by Kate Mosse
‘The lady will not survive. I am sorry.’
‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Florence whispered.
‘She has lost too much blood and, after the tragedy of her last confinement, she never fully recovered. But the child might.’
Florence met her eye, then nodded even though she knew she was going against the Seigneur’s wishes.
‘The chamber must be cleared,’ she called out. ‘The midwife asks for it.’
Bernard Joubert instantly stood up and gathered his papers. The captain stood his ground. ‘I refuse,’ he said. ‘My express orders are to remain throughout.’
Florence took a step towards him. ‘If your presence influences things for the ill – as well it might – and it becomes known that you went against the advice of the midwife, your master will not thank you.’
The captain hesitated. Even he would not deny that, in the matter of childbirth, a woman’s word carried more authority than that of a man. He turned on the scribe instead.
‘On your head be it, Joubert,’ he said. ‘This is your wife’s doing. You are to remain outside the chamber and the door is to be open.’
‘As you wish,’ Bernard answered mildly.
‘I am to be summoned the instant there is news,’ he said, turning back to Florence. ‘I insist upon it, the very instant.’
She met his gaze. ‘I will summon you when there is something for you to tell your master, not a moment sooner.’
‘The door is to remain open, do you hear me?’
‘I hear you.’
When she was sure he was gone, Florence breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced at Cécile Cordier, both of them wondering what price would be paid for this small victory. Then another pitiful cry drew them back to the bedside.
‘Close the curtains,’ Florence said.
After twelve long hours of labour, the three women worked in silence around the bed. The sheets were changed again, the soiled straw was cleared from the floor and fresh laid, but the smell of blood lingered. The scent of death. When the next run of contractions came, Marguerite barely made a sound.
The Tramontana wind was blowing harder, rattling through the gaps in the shutters and gusting in the hearth, sending flurries of ash like black snow into the room. Suddenly, Marguerite opened her eyes and stared ahead. Her eyes were extraordinary and opposite, one the colour of cornflowers and the other like leaves in autumn. Growing dim now.
‘Florence? Florence, my dear friend, are you here? I cannot see.’
‘I’m here.’
‘I must write . . . can you fetch me –’
Florence nodded and, without a word being exchanged, Cécile crossed the room to the escritoire where Bernard Joubert had been stationed. She took a quill and paper bearing the Bruyère seal, and rushed back to the bedside.
‘Shall I write something for you?’ Florence asked.
Marguerite shook her head. ‘This I must do for myself. Can you help me sit?’
‘She should not move,’ the midwife said, but Florence and Cécile moved to either side of Marguerite and placed a pillow beneath her right hand.
‘This is the day of my death.’
Marguerite half spoke, half mouthed the words out loud as she wrote, as if to remind herself of what she wanted to set down.
‘As the Lord God is my witness, here, by my own hand, do I set this down. My last Will and Testament.’
They could all see how much effort it cost her, witnessed the painful and slow scratch of the quill, the black teardrops on the page.
‘Merci,’ Marguerite said when the document was done. ‘Will you witness my words?’ Florence quickly signed her name at the bottom of the paper, Cécile too.
‘There,’ Marguerite said. ‘Keep it safe, Florence. If the child lives, it should not lack for anything.’
She sent a whisper of breath across the surface to dry the ink, then sank back exhausted on her pillows.
Madame Gabignaud smoothed away a strand of brown hair from Marguerite’s face. She pressed a cold compress to her brow as another contraction gripped her, then receded.
‘Beneath the mattress, Florence,’ she whispered. ‘I would have it with me.’
Despite knowing they could all be hung for heretics should this act of rebellion be discovered, Florence reached down and pulled out the forbidden Protestant bible she knew Marguerite kept hidden there. She placed it into her mistress’s hands.
‘Here,’ she said.
‘You will look after my child. Don’t let—’ Her words were lost in the pain of another contraction.
‘This time, try to push,’ the midwife said.
‘You will look after the child,’ Marguerite gasped.
