A Column of Fire by Ken Follett (11)

11

While Odette gave birth, painfully and loudly, Pierre planned how to get rid of the baby.

Odette was suffering God’s punishment for her unchastity. She deserved it. There was some justice on earth, after all, Pierre thought.

And as soon as the baby arrived, she would lose it.

He sat downstairs in the small house, leafing through his black leather-bound notebook, while the midwife attended to Odette in the bedroom. The remains of an interrupted breakfast were on the table in front of him: bread, ham and some early radishes. The room was dismal, with bare walls, a flagstone floor, a cold fireplace and one small window on to a narrow, dark street. Pierre hated it.

Normally he left straight after breakfast. He usually went first to the Guise family palace in the Vieille rue du Temple, a place where the floors were marble and the walls were hung with splendid paintings. Most often he spent the day there or at the Louvre palace, in attendance on Cardinal Charles or Duke François. In the late afternoon he frequently had meetings with members of his rapidly growing network of spies, who added to the list of Protestants in the black leather notebook. He rarely returned to the little house in Les Halles until bedtime. Today, however, he was waiting for the baby to come.

It was May 1560, and they had been married five months.

For the first few weeks Odette had tried to cajole him into a normal sexual relationship. She did her best to be coquettish, but it did not come naturally to her, and when she wiggled her broad behind and smiled at him, showing her crooked teeth, he was repelled. Later she began to taunt him with impotence and, as an alternative jibe, homosexuality. Neither arrow struck home – he thought nostalgically of long afternoons in the widow Bauchene’s feather bed – but Odette’s insults were nevertheless irritating.

Their mutual resentment hardened into cold loathing as her belly swelled through the end of a harsh winter and the beginning of a rainy spring. Their conversation shrank to terse exchanges about food, laundry, housekeeping money, and the performance of their sulky adolescent maid, Nath. Pierre found himself festering with rage. Thoughts of his hateful wife poisoned everything. The prospect of having to live, not only with Odette but also with her baby, the child of another man, came to be so odious as to seem impossible.

Perhaps the brat would be stillborn. He hoped so. That would make everything easy.

Odette stopped screaming, and a few moments later Pierre heard the squalling of a baby. He sighed: his wish had not been granted. The little bastard sounded repulsively healthy. Wearily, he rubbed his eyes with his hands. Nothing was easy, nothing ever went the way he hoped. There were always disappointments. Sometimes he wondered if his entire philosophy of life might be faulty.

He put the notebook in a document chest, locked the chest, and slipped the key into his pocket. He could not keep the book at the Guise palace, for he did not have a room of his own there.

He stood up. He had planned what to do next.

He climbed the stairs.

Odette lay in the bed with her eyes closed. She was pale, and bathed in perspiration, but breathing normally, either asleep or resting. Nath, the maid, was rolling up a sheet stained with blood and mucus. The midwife was holding the tiny baby in her left arm and, with her right hand, washing its head and face with a cloth that she dipped into a bowl of water.

It was an ugly thing, red and wrinkled with a mat of dark hair, and it made an irritating noise.

As Pierre watched, the midwife wrapped the baby in a little blue blanket – a gift to Odette, Pierre recalled, from Véronique de Guise.

‘It’s a boy,’ the midwife said.

He had not noticed the baby’s gender, even though he had seen it naked.

Without opening her eyes, Odette said: ‘His name is Alain.’

Pierre could have killed her. Not only was he expected to raise the child, she wanted him to have a daily reminder of Alain de Guise, the pampered young aristocrat who was the real father of the bastard. Well, she had a surprise coming.

‘Here, take him,’ said the midwife, and she handed the bundle to Pierre. He noticed that Véronique’s blanket was made of costly soft wool.

Odette muttered: ‘Don’t give the baby to him.’

But she was too late. Pierre was already holding the child. It weighed next to nothing. For a moment he experienced a strange feeling, a sudden urge to protect this helpless little human being from harm; but he quickly suppressed the impulse. I’m not going to let my life be blighted by this worthless scrap, he thought.

Odette sat up in bed and said: ‘Give me the baby.’

The midwife reached for the bundle, but Pierre withheld it. ‘What did you say its name was, Odette?’ he said in a challenging tone.

‘Never mind, give him here.’ She threw back the covers, evidently intending to get out of bed, but then she cried out, as if at a spasm of pain, and fell back on the pillow.

The midwife looked worried. ‘The baby should suckle now,’ she said.

Pierre saw that the child’s mouth had puckered into a sucking shape, though it was taking in only air. Still he kept it in his arms.

The midwife made a determined attempt to wrest the baby from his grasp. Holding the child in one arm, he slapped the midwife’s face hard with the other hand, and she fell back. Nath screamed. Odette sat up again, white with pain. Pierre went to the door, carrying the child.

‘Come back!’ Odette screamed. ‘Pierre, please don’t take away my baby!’

He went out and slammed the bedroom door.

He went down the stairs. The baby cried. It was a mild spring evening, but he threw on a cloak so that he could hide the baby underneath it. Then he left the house.

The baby seemed to like motion: when Pierre started walking steadily, it stopped crying. That came as a relief, and Pierre realized the child’s noise had been bothering him, as if he was supposed to do something about it.

He headed for the Île de la Cité. Getting rid of the child would be easy. There was a particular place in the cathedral where people left unwanted babies, at the foot of a statue of St Anne, the mother of Mary and the patron saint of mothers. By custom, the priests would put the abandoned baby in a crib for all to see, and sometimes the child would be adopted by a soft-hearted couple as an act of charity. Otherwise it would be raised by nuns.

The baby moved under his arm, and once again he had to suppress an irrational feeling that he ought to love it and take care of it.

More challenging was the problem of explaining the disappearance of a Guise infant, albeit a bastard; but Pierre had his story ready. As soon as he returned he would dismiss the midwife and the maid. Then he would tell Cardinal Charles that the child had been stillborn, but the trauma had driven Odette mad, and she refused to accept that the baby was dead. Walking along, Pierre invented a few details: she had pretended to suckle the corpse, she had dressed it in new clothes, she had put it in a crib and said it was sleeping.

Charles would be suspicious, but the story was plausible, and there would be no proof of anything. Pierre thought he would get away with it. He had realized, at some point in the last two years, that Charles did not like him and never would, but found him too useful to be discarded. Pierre had taken the lesson to heart: as long as he was indispensable, he was safe.

The streets were crowded, as always. He passed a tall pile of refuse: ashes, fish bones, night soil, stable sweepings, worn-out shoes. It occurred to him that he could just leave the baby on such a rubbish tip, though he would have to make sure no one saw him. Then he noticed a rat nibbling the face of a dead cat, and he realized the baby would suffer the same fate, but alive. He did not have the stomach for that. He was not a monster.

He crossed the river by the Notre Dame Bridge and entered the cathedral; but when he reached the nave, he began to have doubts about his plan. As usual, there were people in the great church: priests, worshippers, pilgrims, hucksters and prostitutes. He walked slowly up the nave until he came level with the little side chapel dedicated to St Anne. Could he discreetly put the baby on the floor in front of the statue without being observed? He did not see how. For a destitute woman, perhaps it would hardly matter if she were noticed: no one would know who she was and she might slip away and vanish before anyone had the presence of mind to question her. But it was a different matter for a well-dressed young man. He might get into trouble if the baby so much as cried. Under his cloak, he pressed the warm body closer to him, hoping to muffle any noise as well as keeping it out of sight. He realized he should have come here late at night or very early in the morning – but what would he have done with the child in the meantime?

A thin young woman in a red dress caught his eye, and he was inspired. He would offer one of the prostitutes money to take the baby from him and put it into the chapel. Such a woman would not know him, and the baby would remain unidentified. He was about to approach the one in the red dress when, to his shock, he heard a familiar voice. ‘Pierre, my dear chap, how are you?’

It was his old tutor. ‘Father Moineau!’ he said, horrified. This was calamitous. If the baby cried, how would Pierre explain what he was doing?

The priest’s square, reddish face was creased with smiles. ‘I’m glad to see you. I hear you’re becoming a man of consequence!’

‘Something like that,’ Pierre said. Desperately he added: ‘Which means, unfortunately, that I am pressed for time and must leave you.’

Moineau looked thunderous at this brush-off. ‘Please, don’t allow me to detain you,’ he said curtly.

Pierre longed to confess his troubles, but he felt a more urgent need to get himself and the baby out of the cathedral. ‘I do beg your pardon, Father,’ he said. ‘I will call on you before too long.’

‘If you have time,’ Moineau said sarcastically.

‘I’m sorry. Goodbye!’

Moineau did not say goodbye, but turned away petulantly.

Pierre hurried down the nave and out through the west door. He was dismayed to have offended Moineau, the only person in the world he could tell his troubles to. Pierre had his masters and his servants, but he did not cultivate friends; Moineau was the exception. And now he had offended him.

He put Moineau out of his mind and retraced his steps across the bridge. He wished he could have thrown the baby into the river, but he would have been seen. Anyway, he knew that Father Moineau would not have reassured him that such a murder was God’s will. Sins committed in a good cause might be indulged, but there was a limit.

If he could not leave the baby in the cathedral, he would take it directly to the nuns. He knew one of the convents that acted as an orphanage: it was in the affluent east of the city, not far from the Guise family palace. He turned in that direction. He probably should have chosen this plan in the first place: the cathedral had been a mistake.

The place he was thinking of was called the Convent of the Holy Family. As well as an orphanage, the nuns ran a school for girls and small boys. As Pierre approached he heard the unmistakable sound of children at play. He went up the front steps to a tall carved door and stepped into a cool, quiet hall with a stone floor.

He took the baby from under his cloak. Its eyes were closed but it was still breathing. It waved its tiny fists in front of its face as if trying to get its thumb in its mouth.

After a few moments a young nun glided silently into the hall. She stared at the baby.

Pierre used his most authoritative voice. ‘I must speak with your Mother Superior immediately.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the nun. She was polite but not intimidated: a man with a baby in his arms cannot be fearsome, Pierre realized. The nun said: ‘May I ask who wishes to see her?’

Pierre had anticipated this question. ‘My name is Doctor Jean de la Rochelle, and I am attached to the College of the Holy Trinity at the university.’

The nun opened a door. ‘Please be so kind as to wait in here.’

Pierre went into a pleasant small room with a painted wooden sculpture of Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus. The only other furniture was a bench, but Pierre did not sit down.

An older nun came in a few minutes later. ‘Doctor Roche?’ she said.

‘De la Rochelle,’ Pierre corrected her. It was just possible that her mistake with his name was a deliberate error intended to test him.

‘Forgive me. I am Mother Ladoix.’

Pierre said dramatically: ‘The mother of this boy child is possessed by the devil.’

Mother Ladoix was as shocked as he intended. She crossed herself and said: ‘May God protect us all.’

‘The mother cannot possibly raise the baby. It would die.’

