2
Pierre Aumande made his living by relieving Parisians of their excess cash, a task that became easier on days like today, when they were celebrating.
All Paris was rejoicing. A French army had conquered Calais, taking the city back from the English barbarians who had somehow stolen it two hundred years ago. In every taproom in the capital men were drinking the health of Scarface, the duke of Guise, the great general who had erased the ancient stain on the nation’s pride.
The tavern of St Étienne, in the neighbourhood called Les Halles, was no exception. At one end of the room a small crowd of young men played dice, toasting Scarface every time someone won. By the door was a table of men-at-arms celebrating as if they had taken Calais themselves. In a corner a prostitute had passed out at a table, hair soaking in a puddle of wine.
Such festivities presented golden opportunities to a man such as Pierre.
He was a student at the Sorbonne university. He told his fellows that he got a generous allowance from his parents back home in the Champagne region. In fact, his father gave him nothing. His mother had spent her life-savings on a new outfit of clothes for him to wear to Paris, and now she was penniless. It was assumed that he would support himself by clerical work such as copying legal documents, as many students did. But Pierre’s openhanded spending on the pleasures of the city was paid for by other means. Today he was wearing a fashionable doublet in blue cloth slashed to show the white silk lining beneath: such clothes could not be paid for even by a year of copying documents.
He was watching the game of dice. The gamblers were the sons of prosperous citizens, he guessed; jewellers and lawyers and builders. One of them, Bertrand, was cleaning up. At first Pierre suspected that Bertrand was a trickster just like himself, and observed carefully, trying to figure out how the dodge was done. But eventually he decided there was no scam. Bertrand was simply enjoying a run of luck.
And that gave Pierre his chance.
When Bertrand had won a little more than fifty livres his friends left the tavern with empty pockets. Bertrand called for a bottle of wine and a round of cheese, and at that point Pierre moved in.
‘My grandfather’s cousin was lucky, like you,’ he said in the tone of relaxed amiability that had served him well in the past. ‘When he gambled, he won. He fought at Marignano and survived.’ Pierre was making this up as he went along. ‘He married a poor girl, because she was beautiful and he loved her, then she inherited a mill from an uncle. His son became a bishop.’
‘I’m not always lucky.’
Bertrand was not completely stupid, Pierre thought, but he was probably dumb enough. ‘I bet there was a girl who seemed not to like you until one day she kissed you.’ Most men had this experience during their adolescence, he had found.
But Bertrand thought Pierre’s insight was amazing. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Clothilde – how did you know?’
‘I told you, you’re lucky.’ He leaned closer and spoke in a lower voice, as if confiding a secret. ‘One day, when my grandfather’s cousin was old, a beggar told him the secret of his good fortune.’
Bertrand could not resist. ‘What was it?’
‘The beggar said to him: “When your mother was expecting you, she gave a penny to me – and that’s why you’ve been lucky all your life.” It’s the truth.’
Bertrand looked disappointed.
Pierre raised a finger in the air, like a conjurer about to perform a magic trick. ‘Then the beggar threw off his filthy robes and revealed himself to be – an angel!’
Bertrand was half sceptical, half awestruck.
‘The angel blessed my grandfather’s cousin, then flew up to heaven.’ Pierre lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I think your mother gave alms to an angel.’
Bertrand, who was not completely drunk, said: ‘Maybe.’
‘Is your mother kind?’ Pierre asked, knowing that few men would answer ‘No’.
‘She is like a saint.’
‘There you are.’ Pierre thought for a moment of his own mother, and how disappointed she would be if she knew that he was living by cheating people out of their money. Bertrand is asking for it, he told her in his imagination; he’s a gambler and a drunk. But the excuse did not satisfy her, even in his fantasy.
He pushed the thought from his mind. This was not the time for self-doubt: Bertrand was beginning to take the bait.
Pierre went on: ‘There was an older man – not your father – who gave you important advice at least once.’
Bertrand’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I never knew why Monsieur Larivière was so helpful.’
‘He was sent by your angel. Have you ever had a narrow escape from injury or death?’
‘I got lost when I was five years old. I decided that my way home was across the river. I almost drowned, but a passing friar saved me.’
‘That was no friar, that was your angel.’
‘It’s amazing – you’re right!’
‘Your mother did something for an angel in disguise, and that angel has watched over you ever since. I know it.’
Pierre accepted a cup of wine and a wedge of cheese. Free food was always welcome.
He was studying for the priesthood because it was a way up the social ladder. But he had been at the university only a few days when he realized that the students were already dividing into two groups with radically different destinies. The young sons of noblemen and rich merchants were going to be abbots and bishops – indeed, some of them already knew which well-endowed abbey or diocese they would rule, for often such posts were effectively the private property of a particular family. By contrast, the clever sons of provincial doctors and wine merchants would become country priests.
Pierre belonged to the second group, but was determined to join the first.
Initially, the division was only dimly perceptible, and during those early days Pierre had attached himself firmly to the elite. He quickly lost his regional accent and learned to speak with an aristocratic drawl. He had enjoyed a piece of luck when the wealthy Viscount Villeneuve, having carelessly left home without cash, had asked to borrow twenty livres until tomorrow. It was all the money Pierre had in the world, but he saw a unique opportunity.
He handed the money to Villeneuve as if it were a trifle.
Villeneuve forgot to pay him back the next day.
Pierre was desperate, but he said nothing. He ate gruel that evening, because he could not afford bread. But Villeneuve forgot the following day, too.
Still Pierre said nothing. He knew that if he asked for his money back, Villeneuve and his friends would understand immediately that he really was not one of them; and he craved their acceptance more than food.
It was a month later that the young nobleman said to him languidly: ‘I say, Aumande, I don’t think I ever repaid you those twenty livres, did I?’
