by Kate Mosse
‘Niece, I think we should go inside. I had a thought someone had lit a fire to keep us warm. In fact, I am sure of it. No, I am muddling things again. It will be warm inside by the fire.’
Minou was struggling to blink away her tears.
‘We’ll take you inside. Don’t worry. Look, here’s Piet come to help. And Bernard too.’
‘Bernard?’ Madame Boussay’s eyes fluttered open as she tried to hold out her hand.
‘Stay awake, Aunt,’ Aimeric whispered. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘Nephew, you talk too much.’ Her voice was fading. ‘Bernard, how very nice to make your acquaintance after all this time. I have had the great joy of Minou and Aimeric’s company these past months, but of course you know that.’
‘I know it. Thank you for your great kindness.’
‘Well, that was my pleasure, and I think I know my duty to my own flesh and blood, whatever Monsieur Boussay . . .’ Her voice faded lower. ‘Is Florence with you? Is she here? I would see her.’ She peered, then frowned. ‘Sister?’
Madame Noubel knelt beside her. ‘Florence is not here, Salvadora, but I am. I’m Cécile. We met yesterday in the village.’
‘So we did. You were Florence’s matron of honour, I remember. I did so want to be a bridesmaid, but dear Papa wouldn’t let me come.’
‘Put her onto this cloak,’ Minou said. ‘Use it as a stretcher. We’ll take her into the castle.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Both of them.’
‘Not her!’ Aimeric shouted.
‘We can’t leave her here for the crows and the wolves, it’s not right.’
‘No,’ Alis said, running into Bernard’s arms. ‘Not her.’
‘We must take them both,’ Minou repeated.
‘What about the soldiers?’ Aimeric said. ‘We’ll be seen.’
‘The soldiers have gone,’ Bernard said quietly. ‘Some deserted as the fire began to take hold. Others absconded when her confessor fled. They had been under his authority.’
‘Quick,’ Minou said. ‘She will die if we don’t get help.’
Blanche felt herself being picked up. The voices were sleeping now. No more movement inside her. No more voices.
She breathed a long sigh, a last sigh.
Then, a blessed and beautiful silence.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT
Friday, 29th May
One week later, Minou stood on the open ground outside the northern walls of the castle, watching as Blanche’s coffin was lowered into the ground.
‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’
The clod hit the lid of the coffin with a soft thud. Brown earth slipped through the palsied fingers of the Catholic priest summoned from Quillan to perform the burial. Then another hand, stretching out across the open grave, then another. Soil and stone pattering on the wood, like rain. No tears were shed, though every face was solemn and many bore the scars of the events of that day.
For seven days, Puivert had been burying its dead. The tolling of the angelus bell for those much loved, such as Guilhem Lizier, as well as those like Paul Cordier who, though disliked, still belonged to the village. The soldiers killed in the woods had been buried here, too. As had the priest’s manservant, Bonal, and a few – still loyal to Blanche de Bruyère – who had fallen in the battle when Bérenger’s civilian army stormed up from the village.
And now this, the final burial. A closing of the account.
‘Amen.’
It was a small party at the graveside. Minou and Piet, Bernard with Alis standing close beside him, Madame Noubel and Bérenger, with old Achille Lizier at his side. A little further back, Aimeric stood behind a litter, in which an invalid was sitting. Set in the shadow of the castle walls, the chair had been carried down from the logis and brought out into the countryside for the sombre occasion. Aimeric fussed as much as any mother hen, rearranging his aunt’s blanket over her knees, offering sweet biscuits and wine.
‘Aimeric, really. Is it too much that you might stand still for a moment?’ she said fondly. ‘You are making me tired.’
For two days, Madame Boussay’s life had hung in the balance. The wound was deep. Blanche’s knife had been deflected by Florence’s bible, so had missed the vital organs, but she had developed a fever. The physician summoned from Chalabre had kept the sickness at bay. Minou, Madame Noubel and Aimeric had not left her side. On the third day, her fever broke and she slept. Madame Boussay was still very weak and could not walk unaided, but the danger had passed. When Minou had told her of her husband’s death in Toulouse, a glassy tear had slipped from her eyes, and then she had thanked God and smiled.
