The Burning Chambers

by Kate Mosse

  Blanche pulled on her shift, feeling dizzy and light-headed, then joined him at the casement.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Vidal asked.

  Blanche frowned. Did she? She tried to concentrate. Images, thoughts, slipped in and out of her mind. Blood, a violent stabbing sensation in her abdomen, the cold of the stones and blackness. Alis shouting and shouting for help. For a fleeting moment, she felt a pang of guilt for the girl, but she killed it. There was no room for sentiment. It would make her weak.

  She nodded, relieved she could remember. ‘It is the apothecary from the village.’

  ‘Who attended you?’

  ‘The same. Paul Cordier.’

  ‘Did you send for him?’

  ‘I did not.’

  Vidal laughed. ‘Another of your spies?’

  Blanche found a smile. ‘That’s right.’ She slipped her hand beneath his robes and heard him sigh. ‘I told you, everyone can be bought at the right price.’

  PUIVERT VILLAGE

  The long narrow village street was in shadow as the setting sun sank behind the houses. On the hillside above, only the château de Puivert remained bathed in golden light.

  Madame Boussay, Madame Noubel, Aimeric and Guilhem were in the midwife’s old house, next to Achille Lizier’s cottage. They had set up camp there, after leaving Cordier’s dwelling, needing somewhere to wait out of sight of prying eyes. The cottage was damp, with the melancholy air of a place abandoned, but once they had opened the back shutters and lit a fire of hawthorn wood in the grate to take the chill from the room, it had served them well enough.

  Bérenger was standing watch outside. Inside, the conversation had been heated. They were like knights at the joust, Aimeric thought. First one point scored, only to be knocked down by a different suggestion. Finally, after many hours of talking, a plan had been agreed.

  At dusk, Madame Noubel would go to the château with Guilhem. He would help her through the guardhouse at the main gate, before attending to his duties in the Tour Bossue. He would try to find a way to speak to Bernard and tell him what had happened.

  While Guilhem was talking to Bernard, Cécile Noubel would make her way to the logis to find Alis, with a view to getting her away under cover of darkness. Though Cordier’s words became more slippery with drink, her cousin had been useful. She was confident she knew in which chamber the child was being held and how best to get in and out. Her principle worry was for Alis’s health. If she was sick, and too ill to be moved, then she would have to think again.

  In the meantime, Bérenger was to take up position in the woods to the north of the castle to be on hand ready to bring Bernard and Alis back to the village.

  Aimeric was to remain in the village with Madame Boussay and hold the fort.

  ‘I tell you, I should go with you,’ Aimeric repeated. ‘It’s not fair.’

  Madame Noubel shook her head. ‘We have been through this a dozen times. The fewer of us there are, the less the chance of us being seen. I know the castle and grounds well. It will be easier for me to blend into the background.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! The servants will know you don’t belong there.’

  ‘I did once belong,’ she said mildly. ‘Servants come and go. And besides, one old woman looks much like another to young eyes.’

  Madame Boussay chuckled. ‘How right you are, Cécile.’

  ‘If by ill fortune I am challenged,’ Madame Noubel continued, ‘I will claim I was sent by my cousin to deliver medicine to the castle.’

  ‘Cordier’s an idiot,’ Aimeric said. ‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can spit.’

  ‘That’s enough, Nephew. I need you here with me. We must make sure the cottage is ready for when your father and sister come back. Or if, God willing, Minou should arrive.’

  Aimeric frowned. ‘You don’t think she is trapped . . .’

  ‘Your sister is a resourceful, courageous person,’ Madame Boussay said firmly. ‘I have no doubt she will have found a way to get out of Toulouse and is, even now, making her way to Puivert. The only question is when she will arrive, not if.’

  ‘You truly believe that, Aunt?’ he said, clutching his sister’s green woollen cloak. He had barely let it out of his sight since Minou had entrusted it to him on the covered bridge.

  ‘I do believe it. And when Minou does come, I will rely on you to explain everything. I so often get in a muddle and say the wrong thing. My husband—’ She broke off. ‘Well, that’s as no matter now.’

