6
On the day before the wedding, Alison McKay was called to see the queen of France.
When the summons arrived Alison was with the bride, Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots. Alison had been painstakingly shaving Mary’s underarms, and she had managed to remove the hair without drawing blood. She was putting on oil to soothe the skin when there was a tap at the door and one of Mary’s ladies-in-waiting came in. It was Véronique de Guise: sixteen years old, she was a distant cousin, and therefore not very important, but she made up for that by being beautiful, poised and alluring. ‘A page came from Queen Caterina,’ she said to Alison. ‘Her majesty would like to see you right away.’
Véronique tagged on as Alison left Mary’s quarters and hurried through the gloomy rooms of the old palace of Tournelles towards Caterina’s apartment. ‘What do you think her majesty wants?’ Véronique asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Alison said. Véronique might be merely curious – or something more sinister, a spy reporting back to Mary’s powerful uncles.
‘Queen Caterina likes you,’ Véronique said.
‘She likes anyone who is kind to poor Francis.’ All the same, Alison felt apprehensive. Royal people were not obliged to be consistent, and a summons meant bad news as often as good.
They were stopped on their way by a young man Alison did not recognize. He made a deep bow and said to Véronique: ‘What a pleasure to see you, Mademoiselle de Guise. You are a ray of sunshine in this dismal castle.’
Alison had not met him before. She would have remembered him, for he was attractive-looking with waves of fair hair, and well dressed in a green-and-gold doublet. He was charming, too, though he was clearly more interested in Véronique than in Alison. He said: ‘Is there any way I can be of use to you, Mademoiselle Véronique?’
‘No, thank you,’ Véronique said with a touch of impatience.
He turned to Alison and bowed again, saying: ‘And I’m honoured to meet you, Miss McKay. I am Pierre Aumande. I have the honour to serve Mademoiselle de Guise’s Uncle Charles, the cardinal of Lorraine.’
‘Indeed?’ said Alison. ‘In what capacity?’
‘I help with his very extensive correspondence.’
It sounded as if Pierre was a mere clerk, in which case it was ambitious of him to set his cap at Véronique de Guise. However, sometimes fortune favoured the bold, and Monsieur Aumande certainly was bold.
Alison took the opportunity to shake off her shadow. ‘I mustn’t keep her majesty waiting,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Véronique.’ She slipped away before Véronique could reply.
She found the queen reclining on a divan. Beside her were half a dozen kittens, rolling and tumbling and chasing the end of a pink ribbon that Caterina dangled in front of them. She looked up and gave Alison a friendly smile, and Alison breathed a silent sigh of relief: she was not in trouble, it seemed.
Queen Caterina had been plain when young and now, in her fortieth year, she was also fat. But she loved dressing up, and today she wore a black dress covered with enormous pearls, unflattering but extravagant. She patted the divan and Alison sat down, with the kittens between them. Alison was pleased by this sign of intimacy. She picked up a tiny black-and-white kitten. It licked the jewel on her ring finger, then bit her in an exploratory way. Its little teeth were sharp, but its jaw was too weak for the bite to hurt.
‘How is the bride-to-be?’ Caterina asked.
‘Surprisingly calm,’ Alison answered, stroking the kitten. ‘A little nervous, but looking forward to tomorrow.’
‘Does she know that she will have to lose her virginity in front of witnesses?’
‘She does. She’s embarrassed, but she will bear it.’ Immediately the thought came into Alison’s head: If Francis is capable. She suppressed it for fear of offending Caterina.
But Caterina voiced the concern herself. ‘We don’t know whether poor Francis can do it.’
Alison said nothing: this was dangerous territory.
Caterina leaned forward and spoke in a low, intense voice. ‘Listen to me. Whatever happens, Mary must pretend that the marriage has been consummated.’
Alison was deeply gratified to be having this intimate, confidential conversation with the queen of France; but she foresaw problems. ‘That may be difficult.’
‘The witnesses will not be able to see everything.’
‘Still . . .’ Alison saw that the kitten had fallen asleep in her lap.
‘Francis must get on top of Mary, and either fuck her or pretend to fuck her.’
Alison was startled by Caterina’s blunt words, but she realized that this subject was too important for inexact euphemisms. ‘Who will tell Francis what to do?’ she said in the same practical vein.
‘I will. But you must talk to Mary. She trusts you.’
It was true, and Alison was pleased that the queen had noticed it. She felt proud. ‘What am I to say to Mary?’
‘She must announce, loudly, that she has lost her virginity.’
‘What if they decide to have the doctors examine her?’
‘We’re going take precautions. That’s why I’ve summoned you.’ Caterina took something small from her pocket. ‘Look at this.’ She handed it to Alison.
It was a tiny bag, no bigger than the ball of her thumb, made of some kind of soft leather, with a narrow neck folded over and tied with a little silk thread. ‘What is it?’
‘The bladder of a swan.’
