22
Ned studied the face of his son, Roger. His heart was so full he could hardly speak. Roger was a child on the edge of adolescence, starting to grow taller but still having smooth cheeks and a treble voice. He had Margery’s curly dark hair and impish look, but Ned’s golden-brown eyes.
They were in the parlour of the house opposite the cathedral. Earl Bart had come to Kingsbridge for the spring court of quarter sessions, and had brought with him the two boys he thought were his sons: Bartlet, who was eighteen, and Roger, twelve. Ned, too, had come for the court: he was the Member of Parliament for Kingsbridge now.
Ned had no other children. He and Sylvie had been making love for more than ten years, with a fervour that had hardly diminished, but she had never become pregnant. It was a cause of sadness to them both, and it made Roger painfully precious to Ned.
Ned was also recalling his own adolescence. I know what you have in front of you, he thought as he looked at Roger; and I wish I could tell you all about it, and make it easier for you; but when I was your age I never believed older people who said they knew what the lives of younger ones were like, and I don’t suppose you will either.
Roger’s attitude to Ned was, naturally, quite casual. Ned was a friend of his mother’s, and Roger regarded him as an unofficial uncle. Ned could not display his affection except by listening carefully to the boy, taking him seriously and replying thoughtfully to what he said; and perhaps that was why Roger occasionally confided in him – something that gave Ned great joy.
Now Roger said: ‘Sir Ned, you know the queen. Why does she hate Catholics?’
Ned had not expected that, though perhaps he should have. Roger knew that his parents were Catholics in a Protestant country, and he had just become old enough to wonder why.
Ned played for time by saying: ‘The queen doesn’t hate Catholics.’
‘She makes my father pay a fine for not going to church.’
Roger was quick-thinking, Ned saw, and the little flush of pleasure he felt was accompanied by a painful stab of regret that he had to conceal his pride, most especially from the boy himself.
Ned said to Roger what he said to everyone: ‘When she was young, Princess Elizabeth told me that if she became queen, no Englishman would die for his religion.’
‘She hasn’t kept that promise,’ Roger said quickly.
‘She has tried.’ Ned searched for words that would explain the complexities of politics to a twelve-year-old. ‘On the one hand, she has Puritans in Parliament telling her every day that she’s too soft, and she should be burning Catholics to death, just as her predecessor Queen Mary Tudor burned Protestants. On the other hand, she has to deal with Catholic traitors such as the duke of Norfolk who want to kill her.’
Roger argued stubbornly: ‘Priests are executed just for bringing people back to the Catholic faith, aren’t they?’
Roger had been saving up these questions, Ned realized. He was probably afraid to challenge his parents about such matters. Ned was pleased the boy trusted him enough to share his worries. But why was Roger so concerned? Ned guessed that Stephen Lincoln was still living more or less clandestinely at New Castle. He would be tutor to Bartlet and Roger, and almost certainly said Mass regularly for the family. Roger was worried that his teacher might be found out and executed.
There were many more such priests than there had been. Stephen was one of the old diehards left over after Queen Elizabeth’s religious revolution, but there were dozens of new priests, perhaps hundreds. Ned and Walsingham had caught seventeen of them. All had been executed for treason.
Ned had questioned most of the seventeen before they died. He had not learned as much as he wished, partly because they had been trained to resist interrogation, but mainly because they did not know much. Their organizer worked under the obvious pseudonym of Jean Langlais and gave them only the absolute minimum of information about the operation of which they were part. They did not know exactly where on the coast they had landed, nor the names of the shadowy people who welcomed them and set them on the road to their destinations.
Ned said: ‘These priests are trained abroad and smuggled into England illegally. They owe allegiance to the Pope, not to our queen. Some of them belong to a hard-line ultra-Catholic group called the Jesuits. Elizabeth fears they may conspire to overthrow her.’
‘And do they conspire?’ Roger asked.
If Ned had been arguing with an adult, he would have responded disputatiously to these questions. He might have scorned the naivety of anyone who supposed that clandestine priests were innocent of treachery. But he had no wish to win an argument with his son. He just wanted the boy to know the truth.
The priests all believed that Elizabeth was illegitimate, and that the true queen of England was Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots; but none of them had actually done anything about it – so far, at least. They had not tried to contact Mary Stuart in her prison, they had not called together groups of discontented Catholic noblemen, they had not plotted to murder Elizabeth.
‘No,’ he said to Roger. ‘As far as I know, they don’t conspire against Elizabeth.’
‘So they are executed just for being Catholic priests.’
‘You are right, morally speaking,’ Ned said. ‘And it is a great sadness to me that Elizabeth has not been able to keep her youthful vow. But politically it is quite impossible for her to tolerate, within her kingdom, a network of men who are loyal to a foreign potentate – the Pope – who has declared himself her enemy. No monarch on earth would put up with that.’
‘And if you hide a priest in your house, the penalty is death.’
So that was the thought at the heart of Roger’s worry. If Stephen Lincoln were caught saying Mass, or even proved to keep sacramental objects at New Castle, then both Bart and Margery could be executed.
Ned, too, was fearful for Margery. He might not be able to protect her from the wrath of the law.
He said: ‘I believe we should all worship God in the way we think right, and not worry about what other people do. I don’t hate Catholics. I’ve been friends with your mother – and father – all my life. I don’t think Christians should kill each other over theology.’
‘It’s not just Catholics who burn people. The Protestants in Geneva burned Michel Servet.’