  Aimeric grinned. ‘I don’t believe you get in a muddle at all. I think you know everything, but pretend not to.’

  Madame Boussay stared at him, then a glint of mischief sparkled in her eyes.

  ‘Is that so? Well, who’s to say? It is sometimes safer to be taken for a fool and to be overlooked, than be considered wise and have your every word examined.’

  Madame Noubel stood up suddenly. ‘This endless waiting plays on my nerves.’ She turned to Guilhem. ‘You are sure Bernard will still be in the Tour Bossue?’

  ‘He’s been held in the same cell since April, Madama. I have been away from the castle on patrol this past week, but I see no reason why he would have been moved.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why Father was arrested in the first place.’ Aimeric said. ‘What was his crime?’

  ‘He was taken for a poacher,’ Guilhem replied. ‘Lady Blanche was away in Toulouse – so we were told – and all matters of security were placed in the hands of the captain of the guard. A couple of other poachers were arrested that same night. They were charged and released with a fine but, because Bernard refused to give his name, the captain wouldn’t let him go.’

  ‘And Bernard couldn’t give his name,’ Madame Noubel said, thinking out loud, ‘for fear Blanche de Bruyère would learn of it and realise who he was. I thought it odd I received no word from him, but then I was so worried for Alis.’

  ‘And nobody knows who he is, even now?’ Aimeric asked.

  Guilhem shook his head. ‘Only us four, and, of course, now my uncle.’ He turned to Madame Noubel. ‘Or perhaps also your cousin?’

  ‘I did not speak to Paul of Bernard, only of Alis.’ She sighed. ‘It is odd, though, to be back here in this cottage after so long. Twenty years.’

  Madame Boussay looked at her. ‘You know a great more of this matter than you have so far said, Cécile.’

  Madame Noubel hesitated, then she nodded. ‘I do. But it is Bernard’s story to tell. I cannot break a confidence.’

  At that moment, they heard the single bell tolling the dusk, and everyone fell silent. Bérenger reappeared in the chamber, his solid bulk in the doorway blocking the light.

  ‘It is time,’ he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHTEAU DE PUIVERT

  As the last of the blue slipped from the sky, a nightingale began to sing in the woods behind the castle. The air was sharp with the smell of pine and sweet, damp earth.

  There was a flickering glow of candlelight in the keep, like fireflies piercing the velvet blue. Bolder, stronger torches flamed at the gatehouse, sending elongated moving shadows scattering across the grassy courtyard. Lamps burnt above the stone doors in the towers of the lower courtyard. Not a soul appeared to be stirring, either within or without the walls. But the night was alive with those secretly waiting.

  Breaths taken in short, shallow bursts. Caps and hoods pulled low over faces. The muffled tread of those wanting not to be heard, the crack of a twig or a stone dislodged seeming as loud as any rumble of thunder.

  Eyes watching from the woods.

  Madame Noubel and Guilhem approached the drawbridge.

  ‘You are sure you wish to go through with this?’ she said, putting her hand on the young soldier’s arm. ‘If your role is discovered, it will go ill for you.’

  ‘It won’t be,’ he said, though she heard the snap of fear in his voice. ‘Villagers come regularly to the castle, bringing food or wares to sell.’

  ‘At this time of n
ight?’

  ‘At any time.’

  ‘If you are certain.’

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s no reason for anyone to suspect you of anything,’ he said. ‘You are a Puivert woman, one of us.’

  ‘What was that?’ Piet hissed, drawing his sword.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Minou said quickly. ‘The high notes of a nightingale, can you not hear her? The woods are full of birdsong at this time of night.’

  Piet let his hand drop back to his side. ‘After the barricade, even the most innocent sound now speaks of some threat.’

  They settled back against the base of the beech tree, its twisted trunk glowing silver in the light of the moon. Minou turned over a leaf in her hand.

  ‘It is the shape of a teardrop, do you see?’

  He laughed, then picked another from the carpet of leaves on which they sat.