Alison was mystified.
Caterina said: ‘It’s empty now. Tomorrow evening I will give it to you filled with blood. The thread will be tied tightly to prevent a leak. Mary must conceal the bladder under her nightdress. After the act – real or pretended – she must pull the thread and spill the blood on the sheets, then make sure everyone sees it.’
Alison nodded. This was good. Blood on the sheets was the traditional proof of consummation. Everyone would know what it meant, and no further doubts need be entertained.
This was how women such as Caterina exercised power, she realized with admiration. They moved cleverly but invisibly, working behind the scenes, managing events while the men imagined they had total control.
Caterina said: ‘Will Mary do it?’
‘Yes,’ Alison said confidently. Mary did not lack courage. ‘But . . . the witnesses may see the bladder.’
‘When it has been emptied, Mary must push it up her cunt as far as it will go, and leave it there until she gets a private moment to throw it away.’
‘I hope it doesn’t fall out.’
‘It won’t – I know.’ Caterina gave a humourless smile. ‘Mary will not be the first girl to use this trick.’
‘All right.’
Caterina took the kitten from Alison’s lap, and it opened its eyes. ‘Have you got everything clear?’
Alison stood up. ‘Oh, yes. It’s quite straightforward. It will take nerve, but Mary has plenty of that. She won’t let you down.’
Caterina smiled. ‘Good. Thank you.’
Alison thought of something, and frowned. ‘The blood will need to be fresh. Where will you get it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Caterina tied the pink ribbon in a bow around the neck of the black-and-white kitten. ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said.
*
PIERRE CHOSE the day of the royal wedding to speak to Sylvie Palot’s formidable father about marrying his beloved daughter.
Everyone in Paris dressed up that morning, Sunday 24 April 1558. Pierre put on the blue doublet slashed to show the white silk lining. He knew that Sylvie liked that outfit. It was a lot more dashing than anything worn in her parents’ circle of sobersided friends. He suspected that his clothes were part of his appeal for her.
He left his college in the University district, on the left bank of the river, and walked north towards the Île de la Cité. Anticipation seemed to saturate the air of the narrow, crowded streets. Vendors of gingerbread, oysters, oranges and wine were setting up temporary stalls to take advantage of the crowds. A hawker offered him an eight-page printed pamphlet about the wedding, with a woodcut on the front purporting to show the happy couple, though the likenesses were approximate. Beggars, prostitutes and street musicians were heading the same way as Pierre. Paris loved a pageant.
Pierre was pleased about the royal wedding. It was a coup for the Guise family. Mary’s uncles, Duke Scarface and Cardinal Charles, were already powerful, but they had rivals: the linked families of Montmorency and Bourbon were their enemies. However, the marriage would boost the Guises above the others. In the natural course of events, their niece Mary would become the queen of France, and then the Guises would be part of the royal family.
Pierre yearned to share in their power. For that, he needed to do a great job for Cardinal Charles. He had already collected the names of many Paris Protestants, some of them friends of Sylvie’s family. He listed them all in a notebook with a leather cover – black, appropriately, since everyone in it was liable to be burned at the stake. But what Charles wanted to know most of all was where the Protestants held their services, and Pierre had not yet discovered the address of a single clandestine church.
He was getting desperate. The cardinal had paid him for the names he had handed over, but had promised a bonus for a location. And it was not just the money, though Pierre was always in dire need of that. Charles had other spies: Pierre did not know how many, but he knew he did not want to be just one of the team – he had to stand out as incomparably the best. He must become not just useful but essential to the cardinal.
Sylvie and her family disappeared every Sunday afternoon, undoubtedly to attend a Protestant service somewhere; but, frustratingly, Giles Palot had not yet invited Pierre to go along, despite increasingly broad hints. So today Pierre planned a drastic step. He was going to propose to Sylvie. He reckoned that if the family accepted him as Sylvie’s fiancé they would have to take him to services.
He had already asked Sylvie: she was ready to marry him tomorrow. But her father was not so easily fooled. Pierre would speak to Giles today, Sylvie had agreed. It was a good day for a proposal. The royal wedding would put everyone in a romantic mood – perhaps even Giles.
Pierre had no intention of marrying Sylvie, of course. A Protestant wife would end his nascent career with the Guise family. Besides, he did not even like her: she was too earnest. No, he needed a wife who would lift him up the social ladder. He had his eye on Véronique de Guise, a member of an obscure branch of the family and, he guessed, a girl who understood aspiration. If he became engaged to Sylvie today, he would have to rack his brains for reasons to postpone the marriage. But he would think of something.
In the back of his mind a quiet but irritating voice pointed out that he was going to break the heart of a perfectly nice young woman, which was wicked and cruel. His previous victims, such as the Widow Bauchene, had been more or less asking to be cheated, but Sylvie had done nothing to deserve what was happening to her. She had just fallen in love with the man Pierre was skilfully pretending to be.
