by Ken Follett
Luc was a small man with a jolly manner, but he frowned disapprovingly. ‘May I ask why, Sylvie? Or Thérèse, I should say.’
‘We’ve sold all our French Bibles and I have to buy more.’
‘God bless you,’ he said. ‘I do admire your guts.’
For the second time that morning, Sylvie was thrown off balance by unexpected admiration. She was not brave, she was scared. ‘I just do what has to be done,’ she said.
‘But you can’t do this,’ Luc said. ‘There’s no safe route, and you’re a young woman who can’t afford a bodyguard of men-at-arms to protect you from bandits, thieving tavern-keepers and randy peasants armed with wooden shovels.’
Sylvie frowned at the image of randy peasants. Why did men so often speak of rape as if it were a joke? But she refused to be distracted. ‘Humour me,’ she said. ‘How do people get to Geneva?’
‘The quickest way is to go up the Seine from here as far as Montereau, which is about sixty miles. The rest of the journey, another two hundred and fifty miles or so, is mostly overland, all right if you have no goods to transport. Two to three weeks, with no serious delays, although there are always delays. Your mother will go with you, of course.’
‘No. She needs to stay here and keep the shop open.’
‘Seriously, Sylvie, you can’t do this alone.’
‘I may have to.’
‘Then you must attach yourself to a large party at every stage of the journey. Families are safest. Avoid all-male groups, for obvious reasons.’
‘Of course.’ All this was new to Sylvie. The prospect was terrifying. She felt foolish for having spoken glibly of going to Geneva. ‘I still want to do it,’ she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
‘In that case, what’s your story?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll be in company. Travellers have nothing to do but talk. They will ask you questions. You’re not going to admit that you’re on your way to Geneva to buy illegal books. In fact, you’d better not say you’re going to Geneva at all, since everyone knows it’s the world capital of heresy. You need a story.’
Sylvie was stumped. ‘I’ll think of something.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘You could say you’re on a pilgrimage.’
‘To where?’
‘Vézelay, which is halfway to Geneva. The abbey has relics of Mary Magdalene. Women often go there.’
‘Perfect.’
‘When do you want to go?’
‘Soon.’ She did not want to spend too long worrying about the trip. ‘This week.’
‘I’ll find a trustworthy captain to take you to Montereau. At least you’ll get that far safely. Then just keep your wits about you.’
‘Thank you.’ She hesitated, thinking she should say something polite after picking his brains. ‘How is Georges? I haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘Fine, thank you, and opening a branch of our business at Rouen now.’
‘He was always clever.’
Luc smiled wryly. ‘I love my son dearly, but he was never a match for you, Sylvie.’
That was true, but embarrassing, so Sylvie let it pass without comment, and said: ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll call at your office tomorrow, if I may.’
‘Come on Tuesday morning. By then I will have found you a captain.’
Sylvie extracted her mother from a group of women. She was impatient to get home and start making preparations.
On the way back to the rue de la Serpente, she found a cheap draper’s store and bought a length of coarse grey cloth, ugly but hard-wearing. ‘When we get home, I need you to sew me a nun’s costume,’ she said to her mother.
‘Of course, though I’m almost as bad a seamstress as you.’
‘That’s fine. The cruder the better, as long as it doesn’t fall apart.’
‘All right.’
‘But first I need you to cut off my hair. All of it. It must be less than an inch long all over.’
‘You’re going to look hideous.’
‘Exactly,’ said Sylvie. ‘That’s what I want.’
*
IN ORLÉANS, PIERRE was planning a murder.
He would not wield the knife himself, but he would make it happen.
Cardinal Charles had brought him to Orléans for that purpose. Charles was still angry with Pierre over his attempt to get rid of Odette’s baby but, as Pierre had calculated, his usefulness saved him.
