by Ken Follett
He worried about Cosseins. Pierre wished he had been able to win a pledge of cooperation from him, but the man was no fool. If he resisted now, there would be a fierce skirmish – which might give Coligny time to escape. The whole scheme could founder on that detail.
The Guise palace was on the east side of town, and Coligny’s lodging was on the western edge, but the distance was small, and at that time of night there were few obstructions in the streets. In a few minutes the horsemen were in the rue de Béthisy.
Cosseins’s men must have heard the hoofbeats at a distance, and now, as Pierre picked out Coligny’s residence in the starlight, the guards presented a more orderly and formidable picture than they had half an hour ago, lining up in rows in front of the gate, lances and guns at the ready.
Duke Henri reined in and shouted: ‘I am here to arrest Gaspard de Coligny. Open the gate in the name of the king!’
Cosseins stepped forward, his face lit fiendishly by the torches of the Guise men. ‘I’ve had no such instructions,’ he said.
Henri said: ‘Cosseins, you are a good Catholic and a loyal servant of his majesty King Charles, but I will not take no for an answer. I have my orders from the king, and I shall carry them out, even if I have to kill you first.’
Cosseins hesitated. He was in a difficult position, as Pierre had calculated. Cosseins had been assigned to protect Coligny, yet it was perfectly plausible that the king had changed his mind and ordered the arrest. And if Cosseins now resisted Henri, and the two groups of armed men came to blows, much blood would be shed – probably including Cosseins’s own.
As Pierre had hoped, Cosseins decided to save his own life now, and take any consequences later. ‘Open up!’ he shouted.
The gates came open, and the Guise men charged jubilantly into the courtyard.
The main entrance to the house had a large double door of heavy timber with iron reinforcements, and as Pierre rode into the courtyard he saw it slam shut. Coligny’s personal bodyguards would be on the other side of it, he presumed. The Guise men began to attack the door with swords, and one shot out the lock. Pierre thought frustratedly how foolish they had been not to bring a couple of sledgehammers. Once again he fretted that the delay might allow Coligny to escape. No one had thought to check for a back entrance.
But the door yielded to force and burst open. There was fierce fighting up the stairs as half a dozen guards tried to keep the Guises back, but Coligny’s men were outnumbered and in minutes they all lay dead or dying.
Pierre leaped off his horse and ran up the stairs. The men-at-arms were throwing doors open. ‘In here!’ one of them yelled, and Pierre followed the voice into a grand bedroom.
Coligny was kneeling at the foot of the bed, wearing a nightgown, his silver hair covered with a cap, his wounded arm in a sling. He was praying aloud.
The men-at-arms hesitated to murder a man at prayer.
But they had all done worse things. Pierre yelled: ‘What are you scared of? Kill him, damn you!’
A Guise man called Besme thrust his sword into Coligny’s chest. When he pulled it out, bright blood pumped from the wound. Coligny fell forward.
Pierre rushed to the window and threw it open. He saw Henri down in the forecourt, still on horseback. ‘Duke Henri!’ he shouted. ‘I am proud to tell you that Coligny is dead!’
Henri shouted back: ‘Show me the body!’
Pierre turned into the room. ‘Besme,’ he said, ‘bring the body here.’
The man put his hands under Coligny’s arms and dragged the corpse across the floor.
Pierre said: ‘Lift it up to the window.’
Besme complied.
Henri shouted: ‘I can’t see his face!’
Impatiently, Pierre grabbed the body around the hips and heaved. The corpse tumbled over the windowsill, fell through the air, and hit the cobblestones with a smack, face down.
Henri dismounted. In a gesture stinking with contempt, he turned the body over with his foot.
‘This is he,’ he said. ‘The man who killed my father.’
The men around him cheered.
‘It’s done,’ said Henri. ‘Ring the bell of St-Germain l’Auxerrois.’
*
SYLVIE WISHED she had a horse.