The voice would not change his plans. He was on the high road to fortune and power, and such quibbles could not be allowed to get in his way. The voice remarked how much he had changed since he had left Thonnance-lès-Joinville and gone to Paris; it almost seemed as if he was becoming a different person. I hope so, he thought; I used to be nothing but the bastard son of a poor country priest, but I’m going to be a man of consequence.
He crossed the Petit Pont to the City, the island in the Seine river where the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris stood. Francis and Mary would be married in the square before the west front of the great church. An enormous scaffold stage had been built for the ceremony, twelve feet high and running from the archbishop’s palace across the square to the cathedral door, so that the people of Paris could watch the ceremony but would be unable to touch the royal family and their guests. Spectators were already gathering around the stage, making sure of positions with clear views. At the cathedral end was a billowing canopy made of countless yards of blue silk embroidered with fleurs-de-lys to keep the sun off the bridal couple. Pierre shuddered to think of the cost.
Pierre saw Scarface, the duke of Guise, on the stage: he was master of ceremonies today. He appeared to be arguing with some minor gentlemen who had come early to secure good places, ordering them to move. Pierre went close to the stage and bowed deeply to Duke François, but the duke did not see him.
Pierre made his way to the row of houses north of the cathedral. Giles Palot’s bookshop was closed for the Sabbath, and the street door was locked, but Pierre knew his way to the factory entrance at the back.
Sylvie came running down the stairs to greet him. That gave them a few seconds unobserved in the silent print shop. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with her mouth open.
He found it surprisingly difficult to fake reciprocal passion. He tongued her energetically, and squeezed her breasts through the bodice of her dress, but he felt no arousal.
She broke the kiss to say excitedly: ‘He’s in a good mood! Come on up.’
Pierre followed her to the living quarters on the upstairs floor. Giles and his wife, Isabelle, were seated at the table with Guillaume.
Giles was an ox, all neck and shoulders. He looked as if he could lift a house. Pierre knew, from hints dropped by Sylvie, that Giles could be violent with his family and with his apprentices. What would happen if Giles ever found out that Pierre was a Catholic spy? He tried not to think about it.
Pierre bowed to Giles first, acknowledging his position as head of the family, and said: ‘Good morning, Monsieur Palot. I hope I find you well.’ Giles replied with a grunt, which was not particularly offensive as it was how he greeted everyone.
Isabelle was more responsive to Pierre’s charm. She smiled when he kissed her hand, and invited him to sit down. Like her daughter, Isabelle had a straight nose and a strong chin, features that suggested strength of character. People probably called her handsome, but not pretty, and Pierre could imagine her being seductive, in the right mood. Mother and daughter were alike in personality, determined and bold.
Guillaume was a mystery. A pale man of twenty-five, he had an aura of intensity. He had come to the bookshop on the same day as Pierre, and had immediately moved into the family quarters upstairs. His fingers were inky, and Isabelle said vaguely that he was a student, though he was not attached to any of the colleges in the Sorbonne, and Pierre had never seen him in a class. Whether he was a paying lodger or an invited guest was not clear. In conversation with Pierre he gave nothing away. Pierre would have liked to press his questions, but he was afraid of seeming to pry and thereby arousing suspicion.
As Pierre walked into the room he had noticed Guillaume closing a book, with a casual air that was not quite convincing; and it now lay on the table with Guillaume’s hand resting on top, as if to prevent anyone opening it. Perhaps he had been reading aloud to the rest of the family. Pierre’s intuition told him the book was an illicit Protestant volume. He pretended not to notice.
When the greetings were over, Sylvie said: ‘Pierre has something to say to you, Papa.’ She was unfailingly direct.
Giles said: ‘Well, go ahead, lad.’
Pierre hated to be condescended to with words such as ‘lad’, but this was not the moment to show it.
Sylvie said: ‘Perhaps you’d rather talk in private.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Giles.
Pierre would have preferred privacy, but he put on a show of insouciance. ‘I’d be happy to be heard by everyone.’
‘All right, then,’ said Giles, and Guillaume, who had half stood up, sat down again.
Pierre said: ‘Monsieur Palot, I humbly ask permission to marry Sylvie.’
Isabelle gave a little cry – not of surprise, presumably, since she must have seen this coming; perhaps of pleasure. Pierre caught a shocked look from Guillaume and wondered whether he harboured secret romantic thoughts of Sylvie. Giles just looked annoyed that his peaceful Sunday had been disturbed.
With a barely suppressed sigh, Giles turned his mind to the task now before him: the interrogation of Pierre. ‘You’re a student,’ he said derisively. ‘How can you propose marriage?’
‘I understand your concern,’ Pierre said amiably. He was not going to be blown off course by mere rudeness. He began to tell lies, which was what he was good at. ‘My mother owns a little land in Champagne – just a few vineyards, but the rents are good, so we have an income.’ His mother was the penniless housekeeper of a country priest, and Pierre lived on his wits. ‘When my studies are over, I hope to follow the profession of lawyer, and my wife will be well looked after.’ That part was closer to the truth.
