by Kate Mosse
‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘There was some trouble in the street. Some days past.’
Cornelia’s face clouded. ‘Some persons – I will not call them gentlemen – thought to molest me. You were kind enough to send someone down to help me, for which my thanks.’
‘Their mothers should be ashamed of them.’ Madame Reydon paused. ‘Is your name van Raay?’
Cornelia’s eyes widened. ‘How could you possibly know that? I have been careful.’
Minou gave a fleeting smile. ‘You have been seen here three times, mademoiselle. People talk.’
Cornelia hesitated, then nodded. ‘My father sent me from Amsterdam to find your husband.’ She peered into the hallway beyond. ‘Is he at home?’
‘No, though I am expecting him. Our daughter is … He has gone to look for our daughter, who seems to have left the house … or been taken.’ She broke off, her voice cracking.
‘She wasn’t taken,’ Cornelia said.
Madame Joubert grabbed her arm. ‘How do you know?’ she asked desperately.
‘I saw her. At least, I think it was her. A young girl came out of the gate into the alleyway. Of your features, madame, with brown hair. She was wearing a linen cap and a blue embroidered dress. She was on her own.’
‘When was this?’ Minou gasped.
‘Between the nine o’clock bells and the ten.’
‘And she was alone, you say?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘And her demeanour?’
‘Happy, smiling,’ Cornelia replied without hesitation. ‘As if she was going on an adventure.’
The ghost of a smile briefly lit Madame Reydon’s lips. ‘Marta is fearless, though with little wisdom, it seems.’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘Will you come in and wait, Mademoiselle van Raay, until my husband and daughter return?’
‘Cornelia…’ Cornelia said, holding out her hand.
But then, without warning, she was overtaken with another bout of nausea. Cornelia felt as if her insides were being turned inside out.
‘It’s not a contagion,’ she managed to say, seeing the look of alarm on Madame Reydon’s face. ‘Under-cooked meat from a street seller, I—’
Her last words were lost in a grimace of pain. The last thing Cornelia remembered was feeling a strong arm go round her waist and being helped over the threshold into the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
RUE DU LOUVRE
Having left Marta in the blue room, Louis ran pell-mell through the corridors of the house to his father’s private chambers.
For once, fortune had been on his side. On his father’s orders, he had returned to the rue des Barres, just in time to see a little girl steal through a gate at the side of the house he and Xavier had been set to watch. From conversations he had overheard, Louis knew there was a seven-year-old daughter in the household, though he’d never seen her. So he’d followed her winding trail through Paris and into rue de Béthisy; when de Coligny was shot, he had watched her hide and, in the end, decided to approach her. Now he knew for certain, luck had delivered him Reydon’s daughter. His father would be pleased.
Louis ran around the corner, skating on the tiles, then came to an abrupt halt. The door to Vidal’s chambers at the far end of the corridor was closed. He started to tiptoe, moving closer until he could hear the sound of raised voices within.
He pressed his ear to the wood, and recognised the distinctive voice of the Duke of Guise.
‘I am in no need of your counsel, Cardinal Valentin, nor indeed your permission.’
‘Sire—’
‘And I am giving you the right to decide upon your own course of action, for which you should be thanking me.’
‘Of course, my lord, I am conscious of your kindness.’
‘In return, what I need is your absolution.’
Louis pressed his ear harder to the door.
‘My noble lord, if I may speak. This situation … I think you should wait. There is no indication that they will seek retribution. De Coligny lives. I do not think you should act rashly—’
‘You forget yourself.’ The duke spoke coldly. ‘Each time my noble father, may he rest in peace, rode into battle, you gave him God’s blessing. He died with his sins absolved. Would you have me go to my Maker unshriven?’
‘My lord, no. But scripture says what is permissible in God’s holy war will be adjudged differently…’
‘This, too, is war! Because we are not on the battlefield, do you not class this as God’s sacred work? For too long, the Huguenots have polluted our country with their pernicious heresies and lies. They are a canker, infecting the court, infecting our country, the enemy of the people. And now, do you not see, they will use this attack upon the traitor de Coligny as an excuse to act against us? His brother-in-law is already camped outside the gates of Paris with some four thousand men. As for de Coligny himself, he will not be satisfied until he has corrupted the King into their number.’
Louis strained to hear. ‘My lord, I do not believe the King would turn away from the true Church.’
‘De Coligny has his ear. You are aware they are in the rue de Béthisy now, as we speak – the King and his sow of a mother – to beg the admiral’s forgiveness.’
‘Is there reason, my lord Guise,’ his father was saying, ‘to think the attack on Admiral de Coligny is anything more than the work of a lunatic?’
The words hung heavy in the air between them.
‘He has been named,’ Guise said eventually.
‘Who has been named?’
‘My lord Maurevert.’
‘It was he who fired the gun?’ Vidal asked. ‘And from a house that you own, my lord?’
This time, Guise did not answer. Louis could picture his father’s black eyes fixed upon the powerful man he served. ‘Does the King approve your actions, sire?’ Vidal continued steadily.
Louis held his breath.
‘If the King orders the admiral killed, and those belligerents who follow him, it would be treason not to obey.’
