Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Along the middle of the road, two fences enclosed a long, narrow track. At one end was the king’s horse, called Malheureux; at the other, the mount of Gabriel, count of Montgomery. Down the middle of the track ran a barrier to keep the two horses from colliding.

The king was talking to Montgomery in the middle of the field. Their words could not be heard from the palace window, but they seemed to be arguing. The tournament was almost over, and some spectators were already leaving, but Alison guessed the combative king wanted to play a final bout. Then the king raised his voice, and everyone heard him say: ‘That’s an order!’

Montgomery gave a bow of obedience and put his helmet on. The king did the same, and both men returned to the ends of the track. Henri lowered his visor. Alison heard Caterina murmur: ‘Fasten it shut, chérie ,’ and the king turned the catch that prevented the eyepiece flying up.

Henri was impatient, and did not wait for the trumpet, but kicked his horse and charged. Montgomery did the same.

The horses were destriers, bred for war, big and tremendously strong, and their hooves made a noise like a titan beating the earth with giant drumsticks. Alison felt her pulse quicken with exhilaration and fear. The two riders picked up speed. The crowd cheered wildly as the warhorses pounded towards one another, ribbons flying. The two men angled their wooden lances across the central barrier. The weapons had blunted tips: the object was not to injure the opponent but simply to knock him from his saddle. All the same Alison was glad that only men played this sport. She would have been terrified.

At the last moment both men clamped their legs tightly into their horses and leaned forward. They met with a terrific crash. Montgomery’s lance struck the king’s head. The lance damaged the helmet. The king’s visor flew up, and Alison understood in a flash that the impact had snapped the visor catch. The lance broke in two.

The tremendous momentum of the horses continued to carry both men forwards, and a fraction of a second later the broken end of Montgomery’s lance struck the king’s face again. He reeled in the saddle, looking as if he might be losing consciousness. Caterina screamed in fear.

Alison saw Duke Scarface leap the fence and run to the king. Several more noblemen did the same. They steadied the horse, then lifted the king from the saddle, with great effort because of his heavy armour, and lowered him to the ground.

Cardinal Charles ran after his brother Scarface, and Pierre followed close on his heels. When the king’s helmet was gingerly removed they saw immediately that he had suffered a serious wound. His face was covered in blood. A long, thick splinter of wood was sticking out of his eye. Other splinters were lodged in his face and head. He lay still, apparently numb to pain and barely conscious. His doctor was in attendance in case of just such an incident as this, and he now knelt beside the patient.

Charles looked hard at the king for a long moment then backed away. ‘He will die,’ he murmured to Pierre.

Pierre was thrown. What did this mean for the Guise family, whose future was Pierre’s future? The long-term plan that Charles had only just outlined to him was now in ruins. Pierre felt a degree of anxiety close to panic. ‘It’s too soon!’ he said. He realized that his voice was oddly high-pitched. Making an effort to speak more calmly, he said: ‘Francis cannot rule this country.’

Charles moved farther away from the crowd, to make sure they could not be overheard, though no one was paying attention to anyone but the king now. ‘According to French law, a king can rule at fourteen. Francis is fifteen.’

‘True.’ Pierre began to think hard. His panic evaporated and logic took over his brain. ‘But Francis will have help,’ he said. ‘And whoever becomes his closest advisor will be the true king of France.’ Throwing caution to the winds, he moved closer to Charles and spoke in a low, urgent voice. ‘Cardinal, you must be that man .’

Charles gave him a sharp look of a kind that Pierre recognized. It indicated that he had surprised Charles by saying something Charles had not thought of. ‘You’re right,’ Charles said slowly. ‘But the natural choice would be Antoine of Bourbon. He is the first prince of the blood.’ A prince of the blood was a direct male descendant of a French king. Such men were the highest aristocracy outside the royal family itself. They took precedence over all other noblemen. And Antoine was the most senior among them.

‘God forbid,’ said Pierre. ‘If Antoine becomes the principal advisor to King Francis II, the power of the Guise family will be at an end.’ And so will my career, he added silently.

Antoine was king of Navarre, a small country between France and Spain. More importantly, he was head of the Bourbon family who, together with the Montmorency clan, were the great rivals of the Guises. Their religious policies were fluid, but the Bourbon — Montmorency alliance tended to be less hard-line on heresy than the Guises, and were therefore favoured by the Protestants — a type of support that was not always welcome. If Antoine controlled the boy king, the Guises would become impotent. It did not bear thinking about.

Charles said: ‘Antoine is stupid. And a suspected Protestant.’

‘And, most importantly, he’s out of town.’

‘Yes. He’s at Pau.’ The residence of the kings of Navarre was in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains, five hundred miles from Paris.

‘But messengers will be on their way to him before nightfall,’ Pierre said insistently. ‘You can neutralize Antoine, but only if you act fast.’

‘I must speak to my niece, Mary Stuart. She will be queen of France. She must persuade the new king to reject Antoine as advisor.’

Pierre shook his head. Charles was thinking, but Pierre was ahead of him. ‘Mary is a beautiful child. She cannot be relied upon in something as important as this.’

‘Caterina, then.’

‘She is soft on Protestants and might have no objection to Antoine. I have a better idea.’

‘Go on.’

Charles was listening to Pierre as he might to an equal. Pierre felt a glow of pleasure. His political acumen had won the respect of the most able politician in France. ‘Tell Caterina that if she will accept you and your brother as the king’s leading counsellors, you will banish Diane of Poitiers from the court for the rest of her life.’

Charles thought for a long moment then he nodded, very slowly, once.

Alison was secretly thrilled by the injury to King Henri. She put on plain white mourning clothes and even managed to force tears occasionally, but that was for show. In her heart she rejoiced. Mary Stuart was about to be queen of France, and Alison was her best friend!

The king had been carried into the Palace of Tournelles, and the court gathered around his sick room. He took a long time dying, but there was little doubt about the eventual outcome. Among his doctors was Ambroise Paré, the surgeon who had removed the spearhead from the cheeks of Duke François of Guise, leaving the scars that had given the duke his nickname. Paré said that if the splinter had penetrated only the king’s eye he might have survived, provided the wound did not become fatally infected; but in fact the point had gone farther and entered the brain. Paré conducted experiments on four condemned criminals, sticking splinters into their eyes to replicate the wound, but all of them died, and there was no hope for the king.

Mary Stuart’s fifteen-year-old husband, soon to be King Francis II, became infantile. He lay in bed, moaning incomprehensibly, rocking in a lunatic rhythm, and had to be restrained from banging his head against the wall. Even Mary and Alison, who had been his friends since childhood, resented that he was so useless.