‘And the family?’

‘The child is illegitimate.’

Mother Ladoix began to recover from her shock and looked at Pierre with a touch of scepticism. ‘And the father?’

‘Not me, I assure you, in case that was what you were thinking,’ he said haughtily.

She looked embarrassed. ‘Certainly not.’

‘However, he is a very young nobleman. I am the family’s physician. Naturally, I cannot reveal their name.’

‘I understand.’

The baby began to cry. Almost automatically, Mother Ladoix took the bundle from Pierre and rocked the baby. ‘He’s hungry,’ she said.

‘No doubt,’ said Pierre.

‘This blanket is very soft. It must have been costly.’

It was a hint. Pierre took out his purse. He had not prepared for this contingency, but fortunately he had money. He counted out ten gold ecus, worth twenty-five livres, enough to feed a baby for years. ‘The family asked me to offer you ten ecus, and to say they would guarantee the same amount every year that the child is here.’

Mother Ladoix hesitated. Pierre guessed that she did not know how much of his story to believe. But caring for unwanted children was her mission in life. And ten ecus was a lot of money. She took the coins. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We will take good care of this little boy.’

‘I will pray for him and for you.’

‘And I look forward to seeing you one year from today.’

For a moment Pierre was thrown. Then he realized she expected him to return with another ten ecus, as promised. It would never happen. ‘I will be here,’ he lied. ‘One year from today.’

He opened the door and held it for the nun. She left the room and silently disappeared into the nunnery.

Pierre went out with a light heart and walked away rapidly. He was exultant. He had got rid of the bastard. There would be a thunderstorm when he got home, but that was all right. There was no longer anything to tie him to the repellent Odette. Perhaps he could get rid of her, too.

To postpone the confrontation, he went into a tavern and ordered a celebratory cup of sherry. As he sat alone, sipping the strong, tawny wine, he turned his mind to his work.

It was more difficult now than when he had started. King Francis II had stepped up trials of Protestants, perhaps under the guidance of his Scottish wife, Mary Stuart, but more likely influenced by her Guise uncles. The heightened persecution had made the Protestants more cautious.

Several of Pierre’s spies were Protestants who had been arrested and threatened with torture unless they turned traitor. But the heretics were getting wise to this, and no longer automatically trusted their co-religionists. Nowadays they often knew each other only by first names, not revealing their surnames or addresses. It was like a game in which the Church’s moves were always countered by the heretics. However, Charles was patient, and Pierre was relentless; and it was a game that ended in death.

He finished his wine and walked the rest of the way home.

When he got there, he was shocked to find Cardinal Charles sitting in his living room, in a red silk doublet, waiting for him.

The midwife stood behind the cardinal with her arms folded and her chin raised defiantly.

Without preamble, Charles said: ‘What have you done with the baby?’

Pierre got over his shock rapidly and thought hard. Odette had acted faster than he had anticipated. He had underestimated the resourcefulness of a desperate woman. She must have recovered from childbirth sufficiently to send a message to the cardinal, probably by Nath, pleading for help. Nath had been lucky to find Charles at home and willing to come immediately. The upshot was that Pierre was in trouble. ‘Somewhere safe,’ he said in answer to the cardinal’s question.

‘If you’ve killed a Guise child, by God you’ll die for it, no matter how good you are at catching blasphemers.’

‘The baby is alive and well.’

‘Where?’

There was no point in resistance. Pierre gave in. ‘At the Convent of the Holy Family.’

The midwife looked triumphant. Pierre felt humiliated. He now regretted that slap in the face.

Charles said: ‘Go back and get him.’

Pierre hesitated. He could hardly bring himself to return, but he could not defy the cardinal without ruining everything.

Charles said: ‘You’d better bring him here alive.’

Pierre realized that if the baby should die of natural causes now – as they often did in the first few hours – he would be blamed, and probably executed for murder.

He turned and went to the door.

‘Wait,’ said Charles. ‘Listen to me. You are going to live with Odette, and take care of her and her child for the rest of your life. That is my will.’

Pierre was silent. No one could defy Charles’s will, not even the king.

‘And the child’s name is Alain,’ said Charles.

Pierre nodded assent, and left the house.

*

SYLVIE’S LIFE WENT WELL for half a year.

With the proceeds of book sales she and her mother rented a pleasant small house with two bedrooms in the rue de la Serpente, a street in the University district south of the river, and opened a shop in the front parlour. They sold paper, ink and other writing necessities to teachers, students and the literate general public. Sylvie bought the paper in Saint-Marcel, a suburb outside the city wall to the south, where the manufacturers had the unlimited water they needed from the Bièvre river. She made the ink herself using oak galls, the wart-like growths she picked from the bark of trees in the woods. Her father had taught her the recipe. Printing ink was different, made with oil to be more viscous, but she also knew how to prepare a more dilute ink for ordinary writing. The shop did not really make enough money for the two of them to live on, but it served as a plausible cover for their more important business.

Isabelle recovered from her depression, but she had aged. The horror the two women had experienced seemed to have weakened the mother and strengthened the daughter. Sylvie now took the initiative.

Sylvie led a dangerous life as a criminal and a heretic but, paradoxically, she was happy. Reflecting on why this was, she suspected that for the first time in her life she did not have a man telling her what to do. She had decided to open the shop, she had chosen to rejoin the Protestant congregation, she had continued selling banned books. She talked to her mother about everything, but she made the decisions. She was happy because she was free.

She longed for a man to hold at night, but not at the price of her liberty. Most men treated their wives like children, the only difference being that women could work harder. Perhaps there were men somewhere who did not regard wives as property, but she had never met one.

Sylvie had invented new names for them both, so that the authorities would not connect them with the executed heretic Giles Palot. They now called themselves Thérèse and Jacqueline St Quentin. The Protestants understood why and went along with the pretence. The two women had no friends who were not Protestants.

Their aliases had fooled a man from the city government who had visited the shop soon after it opened. He had looked all over the premises and asked a lot of questions. He might even have been one of Pierre Aumande’s informants, Sylvie thought; although any paper shop might have been checked for illegal literature. There were no books in the building, other than notebooks and ledgers, and he had gone away satisfied.

The contraband books were at the warehouse in the rue du Mur, and Sylvie withdrew one only when she had a buyer lined up, so that the incriminating objects were never at the house for more than a few hours. Then, one Sunday morning in the summer of 1560, she went to the warehouse for a French-language Geneva Bible and found that there was only one left in the box.

Checking the other boxes, she discovered that most contained obscure texts, such as the works of Erasmus, which she was able to sell only occasionally, to broad-minded priests or curious university students. She might have guessed: the books were still in the warehouse because they did not sell well. Other than the Bible, the only moderately popular book was John Calvin’s manifesto Institutes of the Christian Religion. That was why her father had been printing more Bibles last September, when the Guises had pounced. But those Bibles, found in the shop and fatally incriminating for Giles, had been burned.

She realized that she had failed to plan ahead. What was she going to do now? She thought with horror of the profession she had almost taken up back in the winter, when she and her mother had been close to starving. Never again, she vowed.

On her way home she passed through Les Halles, the district where Pierre lived. Despite her loathing of Pierre, she tried to keep an eye on him. His master, Cardinal Charles, was responsible for the royal crackdown on Paris Protestants, and Sylvie felt sure Pierre must still be involved in finding them. He could no longer be a spy himself, because so many people knew who he was, but he was probably a spymaster.

Sylvie had discreetly watched Pierre’s house, and talked to people in the nearby tavern of St Étienne. Members of the Guise household guard often drank there, and she sometimes picked up useful chatter about what the family was up to. She had also learned that Pierre had remarried quickly after the annulment. He now had a wife called Odette, a baby boy called Alain, and a maid called Nath: the tavern gossip was that both Odette and Nath hated Pierre. Sylvie had not yet spoken to Odette or Nath, but she was on nodding terms, and she hoped they might one day be persuaded to betray his secrets. Meanwhile, Pierre was watched at court by the young marchioness of Nîmes, who kept a note of the people she saw him talking to. So far her only moderately interesting identification had been Gaston Le Pin, the captain of the Guise family guard, who was too well known to have a clandestine role.

When she got home and told her mother they were out of Bibles, Isabelle said: ‘We could forget about the books, and just sell stationery.’

‘The stationery doesn’t make enough money,’ Sylvie said. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to spend my life selling paper and ink. We have a mission to enable our fellow men and women to read God’s word for themselves, and to find their way to the true gospel. I want to go on doing that.’

Her mother smiled. ‘Good girl.’

‘But how will I get the books? We can’t print them. Father’s machinery belongs to someone else now.’

‘There must be other Protestant printers in Paris.’

‘There are – I’ve seen their books in customers’ homes. And we’ve got plenty of money from past sales to buy new stock. But I can’t find out where the printers are – it’s a secret, obviously. Anyway, they can sell the books themselves, so why would they need me?’

‘There’s only one place where it’s possible to buy large quantities of Protestant books, and that’s Geneva.’ Isabelle said it as if Geneva were as remote as the moon.

But Sylvie was not easily discouraged. ‘How far is it?’

‘You can’t go! It’s a long way, and a dangerous journey. And you’ve never travelled farther than the outskirts of Paris.’

Sylvie pretended to be less daunted than she felt. ‘Other people do it. Remember Guillaume?’

‘Of course I remember him. You should have married him.’

‘I should never have married anyone. How do people get from Paris to Geneva?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Maybe Luc Mauriac will know.’ Sylvie knew the Mauriac family well.

Isabelle nodded. ‘He’s a cargo broker.’

‘I’ve never understood exactly what a cargo broker does.’

‘Imagine that a captain comes from Bordeaux and up the Seine river to Paris with a cargo of wine. Then he gets a shipment of cloth to take back to Bordeaux, but it fills only half of his hold. He doesn’t want to wait around, he needs another half-cargo as soon as possible. So he goes to Luc, who knows every merchant in Paris and every port in Europe. Luc will find the captain a load of coal, or leather, or fashionable hats, that someone in Bordeaux wants.’

‘So Luc knows how to go everywhere, including Geneva.’

‘He’ll tell you that a young woman can’t possibly do it.’

‘The days of men telling me what I can and can’t do are over.’

Isabelle stared at her. To Sylvie’s astonishment, tears came to her mother’s eyes. ‘You’re so brave,’ Isabelle said. ‘I can hardly believe you came from me.’

Sylvie was moved by her mother’s emotion. She managed to say: ‘But I’m just like you.’

Isabelle shook her head. ‘As the cathedral is like the parish church, perhaps.’

Sylvie was not sure how to respond to Isabelle. A parent was not supposed to look up to a child: it should be the other way around. After an awkward moment she said: ‘It’s time to go to the service.’