Ned thought of saying that the name of Servet was known all over Europe precisely because it was so unusual for Protestants to burn people to death; but he decided not to take that argumentative line with Roger. Instead he said: ‘That’s true, and it will be a stain on the name of John Calvin until the day of judgement. But there are a few people – on both sides – who struggle for tolerance. Queen Caterina, the mother of the king of France, is one, and she’s Catholic. Queen Elizabeth is another.’
‘But they both kill people!’
‘Neither woman is a saint. There’s something you must try to understand, Roger. There are no saints in politics. But imperfect people can still change the world for the better.’
Ned had done his best, but Roger looked dissatisfied. He did not want to be told that life was complicated. He was twelve years old, and he sought ringing certainties. He would have to learn slowly, like everyone else.
The conversation was interrupted when Alfo walked in. Roger immediately clammed up, and a few moments later politely took his leave.
Alfo said to Ned: ‘What did he want?’
‘He’s having adolescent doubts. He treats me as a harmless friend of the family. How is school?’
Alfo sat down. He was nineteen now, and he had Barney’s long limbs and easy-going ways. ‘The truth is, a year ago the school had already taught me all it could. Now I spend half my time reading and the other half teaching the youngsters.’
‘Oh?’ It was clearly Ned’s day for counselling young men. He was only forty-three, not old enough for such responsibility. ‘Perhaps you should go to Oxford and study at the university. You could live at Kingsbridge College.’ Ned was only mildly keen on this idea. He himself had never studied at a university, and he could not say that he had suffered much in consequence. He was as smart as most of the clergymen he met. On the other hand, he occasionally noticed that university-educated men were more agile than he in arguments, and he knew that they had learned that in student debates.
‘I’m not cut out to be a clergyman.’
Ned smiled. Alfo was fond of girls – and they liked him, too. He had inherited Barney’s effortless charm. Timid girls were put off by his African looks, but the more adventurous were intrigued.
English people were illogical about foreigners, Ned found: they hated Turks, and they believed Jews were evil, but they regarded Africans as harmlessly exotic. Men such as Alfo, who somehow ended up in England, usually married into the community, where their inherited appearance disappeared in the course of three or four generations.
‘Going to university doesn’t mean you’re obliged to become a clergyman. But I sense that you have something else in mind.’
‘My grandmother Alice had a dream of turning the old monastery into an indoor market.’
‘That’s true, she did.’ It was a long time ago, but Ned had not forgotten looking around the ruins with his mother, imagining the stalls set up in the cloisters. ‘It’s still a good idea.’
‘Could I use the Captain’s money to buy the place?’
Ned considered. He had charge of Barney’s wealth while Barney was at sea. He kept a lot of it in cash, but he had made some investments too – an orchard in Kingsbridge, a dairy in London – and had made money for his brother. ‘I think we might, if the price is right,’ he said cautiously.
‘May I approach the chapter?’
‘Do some research first. Ask about recent sales of building land in Kingsbridge – how much per acre.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Alfo said eagerly.
‘Be discreet. Don’t tell people what you’re planning – say I’ve asked you to look for a building plot for myself. Then we’ll talk about how much to offer for the monastery.’
Eileen Fife came into the room with a packet in her hand. She smiled affectionately at Alfo and handed the packet to Ned. ‘A messenger brought this from London for you, Sir Ned. He’s in the kitchen, if you want him.’
‘Give him something to eat,’ Ned said.
‘I’ve done so already,’ Eileen said, indignant that Ned should think she might have omitted this courtesy.
‘Of course you have, forgive me.’ Ned opened the packet. There was a letter for Sylvie addressed in Nath’s childlike handwriting, undoubtedly forwarded by the English embassy in Paris. It would probably be a request for more books, something that had happened three times in the last ten years.
Ned knew, from Nath’s letters and from Sylvie’s visits to Paris, that Nath had taken over Sylvie’s role in more than bookselling. She still worked as maid to the family of Pierre Aumande de Guise, and she continued to watch Pierre and pass information to the Paris Protestants. Pierre had moved into the Guise palace, along with Odette, her son Alain, now twenty-two and a student, and Nath. This gave Nath extra opportunities for espionage, especially on English Catholics in Paris. Nath had also converted Alain to Protestantism, unknown to Odette or Pierre. All Nath’s information came to Sylvie in letters such as this one.
Ned set it aside for Sylvie to open.
The other letter was for him. It was written in clear, forward-slanted script, the work of a methodical man in a hurry, and Ned recognized it as that of Sir Francis Walsingham, his master. However, he could not read it immediately because it was in code. He said to Eileen: ‘I need time to compose a reply. Give the messenger a bed for the night.’
Alfo stood up. ‘I’ll make a start on our new project! Thank you, Uncle Ned.’
Ned began to decode his letter. There were only three sentences. It was tempting to write the decrypt above the coded message, but that practice was strictly forbidden. If a coded letter with its decrypt found its way into the wrong hands, the enemy would have a key to all other messages written in the same code. Ned’s code-breakers, working on intercepted correspondence of foreign embassies in London, had benefited more than once from such carelessness on the part of the people on whom they spied. Ned wrote his decrypt with an iron pencil on a slate that could be wiped clean with a damp cloth.
He had the code in his head, and he was able to decipher the opening sentence rapidly: News from Paris.
His pulse quickened. He and Walsingham were eager to find out what the French would do next. All through the sixties and seventies, Queen Elizabeth had held her enemies at bay by pretending to consider marriage proposals from Catholic princes. Her latest victim had been Hercule-Francis, the brother of King Henri III of France. Elizabeth would be fifty this year, but she still had the power to fascinate men, and she had enraptured Hercule-Francis, even though he was still in his twenties, calling him ‘my little frog’. She had toyed with him for three years, until he came to the conclusion reached eventually by all her suitors, that she had no intention of marrying anyone. But Ned felt she had played the marriage card for the last time, and he feared that her enemies might now do what they had been talking about for so long, and make a serious attempt to get rid of her.
