by Ken Follett
Heath left the chamber, followed by most of the Privy Council, and stood on the steps outside to repeat his proclamation to the waiting crowd.
He then announced that he would read it again in the city of London. But before he left he beckoned to Ned. ‘I expect you’ll ride to Hatfield now with the news,’ he said.
‘Yes, my lord archbishop.’
‘You may tell Queen Elizabeth that I will be with her before nightfall.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t stop to celebrate until after you have delivered the message.’
‘Certainly not, sir.’
Heath left.
Ned ran back to the Coach and Horses. A few minutes later he was on the road to Hatfield.
He had a good, steady mare which he trotted and walked alternately. He was afraid to push her too hard for fear she would break down. Speed was not crucial, as long as he got there before Heath.
He had set off at mid-morning, and it was mid-afternoon when he saw the red-brick gables of Hatfield Palace ahead.
Hopkins was there already, presumably, so everyone already knew that Queen Mary Tudor was dead. But no one knew who was the new monarch.
As he rode into the courtyard, several grooms shouted at once: ‘What’s the news?’
Ned decided that Elizabeth herself must be the first to know. He said nothing to the grooms and kept his face expressionless.
Elizabeth was in her parlour with Cecil, Tom Parry and Nell Baynsford. They all stared at him in tense silence as he walked in, still wearing his heavy riding cloak.
He walked up to Elizabeth. He tried to remain solemn, but he could not help smiling. She read his expression and he saw her lips move slightly in a responding smile.
‘You are the queen of England,’ he said. He took off his hat, bent his knee and made a deep, sweeping bow. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said.
*
We were happy, because we had no idea how much trouble we were causing. It was not just me, of course: I was the junior partner with others who were older and a good deal wiser. But none of us saw the future.
We had been warned. Rollo Fitzgerald had lectured me on how much opposition Queen Elizabeth would face, and what a pitiful few European leaders would support her. I paid him no heed, but he was right, the sanctimonious bastard.
What we did in that momentous year of 1558 caused political strife, revolt, civil war and invasion. There were times, in later years, when in the depths of despair I would wonder whether it had been worth it. The simple idea that people should be allowed to worship as they wished caused more suffering than the ten plagues of Egypt.
So, if I had known then what I know now, would I have done the same?
Hell, yes.
Part Two
1559 to 1563
9
Strolling along the southern side of the Île de la Cité on a sunny Friday in June, with the winged cathedral on one side and the sparkling river on the other, Sylvie Palot said to Pierre Aumande: ‘Do you want to marry me, or not?’
She had the satisfaction of seeing a flash of panic in his eyes. This was unusual. His equanimity was not easily disturbed: he was always controlled.
He regained his composure so quickly that she might almost have imagined the lapse. ‘Of course I want to marry you, my darling,’ he said, and he looked hurt. ‘How could you ask such a question?’
She regretted it instantly. She adored him, and hated to see him upset in any way. He looked especially lovable now, with the breeze off the river ruffling his blond mane. But she hardened her heart and persisted with her question. ‘We’ve been betrothed for more than a year. It’s too long.’
Everything else in Sylvie’s life was good. Her father’s bookshop was booming, and he was planning to open a second store on the other side of the river, in the university quarter. His illegal trade in French-language Bibles and other banned books was going even better. Hardly a day went by when Sylvie did not go to the secret warehouse in the rue du Mur for a book or two to sell to a Protestant family. New Protestant congregations were coming up like bluebells in spring, in Paris and elsewhere. As well as spreading the true gospel, the Palots were making healthy profits.
But Pierre’s behaviour puzzled and troubled her.
‘I need to finish my studies, and Father Moineau refused to allow me to continue as a married student,’ he said now. ‘I explained that to you, and you agreed to wait.’
‘For a year. And in a few days’ time lectures will be over for the summer. We have my parents’ consent. We have enough money. We can live over the shop, at least until we have children. But you haven’t said anything.’
‘I’ve written to my mother.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I’m waiting for her answer.’
