It was God’s will that the heretic should die. If not today, then tomorrow. France would never be great again until the last Protestant had been driven from her shores. They were the enemy within. Man, woman, child – it mattered not. Dead, imprisoned, exiled – it mattered not. Only that the wound be cauterised.
The assassin sat back to wait for his quarry. At his feet the blood of his catch continued to seep through the hessian of the sack, staining the green woodland grasses red.
CHAPTER THREE
SAINT-ANTONIN, QUERCY
In the burnt-out ruins of the Augustinian monastery, a boy stood in silence in the shadow of the blackened church where so many Catholics had died. In his dreams at night, he could still hear their screams. He could see the woman’s bloodied face, her cracked voice telling him to run, to save himself.
The priest’s thin fingers pressed down hard on his narrow shoulders, pinching and tensing with each word uttered to the cardinal standing on the broken steps in front of them. The boy did not understand why he’d been ordered to gather his few belongings or to what purpose he had been brought here, only that something of significance was about to take place.
‘I should not have been so bold as to trespass upon your time, Cardinal,’ the priest stuttered. ‘Your Eminence, I beg your pardon.’
The boy felt a ball of spittle strike the back of his neck. It trickled down between his cap and his collar. He did not move. If he could withstand the rod upon his bare back and the kiss of the fire against his naked legs, he could withstand this, too.
‘I would not have trespassed, had I not felt it my duty to inform you…’
‘Such a sense of pious duty is commendable in these dark times,’ the cardinal replied.
It was the first time the visitor had spoken and the boy struggled not to raise his eyes and look at the stranger’s face. A voice of distinction, of authority and power.
‘Of course, you can rely upon my discretion, Cardinal –’
‘Of course.’
‘– but the good fortune of your presence in our beleaguered town is the answer to our prayers. A sign from God. That someone of your stature should –’
‘Who else knows of this matter?’
‘No one,’ the priest answered hastily, his fingers spasming so fiercely that the boy knew he was lying.
‘Is that so,’ the visitor said drily.
‘We have learnt to hold our tongues. In this part of France, in this godless town, we are pariahs. Outcasts. A stray word would bring the Huguenot dogs back to our doors. We are so close to Montauban. So many Catholics have been sacrificed.’
The visitor’s voice did not soften. ‘Provided you hold fast to God’s commands, He will protect the righteous.’
‘Yes, of course, your Eminence.’ The boy heard the pause, the intake of breath. ‘All the same, our church in hiding would benefit from your largesse.’
‘Ah, so we come to it,’ the cardinal murmured.
‘Only so we may continue to bring God’s word to the faithful who live in fear, you understand.’
Another bead of spit dribbled down the boy’s neck. This time he could not prevent himself from shuddering.
‘Oh, make no mistake,’ the cardinal said coldly. ‘I understand.’
For a moment there was silence. The boy forced himself to keep his eyes fixed firmly on the ground: a square of dry earth, a scattering of white pebbles, blades of trampled grass. The visitor moved and he caught a glimpse of the red hem of his robes: fine cloth, dark stitched shoes without a speck of dust on the toes.
‘You need have no fear that there will be any further calls upon your charity after this,’ the priest added, attempting to drive home his advantage.
The visitor exhaled. ‘I have no fear of that.’
‘No, my lord?’
‘You are a man of true faith, are you not? A man of your word.’
‘I am known in Saint-Antonin for a most pious man.’
The boy heard the vanity in the priest’s voice and wondered at it. Did he not realise he was being mocked, not flattered? He was a vicious and crafty man, but a fool all the same. Then he felt the jab of the priest’s hands in the small of his back.
‘The boy is strong, healthy. From noble stock.’
‘What proof do you have?’
‘This.’ The boy felt the cap pulled from his head. ‘And his mother’s confession.’
Now he felt the full force of the visitor’s gaze upon him.
‘Look at me, boy. There’s no need to be afraid.’
He raised his head and looked into the face of the stranger for the first time. Tall, with pale skin and dark brows, his cardinal’s red robes were all but concealed by a hooded, black cloak. He had never seen him before.
And yet. There was something.
‘I am not afraid, sire,’ he lied.
‘How old are you?’
‘He has seen nine summers,’ the priest replied.
‘Let him speak for himself. He has a tongue in his head.’
To the boy’s astonishment, the visitor removed one of his leather gloves and reached out to touch the white streak in his hair, the cause of so much of his ill treatment. A devil’s mark, a sign of pestilence. Countless men of the cloth had tried to rid him of it by plucking out the hairs. Always, they grew back whiter than before. The visitor rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, then replaced his glove and nodded.
‘It is not chalk. There is no intent to deceive.’
The visitor gave no indication he had heard, only reached beneath his robes and produced a small hessian bag. The priest’s eyes widened with greed.
‘No more will be spoken of this.’
‘Of course, your Eminence. The boy’s mother died at his birth. He has been raised in the love and affection of our Holy Mother Church. We let him go with great reluctance.’
The visitor ignored his words.
‘Would you come with me, boy? Would you serve me?’
The boy thought of the priest’s flaccid white flesh and his shrivelled member hanging between his thin legs, the quiet weeping of the other boys who failed to understand that showing weakness only encouraged a greater cruelty.
‘Yes, sire.’
The faintest of smiles flickered across the visitor’s face.
‘Very well. If you are to serve me, I should know your name.’
‘Volusien is the name my mother gave me.’
‘But he goes by Louis,’ interrupted the priest. ‘His guardian thought it more suitable for a child of his unfortunate situation.’
The visitor narrowed his eyes. ‘Unfortunate?’
The boy saw the priest flush an ugly red, and he wondered at it, but now the visitor was holding out the bag. The priest stretched out a rapacious hand but, at the last moment – too quickly for Louis to be sure if it was accident or by design – the prize was let fall. The coins rattled loose to the ground.
‘Come, boy.’
He hesitated, caught between excitement and fear. ‘Am I to accompany you now, sire?’
‘You are,’ the cardinal said, turning and walking away.
Louis stood fixed by the sight of his tormentor on his knees harvesting his blood money, and realised he felt nothing. What reserves of pity or compassion Louis had once possessed had been beaten out of him in the orphanage. He did not even feel disgust.