by Kate Mosse
Willem van Raay gestured. ‘You are acquainted with our neighbour, Jacob Pauw.’
She glanced at the corpulent man sitting in an armchair, a pewter tankard on the low table at his side. Wearing a white silk padded doublet with gold buttons and red silk breeches, she knew him for a vain man. Even so, he seemed rather over-dressed for a domestic visit. Her heart sank.
‘Of course,’ she said, inclining her head. ‘Good afternoon.’
‘Juffrouw van Raay,’ the old man wheezed, as he heaved himself to his feet in greeting.
‘Sit down, Cornelia,’ her father said.
She noticed he, too, was holding a tankard, though the lid was shut. Was there to be a toast? Some kind of arrangement to be celebrated?
Her confidence faltered. Cornelia despised the affected scorn of the women she’d seen in Paris and the shameless social climbing of the daughters of their neighbours as they preened for a husband, but surely this couldn’t be the latest suitor her father hoped to persuade her to wed? She was a kind person by nature, but she doubted she would be able to keep a straight face if Burgher Pauw tried to offer her his hand in marriage.
She sat cautiously on the edge of her chair and placed her hands on her knees.
Cornelia knew she was considered plain, lacking in both the feminine qualities and the domestic ones considered desirable in a good Amsterdam wife. Her brows were heavy, her brown hair was coarse. She had broad, honest features. There was no delicacy in her looks. She was twenty-five, so though not yet quite too old to be a new bride she was certainly old enough for the widows in the pews in the Nieuwe Kerk to whisper about and point at.
But her father was wealthy and she was his only child. He wanted a grandson to whom he might pass on the fruits of his labour. In his calculations, Cornelia chose to think he would also like her to be happy. It was just that she knew a husband would not make her happy.
‘Cornelia,’ her father began. ‘I have something I must tell you.’
He pulled at the sleeves of the long, brown robe he always wore at home and she realised, with a jolt, that he was also nervous.
‘You may remember some years ago I asked –’ he held up his hand – ‘of course, I am being foolish. Of course you remember. They are now your friends.’
Cornelia was surprised by the edge of uncertainty in her father’s voice. He was not a talkative man, he always weighed every word carefully before he spoke. He was certain, in his faith and his business dealings, and seemed to have few doubts about what was right. Then again, since burgomaster Dircksz had signed the Satisfaction in February, betraying the Catholics of Amsterdam, as her father saw it, Cornelia had witnessed many changes in him. His faith in those with whom he served in the Stadhuis had been shaken.
‘Some six years ago, I sent you to deliver a message to Mariken Hassels, may the Lord rest her soul.’
Cornelia sat bolt upright. ‘It was the ninth of June, fifteen-seventy-two.’
He nodded. ‘When you returned that day, having discovered the honourable lady was no longer in Begijnhof, do you recall telling me you suspected your conversation with the Mistress was being overheard?’
‘I do.’ She saw the two men exchange a glance, and something of her father’s discomfort started to make her uneasy, too. ‘What is it?’
Pauw sighed, his breath whistling in his chest. ‘It was me. I was concealed behind the screen.’
Cornelia hid her surprise. ‘I see. At the request of the Mistress?’
He shook his head. ‘No, though she was cognizant of my purpose.’
‘Which was?’
Pauw looked to her father, as if seeking permission to answer.
‘Tell her, Jacob.’
Pauw exhaled. ‘Juffrouw van Raay, there are many things I have done in my life of which I am ashamed. This, chief amongst them. You have to understand my situation. All of my business interests, at the time the Revolt began, were in the west. In the town of Brielle, to be precise.’
Cornelia nodded. Everyone knew that the taking of the western seaport town by the Waterbeggars in April 1572 had been a turning point in the war between the Calvinist rebels and their Spanish overlords.
‘When the Watergeuzen took the town, I lost everything. I came here to Amsterdam, intending to start again, but it was hard to gain a foothold.’
Cornelia looked at his expensive clothes, considered the fact that he was a neighbour on one of the wealthiest streets in Amsterdam and instantly understood.