Dashing from house to house, speaking to members of the congregation that met in the loft over the stable, she felt frustrated almost to the point of hysteria. Each time she had to find the right house, explain the situation to the family, persuade them that she was not imagining things, then hurry to the next nearest Protestant household. She had a logical plan: she was moving north along the rue St Martin, the main artery in the middle of the town, turning down side streets for short distances. Even so, she was managing only three or four calls per hour. If she had had a horse it would have been twice as quick.
She also would have been less vulnerable. It was hard for a drunk man to pull a strong young woman off a horse. But on foot and alone in the dark on the Paris streets she feared that anything could happen and no one would see.
As she approached the home of the marquess of Lagny, not far from her warehouse near the city wall, she heard distant bells. She frowned. What did that mean? Bells at an unexpected moment usually signified some crisis. The sound grew, and she realized that one church after another was joining the chorus. A city-wide emergency could mean only one thing: the apprehension that she and Ned had shared, when they found that Pierre’s book was missing, was coming true.
A few minutes later she came to the marquess’s house and banged on the door. He opened it himself: he must have been up, and his servants asleep. Sylvie realized this was the first time she had seen him without his jewelled cap. His head was bald with a monk’s fringe.
He said: ‘Why are they ringing the bells?’
‘Because they’re going to kill us all,’ she said, and she stepped inside.
He led her into the parlour. He was a widower, and his children were grown and living elsewhere, so he was probably alone in the house apart from the servants. She saw that he had been sitting up reading by the light of a wrought-iron candle tree. She recognized the book as one she had sold him. There was a flask of wine beside his chair and he offered her some. She realized she was hungry and thirsty: she had been on the go for hours. She drank a glass quickly, but refused a second.
She explained that she had guessed that the ultra-Catholics were about to launch an attack, and she had been racing around the town warning Protestants, but now she feared it had begun, and it could be too late for warnings. ‘I must go home,’ she said.
‘Are you sure? You might be safer to stay here.’
‘I have to make sure my mother is all right.’
He walked her to the door. As he turned the handle, someone banged on it from the outside. ‘Don’t open it!’ Sylvie said, but she was too late.
Looking over Lagny’s shoulder she saw a nobleman standing on the doorstep with several others behind him. Lagny recognized the man. ‘Viscount Villeneuve!’ he said in surprise.
Villeneuve wore an expensive red coat, but Sylvie was scared to see that he held his sword in his hand.
Lagny remained calm. ‘What brings you to my house at this time of night, Viscount?’
‘The work of Christ,’ said Villeneuve, and with a swift motion, he thrust his sword into Lagny’s belly.
Sylvie screamed.
Lagny screamed too, in agony, and fell to his knees.
As Villeneuve struggled to pull his sword out of Lagny’s guts, Sylvie ran along the hallway towards the back of the house. She threw open a door, dashed through, and found herself in a large kitchen.
In Paris, as everywhere, servants did not have the costly luxury of beds, but slept on the kitchen floor, and here a dozen staff were waking up and asking in scared voices what was going on.
Sylvie ran across the room, dodging the waking men and women, and reached the far door. It was locked, and there was no sign of a key.
She spotted an open
window – letting air into a crowded room on an August night – and, without further thought, she scrambled through it.
She found herself in a yard with a henhouse and a pigeon loft. At the far side was a high stone wall with a gate. She tried to open the gate and found it locked. She could have wept with frustration and terror.
From the kitchen behind her she heard screams: Villeneuve and his men must have entered the kitchen. She guessed that they would assume all the servants were Protestants like their master – it was the usual way – and they would probably murder them all before coming after her.
She scrambled up onto the roof of the henhouse, causing a cacophony of squawking inside. Between the roof and the yard wall was a gap of only about a yard. Sylvie jumped it. Landing on the narrow top of the wall she lost her balance and fell to her knees painfully, but regained her balance. She dropped down the far side of the wall to a smelly lane.
