A Column of Fire
Page 17
‘No, thank you,’ Véronique said with a touch of impatience.
He turned to Alison and bowed again, saying: ‘And I’m honoured to meet you, Miss McKay. I am Pierre Aumande. I have the honour to serve Mademoiselle de Guise’s Uncle Charles, the cardinal of Lorraine.’
‘Indeed?’ said Alison. ‘In what capacity?’
‘I help with his very extensive correspondence.’
It sounded as if Pierre was a mere clerk, in which case it was ambitious of him to set his cap at Véronique de Guise. However, sometimes fortune favoured the bold, and Monsieur Aumande certainly was bold.
Alison took the opportunity to shake off her shadow. ‘I mustn’t keep her majesty waiting,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Véronique.’ She slipped away before Véronique could reply.
She found the queen reclining on a divan. Beside her were half a dozen kittens, rolling and tumbling and chasing the end of a pink ribbon that Caterina dangled in front of them. She looked up and gave Alison a friendly smile, and Alison breathed a silent sigh of relief: she was not in trouble, it seemed.
Queen Caterina had been plain when young and now, in her fortieth year, she was also fat. But she loved dressing up, and today she wore a black dress covered with enormous pearls, unflattering but extravagant. She patted the divan and Alison sat down, with the kittens between them. Alison was pleased by this sign of intimacy. She picked up a tiny black-and-white kitten. It licked the jewel on her ring finger, then bit her in an exploratory way. Its little teeth were sharp, but its jaw was too weak for the bite to hurt.
‘How is the bride-to-be?’ Caterina asked.
‘Surprisingly calm,’ Alison answered, stroking the kitten. ‘A little nervous, but looking forward to tomorrow.’
‘Does she know that she will have to lose her virginity in front of witnesses?’
‘She does. She’s embarrassed, but she will bear it.’ Immediately the thought came into Alison’s head: If Francis is capable. She suppressed it for fear of offending Caterina.
But Caterina voiced the concern herself. ‘We don’t know whether poor Francis can do it.’
Alison said nothing: this was dangerous territory.
Caterina leaned forward and spoke in a low, intense voice. ‘Listen to me. Whatever happens, Mary must pretend that the marriage has been consummated.’
Alison was deeply gratified to be having this intimate, confidential conversation with the queen of France; but she foresaw problems. ‘That may be difficult.’
‘The witnesses will not be able to see everything.’
‘Still . . .’ Alison saw that the kitten had fallen asleep in her lap.
‘Francis must get on top of Mary, and either fuck her or pretend to fuck her.’
Alison was startled by Caterina’s blunt words, but she realized that this subject was too important for inexact euphemisms. ‘Who will tell Francis what to do?’ she said in the same practical vein.
‘I will. But you must talk to Mary. She trusts you.’
It was true, and Alison was pleased that the queen had noticed it. She felt proud. ‘What am I to say to Mary?’
‘She must announce, loudly, that she has lost her virginity.’
‘What if they decide to have the doctors examine her?’
‘We’re going take precautions. That’s why I’ve summoned you.’ Caterina took something small from her pocket. ‘Look at this.’ She handed it to Alison.
It was a tiny bag, no bigger than the ball of her thumb, made of some kind of soft leather, with a narrow neck folded over and tied with a little silk thread. ‘What is it?’
‘The bladder of a swan.’
Alison was mystified.
Caterina said: ‘It’s empty now. Tomorrow evening I will give it to you filled with blood. The thread will be tied tightly to prevent a leak. Mary must conceal the bladder under her nightdress. After the act – real or pretended – she must pull the thread and spill the blood on the sheets, then make sure everyone sees it.’
Alison nodded. This was good. Blood on the sheets was the traditional proof of consummation. Everyone would know what it meant, and no further doubts need be entertained.
This was how women such as Caterina exercised power, she realized with admiration. They moved cleverly but invisibly, working behind the scenes, managing events while the men imagined they had total control.
Caterina said: ‘Will Mary do it?’