Ned was beginning on the second sentence when the door was flung open and Margery burst in.
‘How dare you?’ she said. ‘How dare you?’
Ned was thunderstruck. Margery’s sudden rages were much feared by her servants, but he had never been subjected to one. His relationship with her was friendly to the point of affection. ‘What on earth have I done?’ he said.
‘How dare you feed Protestant heresy to my son?’
Ned frowned. ‘Roger asked me questions,’ he said, reining in his indignation. ‘I tried to answer him honestly.’
‘I will bring up my sons in the faith of their forefathers and I won’t have them corrupted by you.’
‘Fine,’ said Ned with some exasperation. ‘But sooner or later someone’s going to tell them that there’s an alternative point of view. Be grateful it was me and not some bigoted Puritan such as Dan Cobley.’ Even while he was annoyed with her he could not help noticing how attractive she was, tossing her abundant hair and flashing anger from her eyes. She was more beautiful at forty than she had been at fourteen, when he had kissed her behind the tomb of Prior Philip.
She said: ‘They would recognize Cobley for the bull-headed blasphemer that he is. You pose as a reasonable man while you poison their minds.’
‘Ah! I understand. It’s not my Protestantism you object to, it’s my reasonableness. You don’t want your sons to know that men can discuss religion quietly, and disagree without trying to murder one another.’ Even while he argued with her, he realized vaguely that she did not really think he was poisoning Roger’s mind. In truth she was raging against the fate that had driven her and Ned apart so that they could not raise their child together.
But she was like a charging horse, and could not be stopped. ‘Oh, you’re so clever, aren’t you?’ she raved.
‘No, but I don’t pretend to be stupid, which is what you’re doing now.’
‘I didn’t come here to argue. I’m telling you not to speak to my children.’
Ned lowered his voice. ‘Roger is mine, too.’
‘He must not be made to suffer for my sins.’
‘Then don’t force your religion down his throat. Tell him what you believe, and admit that good men disagree. He will respect you more.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me how to raise my children.’
‘Then don’t you tell me what I may and may not say to my son.’
She went to the door. ‘I’d tell you to go to hell, but you’re on your way there already.’ She left the room, and a moment later the front door slammed.
Ned looked out of the window, but for once he did not enjoy the beauty of the cathedral. He was sorry to have quarrelled with Margery.
One thing they were agreed upon: they would never tell Roger the truth about his parenthood. They both felt it would be deeply disturbing to the boy – or even to the man, later on – to learn that he had been so deceived all his life. Ned would never have the joy of acknowledging his only son, but he had to make that sacrifice for the boy’s own sake. Roger’s welfare was more important than Ned’s: that was what it meant to be a parent.
He looked down at his letter and transcribed the second sentence: Cardinal Romero is back and his mistress with him. That was significant. Romero was an informal envoy of the king of Spain. He must be plotting something with the French ultra-Catholics. And his mistress, Jerónima Ruiz, had spied for Ned at the time of the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. Perhaps she would be willing to reveal what Romero was up to.
As he was working on the third sentence, Sylvie came into the parlour. Ned handed her the letter that had come with his own. She did not open it immediately. ‘I heard some of your conversation with Margery,’ she said. ‘The louder parts. It sounded unpleasant.’
Ned took her hand, feeling awkward. ‘I wasn’t attempting to convert Roger. I just wanted to answer his questions honestly.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m sorry if you were embarrassed by my old flame.’
‘I’m not embarrassed,’ Sylvie said. ‘I realized, a long time ago, that you love us both.’
That startled Ned. It was true, but he had never admitted it.
Reading his mind, Sylvie said: ‘You can’t hide that kind of thing from a wife.’ She opened her letter.
Ned looked again at his own. With half his mind on Sylvie’s words, he decoded the last sentence: Jerónima will talk only to you.
He looked up at Sylvie, and the right words came to him. ‘As long as you know that I love you.’
‘Yes, I do. This is from Nath. She needs more books. I have to go to Paris.’
‘So do I,’ said Ned.
*
SYLVIE STILL HAD NOT climbed the cathedral tower to look at the view. After the Sunday service, with a spring sun shining through the coloured windows, she looked for the staircase up. There was a small door in the wall of the south transept that opened on to a spiral staircase. She was wondering whether she should ask permission, or just slip through the door, when Margery approached her. ‘I had no right to come storming into your house and make such a scene,’ Margery said. ‘I feel ashamed.’
Sylvie closed the little door. This was important and the view from the tower would always be there.
She felt that she was the lucky one, and therefore she should be magnanimous to Margery. ‘I understand why you were so upset,’ she said. ‘At least, I think I do. And I really don’t blame you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You and Ned should be raising Roger together. But you can’t, and it breaks your heart.’
Margery looked shocked. ‘Ned swore he would never tell anyone.’
‘He didn’t. I guessed, and he couldn’t deny it. But the secret is safe with me.’
‘Bart will kill me if he finds out.’
‘He won’t find out.’
‘Thank you.’ There were tears in Margery’s eyes.
‘If Ned had married you, he would have had a house full of children. But it seems I can’t conceive. It’s not as if we don’t try.’ Sylvie was not sure why she was having such a candid conversation with the woman who loved her husband. It just seemed pointless to pretend.
‘I’m sorry to hear that . . . though I had guessed it.’
‘If I die before Ned, and Bart dies before you, then you should marry Ned.’
‘How can you say such a thing?’
‘I’ll look down from heaven and bless your marriage.’