In other circumstances he would have drawn the line at murder. He had never committed such a terrible sin, though he had come close: he had been sorely tempted to kill baby Alain, but had not seen how he could get away with it. He had been responsible for many deaths, including that of Giles Palot, but they were all legitimate executions. He knew he was about to cross a dreadful line.
However, he had to win back Charles’s confidence, and this was the way to do it. And he hoped that Father Moineau would agree it was the will of God. If not, Pierre was damned.
The intended victim was Antoine de Bourbon, the king of Navarre. And the assassination was the key element in a coup that would at the same time neutralize the two other most important enemies of the Guise family: Antoine’s younger brother Louis, the prince of Condé; and the Bourbons’ most important ally, Gaspard de Coligny, admiral of France and the most energetic member of the Montmorency family.
These three, who rarely went anywhere together for fear of exactly this kind of plot, had been lured to Orléans by the promise of a debate about freedom of worship at a meeting of the Estates-General. As leaders of the tolerance faction they could not possibly be absent from such an important occasion. They had to take the risk.
Orléans was on the north bank of the Loire. It was two hundred miles from the sea, but the river was busy with traffic, mostly flat-bottomed boats with fold-down masts that could negotiate shallow waters and go under bridges. In the heart of the city, across the street from the cathedral, was a newly built palace called Château Groslot, whose proud owner, Jacques Groslot, had been turfed out of his gorgeous new house to make way for the royal party.
It was a splendid building, Pierre thought, approaching it at daybreak on the morning of the murder. Its red bricks were mixed with black in a lozenge pattern around rows of tall windows. Twin flights of steps swept up in mirror-image curves to the main entrance. It was clever and innovative in a conservative way that Pierre admired.
Pierre was not staying there. As usual he was lodged with the servants, even though his name was now de Guise. But one day he would have a palace like this of his own.
He went in with Charles de Louviers, the assassin.
Pierre felt strange in de Louviers’s company. Louviers was well dressed, and his manners were courtly, but, all the same, there was something thuggish about the set of his shoulders and the look in his eye. There were many murderers, of course, and several times Pierre had watched such men hang at the place de Grève in Paris. But Louviers was different. He came from the gentry, hence the ‘de’ in his full name, and he was willing to kill people of his own social class. It seemed strange, but everyone agreed that a prince of the blood such as Antoine could not be slain by a common criminal.
The interior of the palace gleamed with new wealth. The panelling shone, the rich colours of the tapestries had not had time to fade, and the massive candelabra were untarnished. The elaborate paintwork of the coffered ceilings was vividly fresh. Monsieur Groslot was a local politician and businessman, and he wanted the world to know he had prospered.
Pierre led Louviers to the suite occupied by the queen. Once there, he asked a servant to tell Alison McKay that he had arrived.
Alison was very grand indeed, now that her close companion Mary Stuart had become the queen of France. Pierre had watched the two girls, draped in priceless dresses and glittering with jewellery, acknowledging the deep bows and low curtsies of the nobility with a casual nod or a condescending smile, and he had thought how quickly people could get used to lofty
status and universal deference; and how badly he himself longed to be the object of such veneration.
It was impudent of him to ask for Alison so early in the morning. But he had got to know her since the day, more than a year ago, when he had brought Mary the news of the imminent death of King Henri II. Alison’s future, like his, was tied to the fate of the Guise family. She knew that he came as an emissary of Cardinal Charles, and she trusted him. She would know he would not waste her time.
A few minutes later, the servant showed them into a small side room. Alison was sitting at a round table. She had obviously dressed hurriedly, putting on a brocade coat over her nightdress. With her dark hair hastily combed and her blue eyes heavy with sleep, she looked charmingly dishevelled.
‘How is King Francis?’ Pierre asked her.
‘Not well,’ she said. ‘But he’s never well. He had smallpox as a child, you know, and that stunted his growth and left him permanently sickly.’
‘And Queen Mary? I imagine she’s still grieving for her mother.’ Mary Stuart’s mother, Marie de Guise, had died in Edinburgh in June.