The fact that a Protestant bible had saved their aunt’s life greatly amused Aimeric. He had taken to teasing her about it and Minou, seeing the pleasure the gentle mischief gave their aunt, did not scold him. For her part, Madame Boussay held resolutely to the belief that it was her older sister Florence, watching over her, who had kept her safe.
‘Are you sure you are quite comfortable?’ Aimeric asked again. ‘Shall I ask Alis to fetch your fan, or—’
‘You are too noisy, Nephew,’ Madame Boussay said affectionately. ‘Altogether too noisy.’
The priest looked to Minou, who nodded. He made the sign of the cross, then stood back to allow two villagers to begin the work of refilling the grave.
‘Are you sure you wish to do this straight away?’ Piet said, as they walked back towards the castle gate.
She smiled at him. ‘I am, mon coeur. Will you gather everyone together in the upper courtyard?’
Piet nodded, and went to make things ready.
Already time was starting to heal the horrors of that longest day.
As Achille Lizier and the village women and children battled to save the woods, finally extinguishing the fire at dusk, Bérenger and his comrades had taken the gatehouse. The instant the soldiers heard news that the Chatelaine of Puivert was dead and Monsignor Valentin had fled, most had laid down their arms. Those who continued to resist were swiftly overcome and imprisoned, or given safe passage to leave.
For the next days and nights, Minou had barely slept. When she closed her eyes, her dreams were filled with blood and terror. Images of Aimeric beaten and bleeding, of Piet trapped as the fire got closer and closer, of Alis with marks of a noose around her neck and of Salvadora fallen to the ground, the green grass around her body turning red. Of Blanche with her belly cut open, smiling as her life – and that of her unborn child – ebbed away.
To keep the darkness at bay, Minou had talked to Piet. Working everything out in her mind. Everything she had heard from her father and her aunt, from Blanche too. Everything she had learnt for herself. Talking, so that her dark memories would not overwhelm her.
It would get better in time. Her father promised her so.
Last evening at dusk, Minou had climbed to the top of the keep and looked out across the beautiful landscape. The colours of summer, greens and pinks and the yellow of the fields, the silver of the river Blau flowing in the valley, and the copper sunset over the hills. She thought of her mother and father, and the woman with the mismatched eyes who had died giving her life.
She thought of the quietness of true love. Not the heat and passion of the old tales, burning bright and quickly gone. But silence and the companionship of years. Of the man who would be her husband.
Minou stood a while longer, watching the sun sink down to earth in the west. Saw the silver moon come up in the east above the blackened remains of the woods. And her thoughts returned to Piet and what, here, they might together build in Puivert.
Minou waited until everyone was gathered in the courtyard, then climbed up onto the steps to the keep to address the crowd.
A sea of faces looked up at her. Her family knew what she was going to say, but the household servants and villagers were watchful, some even fearful. There was also a small knot of younger men who had served the Bruyère family, and had been persuaded to return, by being given reas
surances that they would not be punished for deserting their posts.
Alis was grinning. Madame Noubel and Bérenger stood close together, close enough to make Minou wonder. Her aunt, though sitting with her eyes shut and clearly weary, was grumbling at Aimeric for not standing up straight. To her pleasure, Minou saw Piet and her father were standing side by side. Already, they had found much in common and her father had given his unreserved blessing to their marriage. At this moment, her father looked proud, Piet nervous.
Minou took the Will from her pocket, though there was no need of it. The terms were already common knowledge in the village, thanks to Achille Lizier. But it was oddly comforting to have it, knowing that Marguerite and Florence had both held it in their hands. For Minou, it had become a talisman.
‘Friends,’ she began, ‘we do not need to talk about the terrible things that happened here. We are each marked by them. We each bore witness to them. What we experienced – fear and loss, anger and pity – all these emotions will live in us for a long time to come. We grieve, but we will recover. We will overcome.’