With a massive effort of will, Pierre replied: ‘My dear fellow, I have absolutely no idea. Forget it, please.’ Then he was inspired to add: ‘You obviously need the money.’
The other students had laughed, knowing how rich Villeneuve was, and Pierre’s witticism had sealed his position as a member of the group.
And when Villeneuve gave him a handful of gold coins, he dropped the money into his pocket without counting it.
He was accepted, but that meant he had to dress like them, hire carriages for trips, gamble carelessly, and call for food and wine in taverns as if the cost meant nothing.
Pierre borrowed all the time, paid back only when forced, and imitated Villeneuve’s financial absent-mindedness. But sometimes he had to get cash.
He thanked heaven for fools such as Bertrand.
Slowly but surely, as Bertrand worked his way down the bottle of wine, Pierre introduced into their chat the unique buying opportunity.
It was different every time. Today he invented a stupid German – the fool in the story was always a foreigner – who had inherited some jewels from an aunt and wanted to sell them to Pierre for fifty livres, not realizing that they were worth hundreds. Pierre did not have fifty livres, he told Bertrand, but anyone who did could multiply his money by ten. The story did not have to be very plausible, but the telling of it was crucial. Pierre had to appear reluctant to let Bertrand get involved, nervous of the idea of Bertrand buying the jewels, perturbed by Bertrand’s suggestion that Pierre should take fifty livres of Bertrand’s winnings and go away and make the purchase on Bertrand’s behalf.
Bertrand was begging Pierre to take his money, and Pierre was getting ready to pocket the cash and disappear from Bertrand’s life for ever, when the Widow Bauchene walked in.
Pierre tried to stay calm.
Paris was a city of three hundred thousand people, and he had thought there was no great danger of running into any of his past victims by accident, especially as he was careful to stay away from their usual haunts. This was very bad luck.
He turned his face away, but he was not quick enough, and she spotted him. ‘You!’ she screeched, pointing.
Pierre could have killed her.
She was an attractive woman of forty with a broad smile and a generous body. Pierre was half her age, but he had seduced her willingly. In return, she had enthusiastically taught him ways of making love that were new to him, and – more importantly – loaned him money whenever he asked.
When the thrill of the affair had begun to wear off, she had got fed up with giving him money. At that point a married woman would have cut her losses, said goodbye, and told herself she had learned a costly lesson. A wife could not expose Pierre’s dishonesty, because that would involve confessing her adultery. But a widow was different, Pierre had realized when Madame Bauchene turned against him. She had complained loud and long to anyone who would listen.
Could he prevent her from arousing suspicion in Bertrand? It would be difficult, but he had done more unlikely things.
He had to get her out of the tavern as fast as possible.
In a low tone he said to Bertrand: ‘This poor woman is completely mad.’ Then he stood up, bowed, and said in a tone of icy politeness: ‘Madame Bauchene, I am at your service, as always.’
‘In that case, give me the hundred and twelve livres you owe me.’
That was bad. Pierre wanted desperately to glance at Bertrand and measure his reaction, but that would betray his own anxiety, and he forced himself not to look. ‘I will bring the money to you tomorrow morning, if you care to name the place.’
Bertrand said drunkenly: ‘You told me you didn’t have even fifty livres!’
This was getting worse.
Madame Bauchene said: ‘Why tomorrow? What’s wrong with now?’
Pierre strove to maintain an air of unconcern. ‘Who carries that much gold in his purse?’
‘You’re a good liar,’ said the widow, ‘but you can’t fool me any longer.’
Pierre heard Bertrand give a grunt of surprise. He was beginning to understand.
Pierre kept trying all the same. He stood very upright and looked offended. ‘Madame, I am Pierre Aumande de Guise. You may perhaps recognize the name of my family. Kindly be assured that our honour does not permit deception.’
At the table by the door, one of the men-at-arms drinking toasts to ‘Calais française’ raised his head and looked hard at Pierre. The man had lost most of his right ear in some fight, Pierre saw. Pierre suffered a moment of unease, but had to concentrate on the widow.
She said: ‘I don’t know about your name, but I know you have no honour, you young rogue. I want my money.’
‘You shall have it, I assure you.’
‘Take me to your home now, then.’
‘I cannot oblige you, I fear. My mother, Madame de Châteauneuf, would not consider you a suitable guest.’
‘Your mother isn’t Madame de anything,’ said the widow scornfully.
Bertrand said: ‘I thought you were a student living in college.’ He was sounding less drunk by the minute.
It was over, Pierre realized. He had lost his chance with Bertrand. He rounded on the young man. ‘Oh, go to hell,’ he said furiously. He turned back to Madame Bauchene. He felt a pang of regret for her warm, heavy body and her cheerful lasciviousness; then he hardened his heart. ‘You, too,’ he said to her.
He threw on his cloak. What a waste of time this had been. He would have to start all over again tomorrow. But what if he met another of his past victims? He felt sour. It had been a rotten evening. Another shout of ‘Calais française’ went up. To the devil with Calais, Pierre thought. He stepped towards the door.
To his surprise, the man-at-arms with the mutilated ear now got up and blocked the doorway.
Pierre thought For God’s sake, what now?
‘Stand aside,’ Pierre said haughtily. ‘This has nothing to do with you.’
The man stayed where he was. ‘I heard you say your name was Pierre Aumande de Guise.’
‘Yes, so you’d better get out of my way, if you don’t want trouble from my family.’
‘The Guise family won’t cause me any trouble,’ the man said, with a quiet confidence that unnerved Pierre. ‘My name is Gaston Le Pin.’
Pierre considered shoving the man aside and making a run for it. He looked Le Pin up and down. The man was about thirty, shorter than Pierre, but broad-shouldered. He had hard blue eyes. The damaged ear suggested he was no stranger to violent action. He would not be shoved aside easily.
