by Ken Follett
She lowered her voice. ‘He told me something that will interest you.’
‘Good!’ Ned had been hoping that Jerónima might be persuaded to leak information. It seemed she did not need any persuading.
‘The duke of Guise has a list of names and addresses of leading Protestants in Paris. One reliable Catholic nobleman has been assigned to each. If there are riots, the Huguenots will all be murdered.’
‘My God! Are they that cold-blooded?’
‘The Guise family are.’
‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘I’d like to kill Romero, but I can’t, because I need him,’ she said. ‘But this is the next best thing.’
He stared at her, fascinated and a little horrified. The Guises were not the only cold-blooded ones.
The conversation was interrupted by a rumble from the crowd, and they turned to see the bridegroom’s procession, coming from the Louvre palace, crossing the Notre Dame bridge from the right bank to the island. Henri de Bourbon, king of Navarre, wore a pale yellow satin outfit embroidered with silver, pearls and precious stones. He was escorted by Protestant noblemen including the marquess de Nîmes. The citizens of Paris watched in sullen silence.
Ned turned to speak to Jerónima, but she had moved away, and now Walsingham was next to him. ‘I just learned something chilling,’ he said, and repeated what Jerónima had told him.
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised,’ Walsingham said. ‘They have made plans – of course they have.’
‘And now we know about their plans, thanks to that Spanish tart.’
Walsingham gave a rare smile. ‘All right, Ned, you’ve made your point.’
King Charles came out of the bishop’s palace with the bride, his sister, on his arm. He wore the same pale yellow satin as Henri de Bourbon, a sign of brotherhood. However, he had larger jewels, and more of them. As they approached, Walsingham leaned towards Ned and said disdainfully: ‘I’ve been told that the king’s outfit cost five hundred thousand ecus.’
Ned could hardly believe it. ‘That’s a hundred and fifty thousand pounds!’
‘Which is half the annual budget of the English government.’
For once Ned shared Walsingham’s disapproval of lavishness.
Princess Margot wore a velvet robe in a luminous shade of violet, and a blue cloak with a long train carried by three ladies. She was going to get hot, Ned thought. Every princess was said to be beautiful, but in her case it was true. She had a sensual face, with big eyes marked by dark eyebrows, and red lips that looked as if they wanted to be kissed. But today that lovely face was set in an expression of stubborn resentment. ‘She’s not happy,’ Ned said to Walsingham.
Walsingham shrugged. ‘She’s known since childhood that she would not be allowed to choose her own husband. There is a price to pay for the obscenely extravagant life led by French royalty.’
Ned thought of Margery’s arranged marriage. ‘I sympathize with Margot,’ he said.
‘If the rumours about her are true, she won’t let her marriage vows constrain her behaviour.’
Behind the king came his brothers, all wearing the same yellow satin. They were making sure the crowd got the point: from today on the Valois men and the Bourbons were going to be brothers. The bride was followed by at least a hundred noblewomen. Ned had never seen so many diamonds and rubies in one place. Every woman was wearing more jewels than Queen Elizabeth owned.
Still no one cheered.
The procession moved slowly along the raised walkway to the amphitheatre, and there the bride took her place beside the groom. This was the first time a Catholic had married a Protestant in a royal wedding, and a complex ceremony had been devised to avoid offending either side.
In accordance with custom, the wedding was performed outside the church. The cardinal of Bourbon administered the vows. As the seconds ticked by and the words were spoken, Ned felt the solemnity of the moment: a great country was moving, inch by painful inch, towards the ideal of religious freedom. Ned longed for that. It was what Queen Elizabeth wanted, and it was what Sylvie Palot needed.
At last the cardinal asked Margot if she would accept the king of Navarre as her husband.
She stared back at him, expressionless and tight-lipped.
Surely, Ned thought, she would not sabotage the whole wedding at this point? But people said she was wilful.
The groom shifted from one foot to the other impatiently.
The princess and the cardinal stared at one another for a long moment.
Then King Charles, standing behind his sister, reached forward, put his hand on the back of her head, and pushed.
Princess Margot appeared to nod.