Giles did not comment on that response, but asked another question. ‘What is your religion?’
‘I’m a Christian seeking enlightenment.’ Pierre had anticipated Giles’s questions and rehearsed the deceitful answers. He hoped they did not come out too pat.
‘Tell me about the enlightenment you seek.’
It was a shrewd question. Pierre could not simply claim to be a Protestant, for he had never been part of a congregation. But he needed to make it clear that he was ready to convert. ‘I’m concerned by two things,’ he said, trying to sound thoughtfully troubled. ‘First, the Mass. We’re taught that the bread and wine are transformed into the body and blood of Jesus. But they do not look like flesh and blood, nor smell or taste like it, so in what sense are they transformed? It seems like pseudo-philosophy to me.’ Pierre had heard these arguments put by fellow-students who leaned towards Protestantism. Personally, he found it barely comprehensible that men should quarrel over such abstractions.
Giles surely agreed wholeheartedly with the argument, but he did not say so. ‘What’s the second thing?’
‘The way that priests so often take the income paid to them in tithes by poor peasants and use the money to live a life of luxury, not troubling to perform any of their holy duties.’ This was something even the most devout Catholics complained about.
‘You can be thrown in jail for saying these things. How dare you utter heresy in my house?’ Giles’s indignation was poorly acted, but somehow no less threatening for that.
Sylvie said bravely: ‘Don’t pretend, Papa, he knows what we are.’
Giles looked angry. ‘Did you tell him?’ He clenched a meaty fist.
Pierre said hastily: ‘She didn’t tell me. It’s obvious.’
Giles reddened. ‘Obvious?’
‘To anyone who looks around – at all the things missing from your home. There is no crucifix over your bed, no statue of the Virgin in a niche by the door, no painting of the Holy Family above the mantelpiece. Your wife has no pearls sewn into the fabric of her best dress, although you could afford a few. Your daughter wears a brown coat.’ He reached across the table with a swift movement and snatched the book from under Guillaume’s hand. Opening it, he said: ‘And you read the Gospel of St Matthew in French on a Sunday morning.’
Guillaume spoke for the first time. ‘Are you going to denounce us?’ He looked scared.
‘No, Guillaume. If that was my intention, I would have come here with officers of the city guard.’ Pierre returned his gaze to Giles. ‘I want to join you. I want to become a Protestant. And I want to marry Sylvie.’
Sylvie said: ‘Please say yes, Papa.’ She knelt in front of her father. ‘Pierre loves me and I love him. We’re going to be so happy together. And Pierre will join us in our work of spreading the true gospel.’
Giles’s fist unclenched and his colour returned to normal. He said to Pierre: ‘Will you?’
‘Yes,’ said Pierre. ‘If you’ll have me.’
Giles looked at his wife. Isabelle gave an almost imperceptible nod. Pierre suspected that she was the real power in this family, despite appearances. Giles smiled – a rare thing – and spoke to Sylvie. ‘Very well, then. Marry Pierre, and may God bless your union.’
Sylvie jumped up, hugged her father, then exuberantly kissed Pierre. By coincidence there was a cheer from the crowd in front of the cathedral. ‘They approve of our engagement,’ Pierre said, and everyone laughed.
They all went to the windows, which overlooked the square. The wedding procession was moving along the scaffolded stage. It was led by a company of soldiers known as the Hundred Swiss, identifiable by their striped sleeves and the feathers in their helmets. As Pierre watched, a large group of musicians came into view, playing flutes and drums, then the gentlemen of the court, every one of them in new clothes, a riot of red, gold, bright blue, yellow and lavender. Sylvie said excitedly: ‘It’s as if they’re doing it for you and me, Pierre!’
The crowd fell silent and bowed their heads as the bishops appeared carrying jewelled crucifixes and holy relics housed in gorgeous gold reliquaries. Pierre spotted Cardinal Charles in his red robes bearing a gold chalice decorated with precious stones.
At last the bridegroom appeared. The fourteen-year-old Francis looked terrified. He was thin and frail, and all the jewels in his hat and coat could not make him into a kingly figure. Beside him was King Antoine of Navarre, head of the Bourbon family, the enemies of the Guises. Pierre guessed that someone – perhaps the ever-careful Queen Caterina – had given Antoine this privileged placement as a counterweight to the Guise family, who threatened to dominate the ceremony.
Then the spectators went wild to see the king himself, Henri II, and their war hero, Duke Scarface, walking on either side of the bride.
She wore a dress of pure white.
‘White?’ said Isabelle, standing behind Pierre and looking over his shoulder. White was the colour of mourning. ‘She’s wearing white?’
