The Ghost Ship, page 6
The lawyer nodded. ‘It suggests Lord Evreux – that’s to say, your late father, mademoiselle – saw how the currency was being devalued and thought to protect his income by converting it.’
‘What of the estate itself?’
The lawyer raised his eyebrows. ‘Forgive me, I thought you knew. There is nothing else. Lord Evreux sold his father’s estate outside Chartres shortly before his death.’
‘All of it? The house and land?’ Piet asked sharply.
‘So far as I know, yes. No parcel was retained.’
‘Do you know why? Or to whom he sold?’
‘Gran’père, does it matter?’
The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘I never met Lord Evreux and everything was handled by his own advisers in Chartres. As I said, the matter is straightforward. Mademoiselle Reydon-Joubert is simply here to sign the documents pertaining to her fortune. Once this has happened, and the papers have been duly witnessed, then we can discuss how she might—’
‘And there are no conditions?’ Louise interrupted again. ‘I receive the money outright, is that correct?’
‘Well, er, that is so.’ The lawyer sniffed. ‘But I would hope that you would see fit to take our advice as to how best to protect your assets. You will be a very wealthy woman, which might attract the attention of unscrupulous men. Scoundrels. It would be wise to retain expert counsel.’
Louise smiled coldly. ‘I have my family to advise me.’ She pointed to the desk. ‘Are these the papers?’
‘They are.’
She stood. ‘If you might summon a suitable witness, monsieur, then we can conclude our business.’
Her grandfather put his hand on her arm. ‘A moment, ma belle. Monsieur le Notaire, you are certain that there is nothing more to be done. No proof of identity, nothing? Absolutely certain.’
The lawyer shook his head. ‘All that was taken care of by you in Amsterdam, Monsieur Reydon-Joubert.’
‘And nothing has changed since then?’
Louise looked at him, wondering at her grandfather’s questions. The lawyer clearly felt the same.
‘Should it have done?’ he asked with a touch of impatience.
Piet raised his hand. ‘It is merely that it has been fifteen years. A great deal has changed in France, new laws governing property and inheritance. There is no one else who needs to countersign?’
‘The will is valid, monsieur,’ the lawyer replied firmly. ‘Everything is as it should be.’ He turned the paper towards Louise and passed her a quill. ‘Mademoiselle, if you will.’
* * *
Within a half-hour, Louise and Piet were back on the rue de Rivoli. All arrangements had been made for the transfer of funds to a bank in Amsterdam, the paperwork signed and sealed. There was nothing outstanding.
Louise thought she would feel something. She didn’t. She turned her hands over in the sun, holding her gloves in her hand, as if looking for a sign, for stigmata. She was disappointed to feel exactly as she had when she had woken up this morning.
Nothing has changed.
But her grandfather seemed to have undergone a transformation. No longer taciturn or anxious, he was in the best of spirits. And soon, his enthusiasm ignited hers. Her fingers went to her mother’s locket and, for a moment at least, she felt a sense of excitement, of one chapter ending and a new one beginning.
‘What say you we walk back to Place Dauphine,’ Piet said. ‘I could manage, if you can adapt your pace to mine. I will be slow, I warn you.’
‘Are you sure you can manage?’
He beamed. ‘I feel equal to anything. You have your inheritance, it is your birthday, the sun is shining. I would be honoured to walk with my beautiful granddaughter through this wonderful city.’ He held out his arm. ‘Shall we?’
Louise smiled. ‘It would be my honour, Gran’père.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PARIS
Friday, 14 May
The day after the coronation, the hedgerows in the gardens of the Palais des Tuileries were again alive with the shimmering of sparrows. Their cheerful song soared over the formal lawns and the beds of red and yellow tulips. In the white mulberry trees, the blackbird still called for her mate. Another glide of swifts, home from the Barbary Coast, skimmed the still waters of the lake.
And in Place Dauphine, Louise sat turning her mother’s locket over in her hand after another sleepless night. An oval of silver, containing a single lock of brown hair, it was her most treasured, most secret, possession. No one knew she had taken it.