‘What was the question?’
‘Whether she’s well enough to travel to Paris for the wedding.’
‘And if she’s not?’
‘Let’s not worry about that unless it happens.’
Sylvie was not happy with this response, but she let it drop for the moment, and said: ‘Where shall we have the official ceremony?’ Pierre glanced up at the towers of Notre Dame, and she laughed and said: ‘Not there. That’s for the nobility.’
‘At the parish church, I assume.’
‘And then we’ll have our real wedding at our own church.’ She meant the old hunting lodge in the forest. Protestants still could not worship openly in Paris, though they did in some French cities.
‘I suppose we’ll have to invite the marchioness,’ Pierre said with a grimace of dislike.
‘As the building belongs to her husband . . .’ It was unfortunate that Pierre had got off on the wrong foot with Marchioness Louise, and afterwards had not been able to win her round. In fact, the more he tried to charm her, the frostier she became. Sylvie had expected him to brush this aside with a laugh, but it seemed he could not. It made him furious, and Sylvie realized that her outwardly self-assured fiancé was, in fact, deeply sensitive to any kind of social slight.
His vulnerability made her love him more, but it also troubled her, though she was not sure why.
‘I suppose it can’t be helped,’ Pierre said, his tone light but his look dark.
‘Will you have new clothes?’ She knew how much he liked buying clothes.
He smiled. ‘I should have a sombre coat of Protestant grey, shouldn’t I?’
‘Yes.’ He was a faithful worshipper, attending every week. He had quickly got to know everyone in the congregation, and had been keen to meet people from other groups in Paris. He had even attended services with other congregations. He had badly wanted to go to the national synod in Paris in May – the first time French Protestants had dared to hold such a conference – but the arrangements were highly secret and only longstanding Protestants were invited. Despite this rebuff, he was a thoroughly accepted member of the community, which delighted Sylvie.
‘There’s probably a tailor specializing in dark clothing for Protestants,’ he said.
‘There is: Duboeuf in the rue St Martin. My father goes there, though only when Mother forces him. He could afford a new coat every year, but he won’t spend money on what he calls frippery. I expect he’ll buy me a wedding dress, but he won’t be happy about it.’
‘If he won’t, I will.’
She grabbed his arm, stopped him walking, and kissed him. ‘You’re wonderful,’ she said.
‘And you’re the most beautiful girl in Paris. In France.’
She laughed. It wasn’t true, although she did look fetching in the black dress with a white collar: Protestant colours happened to suit her dark hair and fresh complexion. Then she recalled her purpose, and became solemn again. ‘When you hear back from your mother . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘We must set a date. Whatever she says, I don’t want to wait any longer.’
‘All right.’
For a moment she was not sure whether to believe he had assented,
and she hesitated to rejoice. ‘Do you mean it?’
‘Of course. We’ll set a date. I promise!’
She laughed with delight. ‘I love you,’ she said, and she kissed him again.
*
I DON’T KNOW how much longer I can keep this up, Pierre fretted as he left Sylvie at the door to her father’s shop and walked north across the Notre Dame bridge to the right bank. Away from the river there was no breeze, and soon he was perspiring.
He had already made her wait longer than was reasonable. Her father was even more grumpy than usual and her mother, who had always favoured Pierre, was inclined to speak curtly to him. Sylvie herself was besotted with him, but even she was discontented. They suspected he was dallying with her – and, of course, they were right.
But she was bringing him such a rich harvest. His black leather-bound notebook now contained hundreds of names of Paris Protestants and the addresses where they held their heretical services.
Even today she had given him a bonus: a Protestant tailor! He had made the suggestion half in jest, but his speculation had been right, and foolish Sylvie had confirmed it. This could be a priceless lead.
The files of Cardinal Charles were already bulging. Surprisingly, Charles had not yet arrested any of the Protestants. Pierre planned to ask him, before long, when he intended to pounce.
