Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Isabelle stood up. ‘I’ll do that. You two sit and talk for a few more minutes. I’ll call you if I need you, Sylvie.’ She went out.

Sylvie said: ‘I’m sorry about her prying like that.’

‘Don’t apologize.’ Ned grinned. ‘A mother is entitled to know all about a young man who becomes friendly with her daughter.’

‘That’s nice of you.’

‘I can’t possibly be the first man who has been questioned by her in that way.’

Sylvie knew that she had to tell him her story, sooner or later. ‘There was someone, a long time ago. It was my father who questioned him.’

‘May I ask what went wrong?’

‘The man was Pierre Aumande.’

‘Good God! Was he a Protestant then?’

‘No, but he deceived us in order to spy on the congregation. An hour after the wedding we were all arrested.’

Ned reached across the table and took her hand. ‘How cruel.’

‘He broke my heart.’

‘I found out about his background, you know. His father’s a country priest, an illegitimate child of one of the Guise men. Pierre’s mother is the priest’s housekeeper.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The marchioness of Nîmes told me.’

‘Louise? She’s in our congregation — but she’s never told me this.’

‘Perhaps she’s afraid to embarrass you by talking about him.’

‘Pierre told me so many lies. That’s probably why I haven’t trusted anyone since then...’

Ned gave her an enquiring look. She knew it meant: What about me? But she was not yet ready to answer that question.

He waited a few moments, then realized she was not going to say any more. He said: ‘Well, that was a lovely dinner — thank you.’

She got up to say goodbye. He looked crestfallen, and her heart leaped in sympathy. On impulse, she went around the table and kissed him.

She intended it to be a friendly peck, but it did not work out that way. Somehow she found herself kissing his lips. It was like sweet food: one taste made her desperate for more. She put her hand behind his head and pressed her mouth to his hungrily.

He needed no more encouragement. He put both arms around her and hugged her to him. She was swept by a sensation she had forgotten, the joy of loving someone else’s body. She kept telling herself she would stop in another second.

He put both his hands on her breasts and squeezed gently, making a little sound in his throat as he did so. She thrilled to the feeling, but it brought her to her senses. She broke the kiss and pushed him away. She was panting. ‘I didn’t mean to do that,’ she said.

He said nothing, just smiled happily.

She realized she had given him the message she had wanted to withhold. But now she did not care. All the same she said: ‘You’d better go, before I do something I’ll regret.’

That thought seemed to make him even happier. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘When will I see you again?’

‘Soon. Go and say goodbye to my mother.’

He tried to kiss her again, but she put a hand on his chest and said: ‘No more.’

He accepted that. He went into the shop, saying: ‘Thank you, Madame Palot, for your hospitality.’

Sylvie sat down heavily. A moment later she heard the shop door close.

Her mother came into the back room, looking pleased. ‘He’s gone, but he’ll be back.’

Sylvie said: ‘I kissed him.’

‘I guessed that by the grin on his face.’

‘I shouldn’t have done it.’

‘I can’t think why not. I’d have kissed him myself if I were twenty years younger.’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Mother. Now he will expect me to marry him.’

‘I’d do it quickly, if I were you, before some other girl grabs him.’

‘Stop it. You know perfectly well that I can’t marry him.’

‘I know no such thing! What are you talking about?’

‘We have a mission to bring the true gospel to the world.’

‘Perhaps we’ve done enough.’

Sylvie was shocked. Her mother had never talked this way.

Isabelle noticed her reaction and said defensively: ‘Even God rested on the seventh day, after he made the world.’

‘Our work isn’t finished.’

‘Perhaps it never will be, until the Last Trump.’

‘All the more reason to carry on.’

‘I want you to be happy. You’re my little girl.’

‘But what does God want? You taught me always to ask that question.’

Isabelle sighed. ‘I did. I was harder when I was young.’

‘You were wise. I can’t marry. I have a mission.’

‘All the same, regardless of Ned, one day we may have to find other ways of doing God’s will.’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Perhaps it will be revealed to us.’

‘It’s in God’s hands, then, isn’t it, Mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘So we must be content.’

Isabelle sighed again. ‘Amen,’ she said, but Sylvie was not sure she meant it.

As Ned stepped out of the shop he noticed, across the street, a shabby young man lounging outside a tavern, on his own, doing nothing. Ned turned east, heading for the English embassy. Glancing back, he saw that the shabby man was going the same way.

Ned was in high spirits. Sylvie had kissed him as if she meant it. He adored her. For the first time, he had met a girl who matched up to Margery. Sylvie was smart and brave as well as warm and sexy. He could hardly wait to see her again.

He had not forgotten Margery. He never would. But she had refused to run away with him, and he had the rest of his life to live without her. He was entitled to love someone else.

He liked Sylvie’s mother, too. Isabelle was still attractive in a middle-aged way: she had a full figure and a handsome face, and the wrinkles around her blue eyes gave character to her appearance. She had made it pretty clear that she approved of Ned.

He felt angered by the story Sylvie had told about Pierre Aumande. He had actually married her! No wonder she had gone so long without marrying again. The thought of Sylvie being betrayed like that on her wedding day made Ned want to strangle Pierre with his own hands.

But he did not let that bring him down. There was too much to be happy about. It was even possible that France might be the second major country in the world to adopt freedom of religion.

Crossing the rue St Jacques, he glanced behind and saw the shabby man from the rue de la Serpente.

He would have to do something about this.

He paused on the other side of the street to look back at the magnificent church of St Severin. The shabby man came scurrying across the road, avoiding Ned’s eye, and slipped into an alley.

Ned turned into the grounds of the little church of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. He walked across the deserted graveyard. As he turned around the east end of the church, he slipped into a recessed doorway that concealed him. Then he drew his dagger and reversed it so that the knob of the hilt stuck up between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

As the shabby man drew level with the doorway, Ned stepped out and smashed the knob of the dagger into the man’s face. The man cried out and staggered back, bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth. But he recovered his balance quickly, and turned to run. Ned went after him and tripped him, and he fell flat. Ned knelt on his back and put the point of the dagger to his neck. ‘Who sent you?’ he said.

The man swallowed blood and said: ‘I don’t know what you mean — why have you attacked me?’

Ned pushed on the dagger until it broke the dirty skin of the man’s throat and blood trickled out.

The man cried: ‘No, please!’

‘No one’s looking. I’ll kill you and walk away — unless you tell me who ordered you to follow me.’

‘All right, all right! It was Georges Biron.’