Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Queen Caterina, who had never really possessed her husband, was nevertheless distraught at the prospect of losing him. However, she showed her ruthless side by banning her rival, Diane of Poitiers, from the king’s presence. Twice Alison saw Caterina deep in conversation with Cardinal Charles, who might have been giving her spiritual consolation but more probably was helping her plan a smooth succession. Both times they were attended by Pierre Aumande, the handsome, mysterious young man who had appeared from nowhere a year or so ago and was at Charles’s side more and more often.

King Henri was given extreme unction on the morning of 9 July.

Shortly after one o’clock that day, Mary and Alison were at lunch in their rooms at the château when Pierre Aumande came in. He bowed deeply and said to Mary: ‘The king is sinking fast. We must act now.’

This was the moment they had all been waiting for.

Mary did not pretend to be distraught or to have hysterics. She swallowed, put down her knife and spoon, patted her lips with a napkin, and said: ‘What must I do?’ Alison felt proud of her mistress’s composure.

Pierre said: ‘You must help your husband. The duke of Guise is with him now. We are all going immediately to the Louvre with Queen Caterina.’

Alison said: ‘You’re taking possession of the person of the new king.’

Pierre looked sharply at her. He was the kind of man, she realized, who saw only important people: the rest were invisible. Now he gave her an appraising look. ‘That’s exactly right,’ he said. ‘The queen mother is in agreement with your mistress’s Uncle François and Uncle Charles. At this moment of danger, Francis must turn for help to his wife, Queen Mary — and no one else.’

Alison knew that was rubbish. François and Charles wanted the new king to turn to François and Charles. Mary was merely their cover. In the moment of uncertainty that always followed the death of a king, the man with the power was not the new king himself but whoever had him in his hands. That was why Alison had said possession of the person — the phrase that had alerted Pierre to the fact that she knew what was going on.

Mary would not have figured this out, Alison guessed; but that did not matter. Pierre’s plan was good for Mary. She would be all the more powerful in alliance with her uncles. By contrast, Antoine of Bourbon would surely try to sideline Mary if he gained control of Francis. So, when Mary looked at Alison enquiringly, Alison gave a slight nod.

Mary said: ‘Very well,’ and stood up.

Watching Pierre’s face, Alison saw that he had not missed that little interaction.

Alison went with Mary to Francis’s room, and Pierre followed. The door was guarded by men-at-arms. Alison recognized their leader, Gaston Le Pin, a tough-looking character who was chief of the Guise family’s paid roughnecks. They were willing to hold Francis by force if necessary, Alison deduced.

Francis was weeping, but getting dressed, helped by his servants. Both Duke Scarface and Cardinal Charles were there, watching impatiently, and a moment later Queen Caterina came in. This was the group taking power, Alison realized. Francis’s mother had made a deal with Mary’s uncles.

Alison considered who might try to stop them. The leading candidate would be the duke of Montmorency, who held the title of Constable of France. But Montmorency’s royal ally, Antoine of Bourbon, never quick off the mark, had not yet arrived in Paris.

The Guises were in a strong position, Alison saw. All the same, they were right to act now. Things could change quickly. An advantage was no use unless it was seized.

Pierre said to Alison: ‘The new king and queen will occupy the royal apartments at the Louvre palace immediately. The duke of Guise will move into the suite of Diane of Poitiers, and Cardinal Charles will occupy the rooms of the duke of Montmorency.’

Clever, Alison thought. ‘So the Guise family will have the king and the palace.’

Pierre looked pleased with himself, and Alison guessed that might have been his idea.

She added: ‘So you have effectively neutralized the rival faction.’

Pierre said: ‘There is no rival faction.’

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Silly me.’

He looked at her with something like respect. That pleased her, and she realized that she was drawn to this clever, confident young man. You and I could be allies, she thought; and perhaps something more. Living most of her life at the French court, she had come to regard marriage the way noblemen did, as a strategic alliance rather than a bond of love. She and Pierre Aumande might be a formidable couple. And, after all, it would be no hardship to wake up in the morning next to a man who looked like that.

The party went down the grand staircase, crossed the hall, and walked out onto the steps.

Outside the gate, a crowd of Parisians waited to see what was going to happen. They cheered when they saw Francis. They, too, knew he would soon be their king.

Carriages stood in the forecourt, guarded by more of the Guises’ bully boys. Alison noticed that the vehicles were placed so that everyone in the crowd would see who got in.

Gaston Le Pin opened the door of the first carriage. The duke of Guise walked slowly forward with Francis. The crowd knew Scarface and they could all see that he had the king in his charge. This had been carefully choreographed, Alison realized.

Francis walked to the carriage, went up the single step, and got inside without making a fool of himself, to Alison’s great relief.

Caterina and Mary went next. At the step, Mary held back to let Caterina go first. But Caterina shook her head and waited.

Holding her head high, Mary got into the carriage.

Pierre asked his confessor: ‘Is it a sin to marry someone you don’t love?’

Father Moineau was a square-faced, heavy-set priest in his fifties. His study in the College des Ames contained more books than Sylvie’s father’s shop. He was a rather prissy intellectual, but he enjoyed the company of young men, and he was popular with the students. He knew all about the work Pierre was doing for Cardinal Charles.

‘Certainly not,’ Moineau said. His voice was a rich baritone somewhat roughened by a fondness for strong Canary wine. ‘Noblemen are obliged so to do. It might even be a sin for a king to marry someone he did love.’ He chuckled. He liked paradoxes, as did all the teachers.

But Pierre was in a serious mood. ‘I’m going to wreck Sylvie’s life.’

Moineau was fond of Pierre, and clearly would have liked their intimacy to be physical, but he had quickly understood that Pierre was not one of those men who loved men, and had never done anything more than pat him affectionately on the back. Now Moineau caught his tone and became sombre. ‘I see that,’ he said. ‘And you want to know whether you would be doing God’s will.’

‘Exactly.’ Pierre was not often troubled by his conscience, but he had never done anyone as much harm as he was about to do to Sylvie.

‘Listen to me,’ said Moineau. ‘Four years ago a terrible error was committed. It is known as the Pacification of Augsburg, and it is a treaty that allows individual German provinces to choose to follow the heresy of Lutheranism, if their ruler so wishes. For the first time, there are places in the world where it is not a crime to be a Protestant. This is a catastrophe for the Christian faith.’

Pierre said in Latin: ‘ Cuius regio, eius religio. ’ This was the slogan of the Augsburg treaty, and it meant: ‘Whose realm, his religion.’

Moineau continued: ‘In signing the agreement, the emperor Charles V hoped to end religious conflict. But what has happened? Earlier this year the accursed Queen Elizabeth of England imposed Protestantism on her wretched subjects, who are now deprived of the consolation of the sacraments. Tolerance is spreading. This is the horrible truth.’