‘There will be no need, for you will be there,’ Florence said, though she knew she was lying. ‘Once more, then you can rest.’
Obedient to the last, Marguerite found the strength.
At that moment, the last of the light slipped from the sky, plunging the bedchamber into shadow. She cried out again, not in pain or sorrow this time, but release.
‘It’s a girl,’ the midwife whispered, sweeping the child up and quickly tying the birth cord.
‘Alive?’ Florence whispered, fearful because the baby had not made a sound.
‘Yes. She’s a good colour and has a strong grip.’
The midwife cleaned and swaddled the baby, handed her to Florence, then turned her attention to Marguerite.
‘You have a beautiful, healthy daughter,’ Florence said, leaning over the bed. ‘Look.’
Marguerite’s eyes fluttered. ‘She lives?’
‘She is the image of you.’
‘Thank God,’ she murmured, then her eyes widened in panic. ‘Do not let him take her, not like my other little ones. Keep her safe.’
‘You must save your strength,’ Madame Gabignaud was saying, though she knew it was no good. The bleeding could not be stemmed. ‘It will be best if you lie still.’
‘Florence, promise. Don’t let him take her.’
As the bells began to ring for five o’clock, Marguerite gave a long, low sigh. Her expression was serene. She murmured a French prayer as her soul took flight. She had no need of an intermediary. She believed her God was waiting to welcome her home.
The chamber was quiet at last.
‘She’s gone,’ Cécile said, bowing her head.
‘The pity of it,’ the midwife said. She had seen death many times, but this loss touched her greatly. ‘Why is it always the good who are taken before their time? If there is a God, then tell me that.’
Florence kissed Marguerite on her forehead, already seeming to be growing cold, then pulled the sheet up over her sweet face. She would not let herself cry now. She would not grieve yet. There was too much to be done.
Five o’clock on the Eve of All Saints.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT
Friday, 22nd May, 1562
‘The Eve of All Saints,’ said Cécile quietly. ‘Nineteen years ago, though it could be yesterday.’
Bernard nodded.
Lulled by their voices, Minou blinked, surprised to find herself still in the cell. It was not yet dawn, but there was a gathering light in the sky that suggested morning was not far away. Their words hung heavy in the air, colliding with myriad questions in her head. She hardly knew where to begin. She looked to her father, then back to Madame Noubel.
‘I understand the kind of man Lord Bruyère was, but to deny him his own child? Why was it so important that he believed I had not survived?’
‘You were a girl,’ Bernard said simply. ‘Marguerite had, a year previously, given birth to twin girls. Taken from her hours after their delivery to be examined by a physician, on her husband’s orders. She never saw them again. Both were found dead in their cradles.’
‘Both? At the same time?’ Minou asked.
Cécile nodded. ‘The common belief was that he had ordered them to be killed. Everyone thought so, though there was no proof.
’
‘His own children . . .’ Minou murmured, horrified.
Bernard shook his head. ‘He wanted a son. Was desperate for an heir to inherit his estates. He had no interest in supporting daughters, who would grow up to require dowries or take his lands into another family.’
‘He was a wicked man,’ Cécile said.
‘That is more than wickedness,’ Minou said. ‘A mortal sin.’
Bernard leant forward. ‘And Florence was certain the same thing would happen to you, which is why she gave her word to Marguerite.’
Minou shook her head, thinking more about what Marguerite must have suffered.
‘There was no time to talk about it before it happened. Suddenly, I heard the door below slam and the captain shouting at the servants to get out of his way. I could hear him on the stairs. There was no time to think.’
‘I have no doubt,’ Cécile said, ‘that the only consideration in Florence’s mind was how to protect you. She took charge and, without a word being spoken, she selected the most stained of the delivery cloths and handed them to the midwife, who understood. Madame Gabignaud wrapped the foul material around you, to discourage attention, and held you tight. I rushed to replace the quill, paper and ink on the escritoire.’
