by Kate Mosse
She had no idea where she was. For a moment, Minou thought herself back in Amsterdam, a city built on water. Then everything came rushing back.
Minou shivered in her damp clothes, the fabric heavy on her legs. She tried to sit up, but the effort sent her head spinning and she had to close her eyes. Her feet were like ice. When she moved them, she realised water was lapping round her ankles.
Minou waited until her eyes had adjusted to the dark, then took her bearings. She was in some kind of covered channel, or storm drain, but there was fresh air. White moonlight shone in under the stone arch that divided the channel from the open water, causing the colours to shift from green to purple to silver. And beyond, just visible, was the line of poplar trees at the edge of the lake. But the shadow cast by the bars of the iron grille made the chamber seem like a prison cell. She could just see the sluice gate beneath the level of the water.
‘You’re awake.’
Minou’s heart leapt.
It had been twelve years, but she knew Marta’s voice. Grown up now, but unmistakably her voice. For a moment, every single minute lost since Marta went missing came flooding back. All Minou wanted to do was throw her arms round her daughter and hold her. To kiss her and promise she would never leave her side again. Then Minou checked herself. She had called out her daughter’s name in the chamber, but Marta hadn’t responded. She hadn’t recognised her voice.
‘Are you all right, madame?’
Minou composed herself. ‘My throat’s a little sore, but yes.’
‘Have they left us here to drown?’
Minou narrowed her gaze. Through the gloom, on the opposite side of the chamber, she could just make out Marta sitting on another stone ledge close to the grille. It was too dark to see her face – she saw her only in outline – but she felt a jolt of recognition in her guts. For so long Minou had imagined this moment. She had dreamed of what she might say. Now it was here, she had no idea how to begin.
‘My name is Marie Cabanel,’ Marta said.
Minou’s heart cracked a little. She chose her words with care, realising she could not hurry things.
‘I am Marguerite Reydon, though everyone calls me Minou.’ For a moment, the words seem to hang between them in the air. Was it Minou’s imagination that Marta caught her breath?
‘I am pleased to meet you, Madame Reydon,’ she said in a courteous, formal voice. ‘I am glad not to be alone.’
Minou’s heart cracked a little more. ‘You’re not alone. I won’t leave you.’
Though every nerve in her body cried out for her to speak, her words seemed to turn to ash in her mouth. She had to tread gently. Minou had to persuade Marta to trust her before she told her the truth.
‘While I was waiting for you to wake,’ Marta said, ‘I looked for a way out. This grille here divides us from the lake and a sluice. I tried to turn the handle, but it’s stuck and I couldn’t move it. The grille is set fast into the wall.’ She rattled the bars. ‘The water keeps getting higher.’ Her voice broke and she sounded suddenly very young. ‘This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I thought I would be safe. I planned it all so carefully,’ Marta continued, then burst into tears.
The sound of her daughter weeping was too much to bear. Now the only thing in Minou’s mind was how to comfort her. The rest could follow. There would be time enough.
‘Come sit with me,’ Minou said into the darkness. ‘Tell me something of your life. It will pass the time while we wait for someone to come.’
‘Will someone come?’ Marta asked in a small voice.
‘Piet will come,’ Minou replied. ‘My husband will come. He won’t abandon us.’
There was a silence, then Minou heard the sound of the water splashing as Marta waded through the stone chamber towards her and settled herself at the far end of the bench.
For a moment, neither woman spoke. The only sounds were the relentless pounding of Minou’s blood in her head and the ceaseless rain on the rough surface of the lake.
‘I grew up in Paris,’ Marta said.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Louis stepped back into the chamber and closed the door.
With his father’s words ringing in his ears, he walked round the periphery of the room into Vidal’s line of vision. He was bent over the altar in the middle of the room, examining the Sudarium.
‘I never knew what it was to be cared for,’ he whispered.
Vidal paid him no heed.
