Guise’s face was set hard. ‘This is what comes of allowing them to pursue their desires. A clearer symbol we could not find of how the Reformers set themselves apart from their fellow citizens and undermine our way of life.’
‘By the terms of the Edict, it is now permitted for the Reformers to build a place of worship outside the walls, my lord,’ the cardinal offered mildly.
‘I am well aware of that. It is a grave mistake. Can you not see how their temple –’ Guise all but spat the word from his mouth – ‘almost obliterates the spire of our church? Today is Sunday. It is Lent. A time when all Christians show obedience and penitence, practise humility and remember the privations of our Lord. Yet they—. Such ostentation, such vulgar display, such . . . defiance.’
The cardinal glanced at his brother, saw how his eyes shone bright with zeal and, though he would not have spoken this to another living soul, with hatred. To the duke, Huguenots represented all that had gone wrong with France.
‘On,’ Guise commanded, spurring his horse forward.
He came to a halt within hailing distance of the town, where the young equerry was waiting with the news that the priest of Vassy would be honoured to receive them into his congregation for Mass.
‘And what say they of this abomination?’ He waved his hand in the direction of the temple.
The boy flushed. ‘I did not ask, my lord.’
Guise’s eyes narrowed. He turned to the cardinal. ‘So, Brother, we do not even know how many of them there are. They breed like rats in the sewer; every day, another heretic born. Another would-be traitor.’ He turned back to the equerry. ‘What of their pastor? What manner of man is he, did they say?’
The boy dropped his head. ‘I did not imagine you would grace the Reformed congregation with your noble presence, my lord, so I did not enquire.’
At that moment, carried by the bitter March wind, the sound of voices raised in song floated across the plains to where their horses stood waiting.
‘Que Dieu Se lève, et que Ses ennemis soient dispersés; et que fuient devant Sa face ceux qui le haïssent.’
Guise’s face flushed with anger. ‘You see! They hold nothing sacred. They sing, and in the common language, during Lent. What text is it, Brother?’
The cardinal strained to hear. ‘I cannot make it out.’
‘Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered; may His foes flee before him.’
‘It is Psalm sixty-eight, my lord,’ the equerry said. ‘It a verse the Reformers revere greatly.’
Guise stared at him. ‘Do they indeed?’
‘It is an affront to God,’ the cardinal muttered.
‘It is an affront both to God and to France,’ the duke replied harshly, raising his voice. ‘This is a Christian country, a Catholic country, yet we find here a nest of Calvinist vipers.’
Something of his belligerence reached the men, for their horses scraped at the ground, restless, alert to the anger in their master’s voice.
‘Sire, what is your command?’ the equerry asked. ‘Shall I return to the town and ask how many Huguenots are numbered within Vassy?’
‘Tell them these lands lie on the border of my own. It is a vassal town. I will not tolerate those who would stir up dissent. Who set themselves apart. I will not allow heresy to flourish.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LA CITÉ
Piet was lying on his back. He paddled his palms gingerly around in the dirt and grass to get his bearings. His hands were bare, he realised. What had become of his gloves? The face of a girl drifted into his mind. Haunting mismatched eyes – one of blue and the other brown – full of wit and intelligence. In the white mist at the Porte Narbonnaise, he had all but knocked her to the ground. When was that? He tried to remember, but the attempt only sent her slipping further away from him.
He tried to prop himself on his elbow, but the movement made him dizzy. There was a dreadful clamouring, as if all the bells of La Cité were being rung inside his head.
Then he heard the sweet song of a blackbird, and it gave him hope. Carefully, he placed his hands on the ground on either side of his outstretched legs and raised himself into a sitting position. A rush of nausea blindsided him, setting his head and stomach spinning. He steadied himself, waited for the lurching to stop and carefully opened his eyes.