Louise’s sense of well-being had not lasted beyond the evening of her birthday. She had prepared the sleeping powder in a glass of water but, in the end, could not make herself drink it. In consequence, she had sat awake most of the night, thinking about the boarding house in Kalverstraat where her mother had been found. Her memories were incomplete, faint images that came in and out of focus. But she remembered the floor drenched in blood and her despair at having arrived too late. A child’s red handprint on a whitewashed wall, that was her true inheritance.
Always too late.
She had not been in time to save her mother. She would never forgive herself for that.
Louise dressed quickly and again left the house before anyone else was stirring. She’d heard her grandparents whispering behind their closed door late last evening and the relief in her grandmother’s voice. It was as if some burden had been lifted from their shoulders. All the same, Louise knew something was wrong. Several times last evening, as they enjoyed a traditional Dutch meal of pancakes and smoked pork for her birthday, she had felt her grandmother’s eyes on her. But every time she had thought she was about to say something, Minou had pulled back. It was very strange.
Louise lifted the handle of the kitchen door and slipped out into the morning sunshine. Her red-letter day had come and gone. The papers were signed, she was wealthy now and, yet, she felt exactly the same. Restless, unsettled.
Guilty.
* * *
In the corridors of the Louvre Palace, courtiers shuffled from room to room, their eyes averted, hoping not to attract the displeasure of the King. Although the coronation had gone precisely according to his wishes – and the French court had shown itself the envy of Europe – Henri was out of sorts.
The King had returned from Saint-Denis to Paris the previous evening. Today, he intended to settle his private affairs. Tomorrow, he would undertake a progress around Paris. The state arrival of the Queen was scheduled to take place on Sunday, the official coronation banquet would take place on Tuesday next, then he would ride out on Wednesday to join his troops in the field. But, for all this to proceed, he needed his right-hand man and the Duc de Sully was indisposed. So unwell, indeed, that he had taken to his bed in the Arsenal. It had fallen to his secretary to bring the bad news.
Jean-Jacques bowed once more. ‘It is my lord Sully’s greatest regret that he is unable to attend Your Majesty in person. Not for anything would he offend you, sire, but his physicians have confined him to bed. He would not imperil the health of Your Majesty by bringing any sort of pestilence or malady into your presence.’
He waited in respectful silence, knowing his wisest course of action was now to hold his tongue. Attired all in black, Henri impatiently strode up and down, the heavy buckles on his shoes tapping on the floor, the jewelled cross of Saint-Esprit hanging from his neck by a broad ribbon. His hair was almost white above his starched ruff. But for a man of fifty-and-seven, who had enjoyed no more than a few hours’ sleep, he still cut an imposing figure.
‘If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain. Isn’t that what they say?’
Jean-Jacques frowned. ‘My lord?’
‘It is a phrase I have heard from the Moroccan ambassador,’ Henri said, waving his hand. ‘Never mind.’
‘Is there a message I might convey to my lord? Or papers I might carry to him for his attention?’
‘Tell him…’ Henri stopped, then sighed. ‘Tell him, I do not feel safe in Paris.’
‘Were the duke here,’ Jean-Jacques ventured, ‘I feel certain he would note that you will be in the company of the royal army within the week, and away from Paris.’
Henri threw himself into his chair. ‘My nights are plagued with bad dreams, Joubert, yet by day…’ He let his hands drop. ‘I find the hours drag upon me.’
Jean-Jacques glanced to the Swiss guards standing at the door to the chamber, the courtiers in their yellow silk set around the room, and willed the King’s aide to return. It was not his place to receive such confidences.
‘I am sure my lord Sully will be recovered tomorrow,’ he started to say, but Henri smacked his fist onto the embroidered arm of his chair.
‘That is not good enough!’
‘Sire, I only meant—’
Henri jabbed a finger at him. ‘I know what you meant, but this is what is going to happen. You will return with haste to your master and inform him that His Majesty the King will call upon him within the hour. He may remain in his bed – I will not be offended – but I would he should hold himself in readiness for my visit.’
