by Ken Follett
Sylvie jumped up, hugged her father, then exuberantly kissed Pierre. By coincidence there was a cheer from the crowd in front of the cathedral. ‘They approve of our engagement,’ Pierre said, and everyone laughed.
They all went to the windows, which overlooked the square. The wedding procession was moving along the scaffolded stage. It was led by a company of soldiers known as the Hundred Swiss, identifiable by their striped sleeves and the feathers in their helmets. As Pierre watched, a large group of musicians came into view, playing flutes and drums, then the gentlemen of the court, every one of them in new clothes, a riot of red, gold, bright blue, yellow and lavender. Sylvie said excitedly: ‘It’s as if they’re doing it for you and me, Pierre!’
The crowd fell silent and bowed their heads as the bishops appeared carrying jewelled crucifixes and holy relics housed in gorgeous gold reliquaries. Pierre spotted Cardinal Charles in his red robes bearing a gold chalice decorated with precious stones.
At last the bridegroom appeared. The fourteen-year-old Francis looked terrified. He was thin and frail, and all the jewels in his hat and coat could not make him into a kingly figure. Beside him was King Antoine of Navarre, head of the Bourbon family, the enemies of the Guises. Pierre guessed that someone – perhaps the ever-careful Queen Caterina – had given Antoine this privileged placement as a counterweight to the Guise family, who threatened to dominate the ceremony.
Then the spectators went wild to see the king himself, Henri II, and their war hero, Duke Scarface, walking on either side of the bride.
She wore a dress of pure white.
‘White?’ said Isabelle, standing behind Pierre and looking over his shoulder. White was the colour of mourning. ‘She’s wearing white?’
*
ALISON MCKAY HAD been against the white wedding dress. White was the colour of mourning in France. She feared it would shock people. And it made Mary Stuart look even paler than usual. But Mary could be stubborn, and was as opinionated as any fifteen-year-old, especially about clothing. She had wanted white, and would not even discuss alternatives.
And it had worked. The silk seemed to glow with the purity of Mary’s virginity. Over it she wore a mantle of pale blue-grey velvet that shimmered in the April sunlight like the surface of the river that ran alongside the cathedral. The train, of the same material, was heavy, as Alison knew well, for she was one of the two girls carrying it.
Mary wore a golden coronet studded with diamonds, pearls, rubies and sapphires: Alison guessed she must be desperate to take the weight off her head. Around her neck Mary had an enormous jewelled pendant that she had named ‘Great Harry’ because it was a gift from King Henri.
With her red hair and white skin Mary looked like an angel, and the people loved her. As she advanced on the raised platform, holding the king’s arm, the roar of approval moved like a slow wave along the massed ranks of spectators, keeping pace with the progress of the bride.
Alison was a minor figure in this galaxy of royal and noble people, but she basked in the reflected glory of her best friend. Mary and Alison had talked and dreamed of their weddings for as long as she could remember, but this outshone anything they had imagined. It was the justification of Mary’s existence. Alison rejoiced for her friend and for herself.
They reached the canopied dais where the groom was waiting.
When the bride and groom stood side by side it was comically obvious that she was a foot taller than he, and there was laughter and some jeering from unruly elements in the crowd. Then the couple knelt down in front of the archbishop of Rouen, and the tableau became less risible.
The king took a ring from his own finger and handed it to the archbishop, and the ceremony began.
Mary made her responses loudly and clearly, while Francis spoke in a low voice so that the crowd would not laugh at his stammer.
Alison recalled, in a flash of memory, that Mary had been wearing white the first time they met. Both Alison’s parents had just died of the plague, and she was living in the cold house of her widowed Aunt Janice, a friend of Mary’s mother, Marie de Guise. As a kindness, the new orphan was taken to play with the four-year-old queen of Scotland. Mary’s nursery was a place of blazing fires and soft cushions and beautiful toys, and while there Alison could forget that she had no mother.