‘And still you didn’t make a sound,’ Bernard added, ‘as if you knew your life was at stake.’
‘We were only just in time. The captain stormed into the room and dragged open the bed curtains, setting the rings rattling on the rail, demanding to know what was happening. Florence stepped back to allow him sight of the bed and told him how the Lord had not seen fit to grace the Lady Marguerite with His mercy. At this, the captain turned white.
‘“She is dead?” he demanded. Florence pulled back the edge of the sheet to reveal her marble face and, for a moment, the captain was silent. Then he asked about you. Florence crossed herself and explained that, to the great sorrow of us all, the child was born dead.
‘“But I heard a cry,” he said.
‘Now Florence looked him in the eye, as if defying him to contradict her, and told him it was not the cry of a child, but rather our poor lady at the moment of her departing.’
Cecile Noubel smiled. ‘It was pitiful at how eagerly the captain clutched at this, Minou. Stumbling over his words, asking if it was true that the child had been another girl. Florence gestured for Madame Gabignaud to come forward and asked if he would like to see the baby for himself. Of course, Minou, if you had cried then all would have been lost.’ She shook her head. ‘But the captain’s stomach was not strong enough. He, who signed the warrants for those the Seigneur condemned to a flogging or hanging, in truth could not endure the sight of blood.’
‘Like so many who are bullies, he was a coward at heart,’ Bernard said. ‘He hid behind his authority. By now, the church had struck the half-hour and it was dark outside. Since the dead child was a girl, the captain persuaded himself that what he had seen was proof enough.’
Cécile nodded. ‘He told Florence to dispose of the body. She immediately stepped away from the bed, drawing him with her, and pulled the curtains shut, leaving me and the midwife, holding you inside. “If you would offer your master our condolences on the tragic loss of his wife and child,” I heard her say, “I would be in your debt. There are things we must attend to here.”’
‘I have no doubt he heard the rebuke beneath Florence’s words,’ Bernard said, ‘but the captain was the kind who thought only of his own situation. He did not want to be the bearer of bad news and decided I should act as his shield. “Come with me, Joubert, we will go together. You are the other witness.” I had no choice but to comply but, as I left the chamber, Florence whispered we should meet at Madame Gabignaud’s house later that night.’
‘When the men had gone,’ Cécile said, ‘at first we did not speak at all. Any stray word might have given us away. But we knew you would not sleep for much longer – and when you did wake, you would cry for food – so we had to act quickly. It was agreed I would stay and lay out the body, in case the Seigneur came to pay his last respects to his wife.’
‘You did not fear he might wish to see the body of his child as well?’ Minou asked.
‘We did,’ Cécile said, ‘but it was a chance we had to take. We knew he had no interest in a daughter, and feared if he had sight of you, well . . .’ She broke off.
‘I understand,’ Minou said quietly.
‘We could not risk your life. Florence smuggled you out of the castle in a panier, and down to the village.’
‘Over the course of the next week,’ Bernard said, ‘Florence and I visited when we could. Madame Gabignaud found a wet nurse, who asked no questions. Cécile looked after you.’
Minou smiled. ‘It was you who sang the lullaby to me.’
‘Fancy you remembering,’ Madame Noubel said, and sang the first few lines:
‘Bona nuèit, bona nuèit . . .
Braves amics, pica mièja-nuèit
Cal finir velhada.’
Minou nodded. ‘Even though I couldn’t understand the words, I never forgot them. They stayed in my memory.’
‘It is an old Occitan song.’
Bernard smiled. ‘Anyway, you thrived. You grew stronger each day and we tried to decide what to do in the longer term. Cécile had her own husband to attend to, I had my responsibilities at the castle. Only Florence was relieved of her duties now her mistress was gone.’
‘Marguerite was buried a week after her death, with little ceremony, in the grounds of the castle,’ Madame Noubel continued. ‘Then at Advent, it was given out that the Lord Bruyère was to marry again. The village disapproved of his haste, but he cared nothing for the good opinion of his subjects. The girl brought with her a substantial dowry and her own household servants.’