This clearly was not consent, Ned thought. God knew that, and so did the watching crowd. But it was good enough for the cardinal, who hastily pronounced them man and wife.
They were married – but if something went wrong now, before the marriage was consummated, it could yet be annulled.
The bridal party went into the cathedral for the wedding Mass. The groom did not stay for the Catholic service, but emerged again almost immediately.
Outside the church he spoke to Gaspard de Coligny, the Huguenot general. They may have intended no offence, but their casual manner gave the impression that they were disdaining the service going on inside. That was certainly what the crowd felt, and they began to shout protests. Then they started their victory chant:
Hang-est!
Ha! Ha! Ha!
Hang-est!
Ha! Ha! Ha!
This was infuriating to the Huguenots whose leaders were being tortured in the dungeons of the duke of Alba.
The notables in the stand were milling around, chatting, but as the chanting grew, their conversations tailed off and they looked around anxiously.
A group of Huguenots on the roof of a nearby house retaliated by singing a psalm, and other voices joined in. In the crowd on the ground, a few young toughs began to move towards the house.
The scene had all the makings of a riot. If that happened, the pacific effect of the marriage could be reversed.
Ned spotted Walsingham’s friend the marquess of Lagny, in his jewelled cap, and spoke to him urgently. ‘Can’t you stop those Huguenots singing?’ he said. ‘It enrages the crowd. We’ll lose all we’ve gained if there’s a riot.’
Lagny said: ‘I could stop the singing, if the Catholics would stop chanting.’
Ned looked around for a friendly Catholic and saw Aphrodite Beaulieu. He buttonholed her and said: ‘Can you get a priest or someone to stop the crowd doing the Hangest chant? We’re heading for a nasty disturbance.’
She was a sensible girl and saw the danger. ‘I’ll go into the church and speak to my father,’ she said.
Ned’s eye lit on Henri of Bourbon and Gaspard de Coligny and he realized they were the root of the problem. He went back to Lagny. ‘Could you tell those two to make themselves scarce?’ he said. ‘I’m sure they don’t mean it, but they’re provoking the crowd.’
Lagny nodded. ‘I’ll speak to them. Neither of them wants trouble.’
A couple of minutes later, Henri and Gaspard disappeared into the archbishop’s palace. A priest came out of the cathedral and told the crowd that they were disturbing the Mass, and the chanting subsided. The Huguenots on the rooftops ceased their singing. The square became quiet.
The crisis was over, Ned thought – for now.
*
THE WEDDING WAS followed by three days of lavish celebrations, but no riots. Pierre was bitterly disappointed.
There were street fights and tavern brawls, as exultant Protestants clashed with furious Catholics, but none of the affrays turned into the city-wide battle he was hoping for.
Queen Caterina did not have the stomach for a violent confrontation. Coligny, like all the more cunning Huguenots, believed his best strategy was to avoid bloodshed. Together, milk-and-water moderates on both sides kept the peace.
The Guise family were desperate.
They saw power and prestige slipping away from them permanently. Then Pierre came up with a plan.
They were going to assassinate Gaspard de Coligny.
On Thursday, as the nobility attended the tournament that was the climax of the festivities, Pierre stood with Georges Biron in one of the medieval rooms in the old part of the Louvre palace. The floors were dirt and the walls were rough stone.
Biron moved a table to a window for better light. He was carrying a canvas bag, and now he took from it a long-barrelled firearm.
‘It’s an arquebus,’ said Pierre. ‘But with two barrels, one below the other.’
‘So if he misses Coligny with the first ball, he has a second chance.’
‘Very good.’
Biron pointed to the trigger mechanism. ‘It has a wheel-lock firing action.’
‘Self-igniting, then. But will it kill him?’
‘At anything up to a hundred yards, yes.’
‘A Spanish musket would be better.’ Muskets were bigger and heavier, and a shot from one of them was more likely to be fatal.
Biron shook his head. ‘Too difficult to conceal. Everyone would know what the man was up to. And Louviers is not young. I’m not sure he can handle a musket.’ It took strength to lift one: that was why musketeers were famously big.