‘It’s not going to happen – but thank you for saying it. You’re a good woman.’
‘You are too.’ Sylvie smiled. ‘Isn’t he lucky?’
‘Ned?’
‘To have the love of both of us.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Margery. ‘Is he?’
*
ROLLO WAS AWESTRUCK by the Guise palace. It was bigger than the Louvre. With its courtyards and gardens it covered at least two acres. The place was thronged with servants and men-at-arms and distant relations and hangers-on, all of whom were fed daily and lodged every night. The stable block alone was bigger than the entire house Rollo’s father had built in Kingsbridge at the height of his prosperity.
Rollo was invited there in June of 1583 for a meeting with the duke of Guise.
Duke ‘Scarface’ François was long dead, as was his brother Cardinal Charles. François’s son Henri, aged thirty-two, was now the duke. Rollo studied him with fascination. By a coincidence that was regarded, by most Frenchmen, as divinely ordained, Henri had been wounded in the face, just like his father. François had been disfigured by a spear, whereas Henri had taken a bullet from an arquebus, but both had ended up with conspicuous marks, and now Henri, too, was nicknamed Scarface.
The famously cunning Cardinal Charles had been replaced, in the councils of the Guise family, by Pierre Aumande de Guise, the low-born distant relative who had been Charles’s protégé. Pierre was patron of the English College, and had given Rollo his alias of Jean Langlais, the name by which he was always known when engaged in secret work.
Rollo met the duke in a small but opulent room that was hung with paintings of biblical scenes in which many of the women and men were naked. There was a distinct air of decadence that made Rollo uncomfortable.
Rollo was flattered, but somewhat intimidated, by the high status of the other attendees. Cardinal Romero was here to represent the king of Spain, and Giovanni Castelli the Pope. Claude Matthieu was the rector of the Professed Jesuits. These men were the heavy artillery of Christian orthodoxy, and he felt amazed to find himself in their company.
Pierre sat next to Duke Henri. Pierre’s skin condition had worsened over the years, and now there were red flaking patches on his hands and neck as well as at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and he scratched himself continually.
Three Guise attendants served wine and sweetmeats as the notables took their seats, then stood by the door awaiting further orders. Rollo assumed they were thoroughly trustworthy, but all the same he would have made them wait outside. Secrecy had become an obsession with him. The only person in this room who knew his real name was Pierre. In England it was the opposite: no one knew that Rollo Fitzgerald was Jean Langlais, not even his sister, Margery. Rollo was theoretically employed by the earl of Tyne, who was a timid Catholic, devout but frightened of conspiracy; the earl paid him a salary, gave him indefinite leave of absence, and asked no questions.
Duke Henri opened the discussion with a statement that thrilled Rollo: ‘We are here to talk about the invasion of England.’
This was Rollo’s dream. The work he had been doing for the last ten years, smuggling priests into England, was important, but palliative: it kept the true faith alive, but did nothing to change the status quo. Its true value was as preparation for this. An invasion led by Duke Henri could return England to the Catholic Church and restore the Fitzgerald family to its rightful position in the ruling elite.
He saw it in his mind: the invasion fleet with banners flying; the armoured men pouring onto the beaches; the triumphal entry into London, cheered by the crowds; the coronation of Mary Stuart; and himself, in bishop’s robes, celebrating Mass in Kingsbridge Cathedral.
Rollo understood, from his discussions with Pierre, that Queen Elizabeth was a major nuisance to the Guises. Whenever the ultra-Catholics got the upper hand in France, swarms of Huguenots sought asylum in England, where they were welcomed for their craft skills and enterprise. Prospering there, they sent money home to their co-religionists. Elizabeth also interfered in the Spanish Netherlands, permitting English volunteers to go there and fight on the rebel side.
But Henri had another motive. ‘It is insupportable,’ he said, ‘that Elizabeth, who has been declared illegitimate by the Pope, should rule England and keep the true queen, Mary Stuart, in prison.’
Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots, was Duke Henri’s cousin. If she became queen of England, the Guises would be the supremely powerful family of Europe. No doubt this was what was driving Henri and Pierre.
Rollo suffered a moment of doubt about the domination of his country by a foreign family. But that was a small price to pay for a return to the true faith.
‘I see the invasion as a two-pronged fork,’ Henri said. ‘A force of twelve thousand men will land at an east coast port, rally the local Catholic noblemen, and take control of the north of the country. Another force, perhaps smaller, will land on the south coast and, again, muster the Catholics to take control. Both groups, supplied and reinforced by English supporters, will march on London.’
The Jesuit leader said: ‘Very good, but who is going to pay for this?’
Cardinal Romero answered him. ‘The king of Spain has promised half the cost. King Felipe is fed up with English pirates attacking his transatlantic galleons and stealing their cargoes of gold and silver from New Spain.’
‘And the other half?’
Castelli said: ‘I believe the Pope will contribute, especially if shown a credible war plan.’
Rollo knew that kings and popes gave promises more readily than they gave cash. However, right now money did not matter quite as much as usual. Duke Henri had just inherited half a million livres from his grandmother, so he was able to meet some of the expense himself, if necessary.
Henri now said: ‘The invasion force will need plans of suitable harbours for the landing.’
Rollo realized that Pierre had choreographed this event. He already knew the answers to every question. The point of the meeting was to let each attendee know that all the others were willing to play their parts.
Now Rollo said: ‘I will get the maps.’
Henri looked at Rollo. ‘On your own?’
‘No, duke, not alone. I have a large network of powerful and wealthy Catholics in England.’ It was Margery’s network, not Rollo’s, but no one here realized that. And Rollo had always insisted on knowing where his priests were being sent, on the pretext of making sure they would be compatible with their protectors.