Pierre struggled to maintain his tone of superiority. ‘What of it, Le Pin?’
‘I work for the Guise family. I’m head of their household guard.’ Pierre’s heart sank. ‘And I’m arresting you, on behalf of the duke of Guise, for falsely using an aristocratic name.’
Widow Bauchene said: ‘I knew it.’
Pierre said: ‘My good man, I’ll have you know—’
‘Save it for the judge,’ said Le Pin contemptuously. ‘Rasteau, Brocard, hold him.’
Without Pierre’s remarking it, two of the men-at-arms had got up from the table and were standing quietly either side of him, and now they grabbed his arms. Their hands felt like iron bands: Pierre did not bother to struggle. Le Pin nodded to them and they marched Pierre out of the tavern.
Behind him, he heard the widow yell: ‘I hope they hang you!’
It was dark, but the narrow, winding medieval streets were busy with revellers and noisy with patriotic songs and shouts of ‘Long live Scarface’. Rasteau and Brocard walked fast, and Pierre had to hurry to keep up with them and avoid being dragged along the road.
He was terrified to think what punishment might be imposed on him: pretending to be a nobleman was a serious crime. And even if he got off lightly, what was his future? He could find other fools like Bertrand, and married women to seduce, but the more people he cheated, the more likely he was to be called to account. For how much longer could he maintain this way of life?
He looked at his escorts. Rasteau, the older by four or five years, had no nose, just two holes surrounded by scar tissue, no doubt the result of a knife fight. Pierre waited for them to get bored, relax their vigilance and loosen their grip, so that he might break away, dash off, and lose himself in the crowd; but they remained alert, their grip firm.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked, but they did not trouble to reply.
Instead, they talked about sword fighting, apparently continuing a conversation they had begun in the tavern. ‘Forget about the heart,’ said Rasteau. ‘Your point can slip over the ribs and give the man nothing worse than a scratch.’
‘What do you aim for? The throat?’
‘Too small a target. I go for the belly. A blade in the guts doesn’t kill a man straight away, but it paralyses him. It hurts so much that he can’t think of anything else.’ He gave a high-pitched giggle, an unexpected sound from such a rough-looking man.
Pierre soon found out where they were going. They turned into the Vieille rue du Temple. Pierre knew that this was where the Guise family had built their new palace, occupying an entire block. He had often dreamed of climbing those polished steps and entering the grand hall. But he was taken to the garden gate and through the kitchen entrance. They went down a staircase into a cheese-smelling basement crowded with barrels and boxes. He was thrust rudely into a room and the door was slammed behind him. He heard a bar drop into a bracket. When he tried the door it would not open.
The cell was cold, and stank like an alehouse privy. A candle in the corridor outside shed a faint light through a barred window in the door. He made out an earth floor and a vaulted ceiling of brick. The only furniture was a chamber pot that had been used but not emptied – hence the smell.
It was amazing how fast his life had turned to shit.
He was here for the night, he assumed. He sat down with his back to the wall. In the morning he would be taken before a judge. He had to think about what he would say. He needed a story to spin to the court. He might still escape serious punishment if he performed well.
But somehow he was too dispirited to dream up a tale. He kept wondering what he would do when this was over. He had enjoyed life as a member of the wealthy set. Losing money betting on dog fights, giving outsize tips to barmaids, buying gloves made from the skins of baby goats – it had all given him a thrill he would never forget. Must he give that up?
The most pleasing thing to him had been the way the others had accepted him. They had no idea that he was a bastard and the son of a bastard. There was no hint of condescension. Indeed, they often called for him on their way to some pleasure outing. If he fell behind the others for some reason, as they walked from one tavern to another in the university quarter, one of them would say: ‘Where’s Aumande?’ and they would stop and wait for him to catch up. Remembering that now, he almost wept.
He pulled his cloak more closely around him. Would he be able to sleep on the cold floor? When he appeared in court he wanted to look as if he might be a bona fide member of the Guise family.
The light in his cell brightened. There was a noise in the corridor. The door was unbarred and flung open. ‘On your feet,’ said a coarse voice.
Pierre scrambled up.
Once again his arm was held in a grip hard enough to discourage fantasies of escape.
Gaston Le Pin was outside the door. Pierre summoned up the shreds of his old arrogance. ‘I assume you are releasing me,’ he said. ‘I demand an apology.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ said Le Pin.
He led the way along the corridor to the back stairs, then across the ground floor and up a grand staircase. Pierre was now completely bewildered. He was being treated as a criminal, but taken to the piano nobile of the palace like a guest.
Le Pin led the way into a room furnished with a patterned rug, heavy brocade curtains that glowed with colour, and a large painting of a voluptuous naked woman over the fireplace. Two well-dressed men sat on upholstered armchairs, arguing quietly. Between them was a small table with a jug of wine, two goblets, and a dish piled with nuts, dried fruits and small cakes. The men ignored the new arrivals and carried on talking, careless of whether anyone heard.
They were obviously brothers, both well built with fair hair and blond beards. Pierre recognized them. They were the most famous men in France after the king.
One had terrible scars on both cheeks, the marks of a lance that had pierced right through his mouth. The legend said that the spearhead had lodged there, and he had ridden back to his tent and had not even screamed when the surgeon pulled out the blade. This was François, duke of Guise, known as Scarface. He was a few days short of his thirty-ninth birthday.
The younger brother, born on the same day five years later, was Charles, cardinal of Lorraine. He wore the bright red robes of his priestly office. He had been made archbishop of Reims at the age of fourteen, and he now had so many lucrative Church positions that he was one of the richest men in France, with an amazing annual income of three hundred thousand livres.
For years Pierre had daydreamed of meeting these two. They were the most powerful men in the country outside the royal family. In his fantasy they valued him as a counsellor, talked to him almost as an equal, and sought his advice on political, financial and even military decisions.
