Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘I’d bite your damned nose off.’

He had a feeling she meant that, but he kept up his banter. ‘I taught you all you know about love.’

‘You taught me that a man can be a Christian and a foul liar at the same time.’

‘We’re all sinners. That’s why we need God’s grace.’

‘Some sinners are worse than others — and some go to hell.’

‘Do you kiss your English admirer?’

That really did scare her, he saw to his gratification. Evidently it had not occurred to her that he might know about Sir Ned. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ she lied.

‘Yes, you do.’

She recovered her composure with an effort. ‘Are you satisfied with your reward, Pierre?’ She indicated his coat with a gesture. ‘You have fine clothes, and I’ve seen you riding side by side with the duke of Guise. You’ve got what you wanted. Was it worth all the evil you had to do?’

He could not resist the temptation to boast. ‘I have money, and more power than I ever dreamed of.’

‘That wasn’t really what you longed for. You forget how well I know you.’

Pierre suddenly felt anxious.

She went on remorselessly: ‘All you wanted was to be one of them, a member of the Guise family that rejected you as a baby.’

‘And I am,’ he said.

‘No, you’re not. They all know your true origins, don’t they?’

A feeling of panic began to creep over Pierre. ‘I am the duke’s most trusted advisor!’

‘But not his cousin. They look at your fancy clothes, they remember that you’re the illegitimate child of an illegitimate child, and they laugh at your pretensions, don’t they?’

‘Who told you these lies?’

‘The marchioness of Nîmes knows all about you. She comes from the same region as you. You’ve married again, haven’t you?’

He winced. Was she guessing, or did she know?

‘Unhappily, perhaps?’ she went on. He was unable to hide his feelings, and she read his face accurately. ‘But not to a noblewoman. To someone low-born — which is why you hate her.’

She was right. In case he should ever forget how he won the right to use the Guise name, he had a loathsome wife and an irritating stepson to remind him of the price he had paid. He was unable to restrain the grimace of resentment that twisted his face.

Sylvie saw it and said: ‘The poor woman.’

He should have stepped around the table and knocked her down, then called his bodyguards from outside to beat her up; but he could not summon the energy. Instead of being galvanized by rage he found himself helpless with self-doubt. She was right, she knew him too well. She had hurt him, and he just wanted to crawl away and lick his wounds.

He was turning to leave when her mother came into the shop from the back. She recognized him instantly. She was so shocked that she took a step backwards, looking both fearful and disgusted, as if she had seen a rabid dog. Then her shock turned, with startling rapidity, to rage. ‘You devil!’ she shouted. ‘You killed my Giles. You ruined my daughter’s life.’ Her voice rose to yelling pitch, almost as if she had been seized by a fit of insanity, and Pierre backed away from her towards the door. ‘If I had a knife, I’d rip out your stinking guts!’ she screamed. ‘You filth! You discharge of an infected prostitute! You loathsome stinking corpse of a man, I’ll strangle you!’

Pierre hurried out and slammed the door behind him.

Right from the start, there was a bad atmosphere at the wedding.

The crowd gathered early on Monday morning, for Parisians would never actually stay away from such a spectacle. In the square in front of the cathedral of Notre Dame an amphitheatre had been constructed, made of timber and covered with cloth-of-gold, with raised walkways to the church and to the neighbouring bishop’s palace. As a minor dignitary, Ned took his seat in the stand hours before the ceremony was due to begin. It was a cloudless day in August, and everyone was too hot in the sun. The square around the temporary construction was packed with sweating citizens. More spectators watched from windows and rooftops of neighbouring houses. All were ominously quiet. The ultra-Catholic Parisians did not want their naughty darling to marry a Protestant rotter. And their anger was stoked, every Sunday, by incendiary preachers who told them the marriage was an abomination.

Ned still could not quite believe it was going to happen. The crowd might riot and stop the ceremony. And there were rumours that Princess Margot was threatening a last-minute refusal.

The stand filled up during the day. At around three in the afternoon he found himself next to Jerónima Ruiz. Ned had planned to talk to her again, after their intriguing conversation at the Louvre palace, but he had not had the opportunity in the few days since. He greeted her warmly, and she said nostalgically: ‘You smile just like Barney.’

‘Cardinal Romero must feel disappointed,’ Ned said. ‘The marriage appears to be going ahead.’

She lowered her voice. ‘He told me something that will interest you.’

‘Good!’ Ned had been hoping that Jerónima might be persuaded to leak information. It seemed she did not need any persuading.

‘The duke of Guise has a list of names and addresses of leading Protestants in Paris. One reliable Catholic nobleman has been assigned to each. If there are riots, the Huguenots will all be murdered.’

‘My God! Are they that cold-blooded?’

‘The Guise family are.’

‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘I’d like to kill Romero, but I can’t, because I need him,’ she said. ‘But this is the next best thing.’

He stared at her, fascinated and a little horrified. The Guises were not the only cold-blooded ones.

The conversation was interrupted by a rumble from the crowd, and they turned to see the bridegroom’s procession, coming from the Louvre palace, crossing the Notre Dame bridge from the right bank to the island. Henri de Bourbon, king of Navarre, wore a pale yellow satin outfit embroidered with silver, pearls and precious stones. He was escorted by Protestant noblemen including the marquess de Nîmes. The citizens of Paris watched in sullen silence.

Ned turned to speak to Jerónima, but she had moved away, and now Walsingham was next to him. ‘I just learned something chilling,’ he said, and repeated what Jerónima had told him.

‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised,’ Walsingham said. ‘They have made plans — of course they have.’

‘And now we know about their plans, thanks to that Spanish tart.’

Walsingham gave a rare smile. ‘All right, Ned, you’ve made your point.’

King Charles came out of the bishop’s palace with the bride, his sister, on his arm. He wore the same pale yellow satin as Henri de Bourbon, a sign of brotherhood. However, he had larger jewels, and more of them. As they approached, Walsingham leaned towards Ned and said disdainfully: ‘I’ve been told that the king’s outfit cost five hundred thousand ecus.’

Ned could hardly believe it. ‘That’s a hundred and fifty thousand pounds!’

‘Which is half the annual budget of the English government.’

For once Ned shared Walsingham’s disapproval of lavishness.

Princess Margot wore a velvet robe in a luminous shade of violet, and a blue cloak with a long train carried by three ladies. She was going to get hot, Ned thought. Every princess was said to be beautiful, but in her case it was true. She had a sensual face, with big eyes marked by dark eyebrows, and red lips that looked as if they wanted to be kissed. But today that lovely face was set in an expression of stubborn resentment. ‘She’s not happy,’ Ned said to Walsingham.

Walsingham shrugged. ‘She’s known since childhood that she would not be allowed to choose her own husband. There is a price to pay for the obscenely extravagant life led by French royalty.’