The congregation from the hunting lodge had found a new location for what they sometimes called their temple. Sylvie and Isabelle entered a large yard where horses and carriages could be hired. They were wearing drab clothes so that they did not look dressed up for church. The business, owned by a Protestant, was closed today, Sunday, but the doors were not locked. They entered the stable, a big stone building. A burly young groom was combing a horse’s mane. He looked hard at them, ready to challenge them, then recognized them and stepped aside to let them pass.

At the back of the stable a door opened on a concealed staircase leading up to a large attic. This was where the group worshipped. As always, the room was bare of pictures or statues and furnished simply with chairs and benches. One great advantage here was that there were no windows, so the room was soundproof. Sylvie had stood outside in the street while the congregation sang at the tops of their voices and had not been able to hear anything more than a distant strain of music that might have come from any one of several nearby religious buildings: the parish church, a monastery, or a college.

Everyone in the room knew Sylvie. She was a pivotal member of the congregation because of her role as the bookseller. In addition, during the discussion sessions that they called fellowship she often expressed trenchant views, especially on the emotive subject of tolerance. Her views, like her singing voice, could not go unnoticed. She would never be an elder, for that role was reserved for men, but, nevertheless, she was treated as one of the leaders.

She and her mother took front-row seats. Sylvie loved Protestant services – although, unlike many of her co-worshippers, she did not despise the Catholic rites: she understood that for many people the whiff of incense, the Latin words and the eerie singing of a choir were part of the spiritual experience. However, she was moved by other things: plain language, logical beliefs and hymns that she could sing herself.

All the same, today she found herself impatient for the service to end. Luc Mauriac was in the congregation with his family and she was eager to question him.

She did not forget business. Immediately after the final Amen, she gave her last French Bible to Françoise Duboeuf, the tailor’s young wife, and took five livres in payment.

Then she was approached by Louise, the young marchioness of Nîmes. ‘The court is moving to Orléans,’ Louise said.

It was normal for the king and his entourage to move around the country from time to time. ‘Perhaps there will be a respite for Parisian Protestants,’ Sylvie said hopefully. ‘What’s happening in Orléans?’

‘The king has called a meeting of the Estates-General there.’ This was a traditional national assembly. ‘Cardinal Charles and Pierre Aumande are going with the court.’

Sylvie frowned. ‘I wonder what new mischief those two devils are planning.’

‘Whatever it is, it won’t be good for us.’

‘Lord protect us.’

‘Amen.’

Sylvie left Louise and sought out Luc. ‘I need to go to Geneva,’ she said.

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.

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.’

Pierre felt a bit better. He had rapidly gained and lost a remarkable opportunity to get close to the queen, but at least Alison did not despise him for marrying Odette. Her contempt would have been agony.

The door opened, and Pierre and Alison moved apart guiltily. Louviers came in and said: ‘All is arranged.’ He picked up the knife from the table, reattached the sheath to his belt, and drew his coat about him to cover the weapon.

Alison said: ‘I’m going to dress. You two should wait in the reception room.’ She left by the inner door.

Pierre and Louviers walked along a corridor and through a lobby to an ornate room with gilded panelling, richly coloured wallpaper and a Turkish carpet. This was only a waiting room. Beyond it was the presence chamber, where the king would actually give audiences, and a guard room occupied by twenty or thirty soldiers, then finally the royal bedchamber.

They were early, but a few courtiers had already gathered. Louviers said: ‘He’ll be an hour or two – he’s not even dressed.’

Pierre settled down to wait, brooding. Reflecting on his conversation with Alison, his stomach burned with the acid thought that the best friend of the queen of France might have married him if he had been single. What a team they would have made: both smart, good-looking, ambitious. He might have ended up a duke. He felt the lost opportunity like a bereavement. And he hated Odette all the more. She was so vulgar and low-class, she took him all the way back down to the social level he had worked so hard to escape from. She defeated his entire life mission.

Gradually the room filled up. Antoine de Bourbon arrived at mid-morning. His face was handsome but weak, with heavy-lidded eyes and a downturned moustache that gave him a look of sulky lethargy. With his brother imprisoned and Coligny effectively under arrest, Antoine had to know there was a serious plot against him. Watching him, Pierre got the feeling he knew he could die today. His manner seemed to say Do your worst, and see if I care.

Duke Scarface and Cardinal Charles arrived. Nodding to acquaintances, they passed into the inner rooms without pausing.

A few minutes later, the waiting courtiers were beckoned into the presence chamber.

King Francis sat on an elaborately carved throne. He was leaning sideways, as if needing to support himself on the arm of the chair. His face was pale and moist. ‘He’s never well,’ Alison had said, but this seemed worse than his usual frailty.

Cardinal Charles stood next to the throne.

Pierre and Louviers positioned themselves at the front of the crowd, making sure the king could see them clearly. Antoine de Bourbon was a few steps away.

Now they just needed the king to give the signal.

Instead, Francis beckoned to a courtier, who stepped forward and answered a desultory question. Pierre could not take in the conversation. The king should have ordered the execution immediately. It was bizarre to deal with minor business first, as if the murder were merely one item on a full agenda. But the king went on to ask a second courtier about another equally routine matter.

Cardinal Charles whispered in the king’s ear, presumably telling him to get on with it, but Francis made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if to say, I’m coming to that.

The bishop of Orléans began to make a speech. Pierre could have strangled the man. The king leaned back on his throne and closed his eyes. He probably imagined that people thought he must be concentrating hard on what the bishop was saying. It looked more as if he was going to sleep . . . or even fainting.

After a minute he opened his eyes and looked around. His gaze fastened on Louviers, and Pierre felt sure this was the moment; but the king’s regard moved on.

Then he started to shiver.

Pierre stared in horror. The shivering fever was a plague that had ravaged France and other European countries for three years. Sometimes it was fatal.

He thought: Give the signal, for God’s sake – then you can collapse!

Instead the king started to rise. He seemed too weak to get up, and fell back into a sitting position. The bishop droned on, either not noticing or not caring that the king seemed ill; but Cardinal Charles was more quick-witted. He murmured something to Francis, who shook his head feebly in negation. With a helpless expression, Charles assisted him to his feet.

The king moved towards the inner door on the arm of the cardinal.

Pierre looked at Antoine de Bourbon. He seemed as surprised as anyone else. Clearly this was not the result of some elaborate plot of his. He was out of danger, for the moment, but he evidently did not know why.

Charles beckoned to his brother, Duke Scarface; but, to Pierre’s astonishment, the duke looked thoroughly disgusted and turned his back on Charles and the king – a discourtesy for which a stronger king would have thrown him in jail.

Leaning heavily on Charles, King Francis left the room.

*

THE WEATHER BECAME colder as Sylvie climbed through the foothills of the Alps towards Geneva. It was winter, and she needed a fur coat. She had not anticipated this.

There were many things she had not anticipated. She had had no idea how fast shoes would wear out when she was walking all day, every day. She was shocked by the rapacity of tavern-keepers, especially in locations where there was only one such establishment: they charged exorbitant rates, even though she was a ‘nun’. She expected unwelcome advances from men, and dealt with them briskly, but was surprised one night to be mauled by a woman in the communal bedroom of a hostelry.

She felt profoundly relieved when the spires of Geneva’s Protestant churches appeared in the distance. She was also proud of herself. She had been told it could not be done, but she had done it, with God’s help.

The city stood at the southern tip of the lake of the same name, at the spot where the Rhône river flowed out of the lake on its way to the distant Mediterranean Sea. As she got closer, she saw that it was a small town in comparison to Paris. But every town she had seen was small in comparison to Paris.

The sight was pretty as well as welcome. The lake was clear, the surrounding mountains were blue-and-white, and the sky was a pearly grey.

Before presenting herself at the city gate, Sylvie took off her nun’s cap, hid her pectoral cross under her dress, and wound a yellow scarf around her head and neck, so that she no longer looked like a nun, just a badly dressed laywoman. She was admitted without trouble.

She found lodging at an inn where the landlord was a woman. The next day, she bought a red wool cap. It covered her nun-like cropped hair, and was warmer than the yellow scarf.

A hard, cold wind came from the Rhône valley, lashed the surface of the lake into foaming wavelets, and chilled the city. The people were as cold as the climate, Sylvie found. She wanted to tell them that one did not have to be grumpy to be a Protestant.

The town was full of printers and booksellers. They produced Bibles and other literature in English and German as well as French, and sent their books to be sold all over Europe. She went into a printer’s nearest to her lodging and found a man and his apprentice working at a press with books stacked all around them. She asked the price of a Bible in French.

The printer looked at her coarse dress and said: ‘Too expensive for you.’

The apprentice sniggered.

‘I’m serious,’ she said.

‘You don’t look it,’ the man said. ‘Two livres.’

‘And if I buy a hundred?’

He half turned away to show lack of interest. ‘I don’t have a hundred.’

‘Well, I’m not going to give my business to someone so apathetic,’ she said tartly, and she went out.

But the next printer was the same. It was maddening. She could not understand why they did not want to sell their books. She tried telling them she had come all the way from Paris, but they did not believe her. She said she had a holy mission to bring the Bible to misguided French Catholics, and they laughed.

After a fruitless day she went back to the inn, feeling frustrated and helpless. Had she come all this way for nothing? Tired out, she slept heavily, and woke determined to take a different approach.

She found the College of Pastors, figuring that their mission was to spread the true gospel, and they would surely want to help her. There, in the hall of the modest building, she saw someone she knew. It took her a few moments to figure out that it was the young missionary who had come into her father’s bookshop almost three years ago and said: ‘I am Guillaume of Geneva.’ She greeted him with relief.

For his part, he regarded her sudden appearance in Geneva as some kind of godsend. Having done two tours of missionary duty in France, he was now teaching younger men to follow in his footsteps. In this easier way of life he had lost his intensity, and he was no longer as thin as a sapling: in fact, he looked contentedly plump. And Sylvie’s arrival completed his happiness.

He was shocked to hear of Pierre’s treachery, but he failed to conceal a feeling of satisfaction that his more glamorous rival had turned out to be a fraud. Then tears came to his eyes when she told him of the martyrdom of Giles.

When she related her experiences with Geneva booksellers, he was unsurprised. ‘It’s because you treat them as equals,’ he said.

Sylvie had learned to appear unafraid and in command, as the only way to discourage men from trying to exploit her. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ she said.

‘They expect a woman to be humble.’

‘They like deferential women in Paris, too, but they don’t turn customers away on that account. If a woman has money, and they have goods to sell, they do business.’

‘Paris is different.’

Evidently, she thought.

Guillaume eagerly agreed to help her. He cancelled his lectures for the day and took her to a printer he knew. She stood back and let him do the talking.

She wanted two kinds of Bible: one cheap enough for almost anyone to buy, and a luxury edition, expensively printed and bound, for wealthier customers. Following her instructions, Guillaume bargained hard, and she got both at a price she could treble in Paris. She bought a hundred prestige editions and a thousand cheap ones.

She was excited to see, in the same workshop, copies of the Psalms in the translation by the French poet Clément Marot. This had been a big success for her father and she knew she could sell many more. She bought five hundred.