‘You made me believe I was worthy enough to be loved. But it wasn’t true. I mistook my usefulness to you for affection. I’m your son.’
Vidal picked up the magnifying glass and leant over the cloth, focusing on the imprinted face. ‘This really is an excellent copy. In fact, I would be glad to know who made it … I will send Xavier to find him.’ He frowned, only now remembering his steward had disappeared.
Louis shuddered. Many times, in the orphanage, he had imagined what it would feel like to kill a man. In those perilous hours between dusk and dawn when the monks came, he had removed himself from what was happening to him by picturing a knife in his palm or putting his small hands around his tormentor’s throat. He had imagined then that he’d feel powerful and free. But all he could see was Xavier’s dead eyes staring up at him from the depths of the lake. He felt nothing but revulsion at what he’d done.
Vidal suddenly looked up. ‘Louis. Since you’re here, you can make yourself useful. Ask the girl who made this.’
Louis forced himself to speak. ‘Father, the rain is getting heavier. Can’t you hear it on the roof? The water is getting dangerously high.’
‘And?’
He faltered. ‘The men have already left the island for fear of being trapped.’
‘Which men?’ he snapped.
‘I don’t know who they are. Who came with Mademoiselle Cabanel, though I assume are working for you since they—’
Vidal sighed impatiently. ‘What is your point, Louis?’
‘The waters are rising quickly. Should I not move the girl somewhere safer? And Madame Reydon too.’
To his horror, his father began to laugh. Louis could see a sheen of sweat on his brow.
‘Father, are you ill?’
‘Are you that much of a fool as to think I intend to let them walk out of here? Reydon, his heretic wife and daughter?’
His father straightened up and stared at him with such loathing that Louis took a step back.
‘If the guards have done their job, the water already has him. As for the girl, in whom you appear to be so interested, if the lake rises beyond usual levels, she will soon join him. Her mother too. If not, they can rot there until the Devil takes them.’
‘You cannot mean that.’
His father looked at him with maddened eyes. ‘Think of the words of the Book of Exodus, of Leviticus. It is quite clear.’ Vidal waved his arm around the chamber. ‘“There shall be sacrifice in God’s name. The righteous shall rise on the bones of our enemies, any who would seek to frustrate the ways of the Lord.”’
Louis had no illusions about his father – in the past twelve years in Vidal’s company he had seen evidence enough of his cruelty, the vile deeds done by men of faith in God’s name – but Marta had done nothing wrong. There could be no justification for this.
‘You’re going to leave her to drown?’ Louis asked desperately. ‘But Marta doesn’t know who she is, couldn’t you see that? The name meant nothing to her. For whatever reason Reydon is here, it’s nothing to do with her. She is not your enemy.’
Vidal took a step towards him. ‘Are you questioning my judgement?’
Louis faltered. ‘No, my lord, only—’
‘You are disobeying my orders?’
‘She doesn’t deserve to die.’
His last words were taken from him as Vidal struck him hard in the face. Shocked, Louis put his hands up to defend himself, but his father hit him again. Louis kept telling himself his father was sick. Often these days, he vanished inside his tangled
mind, unaware of where he was or who he was. Louis didn’t want to fight back, but he might have no choice.
‘Father! It’s me.’
The next blow caught him on the jaw. Louis stumbled back into the chair, knocking over the candelabra. Wax spilling across the stone floor, the flames quickly extinguished, plunging the chamber into blackness. Now the only light came from the white moon shining down through the lantern and the tiny flames burning before each reliquary casket.
‘I beg you, stop!’
Vidal didn’t seem to hear. A red mist had descended. Louis could see his knuckles were cracked and bleeding. His silk pallium was splattered with blood, his or his father’s Louis couldn’t tell. Why did nobody come to help? Where were the guards? Louis blocked the next punch, but the one after sent him flying to the ground.
Blood streaming down his face, in the darkness his hand found something cold and hard. Scrambling to his feet, he held the dagger full out in front of him.
‘I don’t want to hurt you! Stay back.’
