Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Pierre’s instinct told him the two English Protestants had to be up to something. He made a decision. ‘Switch the surveillance to the deputy.’

‘Willard.’ The surname was difficult to pronounce in French.

‘Same procedure. Twenty-four hours. Find out what his weaknesses are.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Pierre left him and followed Walsingham into the audience chamber. He was proud to be one of the privileged. On the other hand, he remembered, with bitter nostalgia, the days when he and the Guise brothers had actually lived in the palace with the royal family.

We will return, he vowed.

He crossed the room and bowed to Henri, the young duke of Guise. Henri had been twelve when Pierre had brought him the news of the assassination of his father and assured him that the man responsible for the murder was Gaspard de Coligny. Now Henri was twenty-one, but he had not forgotten his oath of revenge — Pierre had made sure of that.

Duke Henri was very like his late father: tall, fair, handsome and aggressive. At the age of fifteen he had gone to Hungary to fight against the Turks. All he lacked was the disfigurement that had given Duke François the nickname Scarface. Duke Henri had been taught that his destiny was to uphold the Catholic Church and the Guise family, and he had never questioned that.

His affair with Princess Margot was a sure sign of courage, one court wit had said, for Margot was a handful. Pierre imagined they must make a tempestuous couple.

A door opened, a trumpet sounded, everyone fell silent, and King Charles came in.

He had been ten years old when he became king, and at that time all the decisions had been made by other people, mainly his mother, Queen Caterina. He was twenty-one now, and could give his own orders, but he was in poor health — they said he had a weak chest — and he continued to be easily led, sometimes by Caterina, sometimes by others; unfortunately, not by the Guise family at present.

He began by dealing with courtesies and routine business, occasionally giving a hoarse, unwholesome cough, sitting on a carved and painted chair while everyone else in the room remained standing. But Pierre sensed he had an announcement to make, and it was not long coming. ‘The marriage between our sister, Margot, and Henri de Bourbon, the king of Navarre, was agreed in August the year before last,’ he said.

Pierre felt Henri de Guise tense up beside him. This was not just because he was Margot’s lover. The Bourbons were bitter enemies of the Guises. The two families had warred for supremacy under the French king since before either of these two Henris was born.

King Charles went on: ‘The marriage will reinforce the religious reconciliation of our kingdom.’

That was what the Guises feared. Pierre sensed the peacemaking mind of Queen Caterina behind the formal words of the king.

‘So I have decided that the wedding will take place on the eighteenth of August next.’

There was a buzz around the room: this was big news. Many had hoped or feared that the wedding would never happen. Now a date had been set. This was a triumph for the Bourbons and a blow to the Guises.

Henri was furious. ‘A blaspheming Bourbon, marrying into the royal family of France,’ he said with disgust.

Pierre was downcast. A threat to the Guise family was a threat to him. He could lose everything he had won. ‘When your Scottish cousin Mary Stuart married Francis it made us the top family,’ he said gloomily to Duke Henri.

‘Now the Bourbons will be top family.’

Henri’s political calculation was correct, but his rage was undoubtedly fuelled by sexual jealousy. Margot was probably an exciting lover: she had that wild look. And now she had been taken from Henri — by a Bourbon.

Pierre was able to be calmer and think more clearly. And he saw something that had not occurred to young Henri. ‘The marriage still may never happen,’ he said.

Henri had his father’s soldierly impatience with doubletalk. ‘What the devil do you mean?’

‘The wedding will be the biggest event in the story of French Protestantism. It will be the triumph of the Huguenots.’

‘How can that be good news?’

‘They will come to Paris from all over the country — those who are invited to the wedding, and thousands more who will want just to watch the procession and rejoice.’

‘It will be a foul spectacle. I can just see them strutting through the streets, flaunting their black clothes.’

Pierre lowered his voice. ‘And then we’ll see trouble.’

Henri’s face showed that he was beginning to understand. ‘You think there may be violence between triumphant Protestant visitors and the resentful Catholic citizens of Paris.’

‘Yes,’ said Pierre. ‘And that will be our chance.’

On her way to the warehouse Sylvie stopped at the tavern of St Étienne and ordered a plate of smoked eel for her midday meal. She also bought a tankard of weak beer and tipped the potboy to take it around the corner and deliver it to the back door of Pierre Aumande’s house. This was the signal for Pierre’s maid, Nath, to come to the tavern, if she could, and a few minutes later she appeared.

Now in her mid-twenties, Nath was as scrawny as ever, but she looked out at the world through eyes that were no longer frightened. She was a stalwart of the Protestant congregation in the room over the stables, and having a group of friends had given her a modest degree of confidence. Sylvie’s friendship had helped, too.

Sylvie got straight down to business. ‘This morning I saw Pierre with a priest I didn’t recognize,’ she said. ‘I happened to be passing the door when they came out.’ Something about the man had struck her vividly. His features were unremarkable — he had receding dark hair and a reddish-brown beard — but there was an intensity in his expression that made her think he was a dangerous zealot.

‘Yes, I was going to tell you about him,’ Nath said. ‘He’s English.’

‘Oh! Interesting. Did you get his name?’

‘Jean Langlais.’

‘Sounds like a false name for an Englishman.’

‘He’s never been to the house before, but Pierre seemed to know him, so they must have met somewhere else.’

‘Did you hear what they talked about?’

Nath shook her head. ‘Pierre closed the door.’

‘Pity.’

Nath looked anxious. ‘Did Pierre see you, when you walked by?’

She was right to be concerned, Sylvie thought. They did not want Pierre to suspect how closely he was being watched by the Protestants. ‘I don’t think he did. I certainly didn’t meet his eye. I’m not sure he’d recognize me from behind.’

‘He can’t have forgotten you.’

‘Hardly. He did marry me.’ Sylvie grimaced at the loathsome memory.

‘On the other hand, he’s never mentioned you.’

‘He thinks I’m not important any more. Which suits me fine.’

Sylvie finished her meal and they left the tavern separately. Sylvie walked north, heading for the rue du Mur. Ned Willard would be interested to hear about the visiting English priest, she guessed.

She had liked Ned. So many men regarded a woman selling something as a fair target for sexual banter, or worse, as if she would suck a man off just to get him to buy a jar of ink. But Ned had talked to her with interest and respect. He was a man of some power and importance, but he showed no arrogance; in fact, he had a rather modest charm. All the same she suspected he was no softie. Hanging alongside his coat she had seen a sword and a long Spanish dagger that looked as if they were not merely for decoration.

No one else was in sight in the rue du Mur when Sylvie took the key from behind the loose brick and let herself into the windowless old stable that had served her for so many years as a hiding place for illegal books.