She felt a thrill as she watched the boxes being brought out from the storeroom at the back of the shop. Her journey was not over yet, but she had succeeded so far. She had refused to abandon her mission, and she had been right. Those books would take the true religion into the hearts of hundreds of people. They would also feed her and her mother for a year or more. It was a triumph.

But first she had to get them to Paris, and that required a degree of deception.

She also bought a hundred reams of paper to sell in the shop on the rue de la Serpente. On her instructions, Guillaume told the printer to cover the books in each box with packages of paper, so that if a box was opened for any reason the contraband books would not be visible immediately. She also had the boxes marked with the Italian words ‘Carta di Fabriano’. The town of Fabriano was famous for high-quality paper. Her deception might satisfy a casual inspection. If her boxes were subjected to a more serious search then, of course, she would be finished.

That evening, Guillaume took her to his parents’ house for supper.

She could not refuse the invitation, for he had been kind, and without his help she might well have failed in her mission. But she was uncomfortable. She knew he had had romantic feelings for her, and he had left Paris abruptly as soon as she had become engaged to Pierre. Clearly those feelings had now returned – or perhaps they had never left him.

He was an only child, and his parents doted on him. They were warm, kind people, and they obviously knew that their son was smitten. Sylvie had to tell again the story of her father’s martyrdom, and how she and her mother had rebuilt their lives. Guillaume’s father, a jeweller, was as proud of Sylvie as if she were already his daughter-in-law. His mother admired her courage, but in her eyes was the knowledge, sad but incontestable, that her son had failed to capture Sylvie’s heart.

They invited her to lodge with them, but she declined, not wanting to encourage false hopes.

That night she wondered why she did not love Guillaume. They had much in common. They came from prosperous middle-class families. They were both committed to spreading the true gospel. Both had experienced the deprivations and hazards of long-distance travel. Both knew danger and had seen violence. Yet she had rejected this brave, intelligent, decent man for a smooth-talking liar and spy. Was there something wrong with her? Perhaps she was just not destined for love and marriage.

Next day, Guillaume took her to the docks and introduced her to a bargee whom he believed to be trustworthy. The man attended the same church as Guillaume, and so did his wife and children. Sylvie thought he could be trusted as far as any man.

She now had a heavy consignment, very difficult to transport overland by cart on country roads, so she had to return to Paris by ship. The barge would take her downstream to Marseilles, where she would transfer her books to an oceangoing vessel bound for Rouen, on the north French coast. From there she would sail upstream to Paris.

Her boxes were loaded the next day, and on the following morning Guillaume escorted her on board. She felt bad about accepting so much help from him while having no intention of giving him what he really wanted. She told herself that Guillaume had been an eager volunteer, and she had not manipulated him, but all the same she felt guilty.

‘Write to me when you’ve sold all the books,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you want, and I’ll bring the next consignment to Paris myself.’

She did not want Guillaume to come to Paris. He would court her persistently, and she would not be able to quit his company so easily. She saw this embarrassing scenario in a flash, but she could not turn down his offer. She would have a supply of books without making this long and difficult journey.

Would it be disingenuous of her to accept? She knew perfectly well why he was doing it. But she could not think only of herself. She and Guillaume shared a holy duty. ‘That would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘I will write.’

‘I’m going to look forward to that letter,’ he said. ‘I’ll pray for it to come soon.’

‘Goodbye, Guillaume,’ said Sylvie.

*

ALISON FEARED THAT King Francis would die. Mary would be a widow, an ex-queen, and Alison would be no more than the ex-queen’s friend. Surely they deserved longer in the sun?

Everyone was on edge because of Francis’s illness. The death of a king was always a moment of terrible uncertainty. Once again the Guise brothers would struggle with the Bourbons and the Montmorencys for dominance; once again the true religion would have to battle with heresy; once again power and wealth would go to those who moved fastest and fought hardest.

As Francis sank lower, Queen Caterina summoned Alison McKay. The queen mother wore an imposing black silk dress with priceless diamond jewellery. ‘Take a message to your friend Pierre,’ she said.

Caterina had a woman’s intuition, and had undoubtedly guessed at Alison’s warm feelings for Pierre. The queen mother knew all the gossip, so she probably also understood that Pierre was married and the romance was doomed.

Alison had been upset by Pierre’s revelation. She had allowed herself to fall for him. He was clever and charming as well as handsome and well dressed. She had a daydream in which the two of them were the powerful couple behind the throne, devoted to each other and to the king and queen. Now she had to forget that dream.

‘Of course, your majesty,’ she said to Caterina.

‘Tell him I need to see Cardinal Charles and Duke Scarface in the presence room in one hour.’

‘What shall I say it’s about?’

The queen mother smiled. ‘If he asks you,’ she said, ‘say you don’t know.’

Alison left Caterina’s suite and walked through the corridors of the Château Groslot. Men bowed and women curtsied as she passed. She could not help enjoying their deference, especially now that she knew it might be so short-lived.

As she walked she wondered what Caterina might be up to. The queen mother was shrewd and tough, she knew. When Henri had died, Caterina had felt weak, and so had allied herself with the Guise brothers; but that now looked like a mistake, for Charles and François had sidelined Caterina and dominated the king through Queen Mary. Alison had a feeling that Caterina would not be so easily fooled a second time.

The Guise brothers had rooms in the palace, along with the royal family. They understood the crucial importance of being physically close to the king. Pierre, in turn, knew he had to stay close to Cardinal Charles. He was lodging at the St Joan Tavern, next to the cathedral, but – Alison knew – every day he arrived here at Groslot before the Guise brothers got up in the morning and stayed until they had gone to bed at night. So he did not miss anything.

She found him in Cardinal Charles’s parlour, along with several other aides and servants. Pierre was wearing a blue sleeveless jerkin over a white shirt embroidered in blue with a ruff. He always looked dashing, especially in blue.

The cardinal was still in his bedroom, although he was undoubtedly dressed and seeing people: Charles was anything but lazy. ‘I’ll interrupt him,’ Pierre said to Alison, standing up. ‘What does Caterina want?’

‘She’s being mysterious,’ Alison told him. ‘Ambroise Paré examined the king this morning.’ Paré was the royal surgeon. ‘But so far only Caterina knows what he said.’

‘Perhaps the king is recovering.’

‘And perhaps he’s not.’ Alison’s happiness, and that of Mary Stuart, depended on the uncertain health of Francis. It might have been different if Mary had had a child, but she still had not become pregnant. She had seen the doctor recommended by Caterina, but she would not tell Alison what he had said.

Pierre said thoughtfully: ‘If King Francis dies without fathering a child, his brother Charles will become king.’

Alison nodded. ‘But Charles is ten years old, so someone else would have to rule as regent on his behalf.’

‘And that position goes automatically to the first prince of the blood, who happens to be Antoine of Bourbon.’

‘Our great enemy.’ Alison foresaw a nightmare in which the Guise family lost all influence, and she and Mary Stuart became nobodies to whom people hardly bothered to bow.

She felt sure that Pierre shared the nightmare, but she saw that he was already thinking about how to deal with it. He never seemed daunted: she liked that. Now he said: ‘So the challenge for us, if Francis dies, will be to neutralize Antoine. Do you think that’s what Caterina wants to discuss with the Guise brothers?’

Alison smiled. ‘If anyone asks you, say you don’t know.’

An hour later, Alison and Pierre were standing side by side with Duke Scarface and Cardinal Charles amid the gorgeous décor of the presence room. A fire blazed in a massive fireplace. To Alison’s surprise, Antoine of Bourbon was also there. The rivals stared at each other across the room. Scarface was flushed with anger, and Charles was stroking his beard into a point as he did when he was truly furious. Antoine looked frightened.

Why was Caterina bringing these mortal enemies together? Would she instigate a gladiatorial combat to decide which faction would prevail if Francis died?

The others in the room were leading courtiers, most of them members of the king’s Privy Council, all of them looking bemused. Nobody seemed to have any idea what was going on. Was Antoine to be murdered in front of all these people? The assassin, Charles de Louviers, was not present.

Clearly something big was going to happen, but Caterina had been at great pains to keep it secret. Even Pierre did not know, and he usually knew everything.

It was unusual, Alison reflected, for Caterina to take the initiative like this. But the queen mother could be crafty. Alison recalled the little vial of fresh blood that Caterina had provided for Mary Stuart’s wedding night. She recalled the kittens, too, and realized that Caterina had a tough streak that she habitually concealed.

Caterina came in, and everyone bowed low. Alison had never before seen her look so commanding, and she realized that the black silk and the diamonds had been deliberately chosen to project authority. She was wearing the same outfit now but had added a headdress that looked like a crown. She crossed the room followed by four men-at-arms whom Alison had not seen before. Where had they come from? Also following her were two clerks with a writing desk and stationery.

Caterina sat on the throne normally used by Francis. Someone gasped.

Caterina was carrying two sheets of paper in her left hand.

The clerks set up the writing table and the bodyguards stood behind Caterina.

‘My son Francis is very ill,’ she said.

Alison and Pierre exchanged a glance. My son? Not his majesty the king?

She went on: ‘The surgeons can do nothing for him.’ Her voice faltered, in a moment of maternal weakness, and she touched a lace handkerchief to her eyes. ‘Dr Paré has told me that Francis is certain to die in the next few days.’

Aha, thought Alison; this is about the succession.

Caterina said: ‘I have brought my second son, Charles-Maximilien, from the Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and he is here with me now.’

That was news to Alison. Caterina had moved fast and shrewdly. In the dangerous moment when one king succeeded another, power could lie with whomever had possession of the person of the new monarch. Caterina had stolen a march on everyone.

Alison looked at Pierre again. His mouth was open in surprise.

Next to him, Cardinal Charles whispered angrily: ‘None of your spies told us this!’

Pierre said defensively: ‘They’re paid to spy on Protestants, not the royal family.’

Caterina separated the two papers in her hand and held one up. ‘However,’ she said, ‘King Francis has found sufficient strength to sign the death warrant of Louis of Bourbon, prince of Condé.’

Several courtiers gasped. Louis had been convicted of treason, but until now the king had hesitated to have him executed. To kill a prince of the blood was an extreme measure: all Europe would be horrified. Only the Guise brothers were keen to see Louis dead. But it looked as if they would get their way, as they usually did. It seemed as if Caterina was going to make sure that the dominance of the Guise family would continue.

Caterina waved the paper. Alison wondered whether the king really had signed it. No one could actually see.

Antoine spoke up. ‘Your majesty, I beg you,’ he said, ‘please do not execute my brother. I swear he is innocent.’

‘Neither of you is innocent!’ Caterina snapped. Alison had never heard her use this tone of voice. ‘The main question confronting the king is whether you both should die.’

Antoine was bold on the battlefield and timid everywhere else, and now he became cringing. ‘I beg you, your majesty, spare our lives. I swear we are loyal to the king.’

