Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

It was the duke who spoke. ‘You pretend to be a member of our family. This is a serious offence.’

‘I humbly beg your forgiveness.’ Before either brother could reply, he went on: ‘My father is the illegitimate son of a dairymaid in Thonnance-lès-Joinville.’ He hated having to tell this story, because it was true, and it shamed him. However, he was desperate. He went on: ‘The family legend is that her lover was a dashing young man from Joinville, a cousin of the Guise family.’

Duke François gave a sceptical grunt. The Guise family seat was at Joinville, in the Champagne region, and Thonnance-lès-Joinville was nearby, as its name implied. But many unmarried mothers put the blame on an aristocratic lover. On the other hand, it was often true.

Pierre went on: ‘My father was educated at the Grammar School and became a local priest, thanks to a recommendation from your lordships’ father, now in heaven, rest his soul.’

This was perfectly believable, Pierre knew. Noble families did not openly acknowledge their bastards, but they often gave them a helping hand, in the casual way that a man might stoop to draw a thorn from the paw of a limping dog.

Duke François said: ‘How can you be the son of a celibate priest?’

‘My mother is his housekeeper.’ Priests were not allowed to marry, but they often took mistresses, and ‘housekeeper’ was the accepted euphemism.

‘So you’re doubly illegitimate!’

Pierre flushed, and his emotion was genuine. He had no need to pretend to be ashamed of his birth. But the duke’s comment also encouraged him. It suggested that his story was being taken seriously.

The duke said: ‘Even if your family myth were true, you would not be entitled to use our name — as you must realize.’

‘I know I did wrong,’ Pierre said. ‘But all my life I have looked up to the Guises. I would give my soul to serve you. I know that your duty is to punish me, but please — use me instead. Give me a task, and I will perform it meticulously, I swear. I will do anything you ask — anything.’

The duke shook his head scornfully. ‘I cannot imagine there is any service you could do for us.’

Pierre despaired. He had put his heart and soul into his speech — and it had failed.

Then Cardinal Charles intervened. ‘As a matter of fact, there might be something.’

Pierre’s heart leaped with hope.

Duke François looked mildly irritated. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

The duke made a ‘help yourself’ gesture with his hand.

Cardinal Charles said: ‘There are Protestants in Paris.’

Charles was an ultra-Catholic — which was no surprise, given how much money he made from the Church. And he was right about the Protestants. Even though Paris was a strongly Catholic city, where popular hellfire preachers raged against heresy from the pulpits every Sunday, there existed a minority eager to listen to denunciations of priests who took their Church income and did nothing for their congregations. Some felt strongly enough about Church corruption to take the risk of attending clandestine Protestant services, even though it was a crime.

Pierre pretended to be outraged. ‘Such people should be put to death!’

‘And they will be,’ said Charles. ‘But first we have to find them.’

‘I can do that!’ Pierre said quickly.

‘Also the names of their wives and children, friends and relations.’

‘Several of my fellow students at the Sorbonne have heretical leanings.’

‘Ask where one can buy books and pamphlets dealing with criticism of the Church.’

Selling Protestant literature was a crime punishable by death. ‘I’ll drop hints,’ Pierre said. ‘I’ll pretend to have sincere doubts.’

‘Most of all, I want to know the places where Protestants gather to perform their blasphemous services.’

Pierre frowned, struck by a thought. Presumably the need for such information had not occurred to Charles in the last few minutes. ‘Your Eminence must already have people making such inquiries.’

‘You need not know about them, nor they about you.’

So Pierre would be joining an unknown number of spies. ‘I will be the best of them!’

‘You will be well rewarded if you are.’

Pierre could hardly believe his luck. He was so relieved that he wanted to leave now, before Charles could change his mind; but he had to give an impression of calm confidence. ‘Thank you for placing your trust in me, Cardinal.’

‘Oh, please don’t imagine that I trust you,’ said Charles with careless contempt. ‘But in the task of exterminating heretics, one is obliged to use the tools that come to hand.’

Pierre did not want to leave on that note. He needed to impress the brothers somehow. He recalled the conversation they had been having when he was brought in. Throwing caution to the wind, he said: ‘I agree with what you were saying, Cardinal, about the need to boost the popular reputation of his majesty the king.’

Charles looked as if he did not know whether to be offended or merely amused by Pierre’s effrontery. ‘Do you, indeed?’ he said.

Pierre plunged on. ‘What we need now is a big, lavish, colourful celebration, to make them forget the shame of St Quentin.’

The cardinal gave a slight nod.

Encouraged, Pierre said: ‘Something like a royal wedding.’

The two brothers looked at one another. Duke François said: ‘Do you know, I think the rogue might be right.’

Charles nodded. ‘I’ve known better men who have understood politics less well.’

Pierre was thrilled. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

Then Charles lost interest in him, picked up his wine, and said: ‘You’re dismissed.’

Pierre stepped to the door, then his eye fell on Le Pin. Struck by a thought, he turned back. ‘Your Eminence,’ he said to Charles. ‘When I have the addresses where the Protestants hold their services, should I bring them to you, or hand them to one of your servants?’

The cardinal paused with his goblet at his lips. ‘Strictly to me in person,’ he said. ‘No exceptions. Off you go.’ He drank.

Pierre caught the eye of Le Pin and grinned triumphantly. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said, and he went out.

Sylvie Palot had noticed the attractive young man at the fish market the day before. He was not selling fish: he was too well dressed, in a blue doublet slashed to show the white silk lining. Yesterday she had seen him buy some salmon, but he had done so carelessly, without the keen interest of one who was going to eat what he bought. He had smiled at her several times.

She found it difficult not to be pleased.

He was a good-looking man with fair hair and the beginnings of a blond beard. She put his age at twenty, three years older than herself. He had a beguiling air of self-confidence.

She already had one admirer. Among her parents’ acquaintances were the Mauriac family. Father and son were both short, and played up to it by being cheery wisecracking chaps: the father, Luc, was a charmer, and everyone liked him, which might have been why he was so successful as a cargo broker; but the son, Georges, who was Sylvie’s admirer, was a pale imitation, all poor jokes and clumsy sallies. She really needed him to go away for a couple of years and grow up.

Her new admirer at the fish market spoke to her for the first time on a cold morning in January. There was snow on the foreshore of the River Seine, and thin layers of ice formed on the water in the fishmongers’ barrels. Winter-hungry gulls circled overhead, crying in frustration at the sight of so much food. The young man said: ‘How can you tell whether a fish is fresh?’

‘By the eyes,’ she said. ‘If they’re cloudy, the fish is old. The eyes should be clear.’