance, Alis grabbed his sleeve. ‘Monsieur, I beg you, take me with you. I was brought here from Carcassonne against—’
The slap knocked Alis almost off her feet.
‘My name is Alis Joubert!’ she shouted, as a greasy hand was clamped over her mouth.
‘She’s a silly, spoilt girl, that’s what she is,’ the nurse said. ‘Disobedient. My lady will have something to say about it when she wakes up, mark my words.’
‘Domestic matters are none of my business.’
‘No, indeed. But I would be grateful if you might mention how valuable my assistance was to you, Monsieur? That it was I who called for you?’
‘As I understand it, it was the child who summoned help,’ he said coldly, ‘and by so doing, perhaps saved her mistress’s life. Good day. I will see myself out.’
TOULOUSE
Minou jolted awake.
For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. Not in her bed in their little house in La Cité with roses around the front door. Not in the bookshop in the Bastide. She was cold, sitting on the ground in the dark.
Where was her father? Where were Aimeric and Alis? Piet?
Then, she remembered. It was Tuesday, the twelfth day of May – or was it now Wednesday? She was alone in her aunt and uncle’s house in rue du Taur. Everyone else had fled. Minou put her hand to her cheek, and found it was damp with tears.
But something had woken her.
She listened and heard voices in the street below. Her heart started to beat faster. Standing close to the wall, so as not to be noticed, she looked through the casement. A group of men, kerchiefs covering their mouths and noses, were rolling barrels along the street towards the junction with rue du Périgord to form a barricade.
Huguenots or Catholics?
Reason said the former. The university quarter was considered to be a Huguenot enclave. The colleges of Saint-Martial, Sainte-Catherine and Périgord had all been raided for seditious material in the past weeks. Minou turned cold. If so, would they know this for her uncle’s house? Would they attempt to break in?
She tried to still her mind, watching as the barricade was stacked higher and higher. Rue des Pénitents Gris was closed off, dividing Piet’s lodgings and the stables from the maison de charité. Were the residents in the almshouse safe? Piet had told her they were evacuating the residents, but where had they gone? There were said to be some ten thousand Catholic troops mustered in the city, as against fewer than two thousand Huguenots. Though the student bands were well armed, and there were weapons caches in Protestant safe houses, Piet had admitted that the odds were against them. And she remembered the tail-end of a whispered conversation with Aimeric in the carriage as they cantered, fearful, towards the covered bridge.
‘But if you love Piet,’ he had asked, ‘which side are you on? Catholic or Huguenot?’
Standing, watching in the dark from the Boussay house, her brother’s question echoed in her head. It was time to choose.
Piet and some twenty comrades-in-arms – a few trained soldiers but mostly students and artisans – stood in the shadow of the barricade on rue du Taur. A young man with blond hair was cleaning his gun.
‘We must secure Daurade and the area around the Basilica,’ the commander said. ‘The Porte Villeneuve is protected and we have men ready to take the Matabiau and Bazacle gates. The priority now is to ensure access for Hunault’s troops advancing from Lanta.’
‘When are they expected?’
Piet glanced at the questioner, the young man with fair hair.
‘God willing, by Friday.’
‘That’s two days hence. Do we have forces enough to withstand until then?’
‘We’ll have to,’ the commander said sharply. ‘Meanwhile, Captain Saux is in charge. His orders are that we should concentrate on seizing monasteries and churches, taking their occupants prisoners. He wants as little bloodshed as possible. We are to avoid private houses.’
He paused to let his words sink in. Piet looked at his new band of brothers, their faces lit by the flickering flames from the fire burning in the middle of the blocked street.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Our fight is not with ordinary citizens.’
He caught the eye of the young man, who held out his hand.
‘Félix Prouvaire.’
They shook. ‘Piet Reydon.’
‘We have men ready to take the Jacobins and Cordeliers,’ the commander continued. ‘Each unit to hold its own section. The Couteliers and Daurade districts are well fortified. There are cannons in place on the tower of the Hôtel de Ville.’
‘For what purpose?’ Piet asked. ‘General defence, or is there some specific target?’
The commander met his gaze. ‘The great pilgrimage church of Saint-Sernin. If we could destroy it, it would demoralise their troops. Those are my orders.’