Jean-Jacques bowed. ‘Very good, sire, I will inform him. He will be honoured to receive you.’
There was a brief pause then, to his surprise, the King roared with laughter. ‘Honoured! Do you know how many of the fairer sex I have honoured in such a manner, Joubert? Le Vert-Galant, they call me, did you know that?’
Jean-Jacques flushed, horrified either that he should have to answer and offend, or else risk rousing the King’s temper again by holding his tongue.
‘I shall deliver your message, sire,’ he murmured, starting to withdraw.
Henri clapped his hands, and a courtier came running. ‘Inform the master of the guard that I would have the wagon made ready. I will go to the Arsenal to “honour” my lord Sully as I might any fancy of the bedchamber!’
Jean-Jacques turned and fled the hall, with the King’s ribald laughter echoing in his ears.
* * *
François Ravaillac watched the King’s carriage leave the Louvre Palace and could not believe that God had so favoured him. Though it was common knowledge that the King was intending to make a progress through Paris on Saturday, he had not thought anything due to happen today.
And yet …
For the time being, the voices in Ravaillac’s head were quiet and he was grateful for it. Clutching his bag, he fell into step alongside the royal wagon, rattling over the cobbles of the rue Saint-Honoré, a lumbering wooden affair, suspended by leather straps on huge wooden wheels and drawn by eight horses. The velvet curtains were pinned back and, although there were courtiers sitting with the King and eight footmen walking before and behind, there was no sign of the customary contingent of Swiss guards that usually accompanied the heretic.
For a moment, Ravaillac wondered if he was mistaken. Might it be some other member of the royal family in the carriage? But then the King turned his head and Ravaillac recognised the distinctive plume of Navarre in his black, wide-brimmed hat, and knew he had his target in his sights. Henri was wearing his breastplate over his black doublet, but it was unfastened.
‘Deus vult,’ Ravaillac muttered under his breath, picking up his pace.
The wagon jerked to a stop. There was a jam of carriages at the corner of the rue de la Ferronerie. A man with an ox-drawn cart was trying to turn and had become stuck, blocking the road in both directions. A crowd formed, calling out the King’s name. Ravaillac slipped closer, edging his way to the front. The courtiers were shouting at people to move, but there were too many horses, too many gawkers. The royal carriage remained at a standstill.
* * *
Louise heard the commotion as she turned into rue de la Ferronerie. She was on the point of turning back, when she saw a man with red hair jump up onto a small pillar at the side of the road, muttering and twitching. She recognised him.
The tortured soul from Place de Grève.
He was clutching that same hessian sack as he had on the day of the executions, as if it held all his worldly goods.
Then, everything seemed to happen at once.
The man pulled something from the sack and ran full tilt at the wagon. One of the King’s courtiers turned, a frown creasing his soft features, then his eyes widened and he spread his arms wide. Behind him, Louise now saw the occupant of the carriage was Henri himself. She opened her mouth to shout, but no sound came as the man with red hair launched himself at the King. Louise saw the glint of a knife in his hand.
‘God wills it!’ he shouted.
Beside her, a woman screamed.
Louise saw the King throw up his arm to ward off the blow, but it left his flank unprotected. The assailant plunged the knife into Henri’s ribs, then struck a second time. She watched in horror as soldiers dragged the man away, stamping on his hand until he let go of the knife. A shot was fired and, suddenly, the street was filled with yelling, shouting, weeping. People were running in every direction, trying to force their way through the barricade of pikes and soldiers trying to seal the road. Others were trying to get to the King.
The man with red hair lay quite still, face down on the filthy street, making no attempt to flee. For a moment, their eyes met, and Louise knew that he remembered her too.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
An hour later, in Place Dauphine, Louise was clutching her hands tightly together to stop them from shaking. Her breath was ragged in her chest. She had run all the way home.
‘You must be mistaken?’ her grandfather repeated.
‘I know what I saw.’
‘He must only have been injured,’ he insisted. ‘They would have rung an alarum else.’