But now he stood before them as a criminal.
He listened to their conversation. Cardinal Charles said quietly: ‘The king’s prestige has not really recovered from the defeat at St Quentin.’
‘But surely my victory at Calais has helped!’ said Duke François.
Charles shook his head. ‘We won that battle, but we’re losing the war.’
Pierre was fascinated, despite his fear. France had been fighting Spain over who was to rule the kingdom of Naples and other states in the Italian peninsula. England had sided with Spain. France had got Calais back but not the Italian states. It was a poor bargain, but few people would dare to say so openly. The two brothers were supremely confident of their power.
Le Pin took advantage of a pause to say: ‘This is the imposter, my lords,’ and the brothers looked up.
Pierre pulled himself together. He had escaped from awkward situations before, using fast talk and plausible lies. He told himself to regard this problem as an opportunity. If he remained alert and quick-witted he might even gain by the encounter. ‘Good evening, my lords,’ he said in a dignified tone. ‘This is an unexpected honour.’
Le Pin said: ‘Speak when you’re spoken to, shithole.’
Pierre turned to him. ‘Refrain from coarse language in the presence of the cardinal,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I shall see that you’re taught a lesson.’
Le Pin bristled, but hesitated to strike Pierre in front of his masters.
The two brothers exchanged a glance, and Charles raised an amused eyebrow. Pierre had surprised them. Good.
It was the duke who spoke. ‘You pretend to be a member of our family. This is a serious offence.’
‘I humbly beg your forgiveness.’ Before either brother could reply, he went on: ‘My father is the illegitimate son of a dairymaid in Thonnance-lès-Joinville.’ He hated having to tell this story, because it was true, and it shamed him. However, he was desperate. He went on: ‘The family legend is that her lover was a dashing young man from Joinville, a cousin of the Guise family.’
Duke François gave a sceptical grunt. The Guise family seat was at Joinville, in the Champagne region, and Thonnance-lès-Joinville was nearby, as its name implied. But many unmarried mothers put the blame on an aristocratic lover. On the other hand, it was often true.
Pierre went on: ‘My father was educated at the Grammar School and became a local priest, thanks to a recommendation from your lordships’ father, now in heaven, rest his soul.’
This was perfectly believable, Pierre knew. Noble families did not openly acknowledge their bastards, but they often gave them a helping hand, in the casual way that a man might stoop to draw a thorn from the paw of a limping dog.
Duke François said: ‘How can you be the son of a celibate priest?’
‘My mother is his housekeeper.’ Priests were not allowed to marry, but they often took mistresses, and ‘housekeeper’ was the accepted euphemism.
‘So you’re doubly illegitimate!’
Pierre flushed, and his emotion was genuine. He had no need to pretend to be ashamed of his birth. But the duke’s comment also encouraged him. It suggested that his story was being taken seriously.
The duke said: ‘Even if your family myth were true, you would not be entitled to use our name – as you must realize.’
‘I know I did wrong,’ Pierre said. ‘But all my life I have looked up to the Guises. I would give my soul to serve you. I know that your duty is to punish me, but please – use me instead. Give me a task, and I will perform it meticulously, I swear. I will do anything you ask – anything.’
The duke shook his head scornfully. ‘I cannot imagine there is any service you could do for us.’
Pierre despaired. He had put his heart and soul into his speech – and it had failed.
Then Cardinal Charles intervened. ‘As a matter of fact, there might be something.’
Pierre’s heart leaped with hope.
Duke François looked mildly irritated. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
The duke made a ‘help yourself’ gesture with his hand.
Cardinal Charles said: ‘There are Protestants in Paris.’
Charles was an ultra-Catholic – which was no surprise, given how much money he made from the Church. And he was right about the Protestants. Even though Paris was a strongly Catholic city, where popular hellfire preachers raged against heresy from the pulpits every Sunday, there existed a minority eager to listen to denunciations of priests who took their Church income and did nothing for their congregations. Some felt strongly enough about Church corruption to take the risk of attending clandestine Protestant services, even though it was a crime.
Pierre pretended to be outraged. ‘Such people should be put to death!’
‘And they will be,’ said Charles. ‘But first we have to find them.’
‘I can do that!’ Pierre said quickly.
‘Also the names of their wives and children, friends and relations.’
‘Several of my fellow students at the Sorbonne have heretical leanings.’
‘Ask where one can buy books and pamphlets dealing with criticism of the Church.’
Selling Protestant literature was a crime punishable by death. ‘I’ll drop hints,’ Pierre said. ‘I’ll pretend to have sincere doubts.’
‘Most of all, I want to know the places where Protestants gather to perform their blasphemous services.’
Pierre frowned, struck by a thought. Presumably the need for such information had not occurred to Charles in the last few minutes. ‘Your Eminence must already have people making such inquiries.’
‘You need not know about them, nor they about you.’
So Pierre would be joining an unknown number of spies. ‘I will be the best of them!’
‘You will be well rewarded if you are.’
Pierre could hardly believe his luck. He was so relieved that he wanted to leave now, before Charles could change his mind; but he had to give an impression of calm confidence. ‘Thank you for placing your trust in me, Cardinal.’
‘Oh, please don’t imagine that I trust you,’ said Charles with careless contempt. ‘But in the task of exterminating heretics, one is obliged to use the tools that come to hand.’
Pierre did not want to leave on that note. He needed to impress the brothers somehow. He recalled the conversation they had been having when he was brought in. Throwing caution to the wind, he said: ‘I agree with what you were saying, Cardinal, about the need to boost the popular reputation of his majesty the king.’
Charles looked as if he did not know whether to be offended or merely amused by Pierre’s effrontery. ‘Do you, indeed?’ he said.
