Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘I have two editions, both printed in Geneva: a standard one that is a bargain at two livres, and a beautifully bound volume in two colours of ink with illustrations for seven livres. I can bring them both to show you.’

‘All right.’

‘I see you’re going out — to the Louvre, I suppose, in that beautiful coat.’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you be back for your dinner?’

‘Probably.’ Ned felt bemused. She had taken control of the conversation. All he did was agree to what she proposed. She was forceful, but so frank and engaging that he could not be offended.

‘I’ll bring your stationery then, and two Bibles so that you can choose the one you prefer.’

Ned did not think he had actually committed himself to buying one, but he let that pass. ‘I look forward to seeing them.’

‘I’ll be back this afternoon.’

Her coolness was impressive. ‘You’re very brave,’ Ned commented.

‘The Lord gives me strength.’

No doubt he did, Ned thought, but she must have had plenty to start with. ‘Tell me something,’ he said, taking the conversational initiative at last. ‘How did you come to be a dealer in contraband books?’

‘My father was a printer. He was burned as a heretic in 1559, and all his possessions were forfeit, so my mother and I were destitute. All we had was a few Bibles he had printed.’

‘So you’ve been doing this for thirteen years?’

‘Almost.’

Her courage took Ned’s breath away. ‘During most of that period, you could have been executed, like your father.’

‘Yes.’

‘But surely you could live innocently, selling just paper and ink.’

‘We could, but we believe in people’s right to read God’s word for themselves and make up their own minds about what is the true gospel.’

Ned believed in that, too. ‘And you’re willing to risk your life for that principle.’ He did not mention that if caught she would undoubtedly have been tortured before being executed.

‘Yes,’ she said.

Ned stared at her, fascinated. She looked back at him boldly for a few moments, then she said: ‘Until this afternoon, then.’

‘Goodbye.’

When she had gone, Ned went to the window and looked out across the busy fruit-and-vegetable market of the place Maubert. She was not as afraid as she might have been of a crackdown on Protestants. It probably wouldn’t be a surprise , she had said. He wondered what means she had of finding out in advance about the intentions of the ultra-Catholics.

A few moments later she emerged from the door below and walked away, a small, erect figure with a brisk, unwavering step; willing to die for the ideal of tolerance that Ned shared. What a woman, he thought. What a hero.

He watched her out of sight.

Pierre Aumande de Guise trimmed his fair beard in preparation for going to court at the Louvre Palace. He always shaped his beard into a sharp point, to look more like his young master and distant relative Henri, the twenty-one-year-old duke of Guise.

He studied his face. He had developed a dry skin condition that gave him red, flaking patches at the corners of his eyes and mouth and on his scalp. They had also appeared on the backs of his knees and the insides of his elbows, where they itched maddeningly. The Guise family doctor had diagnosed an excess of heat and prescribed an ointment that seemed to make the symptoms worse.

His twelve-year-old stepson, Alain, came into the room. He was a wretched child, undersized and timid, more like a girl. Pierre had sent him to the dairy on the corner to buy milk and cheese, and now he was carrying a jug and a goblet. Pierre said: ‘Where’s the cheese?’

The boy hesitated, then said: ‘They haven’t got any today.’

Pierre looked at his face. ‘Liar,’ he said. ‘You forgot.’

Alain was terrified. ‘No, I didn’t, honestly!’ He started to cry.

The scrawny maid, Nath, came in. ‘What’s the matter, Alain?’ she said.

Pierre said: ‘He lied to me, and now he’s afraid of a thrashing. What do you want?’

‘There’s a priest to see you — Jean Langlais.’

That was the pseudonym Pierre had given Rollo Fitzgerald, the most promising of the exiles studying at the English College. ‘Send him up here. Take this snivelling child away. And get some cheese for my breakfast.’

Pierre had met Rollo twice since that initial encounter, and had been impressed by him each time. The man was intelligent and dedicated, and in his eyes there was the burning light of a holy mission. He hated Protestants passionately, no doubt because his family had been ruined financially by the Puritans in Kingsbridge, the city from which he came. Pierre had high hopes for Rollo.

A moment later Rollo appeared, wearing a floor-length cassock and a wooden cross on a chain.

They shook hands, and Pierre closed the door. Rollo said: ‘Is that young lady your wife?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Pierre. ‘Madame Aumande de Guise was a lady-in-waiting to Véronique de Guise.’ That was not true. Odette had been a servant, not a lady-in-waiting, but Pierre did not like people to know it. ‘She’s out.’ Odette had gone to the fish market. ‘The woman who admitted you is just a maid.’

Rollo was embarrassed. ‘I do beg your pardon.’

‘Not at all. Welcome to our humble dwelling. I spend most of my time at the Guise family palace in the rue Vieille du Temple, but if you and I had met there we would have been seen by twenty people. This place has one great advantage: it is so insignificant that no one would bother to spy on it.’ In fact, Pierre was desperate to move out of this hovel, but had not yet managed to persuade the young duke to give him a room at the palace. He was now chief among the Guise family’s counsellors but, as always, they were slow to grant Pierre the status his work merited. ‘How are things in Douai?’

‘Excellent. Since the Pope excommunicated Elizabeth, another fifteen good young Catholic Englishmen have joined us. In fact, William Allen sent me here to tell you that we’re almost ready to send a group of them back to England.’

‘And how will that be organized?’

‘Father Allen has asked me to take charge of the operation.’

Pierre thought that was a good decision. Rollo clearly had the ability to be more than just a clandestine priest. ‘What’s your plan?’

‘We will land them on a remote beach at dusk, then they’ll travel through the night to my sister’s castle — she is the countess of Shiring. She has been organizing secret Catholic services for years, and she already has a network of undercover priests. From there they will spread out all over England.’

‘How reliable is your sister?’

‘Totally, with anything that doesn’t involve bloodshed. There she draws a line, I’m afraid. She has never understood that violence is sometimes necessary in the service of the Church.’

‘She’s a woman.’ Pierre was pleased that Rollo evidently did understand the need for violence.

‘And in Paris?’ Rollo said. ‘We in Douai have been worried by the news from here.’

‘The Peace of St Germain was a major defeat for us, there’s no denying that. The policy of Pope Pius V is quite clearly to exterminate all Protestants, but King Charles IX has rejected this in favour of peaceful coexistence.’

Rollo nodded. ‘To some extent the king was forced into that by military defeat.’

‘Yes. It’s most unfortunate that Gaspard de Coligny has proved to be such a disciplined and talented general of the Huguenot armies. And the queen mother, Caterina, is another force for tolerance of vile heresy.’ Sometimes Pierre felt as if every hand was against him. ‘But we have seen edicts of tolerance before, and they have never lasted,’ he added optimistically.