Light flooded his brain. Piet blinked, and blinked again, to clear the gauzy film between him and the world. Little by little, things came back into focus. Grey stone walls, green grass, tipped white with frost in the shadows, the distinctive outlines of the old Roman towers in the walls of medieval Carcassonne. Now he was aware of an ache at the base of his neck, and when he raised his hand, he found a lump the size of an egg. Had he been set upon by some cutpurse when taking his leave of Vidal?
Was that what had happened?
His clothes were damp from where he’d lain upon the ground, the dew seeping through his doublet. There was no sign of his cloak or hat, though his leather satchel lay a few steps away on the ridge of a low stone wall. Dread rushed through him. After all the planning, had the counterfeit relic been stolen? Then, he remembered. The airless room above the tavern, the exchange being made.
Piet snatched up the satchel, fearing the coins would be gone, before remembering he had transferred them to his purse before setting out last evening. His hand went to his waist. His purse was still there, as was his dagger. Odd. What thief would leave so fine a poniard and a full purse?
Gradually, other shards of memory came back: supping ale in the tavern to pass the hours, making his way to the fine house with its glazed casement windows. Stealing through a wrought-iron gate, leading into a small garden. His hand upon the clasp, removing his gloves to work the delicate latch. Vidal waiting with a lantern. Giving his cloak and hat to the servant in the gloom of the passageway, then . . .
He frowned. He couldn’t remember. How had he come to be lying here but a few steps away? And what of Vidal? Had he also been attacked?
Piet rolled his shoulders. His arms and legs felt as if they were made of lead. Every tiny motion required a strength he did not feel he possessed. Yet, apart from the bruise on his head, he did not seem to be injured. He ground his jaw from side to side. No bones broken.
Finally, it came back to him. The memory of a thick, sweet wine on his tongue, of creeping paralysis, of falling. The rough-faced servant with the scar on his cheek, the sound of feet running as he pitched unconscious to the floor.
Piet stood, shook the fragments of grass and twigs from his clothing, then made his way back along rue de Notre Dame and tapped upon the rear door.
‘Is anybody here?’ The house remained silent, its shuttered windows blind and dumb. ‘Hello?’ he said, knocking harder. ‘I would see the priest who goes by the name of . . .’ Of course, Vidal would have taken a new name at his ordination but, in his joy at seeing his beloved friend again, Piet – stupidly – had failed to ask what it was. ‘I wish to see the priest from Toulouse who is lodging here.’
Silence.
He looked up at the casement windows on the first floor.
‘No one lives there any more, Monsieur.’
Piet turned to see a boy of about thirteen years of age standing nearby. Black curled hair, plain doublet and hose, he wore no cap. A memory slipped into his mind of a handsome boy flirting with a pretty girl beside the well.
‘Aimeric, is it?’ he said.
The boy fell instantly on his guard. ‘How do you know my name?’
Piet smiled. ‘Lucky guess,’ he said. ‘What do you mean, the house is untenanted?’
‘As I say, Monsieur. No one has lived there since Michaelmas.’
‘What would you say if I told you I had dined in this very house last evening?’
Aimeric put his head on one side. ‘I would say you had mistaken the house, or had taken too much ale.’
The boy’s certainty gave Piet pause for thought. ‘Is this not the chapter house of the cathedral used for lodging visiti
ng priests and clergy?’
Aimeric laughed. ‘No! It belongs to Monsieur Fournier and his wife. They left after the feast of St Martin and have not returned. It’s been empty these past three months. Someone’s been jading you.’
‘You are certain of it?’
Aimeric turned and pointed to a sweet house set opposite, framed by the bare branches of a rambling wild rose.
‘I live there. I give you my word, no one has lived in the Fournier house all winter.’
Piet frowned. He did not doubt Aimeric was telling the truth – what possible reason could he have for lying? All the same, he would wager every écu in his possession this was where he had spent the previous evening.
Piet recreated the chamber in his mind’s eye: the tapestry on the wall and a heavy sideboard where the servant had placed the tray. A library of books and Vidal’s opulent red robes stirring the air as he paced up and down. A well-appointed and furnished room. He hesitated. Another memory. He’d felt the air of a chamber where no one lived, had he not thought as much? What reason would Vidal have had for claiming these were his lodgings?
