Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

When he could, Pierre fed Odette all the things Paré said she should avoid: brandy and strong wine, spices and salty food. This often gave her muscle cramps and headaches, and her breath became foul. If he could have had the exclusive care of Odette he might have killed her this way, but Alain was never absent long enough.

When she began to get better, Pierre saw the prospect of a bishopric receding from his destiny, and he felt desperate.

The next time Dr Paré called he said Odette was on the mend, and Pierre’s heart sank farther. The sweet prospect of freedom from this vulgar woman began to fade, and he felt disappointment like a wound.

‘She should drink a strengthening potion now,’ the doctor said. He asked for pen, paper and ink, which Alain quickly supplied. ‘The Italian apothecary across the street, Giglio, can make this up for you in a few minutes — it’s just honey, liquorice, rosemary and pepper.’ He wrote on the piece of paper and handed it to Alain.

A wild thought came into Pierre’s head. Without working out the details he decided to get rid of Alain. He gave the boy a coin and said: ‘Go and get it now.’

Alain was reluctant. He looked at Odette, who had fallen asleep on her feather pillow. ‘I don’t like to leave her.’

Could he possibly have divined the mad idea that had inspired Pierre? Surely not.

‘Send Nath,’ Alain said.

‘Nath went to the fish market. You go to the apothecary. I’ll keep an eye on Odette. I won’t leave her alone, don’t worry.’

Still Alain hesitated. He was scared of Pierre — most people were scared of Pierre — but he could be stubborn at times.

Paré said: ‘Go along, lad. The sooner she drinks that potion, the sooner she will recover.’

Alain could hardly defy the doctor, and he left the room.

Pierre said dismissively: ‘Thank you for your diligence, doctor. It’s much appreciated.’

‘I’m always glad to help a member of the Guise family, of course.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell Duke Henri.’

‘How is the duke?’

Pierre was desperate to get Paré out of the room before Alain returned. ‘Very well,’ he answered. Odette made a faint noise in her sleep, and Pierre said: ‘I think she wants the piss pot.’

‘I’ll leave you, then,’ said Paré, and he went out.

This was Pierre’s chance. His heart was in his mouth. He could solve all his problems now, in a few minutes.

He could kill Odette.

Two things had kept him from doing it before she fell ill. One was her physical strength: he had not been sure he could overpower her. The other was the fear of Cardinal Charles’s wrath. Charles had warned that if Odette died he would destroy Pierre, regardless of the circumstances.

But now Odette was weak and Charles was dead.

Would Pierre be suspected anyway? He took pains to play the role of devoted husband. Charles had not been fooled, nor had Alain, but others had, including Henri, who knew nothing of the history. Alain might accuse Pierre, but Pierre would be able to portray Alain as a bereaved son hysterically blaming his stepfather for a quite natural death. Henri would believe that story.

Pierre closed the door.

He looked at the sleeping Odette with loathing. Being bullied into marrying her had been his ultimate humiliation. He found himself shaking with a passionate desire. This would be his ultimate revenge.

He dragged a heavy chair across the room and pushed it up against the door so that no one could come in.

The noise woke Odette. She raised her head and said anxiously: ‘What’s happening?’

Pierre tried to make his voice soothing as he replied: ‘Alain is getting you a strengthening potion from the apothecary.’ He crossed the room to the bed.

Odette sensed danger. In a frightened voice she said: ‘Why have you barred the door?’

‘So that you’re not disturbed,’ Pierre said, and with that he snatched the feather pillow from under her head and put it over her face. He was just quick enough to stifle the scream that started from her throat.

She struggled with surprising energy. She managed to get her head out from under the pillow and draw a panicked breath before he was able to push it over her nose and mouth again. She wriggled so much that he had to get onto the bed and kneel on her chest. Even then she was able to use her arms, and she rained punches on his ribs and belly so that he had to grit his teeth to bear the pain and keep pressing the pillow.

He felt she might prevail, and he might fail to put an end to her; and that panicky thought gave him extra strength, and he pushed down with all his might.

At last she weakened. Her punches became feeble, then her arms dropped helplessly to her sides. Her legs kicked a few more times then went still. Pierre kept pressing on the pillow. He did not want to take the risk that she could revive. He hoped Alain would not return yet — surely it must take Giglio more time than this to make up the mixture?

Pierre had never killed anyone. He had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of heretics and many innocent bystanders, and he still had bad dreams about the piles of naked bodies on the streets of Paris during the Massacre of St Bartholomew’s Day. Even now he was planning a war with England that would kill thousands. But no one had died by his own hand until now. This was different. Odette’s soul was leaving her body while he stopped her breathing. It was a terrible thing.

When she had been still for a couple of minutes he cautiously lifted the pillow and looked at her face, gaunt from her illness. She was not breathing. He put his hand on her chest and felt no heartbeat.

She was gone.

He was possessed by exultation. Gone!

He replaced the pillow under her head. She looked peaceful in death. There was no sign on her face of the violence of her end.

His thrill of triumph passed its peak and he began to think about the danger of discovery. He moved the chair from the door. He was not sure exactly where it had stood before. Surely no one would notice?

Looking around for anything that might cause suspicion, he saw that the bedclothes were unusually rumpled, so he straightened them over Odette’s body.

Then he did not know what to do.

He wanted to leave the room, but he had promised Alain that he would stay, and he would look guilty if he fled. Better to feign innocence. But he could hardly bear to be in the room with the corpse. He had hated Odette, and he was glad she was dead, but he had committed a terrible sin.

He realized that God would know what he had done even if no one else did. He had murdered his wife. How would he obtain forgiveness for such a sin?

Her eyes were still open. He was afraid to look at them for fear they would look back. He would have liked to close them, but he dreaded to touch the corpse.

He tried to pull himself together. Father Moineau had always assured him of forgiveness, for he was doing God’s work. Did not the same apply here? No, of course not. This had been an act of utter selfishness. He had no excuse.

He felt doomed. His hands were shaking, he saw — the hands that had held the pillow over Odette’s face so firmly that she had suffocated. He sat on a bench by the window and stared out, so that he did not have to look at Odette; but then he had to turn around every few seconds to assure himself that she was lying still, for he could not help imagining her corpse sitting up in bed, turning its sightless face towards him, pointing an accusing finger, and silently mouthing the words He murdered me.

At last the door opened and Alain came in. Pierre suffered a moment of pure panic, and almost shouted It was me, I killed her! Then his usual calm returned. ‘Hush,’ he said, though Alain had made little noise. ‘She’s sleeping.’