He was on his way to meet Cardinal Charles now, but he had time to spare. He went along the rue St Martin until he found the establishment of René Duboeuf. From outside it looked much like a regular Paris house, though the windows were larger than usual and there was a sign over the door. He went in.
He was struck by the air of neatness and order. The room was crammed, but everything was tidy: rolls of silk and woollen cloth on shelves, precisely aligned; bowls of buttons arranged by colour; drawer stacks all with little signs indicating their contents.
A bald man was stooping over a table, carefully cutting a length of cloth with a huge pair of spring scissors that looked very sharp. At the back a pretty woman sat under an iron chandelier, sewing in the light of a dozen candles: Pierre wondered if she bore a label that read ‘Wife’.
One more Protestant couple did not amount to much, but Pierre hoped to meet some of the customers.
The man put down his scissors and came forward to greet Pierre, introducing himself as Duboeuf. He looked hard at Pierre’s slashed doublet, apparently appraising it with an expert eye, and Pierre wondered if he thought it too ostentatious for a Protestant.
Pierre gave his name. ‘I need a new coat,’ he said. ‘Not too gaudy. Dark grey, perhaps.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the tailor warily. ‘Did someone recommend me to you, perhaps?’
‘Giles Palot, the printer.’
Duboeuf relaxed. ‘I know him well.’
‘He is to be my father-in-law.’
‘Congratulations.’
Pierre was accepted. That was the first step.
Duboeuf was a small man, but he lifted the heavy rolls of cloth down from the shelves with practised ease. Pierre picked out a grey that was almost black.
No other customers came in, disappointingly. Pierre wondered just how he could make use of this Protestant tailor. He could not stay in the shop all day waiting to meet clients. He could set a watch on the place – Gaston Le Pin, the captain of the Guise household guard, could find a discreet man – but the watcher would not know the names of the men who came and went, so the exercise would be pointless. Pierre racked his brains: there had to be a way of exploiting this discovery.
The tailor picked up a long strip of fine leather and began to measure Pierre’s body, sticking coloured pins into the strip to record the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms, and the circumference of his chest and waist. ‘You have a fine physique, Monsieur Aumande,’ he said. ‘The coat will look very distinguished on you.’ Pierre ignored this piece of shopkeeper’s flattery. How was he going to get the names of Duboeuf’s customers?
When all the measurements had been made, Duboeuf took a notebook from a drawer. ‘If I might take down your address, Monsieur Aumande?’
Pierre stared at the book. Of course, Duboeuf had to know where his customers lived, otherwise it would be too easy for someone to order a coat then change his mind and simply not return. And even if Duboeuf had a phenomenal memory, and could remember every customer and every order, the lack of a written record would surely lead to disputes about bills. No, the obsessively neat Duboeuf would have to keep notes.
Pierre had to get a look inside that book. Those names and addresses belonged in his own ledger, the one with the black leather cover, that listed all the Protestants he had discovered.
‘The address, Monsieur?’ Duboeuf repeated.
‘I’m at the College des Ames.’
Duboeuf found his inkwell dry. With a faintly embarrassed laugh, he said: ‘Excuse me one moment while I get a bottle of ink.’ He disappeared through a doorway.
Pierre saw his chance to look inside the book. But it would be better to get rid of the wife. He went to the back of the room and spoke to her. She was about eighteen, he guessed, younger than her husband, who was in his thirties. ‘I wonder – might I ask you for a small cup of wine? It’s a dusty day.’
‘Of course, Monsieur.’ She put down her sewing and went out.
Pierre opened the tailor’s notebook. As he had hoped, it listed the names and addresses of customers, together with details of garments ordered and fabric specified, and sums of money owed and paid. He recognized some of the names as those of Protestants he had already identified. He began to feel excited. This book probably listed half the heretics in Paris. It would be a priceless asset to Cardinal Charles. He wished he could slip it inside his doublet, but that would be rash. Instead, he began to memorize as many names as he could.
He was still doing so when he heard the voice of Duboeuf behind him. ‘What are you doing?’