Henri said: ‘Can you rely on these people?’
‘Your grace, they are not just Catholics. They are men who are already risking the death penalty for harbouring the priests I have been smuggling into England for the last ten years. They are utterly trustworthy.’
The duke looked impressed. ‘I see.’
‘Not only will they supply maps: they will be the core of the uprising that will support the invasion.’
‘Very good,’ said Henri.
Pierre spoke for the first time. ‘There remains one essential element: Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots. We cannot embark on this enterprise unless we have a clear commitment from her that she will support the rebellion, authorize the execution of Elizabeth, and assume the crown herself.’
Rollo took a deep breath. ‘I will undertake to make sure of her,’ he said. He silently prayed that he would be able to keep this ambitious promise.
Henri said: ‘But she is in prison, and her letters are monitored.’
‘That’s a problem, but not insuperable.’
The duke seemed satisfied with that. He looked around the room. With the brisk impatience common to powerful men, he said: ‘I think that’s all. Gentlemen, thank you for your attendance.’
Rollo glanced to the door and saw, to his surprise, that the three servants had been joined by a fourth person, a man in his early twenties whose hair was cut in the short style fashionable among students. He looked vaguely familiar. Whoever he was, he had presumably heard Rollo promise to betray his country. Unnerved, Rollo pointed and said loudly: ‘Who is that man?’
Pierre answered: ‘It’s my stepson. What the devil are you doing here, Alain?’
Rollo recognized him now. He had seen the boy several times over the years. He had the blond hair and beard of the Guise family. ‘My mother is ill,’ Alain said.
Rollo watched with interest the procession of emotions over Pierre’s face. At first, fleetingly, there was a look of hope, quickly repressed; then a mask of concern that did not quite convince Rollo; and finally an expression of brisk efficiency as he said: ‘Summon a doctor immediately. Run to the Louvre and fetch Ambroise Paré – I don’t care about the cost. My beloved Odette must have the best possible care. Go, boy, hurry!’ Pierre turned back to the duke and said: ‘If you have no further need of me, your grace . . .’
‘Go, Pierre,’ said Henri.
Pierre left the room, and Rollo thought: Now what was that pantomime about?
*
NED WILLARD HAD come to Paris to meet Jerónima Ruiz, but he had to be very careful. If she were suspected of passing secret information to Ned, she would be executed – and so might he.
He stood in a bookshop in the shadow of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The shop had once been owned by Sylvie’s father. Ned had not known Sylvie at the time, but she had pointed out the place to him in 1572, when they were courting. Now the shop was owned by someone else, and Ned was using it as a convenient place to loiter.
He studied the titles on the spines of the books and, at the same time, kept an anxious eye on the great west front of the church with its twin towers. As soon as the tall church doors opened he abandoned his pretence of shopping and hurried outside.
The first person to emerge from the cathedral was Henri III, who had become king of France when his brother, Charles IX, died nine years ago. Ned watched him smile and wave to the crowd of Parisians in the square. The king was thirty-one. He had dark eyes and dark hair already receding at the temples to give him a widow’s peak. He was what the English called a ‘politician’ – in French un politique – meaning that he made decisions about religion according to what he thought would be good for his country, rather than the other way around.
He was closely followed by his mother, Queen Caterina, now a dumpy old lady of sixty-four wearing a widow’s cap. The queen mother had borne five sons, but all had suffered poor health, and so far three had died young. Even worse, none of them had ever fathered a son, which was why the brothers had succeeded one another as kings of France. However, this bad luck had made Caterina the most powerful woman in Europe. Like Queen Elizabeth, she had used her power to arbitrate religious conflict by compromise rather than violence; like Elizabeth, she had had limited success.
As the royal party disappeared across the bridge to the right bank, there was a general exodus from the three arched doorways of the cathedral, and Ned joined the crowd, hoping he was inconspicuous among the many people who had come to look at the king.
He spotted Jerónima Ruiz in seconds. It was not hard to pick her out from the mob. She wore red, as usual. She was now in her early forties: the hour-glass figure of her youth had thickened, her hair was not so lush, and her lips were no longer full. However, she walked with a sway and looked out alluringly from under black eyelashes. She still radiated sex more powerfully than any other woman in sight – although Ned sensed that what had once been carelessly natural was now achieved with conscious effort.
Her eyes met his. There was a flash of recognition, then she looked away.
He could not approach her openly: their meeting had to look accidental. It also had to be brief.
He contrived to get close to her. She was with Cardinal Romero, though for the sake of appearances, she was not on his arm, but walking a little way behind him. When the cardinal stopped to speak to Viscount Villeneuve, Ned casually came alongside her.
Continuing to smile at no one in particular, Jerónima said: ‘I’m risking my life. We can talk for only a few seconds.’
‘All right.’ Ned looked around as if in idle curiosity while keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might notice the two of them.
Jerónima said: ‘The duke of Guise is planning to invade England.’
‘God’s body!’ said Ned. ‘How—’
‘Be quiet and listen,’ she snapped. ‘Otherwise I won’t have time to tell you everything.’
‘Sorry.’
‘There will be two incursions, one on the east coast and one on the south.’
Ned had to ask: ‘How many men?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please go on.’
‘There’s not much more. Both armies will muster local support and march on London.’
‘This information is priceless.’ Ned thanked God that Jerónima hated the Catholic Church for torturing her father. It struck him that her motivation was similar to his own: he had hated authoritarian religion ever since his family had been ruined by Bishop Julius and his cronies. Any time his determination weakened, he thought of how they had stolen everything his mother had worked for all her life, and how a strong and clever woman had seemed to fade away until her merciful death. The pain of the memory flared like an old wound, and reinforced Ned’s will.
