Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

He summoned up a sneer. ‘This is Mademoiselle Beaulieu, you damn fool,’ he said. ‘She’s a good Catholic, and the count of Beaulieu’s mansion is right there. You lay a finger on her and I’ll rouse the entire household.’ It was not an empty threat: he was within shouting distance. But Aphrodite gripped his arm harder, and he guessed she did not want her parents to know that she had been out.

The leader of the group looked sly. ‘If she’s a Catholic noblewoman, what’s she doing on the street at this time of night?’

‘We’ll get her father to answer that question, shall we?’ Ned maintained his pose of confident arrogance, but it was a struggle. ‘And then he can ask you what the devil you think you’re doing pestering his daughter.’ He took a deep breath and raised his head, as if about to shout for help.

‘All right, all right,’ said the leader. ‘But the Huguenots have risen up against the king, and the militia has been ordered to seek them out and kill them all, so you’d both better get inside the house and stay there.’

Ned did not let his relief show. ‘And you’d better be more careful how you address Catholic noblemen,’ he said, and he escorted Aphrodite past the men. Their leader said no more.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Aphrodite said: ‘I have to go in the back way.’

He nodded. It was as he had guessed. ‘Is there a door unlocked?’

‘My maid is waiting.’

It was the oldest of stories. Aphrodite’s maid was helping her mistress have an unauthorized romance. Well, that was none of Ned’s business. He walked her to the back of the house where she tapped on a high wooden gate. It was opened immediately by a young girl.

Aphrodite took Ned’s hand in a fierce grip and kissed his fingers. ‘I owe you my life,’ she said. Then she slipped inside, and the gate closed behind her.

Ned headed for the Lagny home, even more wary than before. He was alone now, and therefore more suspect. He touched the hilt of his sword nervously.

Many houses were now showing lights. The inhabitants, alarmed by the bells, had presumably got up and lit candles. Pale faces appeared at windows, staring out anxiously.

Fortunately, the Lagny place was not far. As he walked up the steps to the front door the building was dark and silent. Perhaps Lagny and his servants were pretending the house was empty, as Ned had urged Isabelle to do.

When he knocked on the door it moved. Apparently it had not been fully closed and now it swung open, revealing a dark hall. Ned smelled a disgusting odour, like a butcher’s shop. He held his lantern aloft and gasped.

There were bodies everywhere, and blood all over the tiled floor and the panelled wall. He recognized the marquess, lying on his back with stab wounds in his belly and chest. Ned’s heart stopped. He held his lantern over the faces of the other corpses, dreading that one of them would be Sylvie. They were all strangers, and by their dress he guessed servants.

He went into the kitchen, where there were more. He saw an open window leading to a yard, and hoped that some of the household had escaped that way.

He searched the house, shining his light into every dead face. To his immense relief Sylvie was not there.

Now he had to find her secret place. If she was not there, he feared the worst.

Before leaving the building he ripped the lace collar off his shirt and tied it around his left arm, so that he would look like one of the militia. There was then a danger that he might be challenged and found out to be an impostor, but on balance he thought it was worth the risk.

He was beginning to feel desperate. In the few weeks he had known her she had come to mean everything to him. I lost Margery; I can’t lose Sylvie, too, he thought. What would I do?

He made his way to the rue du Mur and located a plain brick building with no windows. He went to the door and tapped on the wood. ‘It’s me,’ he said in a low, urgent voice. ‘It’s Ned. Are you there, Sylvie?’

There was silence. His heart seemed to slow down. Then he heard the scrape of a bar and the click of a lock. The door opened and he stepped inside. Sylvie locked it and replaced the bar, then turned to him. He held up the lantern to look at her face. She was distraught, scared and tearful, but she was alive and apparently unhurt.

‘I love you,’ Ned said.

She threw herself into his arms.

Pierre was awestruck by the result of his machinations. The Paris militia was carrying out the slaughter of Protestants with even more force and spite than he had hoped.

His cleverness was not really the cause, he knew. Parisians were furious that the wedding had gone ahead, and popular preachers had told them they were right to feel as they did. The city had been ready to explode with hatred, waiting only for someone to ignite the gunpowder. Pierre had merely struck the match.

As dawn broke on Sunday, St Bartholomew’s Day, there were hundreds of dead and dying Huguenots on the streets of the city. It really might be possible to kill all the Protestants in France. He realized, with a sense of triumph mingled with wonder, that this could be the final solution.

Pierre had gathered around him a small squadron of ruffians, promising them that they could steal anything they liked from those they killed. They included Brocard and Rasteau; Biron, his chief spy; and a handful of the street villains Biron used for such tasks as tailing suspects.

Pierre had given his black book to the provost, Le Charron, but he remembered many of the names and addresses. He had been spying on these people for fourteen years.

They went first to the premises of René Duboeuf, the tailor in the rue St Martin. ‘Don’t kill him or his wife until I say so,’ Pierre ordered.

They broke down the door and entered the shop. Some of the men went upstairs.

Pierre pulled open a drawer and found the tailor’s notebook containing the names and addresses of his customers. He had always wanted this. He would make use of it tonight.

The men dragged the Duboeufs downstairs in their nightwear.

René was a small man of about fifty. He had already been bald when Pierre first came across him thirteen years ago. The wife had been young and pretty then, and she was still attractive, even now, looking terrified. Pierre smiled at her. ‘Françoise, if I remember rightly,’ he said. He turned to Rasteau. ‘Cut off her finger.’

Rasteau gave his high-pitched giggle.

While the woman sobbed and the tailor pleaded, a man-at-arms held her left hand flat on the table and Rasteau cut off her little finger and part of her ring finger. Blood spurted over the table, staining a bolt of pale grey wool. She screamed and fainted.

‘Where is your money?’ Pierre asked the tailor.

‘In the commode, behind the chamber pot,’ he said. ‘Please don’t hurt her any more.’

Pierre nodded to Biron, who went upstairs.

Pierre saw that Françoise now had her eyes open. ‘Make her stand up,’ he said.

Biron came back with a leather bag that he emptied onto the table in a puddle of Françoise’s blood. There was a pile of assorted coins.

‘He’s got more money than that,’ Pierre said. ‘Rip off her nightdress.’

She was younger than her husband, and she had a good figure. The men went quiet.

Pierre said to the tailor: ‘Where’s the rest of the money?’

Duboeuf hesitated.

Rasteau said excitedly: ‘Shall I cut her tits off?’

Duboeuf said: ‘In the fireplace, up the chimney. Please leave her alone.’

Biron put his hand up the chimney — cold, in August — and retrieved a locked wooden box. He broke the lock with the point of his sword and tipped the money on the table, a good heap of gold coins.