Her visits became frequent. Little Mary looked up to her six-year-old friend. Alison felt rescued from the solemn atmosphere of Aunt Janice’s house. After a happy year, they were told that Mary was going away, to live in France. Alison was heartbroken. But Mary, showing early signs of the imperious adult she would become, threw a tantrum and insisted that Alison had to go to France with her; and in the end she got her way.
They had shared a bunk on the rough sea voyage, clinging together for comfort at night, something they still did when they were troubled or scared. They had held hands as they met dozens of colourfully dressed French people who laughed at them for speaking the guttural Scots dialect. Everything was frighteningly strange, and it was the older Alison’s turn to be Mary’s rescuer, helping her learn unfamiliar French words and refined court manners, comforting her when she cried at night. Alison knew that neither of them would ever forget their childhood devotion to one another.
The ceremony came to an end. At last the gold ring was placed on Mary’s finger and they were declared man and wife, and a cheer went up.
At that point two royal heralds carrying leather bags began to toss handfuls of money into the crowd. The people roared their approval. Men leaped into the air to catch the coins, then fell to the ground, scrabbling for those that had escaped their grasp. People in other parts of the square clamoured for their share. Fights broke out. The fallen were trampled while those who remained standing were crushed. Injured ones screamed in pain. Alison found it distasteful, but many of the noble wedding guests laughed uproariously as the commoners fought viciously for loose change: they thought it was better than a bullfight. The heralds threw money until their bags were empty.
The archbishop led the way into the cathedral for the wedding Mass, followed by the newlyweds, two people hardly more than children who were now trapped in a marriage that was hopelessly wrong for both of them. Alison walked behind them, carrying Mary’s train. As they all passed out of the sunshine into the cold gloom of the enormous church, she reflected that royal children enjoyed every good thing in life, except freedom.
*
SYLVIE HELD PIERRE’S arm possessively as they walked south across the Petit Pont bridge. He belonged to her now. She would hold his arm for ever. He was clever, as clever as her father and so much more charming. And wonderfully handsome, with his thick hair and hazel eyes and winning smile. She even liked his clothes, though she felt guilty about being attracted by the flamboyant kind of garments that Protestants disdained.
Most of all, she loved him because he was as serious as she was about the true gospel. All on his own he had come to question the treacherous teachings of Catholic priests. With only a little encouragement from her he had seen his way to the truth. And he was willing to risk his life by coming with her to a secret Protestant church.
The wedding was over, the crowds had dispersed, and the Palot family, now including Pierre Aumande, were heading for their own, Protestant, church.
Now that Sylvie was engaged, she found that she had new worries. What would it be like to lie with Pierre? Her mother had told her, years ago when her monthly cycles began, what men and women did in bed together, but Isabelle had been uncharacteristically coy about how it made her feel. Sylvie was eager to find out, to have Pierre’s hands all over her naked body, to feel his weight on top of her, to see what his private parts looked like.
She had won him, but could she hold his love for a lifetime? Isabelle said that Giles had never even flirted with anyone else, but some men did lose interest in their wives after a time, and Pierre was always going to be attractive to other women. Sylvie might have to work hard to keep him as enchanted as he was now. Their faith
would help, especially as they would be working together to spread the gospel.
When would they wed? She wanted to do it as soon as possible. Pierre had mentioned that he would like to bring his mother here from Champagne for the ceremony, if she was well enough to travel. He had been a bit vague, and Sylvie hesitated to press him, feeling bashful about being so impatient.
Isabelle was delighted about the engagement. Sylvie had a feeling that Mama would quite like to marry Pierre herself. Not really, of course, but still . . .
Papa was more pleased than he wanted to reveal, Sylvie guessed. He seemed relaxed and good-tempered, which was the nearest he ever got to happy.
Guillaume was in a sour frame of mind, and Sylvie realized he must be attracted to her himself. Perhaps he had nurtured secret plans to propose. Well, he was too late. If she had never met Pierre she might, perhaps, have liked Guillaume, who was clever and serious. But he would never have looked at her in a way that made her feel that her head was spinning and her legs were weak and she needed to sit down.