‘Someone offered to help you…’
‘There did not seem any harm in it,’ Pauw said. ‘They offered so many guldens, I could not refuse.’
Cornelia glanced at her father but, warned by the look in his eyes, did not say what was on her mind.
‘I am sure you thought you were doing the right thing,’ she lied.
‘A Frenchman in the service of a most eminent cardinal believed one of the lay sisters at Begijnhof – he identified her by name, Mariken Hassels – possessed information about a Huguenot. An enemy—’
‘Piet Reydon,’ Cornelia interrupted, ‘is a friend.’
‘Of course.’ Pauw flushed and his breathing grew more laboured. ‘Yes, of course.’ He faltered. ‘The monsieur attempted to speak to Mariken directly, only to ask her the question, you understand. He meant her no harm. But she misunderstood and … she left Amsterdam.’
‘She left Amsterdam?’ Cornelia repeated. Surely it couldn’t be possible Pauw accepted such an explanation? ‘Are you saying she went of her own accord?’
Pauw stumbled on. ‘The Frenchman was understandably disturbed not only by this, but also by the fact that he was no closer to acquiring the papers his Eminence believed to be in Mariken’s possession. Information that could damage our cause.’
‘Whose cause exactly?’
‘Our Holy Mother Church,’ her father answered steadily.
Pauw was suddenly overtaken by a paroxysm of coughing.
‘So he approached Jacob for assistance,’ her father continued, while Pauw struggled to catch his breath.
‘He offered so many guldens,’ Pauw managed to say when the attack had passed. ‘Enough for me to buy a warehouse and start again. Enough to join the guild.’
Cornelia looked at him, then at her father.
‘After Jacob overheard the conversation between you, Cornelia, and the Mistress of Begijnhof, he began to doubt things were as they had been presented to him.’
‘This all happened a long time ago.’
‘I believe that Burgher Pauw thought the matter was over. Is that not so, Jacob?’
Pauw wiped his mouth. ‘The Mistress had Mariken’s cell searched, and found nothing. The monsieur also found nothing. Your father tells me that Mariken was an Amsterdammer, born and bred. She had no sisters or brothers, and her parents were long dead. She had never lived anywhere else. You have to understand, I have been mostly away from Amsterdam. The Revolt, the loss of our markets in the west … it is only recently I learnt of Mariken’s disappearance.’
Cornelia kept her expression neutral.
‘I confided in your father. I made inquiries and learnt there was a nun who had worked alongside Mariken at Sint Nicolaas church, around the same time as the death of Reydon’s mother. Of a great age now, Sister Agatha is one of the few nuns remaining at the Convent of Sint Agnes on Oudezijds Voorburgwal. I wondered if it was possible Mariken had left anything with her for safe-keeping.’
Cornelia knew the convent. It was one of the few cloisters to which she had been unable to gain access when looking for the missing documents.
‘And were you successful, Burgher Pauw?’ she asked, struggling to keep the excitement from her voice.
He put his hand beneath his padded doublet and pulled out a package of papers, wrapped in an old piece of grey cloth.
‘Take it,’ he said, passing the bundle into her hands. ‘I am a good Catholic, but to murder – or hound to death – a good woman, who gave a lifetime of service to the Church?’ He shoo
k his head. ‘That I cannot countenance.’
Cornelia held his gaze. ‘What is the true reason you are sharing this with my father only now? You have had six years to repent of your actions.’
He gave a long, thin sigh. ‘I am dying, Juffrouw van Raay. The cankers in my throat and my chest are growing. Soon I will not be able to breathe at all. I have no children living, no wife. I would not go to my grave with Mariken’s death on my conscience.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHARTRES
In the blue hour between afternoon and dusk, the nobleman and his fifteen-year-old son walked the short distance between their imposing town house on the rue du Cheval Blanc to the cathedral cloister in silence.
