by Ken Follett
‘Arm the militia.’
‘That can only be done by the Provost of Merchants.’ The title meant the same as mayor. ‘And he won’t do it on my say-so.’
‘Leave him to me.’ Pierre had only a vague notion of how he would manage this, but he was on a roll now, carrying Henri with him, and he could not allow himself to stumble over details.
Henri said: ‘Can we be sure the militia will defeat the Huguenots? There are thousands more staying in the suburbs. What if they all ride into town to defend their brethren? It could be a close-fought battle.’
‘We’ll close the city gates.’ Paris was surrounded by a wall and, for most of its circumference, a canal. Each gate in the wall led to a bridge over the water. With the gates locked it was difficult to enter or leave the city.
‘Again, only the Provost can do that.’
‘Again, leave him to me.’ At this point Pierre was ready to promise anything to win back Henri’s favour. ‘All you need to do is have your men ready to ride to Coligny’s house and kill him as soon as I tell you that all is ready.’
‘Coligny is guarded by the lord of Cosseins and fifty men of the king’s guard, as well as his own people.’
‘Cosseins is the king’s man.’
‘Will the king call him off?’
Pierre said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Cosseins will think the king has called him off.’
Henri looked hard at Pierre for a long moment. ‘You feel sure that you can achieve all this?’
‘Yes,’ Pierre lied. He just had to take the chance. ‘But there is no risk to you,’ he said earnestly. ‘If I should fail, you will have mustered your men to no purpose, but nothing worse.’
That convinced the young duke. ‘How long do you need?’
Pierre stood up. ‘I’ll be back before midnight,’ he said.
That was one more promise he was not confident of keeping.
He left the room, taking his black notebook with him.
Georges Biron was waiting outside. ‘Saddle two horses,’ Pierre said. ‘We’ve got a lot to do.’
They could not leave by the main gate, because there was a crowd of shouting Huguenots outside. The mob believed Henri was responsible for the assassination attempt, as did just about everyone, and they were baying for his blood – though not, as yet, doing anything bad enough to justify Henri’s men opening fire. Fortunately, the house was huge, occupying an entire city block, and there were alternative ways in and out. Pierre and Biron left by a side gate.
They headed for the place de Grève, the central square where the provost lived. The narrow, winding streets of Paris were as convoluted as the design firming up in Pierre’s mind. He had long plotted this moment, but it had come about in unexpected ways, and he had to improvise. He breathed deeply, calming himself. This was the riskiest gamble of his life. Too many things could go wrong. If just one part of his scheme miscarried, all was lost. He would not be able to talk himself out of another disaster. His life of wealth and power as advisor to the Guise family would come to a shameful end.
He tried not to think about it.
The provost was a wealthy printer-bookseller called Jean Le Charron. Pierre interrupted him at supper with his family and told him the king wanted to see him.
This was not true, of course. Would Le Charron believe it?
Le Charron had been provost for only a week, as it happened, and he was awestruck to be visited by the famous Pierre Aumande de Guise. He was thrilled to be summoned to the king, too much so to question the authenticity of the message, and he immediately agreed to go. The first hurdle had been surmounted.
Le Charron saddled his horse and the three of them rode through the twilight to the Louvre palace.
Biron remained in the square courtyard while Pierre took Le Charron inside. Pierre’s status was high enough for him to get into the wardrobe, the waiting room next to the audience chamber, but no farther.
This was another dangerous moment. King Charles had not asked to see either Pierre or Le Charron. Pierre was not sufficiently high-born – by a long way – to have automatic access to the king.
Leaving Le Charron to one side of the room, he spoke to the doorkeeper in a confident, unhurried voice that suggested there was no question of disobedience. ‘Be so good as to tell his majesty that I bring a message from Henri, duke of Guise.’
King Charles had not spoken to Henri, or indeed seen him, since the failed assassination. Pierre was betting that Charles would be curious to know what Henri might have to say for himself.
There was a long wait, then Pierre was called inside.