‘Yes,’ Alison said confidently. Mary did not lack courage. ‘But . . . the witnesses may see the bladder.’
‘When it has been emptied, Mary must push it up her cunt as far as it will go, and leave it there until she gets a private moment to throw it away.’
‘I hope it doesn’t fall out.’
‘It won’t – I know.’ Caterina gave a humourless smile. ‘Mary will not be the first girl to use this trick.’
‘All right.’
Caterina took the kitten from Alison’s lap, and it opened its eyes. ‘Have you got everything clear?’
Alison stood up. ‘Oh, yes. It’s quite straightforward. It will take nerve, but Mary has plenty of that. She won’t let you down.’
Caterina smiled. ‘Good. Thank you.’
Alison thought of something, and frowned. ‘The blood will need to be fresh. Where will you get it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Caterina tied the pink ribbon in a bow around the neck of the black-and-white kitten. ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said.
*
PIERRE CHOSE the day of the royal wedding to speak to Sylvie Palot’s formidable father about marrying his beloved daughter.
Everyone in Paris dressed up that morning, Sunday 24 April 1558. Pierre put on the blue doublet slashed to show the white silk lining. He knew that Sylvie liked that outfit. It was a lot more dashing than anything worn in her parents’ circle of sobersided friends. He suspected that his clothes were part of his appeal for her.
He left his college in the University district, on the left bank of the river, and walked north towards the Île de la Cité. Anticipation seemed to saturate the air of the narrow, crowded streets. Vendors of gingerbread, oysters, oranges and wine were setting up temporary stalls to take advantage of the crowds. A hawker offered him an eight-page printed pamphlet about the wedding, with a woodcut on the front purporting to show the happy couple, though the likenesses were approximate. Beggars, prostitutes and street musicians were heading the same way as Pierre. Paris loved a pageant.
Pierre was pleased about the royal wedding. It was a coup for the Guise family. Mary’s uncles, Duke Scarface and Cardinal Charles, were already powerful, but they had rivals: the linked families of Montmorency and Bourbon were their enemies. However, the marriage would boost the Guises above the others. In the natural course of events, their niece Mary would become the queen of France, and then the Guises would be part of the royal family.
Pierre yearned to share in their power. For that, he needed to do a great job for Cardinal Charles. He had already collected the names of many Paris Protestants, some of them friends of Sylvie’s family. He listed them all in a notebook with a leather cover – black, appropriately, since everyone in it was liable to be burned at the stake. But what Charles wanted to know most of all was where the Protestants held their services, and Pierre had not yet discovered the address of a single clandestine church.
He was getting desperate. The cardinal had paid him for the names he had handed over, but had promised a bonus for a location. And it was not just the money, though Pierre was always in dire need of that. Charles had other spies: Pierre did not know how many, but he knew he did not want to be just one of the team – he had to stand out as incomparably the best. He must become not just useful but essential to the cardinal.
Sylvie and her family disappeared every Sunday afternoon, undoubtedly to attend a Protestant service somewhere; but, frustratingly, Giles Palot had not yet invited Pierre to go along, despite increasingly broad hints. So today Pierre planned a drastic step. He was going to propo
se to Sylvie. He reckoned that if the family accepted him as Sylvie’s fiancé they would have to take him to services.
He had already asked Sylvie: she was ready to marry him tomorrow. But her father was not so easily fooled. Pierre would speak to Giles today, Sylvie had agreed. It was a good day for a proposal. The royal wedding would put everyone in a romantic mood – perhaps even Giles.
Pierre had no intention of marrying Sylvie, of course. A Protestant wife would end his nascent career with the Guise family. Besides, he did not even like her: she was too earnest. No, he needed a wife who would lift him up the social ladder. He had his eye on Véronique de Guise, a member of an obscure branch of the family and, he guessed, a girl who understood aspiration. If he became engaged to Sylvie today, he would have to rack his brains for reasons to postpone the marriage. But he would think of something.
