Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

He was lucky not to have been killed himself. He fought down panic as he hurried through the château. The king and his collaborators had probably planned no farther ahead than the assassination. But now that the duke was dead, they would think about how to consolidate their triumph. First they would want to eliminate the duke’s brothers, Cardinal Louis and the archbishop of Lyon; and then their attention would turn to his principal advisor, Pierre.

But for the next few minutes all would be chaos and confusion, so Pierre had a brief chance to save himself.

Duke Henri’s eldest son, Charles, was now duke of Guise, Pierre realized as he ran along a corridor. The boy was seventeen, old enough to step into his father’s shoes — Henri himself had been only twelve when he became duke. If only Pierre could get out of here, he would do exactly as he had done with Henri: ingratiate himself with the mother, become the indispensable advisor to the youngster, nourish in both the seed of revenge, and one day make the new duke as powerful as the old.

He had suffered setbacks before, and had always returned stronger than ever.

He reached his quarters, breathing hard. His stepson Alain was in the sitting room. ‘Saddle three horses,’ Pierre barked. ‘Pack only money and weapons. We must be gone from here in ten minutes.’

‘Where are we going?’ said Alain.

The stupid boy should have asked why , not where . ‘I haven’t decided yet, just move ,’ Pierre yelled.

He went into the bedroom. Louise, in her nightclothes, was on her knees at the prie-dieu, saying her prayers with beads. ‘Get dressed fast,’ Pierre said. ‘If you’re not ready I’m going without you.’

She stood up and came to him, her hands still folded as if in prayer. ‘You’re in trouble,’ she said.

‘Of course I’m in trouble, that’s why I’m running away,’ he said impatiently. ‘Put your clothes on.’

Louise opened her hands to reveal a short dagger and slashed Pierre’s face.

‘Christ!’ He yelled in pain, but the shock was worse. He could not have been more surprised if the knife had moved of its own accord. This was Louise , the terrified mouse, the helpless woman he abused just for fun; and she had cut him — not just a scratch, but a deep gash in his cheek that was now bleeding copiously down his chin and neck. ‘You whore, I’ll slit your throat!’ he screeched, and he lunged at her, reaching for the knife.

She stepped back nimbly. ‘You fiend, it’s all over, I’m free now!’ she yelled; then she stabbed him in the neck.

With incredulity he felt the blade penetrate agonizingly into his flesh. What was happening? Why did she think she was free? A weak king had killed the duke and now a weak woman had knifed Pierre. He was bewildered.

But Louise was an incompetent assassin. She did not realize that the first thrust had to be fatal. She had bungled, and now she would die.

Rage directed Pierre’s actions. His right hand went to his wounded throat while his left knocked aside her knife arm. He was hurt but alive, and he was going to kill Louise. He ran at her, crashing into her before she could stab again, and she lost her balance. She fell to the ground and the knife dropped from her hand.

Pierre picked it up. Trying to ignore the pain of his wounds, he knelt astride Louse and raised the dagger. He paused for a moment, hesitating over where to stab her: the face? Breasts? Throat? Belly?

He was struck by a powerful sideways blow to his right shoulder that threw him to the left. For a moment his right arm went limp, and it was his turn to drop the dagger. He fell heavily, rolling off Louise and over onto his back.

Looking up, he saw Alain.

The young man was holding in his hands the wheel-lock pistols given to Pierre by King Henri, and he was pointing both at Pierre.

Pierre stared at the guns for a helpless moment. He had fired them several times and knew that they worked reliably. He did not know how good a shot Alain was, but standing only two paces away he could hardly miss.

In an instant of quiet Pierre heard the drumming of the rain. He realized that Alain had known in advance about the assassination of the duke — that was how come he had asked where and not why . Louise had known, too. So they had conspired together to kill Pierre in his moment of weakness. They would get away with it, too: everyone would assume Pierre had been killed on the orders of the king, as the duke had been.

How could this be happening to him, Pierre Aumande de Guise, the master of manipulation for three decades?

He looked at Louise, then up again at Alain, and he saw the same expression in both faces. It was hatred mixed with something else: joy. This was their moment of triumph, and they were happy.

Alain said: ‘I have no further use for you.’ His fingers tightened on the long serpentine levers protruding below the guns.

What did that mean? Pierre had always used Alain, not vice versa, had he not? What had he failed to see? Yet again Pierre was bewildered.

He opened his mouth to shout for help, but no sound came from his wounded throat.

The wheel locks spun, both guns sparked, then they went off with a double bang.

Pierre felt as if he had been hit in the chest by a sledgehammer. The pain was overwhelming.

He heard Louise speak as if from a very great distance. ‘Now go back to hell, where you came from.’

Then darkness descended.

Earl Bartlet named his first son Swithin, after the child’s great-grandfather, and his second Rollo, after the child’s great-uncle. Both men had struggled bravely against Protestantism, and Bartlet was fiercely Catholic.

Margery was not pleased with either name. Swithin had been a loathsome man, and Rollo had deceived and betrayed her. However, as the boys’ own personalities began to emerge, so their names morphed: Swithin became a very fast crawler and was nicknamed Swifty, and plump Rollo became Roley.

In the mornings, Margery liked to help Bartlet’s wife, Cecilia. Today she fed Swifty a scrambled egg while Cecilia breastfed Roley. Cecilia tended to be anxious about the children, and Margery was a calming influence; probably all grandmothers were, Margery thought.

Her second son, Roger, came into the nursery to see his nephews. ‘I’m going to miss these two when I go to Oxford,’ he said.

Margery noticed how the young nurse, Dot, perked up in Roger’s presence. He was quietly charming, with a wry smile that was very engaging, and no doubt Dot would have liked to ensnare him. Perhaps it was a good thing he was leaving for the university: Dot was a nice girl and good with the children, but her horizons were too narrow for Roger.

That thought made Margery wonder what Roger himself saw on his horizons, and she said: ‘Have you considered what you might do after Oxford?’

‘I want to study law,’ Roger said.

That was interesting. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s so important. The laws make the country.’

‘So what you’re really interested in is government.’

‘I suppose so. I was always fascinated by what father said when he came back from attending Parliament: how people manoeuvred and negotiated, why they took one side or the other.’

Earl Bart himself had never found Parliament very interesting, and had attended the House of Lords as an obligation. But Roger’s real father, Ned Willard, was a political animal. Heredity was fascinating.

Margery said: ‘Perhaps you might become the Member of Parliament for Kingsbridge, and sit in the House of Commons.’

‘It’s not unusual for the younger son of an earl. But Sir Ned is the MP.’

‘He’ll retire sooner or later.’ He would be glad to do so, Margery guessed, if he could hand over to his son.