Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

The king swept out of the room. As Queen Caterina followed him, she caught Ned’s eye. He gave the tiniest of nods, to thank her for keeping the peace by bringing the king here, and for an instant the corners of her mouth twitched in an almost imperceptible smile of acknowledgement.

Ned spent much of Saturday encoding a long letter from Walsingham to Queen Elizabeth, detailing the events of a worrying week and Queen Caterina’s struggle to keep the peace. He finished late on Saturday afternoon, then left the embassy and headed for the rue de la Serpente.

It was a warm evening, and crowds of young men were drinking outside the taverns, jeering at passing beggars, whistling at girls, no different from boisterous lads in Kingsbridge with money in their pockets and energy to spare. There would be fights later: there always were on Saturday night. But Ned saw no conspicuous Huguenots. They were sensibly staying off the streets, it seemed, probably having supper at home behind locked doors. With luck, a riot would be avoided tonight. And tomorrow was Sunday.

Ned sat in the back of the shop with Sylvie and Isabelle. They told him that Pierre Aumande had visited them. ‘We thought he had forgotten about us,’ Isabelle said anxiously. ‘We don’t know how he found us.’

‘I do,’ Ned said, feeling guilty. ‘One of his men has been following me. I must have led him here when I came for dinner last week. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know I was being watched, but I found out after I left here.’

Sylvie said: ‘How do you know the man following you worked for Pierre?’

‘I knocked him down and put my knife to his neck and said I’d cut his throat unless he told me.’

‘Oh.’

The two women were silent for a minute, and Ned realized that until now they had not pictured him involved in violent action. Eventually, he broke the silence by saying: ‘What do you think Pierre will do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sylvie said. ‘I’ll have to be extra careful for a while.’

Ned described the scene when the king visited the wounded Coligny. Sylvie immediately focussed on the notion of a list of Protestants with their assigned killers. ‘If the duke of Guise has such a list, it must have been made by Pierre,’ she said.

‘I don’t know, but it seems likely,’ said Ned. ‘He’s obviously the duke’s chief spy.’

‘In that case,’ said Sylvie, ‘I know where the list is.’

Ned sat up. ‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Where?’

‘He has a notebook he keeps at his house. He thinks it’s safer there than at the Guise palace.’

‘Have you seen it?’

Sylvie nodded. ‘Many times. It’s how I know which Protestants are in danger.’

Ned was intrigued. So that was where she got her information.

Sylvie added: ‘But it has never included a list of murderers.’

‘Could I see it?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Now?’

‘I can’t be sure, but Saturday evening is usually a good time. Let’s try.’ Sylvie stood up.

Isabelle protested: ‘It’s not safe on the streets. The city is full of angry men, and they’re all drinking. Stay home.’

‘Mother, our friends may be murdered. We have to warn them.’

‘Then, for God’s sake, be careful.’

It was not yet dark when Ned and Sylvie left the shop and crossed the Île de la Cité. The dark mass of the cathedral brooded over the troubled city in the evening light. Reaching the right bank, Sylvie led Ned through the close-packed houses of Les Halles to a tavern next to the church of St Étienne.

She ordered a tankard of ale to be sent to the back door of a house in the next street — a signal, Ned gathered. The place was busy, and there was nowhere to sit, so they stood in a corner. Ned was full of nervous anticipation. Was he really about to get a look at Pierre Aumande’s secret list?

A few minutes later they were joined by a plain, thin woman in her twenties. Sylvie introduced her as Nath, Pierre’s housemaid. ‘She belongs to our congregation,’ she said.

Ned understood. Sylvie had subverted Pierre’s servant and thereby gained access to his papers. Clever Sylvie.

‘This is Ned,’ Sylvie said to Nath. ‘We can trust him.’

Nath grinned. ‘Are you going to marry him?’ she blurted.

Ned smothered a smile.

Sylvie looked mortified, but passed it off with a joke. ‘Not tonight,’ she said. She hastily changed the subject. ‘What’s happening at home?’

‘Pierre’s in a bad mood — something went wrong yesterday.’

Ned said: ‘Coligny didn’t die, that’s what went wrong for Pierre.’

‘Anyway, he’s gone to the Guise palace this evening.’

Sylvie said: ‘Is Odette at home?

‘She’s gone to see her mother and taken Alain with her.’

Sylvie explained to Ned: ‘Odette is Pierre’s wife, and Alain is his stepson.’ Ned was intrigued by this glimpse into the private life of such a famous villain. ‘I didn’t know about the stepson.’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another day.’ Sylvie turned back to Nath. ‘Ned needs to look at the notebook.’

Nath stood up. ‘Come on, then. This is the perfect time.’

They walked around the block. It was a poor neighbourhood, and Pierre’s home was a small house in a row. Ned was surprised by its modesty: Pierre was conspicuously affluent, with costly clothing and jewellery. But noblemen such as the duke of Guise sometimes liked to keep their advisors in humble quarters, to discourage them from getting above their station. And a place such as this might be useful for clandestine meetings.

Nath discreetly took them in through the back door. There were just two rooms on the ground floor, the living room and the kitchen. Ned could hardly believe that he was inside the private home of the dreaded Pierre Aumande. He felt like Jonah in the belly of the whale.

On the floor of the living room was a document chest. Nath picked up a sewing bag and took from it a pin that had been carefully bent into a hook shape. With the pin she unlocked the chest.

Amazing, Ned thought. Just like that. So easy.

Nath opened the lid of the chest.

It was empty.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘The book has gone!’

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Sylvie spoke. ‘Pierre has taken it with him to the Guise palace,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But why?’

Ned said: ‘Because he’s going to use it, presumably. Which means he’s about to implement his plan of murdering every Protestant nobleman in Paris — probably tonight.’

Sylvie’s face showed fear. ‘God help us,’ she said.

‘You have to warn people.’

‘They must get out of Paris — if they can.’

‘If they can’t, tell them to come to the English embassy.’

‘There must be hundreds, including all the visitors who came for the wedding. You can’t get them all into the embassy.’

‘No. But in any event you can’t warn hundreds of people; it would take you days.’

‘What can we do?’

‘We must do what’s possible, and save as many as we can.’

By Saturday evening, Duke Henri was in a tantrum, possessed by the rage of a young man who finds that the world does not work in the way he confidently expected. ‘Get out of my sight!’ he yelled at Pierre. ‘You’re dismissed. I never want to see you again.’

For the first time ever, Pierre was as scared of Henri as he had been of Henri’s father, Duke Scarface. He had a pain in his guts like a wound. ‘I understand your anger,’ he said desperately. He knew his career would be over unless he could somehow talk his way out of this.

‘You predicted riots,’ Henri roared. ‘And they didn’t happen.’

Pierre spread his arms in a helpless gesture. ‘The queen mother kept the peace.’