‘As much as one can mourn a mother one hardly knew.’
‘I trust there is no question of Queen Mary going to Scotland.’ This was a niggling worry for Pierre and the Guise brothers. If Mary Stuart should capriciously decide that she wanted to rule Scotland, it might be hard for the Guises to stop her, for she was the Queen of Scots.
Alison did not immediately agree, increasing Pierre’s unease. ‘The Scots certainly need a firm hand,’ she said.
It was not the answer Pierre wanted, but it was true. Their Protestant-dominated Parliament had just passed a bill making it a crime to celebrate Mass. Pierre said: ‘But Mary’s first duty lies here in France, surely.’
Happily, Alison agreed with that. ‘Mary must stay with Francis until she has borne him a son, ideally two. She understands that assuring the succession in France is more important than pacifying the seditious Scots.’
‘Besides,’ Pierre said with a relieved smile, ‘why would someone who is queen of France want to exchange that for being queen of Scotland?’
‘Indeed. We both have only the vaguest memories of Scotland: when we left, Mary was five and I was eight. Neither of us can speak the Scots dialect. But you didn’t get me out of bed this early to talk about Scotland.’
Pierre realized he had been avoiding the real subject. Don’t be afraid, he told himself. You are Pierre Aumande de Guise. ‘Everything is ready,’ he said to Alison. ‘Our three enemies are in town.’
She knew exactly what he meant. ‘Do we move immediately?’
‘We already have. Louis de Bourbon is in custody, accused of high treason and facing the death penalty.’ He was probably guilty, Pierre thought, not that it mattered. ‘Gaspard de Coligny’s lodging is surrounded by armed men who follow him everywhere. He is a prisoner in all but name.’ Gaston Le Pin had managed this with the Guise family’s household guard, a private army several hundred strong. ‘Antoine de Bourbon has been summoned to see King Francis this morning.’ Pierre indicated Louviers with a gesture. ‘And Charles de Louviers is the man who will kill him.’
Alison did not flinch. Pierre was impressed with her coolness. She said: ‘What do you need from me?’
Louviers spoke for the first time. His voice was cultivated and precise, his accent that of the gentry. ‘The king must give me a signal when he is ready for me to do the deed.’
‘Why?’ Alison asked.
‘Because a prince of the blood cannot be killed except on the authority of the king.’
What Louviers meant was that it had to be clear, to everyone in the room, that King Francis was responsible for the murder. Otherwise it would be too easy for the king to repudiate the assassination afterwards, proclaim his innocence, and execute Louviers, Pierre, Cardinal Charles, and anyone else who could plausibly be linked to the plot.
‘Of course,’ said Alison, getting the point quickly, as usual.
Pierre said: ‘Louviers must have a few quiet moments with his majesty, so that they can agree on a signal. Cardinal Charles has already explained this to the king.’
‘Very well.’ Alison stood up. ‘Come with me, Monsieur de Louviers.’
Louviers followed her to the door. There she turned. ‘Do you have your weapon?’
He reached under his coat, revealing a dagger two feet long in a sheath hanging from his belt.
‘You’d better leave it with Monsieur Aumande de Guise for now.’
Louviers removed the knife and sheath from his belt, put them on the table, and followed Alison from the room.
Pierre went to the window and looked across the square to the tall pointed arches of the west front of the cathedral. He was nervous and guilt-stricken. I’m doing this for that church, he told himself, and for the God whose house it is, and for the old, authentic faith.
He was relieved when Alison reappeared. She stood close to him, her shoulder touching his, and looked in the same direction. ‘That’s where Joan of Arc prayed, during the siege of Orléans,’ she said. ‘She saved the city from the savagery of the English army.’
‘Saved France, some say,’ said Pierre. ‘As we are trying to save France today.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is all well between King Francis and Louviers?’
‘Yes. They’re talking.’
