Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

The upstairs window opened and a figure leaned out. ‘Who is it?’ The voice belonged to Isabelle.

‘Ned Willard.’

‘Wait, I’ll come down.’

The window was shut and, a few moments later, the front door was opened. ‘Come inside,’ said Isabelle.

Ned stepped in and she closed the door. A single candle lit the shelves with their ledgers and ink bottles. Ned said: ‘Where’s Sylvie?’

‘Still out warning people.’

‘It’s too late for warnings now.’

‘She may have taken refuge.’

Ned was disappointed and worried. ‘Where do you think she might be?’

‘She was going to work her way north along the rue St Martin and end up at the home of the marquess of Lagny. She might be there. Or...’ Isabelle hesitated.

Ned said impatiently: ‘Where else? Her life is in danger!’

‘There’s a secret place. You must swear never to reveal it.’

‘I swear.’

‘In the rue du Mur, two hundred yards from the corner of the rue St Denis, there is an old brick stable with one door and no windows.’

‘Good enough.’ He hesitated. ‘Will you be all right?’

She opened a drawer in the table and showed him two single-shot pocket pistols with wheel-lock firing mechanisms, plus half a dozen balls and a box of gunpowder. ‘I keep these for when a drunk comes out of the tavern across the street and asks himself how hard it can be to rob a shop run by two women.’

‘Have you ever shot anyone?’

‘No. Waving the guns was always enough.’

He put his hand on the door handle. ‘Bar the door behind me.’

‘Of course.’

‘Make sure all your window shutters are tightly closed and latched on the inside.’

‘Yes.’

‘Put out your candle. Don’t open the door to anyone. If someone knocks, don’t speak. Let them think the building is empty.’

‘All right.’

‘Sylvie and I will come back here for you then all three of us will go together to the English embassy.’

Ned opened the door.

Isabelle grabbed his arm. ‘Take care of her,’ she said, and there was a catch in her voice. ‘Whatever happens, look after my little girl.’

‘That’s what I mean to do,’ Ned said, and he hurried away.

The bells were still ringing. There were not many people on the streets of the left bank. However, as Ned crossed the Notre Dame bridge with its expensive shops, he was shocked to see two dead bodies in the street. A man and a woman in nightwear had been stabbed to death. Ned was sickened by the domesticity of the sight: husband and wife lying side by side, as if in bed, except that their nightgowns were soaked with blood.

The door of a nearby jewellery store stood open, and Ned saw two men emerging with sacks, presumably full of looted valuables. The men glared aggressively at him and he hurried past. He did not want to be delayed by an altercation with them, and they clearly felt the same, for they did not follow him.

On the right bank he saw a group of men hammering at a door. They had strips of white cloth tied to their arms in what Ned guessed was a form of identification. Most were armed with daggers and clubs, but one, better dressed than the others, had a sword. This one shouted in an educated voice: ‘Open up, blaspheming Protestants!’

The men were Catholics, then, and they formed a squad led by an officer. Ned figured that they must be part of the town militia. Jerónima’s information had suggested a mass slaughter of Protestant noblemen, but the house he was passing was an ordinary residence, that of a craftsman or small merchant. As he had feared, the killing was spreading beyond the original aristocratic targets. The result could be truly horrifying.

He felt cowardly sneaking past the scene, hoping the men with the white armbands would not see him. But no other action made sense. On his own he could not save the occupants of the house from six attackers. If he confronted them, they would kill him, then return their attention to the house. And he had to find Sylvie.

Ned followed the broad rue St Martin northwards, keeping his eyes peeled in the starlight, looking down the side streets, hoping to see a small woman with an upright stance and a brisk step coming towards him with a relieved smile. Glancing down an alley he saw another group of men with white armbands, three of them this time, rough-looking, none carrying swords. He was about to hurry past when something about the scene arrested him.

The men had their backs to him, looking at something on the ground, and Ned spotted what was horribly like the graceful shape of a young woman’s leg.

He stopped and stared. It was dark, but one of the men held a lamp. As Ned peered more closely, he saw that a girl lay on the ground, and a fourth man was kneeling between her thighs. She was moaning, and after a moment Ned made out that she was saying: ‘No, no, no...’

He felt a powerful impulse to run away, but he could not. It looked as if the rape had not actually begun. If he intervened in the next few seconds he could prevent it.

Or he could get killed.

The men were intent on the woman, and had not seen him, but at any moment one of them might glance backwards. There was no time to think.

Ned set down his lantern and drew his sword.

He crept up behind the group. Before fear could stop him, he stuck the point of his sword in the nearest man’s thigh.

The man roared with agony.

Ned pulled his sword out. The next man was turning around to see what was happening, and Ned slashed at him. It was a lucky stroke, and the tip of the blade gashed the man’s face from the chin up to the left eye. He yelled in pain and put both hands to his face. Blood spurted through his fingers.

The third spectator looked at his two wounded comrades, panicked, and ran away down the alley.

After a moment, the two men Ned had stabbed did the same.

The man on his knees jumped up and followed, holding up his breeches with both hands.

Ned sheathed his bloody sword, then knelt beside the girl and pulled her dress down over her legs, covering her nakedness.

Only then did he look at her face and realize she was Aphrodite Beaulieu.

She was not even a Protestant. Ned wondered what she had been doing on the street at night. Her parents would not have allowed her to wander around alone even in the daytime. Ned thought she might have had an assignation, and remembered how happily she had smiled at Bernard Housse in the Louvre. And she would probably have got away with it, had this not been the night that someone decided to let slip the dogs of war.

She looked at him and said: ‘Ned Willard? Thank God! But how...?’

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘No time for explanations,’ he said. The Beaulieu mansion was not far away in the rue St Denis. ‘Let me take you home.’ He picked up his lantern and took her arm.

She seemed too shocked to speak or even cry.

Ned looked about him warily as they walked. No one was safe.

They were almost at her house when four men with white armbands came out of a side street and accosted them. One said: ‘Are you running away, Protestants?’

Ned’s heart went cold. He thought of drawing his sword, but they had swords too, and there were four of them. He had taken the last lot by surprise, and scared them, but these four stood facing him with their hands on their hilts, ready for action. He did not stand a chance.

He would have to talk his way out of this. They would automatically suspect any foreigner, of course. His accent was good enough to fool people — Parisians thought he came from Calais — but sometimes he made childish mistakes of grammar, and he prayed that he would not give himself away now by saying le maison instead of la maison .