Pierre plunged on. ‘What we need now is a big, lavish, colourful celebration, to make them forget the shame of St Quentin.’
The cardinal gave a slight nod.
Encouraged, Pierre said: ‘Something like a royal wedding.’
The two brothers looked at one another. Duke François said: ‘Do you know, I think the rogue might be right.’
Charles nodded. ‘I’ve known better men who have understood politics less well.’
Pierre was thrilled. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
Then Charles lost interest in him, picked up his wine, and said: ‘You’re dismissed.’
Pierre stepped to the door, then his eye fell on Le Pin. Struck by a thought, he turned back. ‘Your Eminence,’ he said to Charles. ‘When I have the addresses where the Protestants hold their services, should I bring them to you, or hand them to one of your servants?’
The cardinal paused with his goblet at his lips. ‘Strictly to me in person,’ he said. ‘No exceptions. Off you go.’ He drank.
Pierre caught the eye of Le Pin and grinned triumphantly. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said, and he went out.
*
SYLVIE PALOT had noticed the attractive young man at the fish market the day before. He was not selling fish: he was too well dressed, in a blue doublet slashed to show the white silk lining. Yesterday she had seen him buy some salmon, but he had done so carelessly, without the keen interest of one who was going to eat what he bought. He had smiled at her several times.
She found it difficult not to be pleased.
He was a good-looking man with fair hair and the beginnings of a blond beard. She put his age at twenty, three years older than herself. He had a beguiling air of self-confidence.
She already had one admirer. Among her parents’ acquaintances were the Mauriac family. Father and son were both short, and played up to it by being cheery wisecracking chaps: the father, Luc, was a charmer, and everyone liked him, which might have been why he was so successful as a cargo broker; but the son, Georges, who was Sylvie’s admirer, was a pale imitation, all poor jokes and clumsy sallies. She really needed him to go away for a couple of years and grow up.
Her new admirer at the fish market spoke to her for the first time on a cold morning in January. There was snow on the foreshore of the River Seine, and thin layers of ice formed on the water in the fishmongers’ barrels. Winter-hungry gulls circled overhead, crying in frustration at the sight of so much food. The young man said: ‘How can you tell whether a fish is fresh?’
‘By the eyes,’ she said. ‘If they’re cloudy, the fish is old. The eyes should be clear.’
‘Like yours,’ he said.
She laughed. At least he was witty. Georges Mauriac just said stupid things like Have you ever been kissed?
‘And pull open the gills,’ she added. ‘They should be pink inside, and wet. Oh, dear.’ Her hand went to her mouth. She had given him the cue for a smutty remark about something else that might be pink inside and wet, and she felt herself blush.
He looked mildly amused, but said only: ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ She appreciated his tact. He was not like Georges Mauriac, evidently.
He stood beside her while she bought three small trout, her father’s favourite, and paid one sou and six pennies. He stayed with her as she walked away with the fish in her basket.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Pierre Aumande. I know you’re Sylvie Palot.’
She liked straightforward talk, so she said to him: ‘Have you been watching me?’
He hesitated, looked embarrassed, and said: ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re so beautiful.’
Sylvie knew she had a pleasant, open face with clear skin and blue eyes, but she was not sure she was beautiful, so she said: ‘Is that all?’
‘You’re very perceptive.’
So there was something else. She could not help feeling disappointed. It was vain of her to have believed, even for a moment, that he had been bewitched by her beauty. Perhaps she would end up with Georges Mauriac after all. ‘You’d better tell me,’ she said, trying not to reveal her disillusionment.
‘Have you ever heard of Erasmus of Rotterdam?’
Of course she had. Sylvie felt the hairs on her forearms rise. For a few minutes she had forgotten that she and her family were criminals, liable to be executed if caught; but now the familiar fear came back.
She was not stupid enough to answer the question, even when it came from such a dreamboat. After a moment she thought of an evasive answer. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m a student at the university. We’re taught that Erasmus was a wicked man, the progenitor of Protestantism, but I’d like to read his work for myself. They don’t have his books in the library.’
‘How should I know about such things?’
Pierre shrugged. ‘Your father’s a printer, isn’t he?’
He had been watching her. But he could not possibly know the truth.
Sylvie and her family had been given a mission by God. It was their holy duty to help their countrymen learn about true religion. They did this by selling books: mainly the Bible, of course, in French so that everyone could easily understand it and see for themselves how wrong the Catholic Church was; but also commentaries by scholars such as Erasmus that explained things clearly, for readers who might be slow to reach the right conclusions unaided.
Every time they sold such a book, they took a terrible risk: the punishment was death.
Sylvie said: ‘What on earth makes you think we sell such literature? It’s against the law!’
‘One of the students thought you might, that’s all.’
So it was only rumour – but that was worrying enough. ‘Well, please tell him that we don’t.’
‘All right.’ He looked disappointed.
‘Don’t you know that printers’ premises are liable to be searched at any time for illegal books? Our place has been inspected several times. There is no stain on our reputation.’
‘Congratulations.’
He walked a few more paces beside her, then stopped. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, anyway.’
Sylvie said: ‘Wait.’
Most of the customers for prohibited publications were people they knew, men and women who worshipped side by side with them at illicit services in discreet locations. A few others came with the recommendation of a known co-religionist. Even they were dangerous: if arrested and tortured they would probably tell all.
But Protestants had to take the even greater risk of talking to strangers about their faith: it was the only way to spread the gospel. Sylvie’s life’s work was to convert Catholics, and she had been presented with an opportunity to do just that. And if she let him walk away she might never see him again.
Pierre seemed sincere. And he had approached her cautiously, as if he was genuinely afraid. He did not seem to be a blabbermouth, a japester, a fool or a drunk: she could think of no excuse for refusing him.