Pierre had brought Charles Louviers to Paris. Louviers had kept a cool head in Orléans: the assassination of Antoine de Bourbon had failed through the dithering of King Francis II, not by any fault of Louviers’s. Some years later, Louviers had assassinated a Huguenot leader called Captain Luzé and won a reward of two thousand écus. And Louviers was a nobleman, which – Pierre thought – meant that he would keep his word, whereas a common street thug would change sides for the price of a bottle of wine. Pierre hoped he had made the right decisions.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a look at the route.’
Biron put the gun back in the bag and they stepped out into the courtyard. Two sides of the square were medieval castle walls, the other two modern Italian-style palaces. Biron said: ‘When Gaspard de Coligny walks from his lodging to here, and from here back to his lodging, he is accompanied by a bodyguard of about twenty armed men.’
‘That’s going to be a problem.’
Pierre walked the way Coligny would have to go, out through the medieval gateway to the rue des Poulies. The Bourbon family had a palace immediately opposite the Louvre. Next to it was the mansion of the king’s brother Hercule-Francis. Pierre looked along the street. ‘Where does Coligny lodge?’
‘Around the corner, in the rue de Béthisy. It’s just a few steps.’
‘Let’s look.’
They walked north, away from the river.
The tension in the streets was still high. Even now Pierre could see Huguenots, in their sombre but costly outfits of black and grey, strolling along as if they owned the city. If they had any sense, they would not look so triumphant. But then, Pierre thought, if they had any sense, they would not be Protestants.
The ultra-Catholic people of Paris hated these visitors. Their tolerance was fragile, a bridge of straw holding up an iron-wheeled wagon.
Given a really good pretext, either side would run amok. Then, if enough people were killed, the civil war would start again, and the Peace of St Germain would be torn up, regardless of the marriage.
Pierre was going to provide that pretext.
He scanned the street for a vantage point from which a gunman might fire at someone walking along: a tower, a big tree, an attic window. The trouble was, the killer would need an escape route, for the bodyguards would surely go after him.
He stopped outside a house he recognized. It belonged to Henri de Guise’s mother, Anna d’Este. She had remarried, and was now duchess of Nemours, but she still hated Coligny, believing him to have been responsible for the death of her first husband. Indeed, she had done as much as Pierre to keep alive young Duke Henri’s yearning for revenge. She would undoubtedly co-operate.
He scrutinized the façade. The upstairs windows were overhung by wooden trellises bearing climbing plants, a pretty touch that surely came from the duchess. But today the trellises were draped with drying laundry, which suggested the duchess was not in residence. Even better, Pierre thought.
He banged on the door and a servant opened it. The man recognized Pierre and spoke in a tone of deference laced with fear. ‘Good day to you, Monsieur de Guise, I hope I may be of assistance to you.’ Pierre liked obsequiousness, but he always pretended not to notice it. Now he pushed past the man without replying.
He went up the stairs, and Biron followed, still carrying the long bag with the arquebus.
There was a large drawing room at the front on the upstairs floor. Pierre opened the window. Despite the laundry flapping in the breeze, he had a clear view of both sides of the street in the direction of the Louvre. ‘Hand me that gun,’ he said.
Biron took the weapon out of its bag. Pierre rested it on the windowsill and sighted along the barrel. He saw a well-dressed couple approaching arm-in-arm. He aimed the gun at the man. To his surprise he recognized the elderly marquess of Nîmes. Pierre moved the gunsight sideways and studied the woman, who was wearing a bright yellow dress. Yes, it was the Marchioness Louise, who had twice caused him to suffer humiliation: once long ago, when she had snubbed him at the Protestant service in the old hunting lodge; and again just a week ago, at the shop in the rue de la Serpente, when Sylvie had taunted him with secrets Louise had told her. He could get his revenge now, just by squeezing the trigger of the wheel-lock. He targeted her bust. She was in her middle thirties, but still voluptuous, and her breasts were, if anything, larger than before. Pierre yearned to stain that yellow dress with her bright blood. He could almost hear her screams.
One day, he thought; just not yet.
He shook his head and stood up. ‘This is good,’ he said to Biron, handing back the gun.
