Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

They had shared a bunk on the rough sea voyage, clinging together for comfort at night, something they still did when they were troubled or scared. They had held hands as they met dozens of colourfully dressed French people who laughed at them for speaking the guttural Scots dialect. Everything was frighteningly strange, and it was the older Alison’s turn to be Mary’s rescuer, helping her learn unfamiliar French words and refined court manners, comforting her when she cried at night. Alison knew that neither of them would ever forget their childhood devotion to one another.

The ceremony came to an end. At last the gold ring was placed on Mary’s finger and they were declared man and wife, and a cheer went up.

At that point two royal heralds carrying leather bags began to toss handfuls of money into the crowd. The people roared their approval. Men leaped into the air to catch the coins, then fell to the ground, scrabbling for those that had escaped their grasp. People in other parts of the square clamoured for their share. Fights broke out. The fallen were trampled while those who remained standing were crushed. Injured ones screamed in pain. Alison found it distasteful, but many of the noble wedding guests laughed uproariously as the commoners fought viciously for loose change: they thought it was better than a bullfight. The heralds threw money until their bags were empty.

The archbishop led the way into the cathedral for the wedding Mass, followed by the newlyweds, two people hardly more than children who were now trapped in a marriage that was hopelessly wrong for both of them. Alison walked behind them, carrying Mary’s train. As they all passed out of the sunshine into the cold gloom of the enormous church, she reflected that royal children enjoyed every good thing in life, except freedom.

Sylvie held Pierre’s arm possessively as they walked south across the Petit Pont bridge. He belonged to her now. She would hold his arm for ever. He was clever, as clever as her father and so much more charming. And wonderfully handsome, with his thick hair and hazel eyes and winning smile. She even liked his clothes, though she felt guilty about being attracted by the flamboyant kind of garments that Protestants disdained.

Most of all, she loved him because he was as serious as she was about the true gospel. All on his own he had come to question the treacherous teachings of Catholic priests. With only a little encouragement from her he had seen his way to the truth. And he was willing to risk his life by coming with her to a secret Protestant church.

The wedding was over, the crowds had dispersed, and the Palot family, now including Pierre Aumande, were heading for their own, Protestant, church.

Now that Sylvie was engaged, she found that she had new worries. What would it be like to lie with Pierre? Her mother had told her, years ago when her monthly cycles began, what men and women did in bed together, but Isabelle had been uncharacteristically coy about how it made her feel. Sylvie was eager to find out, to have Pierre’s hands all over her naked body, to feel his weight on top of her, to see what his private parts looked like.

She had won him, but could she hold his love for a lifetime? Isabelle said that Giles had never even flirted with anyone else, but some men did lose interest in their wives after a time, and Pierre was always going to be attractive to other women. Sylvie might have to work hard to keep him as enchanted as he was now. Their faith would help, especially as they would be working together to spread the gospel.

When would they wed? She wanted to do it as soon as possible. Pierre had mentioned that he would like to bring his mother here from Champagne for the ceremony, if she was well enough to travel. He had been a bit vague, and Sylvie hesitated to press him, feeling bashful about being so impatient.

Isabelle was delighted about the engagement. Sylvie had a feeling that Mama would quite like to marry Pierre herself. Not really, of course, but still...

Papa was more pleased than he wanted to reveal, Sylvie guessed. He seemed relaxed and good-tempered, which was the nearest he ever got to happy.

Guillaume was in a sour frame of mind, and Sylvie realized he must be attracted to her himself. Perhaps he had nurtured secret plans to propose. Well, he was too late. If she had never met Pierre she might, perhaps, have liked Guillaume, who was clever and serious. But he would never have looked at her in a way that made her feel that her head was spinning and her legs were weak and she needed to sit down.

What pleased her most was how happy Pierre was this morning. He walked with an eager step, he smiled constantly, and he made her laugh with wry observations about the people and buildings they passed as they walked along the rue St Jacques through the University district. He was visibly delighted to be engaged to her.

She also knew that he was glad to be invited to a Protestant service at last. More than once he had asked her where her church was, and he had looked hurt when she said she was not allowed to tell him. Now the secrecy could be dropped.

She was impatient to show him off. She felt proud of him and looked forward to introducing him to everyone. They were sure to like him. She hoped he would like them.

They walked out through the St Jacques gate and into the suburbs, where they turned off the road onto a barely perceptible track into a wood. A hundred yards along, out of sight of the road, stood two burly men who had the air of guards even though they did not carry weapons. Giles nodded to them, then jerked a thumb at Pierre and said: ‘He’s with us.’ The group walked past the guards without pausing.

Pierre said to Sylvie: ‘Who are those men?’

‘They stop anyone they don’t know,’ she explained. ‘If casual strollers wander randomly in this direction, they’re told the wood is private.’

‘And whose wood is it?’

‘It belongs to the marquess of Nîmes.’

‘Is he one of the congregation?’

She hesitated. But she could tell him now. No more secrets. ‘Yes.’

There were many aristocratic Protestants, Sylvie knew. They could be burned at the stake just like anyone else; although, for heresy as for any crime, noblemen had more chance of escaping punishment through the intervention of powerful friends.

The little group came to what looked like a disused hunting lodge. The lower windows were shuttered, and the weeds flourishing around the main door showed that it had not been opened for years.

Sylvie knew that in a few French towns, where Protestants formed a majority, they had taken over real churches and held services openly, albeit protected by armed guards. But that was not the case in Paris. The capital city was a Catholic stronghold, full of people who made their living serving the Church and the monarchy. Protestants were hated here.

They went around the building to a small side door and entered a great hall where, Sylvie guessed, lavish picnics had once been spread for hunting parties. Now it was silent and dim. Chairs and benches were set out in rows facing a table with a white cloth. About a hundred people were present. As always, there was bread on a plain crockery plate and wine in a jug.

Giles and Isabelle took their seats, and Sylvie and Pierre followed. Guillaume took a single chair facing the congregation.

Pierre whispered: ‘So Guillaume is a priest?’

‘Pastor,’ Sylvie corrected him. ‘But he’s a visitor. Bernard is the regular pastor.’ She pointed to a tall, solemn-looking man in his fifties with thinning grey hair.

‘Is the marquess here?’

Sylvie looked around and spotted the portly figure of the marquess of Nîmes. ‘Front row,’ she murmured. ‘Big white collar.’

‘Is that his daughter, in the dark green cloak and hat?’