He told Le Charron to stay in the wardrobe until summoned, then he entered the audience chamber.
King Charles and Queen Caterina were at a table, finishing supper. Pierre was sorry Caterina was there. He could have fooled Charles easily, but the mother was smarter and more suspicious.
Pierre began: ‘My noble master, the duke of Guise, humbly begs your majesty’s pardon for not coming to court himself.’
Charles nodded acknowledgement of the apology but Caterina, sitting opposite him, was not so easily satisfied. ‘What is his reason?’ she asked sharply. ‘Could it be a guilty conscience?’
Pierre was expecting this question and had his answer ready. ‘The duke fears for his life, your majesty. There is a crowd of armed Huguenots outside his gates day and night. He cannot leave his house without risking death. The Huguenots are plotting their revenge. There are thousands of them in the city and suburbs, armed and bloodthirsty—’
‘You’re wrong,’ the queen mother interrupted. ‘His majesty the king has calmed their fears. He has ordered an inquiry into the shooting, and he has promised retribution. He has visited Coligny on his sickbed. There may be a few hotheads in the rue Vieille du Temple, but their leaders are satisfied.’
‘That is exactly what I told Duke Henri,’ Pierre said. ‘But he believes the Huguenots are on the point of rising up, and fears that his only hope may be to mount a pre-emptive attack, and destroy their ability to threaten him.’
The king said: ‘Tell him that I, King Charles IX, guarantee his safety.’
‘Thank you, your majesty. I will certainly give him that powerful reassurance.’ In fact, the assurance was more or less worthless. A strong king, feared by his barons, might have been able to protect Coligny, but Charles was physically and psychologically weak. Caterina would understand that, even if Charles did not, so Pierre directed his next sentence to her. ‘But Duke Henri asks if he may suggest something further?’ He held his breath. He was being bold: the king might hear advice from noblemen, but not normally in a message carried by an underling.
There was a silence. Pierre feared he was about to be thrown out for insolence.
Caterina looked at him through narrowed eyes. She knew that this would be the real reason for Pierre’s visit. But she did not reprimand him. In itself that was a measure of how tenuous was her grip on control and how close the city was to chaos.
At last the king said: ‘What do you want?’
‘Some simple security precautions that would guard against violence by either side.’
Caterina looked suspicious. ‘Such as?’
‘Lock the city gates, so that no one can come in from outside the walls – neither the Huguenots in the suburbs, nor Catholic reinforcements.’ Pierre paused. The Catholic reinforcements were imaginary. It was the Huguenots he wanted to keep out. But would Caterina see that?
King Charles said: ‘Actually, that’s quite a good idea.’
Caterina said nothing.
Pierre went on as if he had received consent. ‘Then shackle the boats on the waterfront, and pull the iron chains across the river that prevent hostile ships approaching the city. That way troublemakers can’t get into Paris by water.’ And Huguenots would not be able to get out.
‘Also a sensible safeguard,’ said the king.
Pierre felt he was winning, and ploughed on. ‘Order the provost to arm t
he militia and place guards at every major crossroads in the city, with orders to turn back any large group of armed men, regardless of what religion they claim.’
Caterina saw immediately that this was not a neutral move. ‘The militia are all Catholics, of course,’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Pierre conceded. ‘But they constitute our only means of keeping order.’ He said no more. He preferred not to enter into a discussion about even-handedness, for in truth nothing about his plan was neutral. But keeping order was Caterina’s main concern.
Charles said to his mother: ‘I see no harm in such plainly defensive measures.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Caterina replied. She mistrusted the entire Guise family, but what Pierre suggested made sense.
‘The duke has one more suggestion,’ said Pierre. Duke Henri had not suggested any of this, but etiquette demanded that Pierre pretend the ideas came from his aristocratic master. ‘Deploy the city artillery. If we line up the guns in the place de Grève, they will be ready to defend the city hall – or to be positioned elsewhere, if necessary.’ Or to mow down a Protestant crowd, he thought.