Pierre’s spirits lifted. ‘We’re about to get rid of the Bourbon menace – permanently. I thought I’d never see the day. All our enemies will be gone.’ Alison did not reply, but looked uneasy, and Pierre said: ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘Beware of the queen mother,’ Alison said.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I know her. She likes me. When we were children I used to take care of Francis and Mary – especially him, because he was so feeble. Queen Caterina has always been grateful to me for that.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘She talks to me. She thinks what we’re doing is wrong.’ When Alison said ‘we’ she meant the Guise family, Pierre knew.
‘Wrong?’ he said. ‘How?’
‘She believes we will never stamp out Protestantism by burning people to death. It just creates martyrs. Rather, we should remove the impulse that creates Protestants by reforming the Catholic Church.’
She was right about martyrs. No one had even liked the overbearing Giles Palot during his lifetime but now, according to Pierre’s spies, he was almost a saint. However, reformation of the Church was a counsel of perfection. ‘You’re talking about taking away the wealth and privileges of men such as Cardinal Charles. It will never happen, because they are too powerful.’
‘Caterina thinks that’s the problem.’
‘People will always find fault with the Church. The answer is to teach them that they have no right to criticize.’
Alison shrugged. ‘I didn’t say Queen Caterina was right. I just think we have to be on our guard.’
Pierre made a doubtful face. ‘If she had any power, yes. But with the king married to a Guise-family niece, we’re in control. I don’t think we have anything to fear from the queen mother.’
‘Don’t underestimate her because she’s a woman. Remember Joan of Arc.’
Pierre thought Alison was wrong, but he said: ‘I never underestimate a woman,’ and gave his most charming smile.
Alison turned a little, so that her breast was pressing against Pierre’s chest. Pierre believed firmly that women never did such things by accident. She said: ‘We’re alike, you and I. We have dedicated ourselves to serving very powerful people. We’re counsellors to giants. We should always work together.’
‘I’d like that.’ She was talking about a political alliance, but under her words was another message. The tone of her voice and the look on her face said she was attracted to him.
He had not thought of romance for a year. His disappointment over Véronique and his revulsion for the ghastly Odette left no room in his heart for feelings about other women.<
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For a moment he was unable to think how he should respond to Alison. Then he realized that Alison’s talk of working together was not merely empty chatter to cover romantic interest. More likely it was the other way around: she was being flirtatious in order to lure him into a working partnership. Normally it was Pierre who pretended to be in love with a woman in order to get something out of her. He smiled at the irony, and she mistook that for encouragement. She tilted her head back a fraction so that her face was slightly turned up to his. The invitation was unmistakable.
Still he hesitated. What was in this for him? The answer came immediately: control of the queen of France. If Mary Stuart’s best friend was his paramour, he could become even more powerful than Duke François and Cardinal Charles.
He leaned down and kissed her. Her lips were soft and yielding. She put her hand behind his head, pressing him closer, and opened her mouth to his tongue. Then she pulled away. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Not here.’
Pierre tried to figure out what that meant. Did she want to go to bed with him somewhere else, later? A single girl such as Alison could not sacrifice her virginity. If it became known – as such things usually did at court – it would forever ruin her prospects of making a good marriage.
However, an upper-class virgin might well permit liberties with a man she expected to marry.
And then it struck him. ‘Oh, no,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘What don’t I know?’
‘That I’m married.’
Her face fell. ‘Good God, no.’
‘It was arranged by Cardinal Charles. A woman who needed a husband in a hurry, for the usual reason.’
‘Who?’
‘Alain de Guise impregnated a maid.’
‘Yes, I heard about that – oh! You’re the one who married Odette?’
Pierre felt foolish and ashamed. ‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘My reward was the right to call myself Pierre Aumande de Guise. It’s on the marriage certificate.’
‘Hell.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry, too – though I might have done the same, for the sake of such a name.’