He glanced sideways at Jerónima. Close up, he could see the lines on her face, and he sensed a hard cynicism below her sensual surface. She had become Romero’s mistress when she was eighteen. She had done well to maintain his affection into her forties, but it had to be a strain.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said. His gratitude was heartfelt. But there was something else he needed to know. ‘The duke of Guise must have English collaborators.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘No. Remember, my source of information is pillow talk. I don’t get to ask probing questions. If I did, I would fall under suspicion.’
‘I understand, of course.’
‘What news of Barney?’ she said, and Ned detected a wistful note.
‘He spends his life at sea. He has never married. But he has a son, nineteen years old.’
‘Nineteen,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Where do the years go?’
‘His name is Alfo. He shows some signs of having his father’s aptitude for making money.’
‘A clever boy, then – like all the Willards.’
‘He is clever, yes.’
‘Give Barney my love, Ned.’
‘One more thing.’
‘Make it quick – Romero is coming.’
Ned needed a permanent channel through which to communicate with Jerónima. He improvised hastily. ‘When you get back to Madrid, a man will come to your house to sell you a cream to keep your face young.’ He was fairly sure he could arrange that through English merchants in Spain.
She smiled ruefully. ‘I use plenty of that kind of thing.’
‘Any information you give him will reach me in London.’
‘I understand.’ She turned away from Ned and beamed at the cardinal, sticking out her chest as she did so. They walked away together, Jerónima wiggling her ample behind. Ned thought they looked sad: a no-longer-young prostitute making the most of her tired charms to retain the affection of a corrupt, pot-bellied old priest.
Sometimes Ned felt he lived in a rotten world.
*
THE ILLNESS OF Odette excited Pierre even more than the invasion of England.
Odette was the only obstacle on his path to greatness. He was the duke’s principal advisor, listened to more carefully and trusted farther than ever before. He lived in a suite of rooms in the palace in the Vieille rue du Temple with Odette, Alain, and their long-time maid Nath. He had been given the lordship of a small village in Champagne, which permitted him to call himself sieur de Mesnil, a member of the gentry though not of the nobility. Perhaps Duke Henri would never make him a count, but the French aristocracy had won the right to appoint men to high clerical office without approval from Rome, and he could have asked Duke Henri to make him abbot of a monastery, or even a bishop – if only he had not been married.
But perhaps now Odette would die. That thought filled him with a hope that was almost painful. He would be free, free to rise up in the councils of the mighty, with almost no limit to how high he might go.
Odette’s symptoms were pain after eating, diarrhoea, bloody stools, and tiredness. She had always been heavy, but her fat had melted away, probably because the pain discouraged her from eating. Doctor Paré had diagnosed stomach fever complicated by dry heat, and said she should drink plenty of weak beer and watered wine.
Pierre’s only dread was that she might recover.
Unfortunately, Alain took good care of her. He had abandoned his studies and rarely left her bedside. Pierre despised the boy, but he was surprisingly well liked by the staff of the palace, who felt sorry for him because his mother was ill. He had arranged to have meals sent to their suite, and he slept on the floor of her room.
When he could, Pierre fed Odette all the things Paré said she should avoid: brandy and strong wine, spices and salty food. This often gave her muscle cramps and headaches, and her breath became foul. If he could have had the exclusive care of Odette he might have killed her this way, but Alain was never absent long enough.
When she began to get better, Pierre saw the prospect of a bishopric receding from his destiny, and he felt desperate.
The next time Dr Paré called he said Odette was on the mend, and Pierre’s heart sank farther. The sweet prospect of freedom from this vulgar woman began to fade, and he felt disappointment like a wound.
‘She should drink a strengthening potion now,’ the doctor said. He asked for pen, paper and ink, which Alain quickly supplied. ‘The Italian apothecary across the street, Giglio, can make this up for you in a few minutes – it’s just honey, liquorice, rosemary and pepper.’ He wrote on the piece of paper and handed it to Alain.
A wild thought came into Pierre’s head. Without working out the details he decided to get rid of Alain. He gave the boy a coin and said: ‘Go and get it now.’
Alain was reluctant. He looked at Odette, who had fallen asleep on her feather pillow. ‘I don’t like to leave her.’
Could he possibly have divined the mad idea that had inspired Pierre? Surely not.
‘Send Nath,’ Alain said.
‘Nath went to the fish market. You go to the apothecary. I’ll keep an eye on Odette. I won’t leave her alone, don’t worry.’
Still Alain hesitated. He was scared of Pierre – most people were scared of Pierre – but he could be stubborn at times.
Paré said: ‘Go along, lad. The sooner she drinks that potion, the sooner she will recover.’
Alain could hardly defy the doctor, and he left the room.
Pierre said dismissively: ‘Thank you for your diligence, doctor. It’s much appreciated.’
‘I’m always glad to help a member of the Guise family, of course.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell Duke Henri.’
‘How is the duke?’
Pierre was desperate to get Paré out of the room before Alain returned. ‘Very well,’ he answered. Odette made a faint noise in her sleep, and Pierre said: ‘I think she wants the piss pot.’
‘I’ll leave you, then,’ said Paré, and he went out.
This was Pierre’s chance. His heart was in his mouth. He could solve all his problems now, in a few minutes.
He could kill Odette.
Two things had kept him from doing it before she fell ill. One was her physical strength: he had not been sure he could overpower her. The other was the fear of Cardinal Charles’s wrath. Charles had warned that if Odette died he would destroy Pierre, regardless of the circumstances.