Alison glanced at the Guise brothers. They could hardly hide their elation. Their enemies were being roasted – at just the right moment.

Caterina said: ‘If King Francis dies, and my ten-year-old second son becomes King Charles IX, how could you, Antoine, possibly act as regent, when you have taken part in a conspiracy against his predecessor?’

There was no proof that either Antoine or Louis had conspired against King Francis, but Antoine took a different line. ‘I don’t want to be regent,’ he said desperately. ‘I’ll renounce the regency. Just spare my brother’s life, and mine.’

‘You would give up the regency?’

‘Of course, your majesty, whatever is your wish.’

Alison suspected that Caterina’s purpose, from the start of the meeting, had been to get Antoine to say what he had just said. The guess was confirmed by what Caterina did next.

The queen mother brandished the second sheet of paper. ‘In that case, I want you to sign this document, in front of the court here today. It states that you relinquish your right of regency to . . . another person.’ She looked significantly at Duke Scarface, but did not name him.

Antoine said: ‘I’ll sign anything.’

Alison saw that Cardinal Charles was smiling broadly. This was exactly what the Guise brothers wanted. They would control the new king, and continue to pursue their policy of exterminating Protestants. But Pierre was frowning. ‘Why did she do this on her own?’ he whispered to Alison. ‘Why not bring the Guises in on the plot?’

‘Perhaps she’s making a point,’ Alison said. ‘They have rather ignored her since King Henri died.’

Caterina handed the document to the clerk, and Antoine stepped forward.

Antoine read the document, which was short. At one point he seemed surprised, and raised his head to look at Caterina.

In her new, sharp voice she said: ‘Just sign!’

A clerk dipped a quill in ink and offered it to Antoine.

Antoine signed.

Caterina got up from the throne with the death warrant in her hand. She walked over to the fireplace and threw the document on the burning coals. It flamed for a second and vanished.

Now, Alison thought, no one will ever know whether King Francis really signed it.

Caterina resumed her place on the throne. Clearly she had not yet finished. She said: ‘The accession of King Charles IX will begin a time of reconciliation in France.’

Reconciliation? This did not seem to Alison like any kind of bringing together. It looked more like a resounding victory for the Guise family.

Caterina went on: ‘Antoine of Bourbon, you will be appointed Lieutenant of France, in recognition of your willingness to compromise.’

That was his reward, Alison thought; the consolation prize. But it might help keep him from rebellion. She looked at the Guise brothers. They were not pleased by this development, but it was a small thing by comparison with the regency.

Caterina said: ‘Antoine, please read out the document you have just signed in front of the court.’

Antoine picked up the sheet of paper and turned to the audience. He looked pleased. Perhaps the post of Lieutenant of France was one he had longed for. He began: ‘I, Antoine of Bourbon, King of Navarre—’

Caterina interrupted: ‘Skip to the important part.’

‘I renounce my claim to the regency, and transfer all my powers in that regard to her royal majesty Queen Caterina, the queen mother.’

Alison gasped.

Duke Scarface leaped to his feet. ‘What?’ he roared. ‘Not me?’

‘Not you,’ said Antoine quietly.

Scarface stepped towards him. Antoine handed the document to Caterina. Scarface turned towards her. Her bodyguards moved closer, clearly having been forewarned of this possibility. Scarface stood helpless. The scars on his face turned liver-coloured as he flushed with fury. He shouted: ‘This is outrageous!’

‘Be silent!’ Caterina snapped. ‘I have not called upon you to speak!’

Alison was flabbergasted. Caterina had fooled everyone and seized control. She had made herself effectively the monarch of France. The new power in France would not be Guise or Bourbon-Montmorency: it would be Caterina herself. She had slipped in between the two giants and disabled them both. How devious! There had been no hint of this plan. With skill and confidence she had carried out a manoeuvre that was nothing less than a coup d’état. Angry and disappointed though Alison was, in a part of her mind she could not help admiring Caterina’s strategy.

Still Caterina had not quite done.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘to seal the peace that has been won today, the Duke of Guise will embrace the King of Navarre.’

For Scarface, this was the ultimate humiliation.

Scarface and Antoine glared at one another.

‘Go ahead, please,’ said Caterina. ‘It is my command.’

Antoine moved first, stepping across the multicoloured tiled floor towards Scarface. The two men were almost the same age, but the resemblance ended there. Antoine had an apathetic air, and now underneath his moustache he wore what men sometimes called a shit-eating grin; Scarface was tanned, gaunt, disfigured and vicious. Antoine was not stupid, however. He stopped a yard from Scarface, spread his arms wide, and said: ‘I obey her majesty the queen mother.’

Scarface could not possibly say I don’t.

He stepped towards Antoine and the two men exchanged the briefest possible hug, then separated as if they feared catching the plague.

Caterina smiled and clapped, and the rest of the court followed suit.

*

IN THE TEEMING Mediterranean port of Marseilles, Sylvie transferred her cargo from the river barge to an oceangoing merchant ship. It took her through the Strait of Gibraltar, across the Bay of Biscay where she was miserably seasick, along the English Channel and then up the river Seine as far as Rouen, the most important northern port in France.

The city was one-third Protestant, and Sylvie attended a Sunday service that hardly troubled to hide its nature and took place in a real church. She could have sold all her books here. But the need was greater in Catholic Paris. And prices were higher in Paris too.

It was January, 1561, and in France the news was all good. After King Francis II died his mother, Queen Caterina, had taken charge and dismissed the Guise brothers from some of their political offices. She had issued new regulations that made life easier for Protestants, though these were not yet formally laws. All religious prisoners were to be released, heresy trials were suspended, and the death penalty for heresy was abolished. The Protestants, whom Sylvie now heard referred to by their new nickname of Huguenots, were rejoicing.

However, selling banned books was aggravated heresy, and still a crime.

Sailing upstream on a river boat to Paris, with the hold full of her boxes, she felt hope and fear in equal measure. She arrived on a cold February morning at the quai de la Grève, where dozens of ships and boats were moored along the banks or anchored in midstream.

Sylvie sent a message to her mother that she had arrived, and a note to Luc Mauriac saying she hoped to see him soon to thank him personally for helping her plan her successful trip. Then she walked the short distance to the customs house in the place de Grève. If she was going to have trouble, it would begin here.

She brought with her false receipts, carefully forged with Guillaume’s help, showing that she had bought one hundred and ten boxes of paper from a fictional manufacturer in Fabriano. She also brought her purse, ready to pay the import tax.

She showed the receipts to a clerk. ‘Paper?’ he said. ‘Plain paper, with nothing written or printed on it?’

‘My mother and I sell paper and ink to students,’ she explained.

‘You’ve bought a lot.’

She tried a smile. ‘There are a lot of students in Paris – luckily for me.’

‘And you went a long way to get it. Don’t we have our own paper manufacturers, in Saint-Marcel?’

‘Italian paper is better – and cheaper.’

‘You’ll have to talk to the boss.’ He gave her back her receipts and pointed to a bench. ‘Wait there.’

Sylvie sat down with a sense of inevitable doom. All they had to do was open the boxes and look carefully! She felt as if she had already been found guilty and was awaiting sentence. The tension was hard to bear. She almost wished they would put her in jail and get it over with.

She tried to distract herself by watching the way business was done here, and realized that most of the men who came through the door were known to the clerks. Their papers were handled with casual efficiency and they paid their dues and left. Lucky them.

An agonizing hour later she was shown upstairs to a larger office occupied by the Deputy Receiver of Customs, Claude Ronsard, a sour-looking individual in a brown doublet and a velvet cap. While he was asking her all the same questions, she wondered uneasily whether she was supposed to bribe any of these people. She had not noticed this happening downstairs but it would not be done openly, she supposed.

Eventually Ronsard said: ‘Your cargo must be inspected.’

‘Very well,’ she said, trying to affect a light tone of voice, as if this were a minor inconvenience; but her heart was pounding. She jingled her purse discreetly, hinting at bribery, but Ronsard seemed not to notice. Perhaps he took bribes only from people he knew well. Now she did not know what she had to do to save her cargo – and perhaps her life.

Ronsard stood up and they left his office. Sylvie felt shaky and walked unsteadily, but Ronsard seemed oblivious to any signs of her distress. He summoned the clerk whom Sylvie had spoken to first, and they walked along the quay to the boat.

To Sylvie’s surprise, her mother was there. She had hired a porter with a heavy four-wheeled cart to take the boxes to the warehouse in the rue du Mur. Sylvie explained what was happening, and Isabelle looked frightened.

Ronsard and the clerk went on board and selected a box to be unloaded and inspected. The porter carried it onshore and put it down on the quayside. It was made of light wood, nailed, and on its side were the Italian words: ‘Carta di Fabriano.’

Now, Sylvie thought, they were hardly likely to go to all this trouble without emptying the box – and then they would find inside forty Geneva Bibles in French, complete with inflammatory Protestant comments in the margins.

The porter prised open the box with a crowbar. There, on top, were several packages of plain paper.

At that moment, Luc Mauriac arrived.

‘Ronsard, my friend, I’ve been looking for you,’ he said breezily. He was carrying a bottle. ‘There’s a consignment of wine from Jerez, and I thought you ought to try some, just to make sure it’s, you know, what it should be.’ He winked broadly.

Sylvie could not take her eyes off the box. Just under those reams of paper were the Bibles that would condemn her.

Ronsard shook Luc’s hand warmly, took the bottle, and introduced the clerk. ‘We’re just inspecting the cargo of this person,’ he said, indicating Sylvie.

Luc looked at Sylvie and pretended surprise. ‘Hello, Mademoiselle, are you back? You don’t need to worry about her, Ronsard. I know her well – sells paper and ink to the students on the Left Bank.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes, I’ll vouch for her. Listen, old pal, I’ve just got a cargo of furs from the Baltic, and there’s a blond wolf that would look wonderful on Madame Ronsard. I can just see her hair against that fur collar. If you like it, the captain will give it to you – gesture of goodwill, you know what I mean. Come with me and take a look.’

‘By all means,’ Ronsard said eagerly. He turned to his clerk. ‘Sign her papers.’ He and Luc went off arm in arm.

Sylvie almost fainted with relief.

She paid the customs duty to the clerk. He asked for one gold ecu ‘for ink’, an obvious shakedown, but Sylvie paid without protest, and he went away happy.

Then the porter began to load the boxes onto the cart.

*

EARLY IN 1561, Ned Willard was given his first international mission for Queen Elizabeth. He was daunted by the weight of responsibility, and desperately keen to succeed.

He was briefed by Sir William Cecil at Cecil’s fine new house in the Strand, sitting in a bay window at the rear that looked over the fields of Covent Garden. ‘We want Mary Stuart to stay in France,’ Cecil said. ‘If she goes to Scotland as queen, there will be trouble. The religious balance there is delicate, and a strongly Catholic monarch will probably start a civil war. And then, if she should defeat the Protestants and win the civil war, she might turn her attention to England.’