Lord Evreux cut an imposing figure in the early evening light. Tall and lean, a nobleman of distinction, his exquisite clothes shimmered with his status and his wealth. He wore a cambric shirt beneath an embroidered doublet, stitched with gold thread and sequins, a stiff lace ruff collar and matching wrist ruffles, padded short breeches and green hose. Rosettes adorned his shoes, the cork soles lifted by the heels made fashionable by the King. His black beard was trimmed to a point, and his tonsured head covered with a stiffened gathered hat, green to match the rosettes. Beneath his short blue velvet cape, he carried a bag of Spanish leather.
The boy knew not to disturb his father’s thoughts, but wondered where they were going and why. Usually, Louis was left behind in their country estate to the west of Chartres when his father came to the city.
Not this time. The air seemed to hum with expectation and intrigue.
Moving quickly, father and son passed the Bishop’s Palace and continued along the northern perimeter of the great Gothic cathedral the chroniclers called the ‘book in stone’. The whole history of the Old and New Testaments carved on the portals, the stained glass to rival even the Sainte-Chapelle.
Louis had only been inside once before, slipping in to look at the celebrated pavement labyrinth.* He’d watched the pilgrims following the Chemin de Jerusalem – some on foot, some on their knees – and had felt a violent revulsion and contempt for a religion that reduced human beings to such unthinking, dumb creatures. Chartres, Paris, Saint-Antonin, the mass of the faithful duped by the mirage of an afterlife, by the false promises of pilgrimage given by self-serving peddlers of lies and hypocrisy. He was unmoved by the Sancta Camisia, the robe supposedly worn by the Virgin Mary and said to have been presented to the cathedral by Charlemagne himself.
But the labyrinth itself was beautiful, mysterious. Carved into the stone floor of the nave, eleven concentric circles curled ever inwards to where a copper plaque of Theseus fighting the Minotaur glistened in the centre. It had pierced his heart like nothing else ever had.
Louis hated it. It made him weak.
‘This way,’ his father commanded, sweeping into the north transept of the cathedral.
It was the time between Vespers and Compline and the stone spaces were quiet. All the same, Louis could see a priest in a black cassock standing in the shadows outside the door into the vestry.
‘Wait here. If anyone approaches, do not let them pass.’
Louis bowed his head. ‘Very good, my lord.’
‘The matter will not detain me long.’
Louis obeyed just until his father disappeared into the vestry with the priest, then he followed. The door was ill-fitting so, though he could only see a strip of light coming from the room, he could hear.
‘Do you have it?’ his father was asking.
‘Lord Evreux, I do, although…’
‘Yes?’
‘Were it not for your lordship’s reputation for fair and honest dealing, I would not mention it. But I fear the expenses which I have been forced to incur, in the acquiring of this object, are in excess of the monies you have made available to me.’
‘Is that so?’ Evreux replied coldly.
‘It is, my lord. The craftsman required the finest thread, which regrettably was not available in Chartres. Not even in Paris. I had to send to Spain.’
‘To Spain, indeed! I am impressed by such diligence.’
Louis felt a shiver go down his spine. He remembered what happened when his father used that tone of voice. In an instant, he was back in the ruins of the old monastery in Saint-Antonin.
Evidently the priest heard it too, for he started to stammer.
‘It was an honour. I meant no complaint, no—’
‘It is incumbent upon me to ensure you receive what is due to you.’
‘I am grateful for your—’ the priest fawned. His last words were lost in a gasp and a long, painful exhalation. Then Louis heard something thump heavily to the ground.
He moved quickly away. By the time his father emerged some minutes later, Louis was back in his assigned place guarding the approach to the vestry. Evreux was holding a length of yellowed cloth in his hands. Louis fell into step behind him.
‘Is all well, my lord?’
Evreux folded the material and put it beneath his cloak. ‘Mankind’s desire to be deceived is constant. All men are fools. The right words uttered in prayer, enough coins thrown onto the offertory plate, the worshipping of a relic, investing it with power to transform miserable, base lives. All the same, what might be achieved…’
He suddenly stopped, as if regretting having shared his inner thoughts, then put the cloth into his leather bag. ‘This is to be an addition to my collection.’
