Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Now at last the opportunity had arrived, but she had to handle it right. She could not be too eager or too obvious. All the same, she would have to take risks.

‘You’re not the only one who hates Pierre,’ she said cautiously. ‘They say he is the main spy behind the persecution of Protestants.’ This was not inside information: half Paris knew it.

‘It’s true,’ Nath said. ‘He’s got a list.’

Sylvie felt suddenly breathless. Of course he had a list, but what did Nath know about it? ‘A list?’ Sylvie said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. ‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve seen it. A black notebook, full of names and addresses.’

This was gold dust. It would be risky to try to subvert Nath, but the reward was irresistible. Making an instant decision, Sylvie took the plunge. Pretending to speak light-heartedly, she said: ‘If you want revenge, you should give the notebook to the Protestants.’

‘I would if I had the courage.’

Sylvie thought: Would you, really? How would you square that with your conscience? She said carefully: ‘That would go against the Church, wouldn’t it?’

‘I believe in God,’ Nath said. ‘But God isn’t in the church.’

Sylvie could hardly breathe. ‘How can you say that?’

‘I was fucked by the parish priest when I was eleven. I didn’t even have any hair between my legs. Was God there? I don’t think so.’

Sylvie emptied her cup, put it down, and said: ‘I’ve got a friend who would pay ten gold ecus for a look at that notebook.’ Sylvie could find the money: the business made a profit, and her mother would agree that this was a good way to spend it.

Nath’s eyes widened. ‘Ten gold ecus?’ It was more than she earned in a year — much more.

Sylvie nodded. Then she added a moral justification to the monetary incentive. ‘I suppose my friend thinks she might save a lot of people from being burned to death.’

Nath was more interested in the money. ‘But do you mean it about the ten ecus?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’ Sylvie pretended to realize suddenly that Nath was speaking seriously. ‘But surely... you couldn’t get hold of the notebook... could you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is it?’

‘He keeps it at the house.’

‘Where in the house?’

‘In a locked document chest.’

‘If the chest is locked, how could you get the notebook?’

‘I can unlock the chest.’

‘How?’

‘With a pin,’ said Nath.

The civil war was everything Pierre had hoped for. A year after the Massacre of Wassy the Catholics, led by Duke Scarface, were on the brink of winning. Early in 1563, Scarface besieged Orléans, the last Protestant stronghold, where Gaspard de Coligny was holed up. On 18 February, a Thursday, Scarface surveyed the defences and announced that the final attack would be launched tomorrow.

Pierre was with him, feeling that total victory was now within their grasp.

As dusk fell they headed back towards their quarters at the Château des Vaslins. Scarface was wearing a buff-coloured doublet and a hat with a tall white feather: too highly visible to be sensible battlefield clothing, but he was expecting to meet his wife, Anna, tonight. Their eldest son, Henri, now twelve years old, would also be at the château. Pierre had been careful to ingratiate himself with the duke’s heir ever since they had met, four years ago, at the tournament at which King Henri II had received his fatal eye wound.

They had to cross a small river by a ferry that took only three people. Pierre, Scarface and Gaston Le Pin stayed back while the others in the entourage led the horses across. Scarface said conversationally: ‘You’ve heard that Queen Caterina wants us to make peace.’

Pierre laughed scornfully. ‘You make peace when you’re losing, not when you’re winning.’

Scarface nodded. ‘Tomorrow we’ll take Orléans and secure the line of the river Loire. From there we will drive north into Normandy and crush the remnants of the Protestant army.’

‘And that’s what Caterina is afraid of,’ Pierre said. ‘When we’ve conquered the country and wiped out the Protestants, you, duke, will be more powerful than the king. You will rule France.’

And I will be one of your inner circle of advisors, he thought.

When all the horses were safe on the far bank, the three men boarded the little ferry. Pierre said: ‘I hear nothing from Cardinal Charles.’

Charles was in Italy, at the city of Trento, attending a council convened by Pope Pius IV. Scarface said contemptuously: ‘Talk, talk, talk. Meanwhile, we’re killing heretics.’

Pierre dared to differ. ‘We need to make sure the Church takes a tough line. Otherwise your triumphs could be undermined by weak men with notions of tolerance and compromise.’

The duke looked thoughtful. Both he and his brother listened when Pierre spoke. Pierre had proved the value of his political judgement several times, and he was no longer treated as a cheeky upstart. It gave him profound satisfaction to reflect on that.

Scarface opened his mouth to respond to Pierre’s point, then a shot rang out.

The bang seemed to come from the river bank they had just left. Pierre and Le Pin turned together. Although it was evening, Pierre saw the figure at the water’s edge quite clearly. It was that of a small man in his middle twenties with a dark complexion and a tuft of peaked hair in the middle of his forehead. A moment later he ran off, and Pierre saw that he clutched a pistol in his hand.

Duke Scarface collapsed.

Le Pin cursed and bent over him.

Pierre could see that the duke had taken a bullet in the back. It had been an easy shot from a short range, helped by the duke’s light-coloured clothing.

‘He’s alive,’ said Le Pin. He looked again at the bank, and Pierre guessed he was calculating whether he could wade or swim the few yards back and catch the shooter before he got away. Then they heard hoof beats, and realized that the man must have tethered a horse not far off. All their mounts were already on the opposite bank. Le Pin could not catch him now. The shooting had been planned well.

Le Pin shouted at the ferryman: ‘Forward, go forward!’ The man began to pole his raft more energetically, no doubt fearful that he might be accused of being in on the plot.

The wound was just below the duke’s right shoulder. The ball had probably missed the heart. Blood was oozing onto the buff-coloured doublet — a good sign, Pierre knew, for dead men did not bleed.

All the same, the duke might not recover. Even superficial wounds could become infected, causing fever and often death. Pierre could have wept. How could they lose their heroic leader when they were on the point of winning the war?

As the ferry approached the far bank, the men waiting there shouted a storm of questions. Pierre ignored them. He had questions of his own. What would happen if Scarface died?

Young Henri would become duke at the age of twelve, the same age as King Charles IX, and too young to take any part in the civil war. Cardinal Charles was too far away; Cardinal Louis was too drunk. The Guise family would lose all their influence in a moment. Power was terrifyingly fragile.

Pierre fought down despair and made himself continue to think ahead logically. With the Guise family helpless, Queen Caterina would make peace with Gaspard de Coligny and revive the edict of toleration, curse her. The Bourbons and the Montmorencys would be back in favour and the Protestants would be allowed to sing their psalms as loudly as they liked. Everything Pierre had striven for over the past five years would be wiped out.

Again he suppressed the feeling of hopeless despair. What could he do?

The first necessity was to preserve his position as key advisor to the family.