Was she, perhaps, a little more willing than usual to take the risk because this prospective convert was an alluring young man who seemed attracted to her? She told herself that this question was beside the point.
She had to put her life on the line, and pray for God’s protection.
‘Come to the shop this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Bring four livres. Buy a copy of The Grammar of Latin. Whatever you do, don’t mention Erasmus.’
He seemed startled by her sudden decisiveness, but he said: ‘All right.’
‘Then meet me back in the fish market at nightfall.’ The waterfront would be deserted at that hour. ‘Bring the Grammar.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then trust in God.’ She turned and walked away without waiting for a reply.
As she headed for home, she prayed that she had done the right thing.
Paris was divided into three parts. The largest section, called the Town, was on the north side of the River Seine, known as the right bank. The smaller settlement south of the river, on the left bank, was called the University, or sometimes the Latin Quarter because of all the students speaking Latin. The island in the middle was called the City, and that was where Sylvie lived.
Her home stood in the shadow of the great cathedral of Notre Dame. The ground floor of the house was the shop, the books in mesh-fronted cupboards with locked doors. Sylvie and her parents lived upstairs. At the back was the print works. Sylvie and her mother, Isabelle, took turns minding the store while her father, Giles, who was not a good salesman, toiled in the workshop.
Sylvie fried the trout with onions and garlic in the kitchen upstairs and put bread and wine on the table. Her cat, Fifi, appeared from nowhere: Sylvie gave her the head of a trout, and the cat began to eat it delicately, starting with the eyes. Sylvie worried about what she had done this morning. Would the student show up? Or would a magistrate’s officer come instead, with a party of men-at-arms, to arrest the whole family on charges of heresy?
Giles ate first, and Sylvie served him. He was a big man, his arms and shoulders strong from lifting the heavy oak formes full of lead-alloy type. In a bad mood he could knock Sylvie across the room with his left arm, but the trout was flaky and tender, and he was in a cheerful frame of mind.
When he had finished, Sylvie sat in the shop while Isabelle ate, then they changed places; but Sylvie had no appetite.
After the meal was over, Sylvie returned to the shop. There happened to be no customers, and Isabelle said immediately: ‘What are you so worried about?’
Sylvie told her about Pierre Aumande.
Isabelle looked anxious. ‘You should have arranged to meet him again, and learned more about him, before telling him to come to the shop.’
‘I know, but what reason would I have to meet him?’ Isabelle gave her an arch look, and Sylvie said: ‘I’m no good at flirting, you know that, I’m sorry.’
‘I’m glad of it,’ Isabelle said. ‘It’s because you’re too honest. Anyway, we must take risks, it’s the cross we have to bear.’
Sylvie said: ‘I just hope he’s not the type to have an attack of guilty conscience and blurt out everything to his confessor.’
‘He’s more likely to get scared and back out. You’ll probably never see him again.’
That was not what Sylvie was hoping for, but she did not say so.
Their conversation was interrupted by a customer. Sylvie looked at him curiously. Most of the people who came into the shop were well dressed, for poor men could not afford books. This young man’s clothes were serviceable but plain and well-worn. His heavy coat was travel-stained, and his stout boots were dusty. He must be on a journey. He looked both weary and anxious. Sylvie felt a pang of compassion.
‘I would like to speak to Giles Palot,’ he said in an out-of-town accent.
‘I’ll fetch him,’ said Isabelle, and she passed from the shop into the factory behind.
Sylvie was curious. What did this traveller want with her father, if not to buy a book? Probing, she said: ‘Have you come a long way?’
Before the man could answer, another customer entered. Sylvie recognized him as a clergyman from the cathedral. Sylvie and her mother were careful to bow and scrape to priests. Giles did not, but he was grumpy with everyone. Sylvie said: ‘Good afternoon, Archdeacon Raphael, we’re very glad to see you, as always.’
The young man in the dirty cloak suddenly looked annoyed. Sylvie wondered if he had a reason to dislike archdeacons.
Raphael said: ‘Do you have an edition of the Psalms?’
‘Of course.’ Sylvie unlocked a cabinet and took out a Latin version, assuming that Raphael would not want a French translation, even one approved by the Faculty of Theology at the Sorbonne. She guessed that the archdeacon was buying a gift, for he must already have the entire Bible. ‘This would make a beautiful present,’ she said. ‘The tooling on the binding is gold leaf, and the printing is in two colours.’
Raphael turned the pages. ‘It is very pleasing.’
‘Five livres,’ said Sylvie. ‘A most reasonable price.’ It was a small fortune for ordinary people, but archdeacons were not ordinary.
At that moment a third customer entered, and Sylvie recognized Pierre Aumande. She felt a little glow of pleasure at the sight of his smiling face, but she hoped she had been right in thinking him discreet: it would be a catastrophe if he started talking about Erasmus in front of an archdeacon and a mysterious stranger.
Her mother emerged from the back of the premises. She spoke to the traveller. ‘My husband will be with you in a moment.’ Seeing that Sylvie was serving the archdeacon, she turned to the other customer. ‘May I show you something, Monsieur?’
Sylvie caught her mother’s attention and slightly widened her eyes in a warning expression, to indicate that the latest arrival was the student they had been talking about. Isabelle responded with an almost imperceptible nod, showing that she understood. Mother and daughter had become skilled in silent communication, living as they did with Giles.
Pierre said: ‘I need a copy of The Grammar of Latin.’
‘At once.’ Isabelle went to the appropriate cabinet, found the book, and brought it to the counter.
Giles appeared from the back. There were now three customers, two of whom were being served, so he assumed the third was the one who had asked for him. ‘Yes?’ he said. His manner was usually gruff: that was why Isabelle tried to keep him out of the shop.
The traveller hesitated, seeming ill at ease.
Giles said impatiently: ‘You asked for me?’
