Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘And people who advocate tolerance — the middle-of-the-roaders, the moyenneurs — will be labelled Protestant.’

That was subtle, Pierre thought. The Guise family’s worst enemies were people who advocated tolerance. They would undermine the entire basis of the family’s strength. Such people had to be pushed to one extreme or the other. Charles’s political shrewdness impressed him repeatedly. ‘But how will we come to be in charge of stamping out heresy?’

‘One day young Francis will be king. Not yet, we hope — we need him first to establish his independence from Queen Caterina, and come completely under the influence of his wife, our niece, Mary Stuart. But when it happens...’ Charles waved Pierre’s sheet of paper. ‘That’s when we use this.’

Pierre was downcast. ‘I hadn’t realized your thinking was so long-term. That gives me a problem.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been engaged to Sylvie Palot for more than a year, and I’m running out of excuses.’

‘Marry the bitch,’ said Charles.

Pierre was horrified. ‘I don’t want to get stuck with a Protestant wife.’

Charles shrugged. ‘Why not?’

‘There’s someone I would like to marry.’

‘Oh? Who?’

It was time to tell Charles what reward he wanted for his work. ‘Véronique de Guise.’

Charles laughed loudly. ‘You cocky little upstart! You, marry my relation? It’s the arrogance of the devil! Don’t be absurd.’

Pierre felt himself flush from forehead to throat. He had made an error of timing, and in consequence he was humiliated. ‘I didn’t think it too ambitious,’ he protested. ‘She’s only a distant relative.’

‘She’s a second cousin of Mary Stuart, who will probably be queen of France one day! Who do you think you are?’ Charles waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Go on, get out of here.’

Pierre got up and left.

Alison McKay was enjoying life. Since Mary Stuart had become Francis’s wife, rather than merely his fiancée, her status had risen, and consequently so had Alison’s. They had more servants, more dresses, more money. People bowed and curtseyed to Mary deeper and longer. She was now incontestably French royalty. Mary loved it, and so did Alison. And the future held more of the same, for one day Mary would be the queen of France.

Today they were in the grandest room of the Tournelles Palace, in front of the largest window, where Mary’s mother-in-law, Queen Caterina, was holding court. Caterina wore a voluminous confection of gold and silver cloth that must have cost a fortune. It was late afternoon, but the weather was hot, and the window was open to welcome a light breeze.

The king came in, bringing with him a strong odour of warm sweat. Everyone except Caterina stood up. Henri looked happy. He was the same age as his wife, forty, and in his prime: handsome, strong, and full of energy. He loved jousting, and he was winning today. He had even unseated Scarface, the duke of Guise, his great general. ‘Just one more,’ he said to Caterina.

‘It’s getting late,’ she protested, speaking French with the strong Italian accent she had never lost. ‘And you’re tired. Why don’t you rest now?’

‘But it’s for you that I fight!’ he said.

This piece of gallantry did not go down well. Caterina looked away, and Mary frowned. Everyone had already seen that Henri was wearing on his lance ribbons of black and white, the colours of Diane of Poitiers. She had seduced Henri within a year of his marriage, and Caterina had spent the last twenty-five years pretending not to know. Diane was much older — she would be sixty in a few weeks’ time — and Henri had other mistresses now, but Diane was the love of his life. Caterina was used to it, but he could still wound her carelessly.

Henri left to put his armour back on, and a buzz of conversation arose from the ladies. Caterina beckoned to Alison. The queen was always warm to Alison because she had been a good friend to the sickly Francis. Now Caterina half turned her back on the rest of the group, indicating that their conversation was private, and said in a low voice: ‘It’s been fourteen months.’

Alison knew what she was talking about. That was how long Francis and Mary had been married. ‘And she’s not pregnant,’ Alison said.

‘Is something wrong? You would know.’

‘She says not.’

‘But you don’t believe her.’

‘I don’t know what to believe.’

‘I had trouble getting pregnant when I was first married,’ Caterina said.

‘Really?’ Alison was astonished. Caterina had borne ten children for Henri.

The queen nodded. ‘I was distraught — especially after my husband was seduced by Madame.’ This was what everyone called Diane. ‘I adored him — I still do. But she won his heart away. I believed I might win him back with a baby. He still came to my bed — she ordered him to, I found out later.’ Alison winced: this was painful to hear. ‘But I did not conceive.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I was fifteen years old, and my family were hundreds of miles away. I felt desperate.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I spied on them.’

Alison was shocked and embarrassed by this intimate revelation, but Caterina was in the mood to tell the story. Henri’s thoughtless It’s for you that I fight had put the queen in an odd frame of mind.

‘I thought perhaps I was doing something wrong with Henri, and I wanted to see whether Madame had some different method,’ Caterina went on. ‘They used to go to bed in the afternoon. My maids found a place from which I could watch them.’

What an astonishing picture, Alison thought: the queen gazing through some kind of peephole at her husband in bed with his mistress.

‘It was very hard for me to look, because he obviously adored her. And I didn’t learn anything. They played some games I didn’t know about, but in the end he fucked her the same way he fucked me. The only difference was how much more he enjoyed it with her.’

Caterina spoke in a dry, bitter voice. She was not emotional, but Alison was close to tears. It must have broken Caterina’s heart, she thought. She wanted to ask questions, but she was afraid of disturbing this confiding mood.

‘I tried all kinds of remedies, some of them utterly disgusting — poultices of dung on my vagina, that kind of thing. Nothing worked. Then I met Dr Fernel, and I found out what was stopping me getting pregnant.’

Alison was fascinated. ‘What was it?’

‘The king’s cock is short and fat — adorable, but not long. He wasn’t putting it in far enough, and my maidenhead had never been broken, so the spunk didn’t go all the way up. The doctor broke the membrane with a special implement, and a month later I was pregnant with Francis. Pronto. ’

There was a huge cheer from the crowd outside, as if they had been listening to the story and heard its happy ending. Alison guessed that the king must have mounted his horse for the next bout. Caterina put a hand on Alison’s knee, as if to detain her a moment longer. ‘Dr Fernel is dead, but his son is just as good,’ she said. ‘Tell Mary to see him.’

Alison wondered why the queen did not give this message to Mary herself.

As if reading her mind, Caterina said: ‘Mary is proud. If I give her the impression that I think she might be barren, she could take offence. Advice such as this comes better from a friend than from a mother-in-law.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do this as a kindness to me.’

It was courteous of the queen to request what she might command. ‘Of course,’ Alison said.

Caterina stood up and went to the window. The others in the room crowded around her, Alison included, and looked out.