What pleased her most was how happy Pierre was this morning. He walked with an eager step, he smiled constantly, and he made her laugh with wry observations about the people and buildings they passed as they walked along the rue St Jacques through the University district. He was visibly delighted to be engaged to her.
She also knew that he was glad to be invited to a Protestant service at last. More than once he had asked her where her church was, and he had looked hurt when she said she was not allowed to tell him. Now the secrecy could be dropped.
She was impatient to show him off. She felt proud of him and looked forward to introducing him to everyone. They were sure to like him. She hoped he would like them.
They walked out through the St Jacques gate and into the suburbs, where they turned off the road onto a barely perceptible track into a wood. A hundred yards along, out of sight of the road, stood two burly men who had the air of guards even though they did not carry weapons. Giles nodded to them, then jerked a thumb at Pierre and said: ‘He’s with us.’ The group walked past the guards without pausing.
Pierre said to Sylvie: ‘Who are those men?’
‘They stop anyone they don’t know,’ she explained. ‘If casual strollers wander randomly in this direction, they’re told the wood is private.’
‘And whose wood is it?’
‘It belongs to the marquess of Nîmes.’
‘Is he one of the congregation?’
She hesitated. But she could tell him now. No more secrets. ‘Yes.’
There were many aristocratic Protestants, Sylvie knew. They could be burned at the stake just like anyone else; although, for heresy as for any crime, noblemen had more chance of escaping punishment through the intervention of powerful friends.
The little group came to what looked like a disused hunting lodge. The lower windows were shuttered, and the weeds flourishing around the main door showed that it had not been opened for years.
Sylvie knew that in a few French towns, where Protestants formed a majority, they had taken over real churches and held services openly, albeit protected by armed guards. But that was not the case in Paris. The capital city was a Catholic stronghold, full of people who made their living serving the Church and the monarchy. Protestants were hated here.
They went around the building to a small side door and entered a great hall where, Sylvie guessed, lavish picnics had once been spread for hunting parties. Now it was silent and dim. Chairs and benches were set out in rows facing a table with a white cloth. About a hundred people were present. As always, there was bread on a plain crockery plate and wine in a jug.
Giles and Isabelle took their seats, and Sylvie and Pierre followed. Guillaume took a single chair facing the congregation.
Pierre whispered: ‘So Guillaume is a priest?’
‘Pastor,’ Sylvie corrected him. ‘But he’s a visitor. Bernard is the regular pastor.’ She pointed to a tall, solemn-looking man in his fifties with thinning grey hair.
‘Is the marquess here?’
Sylvie looked around and spotted the portly figure of the marquess of Nîmes. ‘Front row,’ she murmured. ‘Big white collar.’
‘Is that his daughter, in the dark green cloak and hat?’
‘No, that’s the marchioness, Louise.’
‘She’s young.’
‘Twenty. She’s his second wife.’
The Mauriac family were there, Luc and Jeanne and their son, Georges, Sylvie’s admirer. Sylvie noticed Georges staring at Pierre with surprise and envy. She saw by his face that he knew he could not compete with Pierre. She permitted herself a sinful moment of pride. Pierre was so much more desirable than Georges.
They began by singing a psalm. Pierre whispered: ‘No choir?’
‘We are the choir.’ Sylvie loved being able to sing hymns in French at the top of her voice. It was one of the joys of being a follower of the true gospel. In normal churches she felt like a spectator at a performance, but here she was a participant.
Pierre said: ‘You have a beautiful voice.’
It was true, she knew; in fact, it was so good that she was frequently in danger of the sin of pride on that account.
Prayers and Bible readings followed, all in French; then communion. Here the bread and wine were not actually flesh and blood, just symbols, which seemed so much more sensible. Finally, Guillaume preached a fiery sermon about the wickedness of Pope Paul IV. Eighty-one years old, Paul was an intolerant conservative who had beefed up the Inquisition and forced Jews in Rome to wear yellow hats. He was hated by Catholics as well as Protestants.