‘Um . . . do you have a book of Bible stories in French, with pictures?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Giles. ‘It’s my best seller. But you could have asked my wife for that, instead of dragging me here from the print works.’
Sylvie wished, not for the first time, that her father could be more charming to customers. However, it was odd that the traveller had asked for him by name before coming up with such a mundane request. She glanced at her mother and saw a slight frown that indicated that Isabelle, too, had heard a wrong note.
She noticed that Pierre was listening to the conversation, apparently as intrigued as she was.
The archdeacon said grumpily: ‘People should hear Bible stories from their parish priest. If they start reading for themselves, they’re sure to get the wrong idea.’ He put gold coins on the counter to pay for the Psalms.
Or they might get the right idea, Sylvie said to herself. In the days when ordinary people had been unable to read the Bible, the priests could say anything – and that was how they liked it. They were terrified of the light of the word of God being shone on their teaching and practices.
Pierre said sycophantically: ‘Quite right, your reverence – if a humble student may be permitted to express an opinion. We must stand firm, or we’ll end up with a separate sect for every cobbler and weaver.’
Independent craftsmen such as cobblers and weavers seemed especially liable to become Protestants. Their work gave them time alone to think, Sylvie supposed, and they were not as scared as peasants were of priests and noblemen.
But Sylvie was surprised at this smarmy interjection from Pierre after he had shown interest in subversive literature. She looked curiously at him, and he gave her a broad wink.
He did have a very engaging manner.
Sylvie looked away and wrapped the archdeacon’s Psalms in a square of coarse linen, tying the parcel with string.
The traveller bridled at the archdeacon’s criticism. ‘Half the people in France never see their priest,’ he said defiantly. It was an exaggeration, Sylvie thought, but the truth was that far too many priests took the income from their post and never even visited their parish.
The archdeacon knew this, and had no answer. He picked up his Psalms and left in a huff.
Isabelle said to the student: ‘May I wrap this Grammar for you?’
‘Yes, please.’ He produced four livres.
Giles said to the traveller: ‘Do you want this story book, or what?’
The traveller bent over the book Giles showed him, examining the illustrations. ‘Don’t rush me,’ he said firmly. He had not been afraid to argue with the archdeacon, and he seemed unaffected by Giles’s bullying manner. There was more to this man than was apparent from his grubby appearance.
Pierre took his parcel and left. Now the shop contained only one customer. Sylvie felt as if the tide had gone out.
The traveller closed the book with a snap, straightened up, and said: ‘I am Guillaume of Geneva.’
Sylvie heard Isabelle give a small gasp of surprise.
Giles’s attitude changed. He shook Guillaume’s hand and said: ‘You’re very welcome. Come inside.’ He led the way upstairs to the private quarters.
Sylvie half understood. She knew that Geneva was an independent Protestant city, dominated by the great John Calvin. But it was two hundred and fifty miles away, a journey of a couple of weeks or more. ‘What is that man doing here?’ she asked.
‘The College of Pastors in Geneva trains missionaries and sends them all over Europe to preach the new gospel,’ Isabelle explained. ‘The last one was called Alphonse. You were thirteen.’
‘Alphonse!’ said Sylvie, remembering a zealous young man who had ignored her. ‘I never understood why he was living here.’
‘They bring us Calvin’s writings, and other works, for your father to copy and print.’
Sylvie felt stupid. She had never even wondered where the Protestant books originated.
‘It’s getting dark outside,’ Isabelle said. ‘You’d better fetch a copy of Erasmus for your student.’
‘What did you think of him?’ said Sylvie as she put on her coat.
Isabelle gave a knowing smile. ‘He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?’
Sylvie’s question had been about Pierre’s trustworthiness, not his looks; but on reflection she was not keen to get into that conversation, in case it scared her too much. She mumbled a noncommittal reply and went out.
She headed north and crossed the river. The jewellers and milliners on the Notre Dame bridge were getting ready to close their shops. On the Town side she walked along the rue St Martin, the main north–south artery. A few minutes later she reached the rue du Mur. It was a back lane rather than a street. On one side was the city wall; on the other, the rear entrances of a few houses and the high fence of an unkempt garden. She stopped by a stable at the back of a dwelling lived in by an old woman who did not have a horse. The stable was windowless and unpainted, and had a patched and half-derelict look, but it was solidly built, with a strong door and a discreetly heavy lock. Giles had bought it years ago.
Beside the doorpost at waist level was a loose half-brick. After making sure she was not observed, Sylvie pulled it out, reached into the hole, picked up a key, and replaced the brick. She turned the key in the door, entered, then closed and barred the door behind her.
There was a candle lamp in a holder on the wall. Sylvie had brought with her a tinderbox containing a flint, a steel in the shape of a capital letter D that fitted neatly around her slender fingers, some fragments of dry wood, and a twist of linen. When she struck the flint against the steel D, sparks flew into the box and ignited the wood fragments, which flamed rapidly. She then lit the end of the linen rag and used that to light the lamp.
The flickering light showed a wall of old barrels stacked floor to ceiling. Most were full of sand, and too heavy for one person to lift, but a few were empty. They all looked the same, but Sylvie knew the difference. She quickly moved one stack aside and stepped through the gap. Behind the barrels were wooden boxes of books.
The moment of greatest danger for the Palot family was when contraband books were being printed and bound in Giles’s workshop. If the place was raided at just the wrong time, they would all die. But as soon as the books were finished, they were stashed in boxes – always with a layer of innocent Catholic-approved literature on top for camouflage – and trundled in a cart to this warehouse, whereupon the print works reverted to producing legitimate books. Most of the time the premises by the cathedral contained nothing remotely illegal.
And only three people knew about this store: Giles, Isabelle and Sylvie. Sylvie had not been told until she was sixteen. Even the workers in the print factory did not know about it, although they were all Protestants: they were told that the finished books were delivered to a secret wholesaler.