He stepped outside the room. The manservant was on the landing, waiting for orders. ‘There must be a back door,’ Pierre said to him.
‘Yes, sir. May I show you?’
They went downstairs and through the kitchen and the wash-house to a yard with a gate. Pierre opened the gate and found himself in the grounds of the church of St-Germain l’Auxerrois. ‘This is perfect,’ he said to Biron in a low voice. ‘You can have a horse waiting here, saddled ready, and Louviers can be gone a minute after firing the fatal shot.’
Biron nodded agreement. ‘That’ll work.’
They walked back through the house. Pierre gave the manservant a gold ecu. ‘I wasn’t here today,’ he said. ‘No one was. You saw nothing.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the man.
Pierre thought for another moment and realized that money was not enough. He said: ‘I don’t need to tell you how the Guise family punish disloyalty.’
The servant looked terrified. ‘I understand, sir, I really do.’
Pierre nodded and walked away. It was better to be feared than to be loved.
He went farther along the street until he came to a small graveyard behind a low wall fringed with trees. He crossed the street and looked back. He had a clear view of the Nemours house.
‘Perfect,’ he said again.
*
ON FRIDAY MORNING, Gaspard de Coligny had to go to a meeting of the royal council at the Louvre palace. Attendance was not optional, and absence was regarded as an act of disobedience offensive to the king. If a man were too sick to rise from his bed, and sent an abject apology, the king might sniff and say that if the illness was so bad, why had the man not died of it?
If Coligny followed his usual routine, he would walk past the Nemours house on his way back from the Louvre.
By mid-morning Charles de Louviers was installed at the upstairs window. Biron was at the back gate, holding a fast horse already saddled. Pierre was in the little graveyard, screened by trees, watching over the low wall.
All they had to do was wait.
Henri de Guis
e had given ready consent to Pierre’s plan. Duke Henri’s only regret was that he did not have the opportunity himself to fire the bullet that would kill the man responsible for his father’s murder.
A group of fifteen or twenty men appeared at the far end of the street.
Pierre tensed.
Coligny was a handsome man in his fifties with a head of curly silver hair, neatly trimmed, and a beard to match. He walked with the upright bearing of a soldier, but right now he was reading as he went along, and in consequence moving slowly – which would be helpful to Louviers, Pierre thought with mounting excitement and apprehension. Coligny was surrounded by men-at-arms and other companions, but they did not seem notably vigilant. They were talking among themselves, glancing around only cursorily, appearing not to fear greatly for the safety of their leader. They had become slack.
The group walked along the middle of the street. Not yet, Pierre thought; don’t fire yet. At a distance, Louviers would have difficulty hitting Coligny, for the others were in the way; but as the group approached the house, his vantage point on the upstairs floor gave him a better angle down.
Coligny came closer. In a few seconds the angle would be perfect, Pierre thought. Louviers would surely have Coligny in his sights by now.
About now, Pierre thought; don’t leave it too late . . .
Coligny suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned to speak to a companion. At that moment a shot rang out. Pierre stopped breathing. Coligny’s group froze in their positions. In the instant of shocked silence, Coligny roared a curse and grabbed his left arm with his right hand. He had been wounded.
Pierre’s frustration was intense. That sudden unexpected stop had saved Coligny’s life.
But Louviers’s arquebus had two barrels, and a second shot came immediately afterwards. This time Coligny fell. Pierre could not see him. Was he dead?
The companions closed around him. All was confusion. Pierre was desperate to know what was happening but could not tell. The silver head of Coligny appeared in the middle of the throng. Had they lifted up his corpse? Then Pierre saw that Coligny’s eyes were open and he was speaking. He was standing up. He was alive!
Reload, Louviers, and fire again, quickly, Pierre thought. But some of Coligny’s bodyguard at last came to their senses and started to look about them. One pointed to the upstairs storey of the Nemours house, where a white curtain flapped at an open window; and four of them ran towards the house. Was Louviers even now cool-headedly loading his gun? The men ran into the house. Pierre stood looking over the graveyard wall, frozen to the spot, waiting for another bang; but none came. If Louviers was still there they must have overpowered him by now.