Vidal charged at him and, in the fraction of a moment before Louis realised what was happening, he felt the knife slip in between his father’s ribs.
Vidal’s eyes opened wide with surprise, his wits suddenly clear again, and stared at him.
‘I didn’t mean to…’ Louis whispered in horror.
‘A new kingdom on earth –’ Vidal swayed on his feet. ‘To God’s glory – it is you who must continue…’
‘Father!’ Louis shouted, falling to his knees. ‘Father!’
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
Minou watched another surge of water flood the chamber. She was powerless to stop it. She had learnt to live surrounded by water in Amsterdam, her city of tears. She had learnt to respect and fear and love its power. She had not thought to suffer such a fate in the flat Chartres countryside.
But there was no respite from the rain. They had moved away from the grille to the highest point, perching themselves at the top of the stone steps directly beneath the wooden hatch through which they’d been dropped, but even so the lake water was already up to their knees. If no one came soon, they would drown.
Minou looked down at Marta, leaning against her just like when she was a little girl, and smiled. Whatever happened, whether Piet found them or if they were to die here, Minou knew without a shadow of a doubt she wouldn’t have exchanged this time with her daughter for anything.
Marta had been reserved at first, the independence of a girl used to looking after herself. But as she’d become accustomed to the swell of the water, she had begun to trust her. Minou had listened with a mixture of melancholy and wonder and relief. All the terrible imaginings that had haunted her these past twelve years faded – her daughter was a confident, self-possessed woman – leaving Minou with a suffocating sadness that she had not been there to see her grow up.
Minou continued to listen, still waiting for the right moment. But the more Marta had talked, the clearer certain things became: first, that the life she had lived with the man she thought of as her father, Pierre Cabanel, was a complicated one. From what little Marta let slip, he was a captain at arms and, Minou suspected, a mercenary. Of what she was doing in Chartres, she said nothing and, not wanting to damage the fragile trust between them, Minou had not pressed her.
Marta genuinely appeared to have no idea that she had been born into a different life. She was Marie Cabanel. It was as if the first seven years of her life had been wiped clean. She talked of her love of Paris and how she had never lived anywhere else. She talked with disdain about Henri of Navarre and his Huguenot supporters, clearly holding him responsible for the wars that never ended. She talked with admiration about the Duke of Guise and the Valois court.
While she tried to decide what to do, Minou took pleasure in glimpses of the girl Marta had been in the woman she was now: her love of jewels, her quick wit, her contempt for men who gave their secrets away in the bedchamber, her confidence.
Marta had moved closer, until finally she had rested her head on Minou’s shoulder and fallen asleep. She’d wrapped her own green cloak around her for extra warmth, but she could still feel her shivering beneath the layers.
While her daughter slept, Minou had murmured stories of their lost past, hoping to replant memories in her mind. She had whispered of the mountains and the vineyards of Languedoc, of their home at Puivert and her family’s life there. Then, not wanting to wake her, she kissed her fingers and placed them softly on Marta’s forehead.
‘Ma petite,’ she whispered, an endearment she had thought lost to her for ever.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
Holding him fast between them, the guards forced Piet down the steps in the driving rain. The wind cracked and slammed into them, driving their cloaks up into Piet’s face. A torrent of water was pouring down the curving steps from the main entrance and flooding the ground.
It was not until they were almost at the quayside, and one of the guards slipped, that Piet could take his chance. Drawing back his leg, he sent a kick pummelling into the man’s side and he went plummeting down, cracking his head on the stone balustrade. The other guard drew his sword, but he was too slow. Piet drove his bound hands upwards into the man’s nose, shattering the bone with a sickening crunch.
Piet cast desperately around for a rock or a stone, anything sharp to rub the rope against. The guards were unconscious for now, but they might recover at any time. If he could find something to cut through the cords binding his wrists, there was a chance he might hold them off. There was nothing.