In the back of his mind a quiet but irritating voice pointed out that he was going to break the heart of a perfectly nice young woman, which was wicked and cruel. His previous victims, such as the Widow Bauchene, had been more or less asking to be cheated, but Sylvie had done nothing to deserve what was happening to her. She had just fallen in love with the man Pierre was skilfully pretending to be.
The voice would not change his plans. He was on the high road to fortune and power, and such quibbles could not be allowed to get in his way. The voice remarked how much he had changed since he had left Thonnance-lès-Joinville and gone to Paris; it almost seemed as if he was becoming a different person. I hope so, he thought; I used to be nothing but the bastard son of a poor country priest, but I’m going to be a man of consequence.
He crossed the Petit Pont to the City, the island in the Seine river where the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris stood. Francis and Mary would be married in the square before the west front of the great church. An enormous scaffold stage had been built for the ceremony, twelve feet high and running from the archbishop’s palace across the square to the cathedral door, so that the people of Paris could watch the ceremony but would be unable to touch the royal family and their guests. Spectators were already gathering around the stage, making sure of positions with clear views. At the cathedral end was a billowing canopy made of countless yards of blue silk embroidered with fleurs-de-lys to keep the sun off the bridal couple. Pierre shuddered to think of the cost.
Pierre saw Scarface, the duke of Guise, on the stage: he was master of ceremonies today. He appeared to be arguing with some minor gentlemen who had come early to secure good places, ordering them to move. Pierre went close to the stage and bowed deeply to Duke François, but the duke did not see him.
Pierre made his way to the row of houses north of the cathedral. Giles Palot’s bookshop was closed for the Sabbath, and the street door was locked, but Pierre knew his way to the factory entrance at the back.
Sylvie came running down the stairs to greet him. That gave them a few seconds unobserved in the silent print shop. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with her mouth open.
He found it surprisingly difficult to fake reciprocal passion. He tongued her energetically, and squeezed her breasts through the bodice of her dress, but he felt no arousal.
She broke the kiss to say excitedly: ‘He’s in a good mood! Come on up.’
Pierre followed her to the living quarters on the upstairs floor. Giles and his wife, Isabelle, were seated at the table with Guillaume.
Giles was an ox, all neck and shoulders. He looked as if he could lift a house. Pierre knew, from hints dropped by Sylvie, that Giles could be violent with his family and with his apprentices. What would happen if Giles ever found out that Pierre was a Catholic spy? He tried not to think about it.
Pierre bowed to Giles first, acknowledging his position as head of the family, and said: ‘Good morning, Monsieur Palot. I hope I find you well.’ Giles replied with a grunt, which was not particularly offensive as it was how he greeted everyone.
Isabelle was more responsive to Pierre’s charm. She smiled when he kissed her hand, and invited him to sit down. Like her daughter, Isabelle had a straight nose and a strong chin, features that suggested strength of character. People probably called her handsome, but not pretty, and Pierre could imagine her being seductive, in the right mood. Mother and daughter were alike in personality, determined and bold.
Guillaume was a mystery. A pale man of twenty-five, he had an aura of intensity. He had come to the bookshop on the same day as Pierre, and had immediately moved into the family quarters upstairs. His fingers were inky, and Isabelle said vaguely that he was a student, though he was not attached to any of the colleges in the Sorbonne, and Pierre had never seen him in a class. Whether he was a paying lodger or an invited guest was not clear. In conversation with Pierre he gave nothing away. Pierre would have liked to press his questions, but he was afraid of seeming to pry and thereby arousing suspicion.
As Pierre walked into the room he had noticed Guillaume closing a book, with a casual air that was not quite convincing; and it now lay on the table with Guillaume’s hand resting on top, as if to prevent anyone opening it. Perhaps he had been reading aloud to the rest of the family. Pierre’s intuition told him the book was an illicit Protestant volume. He pretended not to notice.
When the greetings were over, Sylvie said: ‘Pierre has something to say to you, Papa.’ She was unfailingly direct.
Giles said: ‘Well, go ahead, lad.’
Pierre hated to be condescended to with words such as ‘lad’, but this was not the moment to show it.
Sylvie said: ‘Perhaps you’d rather talk in private.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Giles.