*
ALISON MCKAY HAD been against the white wedding dress. White was the colour of mourning in France. She feared it would shock people. And it made Mary Stuart look even paler than usual. But Mary could be stubborn, and was as opinionated as any fifteen-year-old, especially about clothing. She had wanted white, and would not even discuss alternatives.
And it had worked. The silk seemed to glow with the purity of Mary’s virginity. Over it she wore a mantle of pale blue-grey velvet that shimmered in the April sunlight like the surface of the river that ran alongside the cathedral. The train, of the same material, was heavy, as Alison knew well, for she was one of the two girls carrying it.
Mary wore a golden coronet studded with diamonds, pearls, rubies and sapphires: Alison guessed she must be desperate to take the weight off her head. Around her neck Mary had an enormous jewelled pendant that she had named ‘Great Harry’ because it was a gift from King Henri.
With her red hair and white skin Mary looked like an angel, and the people loved her. As she advanced on the raised platform, holding the king’s arm, the roar of approval moved like a slow wave along the massed ranks of spectators, keeping pace with the progress of the bride.
Alison was a minor figure in this galaxy of royal and noble people, but she basked in the reflected glory of her best friend. Mary and Alison had talked and dreamed of their weddings for as long as she could remember, but this outshone anything they had imagined. It was the justification of Mary’s existence. Alison rejoiced for her friend and for herself.
They reached the canopied dais where the groom was waiting.
When the bride and groom stood side by side it was comically obvious that she was a foot taller than he, and there was laughter and some jeering from unruly elements in the crowd. Then the couple knelt down in front of the archbishop of Rouen, and the tableau became less risible.
The king took a ring from his own finger and handed it to the archbishop, and the ceremony began.
Mary made her responses loudly and clearly, while Francis spoke in a low voice so that the crowd would not laugh at his stammer.
Alison recalled, in a flash of memory, that Mary had been wearing white the first time they met. Both Alison’s parents had just died of the plague, and she was living in the cold house of her widowed Aunt Janice, a friend of Mary’s mother, Marie de Guise. As a kindness, the new orphan was taken to play with the four-year-old queen of Scotland. Mary’s nursery was a place of blazing fires and soft cushions and beautiful toys, and while there Alison could forget that she had no mother.
Her visits became frequent. Little Mary looked up to her six-year-old friend. Alison felt rescued from the solemn atmosphere of Aunt Janice’s house. After a happy year, they were told that Mary was going away, to live in France. Alison was heartbroken. But Mary, showing early signs of the imperious adult she would become, threw a tantrum and insisted that Alison had to go to France with her; and in the end she got her way.
They had shared a bunk on the rough sea voyage, clinging together for comfort at night, something they still did when they were troubled or scared. They had held hands as they met dozens of colourfully dressed French people who laughed at them for speaking the guttural Scots dialect. Everything was frighteningly strange, and it was the older Alison’s turn to be Mary’s rescuer, helping her learn unfamiliar French words and refined court manners, comforting her when she cried at night. Alison knew that neither of them would ever forget their childhood devotion to one another.
The ceremony came to an end. At last the gold ring was placed on Mary’s finger and they were declared man and wife, and a cheer went up.
At that point two royal heralds carrying leather bags began to toss handfuls of money into the crowd. The people roared their approval. Men leaped into the air to catch the coins, then fell to the ground, scrabbling for those that had escaped their grasp. People in other parts of the square clamoured for their share. Fights broke out. The fallen were trampled while those who remained standing were crushed. Injured ones screamed in pain. Alison found it distasteful, but many of the noble wedding guests laughed uproariously as the commoners fought viciously for loose change: they thought it was better than a bullfight. The heralds threw money until their bags were empty.
The archbishop led the way into the cathedral for the wedding Mass, followed by the newlyweds, two people hardly more than children who were now trapped in a marriage that was hopelessly wrong for both of them. Alison walked behind them, carrying Mary’s train. As they all passed out of the sunshine into the cold gloom of the enormous church, she reflected that royal children enjoyed every good thing in life, except freedom.
*
SYLVIE HELD PIERRE’S arm possessively as they walked south across the Petit Pont bridge. He belonged to her now. She would hold his arm for ever. He was clever, as clever as her father and so much more charming. And wonderfully handsome, with his thick hair and hazel eyes and winning smile. She even liked his clothes, though she felt guilty about being attracted by the flamboyant kind of garments that Protestants disdained.
Most of all, she loved him because he was as serious as she was about the true gospel. All on his own he had come to question the treacherous teachings of Catholic priests. With only a little encouragement from her he had seen his way to the truth. And he was willing to risk his life by coming with her to a secret Protestant church.
The wedding was over, the crowds had dispersed, and the Palot family, now including Pierre Aumande, were heading for their own, Protestant, church.
Now that Sylvie was engaged, she found that she had new worries. What would it be like to lie with Pierre? Her mother had told her, years ago when her monthly cycles began, what men and women did in bed together, but Isabelle had been uncharacteristically coy about how it made her feel. Sylvie was eager to find out, to have Pierre’s hands all over her naked body, to feel his weight on top of her, to see what his private parts looked like.