Louis pressed his ear even closer against the door.
‘His majesty loves de Coligny like a father.’
‘Whereas I have lived these ten years deprived of my own,’ the duke shouted. ‘My father was taken from me at Orléans, if not by the admiral’s actual hand, certainly upon his orders. Should a son not avenge his father? De Coligny is a heretic and a traitor. A murderer.’
‘My lord, whilst I admire and applaud your loyalty and duty as a son, I still advise caution.’
‘Make no mistake, you cannot stop what is to come. No one can. Things are too advanced. This pretence that the Huguenots wish nothing more than to worship peacefully, this lie is destroying France. Destroying our values. They mask their true intentions beneath a sickening piety, whereas the truth is that all de Coligny and Navarre want is power. They will not be content until they have driven every last Catholic from our shores and made France a Protestant state. I will not stand by and let that happen. Do you understand? I am a prince of the royal blood, a descendant of Charlemagne. This is my birthright, not that of any Valois half-blood descendant of that Italian sow.’
In the corridor outside, Louis listened to the silence. When his father spoke again, this time it was in a different tone of voice. Detached and without emotion, practical.
‘When will whatever is to happen take place, my lord?’
‘We rendezvous at the Tuileries Palace after the sun has set tomorrow. The King must give the order. The entire leadership: the dukes of Anjou and Alençon will rally their men, the Swiss guard will be mobilised, the city militia too. Each will tie a white cloth around his arm to mark him as a loyal Catholic. We expect all true Frenchmen and women, loyal to the Crown, to do their duty.’
Another silence, this of such duration and intensity that Louis wondered if they had left the chamber by another door. Then he realised they were praying. Despite himself, Louis shivered. His father had made his choice.
‘Hereupon, I
absolve you from your sins. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ the duke responded.
Louis had only just time enough to throw himself back against the wall before the door flew open and Guise marched out, striding away down the corridor, a look of triumph on his face.
A moment later, his father appeared on the threshold. ‘Ah, Louis. I fear we cannot dine together this evening after all. Tell Xavier to prepare the horses.’
‘My lord, I have news. I came upon the daughter of the man you wanted observed in the rue de Béthisy and have brought her here. I gave her something to make her sleep and left her in the blue chamber.’
Louis’s voice tailed off, aware that his father was not listening.
‘Fetch your belongings, then go to the rear of the house and wait. We leave Paris immediately.’
He felt a sudden, sickening doubt. Surely he wasn’t going to be taken back to the horrors of Saint-Antonin, not after all his good work in his father’s service these past months? Had he not proved himself a worthy son?
Louis forced himself to speak. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Into the Orléanais.’
‘To Chartres?’ he said without thinking. It was the only city other than Orléans itself that he knew.
Finally, Vidal turned his black eyes on him. ‘Do not make me regret taking you with us, boy. Go!’
RUE DES BARRES
The last of the evening sun made its golden progress across the floorboards as Minou and Salvadora sat waiting for news. It was nigh on eight o’clock, three hours after they had arranged to meet, yet still Piet had not returned.
‘How long is the Dutch girl going to be here?’ Salvadora asked.
Minou looked up. Locked in her mounting distress for what might have happened to Marta – she had been missing for almost ten, perhaps even eleven, hours now – she’d all but forgotten that Cornelia was still sleeping upstairs.
‘Mademoiselle van Raay is unwell,’ Minou said again. ‘You would not have me turn her out on the street, Salvadora? She comes from a good Catholic family in Amsterdam.’
‘What does she want?’
‘To speak with Piet.’
Salvadora pinned her with a look. ‘About what?’
‘About – his childhood.’
‘His childhood! What does his childhood matter now? What’s past is past. Sometimes it’s better to let things be.’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Minou said, walking to the casement again. Why had Piet not returned? She opened the window and leant out, as if she could conjure the sight into being of her husband with their daughter in his arms.
‘Shall I light the lamps, my lady?’
‘What?’ Minou turned at the sound of the maid’s voice. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘I have brought more wine, madame.’ The servant glanced at the tray of untouched food on the sideboard. ‘Would you like something different to eat?’
‘I’m not hungry. Salvadora?’
‘I couldn’t.’
They waited in silence while the girl lit the lamps, then left the room.
‘Will you at least take a little wine, Salvadora? It will calm your nerves. You need to keep your strength up. We both do.’
‘Maybe a little, then. Medicinal.’
Relieved to have something to do, Minou fussed with the tray and the jug, pouring them each a measure.
‘Did you not say that Aimeric was to dine with us this evening?’
Minou put her hand to her head. ‘Yes. I had forgotten with all…’
‘That is good then, is it not?’ Salvadora said, accepting the wine. ‘Since he has not come, nor sent word, that surely that suggests they are looking for Marta together.’
For a moment, Minou’s heart lightened.
* * *
When the bells struck ten o’clock, Salvadora began to weep.
‘I never thought … when I think of how I reprimanded Marta so often – how I…’ Her words tailed away in a sob.