Minou broke off, the words rehearsed in her head suddenly catching in her throat. Who was she to say such things? Who was she to want such things?
Then she caught Piet’s eye and saw that he was smiling. Slowly, he raised his hand and pressed it to his heart. She felt the ghosts of all those they had lost standing beside her, as real for a moment as the faces looking up at her.
‘Now we must look to the future,’ she said, her voice steady once more. ‘I did not seek this. I did not wish to become mistress of Puivert and these lands, but the burden has fallen to me. And I accept it.’
A murmur went around the crowd. Minou saw Bérenger scowl and attempt to quieten people. His determination to protect her always touched her.
‘We –’ she said, holding out her hand and inviting Piet to step forward – ‘we wish for Puivert to be a place of sanctuary for any who are in need. Catholic or Huguenot, Jew or Moor, any driven from their home by war or faith. What happened in Toulouse must never be allowed to happen again.’
Piet nodded and she took another deep breath.
‘So, I say this. Any of you who now wish to leave, may do so. There will be no judgement. Those of you who wish to stay and serve, you are most welcome.’
For a moment, there was silence. Then one of the younger soldiers stepped forward, and bent his head.
‘You have my sword, my Lady.’
Then another. ‘And mine.’
Aimeric’s voice was the loudest of all. ‘And mine, Sister.’
Alis started to clap, then her father and Madame Noubel joined in, until the courtyard was filled with the sounds of applause and cheering. Madame Boussay waved her fan. Even Bérenger was smiling now.
‘Well spoken, my Lady of the Mists,’ Piet whispered in her ear as she stepped down onto the grass. ‘Chatelaine of Puivert.’
EPILOGUE
CHTEAU DE PUIVERT
Saturday, 3rd May 1572
It is seven o’clock in the evening. The woman now known as Marguerite de Puivert is standing at the top of the keep, looking down over the valley towards Chalabre.
Her seven-year-old daughter Marta – named for Piet’s mother – stands impatiently beside her, waiting for their visitors to arrive.
‘Reste tranquille, petite,’ Minou says.
‘I am being still.’
‘They will be here soon.’
Far below, Minou can see Piet, with their two-year-old son Jean-Jacques on his shoulders, supervising the preparations in the main courtyard below. They look tiny from this distance, but she treasures every crease and smile on her husband’s face, each dimple on her son’s cheeks, and knows how they will look.
It has been another beautiful day in the mountains. Skies of endless blue, a gentle wind blowing through the woods, setting the silver undersides of the leaves shimmering. Whispering. There is no evidence now of the blackened alder and beech, or the firs and the thin oaks that once stood there, though Minou thinks the forest still holds close the memory of what happened ten years ago, in the bark of its oldest trees and the earth and the bracken now regrown.
The old superstitions of the mountains have led to a small shrine springing up in the glade to remember those who died that day in May in the year fifteen hundred and sixty-two. Minou does not encourage it, but women bring posies and scraps of ribbon, verses in the old language to keep the spirits at bay. To keep the dead sleeping safely in the cold earth. It is only Minou who, on the anniversary of her death, lays flowers on the grave of Blanche de Bruyère.
It is important, she thinks, not to forget.
Minou looks at the journal in her hand. She writes down everything, a way of remembering the truth of things. A treasure chest where she stores letters received – from her aunt, from Madame Noubel – now Madame Bérenger – from Aimeric as he travels with his regiment through France. The last Will and Testament written by her birth mother, Marguerite, and Florence’s old map of the Bastide drawn in chalk.
The château de Puivert is a thriving place now and, for the most part, a happy and secure one. Many women and men have found sanctuary within the walls during a decade of war and armed peace. The old Duke of Guise is long dead – murdered by an assassin in the pay of Coligny at the siege of Orléans in the year fifteen sixty-three – but his eldest son, Henri, leads the Catholic armies in his stead. At his right hand, stands a rising star of the Catholic Church, Cardinal Valentin. His power – and his wealth – are said to be greater than any other of the young duke’s advisors. It is also said that, within a jewelled reliquary held in the family chapel of the Guise family in Lorraine, is kept a priceless and holy relic. A fragment of the Shroud of Antioch.