She had won him, but could she hold his love for a lifetime? Isabelle said that Giles had never even flirted with anyone else, but some men did lose interest in their wives after a time, and Pierre was always going to be attractive to other women. Sylvie might have to work hard to keep him as enchanted as he was now. Their faith would help, especially as they would be working together to spread the gospel.
When would they wed? She wanted to do it as soon as possible. Pierre had mentioned that he would like to bring his mother here from Champagne for the ceremony, if she was well enough to travel. He had been a bit vague, and Sylvie hesitated to press him, feeling bashful about being so impatient.
Isabelle was delighted about the engagement. Sylvie had a feeling that Mama would quite like to marry Pierre herself. Not really, of course, but still . . .
Papa was more pleased than he wanted to reveal, Sylvie guessed. He seemed relaxed and good-tempered, which was the nearest he ever got to happy.
Guillaume was in a sour frame of mind, and Sylvie realized he must be attracted to her himself. Perhaps he had nurtured secret plans to propose. Well, he was too late. If she had never met Pierre she might, perhaps, have liked Guillaume, who was clever and serious. But he would never have looked at her in a way that made her feel that her head was spinning and her legs were weak and she needed to sit down.
What pleased her most was how happy Pierre was this morning. He walked with an eager step, he smiled constantly, and he made her laugh with wry observations about the people and buildings they passed as they walked along the rue St Jacques through the University district. He was visibly delighted to be engaged to her.
She also knew that he was glad to be invited to a Protestant service at last. More than once he had asked her where her church was, and he had looked hurt when she said she was not allowed to tell him. Now the secrecy could be dropped.
She was impatient to show him off. She felt proud of him and looked forward to introducing him to everyone. They were sure to like him. She hoped he would like them.
They walked out through the St Jacques gate and into the suburbs, where they turned off the road onto a barely perceptible track into a wood. A hundred yards along, out of sight of the road, stood two burly men who had the air of guards even though they did not carry weapons. Giles nodded to them, then jerked a thumb at Pierre and said: ‘He’s with us.’ The group walked past the guards without pausing.
Pierre said to Sylvie: ‘Who are those men?’
‘They stop anyone they don’t know,’ she explained. ‘If casual strollers wander randomly in this direction, they’re told the wood is private.’
‘And whose wood is it?’
‘It belongs to the marquess of Nîmes.’
‘Is he one of the congregation?’
She hesitated. But she could tell him now. No more secrets. ‘Yes.’
There were many aristocratic Protestants, Sylvie knew. They could be burned at the stake just like anyone else; although, for heresy as for any crime, noblemen had more chance of escaping punishment through the intervention of powerful friends.
The little group came to what looked like a disused hunting lodge. The lower windows were shuttered, and the weeds flourishing around the main door showed that it had not been opened for years.
Sylvie knew that in a few French towns, where Protestants formed a majority, they had taken over real churches and held services openly, albeit protected by armed guards. But that was not the case in Paris. The capital city was a Catholic stronghold, full of people who made their living serving the Church and the monarchy. Protestants were hated here.
They went around the building to a small side door and entered a great hall where, Sylvie guessed, lavish picnics had once been spread for hunting parties. Now it was silent and dim. Chairs and benches were set out in rows facing a table with a white cloth. About a hundred people were present. As always, there was bread on a plain crockery plate and wine in a jug.
Giles and Isabelle took their seats, and Sylvie and Pierre followed. Guillaume took a single chair facing the congregation.
Pierre whispered: ‘So Guillaume is a priest?’
‘Pastor,’ Sylvie corrected him. ‘But he’s a visitor. Bernard is the regular pastor.’ She pointed to a tall, solemn-looking man in his fifties with thinning grey hair.
‘Is the marquess here?’
Sylvie looked around and spotted the portly figure of the marquess of Nîmes. ‘Front row,’ she murmured. ‘Big white collar.’
‘Is that his daughter, in the dark green cloak and hat?’
‘No, that’s the marchioness, Louise.’
‘She’s young.’
‘Twenty. She’s his second wife.’
The Mauriac family were there, Luc and Jeanne and their son, Georges, Sylvie’s admirer. Sylvie noticed Georges staring at Pierre with surprise and envy. She saw by his face that he knew he could not compete with Pierre. She permitted herself a sinful moment of pride. Pierre was so much more desirable than Georges.
They began by singing a psalm. Pierre whispered: ‘No choir?’
‘We are the choir.’ Sylvie loved being able to sing hymns in French at the top of her voice. It was one of the joys of being a follower of the true gospel. In normal churches she felt like a spectator at a performance, but here she was a participant.
Pierre said: ‘You have a beautiful voice.’
It was true, she knew; in fact, it was so good that she was frequently in danger of the sin of pride on that account.
