Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Pierre entered the bedchamber. The duke was alone: his wife was in Paris, about to give birth to their fourteenth child. Pierre shook the sleeping duke by the shoulder. Not yet forty, Henri was still vigorous, and he came awake quickly.

‘What is so urgent, I wonder, that the council can’t wait until men have had breakfast,’ the duke grumbled as he pulled on a grey satin doublet over his underclothes.

Pierre was unwilling to admit that he did not know. ‘The king is fretting about the Estates-General.’

‘I’d feign sickness, except that others might take advantage of my absence to plot against me.’

‘Don’t say might . They would .’ That was the price of success. The weakness of the French monarchy, which had begun with the premature death of King Henri II thirty years ago, had given the Guise family tremendous opportunities — but whenever their power grew, others tried to take it away from them.

A servant came in with a tankard of ale. The duke drained it in one long swallow, belched loudly, and said: ‘That’s better.’

His satin doublet was not warm, and the corridors of the palace were chilly, so Pierre held out a cape for him to wear on the walk to the council chamber. The duke picked up a hat and gloves, and they left.

Colli led the way. The duke did not go without a bodyguard, even when moving from one apartment to another within the palace. However, men-at-arms were not allowed to enter the council chamber, so Colli remained at the top of the grand staircase while the duke and Pierre went in.

A big fire blazed in the hearth. Duke Henri took off his cape and sat at the long table with the other councillors. ‘Bring me some Damascus raisins,’ he said to a servant. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat.’

Pierre joined the advisors standing up against the walls, and the council began to discuss taxes.

The king had summoned the Estates General because he needed money. The prosperous merchants who made up the Third Estate — after the aristocracy and the clergy — were obstinately reluctant to give him any more of their hard-earned cash. Insolently, they had sent accountants to examine the royal finances and had then declared that the king would not need higher taxes if only he would manage his money better.

The financial superintendent, François d’O, got straight to the point. ‘The Third Estate must reach a compromise with the king,’ he said, looking directly at Duke Henri.

‘They will,’ the duke replied. ‘Give them time. Their pride won’t allow them to give in immediately.’

This was all good, Pierre thought. When the compromise was eventually made, the duke would be the hero of the day for arranging it.

‘But this is not immediately , is it?’ said d’O stubbornly. ‘They have been defying the king for two months.’

‘They will come round.’

Pierre scratched his underarms. Why had the Privy Council been summoned so urgently? This was an ongoing discussion and it appeared that nothing new had happened.

A servant offered a plate to the duke. ‘Your grace, there are no raisins,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you some prunes from Provence.’

‘Give them here,’ said the duke. ‘I’m hungry enough to eat sheep’s eyes.’

D’O was not to be diverted. ‘Whenever we tell the Third Estate that they must be reasonable, do you know what they reply?’ he went on. ‘They say they don’t need to compromise, because they have the support of the duke of Guise.’ He paused and looked around the table.

The duke took off his gloves and began to stuff prunes into his mouth.

D’O said to him: ‘Your grace, you claim to be the peacemaker between king and people, but you have become the obstacle to settlement.’

Pierre did not like the sound of that. It was almost like a verdict.

Duke Henri swallowed a prune. For a moment he seemed lost for words.

As he hesitated, a door opened and Secretary of State Revol entered from the adjacent suite, which was the king’s apartment. Revol approached Duke Henri and said in a low, clear voice: ‘Your grace, the king would like to speak to you.’

Pierre was mystified. This was the second surprise of the morning. Something was going on that he did not know about, and he sensed danger.

The duke responded to the king’s message with an audacious lack of urgency. He took from his pocket a silver-gilt confit box in the shape of a shell, and put some prunes into it to take with him, as if he might casually eat a snack while the king was talking to him. Then he stood and picked up his cape. With a jerk of his head he ordered Pierre to follow him.

A squad of the king’s bodyguards stood in the next room, captained by a man called Montséry, who now gave the duke a hostile glare. These highly paid elite guards were called the Forty-Five, and Duke Henri, prompted by Pierre, had proposed they be disbanded to save money — and, of course, to further weaken the king. It was not one of Pierre’s best ideas. The suggestion had been turned down, and the only consequence was that the Forty-Five hated the duke.

‘Wait here in case I need you,’ Duke Henri said to Pierre.

Montséry went to open the next door for the duke.

Duke Henri walked to the door, then stopped and turned again to Pierre. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, ‘go back to the Privy Council. You can let me know what they say in my absence.’

‘Very good, your grace,’ said Pierre.

Montséry opened the door to reveal King Henri standing on the other side. Now thirty-seven, he had been king for fifteen years. His face was fleshy and sensual, but he exuded calm authority. He looked at Duke Henri and said: ‘So here he is, the man they’re calling the new king of France.’ Then he turned to Montséry and gave a brief but unmistakable nod.

At that moment Pierre realized that catastrophe was about to strike.

With a swift, smooth motion, Montséry drew a long dagger and stabbed the duke.

The sharp blade passed easily through the duke’s thin satin doublet and sank deep into his brawny chest.

Pierre was frozen with shock.

The duke’s mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came, and Pierre realized immediately that the wound must be fatal.

It was not enough for the guards, however, and they now surrounded the duke and stabbed him repeatedly with knives and swords. Blood came from his nose and mouth and everywhere else.

Pierre stared in horrified paralysis for another second. Duke Henri fell, bleeding from multiple wounds.

Pierre looked up at the king, who was watching calmly.

At last Pierre recovered his senses. His master had been murdered and he might well be next. Quietly but quickly he turned away and passed back through the door into the council chamber.

The Privy Councillors around the long table stared at him in silence, and he realized in a flash that they must have known what was going to happen. The ‘urgent’ meeting was a pretext for catching the duke of Guise unawares. It was a conspiracy, and they were all in on it.

They wanted him to say something, for they did not yet know whether the murder had been done. He took advantage of their momentary uncertainty to escape. He crossed the room swiftly, without speaking, and went out. He heard a hubbub break out behind him, cut off by the slamming of the door.

The duke’s bodyguard, Colli, stared at Pierre in puzzlement, but Pierre ignored him and ran down the grand staircase. No one tried to stop him.

He was aghast. His breath came in short gasps and he found he was perspiring despite the cold. The duke was dead, murdered — and it had clearly been done on the orders of the king. Duke Henri had become overconfident. So had Pierre. He had been sure that the weak King Henri would never be so courageous or decisive — and he had been disastrously, fatally wrong.