‘Piet will bring her home,’ Minou said gently. ‘He will find her. I’m sure you’re right that Aimeric is with him. Marta is quick witted and courageous. All the qualities that sometimes frustrate us, will stand her in good stead now.’
Unless she’s been taken, a spiteful voice in Minou’s head whispered. Unless she’s fallen into the river and drowned.
Unless, unless …
RUE DE BÉTHISY
Friday night tiptoed towards Saturday morning.
Piet heard the bells strike midnight. He was still concealed in the rue de Béthisy, where he had been for some hours. All of Paris now knew of the failed assassination attempt on Admiral de Coligny, so although Piet had managed to slip past the guard into the street itself, de Coligny’s lodgings were heavily guarded by both Navarre’s soldiers and the King’s own guard, so there was no chance of speaking with Aimeric. Piet was prepared to wait until his brother-in-law came out, which, God willing, perhaps he would. It was not much, but it was something. He could not possibly have spent the evening in their lodgings. He had briefly returned to the rue des Barres and ascertained from a servant that, though his wife had returned, she had not brought their daughter with her. With a lack of courage that shamed him, Piet had slipped away again and come here in search of Aimeric. He’d known he couldn’t face Minou without some news, some hope, however small.
Piet rolled his neck, trying to ignore the cold lump in the pit of his stomach. His confidence that they would find Marta had worn thinner with each hour that passed. Even if Aimeric could spare some of his men to conduct a search, what chance was there that they would find her now in a city of hundreds of thousands of people?
She might no longer be in Paris at all.
Piet closed his eyes, trying to outrun his own thoughts. He had walked Paris again today, from east to west, south to north, returning to every single place they had visited. He was exhausted. His entire body ached, but doing something – even this endless waiting for sight of Aimeric – was better than giving up hope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ORLÉANAIS
Saturday, 23 August
Just after one o’clock in the morning, many hours after quitting Paris, Vidal’s entourage arrived at an estate on the outskirts of a small town. The carriages passed between grey stone gates, continued up a long straight drive, the hooves of the horses loud in the stillness of the night, then pulled up in front of a long, low manor house of grey stone and shallow-sloped, tiled roof.
Louis felt a punch on his shoulder and he was instantly awake, ready to defend himself, remembering the stained mustiness of the monks’ robes, the stale communion wine on their breath. The trail of blood when it was over.
‘We’ve arrived.’
Louis had never thought to be thankful to hear Xavier’s voice. He was not in Saint-Antonin at the mercy of the priests. He had been saved from that hell.
‘Yes, monsieur,’ he said, relief making him polite.
Xavier narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Take this,’ he said, thrusting an ornate wooden casket into his arms with more force than necessary. ‘Don’t drop it, or you’ll feel worse than my boot on your arse.’
Louis struggled down from the back of the carriage. In the distance, the solitary bell of a village church tolled.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
Xavier spat on the dry ground. ‘Never you mind.’
Louis hid his impatience. ‘Is this where we are to stay?’
Xavier pinched his ear. ‘No more questions.’
‘I was only going to ask what day it was.’
As Louis had predicted, Xavier couldn’t resist mocking. ‘Are you an idiot! We’ve only been travelling for a day. And to think his Eminence holds you in regard.’
‘Chartres,’ he muttered, suddenly remembering the look on his father’s face when he’d said the name of the city. Louis had a fleeting pang of guilt, remembering the girl, but he smothered it. Someone would find her soon enough, no
harm done.
Xavier grabbed his arm. ‘Who told you we were going to Chartres?’
‘No one! I guessed.’
‘You’d better keep your mouth shut.’
The coach rocked as Vidal stepped out of the carriage, and walked past them both without a word into the long and narrow house. Xavier bowed.
In the darkness, Louis smiled. Not only was Xavier unaware it was his father who’d confirmed where they were headed, but now he’d learnt there was some secrecy surrounding their destination.
RUE DU LOUVRE
‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Marta cried, jolting awake.
For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. Such strange dreams she’d had. She blinked and her eyes adjusted to the dark: the blue walls, the cushions on the settle, the curtains at the long windows, and she remembered.
The boy – Louis – had brought her in here to rest. He’d promised to be back soon with her father. Had she slept? She must have slept, for her neck was stiff and her stomach felt funny and her head was all woolly. She swung her legs from the settle and tried to walk, but her feet were as heavy as stones.
‘Louis…’ she said into the empty room, as if he might be hiding.
She wondered if her uncle would be sad if the admiral died. Then she thought of baby Jean-Jacques and, annoying as he was, she felt the tears well in her eyes.
Louis had told her to stay in the blue room until he came back with her father, but that must have been hours ago because the sky outside was now black. Had he forgotten about her?
Marta kicked her heels against the wooden frame of the settle, unsure of what to do. Louis was a boy and was as stupid as all other boys, but he was amusing.
‘Come back,’ she whispered. Her voice seemed very small and insignificant in the dark, echoing chamber. Tears spilled from her eyes and started to roll down her cheeks. This was a situation of her own making, her own fault. Marta wished she was in her own bed listening to the ugly snoring of their nurse, even Jean-Jacques’ snuffling night-time sounds. She would never be impatient with him again. She would never be disobedient again.