Bernard nodded. ‘Florence and I saw our chance to leave. In December, I asked to be released from my duties. The captain, for once, spoke on our behalf. He was scared of Florence, in truth, and wanted to see the back of us.’ He smiled. ‘By the following spring, Florence and I were settled with our young daughter – you – in Carcassonne. A little house in La Cité, modest premises in the Bastide. We put the past behind us.’ He raised his head. ‘And you know, we never regretted what we did for a moment.’
‘Nor should you,’ Cécile said.
‘Six years later, we were blessed with Aimeric and then, another six years later, with Alis. You doted on your little brother and sister. We always said we would tell you the truth of your origins when the time was right. Somehow that day never came and when Florence died, I lost heart. Besides, until then, everything was fine. Our business was doing well, we were content. We had all we needed. I suppose I put it all from my mind. Florence had told me the Will was in a safe place. I assumed she had concealed it within the château itself. That is why I came back to Puivert, to search for it.’
For a moment, Minou was silent, thinking of the great risks taken to save her life and how the three old friends had guarded the secret for nearly twenty years. Then, her darkening thoughts brought her back to the present.
‘How did Blanche de Puivert find me?’
Anguish flooded her father’s face. ‘It was my fault.’
‘Tell her, Bernard,’ Cécile said.
He nodded. ‘In January, on my way back to Carcassonne, I was arrested in Toulouse and taken to the inquisitional prison there.’
‘Dearest Father,’ Minou murmured in distress, ‘why did you not tell me?’
‘I could not.’ Bernard shook his head. ‘I was held in a cell with Michel Cazès. He suffered more terribly than did I. At night, we talked – to keep the fear at bay – and I spoke of this. Of the truth of your arrival into the world.’ He dropped his head. ‘He was stretched, I heard it. He must have told the inquisitors. It is my fault he is dead.’
‘It is not,’ Cécile said briskly. ‘You take too much responsibility on your shoulders, Bernard. It was the death of the old sinner here that set things in motion. From the m
oment he died, Blanche de Bruyère was desperate to shore up her own position. She had heard the rumours about a child who had survived.’
‘But how?’ Bernard cried.
‘From everything I have heard, it’s my belief that Madame Gabignaud was forced to talk before she was murdered. You said the letter you received in Carcassonne had the Bruyère seal on it, Minou?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it not likely that Blanche had been in communication with Madame Gabignaud? How else would she have access to a piece of Blanche’s writing paper?’
Minou nodded. ‘Then, when Blanche had got what she wanted, she murdered her.’
‘I fear so.’ Madame Noubel paused. ‘Or the captain who was there on the day of your birth might have admitted to someone he had never actually seen the baby. Even old Lizier’s wife in the cottage next door might have seen our comings and goings, and put two and two together. The point is, Bernard, there are many ways the rumour could have spread. We will never know. All I do know is that it is not your fault.’
Minou’s head was spinning with conflicting thoughts, her heart knotted with warring emotions. It was hard to absorb the tragedy of Marguerite’s death and the courage of her parents. But what did any of it actually matter in the long term? Was she a different person because of the circumstances of her birth?
Suddenly, Minou felt an intense longing to talk to Piet. Wouldn’t he help her to make sense of things? Then, she thought how pleased he would be to learn that her birth mother had been a Huguenot.
She glanced at the window where a pale dawn was giving shape to the ghostly outline of the trees. Was he still out there in the woods? Was he looking for her? Or had they caught him too?
She pushed the thought from her mind.
‘Florence’s intention was always,’ her father continued, ‘that once the Seigneur of Puivert was dead, you should have the right to decide whether you wished to claim your inheritance.’
‘There are no other children?’ Minou asked.
‘None, though Guilhem told me Blanche de Bruyère is expecting. No one believes it is the late Seigneur’s child, but if it is a boy, it would be first in line to inherit. As for the question of your claim, I don’t even know whether the Will is still in existence.’