Piet opened his mouth to protest, then had second thoughts. It grieved him to think of so magnificent, so ancient a building as the Basilica being destroyed, but what did he expect? That there could be fighting and yet Toulouse would remain untouched?
‘Who leads the Catholic troops?’ asked Prouvaire.
‘We believe it is Raymond de Pavia from Narbonne,’ the commander answered. ‘Their base is within the Chancery buildings.’
‘Parliament has ordered the awnings of all the shops in Place du Salin to be taken down,’ Piet said. Then, recalling it was Jasper McCone who had told him, he added, ‘It may not be true.’
‘Fewer places for us to conceal ourselves,’ Prouvaire said.
The commander grunted. ‘They want to prevent us being able to muster enough of our troops to besiege Parliament.’
Piet nodded. ‘It’s also said they have told people to wear white crosses, or paint such upon their doors, so that their troops can identify Catholic households.’
He thought of the notorious words said to have been spoken at the start of the massacre of Béziers, one of the worst atrocities of the crusade against the Cathars. Every boy and girl of the Midi knew them.
‘Tuez-les tous. Dieu reconnaîtra les siens.’
Some three hundred and fifty years ago, those words had given papal licence to the slaughter of thousands of men, women and children in the space of a few hours. It had been the brutal first step in a conflict that was to last decades and turn the green lands of the Midi red with blood.
Piet sighed. God willing, Toulouse would fall to them as quickly as Orléans had, and with few civilian casualties. If God was on their side, this would not be another Béziers.
The commander finished giving his orders.
‘Now, rest. When the sun rises, we must be ready. Prouvaire, you take the first shift. Reydon, you relieve him at six.’
‘Oui, mon capitaine.’
Piet sat by the fire and tried to sleep. He watched Prouvaire climb to the top of the barricade, musket in his hand, but he couldn’t shake the infamous words of the papal legate from his mind.
‘Kill them all. God will know His own.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
PUIVERT
The land surrounding the château de Puivert was in darkness. Pinpricks of light in one or two of the houses in the village below broke the blackness, and the single bobbing lamp of the shepherd minding his flock. There were wild dogs in the hills, becoming bolder by the day, and several animals had been killed.
In the soldiers’ mess in the Tour Bossue, a small fire warmed the midnight of the room and the faces of the two men sitting at the table. They we
re flushed with ale and two empty trenchers spoke of a meal well eaten.
Paul Cordier wiped his fingers on his kerchief, shook the crumbs from his beard and doublet, then sat back.
‘Good cheer,’ he said.
‘The hour is late. You will stay here until daybreak?’
He nodded. ‘In case the Lady Blanche has need of my services again, yes.’
Cordier’s pleasure at being summoned to the castle had swiftly become fear: if the baby died, would he be blamed? When young Guilhem Lizier, on guard at the main gates, had invited him to stay and share his supper, he had been grateful to accept. His nerves were shaken and, in any case, he had no reason to rush home. He had no wife or child, there was nothing but a cold hearth waiting for him.
‘You think the mistress will live?’ the boy asked.
Cordier nodded. ‘Unless her blood goes bad, which it still might. But her general health is good and the pregnancy has caused her no difficulties until now.’
‘What about the child?’
‘It is a dangerous time, there’s no doubt. If the baby decides to be born now, it would be unlikely to survive. But it’s in God’s hands.’
Guilhem nodded. ‘There are many rumours, Sénher. Hitherto, the Lady Blanche gave her orders in person, but we have not seen her in the lower courtyard for weeks. It is said she is waiting for someone. I have seen her myself at the top of the keep, looking out. Do you observe this behaviour in her?’
The apothecary looked over his shoulder, as if fearing to be overheard. ‘I am not one to gossip –’
‘Of course not.’
‘But this I can say. In her fever, the lady kept saying “he” would be here soon.’ He took another gulp of ale. ‘Other times, it seemed to be a woman she was expecting.’ He shrugged. ‘I have no doubt a visitor is expected.’
‘It was not the delirium talking?’
‘I think not.’ He leant further in. ‘She was holding a letter in her hand.’
‘Who was it from?’
‘I could not see and, even if I had, I would not have presumed to look.’