The king nodded. ‘We should do all these things. The duke of Guise is a sound military planner. Please give him my thanks.’
Pierre bowed.
Caterina said to Charles: ‘You’ll have to summon the provost.’ No doubt she thought the delay would give her time to mull over Pierre’s suggestions and look for snags.
But Pierre was not going to allow her that chance. He said: ‘Your majesty, I took the liberty of bringing the provost with me, and, in fact, he is outside the door, waiting for your orders.’
‘Well done,’ said Charles. ‘Have him come in.’
Le Charron came in bowing deeply, excited and intimidated to be in the royal presence.
Pierre took it upon himself to speak for the king, and instructed Le Charron to carry out all the measures he had proposed. During this recital Pierre feared that Charles or – more likely – Caterina might have second thoughts, but they only nodded assent. Caterina looked as if she could not quite believe that Duke Henri wanted only to protect himself and prevent rioting; but clearly she could not figure out what ulterior motive Pierre might have, and she did not dissent.
Le Charron thanked the king volubly for the honour of his instructions and vowed to carry them out meticulously, and then they were dismissed. Backing out, bowing, Pierre could hardly believe that he had got away with it, and every second he expected that Caterina would call him back. Then he was outside and the door was closed and he was another step closer to victory.
With Le Charron he walked through the wardrobe and the guardroom, then down the stairs.
Darkness had fallen by the time they stepped out into the square courtyard where Biron waited with their horses.
Before parting company with Le Charron, Pierre had one more deception to perpetrate. ‘Something the king forgot to mention,’ he said.
That phrase on its own would have aroused instant suspicion in an experienced courtier, but Le Charron was overwhelmed by Pierre’s apparent closeness to the monarch, and he was desperately eager to please. ‘Anything, of course,’ he said.
‘If the king’s life is in danger, the bell of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois will ring continuously, and other churches with trustworthy Catholic priests will follow suit, all over Paris. That will be the alarm signal to you that the Huguenots have risen up against the king, and you must attack them.’
‘Could that really happen?’ Le Charron said, rapt.
‘It could happen tonight, so be prepared.’
It did not occur to Le Charron to doubt Pierre. He accepted what he was told as fact. ‘I will be ready,’ he vowed.
Pierre took the book with the black cover from his saddlebag. He ripped out the leaves bearing the names of noble assassins and victims. The rest of the pages were devoted to ordinary Paris Huguenots. He handed the book to Le Charron. ‘Here is a list of every known Protestant in Paris, with addresses,’ he said.
Le Charron was amazed. ‘I had no idea that such a document existed!’
‘I have been preparing it for many years,’ Pierre said, not without a touch of pride. ‘Tonight it meets its destiny.’
Le Charron took the book reverently. ‘Thank you.’
Pierre said solemnly: ‘If you hear the bells, it is your duty to kill everyone named in that book.’
Le Charron swallowed. Until now he had not appreciated that he might be involved in a massacre. But Pierre had led him to this point so carefully, by such gradual and reasonable stages, that he nodded agreement. He even added a suggestion of his own. ‘In case it comes to fighting, I will order the militia to identify themselves, perhaps with a white armband, so that they know each other.’
‘Very good idea,’ said Pierre. ‘I’ll tell his majesty that you came up with that.’
Le Charron was thrilled. ‘That would be a great honour.’
‘You’d better get going. You have a lot to do.’
‘Yes.’ Charron mounted his horse, still clutching the black book. Before leaving he suffered a troubled moment. ‘Let us hope that none of these precautions proves necessary.’
‘Amen,’ said Pierre insincerely.
Le Charron trotted away.
Biron mounted his horse.
Pierre paused a minute, looking back at the Italian-style palace he had just left. He could hardly believe he had fooled its royal occupants. But when rulers were this close to panic, they were desperate for action, and eager to agree to any plan that was halfway promising.