She ran the length of the lane. It emerged into the rue du Mur. She headed for her warehouse, running as fast as she could. She reached it without seeing anyone. She unlocked the door, slipped inside, closed the door behind her, and locked it.
She was safe. She leaned on the door with her cheek against the wood. She had escaped, she thought with a strange sense of elation. A thought came into her mind that surprised her: I don’t want to die now that I’ve met Ned Willard.
*
WALSINGHAM IMMEDIATELY SAW the significance of the missing notebook, and assigned Ned and several others to call at the homes of prominent English Protestants in Paris, advising them to take refuge in the embassy. There were not enough horses for all and Ned went on foot. He wore high riding boots and a leather jerkin, despite the warmth of the night, and he was armed with a sword and a dagger with a two-foot-long sharpened blade.
He had completed his task, and was leaving the last of the houses assigned to him, when the bells began to ring.
He was worried about Sylvie. Pierre’s plan required the murders only of aristocratic Protestants, but once men started to kill it was hard to stop them. Two weeks ago Sylvie might have been safe, for her life as a Protestant bookseller had been a well-kept secret, but last week Ned had led Pierre to her home, and now she was probably on Pierre’s list. Ned wanted to bring her and her mother to the embassy for protection.
He made his way to the rue de la Serpente and banged on the door of the shop.
The upstairs window opened and a figure leaned out. ‘Who is it?’ The voice belonged to Isabelle.
‘Ned Willard.’
‘Wait, I’ll come down.’
The window was shut and, a few moments later, the front door was opened. ‘Come inside,’ said Isabelle.
Ned stepped in and she closed the door. A single candle lit the shelves with their ledgers and ink bottles. Ned said: ‘Where’s Sylvie?’
‘Still out warning people.’
‘It’s too late for warnings now.’
‘She may have taken refuge.’
Ned was disappointed and worried. ‘Where do you think she might be?’
‘She was going to work her way north along the rue St Martin and end up at the home of the marquess of Lagny. She might be there. Or . . .’ Isabelle hesitated.
Ned said impatiently: ‘Where else? Her life is in danger!’
‘There’s a secret place. You must swear never to reveal it.’
‘I swear.’
‘In the rue du Mur, two hundred yards from the corner of the rue St Denis, there is an old brick stable with one door and no windows.’
‘Good enough.’ He hesitated. ‘Will you be all right?’
She opened a drawer in the table and showed him two single-shot pocket pistols with wheel-lock firing mechanisms, plus half a dozen balls and a box of gunpowder. ‘I keep these for when a drunk comes out of the tavern across the street and asks himself how hard it can be to rob a shop run by two women.’
‘Have you ever shot anyone?’
‘No. Waving the guns was always enough.’
He put his hand on the door handle. ‘Bar the door behind me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Make sure all your window shutters are tightly closed and latched on the inside.’
‘Yes.’
‘Put out your candle. Don’t open the door to anyone. If someone knocks, don’t speak. Let them think the building is empty.’
‘All right.’
‘Sylvie and I will come back here for you then all three of us will go together to the English embassy.’
Ned opened the door.
Isabelle grabbed his arm. ‘Take care of her,’ she said, and there was a catch in her voice. ‘Whatever happens, look after my little girl.’
‘That’s what I mean to do,’ Ned said, and he hurried away.
The bells were still ringing. There were not many people on the streets of the left bank. However, as Ned crossed the Notre Dame bridge with its expensive shops, he was shocked to see two dead bodies in the street. A man and a woman in nightwear had been stabbed to death. Ned was sickened by the domesticity of the sight: husband and wife lying side by side, as if in bed, except that their nightgowns were soaked with blood.
The door of a nearby jewellery store stood open, and Ned saw two men emerging with sacks, presumably full of looted valuables. The men glared aggressively at him and he hurried past. He did not want to be delayed by an altercation with them, and they clearly felt the same, for they did not follow him.
