He ran to catch up. Was he to be an equerry or a page? He had dreamt of such things, though never with expectation. He had never known his mother – only that there was some shame about his circumstances and that his guardians resented the care of him.
As they turned the corner of the ruined church, two men stepped out of the shadows. Kerchiefs were tied across their faces and their blades were unsheathed. Louis instantly raised his fists, ready to defend his new master, but instead felt the weight of the visitor’s hand on his head like a blessing.
The cardinal nodded.
The men walked away and out of sight. Moments later, a sound somewhere between a squeal and a grunt split the still air, then silence. The visitor paused, as if to be sure, then continued forward to where a carriage-and-pair stood waiting.
‘Come, boy.’
‘My lord.’
Though Louis had never before left Saint-Antonin and had never received any formal schooling, he was sharp witted. He watched and he listened. So at this extraordinary moment, on this extraordinary day, he recognised the thistle crest and colours of the Duke of Guise.
His head was spinning, wondering if the misery he knew was about to be replaced by something worse. He had no choice but to go. All the same, as he climbed up into the carriage, he found the courage to ask one more question.
‘How should I address you? I would not offend through ignorance.’
The cardinal gave a cold smile. ‘We will see, Volusien known as Louis,’ he replied. ‘We shall see.’
CHAPTER FOUR
CHÂTEAU DE PUIVERT, LANGUEDOC
As Minou hurried down the narrow steps from the keep, she heard the first rumble of thunder. She could not believe how the time had flown. She’d intended only to write for a few minutes, but nigh on an hour had passed.
The afternoon shadows had lengthened and the oppressive early heat of the day had been replaced by a silent chill. The air sparked with a sense of threat and menace. Minou shook her head, impatient. There was no prophecy in the sky. A summer storm in the Pyrenees was far from unusual at this time of year. Though the villagers were inclined to see each and every one as a portent of some catastrophe or judgement, she believed it was Nature, not the designs of God, that shaped the world.
Minou paused at the foot of the steps and glanced back at the coat of arms carved above the main door to the tower with the letters b and p – for Bruyère and Puivert. For ten years, she had been Marguerite de Bruyère, Châtelaine of the castle of Puivert, its lands and its living. The Bruyère family had built the fortified square tower in the thirteenth century and, when coming into her unexpected inheritance, Minou had taken the name as her birthright. But although she’d come to love this green valley set in the foothills of the mighty Pyrenees – and was proud of the refuge it had become for all those of the Reformed faith fleeing persecution – the title meant nothing to her. She considered herself a custodian of Puivert, nothing more.
Her married name – Reydon – was a gift bestowed upon her by her husband, Piet, courtesy of the French father he had never known. His affection lay with his Dutch mother, Marta, lying some thirty years dead in a graveyard in Amsterdam. Their daughter was named for her.
The truth was she was still – and ever would be – Minou Joubert. Those two words painted the truest portrait of the woman she was.
* * *
In the woods beyond the castle walls, the assassin jolted awake, his pistol still in his hand.
Had he missed his quarry?
He threw his gaze up to the keep. There was no one there. No glimpse of the green cloak. The door to the roof was still firmly shut. He rubbed his face with a grimy hand, then stiffened at another sound, this time in the undergrowth behind him. He put the pistol down and, slowly, moved his hand to the hunting knife at his waist.
He narrowed his gaze. The rabbit, sensing danger, raised its ears and turned tail. Too slow, too late. The blade flew through the air, striking the animal in its soft, white belly. The assassin went to claim his prey, pulling his weapon free with a gush of guts and fur.
Taking the creature by the scruff of its neck, dripping a trail of blood on the ground, he added it to his sack. Whether or not the Protestant harlot showed her face this afternoon, he’d had a good day’s work all in all.
The assassin wiped the knife on the sleeve of his jerkin, took a mouthful of ale from his flask. He checked that his box of gunpowder and shot were still dry, then settled back to wait. The afternoon was not yet over. There were many hours more of light. It was close to the longest day of the year.
* * *
Composing herself, Minou looked across the courtyard to the main family dwelling as the door opened and her husband strode out.
‘Minou, at last! It’s almost five o’clock.’
She rushed forward and held out her hands. ‘I am sorry.’
Piet frowned. ‘We have been waiting on your arrival in the solar.’
‘I know.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I was writing and lost track of the hour. Will you forgive me?’
His expression softened. ‘As if, after all this time, I still do not know what happens when the words claim you!’
‘Truly I am sorry.’
A match for one another in height, they walked slowly together back towards the house. Minou could see the spider’s web of lines around her husband’s eyes and how his shoulders hunched, and wondered what was troubling him. She knew the music of Piet’s heart as well as she knew her own. But in the past few weeks – no, longer – she had felt a drift of distance between them. He had taken several unplanned journeys to Carcassonne and, even when at home, he had held his innermost thoughts close.
‘How goes it with you, my love?’ she asked lightly.
‘All is well,’ he said, but his attention was clearly elsewhere.
Since the Battle of Jarnac some three years past – an engagement that had cost Piet the use of his fighting arm – her husband had been obliged to lay down his sword and find other ways of serving the cause. He had organised secure networks of messengers to carry confidential orders, arranged safe passage for their refugee brothers and sisters from Catholic-held cities in France to Huguenot enclaves, and raised significant monies to keep the rebel Calvinist forces in the Dutch Provinces in boot leather.
Piet had followed reports of the Protestant rebellion there with great attention. When word of the success of the Watergeuzen, the Sea Beggars, vanquishing the Spanish forces in the north reached Puivert, Minou remembered how it had grieved him that he had not been alongside them on the battlefield, especially now as Amsterdam was teetering on the brink between the old faith and the new.
She glanced at him. Minou thought he’d accepted his situation, but perhaps she was mistaken. It was why her decision about Paris was so important. It would be a chance for Piet not only to be reacquainted with many of his former comrades but also to be at the heart of things once more. God willing, the adventure would give back to her husband something of what he had lost.
‘Are you resolved, Minou?’ he said, as they reached the threshold.
‘I am,’ she lied.
A rumble of thunder rolled over the distant hills.
‘You are sure? We could wait another day if—’