Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘No, she’s not,’ said Alain. ‘Her eyes are open.’ He frowned. ‘You straightened the bedclothes.’

‘They were a bit rumpled.’

Alain’s voice showed faint surprise. ‘That was nice of you.’ Then he frowned again. ‘Why did you move the chair?’

Pierre was dismayed that Alain had noticed these trivial details. He could not think of an innocent reason for moving the chair, so he resorted to denial. ‘It’s where it always was.’

Alain looked puzzled but did not persist. He put a bottle on the little side table, and gave Pierre a handful of coins in change. He spoke to the dead body. ‘I got your medicine, Mother,’ he said. ‘You can have some right away. It has to be mixed with water or wine.’

Pierre wanted to scream at him: Look at her — she’s dead!

There was a jug of wine and a cup on the side table. Alain poured some of the potion into the cup, added wine from the jug, and stirred the mixture with a knife. Then — at last — he approached the bed. ‘Let’s get you sitting up,’ he said. Then he looked hard at her and frowned. ‘Mother?’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Blessed Mary, no!’ He dropped the cup to the floor and the potion spilled oleaginously across the tiles.

Pierre watched him with horrid fascination. After a frozen moment of shock, Alain bounded forward and bent over the still form. ‘Mother!’ he shouted, as if a louder voice could bring her back.

Pierre said: ‘Is something wrong?’

Alain grabbed Odette by the shoulders and lifted her. Her head flopped back lifelessly.

Pierre moved to the bed, judiciously standing on the side opposite Alain, out of striking range. He was not afraid of Alain physically — it was the other way around — but it would be better to avoid a brawl. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

Alain stared at him in hatred. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing but watch over her,’ Pierre said. ‘But she seems to be unconscious.’

Alain laid her gently back on the bed, with her head on the pillow that had killed her. He touched her chest, feeling for a heartbeat; then her neck, for a pulse. Finally, he put his cheek next to her nose, to see if there was any breath. He stifled a sob. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Are you sure?’ Pierre touched her chest himself, then nodded sadly. ‘How terrible,’ he said. ‘And we thought she was recovering.’

‘She was! You killed her, you devil.’

‘You’re very upset, Alain.’

‘I don’t know what you did, but you killed her.’

Pierre stepped to the door and shouted for a servant. ‘In here! Anybody! Quickly!’

Alain said: ‘I’m going to kill you.’

The threat was laughable. ‘Don’t say things you don’t mean.’

‘I will,’ Alain repeated. ‘You’ve gone too far this time. You’ve murdered my mother, and I’m going to get you back. If it takes me as long as I live, I will kill you with my own hands, and watch you die.’

For a brief moment, Pierre felt a chill of fear. Then he shook it off. Alain was not going to kill anyone.

He looked along the corridor and saw Nath approaching, carrying a basket, evidently back from the market. ‘Come here, Nath,’ he said. ‘Quickly. A very sad thing has happened.’

Sylvie put on a black hat with a heavy veil and went to the funeral of Odette Aumande de Guise.

She wanted to stand beside Nath and Alain, both of whom were terribly upset; and she also felt an odd emotional link with Odette, because they had both married Pierre.

Ned did not come. He had gone to the cathedral of Notre Dame to see which prominent English Catholics were in Paris: perhaps the men who were collaborating with the duke of Guise might be foolish enough to reveal themselves.

It was a rainy day and the graveyard was muddy. Most of the mourners looked, to Sylvie, like minor Guise family members and maids. The only prominent ones who came were Véronique, who had known Odette since they were both adolescents, and Pierre himself, pretending to be stricken with grief.

Sylvie watched Pierre nervously, even though she felt sure he would not penetrate her disguise. She was right: he did not even look at her.

Only Nath and Alain wept.

When it was over, and Pierre and most of the mourners had departed, Sylvie, Nath and Alain stood under the canopy of an oak tree to talk.

‘I think he killed her,’ Alain said.

Alain had the Guise good looks, Sylvie noticed, even with his eyes red from crying. ‘But she was ill,’ Sylvie said.

‘I know. But I left her alone with him for just a few minutes, to fetch a potion from the apothecary, and when I got back she was dead.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sylvie. She had no idea whether what Alain said was true, but she felt sure Pierre was capable of murder.

‘I’m going to leave the palace,’ Alain said. ‘I have no reason to stay now that she’s not there.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I can move into my college.’

Nath said: ‘I have to leave, too. I’ve been dismissed. Pierre always hated me.’

‘Oh, dear! What will you do?’

‘I don’t need employment. The book business keeps me run off my feet anyway.’ Nath was indomitable. Since Sylvie had turned her into a spy, all those years ago, she had just become stronger and more resourceful.

But now Sylvie was perturbed. ‘Do you have to leave? You’re our most important source of information on Pierre and the Guises.’

‘I’ve no choice. He’s kicked me out.’

‘Can’t you plead with him?’ Sylvie said desperately.

‘You know better than that.’

Sylvie did. No amount of pleading would make Pierre reverse an act of meanness.

This was a serious problem — but, Sylvie saw immediately, there was an obvious solution. She turned to Alain. ‘You could stay with Pierre, couldn’t you?’

‘No.’

‘We need to know what he’s doing!’

Alain looked tortured. ‘I can’t live with the man who murdered my mother!’

‘But you believe in the true, Protestant religion.’

‘Of course.’

‘And it’s our duty as believers to spread the word.’

‘I know.’

‘The best way for you to serve the cause might be to tell me what your stepfather is up to.’

He looked torn. ‘Would it?’

‘Become his secretary, make yourself indispensable to him.’

‘Last week I swore to him that I would kill him in revenge.’

‘He will soon forget that — too many people have sworn to kill Pierre. But surely the best way to avenge her death — and the way that would please the Lord — would be to cripple his efforts to crush the true religion.’

Alain said thoughtfully: ‘It would honour my mother’s memory.’

‘Exactly.’

Then he wavered again. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

Sylvie glanced at Nath, who discreetly pointed at herself in a gesture that meant Leave this to me, I’ll take care of it. She probably could, Sylvie decided: she had been a second mother to Alain.

Sylvie said to Alain: ‘I can’t overstate how important it is for us to know about English Catholics who contact the Guise family.’

‘There was a big meeting at the palace last week,’ Alain said. ‘They’re talking about invading England.’

‘That’s terrifying.’ Sylvie did not say that she already knew about the meeting. Ned had taught her never to let a spy know that there were other sources of information: that was a cardinal rule of the game. ‘Were there any Englishmen at the meeting?’

‘Yes, one, a priest from the English College. My stepfather has met with him several times. He’s going to contact Mary Stuart and make sure she supports the invasion.’

Jerónima Ruiz had not known this crucial piece of information. Sylvie could hardly wait to tell Ned. But there was one more key fact she needed. ‘Who is this priest?’ she said, and she held her breath.