On the right bank he saw a group of men hammering at a door. They had strips of white cloth tied to their arms in what Ned guessed was a form of identification. Most were armed with daggers and clubs, but one, better dressed than the others, had a sword. This one shouted in an educated voice: ‘Open up, blaspheming Protestants!’
The men were Catholics, then, and they formed a squad led by an officer. Ned figured that they must be part of the town militia. Jerónima’s information had suggested a mass slaughter of Protestant noblemen, but the house he was passing was an ordinary residence, that of a craftsman or small merchant. As he had feared, the killing was spreading beyond the original aristocratic targets. The result could be truly horrifying.
He felt cowardly sneaking past the scene, hoping the men with the white armbands would not see him. But no other action made sense. On his own he could not save the occupants of the house from six attackers. If he confronted them, they would kill him, then return their attention to the house. And he had to find Sylvie.
Ned followed the broad rue St Martin northwards, keeping his eyes peeled in the starlight, looking down the side streets, hoping to see a small woman with an upright stance and a brisk step coming towards him with a relieved smile. Glancing down an alley he saw another group of men with white armbands, three of them this time, rough-looking, none carrying swords. He was about to hurry past when something about the scene arrested him.
The men had their backs to him, looking at something on the ground, and Ned spotted what was horribly like the graceful shape of a young woman’s leg.
He stopped and stared. It was dark, but one of the men held a lamp. As Ned peered more closely, he saw that a girl lay on the ground, and a fourth man was kneeling between her thighs. She was moaning, and after a moment Ned made out that she was saying: ‘No, no, no . . .’
He felt a powerful impulse to run away, but he could not. It looked as if the rape had not actually begun. If he intervened in the next few seconds he could prevent it.
Or he could get killed.
The men were intent on the woman, and had not seen him, but at any moment one of them might glance backwards. There was no time to think.
Ned set down his lantern and drew his sword.
He crept up behind the group. Before fear could stop him, he stuck the point of his sword in the nearest man’s thigh.
The man roared with agony.
Ned pulled his sword out. The next man was turning around to see what was happening, and Ned slashed at him. It was a lucky stroke, and the
tip of the blade gashed the man’s face from the chin up to the left eye. He yelled in pain and put both hands to his face. Blood spurted through his fingers.
The third spectator looked at his two wounded comrades, panicked, and ran away down the alley.
After a moment, the two men Ned had stabbed did the same.
The man on his knees jumped up and followed, holding up his breeches with both hands.
Ned sheathed his bloody sword, then knelt beside the girl and pulled her dress down over her legs, covering her nakedness.
Only then did he look at her face and realize she was Aphrodite Beaulieu.
She was not even a Protestant. Ned wondered what she had been doing on the street at night. Her parents would not have allowed her to wander around alone even in the daytime. Ned thought she might have had an assignation, and remembered how happily she had smiled at Bernard Housse in the Louvre. And she would probably have got away with it, had this not been the night that someone decided to let slip the dogs of war.
She looked at him and said: ‘Ned Willard? Thank God! But how . . . ?’
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘No time for explanations,’ he said. The Beaulieu mansion was not far away in the rue St Denis. ‘Let me take you home.’ He picked up his lantern and took her arm.
She seemed too shocked to speak or even cry.
Ned looked about him warily as they walked. No one was safe.
They were almost at her house when four men with white armbands came out of a side street and accosted them. One said: ‘Are you running away, Protestants?’
Ned’s heart went cold. He thought of drawing his sword, but they had swords too, and there were four of them. He had taken the last lot by surprise, and scared them, but these four stood facing him with their hands on their hilts, ready for action. He did not stand a chance.
He would have to talk his way out of this. They would automatically suspect any foreigner, of course. His accent was good enough to fool people – Parisians thought he came from Calais – but sometimes he made childish mistakes of grammar, and he prayed that he would not give himself away now by saying le maison instead of la maison.