‘I warrant you know a way into the house, Aimeric.’
The boy’s black eyes shone with mischief. ‘I have no key, Monsieur.’
‘I cannot think the lack of a key would be an insurmountable obstacle to a fellow of your intelligence. Look.’ Piet smiled at the boy, then without warning, he drew his dagger and launched it. It sailed through the air and sliced, clean in two, a large bulb of fennel on the far side of the vegetable patch. Aimeric’s eyes popped wide.
‘There.’ Piet walked over, retrieved his poniard and slipped it back into his belt. ‘If you show me a way into the house, I will teach you how to do that. Is it a deal?’
Aimeric grinned. ‘Deal.’
Piet registered the tocsin had begun to toll again as he watched Aimeric work a metal pin back and forth to release the catch.
‘Would you say this lock was recently oiled?’ he asked.
Aimeric nodded. ‘It’s clean.’
The mechanism gave, with a dull snick, and the sound stirred other memories. His breath in the cold night air. The door swinging open and Vidal himself, standing ready for him inside with a lantern.
They went in. With his hand upon his dagger, Piet climbed the stairs to the first floor, the boy following. A square of weak daylight filtered through a glazed window upon the half-landing. All the doors were closed and each creak of the floorboards seemed unnaturally loud.
‘In here,’ he said. ‘This was the chamber where I passed the evening.’
Piet turned the handle and stepped inside. There was not a stick of furniture, no signs of comfort or habitation. No sideboard, no chairs, no table, no library of books. The tapestry that had graced the wall had gone. He walked to the hearth and crouched down. The stone was cold and the grate had been thoroughly swept.
‘You are sure this is the chamber, Monsieur?’
Piet hesitated. He had been sure, but now? The room looked and felt as if no one had stepped foot in it for some time.
‘Monsieur and Madame Fournier took their leave before Michaelmas, you say?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘Do you know where they went?’
‘I heard my sister say they had gone to Nérac.’
Nérac, some leagues north of Pau, was where the Queen of Navarre had established her Huguenot court. In defiance of her husband’s wishes, she had expelled all Catholic priests and the court was now a safe haven for Protestants and those escaping the political pressures of Paris. It was even more curious to think that Vidal should have been lodging in a house owned by a notable Huguenot family.
‘The Fourniers are followers of the Reformed Faith?’
Aimeric dropped his gaze. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘I am not trying to trap you,’ Piet said. ‘I consider a man’s religion his own business.’
Piet imagined the chamber as he had seen it last evening. This was where his chair had stood. He crouched down to examine the red stain upon the floorboards. An image came to his mind of the goblet falling from his hand, the deep crimson Guignolet spilling on the floor.
‘Is it blood?’ Aimeric said.
‘No. Merely wine.’
Had he been drugged? The heaviness in his limbs, the lost hours, all spoke to it, but why drug him, then leave him at liberty? And what of Vidal? Had he suffered the same fate?
‘What about this?’ Aimeric pointed to a vivid smear on the rectangle of wall between the two windows. ‘Is this also wine?’
Piet studied it. A mark, the colour of rust, ran down the white-wash as if someone had fallen back, struck their head, then slid down to the ground. Piet touched it with his fingers.
‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘This is blood.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
VASSY
North-East France
‘My lord!’ the cardinal pointed to the main gates into the town. ‘They have sent a welcoming party to greet you.’
The nobles of Vassy, attired in velvet and feathered caps, cloaks trimmed with ermine and golden chains of office, were standing nervously in a row.
If the Duke of Guise was pleased, he did not show it.
‘Brother?’ the cardinal said. ‘Shall we approach the town? They wait to honour you.’
A trumpet sounded from the walls, the pennants hanging bright in the grey morning air. Guise hesitated. Then closer at hand, from within the temple, came the murmurings of a prayer.
‘J’espère en l’Eternel, mon âme espère, et j’attends Sa promesse.’