When the service was over, the chairs were moved into a rough circle, and a different kind of meeting began. ‘This part is called fellowship,’ Sylvie explained to Pierre. ‘We exchange news and discuss all sorts of things. Women are allowed to speak.’
It began with Guillaume making an announcement that surprised Sylvie and everyone else: he was leaving Paris.
He was pleased, he said, that he had been able to help Pastor Bernard and the elders to restructure the congregation along the lines laid down by John Calvin in Geneva. The remarkable spread of Protestantism in France in the last few years was in part due to tight organization and discipline in Calvinist communities such as this one in the Paris suburb of St Jacques. Guillaume was especially thrilled that they had had the confidence to discuss holding the first national Protestant synod the following year.
But he had an itinerant mission, and other congregations needed him. He would be gone by next Sunday.
They had not expected him to stay for ever, but this was abrupt. He had not talked about his departure at all until now. Sylvie could not help thinking that the reason for his sudden decision might be her engagement. She told herself she was veering dangerously close to vanity, and she said a quick prayer for more humility.
Luc Mauriac introduced a note of conflict. ‘I’m sorry you’re leaving us so soon, Guillaume, because there is an important matter that we haven’t yet discussed: the question of heresy within our movement.’ Luc had the chin-up pugnaciousness of many small men, but in fact he was an advocate of tolerance. He went on: ‘Many of us in this congregation were shocked when Calvin ordered that Michel Servet should be burned at the stake.’
Sylvie knew what he was talking about, as did everyone else in the room. Servet was a Protestant intellectual who had clashed with Calvin over the doctrine of the Trinity. He had been executed in Geneva, to the dismay of Protestants such as Luc Mauriac, who had believed it was only Catholics who would kill those who disagreed with them.
Guillaume said impatiently: ‘That happened five years ago.’
‘But the question remains unresolved.’
Sylvie nodded vigorously. She felt passionately about this. Protestants demanded tolerance from kings and bishops who disagreed with them: how could they then persecute others? Yet there were many who wanted to be as harsh as the Catholics, or worse.
Guillaume waved a dismi
ssive hand. ‘There must be discipline within our movement.’ He clearly did not want to have this argument.
His glib tone infuriated Sylvie, and she said loudly: ‘But we should not kill one another.’ She did not normally say anything during fellowship. Although women could speak, youngsters were not encouraged to voice their opinions. But Sylvie was almost a married woman now and, anyway, she could not remain silent while this issue was the topic. She went on: ‘When Servet fought with reason and writing, he should have been repulsed by reason and writing – not violence!’
Luc Mauriac nodded enthusiastic agreement, pleased to be supported so energetically; though some of the older women looked disapproving.
Guillaume said disdainfully: ‘Those words are not yours: you’re quoting Castellio – another heretic.’
He was right: Sylvie was repeating a sentence from Sebastian Castellio’s pamphlet Should Heretics be Persecuted?, but she had other resources. She read the books her father printed, and she knew as much as Guillaume about the works of Protestant theologians. ‘I’ll quote Calvin, if you like,’ she said. ‘Calvin wrote: “It is unchristian to use arms against those who have been expelled from the Church.” Of course, that was when he himself was being persecuted as a heretic.’
She saw several people frown censoriously, and she realized she had gone a little too far, in implying hypocrisy on the part of the great John Calvin.
Guillaume said: ‘You’re too young to understand.’
‘Too young?’ Sylvie was outraged. ‘You never said I was too young to risk my life selling copies of the books you bring from Geneva!’
Several people began speaking at once, and Pastor Bernard stood up to appeal for calm. ‘We’re not going to resolve this issue in one afternoon,’ he said. ‘Let us ask Guillaume to communicate our concerns to John Calvin when he returns to Geneva.’
Luc Mauriac was dissatisfied with that, and said: ‘But will Calvin answer us?’
‘Of course he will,’ Bernard said, without giving any reason why he felt so confident. ‘And now let us close our fellowship with a final prayer.’ He shut his eyes, tilted his face up to heaven, and began to pray extempore.