Ned understood. Mary Stuart was the rightful queen of England in the eyes of most European leaders. She would be even more of a threat to Elizabeth if she crossed the Channel. He said: ‘And for that same reason, I suppose the Guise family want her in Scotland.’

‘Exactly. So your job will be to persuade her that she’s better off staying where she is.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Ned said, though for the moment he could not imagine how he could do it.

‘We’re sending you with her brother.’

‘She doesn’t have a brother!’ Ned knew that Mary was the only child of King James V of Scotland and his queen, Marie de Guise.

‘She has many brothers,’ Cecil said with a disapproving sniff. ‘Her father was unfaithful to his wife on a scale that was spectacular even by the standards of kings, and he had at least nine bastard sons.’ Cecil, the grandson of an innkeeper, had a middle-class disdain for royal shenanigans. ‘This one is called James Stuart. Mary Stuart likes him, even though he’s a Protestant. He, too, wants her to stay in France, where she can’t cause much trouble. You will pose as his secretary: we don’t want the French to know that Queen Elizabeth is interfering in this.’

James turned out to be a solemn sandy-haired man of twenty-eight or twenty-nine, wearing a chestnut-brown doublet studded with jewels. All Scottish noblemen spoke French, but some did so better than others: James’s French was hesitant and heavily accented, but Ned would be able to help him out.

They went by ship to Paris, a relatively easy journey now that England and France were no longer at war. There Ned was disappointed to learn that Mary Stuart had gone to Reims for Easter. ‘The Guise dynasty have retired en masse to Champagne to lick their wounds,’ he was told by Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, the English ambassador. Throckmorton was a sharp-eyed man in his forties with a beard that was still a youthful red-brown. He wore a black doublet with small but exquisitely embroidered ruffs at the neck and sleeves. ‘Queen Caterina outmanoeuvred them brilliantly in Orléans, and, since then, she has encountered no serious opposition, which has left the Guises frustrated.’

Ned said: ‘We hear there were Protestant riots at Easter.’

Throckmorton nodded. ‘In Angers, Le Mans, Beauvais and Pontoise.’ Ned was impressed by his mastery of detail. ‘As you’re aware, superstitious Catholics like to hold parades in which sacred objects are carried through the streets. We enlightened Protestants know that to venerate images and relics constitutes the sin of idolatry, and some of our more passionate brethren attacked the processions.’

Violent Protestants angered Ned. ‘Why can’t they be content merely to do without idols in their own places of worship? They should leave God to judge those who disagree with them.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Throckmorton. He was a more extreme Protestant than Ned – as were many of Elizabeth’s key men, including Cecil, though Elizabeth herself was moderate.

‘But Caterina seems to have kept the lid on it,’ Ned said.

‘Yes. She is reluctant to meet violence with violence. She always tries to avoid escalation. After Easter, people calmed down.’

‘Sensible woman.’

‘Perhaps,’ Throckmorton said again.

As Ned was leaving, Throckmorton said: ‘In Reims, watch out for Pierre Aumande de Guise, a chap a couple of years older than you who does the dirty work for the family.’

‘Why should I watch out?’

‘He’s utterly poisonous.’

‘Thank you for the warning.’

Ned and James travelled to Reims by a river boat that took them up the Seine and then the Marne: a slow way to travel, but more comfortable than spending three or four days in the saddle. However, another disappointment awaited them in the great Champagne city: Mary Stuart had left, and was on her way to visit her cousin Charles, duke of Lorraine.

Following her trail, on horseback now, Ned talked to everyone he met, as always, gathering news. He was disconcerted to learn that they were not the only people chasing Mary Stuart. Ahead of them by a day or so was John Leslie, a Scottish priest who he guessed must be an envoy from the Scottish Catholics. Presumably his message for Mary would be the contrary of Ned’s.

Ned and James finally caught up with Mary at the royal castle of St Dizier, a walled fortress with eight towers. They gave their names and were shown into the great hall. A few minutes later they were confronted by a handsome young man with an arrogant air who seemed displeased to see them. ‘I am Pierre Aumande de Guise,’ he said.

James and Ned stood up. James answered: ‘A relative of my sister, Queen Mary?’

‘Of course.’ Pierre turned to Ned. ‘And you, sir?’

‘Ned Willard, secretary to James Stuart.’

‘And what are two Scottish Protestants doing here?’

Ned was pleased that Pierre had accepted his cover story. Mary might be easier to persuade if she believed the message came from a Scottish relative rather than an English rival.

James did not react to Pierre’s rude manner. ‘I’ve come to talk to my sister,’ he said calmly.

‘For what purpose?’

James smiled. ‘Just tell her James Stuart is here.’

Pierre put his nose in the air. ‘I will ask whether Queen Mary is willing to give you audience.’ It was clear to Ned that Pierre would do what he could to prevent the meeting.

James sat down and turned away. He had royal blood, after all, and he had already expended more courtesy than was strictly necessary on a young aide.

Pierre looked cross but left without saying more.

Ned settled down to wait. The castle was busy, and servants fetching and carrying for the royal visitor criss-crossed the hall constantly. An hour went by, then two.

A young woman of about Ned’s age came into the hall. It was obvious from her pink silk dress and the pearl headdress that decorated her dark hair that she was no servant. There was a look of shrewd alertness in the blue-eyed gaze she turned on Ned. But when she saw James she smiled. ‘What a surprise!’ she said. ‘Lord James! Do you remember me? Alison McKay – we met at Mary’s wedding.’

James stood up and bowed, and Ned did the same. ‘Of course I remember you,’ James said.

‘We didn’t know you were here!’

‘I gave my name to a man called Pierre something.’

‘Oh! He has been sent to keep people like you away from Mary. But she’ll see you, of course. Let me tell her you’re here, then I’ll send someone to fetch you . . . both.’ She gave Ned an enquiring look.

James explained: ‘My secretary, Ned Willard.’

Ned bowed again. Alison gave him the briefest nod of acknowledgement then left.

James said: ‘That Pierre character didn’t even tell Mary we had arrived!’

‘I was warned about him.’

A few minutes later, a servant led them from the hall to a small, comfortable parlour. Ned felt nervous. This was the meeting for which he had travelled so far. Both his queen, Elizabeth, and his master and mentor, Cecil, had placed their faith in him. He only wished he had as much faith in himself.

Soon afterwards Mary Stuart came in.

Ned had seen her once before, but he was startled all over again by how tall she was, and how strikingly beautiful. She had dramatically pale skin and red hair. She was only eighteen, yet she had tremendous poise, and moved like a ship on a calm sea, her head held high on a long, graceful neck. Her official mourning period was over, but she was still wearing white, the symbol of grief.

Alison McKay and Pierre Aumande de Guise walked in behind her.

James bowed deeply, but Mary immediately went to him and kissed him. ‘You are clever, James,’ she said. ‘How did you know I was at St Dizier?’

‘It’s taken me a while to catch up with you,’ he said with a smile.

Mary took a seat and told them all to sit also. She said: ‘I have been told that I should return to Scotland like a newly risen sun, to scatter the clouds of religious tumult from the land.’

James said: ‘You’ve been talking to John Leslie, I suppose.’ This was what Ned had feared. Leslie had got to her first, and what he had said had clearly enthralled her.

‘You know everything!’ Mary said. Evidently, she admired her half-brother. ‘He says that if I sail to Aberdeen, he will have an army of twenty thousand men waiting to march with me to Edinburgh and overthrow the Protestant parliament in a blaze of Christian glory.’

James said: ‘You don’t believe it, do you?’

Ned very much feared that she did believe it. He was rapidly getting the impression that Mary was impressionable. Her physical poise and grace were queenly, but so far there was no sign that she had the sceptical wisdom so essential to much-flattered monarchs.

Mary gaily ignored James’s question. ‘If I do return to Scotland,’ she said, ‘I’m going to make you an archbishop.’

Everyone in the room was surprised. As queen of Scotland she would not appoint bishops – unlike the monarch of France, who had that power. But James mentioned a different snag. ‘I’m not a Catholic,’ he said.

‘But you must become one,’ Mary said brightly.

James resisted her breezy manner. Sombrely he said: ‘I came here to ask you to become a Protestant.’

Ned frowned. This was not the mission.

Mary’s answer was firm. ‘I’m Catholic and my family is Catholic. I cannot change.’

Ned saw Pierre nodding. No doubt the idea of a Guise becoming Protestant would fill him with horror.

James said: ‘If you won’t become Protestant, will you at least become tolerant? The Protestants would give you their loyalty if you left them alone to worship as they wish.’

Ned did not like this line of argument. Their mission was to persuade Mary to stay in France.

Pierre, too, looked uneasy, but surely for a different reason: the notion of tolerance was abhorrent to ultra-Catholics.

Mary said to James: ‘And would the Protestants treat Catholics with the same tolerance?’

Ned spoke for the first time. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘It is now a crime to celebrate the Mass in Scotland.’

Pierre contradicted him. ‘You’re wrong, Monsieur Willard,’ he said. ‘The Mass is not a crime.’

‘The Scottish Parliament has passed an act!’

‘The self-constituted parliament may have passed a bill,’ Pierre argued, ‘but only the monarch can turn a bill into law, and her majesty Queen Mary has not given her royal assent.’

‘Technically, you’re right,’ Ned conceded. ‘I just don’t want her majesty to be misled about the extent to which tolerance prevails in Scotland.’

‘And for whom do you speak when you say that, Monsieur Willard?’

Pierre seemed to have guessed that Ned was more than a secretary. Ned did not answer his question. He spoke directly to Mary. ‘Your majesty, here in France you are a duchess, you have lands, money and the support of wealthy and powerful relatives. In Scotland all that awaits you is conflict.’

Mary said: ‘In France I am the widow of the king. In Scotland I am queen.’

Ned saw that he was failing to persuade her.

Pierre said: ‘What would Queen Elizabeth think, Monsieur Willard, if her majesty Queen Mary were to return to Scotland?’

It was a trick question. If Ned answered it knowledgeably, he would reveal himself as Elizabeth’s envoy. He pretended ignorance. ‘We Scots know only what we hear. Bear in mind that in Reims you are nearer to London than we are in Edinburgh.’

Pierre was not to be diverted by mileages. ‘So what do you Scots hear?’

Ned replied carefully. ‘No monarch likes to be told that someone else claims the throne, and apparently Queen Elizabeth was distressed when King Francis and Queen Mary called themselves the monarchs of England and Ireland as well as France and Scotland. Nevertheless, we understand that Elizabeth believes firmly in Mary’s right to rule Scotland, and would not stand in her way.’

That was not really true. Elizabeth was torn. Her ideological belief in the primacy of royal inheritance was in conflict with her fear of Mary as a rival to her own throne. That was why she wanted Mary to remain quietly in France.

