A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

  ‘Which means it’s my barn!’ said Scarface angrily. ‘This is intolerable.’

  Pierre saw a way to escalate the situation. ‘The edict of tolerance gives royal officials the right to oversee Protestant assemblies, duke. You would be within your rights to inspect the service going on over there.’

  Again Le Pin tried to avoid conflict. ‘That would be sure to cause unnecessary trouble.’

  But the provost liked the idea. ‘If you were to speak to them today, duke, with your men-at-arms behind you, perhaps it would scare them into obeying the law in the future.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pierre. ‘You have a duty, duke.’

  Le Pin rubbed his mutilated ear as if it itched. ‘Better to let sleeping dogs lie,’ he said.

  Scarface looked thoughtful, weighing up the conflicting advice, and Pierre feared he might be calming down and leaning towards Le Pin’s cautious approach; then the Protestants started to sing.

  Communal singing was not part of normal Catholic services, but the Protestants loved it, and they sang psalms loudly and enthusiastically – and in French. The sound of hundreds of voices raised in song carried clearly across the cemetery to the market square. Scarface’s indignation boiled up. ‘They think they’re all priests!’ he said.

  Pierre said: ‘Their insolence is insufferable.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Scarface. ‘And I shall tell them so.’

  Le Pin said: ‘In that case, let me go ahead with just a couple of men to forewarn them of your arrival. If they understand that you have the right to speak to them, and they are prepared to listen to you in peace, perhaps bloodshed can be avoided.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Scarface.

  Le Pin pointed to two men armed with rapiers. ‘Rasteau and Brocard, follow me.’

  Pierre recognized them as the pair who had marched him through the streets of Paris from the tavern of St Étienne to the Guise family palace. That had been four years ago, but he would never forget the humiliation. He smiled to think how far above these thugs he stood now. How his life had changed!

  They headed across the graveyard, and Pierre went with them.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to accompany me,’ Le Pin muttered.

  ‘I didn’t ask what you wanted,’ Pierre replied.

  The barn was a ramshackle building. Some of the timbers of the walls were missing, the door hung askew, and there was a large pile of broken masonry outside. As they approached, he was aware that they were being watched intently by the men-at-arms outside the church and the gunmen in the graveyard.

  The psalm came to an end, and silence fell as they reached the door of the barn.

  Le Pin motioned to the others to stand back, then opened the door.

  Inside the barn were about five hundred men, women and children, all standing – there were no pews. It was evident from their clothing that rich and poor were mixed promiscuously, unlike in a Catholic church where the elite had special seats. At one end of the barn Pierre could see a makeshift pulpit and, as he looked, a pastor in a cassock began to preach.

  A moment later, several men near the door spotted the newcomers and moved to bar their way.

  Le Pin took several paces back, to avoid a nose-to-nose confrontation. Rasteau and Brocard did the same. Then Le Pin announced: ‘The duke of Guise is coming to speak to you. Prepare the congregation to receive him.’

  ‘Hush!’ said a young man with a black beard. ‘Pastor Morel is preaching!’

  ‘Take care,’ Le Pin warned. ‘The duke is already displeased that you’re holding this service illegally in his barn. I advise you not to anger him further.’

  ‘Wait until the pastor has finished.’

  Pierre said loudly: ‘The duke does not wait for such people as you!’

  More of the congregation looked towards the door.

  Blackbeard said: ‘You can’t come in!’

  Le Pin stepped forward, slowly and purposefully, heading directly for him. ‘I will come in,’ he said deliberately.

  The young man shoved Le Pin away with surprising force. Le Pin staggered back a pace.

  Pierre heard shouts of indignation from the watching men-at-arms in the marketplace. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some of them begin to move into the graveyard.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ said Le Pin. With sudden speed he lashed out with his fist, hitting the young man squarely on the jaw. The beard provided negligible protection from such a powerful blow. The man fell down.

  ‘Now,’ said Le Pin, ‘I’m coming in.’

  To Pierre’s astonishment and delight the Protestants did not have the sense to let him in. Instead, they all picked up stones, and Pierre realized that he had been wrong to assume that the pile was merely debris from the tumbledown building. He watched in disbelief. Were they really going to start a fight with hundreds of armed men?

  ‘Out of my way,’ said Le Pin, and he stepped forward.

  The Protestants threw their stones.

  Le Pin was hit by several. One struck his head and he fell.

  Pierre, who did not carry a sword, stepped back out of the way.

  Rasteau and Brocard roared with outrage at the assault on their captain. Both drew their rapiers and dashed forward.

  The Protestants threw again. The two men-at-arms were hit by a hail of rocks. One gashed the cheek of Rasteau, the older of the two, the one with no nose. Another hit Brocard’s knee, causing him to fall. More men came out of the church and picked up stones.

  Rasteau ran forward, bleeding from the wound to his face, rapier held in front of him, and thrust the blade into the belly of the young man with the black beard. The man screamed horribly in pain. The slim blade went through his body and the bloody point came out the other side. In a flash of memory, Pierre recalled hearing Rasteau and Brocard discuss sword fighting, on that fateful day four years ago. Forget about the heart, Rasteau had said. A blade in the guts doesn’t kill a man straight away, but it paralyses him. It hurts so much he can’t think of anything else. Then he had giggled.

  Rasteau pulled his blade out of the man’s intestines with a sucking sound that made Pierre want to vomit. Then the Protestants were on Rasteau, six or seven of them, beating him with stones. Defending himself desperately, Rasteau retreated.

  The duke’s men-at-arms were now running at top speed across the graveyard, leaping over tombstones, unsheathing their weapons as they came, yelling for revenge on their fallen comrades. Cardinal Louis’s gunmen were readying their arquebuses. More men came out of the barn and, suicidally fearless, picked up stones to throw at the advancing soldiers.