But now Odette was weak and Charles was dead.
Would Pierre be suspected anyway? He took pains to play the role of devoted husband. Charles had not been fooled, nor had Alain, but others had, including Henri, who knew nothing of the history. Alain might accuse Pierre, but Pierre would be able to portray Alain as a bereaved son hysterically blaming his stepfather for a quite natural death. Henri would believe that story.
Pierre closed the door.
He looked at the sleeping Odette with loathing. Being bullied into marrying her had been his ultimate humiliation. He found himself shaking with a passionate desire. This would be his ultimate revenge.
He dragged a heavy chair across the room and pushed it up against the door so that no one could come in.
The noise woke Odette. She raised her head and said anxiously: ‘What’s happening?’
Pierre tried to make his voice soothing as he replied: ‘Alain is getting you a strengthening potion from the apothecary.’ He crossed the room to the bed.
Odette sensed danger. In a frightened voice she said: ‘Why have you barred the door?’
‘So that you’re not disturbed,’ Pierre said, and with that he snatched the feather pillow from under her head and put it over her face. He was just quick enough to stifle the scream that started from her throat.
She struggled with surprising energy. She managed to get her head out from under the pillow and draw a panicked breath before he was able to push it over her nose and mouth again. She wriggled so much that he had to get onto the bed and kneel on her chest. Even then she was able to use her arms, and she rained punches on his ribs and belly so that he had to grit his teeth to bear the pain and keep pressing the pillow.
He felt she might prevail, and he might fail to put an end to her; and that panicky thought gave him extra strength, and he pushed down with all his might.
At last she weakened. Her punches became feeble, then her arms dropped helplessly to her sides. Her legs kicked a few more times then went still. Pierre kept pressing on the pillow. He did not want to take the risk that she could revive. He hoped Alain would not return yet – surely it must take Giglio more time than this to make up the mixture?
Pierre had never killed anyone. He had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of heretics and many innocent bystanders, and he still had bad dreams about the piles of naked bodies on the streets of Paris during the Massacre of St Bartholomew’s Day. Even now he was planning a war with England that would kill thousands. But no one had died by his own hand until now. This was different. Odette’s soul was leaving her body while he stopped her breathing. It was a terrible thing.
When she had been still for a couple of minutes he cautiously lifted the pillow and looked at her face, gaunt from her illness. She was not breathing. He put his hand on her chest and felt no heartbeat.
She was gone.
He was possessed by exultation. Gone!
He replaced the pillow under her head. She looked peaceful in death. There was no sign on her face of the violence of her end.
His thrill of triumph passed its peak and he began to think about the danger of discovery. He moved the chair from the door. He was not sure exactly where it had stood before. Surely no one would notice?
Looking around for anything that might cause suspicion, he saw that the bedclothes were unusually rumpled, so he straightened them over Odette’s body.
Then he did not know what to do.
He wanted to leave the room, but he had promised Alain that he would stay, and he would look guilty if he fled. Better to feign innocence. But he could hardly bear to be in the room with the corpse. He had hated Odette, and he was glad she was dead, but he had committed a terrible sin.
He realized that God would know what he had done even if no one else did. He had murdered his wife. How would he obtain forgiveness for such a sin?
Her eyes were still open. He was afraid to look at them for fear they would look back. He would have liked to close them, but he dreaded to touch the corpse.
He tried to pull himself together. Father Moineau had always assured him of forgiveness, for he was doing God’s work. Did not the same apply here? No, of course not. This had been an act of utter selfishness. He had no excuse.
He felt doomed. His hands were shaking, he saw – the hands that had held the pillow over Odette’s face so firmly that she had suffocated. He sat on a bench by the window and stared out, so that he did not have to look at Odette; but then he had to turn around every few seconds to assure himself that she was lying still, for he could not help imagining her corpse sitting up in bed, turning its sightless face towards him, pointing an accusing finger, and silently mouthing the words He murdered me.
At last the door opened and Alain came in. Pierre suffered a moment of pure panic, and almost shouted It was me, I killed her! Then his usual calm returned. ‘Hush,’ he said, though Alain had made little noise. ‘She’s sleeping.’
‘No, she’s not,’ said Alain. ‘Her eyes are open.’ He frowned. ‘You straightened the bedclothes.’
‘They were a bit rumpled.’
Alain’s voice showed faint surprise. ‘That was nice of you.’ Then he frowned again. ‘Why did you move the chair?’
Pierre was dismayed that Alain had noticed these trivial details. He could not think of an innocent reason for moving the chair, so he resorted to denial. ‘It’s where it always was.’
Alain looked puzzled but did not persist. He put a bottle on the little side table, and gave Pierre a handful of coins in change. He spoke to the dead body. ‘I got your medicine, Mother,’ he said. ‘You can have some right away. It has to be mixed with water or wine.’
Pierre wanted to scream at him: Look at her – she’s dead!
There was a jug of wine and a cup on the side table. Alain poured some of the potion into the cup, added wine from the jug, and stirred the mixture with a knife. Then – at last – he approached the bed. ‘Let’s get you sitting up,’ he said. Then he looked hard at her and frowned. ‘Mother?’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Blessed Mary, no!’ He dropped the cup to the floor and the potion spilled oleaginously across the tiles.
Pierre watched him with horrid fascination. After a frozen moment of shock, Alain bounded forward and bent over the still form. ‘Mother!’ he shouted, as if a louder voice could bring her back.
Pierre said: ‘Is something wrong?’
Alain grabbed Odette by the shoulders and lifted her. Her head flopped back lifelessly.
