Salvadora brandished her fan at Aimeric. ‘I would be close to the Louvre Palace, nephew. On the grand rue Saint-Martin or the rue Vieille du Temple. Not in some insalubrious district.’
‘The university quarter on the left bank might be better,’ Bernard said mildly. ‘The air is cleaner there.’
Salvadora tutted. ‘Appropriate lodgings I said, Bernard. I do not wish to be among tradesmen, or poets or—’
‘Protestants?’ called Alis.
Aimeric’s lips twitched. ‘I give you my word, revered Aunt, that I will keep you safe from the contaminating evils of poetry and the printing presses of the Sorbonne.’
His aunt narrowed her eyes. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
‘I do,’ he answered fondly. ‘I shall secure lodgings appropriate to everyone’s needs. Have no fear.’
‘That is settled,’ Piet said, his voice alive with the promise of the adventure. ‘I propose we should leave around the longest day, some two weeks hence, and take our time to travel.’
‘Do you have a route in mind?’ Aimeric asked.
Piet glanced, almost shyly, at Minou and all at once, she understood. Though he had been waiting on her decision, he had already been planning for her and the family to go with him. Was that what he had been on the point of confessing earlier?
Her responsibilities acquitted, Minou took a cup of wine from the dresser and raised it in a toast to her husband.
Piet smiled with relief at her blessing. ‘Indeed yes,’ he said, turning back to his brother-in-law. ‘I have some thoughts.’
* * *
In the forest beyond the castle walls, a blackbird called to its mate. A fox made its stealthy way along a woodland path, a buck and doe broke cover to forage for food in the glades. In the mountains, eagles wheeled and soared, riding the currents of the stormy air.
Still the assassin watched. He had no hope now of fulfilling his mission before night fell. He wondered what had happened to change the usual pattern of things, for he had no doubt the intelligence he had been given was good. Every afternoon, the heretic went to the top of the tower. Why not today?
He heard the changing of the watch at dusk. He saw the lamps in the towers lit, one by one. An owl came out to hunt. Finally, as the light faded from the sky, the assassin took shelter in the deeper recesses of the wood. He laid down the pistol, covered his box of gunpowder tightly to keep it dry, then reached in his pocket for the meagre rations he had left, and settled back against the trunk of a beech tree to pass the night.
‘If not today, then tomorrow,’ he said, zeal burning in his eyes. ‘The Lord’s will be done.’
* * *
Little by little, the day sank down behind the hills.
Aunt Boussay returned to her needlepoint. Alis took Marta to see the kittens in the kitchen gardens. Jean-Jacques slithered from his nurse’s lap and stumbled back to his grandfather begging for the end of the story.
Minou sat on the bench in the long windows, listening to the tempest. It gave her pleasure to watch Piet, as excited as any boy planning his first hunt, leaning over the table with his leather jerkin untied and his sleeves rolled up. Aware of her observance, he turned. He gestured to the chaos of papers and maps on the table.
‘Would you like to see what—’
Minou held up her hand. ‘Two heads are better than three. I am content to leave the planning to you and Aimeric.’
‘You are sure of that, my lady of the mists?’
Minou smiled. ‘Quite sure, my lord. Indeed, I am grateful not to have to think on it.’
When the bells of Saint-Marcel struck the ninth hour, the nurse took the children to their beds and the servants brought wine and victuals for supper. As the bells were tolling ten, Bernard retired, followed shortly afterwards by Salvadora. The candles danced and guttered. Alis stayed a little longer, offering suggestions and commentary, then took herself to her chamber. At the approach of midnight, with no sign that Piet or Aimeric had exhausted their discussions, Minou also withdrew.
Finally, the storm broke with wild winds and rain lashing against the glass. She was bone tired, but when she got to her chamber, she found she could not settle. The voices in her head were too clamorous.
At two o’clock, she rose and opened the casement to freshen the air in the room. She heard the indistinct voices of her husband and brother, now standing in the courtyard below, then returned to her tangled bedsheets, wondering what kept them from their beds.
Finally, the tempest blew itself out. All the same, it was still not until a pale dawn came creeping across the sill, that Minou surrendered to the inky arms of sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LIMOGES, LIMOUSIN
Saturday, 7 June
Vidal du Plessis – known now as his Eminence, Cardinal Valentin – looked down from the window to the small courtyard below, which was bathed in morning light. The boy was playing with other children.
The more Vidal watched, the more he observed how Louis held himself apart. Vidal approved of such caution. To be part of the group without drawing attention, all the better to watch and listen, showed good judgement. Yes, he approved.
They had ridden north all the previous day and through the night, covering some fifty leagues distance from Saint-Antonin to reach the outskirts of Limoges by morning. But although Vidal had taken refreshment and bathed his temples, he remained fatigued, short tempered. The relentless rattling of the carriage wheels continued to reverberate in his skull. Every bone in his body ached. His head ached.
He turned away from the casement and cast his eye around the well-appointed chamber. Limoges fell within one of the principalities controlled by Jeanne d’Albret, the Huguenot Queen of Navarre, and was currently under the control of Huguenot forces. However, a handful of noble estates had been left in Catholic hands, not out of compassion or mercy, but because the Queen admired the enamel boxes and trinkets produced in Limoges itself. Papist or not, she did not want those businesses destroyed.
Vidal considered the situation absurd and resented being confined in this enclave surrounded on all sides by heretics. Only a few weeks more, he told himself, then he could return to his purpose. Come the feast day of the Nativity of Our Lady in September, he would be free to return to his private estate outside Chartres, purchased with the promise of his inheritance from his wealthy uncle, Philippe du Plessis, and fulfil the next stage of his life’s plan. Having had no son of his own, Vidal was his sole heir.
At least, Vidal had thought it so. He shook his head, unwilling to entertain such troublesome thoughts, then wished he had not. His temples started to pound.
Vidal was a star in the firmament of the Catholic Church. Having risen to prominence quickly during the wars, and with little opposition, he had long ago shaken the dust from his southern heels and aligned himself to the North. He was a personal confessor to the Duke of Guise himself and, for ten years, had profited from the misery of civil war. He was now wealthy, he was powerful. But at this particular moment, for his private ambition to be realised, he needed the current cessation in hostilities to hold. Until Michaelmas at least, when the last of his arrangements would be in place. Then the country could go to the Devil, for all Vidal cared.
Yet, for all his influence, Vidal felt matters slipping out of his control. The situation in Amsterdam – though he had taken steps to contain it – gave him cause for concern. He had money enough for the time being, but a claim against his uncle’s estate would ruin him. His plans were costly. And his current sojourn in Languedoc had served to confirm that the feverish atmosphere in Paris was repeated the length and breadth of the country. France was a tinder box of resentments, disagreements and grudges.