Louis didn’t understand. ‘Your collection, my lord?’
His father paused, then he smiled. ‘Our collection.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
ZEEDIJK
AMSTERDAM
‘Here,’ Minou said, handing her sister a kerchief to wipe her eyes.
‘But they could be alive,’ Alis insisted. ‘You thought I was dead, but I’m here now. You cannot be sure.’
It was dusk. The sisters were now settled on the bench on the long stone terrace, looking out over the darkening orchard. Minou had told Alis everything that had happened in Paris, and their lives since.
‘It is hard to describe what it was like in Paris during those August days,’ Minou said, choosing her words with care. ‘On the surface, everything was agreed. The wedding would go ahead, the alliance would bring together the Catholic and the Huguenot factions. But beneath the civility the old hatreds were, if anything, even stronger.’ She sighed. ‘Aimeric was always in de Coligny’s company. It is almost certain he would have been there on the night of the admiral’s assassination. This, and the massacre that followed in the early hours of St Bartholomew’s Day, were part of a deliberate attack on the entire Huguenot community, Alis. Whoever gave the order – the late king, or Guise or Anjou or the Queen Mother – they were united. I do not believe Aimeric can have survived. It was too well planned.’
‘Aimeric might have escaped,’ Alis sobbed. ‘A few did.’
‘Most did not. Thousands of people died that night, and thousands more in other cities in the weeks that followed.’
Tears came again to Alis’s eyes. ‘It seems impossible I will never see him again. How do you accept it?’
Minou took a deep breath. ‘I can’t, but I have learnt to live with it. There was no choice. It gets easier as time passes.’
Two lamps hung either side of the door and, from time to time, the wings of moths flapping towards the flame was the only sound in the gardens. The children were in their dormitory, the kitchen was silent.
Since waking, Alis had bathed and put on fresh clothes. She had eaten a plate of pancakes and drunk her fill of ale. She’d winced at her first sip of Amsterdam beer, accustomed as she was to the distilled burnt wine drunk in the refugee camps in and around the Huguenot stronghold of La Rochelle, but she had quickly finished a gage and asked for another. She had been introduced to her niece, Bernarda, and reintroduced to Jean-Jacques, who did not remember her. Only then had Minou told her that Aimeric and Marta were gone.
Alis handed back the kerchief.
‘
Do you feel better?’ Minou asked gently.
Alis shrugged. ‘It is the strangest thing. Since fleeing Puivert, there wasn’t a day when I didn’t think of you and Aimeric, of the children. The belief that we would all one day be together again gave me the courage to keep going. So to learn now that Aimeric is most likely dead – and Marta…’
Minou squeezed her hand. ‘I know. It is too much to take in.’
For a while, the sisters sat in silence. Beyond the walls, the city continued about its business. Minou knew not to rush her sister.
‘It is good to hear such normal, domestic sounds,’ Alis said eventually.
Minou smiled. ‘Amsterdam is a city that never sleeps. Day and night, one hears the sound of carts transporting goods to the harbour, the wind in the ships’ rigging. The guilds patrolling the streets and waterways at night. You grow used to it.’
‘I like it. It speaks of life going on.’ Alis smoothed her borrowed skirt. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the feeling of this.’
‘While you were on the road, you always wore breeches?’
She nodded. ‘After I fled Puivert, I realised it was safer to be taken for a boy. Travelling from place to place, a woman alone, drew unwelcome attention. So I cut my hair, exchanged my skirts for a jerkin, hose and breeches, and hid myself in plain view as well as I could.’
‘That was wise.’ Minou patted her sister’s leg. ‘Has the wound healed? The last letter I received from Monsieur Gabignaud, albeit many years ago, said you were making slow progress.’
Alis’s face grew sombre. ‘Dear Dr Gabignaud. He was killed in the attack on Puivert in the autumn of 1572.’
‘Oh no! As a Catholic, surely he should have been safe?’