The tailor looked pale and scared. So he should, Pierre thought: he had made a dangerous error in leaving the book on the table. Pierre closed the book and smiled. ‘Idle curiosity. Forgive me.’
Duboeuf said severely: ‘The notebook is private!’ He was unnerved, Pierre saw.
Pierre said lightly: ‘It turns out that I know most of your customers. I’m glad to see that my friends pay their bills!’ Duboeuf did not laugh. But what could he do?
After a moment, Duboeuf opened the new ink bottle, dipped his pen, and wrote down Pierre’s name and address.
The wife came in. ‘Your wine, sir,’ she said, handing Pierre a cup.
Duboeuf said: ‘Thank you, Françoise.’
She had a nice figure, Pierre noted. He wondered what had attracted her to the older Duboeuf. The prospect of a comfortable life with a prosperous husband, perhaps. Or it might even have been love.
Duboeuf said: ‘If you would be so kind as to come back a week from today, your new coat will be ready for you to try on. It will be twenty-five livres.’
‘Splendid.’ Pierre did not think he would learn much more from Duboeuf today. He drank the wine and took his leave.
The wine had not quenched his thirst, so he went into the nearest tavern and got a tankard of beer. He also bought a sheet of paper and borrowed a quill and ink. While drinking the beer he wrote neatly: ‘René Duboeuf, tailor, rue St Martin. Françoise Duboeuf, wife.’ Then he added all the names and addresses he could remember from the notebook. He dried the ink and put the sheet inside his doublet. He would transfer the information to his black book later.
Sipping his beer, he wondered impatiently when Cardinal Charles was going to make use of all this information. For the present, the cardinal seemed content to accumulate names and addresses, but the time would come when he would swoop. That would be a day of carnage. Pierre would share in Charles’s triumph. However, he shifted uneasily on his tavern stool as he thought of the hundreds of men and women who would be imprisoned, tortured and perhaps even burned alive. Many of the Protestants were self-righteou
s prigs, and he would be glad to see them suffer – especially Marchioness Louise – but others had been kind to him, made him welcome at the hunting-lodge church, invited him into their homes, and answered his sly questions with a frank honesty that made him wince when he thought how he was deceiving them. Only eighteen months ago, the worst thing he had ever done was sponge off a randy widow. It seemed longer.
He emptied his tankard and left. It was a short distance to the rue Saint-Antoine, where a tournament was being held. Paris was partying, again. The treaty with Spain had been signed, and King Henri II was celebrating the peace, and pretending he had not lost the war.
The rue Saint-Antoine was the widest street in Paris, which was why it was used for tournaments. Along one side was the massive, ramshackle Palace of Tournelles, its windows crowded with royal and aristocratic spectators, the colours of their costly clothes making a row of bright pictures. On the opposite side of the road the common people jostled for space, their cheap garments all in shades of faded brown, like a ploughed field in winter. They stood or sat on stools they had brought with them, or perched precariously on window ledges and rooftops. A tournament was a grand spectacle, with the added attraction of possible injury or even death to the high-born competitors.
As Pierre entered the palace he was offered a tray of cakes by Odette, a maid of about twenty, voluptuous but plain. She smiled flirtatiously at him, showing crooked teeth. She had a reputation for being easy, but Pierre was not interested in girls of the servant class – he could have got one of those back in Thonnance-lès-Joinville. All the same he was pleased to see her, for it meant that the adorable Véronique was nearby. ‘Where is your mistress?’ he said.
Odette pouted and said: ‘Mademoiselle is upstairs.’
Most of the courtiers were on the upper floor, which had windows overlooking the jousting ground. Véronique was sitting at a table with a gaggle of aristocratic girls, drinking fruit cordial. A distant cousin of the Guise brothers, she was among the least important family members, but nevertheless noble. She wore a pale green dress made of some mixture of silk and linen, so light it seemed to float around her perfect figure. The thought of having such a high-born woman naked in his arms made Pierre feel faint. This was who he wanted to marry – not the bourgeoise daughter of a Protestant printer.
