Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

She realized that she had failed to plan ahead. What was she going to do now? She thought with horror of the profession she had almost taken up back in the winter, when she and her mother had been close to starving. Never again, she vowed.

On her way home she passed through Les Halles, the district where Pierre lived. Despite her loathing of Pierre, she tried to keep an eye on him. His master, Cardinal Charles, was responsible for the royal crackdown on Paris Protestants, and Sylvie felt sure Pierre must still be involved in finding them. He could no longer be a spy himself, because so many people knew who he was, but he was probably a spymaster.

Sylvie had discreetly watched Pierre’s house, and talked to people in the nearby tavern of St Étienne. Members of the Guise household guard often drank there, and she sometimes picked up useful chatter about what the family was up to. She had also learned that Pierre had remarried quickly after the annulment. He now had a wife called Odette, a baby boy called Alain, and a maid called Nath: the tavern gossip was that both Odette and Nath hated Pierre. Sylvie had not yet spoken to Odette or Nath, but she was on nodding terms, and she hoped they might one day be persuaded to betray his secrets. Meanwhile, Pierre was watched at court by the young marchioness of Nîmes, who kept a note of the people she saw him talking to. So far her only moderately interesting identification had been Gaston Le Pin, the captain of the Guise family guard, who was too well known to have a clandestine role.

When she got home and told her mother they were out of Bibles, Isabelle said: ‘We could forget about the books, and just sell stationery.’

‘The stationery doesn’t make enough money,’ Sylvie said. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to spend my life selling paper and ink. We have a mission to enable our fellow men and women to read God’s word for themselves, and to find their way to the true gospel. I want to go on doing that.’

Her mother smiled. ‘Good girl.’

‘But how will I get the books? We can’t print them. Father’s machinery belongs to someone else now.’

‘There must be other Protestant printers in Paris.’

‘There are — I’ve seen their books in customers’ homes. And we’ve got plenty of money from past sales to buy new stock. But I can’t find out where the printers are — it’s a secret, obviously. Anyway, they can sell the books themselves, so why would they need me?’

‘There’s only one place where it’s possible to buy large quantities of Protestant books, and that’s Geneva.’ Isabelle said it as if Geneva were as remote as the moon.

But Sylvie was not easily discouraged. ‘How far is it?’

‘You can’t go! It’s a long way, and a dangerous journey. And you’ve never travelled farther than the outskirts of Paris.’

Sylvie pretended to be less daunted than she felt. ‘Other people do it. Remember Guillaume?’

‘Of course I remember him. You should have married him.’

‘I should never have married anyone. How do people get from Paris to Geneva?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Maybe Luc Mauriac will know.’ Sylvie knew the Mauriac family well.

Isabelle nodded. ‘He’s a cargo broker.’

‘I’ve never understood exactly what a cargo broker does.’

‘Imagine that a captain comes from Bordeaux and up the Seine river to Paris with a cargo of wine. Then he gets a shipment of cloth to take back to Bordeaux, but it fills only half of his hold. He doesn’t want to wait around, he needs another half-cargo as soon as possible. So he goes to Luc, who knows every merchant in Paris and every port in Europe. Luc will find the captain a load of coal, or leather, or fashionable hats, that someone in Bordeaux wants.’

‘So Luc knows how to go everywhere, including Geneva.’

‘He’ll tell you that a young woman can’t possibly do it.’

‘The days of men telling me what I can and can’t do are over.’

Isabelle stared at her. To Sylvie’s astonishment, tears came to her mother’s eyes. ‘You’re so brave,’ Isabelle said. ‘I can hardly believe you came from me.’

Sylvie was moved by her mother’s emotion. She managed to say: ‘But I’m just like you.’

Isabelle shook her head. ‘As the cathedral is like the parish church, perhaps.’

Sylvie was not sure how to respond to Isabelle. A parent was not supposed to look up to a child: it should be the other way around. After an awkward moment she said: ‘It’s time to go to the service.’

The congregation from the hunting lodge had found a new location for what they sometimes called their temple. Sylvie and Isabelle entered a large yard where horses and carriages could be hired. They were wearing drab clothes so that they did not look dressed up for church. The business, owned by a Protestant, was closed today, Sunday, but the doors were not locked. They entered the stable, a big stone building. A burly young groom was combing a horse’s mane. He looked hard at them, ready to challenge them, then recognized them and stepped aside to let them pass.

At the back of the stable a door opened on a concealed staircase leading up to a large attic. This was where the group worshipped. As always, the room was bare of pictures or statues and furnished simply with chairs and benches. One great advantage here was that there were no windows, so the room was soundproof. Sylvie had stood outside in the street while the congregation sang at the tops of their voices and had not been able to hear anything more than a distant strain of music that might have come from any one of several nearby religious buildings: the parish church, a monastery, or a college.

Everyone in the room knew Sylvie. She was a pivotal member of the congregation because of her role as the bookseller. In addition, during the discussion sessions that they called fellowship she often expressed trenchant views, especially on the emotive subject of tolerance. Her views, like her singing voice, could not go unnoticed. She would never be an elder, for that role was reserved for men, but, nevertheless, she was treated as one of the leaders.

She and her mother took front-row seats. Sylvie loved Protestant services — although, unlike many of her co-worshippers, she did not despise the Catholic rites: she understood that for many people the whiff of incense, the Latin words and the eerie singing of a choir were part of the spiritual experience. However, she was moved by other things: plain language, logical beliefs and hymns that she could sing herself.

All the same, today she found herself impatient for the service to end. Luc Mauriac was in the congregation with his family and she was eager to question him.

She did not forget business. Immediately after the final Amen, she gave her last French Bible to Françoise Duboeuf, the tailor’s young wife, and took five livres in payment.

Then she was approached by Louise, the young marchioness of Nîmes. ‘The court is moving to Orléans,’ Louise said.

It was normal for the king and his entourage to move around the country from time to time. ‘Perhaps there will be a respite for Parisian Protestants,’ Sylvie said hopefully. ‘What’s happening in Orléans?’

‘The king has called a meeting of the Estates-General there.’ This was a traditional national assembly. ‘Cardinal Charles and Pierre Aumande are going with the court.’

Sylvie frowned. ‘I wonder what new mischief those two devils are planning.’

‘Whatever it is, it won’t be good for us.’

‘Lord protect us.’

‘Amen.’

Sylvie left Louise and sought out Luc. ‘I need to go to Geneva,’ she said.

Luc was a small man with a jolly manner, but he frowned disapprovingly. ‘May I ask why, Sylvie? Or Thérèse, I should say.’