When, from time to time, Vidal’s name is mentioned, Minou notices how a shadow still falls across her husband’s face.
The Prince of Condé, hero of the Huguenot resistance, is also some three years buried. It is Admiral Coligny who now commands the Huguenot forces. Minou is proud Aimeric is one of his most trusted lieutenants, but she still sees no reason for the fighting to continue. For ten years, nothing has really changed. The arguments have grown stale. Faith and the consequences of faith have bankrupted both the country and men’s souls.
But now, there are hopes of an end to the conflict. It is women who have brokered this latest peace, bringing the third period of war to an end. The Protestant Queen of Navarre has agreed to the marriage of her son, Henri, to the daughter of the Dowager Queen, Catherine de Medici, sister to the King. It will be the finest wedding of a generation. All the Huguenot nobility, Minou and Piet included, have been invited to join in the celebrations in Paris this coming August, a few days before the feast day of St Bartholomew.
Piet and Aimeric will go. Possibly Alis too. Minou has not decided whether to accompany them, and she thinks the children too young. She likes her life in the mountains and, in truth, there are only three cities close to her heart: her beloved Carcassonne, Toulouse – where Madame Boussay holds a salon of her own in the house in rue du Taur – and Amsterdam.
‘Is that them?’ Marta asks, squinting into the setting sun.
She is an inquisitive, sharp-witted child, always asking questions. She is the favourite of her Aunt Alis, who comes to visit from Carcassonne with Grandpapa Bernard to spend the summers in Puivert.
‘No. They will arrive in a carriage,’ Minou says. ‘Look again.’
She moves nearer to Marta, in case she strays too close to the edge. Her headstrong daughter has inherited Aimeric’s love for heights and is fearless. But for now, she stands perfectly still with both hands shading her eyes.
Minou and Piet had married in the chapel of the castle on the eve of her twentieth birthday. Madame Boussay stood as matron of honour, though they made their vows before a Huguenot pastor. Minou wore a simple silver ring on her marriage finger, though she still keeps the band of twine that first bound them together on the banks of the river Blau, safe with her
other treasures inside her journal.
A few years later, Aimeric and Jeannette of Chalabre made the same vows before the same pastor. While she mourned her first love, Aimeric waited, and then fell in love with her. He proposed on his eighteenth birthday. On that occasion, Alis served as bridesmaid and, at the wedding banquet, told outrageous stories of her brother’s many childhood exploits and misbehaviours.
Minou often sits in the chapel when she wishes for solitude. It is a place of peace and contemplation, away from the business of running the estate or looking after the refugees who find their way to Puivert still in winter, spring, summer and autumn. It is a Protestant chapel now, not Catholic, but the same light shines through the southern window at dusk, sending patterns of diamond light dancing on the walls and flagstones. Minou thinks it is in such things – the light and the stone, the woods and the sky – that God is truly to be found.
‘There!’ Marta cries, pointing to a puff of dust drummed up from the road by horses’ hooves. ‘A carriage coming up the Chalabre road.’
‘I think you may be right, petite,’ Minou says mildly, but her daughter is already shouting over the parapet to her father and brother. ‘It’s them! They’re here!’
Piet turns, see them and raises a hand in reply.
‘Don’t run on the stairs,’ Minou shouts, but Marta has already gone.
Minou lingers a while longer, listening to the sounds of the wheels getting closer. The rattle on the drawbridge and the guards opening the gates. The cries of welcome and laughter in the lower courtyard. This is the first time the whole family will have been together in a long time. Aimeric and his Jeannette, Alis and Bernard, even Madame Boussay is making the journey from Toulouse, in the company of Bérenger and Cécile who have detoured from Carcassonne to accompany Salvadora on the journey south.
But for these final moments, Minou stays high in her eyrie in the sky. She looks down on her beloved Piet, walking hand in hand with Marta and carrying Jean-Jacques on his other arm. She can see her little son is pretending to be a soldier, his wooden sword striking at the air.