Pierre probably knew that, but he pretended to take Ned seriously. ‘That’s good to know,’ he said, ‘because the Scots love their queen.’ He turned to Mary. ‘They will welcome her with cheers and bonfires.’

Mary smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I believe they will.’

Ned thought: You poor fool.

James began to speak, no doubt intending to say tactfully what Ned had thought bluntly, but Mary interrupted him. ‘It’s midday,’ she said. ‘Let’s have dinner. We can continue our discussion.’ She stood up, and they all did the same.

Ned knew he had lost, but he made one last try. ‘Your majesty,’ he said, ‘I believe it would be most unwise of you to return to Scotland.’

‘Do you?’ Mary said regally. ‘All the same, I think I shall go.’

*

PIERRE REMAINED in Champagne for most of the following year. He hated it. He was powerless in the countryside. The Guises had lost all influence at court, and Queen Caterina was keeping the peace – just – between Catholics and Protestants; and he could do nothing about that while he was a hundred miles away from Paris. Besides, he did not like being so near the place of his birth, where people knew all about his humble origins.

In late February of 1562, when duke Scarface set off from his country seat of Joinville and headed for the capital, Pierre eagerly joined him. This was Pierre’s chance to get back into the game.

The journey began on narrow dirt roads winding between newly ploughed fields and leafless winter vineyards. It was a cold, sunny day. Scarface was escorted by two hundred armed men led by Gaston Le Pin. Some of the men-at-arms carried the newly fashionable long swords called rapiers. They had no uniform as such, but many wore the duke’s bright colours of red and yellow. They looked like the host of an invading army.

Scarface spent the last night of February at the village of Dommartin. He was joined there by a younger brother, Cardinal Louis, nicknamed Cardinal Bottles for his love of wine. The armed force was enlarged by Louis’s body of gunmen with arquebuses. These were long-barrelled firearms, sometimes called hook-butts because they were J-shaped. They were light enough to be fired from the shoulder, unlike muskets, which had to be supported by a forked rest stuck in the ground.

The next day, 1 March, was a Sunday, and they started early. They were due to pick up a squadron of heavy cavalry at the town of Wassy. By the time Scarface arrived in Paris, he would have enough soldiers to discourage his enemies from making a move against him.

Wassy was a small town on the Blaise river, with forges in the suburbs and watermills along the river bank. As the Guise army approached the south gate, they heard bells. The sound of church bells rung at the wrong time was often a sign of trouble, and Scarface asked a passer-by what was going on. ‘It’ll be the Protestants, summoning their folk to the service,’ the man said.

The duke flushed with anger, his facial scars darkening. ‘Protestant bells?’ he said. ‘How did they get bells?’

The passer-by looked scared. ‘I don’t know, lord.’

This was the kind of Protestant provocation that started riots. Pierre began to feel hopeful. It could lead to an inflammatory incident.

Scarface said: ‘Even if the edict of tolerance becomes law – which may never happen – they are supposed to perform their blasphemous rites discreetly! What’s discreet about this?’

The man said nothing, but Scarface was no longer addressing him, just expressing outrage. Pierre knew why he was so mad. The town of Wassy was the property of Mary Stuart and, now that she had gone back to Scotland, Scarface, as her senior uncle, was in charge of her estates. This was therefore his territory.

Pierre rubbed it in. ‘The Protestants, like everyone in town, must know that your grace is due here this morning,’ he said. ‘This looks very much like a deliberate personal insult.’

Gaston Le Pin was listening. He was a soldier who believed in avoiding violence if possible – which may have been why he was still alive at thirty-three. Now he said: ‘We could bypass the town, duke. We don’t want to risk losing men before we even get to Paris. We need a good show of strength there.’

Pierre did not like that line of argument. ‘You can’t overlook this affront, your grace,’ he murmured. ‘It would appear weak.’

‘I don’t intend to appear weak,’ Scarface said hotly, and he kicked his horse on.

Le Pin gave Pierre a black look, but his soldiers followed Scarface eagerly, their spirits lifting at the prospect of action. Pierre decided to encourage them tactfully. He dropped back and spoke to a group. ‘I smell loot,’ he said, and they laughed. He was reminding them that when there was violence, there was usually pillage too.

As they entered the town, the bells stopped. ‘Send for the parish priest,’ the duke ordered.

The host moved slowly along the street to the town centre. Within a walled precinct stood a royal law court, a castle and a church. In the market square to the west of the church they found, waiting for them, the squadron of heavy cavalry they had come here to pick up: fifty men, each with two warhorses and a pack animal loaded with armour. The big horses whinnied and shifted as they smelled the newcomers.

Gaston Le Pin ordered the duke’s men-at-arms to dismount in the partly roofed market, and parked Cardinal Louis’s gunmen in the cemetery on the south side of the church. Some of the men went into the Swan tavern, on the square, to breakfast on ham and beer.

The parish priest came hurrying with crumbs of bread on his surplice. The provost of the castle was close behind him. Scarface said: ‘Now, tell me, are Protestants holding a blasphemous service here in Wassy this morning?’

‘Yes,’ said the priest.

‘I can’t stop them,’ said the provost. ‘They won’t listen.’

Scarface said: ‘The edict of tolerance – which has not been ratified – would permit such services only outside the town.’

The provost said: ‘Strictly speaking, they aren’t in the town.’

‘Where are they, then?’

‘Within the precincts of the castle, which is not considered part of the town, legally speaking. At least, that’s what they argue.’

Pierre commented: ‘A contentious legal quibble.’

Impatiently, Scarface said: ‘But where are they, exactly?’

The provost pointed across the graveyard to a large, dilapidated barn with holes in its roof, standing up against the castle wall. ‘There. That barn is within the grounds of the castle.’

‘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 that 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 launched 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.

The bang seemed to come from the river bank they had just left. Pierre and Le Pin turned together. Although it was evening, Pierre saw the figure at the water’s edge quite clearly. It was that of a small man in his middle twenties with a dark complexion and a tuft of peaked hair in the middle of his forehead. A moment later he ran off, and Pierre saw that he clutched a pistol in his hand.

Duke Scarface collapsed.

Le Pin cursed and bent over him.

Pierre could see that the duke had taken a bullet in the back. It had been an easy shot from a short range, helped by the duke’s light-coloured clothing.

‘He’s alive,’ said Le Pin. He looked again at the bank, and Pierre guessed he was calculating whether he could wade or swim the few yards back and catch the shooter before he got away. Then they heard hoof beats, and realized that the man must have tethered a horse not far off. All their mounts were already on the opposite bank. Le Pin could not catch him now. The shooting had been planned well.

Le Pin shouted at the ferryman: ‘Forward, go forward!’ The man began to pole his raft more energetically, no doubt fearful that he might be accused of being in on the plot.

The wound was just below the duke’s right shoulder. The ball had probably missed the heart. Blood was oozing onto the buff-coloured doublet – a good sign, Pierre knew, for dead men did not bleed.

All the same, the duke might not recover. Even superficial wounds could become infected, causing fever and often death. Pierre could have wept. How could they lose their heroic leader when they were on the point of winning the war?

As the ferry approached the far bank, the men waiting there shouted a storm of questions. Pierre ignored them. He had questions of his own. What would happen if Scarface died?

Young Henri would become duke at the age of twelve, the same age as King Charles IX, and too young to take any part in the civil war. Cardinal Charles was too far away; Cardinal Louis was too drunk. The Guise family would lose all their influence in a moment. Power was terrifyingly fragile.

Pierre fought down despair and made himself continue to think ahead logically. With the Guise family helpless, Queen Caterina would make peace with Gaspard de Coligny and revive the edict of toleration, curse her. The Bourbons and the Montmorencys would be back in favour and the Protestants would be allowed to sing their psalms as loudly as they liked. Everything Pierre had striven for over the past five years would be wiped out.

Again he suppressed the feeling of hopeless despair. What could he do?

The first necessity was to preserve his position as key advisor to the family.

As soon as the raft touched the far bank, Pierre started giving orders. In a crisis, frightened people would obey anyone who sounded as if they knew what they were doing. ‘The duke must be carried to the château as quickly as possible without jolting him,’ he said. ‘Any bumping may cause him to bleed to death. We need a flat board.’ He looked around. If necessary, they could break up the timbers of the little ferry. Then he spotted a cottage nearby and pointed to its entrance. ‘Knock that front door off its hinges and put him on that. Then six men can carry him.’

They hurried to obey, glad to be told what to do.

Gaston Le Pin was not as easily bossed around, so to him Pierre gave suggestions rather than orders. ‘I think you should take one or two men and horses, go back across the river, and chase the assassin. Did you get a good look at him?’

‘Small, dark, about twenty-five, with a small tuft of hair at the front.’

‘That’s what I saw, too.’

‘I’ll get after him.’ Le Pin turned to his henchmen. ‘Rasteau, Brocard, put three horses back on the ferry.’

Pierre said: ‘I need the best horse. Which of these is fastest?’

‘The duke’s charger, Cannon, but why do you need him? I’m the one who has to chase the shooter.’

‘The duke’s recovery is our priority. I’m going to ride ahead to the château to send for surgeons.’

Le Pin saw the sense of that. ‘Very well.’

Pierre mounted the stallion and urged it on. He was not an expert horseman, and Cannon was high-spirited, but, fortunately, the beast was tired after a long day, and submitted wearily to Pierre’s will. It trotted off, and Pierre cautiously urged it into a canter.

He reached the château in a few minutes. He leaped off Cannon and ran into the hall. ‘The duke has been wounded!’ he shouted. ‘He will be here shortly. Send at once for the royal surgeons! Then prepare a bed downstairs for the duke.’ He had to repeat the orders several times to the stunned servants.

The duchess, Anna d’Este, came hurrying down the stairs, having heard the commotion. The wife of Scarface was a plain-looking Italian woman of thirty-one. The marriage had been arranged, and the duke was no more faithful than other men of wealth and power; but, all the same, he was fond of Anna and she of him.

Young Henri was right behind her, a handsome boy with fair curly hair.

Duchess Anna had never spoken to Pierre or even acknowledged his existence, so it was important to present himself to her as an authoritative figure who could be relied upon in this crisis. He bowed and said: ‘Madame, young Monsieur, I’m sorry to tell you that the duke is hurt.’

Henri looked frightened. Pierre remembered him at the age of eight, complaining that he was considered too young to take part in the jousting. He had spirit, and might become a worthy successor to his warrior father, but that day was far off. Now the boy said in a voice of panic: ‘How? Where? Who did it?’

Pierre ignored him and spoke to his mother. ‘I have sent for the royal surgeons, and I have ordered your servants to prepare a bed here on the ground floor so that the duke will not have to be carried upstairs.’

She said: ‘How bad is the injury?’

‘He has been shot in the back, and when I left him he was unconscious.’

The duchess gave a sob, then controlled herself. ‘Where is he? I must go to him.’