  Pierre saw that Le Pin had recovered from the blow to his head and was getting to his feet. He dodged two flying stones in a way that told Pierre he was again in full possession of his faculties. Then he drew his rapier.

  To Pierre’s dismay, Le Pin made another attempt to prevent further bloodshed. Lifting his sword high he yelled: ‘Stop! Lay down your arms! Sheath your swords!’

  No one took any notice. A huge stone was thrown at Le Pin. He dodged it, then charged.

  Pierre was almost horrified by the speed and violence of Le Pin’s attack. His blade flashed in the sunlight. He stabbed, sliced and hacked, and with each swing of his arm a man was maimed or killed.

  Then the other men-at-arms arrived. Pierre yelled encouragement to the newcomers, shouting: ‘Kill the heretics! Kill the blasphemers!’

  The slaughter became general. The duke’s troops forced their way into the barn and began to butcher men, women and children. Pierre saw Rasteau attack a young woman with ghastly savagery, slashing her face again and again with his dagger.

  Pierre followed the press of men-at-arms, always careful to be several steps behind the front line: it was not his role to risk his life in battle. Inside, a few Protestants were fighting back with swords and daggers, but most were unarmed. Hundreds of people were screaming in terror or in agony. Within seconds the barn walls were splashed with blood.

  Pierre saw t
hat at the far end of the barn there were wooden steps up to a hayloft. The steps were crammed with people, some carrying babies. From the loft they were escaping through the holes in the roof. Just as he noticed that, he heard a volley of gunfire. Two people fell back through the roof and crashed down to the barn floor. The arquebusiers of Cardinal Bottles had deployed their weapons.

  Pierre turned, pushed against the press of soldiers still coming in, and fought his way outside for a better look.

  The Protestants were still escaping through the roof, some of them trying to make their way down to the ground and others jumping onto the castle ramparts. The cardinal’s gunmen were shooting the escapers. The light guns with their modern firing mechanism were easy to deploy and quick to reload, and the result was a constant hail of bullets that brought down just about everyone who ventured onto the roof.

  Pierre looked across the cemetery to the market square. Townspeople were running into the square, alerted, no doubt, by the sound of gunfire. At the same time, more men-at-arms were coming out of the Swan, some still chewing their breakfasts. Clashes began as soldiers tried to prevent townspeople coming to the rescue of the Protestants. A cavalryman sounded a trumpet to muster his comrades.

  Then it ended as fast as it had begun. Gaston Le Pin came out of the barn with the pastor, holding his prisoner’s arm in an iron grip. Other men-at-arms followed them out. The flight of people through holes in the roof came to an end, and the arquebusiers stopped shooting. Back in the market square, captains were marshalling their men into squads to keep them under control, and ordering townspeople back to their homes.

  Looking into the barn, Pierre saw that the fighting was over. Those Protestants still able to move were bending over those on the ground, trying to help the wounded and weeping over the dead. The floor was puddled with blood. Groans of agony and sobs of grief replaced the screaming.

  Pierre could not have hoped for anything better. He reckoned that about fifty Protestants had been killed and more than a hundred wounded. Most had been unarmed, and some had been women and children. The news would be all over France in a few days.

  It struck Pierre that four years ago he would have been horrified by the slaughter he had seen, yet today he was pleased. How he had changed! Somehow it was difficult to see how God could approve of this aspect of the new Pierre. A dim and nameless fear trickled into the depths of his mind like the darkening blood on the barn floor. He suppressed the thought. This was God’s will; it had to be.

  He could envisage the eight-page pamphlets that would soon pour from Protestant printing presses, each with a grisly front-page woodcut illustration of the slaughter in the barn. The obscure town of Wassy would be the subject of a thousand sermons all over Europe. Protestants would form armed militias, saying they could not be safe otherwise. Catholics would muster their forces in response.

  There would be civil war.

  Just as Pierre wanted.

  *

  SITTING IN THE tavern of St Étienne, with a plate of smoked fish and a cup of wine in front of her, Sylvie felt hopeless.

  Would there ever be an end to the violence? Most French people just wanted to live in peace with their neighbours of both religions, but every effort at reconciliation was sabotaged by men such as the Guise brothers, for whom religion was a means to power and wealth.

  What Sylvie and her friends needed most was to find out how much the authorities knew about them. Whenever she could, she came to places like this tavern and talked to people involved in trying to catch heretics: members of the city militia, Guise family hangers-on, and anyone associated with Pierre. She picked up a lot of information from their loose gossip. But what she really needed was a sympathizer on the inside.

  She looked up from her lunch and saw Pierre’s maid, Nath, walking in with a black eye.

  Sylvie had a nodding acquaintance with Nath, but had never said more than hello to her. Now she reacted fast. ‘That looks sore,’ she said. ‘Let me buy you a drink of wine to ease the pain.’

  Nath burst into tears.

  Sylvie put her arm around the girl. Her sympathy was not pretended: both Sylvie and her mother had suffered violence from the two-fisted Giles Palot. ‘There, there,’ Sylvie murmured.

  The barmaid brought some wine and Nath took a large swallow. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘Pierre hit me.’

  ‘Does he hit Odette too?’

  Nath shook her head. ‘He’s too scared. She’d hit him back.’

  Nath herself was about sixteen, small and thin, probably incapable of hitting a man – just as Sylvie had been unable to fight back against her father. The memory made Sylvie angry.

  ‘Drink some more wine,’ Sylvie said.

  Nath took another gulp. ‘I hate him,’ she said.

  Sylvie’s pulse raced. For more than a year she had been waiting for a moment such as this. She had known it would come, if she was patient, because everyone hated Pierre, and sooner or later someone was bound to betray him.

  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 l
aunched 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.