Piet broke off as the carillon of the Sainte-Chapelle began to sound, followed almost instantly by Notre-Dame and all the churches on both sides of the river, until the air was filled with the clamour of bells.
‘There,’ Louise said, her face ashen. ‘The King is dead!’
‘We must leave,’ Minou said suddenly. Her voice was level, but Louise could see the alarm in her eyes. ‘While we still can.’
‘Gran’mère?’
Her grandfather also looked bewildered. ‘Minou?’
‘We cannot risk staying, mon coeur, we cannot.’
‘This is not history repeating itself,’ Piet said. ‘It cannot be.’
Louise looked at them, distressed to realise how instantly their thoughts had flown back to the night of the Paris massacre. Thirty-eight years ago, yet the trauma was still there only just beneath the surface. For all their comfort and security, her grandparents were still refugees, always ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
‘This is not the same,’ she said, forcing a confidence into her voice she did not feel. ‘He was a mad man, a lost soul. I’d seen him before. There was no one else.’
‘We do not know who he is,’ Minou said. ‘You say he acted alone, but what if he is funded by someone powerful, or was encouraged to act on behalf of one faction or another?’
Piet was shaking his head. ‘The Duc de Sully will move to proclaim the Queen as regent. Her ascendancy, at least, cannot be challenged after the coronation.’
‘But will the Queen be accepted by the council, by the court?’ Minou pressed. ‘You often tell me Paris is alive with spies and plotters. And there will be some who question the timing of this murder, coming so soon after the coronation. Some might even think the Queen was responsible.’
‘There is little honour in Paris,’ Piet agreed.
‘People hear what they want to hear, see what they want to see, in order to shore up their own power, their position,’ Minou continued urgently, fear fuelling her words. ‘Even if there is no evidence the Queen is involved in any conspiracy, that will not stop the rumours. The Spanish faction and the surviving members of the Catholic League – they all would benefit from a weak crown. The Dauphin is only a child.’
Louise reached for her grandmother’s hand. ‘It will be all right.’
‘So many years of war, then so few of peace,’ Piet said. ‘Is it possible that France can be so quickly thrown into turmoil once more?’
‘We don’t belong here, Piet,’ Minou said. ‘I cannot be trapped here, you know that. I cannot.’
Louise saw his shoulders sag, and her heart tightened another notch.
‘It will be all right,’ she said again, though her words held no conviction. She went to the window. Outside, the city was bathed in warm, gentle sunshine. Only the relentless tolling of the bells betrayed that this day was any different from the one before, or the one before that. ‘What can I do?’
Her grandmother turned gratefully to her. ‘Gather your belongings, inform the groom we will be leaving without delay.’
Minou moved to the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, dipped her quill in the ink, and scribbled a few words. ‘Have the boy deliver this to Jean-Jacques – he will be at the duke’s residence at the Arsenal.’ She sealed the letter, then held it out. ‘Here.’
‘Should we not wait to see what happens?’ Piet asked, his voice robbed of its strength.
‘If we wait, it might be too late. The city guard will not hesitate to seal the city. The people loved their king. They will mourn him, then look for someone to blame. Without him, who will we be?’
‘Though if it is nothing to do with us—’ Piet began to say.
Minou interrupted. ‘In the years of his reign, there have been, what, some nineteen attempts on his life? Only close confidantes, like Jean-Jacques, know that there have been so many. Some were the work of malcontents, funded by Spain or by disaffected Leaguers. Others, I regret to say, were financed by Protestant extremists.’ She caught her breath. ‘I pray Jean-Jacques is safe.’
‘He will be,’ Louise said, trying to reassure her. ‘The duke will make sure of it.’
‘These immediate hours are the most dangerous, Piet. Rumour and allegation will spread like wildfire, you know what Paris is like. There are foreign dignitaries here, too, representatives of the Pope, all of them still within the city walls. It’s a tinder box. They always want someone to blame, and we are the most obvious target. Although we are not the only Huguenot family in the capital, our name is known.’