‘He will be here in minutes. I ordered the men to improvise a stretcher. He should not be jolted.’

‘How did this happen? Was there a battle?’

Henri said: ‘My father would never be shot in the back during a battle!’

‘Hush,’ said his mother.

Pierre said: ‘You are quite right, Prince Henri. Your father never fails to face the enemy in battle. I have to tell you there was treachery.’ He recounted how the assassin had hidden himself, then fired as soon as the ferry left the shore. ‘I sent a party of men-at-arms to chase after the villain.’

Henri said tearfully: ‘When we catch him he must be flayed alive!’

In a flash, Pierre saw that if Scarface died, the catastrophe could yet be turned to advantage. Slyly he said: ‘Flayed, yes – but not before he tells us whose orders he is following. I predict that the man who pulled the trigger will turn out to be a nobody. The real criminal is whoever sent him.’

Before he could say whom he had in mind, the duchess said it for him, spitting the name in hatred: ‘Gaspard de Coligny.’

Coligny was certainly the prime suspect, with Antoine de Bourbon dead and his brother Louis a captive. But the truth hardly mattered. Coligny would make a useful hate figure for the Guise family – and especially for the impressionable boy whose father had just been shot. Pierre’s plan was firming up in his mind when shouts from outside told him the duke had arrived.

Pierre stayed close to the duchess as the duke was brought in and settled in a bed. Every time Anna expressed a wish, Pierre repeated it loudly as an order, giving the impression that he had become her right-hand man. She was too distraught to care what he might be scheming, and in fact appeared glad to have someone beside her who seemed to know what needed to be done.

Scarface had recovered consciousness, and was able to speak to his wife and son. The surgeons arrived. They said that the wound did not appear fatal, but everyone knew how easily such wounds turned lethally putrescent, and no one rejoiced yet.

Gaston Le Pin and his two henchmen returned at midnight empty-handed. Pierre got Le Pin in a corner of the hall and said: ‘Resume the search in the morning. There’ll be no battle tomorrow: the duke will not recover overnight. That means you’ll have plenty of soldiers to help you. Start early and spread your net wide. We must find the little man with the tuft.’

Le Pin nodded agreement.

Pierre stayed at the duke’s bedside all night.

When dawn broke, he met Le Pin in the hall again. ‘If you catch the villain, I will be in charge of the interrogation,’ he said. ‘The duchess has decreed it.’ This was not true, but Le Pin believed it. ‘Lock him up somewhere nearby then come to me.’

‘Very well.’

Pierre saw him off with Rasteau and Brocard. They would recruit all the helpers they needed along the way.

Pierre went to bed soon afterwards. He would need to be quick-witted and sure-footed over the next few days.

Le Pin woke him at midday. ‘I’ve got him,’ he said with satisfaction.

Pierre got up immediately. ‘Who is he?’

‘Says his name is Jean de Poltrot, sieur de Méré.’

‘I trust you didn’t bring him here to the château.’

‘No – young Henri might try to kill him. He’s in chains at the priest’s house.’

Pierre dressed quickly and followed Le Pin to the nearby village. As soon as he was alone with Poltrot, he said: ‘It was Gaspard de Coligny, wasn’t it, who ordered you to kill Duke Scarface?’

‘Yes,’ said Poltrot.

It soon became evident that Poltrot would say anything. He was a type Pierre had come across before, a fantasist.

Poltrot probably had worked as some kind of spy for the Protestants, but it was anyone’s guess who had told him to kill Scarface. It might have been Coligny, as Poltrot sometimes said; it might have been another Protestant leader; or Poltrot might have had the idea himself.

That afternoon and over the next few days he talked volubly. Most likely half of what he said was invented to please his interrogator, and the other half to make himself look better. The story he told one day was contradicted by what he said the next. He was completely unreliable.

Which was not a problem.

Pierre wrote out Poltrot’s confession, saying that Gaspard de Coligny had paid him to assassinate the duke of Guise, and Poltrot signed it.

The following day, Scarface developed a high fever, and the doctors told him to prepare to meet his maker. His brother, Cardinal Louis, gave him the last rites, then he said goodbye to Anna and young Henri.

When the duchess and the next duke came out of the sick room in tears, Pierre said: ‘Coligny killed Duke Scarface,’ and he showed them the confession.

The result exceeded his hopes.

The duchess became vituperative, sputtering: ‘Coligny must die! He must die!’

Pierre told her that Queen Caterina was already making overtures of peace to the Protestants, and Coligny would probably escape punishment as part of any treaty.

At that Henri became nearly hysterical, crying in his boyish treble: ‘I will kill him! I will kill him myself!’

‘I believe you will, one day, Prince Henri,’ Pierre said to him. ‘And when you do, I will be by your side.’

Duke Scarface died the next day.

Cardinal Louis was responsible for the funeral arrangements, but was rarely sober long enough to get much done, and Pierre took charge without difficulty. With Anna’s support he devised a magnificent send-off. The duke’s body would be conveyed first to Paris, where his heart would be interred in the cathedral of Notre Dame. Then the coffin would travel in state across the country to Champagne, where the body would be buried at Joinville. Such grand obsequies were normally only for kings. No doubt Queen Caterina would have preferred less ostentation, but Pierre did not consult her. For her part, Caterina always avoided a quarrel when she could, and she probably figured that Scarface could do no more harm now, even if he did have a royal funeral.

However, Pierre’s scheme to make Coligny a hate figure did not go so smoothly. Once again Caterina showed that she could be as cunning as Pierre. She sent a copy of Poltrot’s confession to Coligny, who had retreated to the Protestant hinterland of Normandy, and asked him to respond to it. She was already planning his rehabilitation.

But the Guises would never forget.

Pierre went to Paris ahead of the duke’s body to finalize arrangements. He had already sent Poltrot there, and imprisoned him in the Conciergerie, at the western tip of the Île de la Cité. Pierre insisted on a heavy guard. The ultra-Catholic people of Paris had worshipped Scarface, and if the mob got hold of Poltrot, they would tear him to pieces.

While the duke’s corpse was on its way to Paris, Coligny made a deposition denying his involvement in the assassination, and sent copies to Queen Caterina and others. It was a vigorous defence, and Pierre had to admit – only to himself, of course – that it carried conviction. Gaspard was a heretic, not a fool, and if he had planned to assassinate Scarface, he would probably have chosen as killer someone better than the unstable Poltrot.

The last part of Gaspard’s deposition was particularly dangerous. He pointed out that in natural justice he had the right to confront his accuser in court, and he begged Queen Caterina to ensure the safety of Poltrot, and make sure he survived to give evidence to a formal investigation.

An unbiased inquiry was the last thing Pierre wanted.

To make matters worse, in the Conciergerie Poltrot retracted his confession.

Pierre had to stop the rot quickly. He went to the supreme court called the Parlement of Paris and proposed that Poltrot should be tried immediately. He pointed out that if the murderer remained unpunished, riots would break out when the hero’s body came to Paris. The judges agreed.

In the early hours of 18 March, the duke’s coffin arrived in the southern suburbs of Paris and was lodged at a monastery.

Next morning, Poltrot was found guilty and sentenced to be dismembered.

The sentence was carried out in the place de Grève in front of a wildly cheering mob. Pierre was there to make sure he died. Poltrot’s arms and legs were tied to four horses facing the four points of the compass, and the horses were whipped into motion. Theoretically, his limbs should have been torn from his torso, leaving the stump of his body to bleed to death. But the executioner botched the knots, and the ropes slipped. Pierre sent for a sword, and the executioner then began to hack off Poltrot’s arms and legs with the blade. The crowd egged him on, but it was an awkward procedure. At some point during the half-hour that it took, Poltrot stopped screaming and lost consciousness. Finally, his head with its distinctive tuft at the front was chopped off and fixed to a post.

Next day the body of Duke Scarface was brought into the city.

*

SYLVIE PALOT WATCHED the procession, feeling optimistic.

It entered Paris from the south, by the St Michel Gate, and passed through the University district, where Sylvie had her shop. The cortege began with twenty-two town criers dressed in mourning white, ringing solemn handbells and calling upon the grieving citizens to pray for the departed soul of their great hero. Then came priests from every parish in the city, all holding crosses. Two hundred elite citizens were next, carrying blazing torches that sent up a black funeral pall of smoke and darkened the sky. The armies that had followed Scarface to so many victories were represented by six thousand soldiers with lowered banners, playing muffled drums that sounded like faraway gunfire. Then came the city militia with a host of black flags fluttering in the March wind that came off the cold river.

The streets were lined with crowds of mourning Parisians, but Sylvie knew that some of them were like her, secretly elated that Scarface was dead. The assassination had brought peace, at least for now. Within days Queen Caterina had met with Gaspard de Coligny to discuss a new edict of tolerance.

Persecution had increased during the civil war, although Protestants in Sylvie’s circle now had some protection. Sylvie had sat at Pierre’s writing desk one day, when he was away with Scarface and Odette was dining with her girlfriends, and copied out every word of his little black book while Nath played with two-year-old Alain, who could not yet talk well enough to betray the secret of Sylvie’s visit.

Most of the names were not known to her. Many would be false, for the Protestants knew they might be spied upon and often gave made-up names and other misleading information: Sylvie and her mother called themselves Thérèse and Jacqueline, and told no one about their shop. Sylvie had no way of knowing which of the unfamiliar names were real.

However, many in the book were her friends and fellow-worshippers. Those people had been discreetly warned. A few had left the congregation in fear and had become Catholic again; others had moved house and changed their names; several had left Paris and gone to more tolerant cities.

More important in the long term, Nath had become a regular member of the congregation in the attic over the stable, singing the psalms loudly and tunelessly. With her ten gold ecus in her hand she had talked about leaving Pierre’s employment, but Sylvie had persuaded her to stay and continue to spy on him for the Protestants.

The safer atmosphere was good for book sales, and Sylvie was glad to have new stock brought from Geneva by Guillaume. Poor boy, he was still in love with Sylvie. She liked him, and was grateful to have him as an ally, but could not find it in her heart to love him back. Her mother was frustrated by her rejection of an apparently ideal match. He was an intelligent, prosperous, handsome young man who shared her religion and her ideals: what more did she want? Sylvie was as mystified as Isabelle by this question.

At last the coffin came by, draped with a banner displaying the heraldic arms of the Guises, resting on a gun-carriage drawn by six white horses. Sylvie did not pray for the soul of Scarface. Instead she thanked God for ending his life. Now she dared to hope that there would be peace and tolerance.

Behind the coffin rode the widow, Anna, all in white, with ladies-in-waiting either side of her. Finally, there was a pretty-faced boy with fair hair who had to be Scarface’s heir, Henri. Beside him, wearing a white doublet with a pale fur collar, was a handsome man of twenty-five with thick blond hair.

Sylvie was overwhelmed by shock, disgust and horror as she recognized the man at the right hand of the new duke of Guise.

It was Pierre.