Prayers and Bible readings followed, all in French; then communion. Here the bread and wine were not actually flesh and blood, just symbols, which seemed so much more sensible. Finally, Guillaume preached a fiery sermon about the wickedness of Pope Paul IV. Eighty-one years old, Paul was an intolerant conservative who had beefed up the Inquisition and forced Jews in Rome to wear yellow hats. He was hated by Catholics as well as Protestants.
When the service was over, the chairs were moved into a rough circle, and a different kind of meeting began. ‘This part is called fellowship,’ Sylvie explained to Pierre. ‘We exchange news and discuss all sorts of things. Women are allowed to speak.’
It began with Guillaume making an announcement that surprised Sylvie and everyone else: he was leaving Paris.
He was pleased, he said, that he had been able to help Pastor Bernard and the elders to restructure the congregation along the lines laid down by John Calvin in Geneva. The remarkable spread of Protestantism in France in the last few years was in part due to tight organization and discipline in Calvinist communities such as this one in the Paris suburb of St Jacques. Guillaume was especially thrilled that they had had the confidence to discuss holding the first national Protestant synod the following year.
But he had an itinerant mission, and other congregations needed him. He would be gone by next Sunday.
They had not expected him to stay for ever, but this was abrupt. He had not talked about his departure at all until now. Sylvie could not help thinking that the reason for his sudden decision might be her engagement. She told herself she was veering dangerously close to vanity, and she said a quick prayer for more humility.
Luc Mauriac introduced a note of conflict. ‘I’m sorry you’re leaving us so soon, Guillaume, because there is an important matter that we haven’t yet discussed: the question of heresy within our movement.’ Luc had the chin-up pugnaciousness of many small men, but in fact he was an advocate of tolerance. He went on: ‘Many of us in this congregation were shocked when Calvin ordered that Michel Servet should be burned at the stake.’
Sylvie knew what he was talking about, as did everyone else in the room. Servet was a Protestant intellectual who had clashed with Calvin over the doctrine of the Trinity. He had been executed in Geneva, to the dismay of Protestants such as Luc Mauriac, who had believed it was only Catholics who would kill those who disagreed with them.
Guillaume said impatiently: ‘That happened five years ago.’
‘But the question remains unresolved.’
Sylvie nodded vigorously. She felt passionately about this. Protestants demanded tolerance from kings and bishops who disagreed with them: how could they then persecute others? Yet there were many who wanted to be as harsh as the Catholics, or worse.
Guillaume waved a dismissive hand. ‘There must be discipline within our movement.’ He clearly did not want to have this argument.
His glib tone infuriated Sylvie, and she said loudly: ‘But we should not kill one another.’ She did not normally say anything during fellowship. Although women could speak, youngsters were not encouraged to voice their opinions. But Sylvie was almost a married woman now and, anyway, she could not remain silent while this issue was the topic. She went on: ‘When Servet fought with reason and writing, he should have been repulsed by reason and writing – not violence!’
Luc Mauriac nodded enthusiastic agreement, pleased to be supported so energetically; though some of the older women looked disapproving.
Guillaume said disdainfully: ‘Those words are not yours: you’re quoting Castellio – another heretic.’
He was right: Sylvie was repeating a sentence from Sebastian Castellio’s pamphlet Should Heretics be Persecuted?, but she had other resources. She read the books her father printed, and she knew as much as Guillaume about the works of Protestant theologians. ‘I’ll quote Calvin, if you like,’ she said. ‘Calvin wrote: “It is unchristian to use arms against those who have been expelled from the Church.” Of course, that was when he himself was being persecuted as a heretic.’
She saw several people frown censoriously, and she realized she had gone a little too far, in implying hypocrisy on the part of the great John Calvin.
Guillaume said: ‘You’re too young to understand.’
‘Too young?’ Sylvie was outraged. ‘You never said I was too young to risk my life selling copies of the books you bring from Geneva!’
Several people began speaking at once, and Pastor Bernard stood up to appeal for calm. ‘We’re not going to resolve this issue in one afternoon,’ he said. ‘Let us ask Guillaume to communicate our concerns to John Calvin when he returns to Geneva.’
Luc Mauriac was dissatisfied with that, and said: ‘But will Calvin answer us?’
‘Of course he will,’ Bernard said, without giving any reason why he felt so confident. ‘And now let us close our fellowship with a final prayer.’ He shut his eyes, tilted his face up to heaven, and began to pray extempore.
In the quietness, Sylvie calmed down. She remembered how much she had looked forward to introducing Pierre to everyone, and hearing herself say the words: my fiancé.
After the final amen, the congregation began to talk among themselves. Sylvie led Pierre around the room. She was bursting with pride to have such an attractive man, and she tried hard not to look overly pleased with herself, but it was difficult: she was too happy.