  ‘I prefer this, for it looks like a heart.’

  ‘That’s from an alder,’ Minou said. ‘When I was little, my mother taught me to recognise trees from their leaves and flowers. We would walk in the woods, the marshlands down by the river, the orchards on the slopes of La Cité.’

  Piet smiled. ‘My childhood in Amsterdam was about waterways and dams. The sound of the wind in the rigging of tall ships and the merchants unloading cargo. All noise and bustle, not the peace of the countryside.’ He froze again. ‘What’s that?’

  This time, Minou had heard it too. The sound of a branch snapping underfoot.

  ‘It came from that direction,’ she whispered, pointing towards the deeper woods to the north of the château.

  ‘I’ll go and look.’

  ‘No, wait.’

  ‘I won’t be long. Best to be certain.’

  ‘Piet, better we stay together,’ she said, but she was already speaking to the moon. He had vanished.

  Minou waited, listening out for his footsteps in the darkness. The nightingale’s song gave way to the cry of an owl going out to hunt. Then the bells of the village church struck for eight o’clock. Should she follow? What if there was someone there and Piet needed help?

  She looked up. At that moment, the candles that had been burning in the tall rectangular castle tower were extinguished. It was very early for the household to retire for the night, but maybe that was the way in the mountains.

  ‘Piet?’ she whispered into the night, thinking she heard something.

  There was no answer.

  Minou stepped out of the shelter of the beech tree.

  Without warning, a hand was clamped across her mouth. A man’s hand, smelling of ale and metal. She struck out, punching and kicking and trying to pull herself free, but she was overpowered.

  ‘Here’s another one,’ he said. ‘Looks like that old sot Cordier got his facts right for once.’

  Minou made another wild effort to get away, but her arms were dragged up behind her back and a hessian hood thrown over her head. She felt herself being half marched, half carried uphill towards the castle. Moments later, the sound of a gate.

  ‘What are we supposed to do with her?’

  ‘Put her in the dungeon in the Tour Bossue.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ Guilhem addressed Madame Noubel in a loud voice, for the benefit of the guards on duty.

  They were playing dice and paid no attention. Too little attention, perhaps? Was it odd no one had asked who his companion was? He had told Madame Noubel not to worry, but the atmosphere in the gatehouse seemed as sharp as a knife. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now. So long as Bérenger was safely in position in the woods, all should be well.

  ‘Thank you for your kindness, Sénher,’ Madame Noubel replied in Occitan. ‘I am much obliged. Goodnight.’

  ‘Bona nuèit, Madama,’ he said again.

  Guilhem took the keys for the Tour Bossue, then walked out into the night. He saw Madame Noubel pull her shawl around her face, then hurry into the blackness of the courtyard beyond.

  As Guilhem turned to go back into the gatehouse he found two soldiers blocking his way. A third man, a stranger with a vivid scar on his face, was with them.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  The first blow took his breath from him, the second connected with his jaw, and his head snapped back. Then he was pushed hard in the chest.

  ‘Friends, what is it? What’s happening?’

  Guilhem felt his arms gripped, one on either side of him, before being dragged out of the gatehouse.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  At the last moment, in the lamplight, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face, someone who should not have been there.

  ‘Cordier?’ he shouted, struggling to free himself. ‘Cordier!’

  Then the door was kicked shut, a hand was clamped over his mouth, and he was dragged across the drawbridge and into the woods behind the castle.

  ‘No,’ Guilhem tried to say, as he felt the point of a knife against his side. ‘You’re making a mistake.’

  ‘No mistake,’ Bonal said.

  Guilhem tried to shout for help as the blade slipped in between his ribs. Clean and expert, final. For a moment, there was no sensation at all. Then the point of the knife went home. Guilhem felt the first spreading of blood on his skin and his jerkin, a terrible cold like a winter’s frost reaching right to the tips of his fingers. He fell down to his knees. He tasted blood in his throat, his mouth. Why couldn’t he breathe?