Pierre would have preferred privacy, but he put on a show of insouciance. ‘I’d be happy to be heard by everyone.’
‘All right, then,’ said Giles, and Guillaume, who had half stood up, sat down again.
Pierre said: ‘Monsieur Palot, I humbly ask permission to marry Sylvie.’
Isabelle gave a little cry – not of surprise, presumably, since she must have seen this coming; perhaps of pleasure. Pierre caught a shocked look from Guillaume and wondered whether he harboured secret romantic thoughts of Sylvie. Giles just looked annoyed that his peaceful Sunday had been disturbed.
With a barely suppressed sigh, Giles turned his mind to the task now before him: the interrogation of Pierre. ‘You’re a student,’ he said derisively. ‘How can you propose marriage?’
‘I understand your concern,’ Pierre said amiably. He was not going to be blown off course by mere rudeness. He began to tell lies, which was what he was good at. ‘My mother owns a little land in Champagne – just a few vineyards, but the rents are good, so we have an income.’ His mother was the penniless housekeeper of a country priest, and Pierre lived on his wits. ‘When my studies are over, I hope to follow the profession of lawyer, and my wife will be well looked after.’ That part was closer to the truth.
Giles did not comment on that response, but asked another question. ‘What is your religion?’
‘I’m a Christian seeking enlightenment.’ Pierre had anticipated Giles’s questions and rehearsed the deceitful answers. He hoped they did not come out too pat.
‘Tell me about the enlightenment you seek.’
It was a shrewd question. Pierre could not simply claim to be a Protestant, for he had never been part of a congregation. But he needed to make it clear that he was ready to convert. ‘I’m concerned by two things,’ he said, trying to sound thoughtfully troubled. ‘First, the Mass. We’re taught that the bread and wine are transformed into the body and blood of Jesus. But they do not look like flesh and blood, nor smell or taste like it, so in what sense are they transformed? It seems like pseudo-philosophy to me.’ Pierre had heard these arguments put by fellow-students who leaned towards Protestantism. Personally, he found it barely comprehensible that men should quarrel over such abstractions.
Giles surely agreed wholeheartedly with the argument, but he did not say so. ‘What’s the second thing?’
‘You can be thrown in jail for saying these things. How dare you utter heresy in my house?’ Giles’s indignation was poorly acted, but somehow no less threatening for that.
Sylvie said bravely: ‘Don’t pretend, Papa, he knows what we are.’
Giles looked angry. ‘Did you tell him?’ He clenched a meaty fist.
Pierre said hastily: ‘She didn’t tell me. It’s obvious.’
Giles reddened. ‘Obvious?’
‘To anyone who looks around – at all the things missing from your home. There is no crucifix over your bed, no statue of the Virgin in a niche by the door, no painting of the Holy Family above the mantelpiece. Your wife has no pearls sewn into the fabric of her best dress, although you could afford a few. Your daughter wears a brown coat.’ He reached across the table with a swift movement and snatched the book from under Guillaume’s hand. Opening it, he said: ‘And you read the Gospel of St Matthew in French on a Sunday morning.’
Guillaume spoke for the first time. ‘Are you going to denounce us?’ He looked scared.
‘No, Guillaume. If that was my intention, I would have come here with officers of the city guard.’ Pierre returned his gaze to Giles. ‘I want to join you. I want to become a Protestant. And I want to marry Sylvie.’
Sylvie said: ‘Please say yes, Papa.’ She knelt in front of her father. ‘Pierre loves me and I love him. We’re going to be so happy together. And Pierre will join us in our work of spreading the true gospel.’
Giles’s fist unclenched and his colour returned to normal. He said to Pierre: ‘Will you?’
‘Yes,’ said Pierre. ‘If you’ll have me.’
Giles looked at his wife. Isabelle gave an almost imperceptible nod. Pierre suspected that she was the real power in this family, despite appearances. Giles smiled – a rare thing – and spoke to Sylvie. ‘Very well, then. Marry Pierre, and may God bless your union.’