Anyway, it was not over yet. All his efforts in the past few days had failed, and there was still time for tonight’s even more complicated scheme to go awry.
He lifted himself into the saddle. ‘Rue de Béthisy,’ he said to Biron. ‘Let’s go.’
Coligny’s lodging was close. The king’s guards were outside the gate. Some were standing in line with arquebuses and lances; others, presumably resting, sat on the ground nearby, their weapons to hand. They made a formidable barrier.
Pierre reined in and said to a guard: ‘A message from his majesty the king for the lord of Cosseins.’
‘I will give him the message,’ said the guard.
‘No, you won’t. Go and fetch him.’
‘He’s sleeping.’
‘Do you want me to go back to the Louvre and say that your master would not get out of his bed to receive a message from the king?’
‘No, sir, of course not, pardon me.’ The man went off and returned a minute later with Cosseins, who had evidently been sleeping in his clothes.
‘There has been a change of plan,’ Pierre said to Cosseins. ‘The Huguenots have conspired to seize the king’s person and take control of the Government. The plot has been foiled by loyal men, but the king wants Coligny arrested.’
Cosseins was not as naïve as Le Charron. He looked sceptical, perhaps thinking that the duke of Guise’s advisor was an unlikely choice as the king’s messenger. ‘Is there some confirmation of this?’ he said worriedly.
‘You don’t have to arrest him yourself. The king will send someone.’
Cosseins shrugged. That did not require him to commit himself to anything. ‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Just be ready,’ said Pierre, and he rode off.
He had done everything he could. With a whole raft of plausible small deceptions, he had smoothed the way for Armageddon. Now all he could do was hope that the people he was trying to manipulate, from the king all the way down to the priest of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, would behave in accordance with his calculations.
The crowd in the Vieille rue du Temple had diminished with nightfall, but there were still enough angry Huguenots to cause Pierre and Biron to enter the palace by the side door.
The first question was whether Duke Henri would be prepared. The young duke was usually eager for action, but he had lost faith in Pierre, and it was possible that he had changed his mind and decided not to muster his men
.
Pierre was relieved and thrilled to see fifty armed men assembled in the inner courtyard, grooms holding their saddled horses. He noticed Rasteau, the man with no nose, and his perennial companion Brocard. Blazing torches glinted off breastplates and helmets. This was a disciplined group of gentry and men-at-arms, and they remained quiet while they waited, in a scene of hushed menace.
Pierre pushed through the crowd to the centre, where Duke Henri stood. As soon as he saw Pierre he said: ‘Well?’
‘All is ready,’ Pierre said. ‘The king agreed to everything we wanted. The provost is arming the militia and deploying the city artillery as we speak.’ I hope, he thought.
‘And Cosseins?’
‘I told him that the king is sending someone to arrest Coligny. If he doesn’t believe me, you’ll have to fight your way in.’
‘So be it.’ Henri turned to his men and raised his voice. ‘We leave by the front gate,’ he said. ‘And death to anyone who gets in our way.’
They mounted up. A groom handed Pierre a sword belt with a sheathed weapon. He buckled on the belt and swung himself up into the saddle. He would try not to get personally involved in the fighting, if he could, but it was as well to be equipped.
He looked through the arch to the outer gateway and saw two servants swinging the great iron gates back. The mob outside was momentarily nonplussed. They had no plan for this situation: they were not expecting open doors. Then Duke Henri kicked his horse and the squadron pounded out with a sudden earthquake-rumble of hooves. The mob scattered in terror, but not all could get away. Amid screams, the big horses charged the crowd, the riders swinging their swords, and dozens fell wounded or dead.
The killing had begun.
They thundered through the streets at dangerous speed. Those few people out this late scurried out of the way for fear of their lives. Pierre was thrilled and apprehensive. This was the moment he had been working towards ever since King Charles had signed the disgraceful Peace of St Germain. Tonight’s action would show everyone that France would never tolerate heresy – and that the Guise family could not be ignored. Pierre was scared, but full of desperate eagerness.