The duke’s expression darkened. He turned away from the town and drove his horse back towards the door to the temple.
‘Brother,’ the cardinal hissed urgently. ‘See, they bring you garlands. They bring you gifts.’
But Guise’s full attention was now settled upon the barn and the voices inside. He studied the wooden walls, the tiled roof, the windows cut into the higher storeys; a structure too permanent to speak of humility and gratitude. It was an affront.
The duke pulled his horse to a standstill. He raised his hand to summon the lieutenant of his guard.
‘Command them to open the doors,’ he said.
‘My lord.’ The soldier bowed in his saddle, then hammered upon the door with his fist.
‘In the name of François of Lorraine, Prince of Joinville, the Duke of Aumale and of Guise,’ he called, ‘I bid you open these doors.’
At the duke’s side, the equerry sensed the palpable shock from within. Heard, in the silence, the echo of the congregation falling quiet within the wooden walls. How many people were within? he wondered. He prayed not many.
‘Open this door, by order of the Duke of Guise,’ the lieutenant repeated.
The young equerry glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the concern he felt was etched upon the faces of the noblemen at the town gates. Were they also fearful of what might happen or, rather, was their concern for themselves alone? That their tolerance of Protestant worship would be held against them?
‘For the third and final time of asking,’ the lieutenant called for the third time, raising his voice. ‘In the name of the Prince of Joinville, open this door and allow your lord admittance.’
Finally, there was the sound of a wooden latch being lifted and a creak as the heavy door was opened and the pastor stepped out.
Dressed all in black, in the sober garb of the Reformed Religion, he stood with his bare hands outstretched.
‘My lord,’ he said, bowing low. ‘This is an honour.’
For an instant, everything hung in the balance. Then Henri, the duke’s twelve-year-old son, spurred his horse past his father and attempted to force his way into the temple. The pastor was thrown violently against the door jamb. Those inside began to panic.
‘Attention! Mes amis, attention!’
‘We wish for no trouble,’ the pastor cried, trying to calm both his congregation and young Guise. ‘We are unarmed,
a congregation gathered to worship, we are . . .’
‘See how they defy the duke’s command,’ the lieutenant shouted and he drew his sword. ‘They refuse to allow our lord to enter.’
‘That is not true,’ the pastor objected, ‘but to bring weapons into a place of worship—’
‘He challenges our noble lord.’
‘We are here to observe the Sabbath,’ the pastor shouted.
His words were drowned out as Guise’s foot soldiers forced their way inside. A woman screamed. In the confusion, a stone was thrown and struck the duke. A trickle of blood sparked red on Guise’s white cheek. For an instant, time stood still, then the cry went up.
‘The duke is wounded! Our Lord Guise is assaulted!’
With a roar, the lieutenant drove his horse forward into the barn, trampling the pastor beneath his hooves. Inside, women and children tried desperately to hide, but there was nowhere to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LA CITÉ
Carrying her sister on her back, Minou ran across the drawbridge to La Cité, relieved to see Bérenger was still on duty at the Porte Narbonnaise.
‘Make haste!’ he shouted. ‘Hurry, Madomaisèla! The gates are closing.’
Minou’s muscles in her arms and legs were burning, but she forced herself to keep going. She set Alis down and then tried to catch her breath.
‘What’s happened?’ she gasped, as Bérenger pulled them inside. ‘Why is the alarum ringing?’
‘There’s been a murder,’ he said, pushing the gates shut behind them. ‘They all but laid hands on the villain yesterday, but he got away. Now they think he’s taken refuge in La Cité.’ He dropped the heavy bar in place. ‘A fellow by the name of Michel Cazès. They found his body down below the bridge at first light. Throat cut from ear to ear, or so they say.’
‘At first light, but that cannot be . . .’
She stopped. Could it be the same man? She did not know his family name, but could there be two murdered men? But it made no sense. Had she not seen Michel’s body undisturbed beneath the bridge shortly after noon, at the same time the tocsin began to ring? What time was that? One of the clock? Later? She wasn’t sure.