  In his last moments of life, he thought he saw his Jeannette on the river bank, so proud that he had learnt to write in French. How he would never now be able to thank Bernard for the gift of his teaching. He thought of Madame Noubel – betrayed, as he realised they had all been, by her own cousin – and prayed Bérenger would at least have a chance to defend himself, that he would die like a soldier.

  Guilhem reached for his sword, but it was too late.

  Noises filtered in from outside his cell, and Bernard jolted awake.

  ‘Guilhem?’ Bernard said. ‘Is it you?’

  Holding the weight of the chain that tethered him to the wall, Bernard shuffled to the narrow window and looked out.

  The night air was cool on his face. Clouds moved fast across the face of the moon, sending beams of silver light over the tops of the trees, illuminating fragments of ground around the edge of the woods.

  He could see little, but he could hear the beat of the wings of a bird, folding into the air and away. Rustling in the undergrowth. A wild boar perhaps? Was it more poachers he’d heard? Though the penalties could be harsh, the hunting was good.

  Then, the sound of men talking. Muttering, but unafraid to be heard. Not poachers. The jolt of swords and armour. Soldiers? It was unusual for them to patrol outside the castle walls at night.

  Bernard tried to twist his head, but the chain wouldn’t stretch further and he couldn’t see. He heard the click of a gate – into the upper courtyard, he thought – and wondered who was coming into the château at this time of night.

  Not wishing to be caught looking, he quickly hurried back to his bench and sat down to wait.

  Piet held his fingers to the man’s neck and found no pulse.

  The body was still warm, the life had barely left him. Piet ran his hands over his jerkin, found the hilt of a dagger and his shirt sodden with blood. He ran his hand over the man’s pockets, taking a knife and a set of keys, then stood up. He hid the keys in his own pocket, then out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement.

  Piet drew his sword and spun round, but he was too slow. He saw the stick come down, felt the club connect with the side of his head.

  Then, darkness.

  Bernard heard someone drag open the outer door of the Tour Bossue, then the tramp of several pairs of boots in the passage and the key in the lock.

  Two soldiers, neither of whom he recognised, appeared in the doorway holding a person between them. Bernard held up his hands to shield his eyes from the blinding light of the lantern.

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  ‘Where’s Guilhem?
’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve brought company for you.’ One of the soldiers pushed the prisoner forward.

  To Bernard’s distress, he saw the prisoner was a woman. Tall and slight, her skirts were stained wet at the hem. One of the soldiers crouched down to untie her hands and then pulled the hood from her head. ‘The first of many new arrivals this evening, I warrant.’

  The door was locked again and the air settled. The woman kept her head bowed, but he knew. Bernard could not breathe, dared not speak for breaking the spell. Was it a dream? A spirit sent to taunt him?

  The cell was dark, but the ribbon of moonlight through the narrow window was all he needed. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  ‘Daughter . . .’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Blanche de Bruyère stood in a long grey gown, buttoned high at the neck and artfully tailored to conceal her condition. Her underskirt and the slashes of her sleeves were ivory white, shimmering in the light of the candles, and her black hair was braided and arranged beneath a grey cowl. At her neck, she wore a string of pearls. Pinned to her waist hung an exquisite rosary of silver and carved ivory beads.

  Vidal stood behind her in his red robes, a silver crucifix heavy around his neck. Standing guard on the landing outside the open door to the musicians’ gallery, Bonal stood listening to every word the captain of the castle guard was saying.

  ‘What news?’ Blanche said.

  ‘We have located them all, my lady,’ he replied. ‘There are four of them, as the apothecary reported, though he was not accurate in his descriptions.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The captain shuffled. ‘Their ages, clothing, he—’

  ‘Tell us who you do have,’ Vidal interrupted.

  ‘An old woman and a soldier, who arrived in the village this morning from Carcassonne. Also, another woman and a young boy from Toulouse, who travelled from Chalabre this afternoon. Both the women are already in our custody.’

  ‘What name did the younger woman give?’ Blanche demanded.

  ‘She refused to speak. We found her just after eight o’clock outside the château walls on the woodland side of—’