The lake water had risen quickly, and was rising still. The moored barge was now almost at the level of the landing. Piet couldn’t delay. He had to find his wife and daughter.
Turning, he ran through the deep puddles, two-by-two up the steps and back into the reliquary. Already, water seemed to be seeping inside. Small cracks were appearing in the plaster. There was no time to lose. He had to find Minou and Marta. Her name caught in his throat. He prayed to God that they were together. That Minou knew her faith had been justified in believing her daughter was alive.
Piet hurtled along the passageway, past the frescoes and images and into the chamber. Then he stopped dead.
Louis was standing in front of one of the chairs. The other was lying on its side in a chaos of broken candles, the altar cloth and plate. In the darkness, Piet could see the blade of a knife glinting in the moonlight from above.
‘This was my fault,’ the boy said in a hollow voice. He looked back to Vidal’s body, slumped in the cathedra. ‘It didn’t seem right to leave him on the ground. He would have hated that.’
Cautiously, Piet moved closer.
Though his eyes were open, Vidal was no longer there. Piet could see the gash in his stomach where the knife had gone in. His papal robe was saturated with blood, the white crosses soaked to red. On the floor, the cloth with the image of Christ’s face lay trampled and bloody beneath Vidal’s feet.
Piet took a step closer.
‘He never wanted a son. I thought he did. I was mistaken.’ Louis looked at Piet with anguish in his eyes.
‘You overheard what he said,’ Piet said, slowly understanding the scene before him.
‘He didn’t even notice I was here. I was of less importance to him than a forged piece of cloth.’
‘So you killed him.’
‘No.’ Louis sounded shocked. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ He tapped his head. ‘The sickness made him do things. He was beating me. I didn’t want to fight back – but then he came at me. The blade went in.’
Louis picked up the dagger and turned to Piet.
Piet stepped back out of reach. ‘I’m no threat to you,’ he said, holding up his tied arms.
To his surprise, Louis took his wrists and cut the rope. There was no doubt this was his old weapon.
‘Where did you get that knife?’
Louis frowned. ‘My father asked me the same thing. Your daughter had it.’ Louis looked at him with blank eyes. ‘Marta is you
r daughter.’
Piet caught his breath. ‘She is.’
Louis gave an odd smile. ‘I don’t think she knows that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She doesn’t remember. My father thought you had sent her. He called her Mademoiselle Reydon, but she didn’t understand. She believes she is Marie Cabanel, the daughter of a man hired to kill my father.’ He paused. ‘At least, I think that is how it goes.’
Piet’s heart was thudding. ‘Vidal said you found Marta in Paris.’
For a moment, Louis’s face lightened. ‘It was the day Admiral de Coligny was assassinated. My father knew what was planned, so we left suddenly that night before the killing started. I couldn’t do anything. I left Marta in our house in the rue du Louvre. I always wondered what had happened to her.’
‘You saved her life.’ Piet put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Louis flinched and pulled away. ‘Will you help save her again? Where is she?’
Louis answered as if he was in a daze. ‘Below the reliquary, there’s a chamber. There’s a hatch giving into a tunnel with a sluice. My father explained it to me once. It floods when the water gets too high.’
‘And my wife? Where is she?’
‘With Marta.’
Piet put his hand on the boy’s arm. ‘Show me. The whole building could collapse at any moment, we have to get them out.’
‘If the sluice gate isn’t closed, once the chamber fills up the island will flood from within. That was my father’s safeguard. If Guise came before his preparations were complete, he intended to destroy the relics rather than relinquish them.’ Louis looked around the chamber. ‘A flood. Everything to be swept away. The Book of Genesis, chapters six to nine.’
‘What if we close the sluice?’
‘It’s too late. That’s why the guards have gone. They knew to flee.’ Louis stared at his father. ‘Everyone is deserting him. I am the last.’
Piet looked down into the face of the man who had haunted his dreams for a lifetime, and felt nothing but pity. He leant across and gently closed Vidal’s eyes.