Now Sylvie located a box marked ‘SA’ for Sileni Alcibiadis, probably the most important work of Erasmus. She took out a copy and wrapped it in a square of linen from a stack nearby, then tied up the bundle with string. She replaced the barrels so that the boxes of books were once again out of sight, and all that could be seen was a room apparently half full of barrels.
As she retraced her steps along the rue St Martin, she wondered whether her student would show up. He had come to the shop, as arranged, but he might yet get scared. Worse, he might arrive with some kind of official ready to arrest her. She was not afraid of death, of course, no true Christian was, but she was terrified of being tortured. She had visions of red-hot pincers entering her flesh, and had to thrust the images out of her mind by silent prayer.
The waterfront was quiet at night. The fishmongers’ stalls were shuttered and the gulls had gone to scavenge elsewhere. The river lapped softly on the foreshore.
Pierre was waiting for her, holding a lantern. His face lit from below looked sinisterly handsome.
He was alone.
She held up the book, but did not give it to him. ‘You must never tell anyone you have this,’ she said. ‘I could be executed for selling it to you.’
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘You, too, will be risking your life if you accept it from me.’
‘I know.’
‘If you’re sure, take it and give me back the Grammar.’
They swapped packages.
‘Goodbye,’ said Sylvie. ‘Remember what I said.’
‘I will,’ he promised.
Then he kissed her.
*
ALISON MCKAY hurried through the draughty corridors of the palace of Tournelles with startling news for her best friend.
Her friend had to fulfil a promise she had never made. This had been expected for years, but, all the same, it was a shock. It was good news, and it was bad.
The medieval building on the eastern side of Paris was large and decrepit. Despite rich furnishings it was cold and uncomfortable. Prestigious but neglected, it was like its current occupier, Caterina de’ Medici, queen of France, the wife of a king who preferred his mistress.
Alison stepped into a side room and found who she was looking for.
Two adolescents sat on the floor by the window, playing cards, by the light of the fitful winter sunshine. Their clothes and jewellery showed them to be among the richest people in the world, but they were excitedly gambling for pennies and having a wonderful time.
The boy was fourteen but looked younger. He was stunted in growth and seemed frail. He was on the verge of puberty, and when he spoke in his cracked voice he stammered. This was Francis, the eldest son of King Henri II and Queen Caterina. He was the heir to the throne of France.
The girl was a beautiful redhead, extraordinarily tall at the age of fifteen, towering over most men. Her name was Mary Stuart, and she was the queen of the Scots.
When Mary was five and Alison eight they had moved from Scotland to France, two terrified little girls in a strange country where they could not understand a word anyone said. The sickly Francis had become their playmate, and the three children had formed the strong mutual attachment of those who live through adversity together.
Alison felt affectionately protective of Mary, who sometimes needed looking after on account of her tendency to be impulsive and foolhardy. Both girls were fond of Francis as of a helpless puppy or kitten. Francis worshipped Mary as a goddess.
Now the triangle of friendship was about to be rocked and perhaps destroyed.
Mary looked up and smiled, then saw Alison’s expression and became alarmed. ‘What is it?’ she said, speaking French with no remaining trace of a Scots accent. ‘What’s happened?’
Alison blurted it out. ‘You two have to get married on the Sunday after Easter!’
‘So soon!’ said Mary, then they both looked at Francis.
Mary had become engaged to Francis when she was five, just before she moved to France to live. The engagement was political, like all royal betrothals. Its purpose was to cement the alliance of France and Scotland against England.
But as the girls grew older they had come to doubt that the marriage would ever happen. Relations among the three kingdoms shifted constantly. Power brokers in London, Edinburgh and Paris talked frequently about alternative husbands for Mary Stuart. Nothing had seemed certain, until now.
Francis looked anguished. ‘I love you,’ he said to Mary. ‘I want to marry you – when I’m a man.’
Mary reached out to take his hand sympathetically, but he was overcome. He burst into tears and scrambled to his feet.
Alison said: ‘Francis—’
He shook his head helplessly, then ran from the room.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mary. ‘Poor Francis.’
Alison closed the door. Now the two girls were alone and in private. Alison gave Mary her hand and pulled her up from the floor. Still holding hands, they sat together on a sofa covered in rich chestnut-brown velvet. They were quiet for a minute, then Alison said: ‘How do you feel?’
‘All my life they’ve been telling me I’m a queen,’ Mary said. ‘I never was, really. I became queen of the Scots when I was six days old, and people have never stopped treating me like a baby. But if I marry Francis, and he becomes king, then I will be queen of France – the real thing.’ Her eyes glittered with desire. ‘That’s what I want.’
‘But Francis . . .’
‘I know. He’s sweet, and I love him, but to lie down in a bed with him, and, you know . . .’
Alison nodded vigorously. ‘It hardly bears thinking about.’
‘Perhaps Francis and I could get married and just pretend.’
Alison shook her head. ‘Then the marriage might be annulled.’
‘And I would no longer be queen.’
‘Exactly.’
Mary said: ‘Why now? What brought this on?’
Alison had been told by Queen Caterina, the most well-informed person in France. ‘Scarface suggested it to the king.’ The duke of Guise was Mary’s uncle, her mother’s brother. The family was riding high after his victory at Calais.
‘Why does Uncle Scarface care?’
‘Think how the prestige of the Guise family would be boosted if one of them became Queen of France.’
‘Scarface is a soldier.’
‘Yes. This was surely someone else’s idea.’
‘But Francis . . .’
‘It all comes back to little Francis, doesn’t it?’
‘He’s so little,’ Mary said. ‘And so ill. Is he even capable of doing what a man is supposed to do with his wife?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Alison. ‘But you’re going to find out on the Sunday after Easter.’