Pierre moved to the bed, judiciously standing on the side opposite Alain, out of striking range. He was not afraid of Alain physically – it was the other way around – but it would be better to avoid a brawl. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
Alain stared at him in hatred. ‘What have you done?’
‘Nothing but watch over her,’ Pierre said. ‘But she seems to be unconscious.’
Alain laid her gently back on the bed, with her head on the pillow that had killed her. He touched her chest, feeling for a heartbeat; then her neck, for a pulse. Finally, he put his cheek next to her nose, to see if there was any breath. He stifled a sob. ‘She’s dead.’
‘Are you sure?’ Pierre touched her chest himself, then nodded sadly. ‘How terrible,’ he said. ‘And we thought she was recovering.’
‘She was! You killed her, you devil.’
‘You’re very upset, Alain.’
‘I don’t know what you did, but you killed her.’
Pierre stepped to the door and shouted for a servant. ‘In here! Anybody! Quickly!’
Alain said: ‘I’m going to kill you.’
The threat was laughable. ‘Don’t say things you don’t mean.’
‘I will,’ Alain repeated. ‘You’ve gone too far this time. You’ve murdered my mother, and I’m going to get you back. If it takes me as long as I live, I will kill you with my own hands, and watch you die.’
For a brief moment, Pierre felt a chill of fear. Then he shook it off. Alain was not going to kill anyone.
He looked along the corridor and saw Nath approaching, carrying a basket, evidently back from the market. ‘Come here, Nath,’ he said. ‘Quickly. A very sad thing has happened.’
*
SYLVIE PUT ON a black hat with a heavy veil and went to the funeral of Odette Aumande de Guise.
She wanted to stand beside Nath and Alain, both of whom were terribly upset; and she also felt an odd emotional link with Odette, because they had both married Pierre.
Ned did not come. He had gone to the cathedral of Notre Dame to see which prominent English Catholics were in Paris: perhaps the men who were collaborating with the duke of Guise might be foolish enough to reveal themselves.
It was a rainy day and the graveyard was muddy. Most of the mourners looked, to Sylvie, like minor Guise family members and maids. The only prominent ones who came were Véronique, who had known Odette since they were both adolescents, and Pierre himself, pretending to be stricken with grief.
Sylvie watched Pierre nervously, even though she felt sure he would not penetrate her disguise. She was right: he did not even look at her.
Only Nath and Alain wept.
When it was over, and Pierre and most of the mourners had departed, Sylvie, Nath and Alain stood under the canopy of an oak tree to talk.
‘I think he killed her,’ Alain said.
Alain had the Guise good looks, Sylvie noticed, even with his eyes red from crying. ‘But she was ill,’ Sylvie said.
‘I know. But I left her alone with him for just a few minutes, to fetch a potion from the apothecary, and when I got back she was dead.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sylvie. She had no idea whether what Alain said was true, but she felt sure Pierre was capable of murder.
‘I’m going to leave the palace,’ Alain said. ‘I have no reason to stay now that she’s not there.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘I can move into my college.’
Nath said: ‘I have to leave, too. I’ve been dismissed. Pierre always hated me.’
‘Oh, dear! What will you do?’
‘I don’t need employment. The book business keeps me run off my feet anyway.’ Nath was indomitable. Since Sylvie had turned her into a spy, all those years ago, she had just become stronger and more resourceful.
But now Sylvie was perturbed. ‘Do you have to leave? You’re our most important source of information on Pierre and the Guises.’
‘I’ve no choice. He’s kicked me out.’
‘Can’t you plead with him?’ Sylvie said desperately.
‘You know better than that.’
Sylvie did. No amount of pleading would make Pierre reverse an act of meanness.
This was a serious problem – but, Sylvie saw immediately, there was an obvious solution. She turned to Alain. ‘You could stay with Pierre, couldn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘We need to know what he’s doing!’
Alain looked tortured. ‘I can’t live with the man who murdered my mother!’
‘But you believe in the true, Protestant religion.’
‘Of course.’
‘And it’s our duty as believers to spread the word.’
‘I know.’
‘The best way for you to serve the cause might be to tell me what your stepfather is up to.’
He looked torn. ‘Would it?’
‘Become his secretary, make yourself indispensable to him.’
‘Last week I swore to him that I would kill him in revenge.’
‘He will soon forget that – too many people have sworn to kill Pierre. But surely the best way to avenge her death – and the way that would please the Lord – would be to cripple his efforts to crush the true religion.’
Alain said thoughtfully: ‘It would honour my mother’s memory.’
‘Exactly.’
Then he wavered again. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
Sylvie glanced at Nath, who discreetly pointed at herself in a gesture that meant Leave this to me, I’ll take care of it. She probably could, Sylvie decided: she had been a second mother to Alain.
Sylvie said to Alain: ‘I can’t overstate how important it is for us to know about English Catholics who contact the Guise family.’
‘There was a big meeting at the palace last week,’ Alain said. ‘They’re talking about invading England.’
‘That’s terrifying.’ Sylvie did not say that she already knew about the meeting. Ned had taught her never to let a spy know that there were other sources of information: that was a cardinal rule of the game. ‘Were there any Englishmen at the meeting?’
‘Yes, one, a priest from the English College. My stepfather has met with him several times. He’s going to contact Mary Stuart and make sure she supports the invasion.’
Jerónima Ruiz had not known this crucial piece of information. Sylvie could hardly wait to tell Ned. But there was one more key fact she needed. ‘Who is this priest?’ she said, and she held her breath.
Alain said: ‘He goes by the name of Jean Langlais.’
Sylvie breathed a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Does he, now?’ she said. ‘Well, well.’