Pierre was as engaging as ever. He spoke respectfully to the men, flirted harmlessly with the older women, and charmed the girls. He paid close attention to Sylvie’s introductions, concentrating on remembering all the names, and taking a polite interest in the details of where they lived and what work they did. The Protestants were always pleased by a new convert, and they made him feel welcome.
Things went wrong only when Sylvie introduced Pierre to Louise, the marchioness of Nîmes. She was the daughter of a prosperous wine merchant in Champagne. She was attractive, with a big bust, which was probably what had caught the attention of the middle-aged marquess. She was a tense girl, and had a haughty manner that she had adopted, Sylvie guessed, because she was not an aristocrat by birth, and felt unsure in her role as marchioness. But she could be witheringly sarcastic if crossed.
Pierre made the mistake of amiably treating her as a compatriot. ‘I’m from Champagne too,’ he said; then, with a smile, he added: ‘We’re country bumpkins in the city, you and I.’
He did not mean it, of course. There was nothing unsophisticated about him or Louise. His remark was a facetious pleasantry. But he had chosen the wrong subject for a joke. He could hardly have known it, but Sylvie understood that Louise’s greatest fear was that she would strike people as a country bumpkin.
Her reaction was instant. She paled, and her face froze into an expression of disdain. She tilted her head back as if there was a bad smell. Raising her voice so that people nearby could hear, she said frostily: ‘Even in Champagne, they should teach young men to be respectful to their superiors.’
Pierre went red.
Louise turned away and spoke quietly to someone else, leaving Pierre and Sylvie staring at her back.
Sylvie was mortified. The marchioness had taken against her fiancé, and Sylvie felt sure she would never change her mind. Worse, many in the congregation had heard, and everyone would know about it before the hall was empty. Sylvie feared that now they might never accept Pierre as one of them. She was crestfallen.
Then she looked at Pierre, and saw on his face an expression he had never previously worn. His mouth was twisted into a line of resentment, and hatred blazed from his eyes. He looked as if he could have killed Louise.
My goodness, Sylvie thought, I hope he never looks at me like that.
*
BY BEDTIME ALISON was exhausted, and she felt sure Mary must feel the same, but the greatest trial was yet to come.
The celebrations were lavish, even by the standards of royal Paris. After the wedding there was a banquet at the archbishop’s palace, followed by a ball. Then the entire wedding party moved to the Palais de la Cité – a short journey that took hours because of the crowds – for a masked ball, with special entertainments including twelve mechanical horses on which the royal children could ride. Finally, there was a buffet supper featuring more pastries than Alison had ever seen in one room. But now, at last, all was quiet, and there was only one ceremony left to perform.
Alison pitied Mary this last duty. The idea of lying with Francis as a woman lies with a man was unpleasant, like doing it with a brother. And if anything went wrong it would be a public catastrophe, talked about in every city in Europe. Mary would want to die. Alison dreaded the thought of her friend suffering such humiliation.
Royal people had to bear this kind of burden, she knew; that was part of the price they paid for their privileged lives. And Mary had to go through it all without her mother. Marie de Guise ruled Scotland, standing in for Mary, and could not risk leaving that country even for her daughter’s wedding, so tenuous was the hold of the Catholic monarchy on the quarrelsome, rebellious Scots. Sometimes Alison wondered if it would not be better to be the carefree daughter of a baker, petting in a doorway with a randy apprentice.
Alison was only one of the ladies of the court assembled to wash and dress the bride for her deflowering. But she needed just a minute alone with Mary before the big moment.
They undressed her. Mary was nervous and shivering, but she looked beautiful: tall, pale and slim, with perfect shallow breasts and long legs. The women washed her with warm water, trimmed her fair pubic hair, and doused her with perfume. Finally they helped her dress in a nightgown embroidered with gold thread. She put on satin slippers, a lace nightcap, and a light cloak of fine wool to keep her warm between the dressing room and the bedchamber.
She was ready, but none of the women showed any inclination to withdraw. Alison was forced to speak to her in a whisper. ‘Tell them all to wait outside – I must speak to you alone!’
‘Why?’
‘Trust me – please!’
Mary rose to the occasion. ‘Thank you, ladies, all,’ she said. ‘Now please give me a few moments alone with Alison while I prepare my mind.’
The women looked resentful – most of them were superior in rank to Alison – but no one could refuse such a request from the bride, and reluctantly they trooped out.
At last Alison and Mary were alone.
Alison spoke in the same plain language Queen Caterina had used. ‘If Francis doesn’t fuck you, the marriage will be unconsummated, and that would mean it could be annulled.’
Mary understood. ‘And if that happens, I will never be queen of France.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But I don’t know if Francis can manage it!’ Mary looked distraught.
‘Nobody knows,’ Alison said. ‘So, whatever happens tonight, you’re going to pretend he’s done it.’
Mary nodded, and her face took on the determined expression that was one of the reasons Alison loved her. She said: ‘All right, but will people believe me?’
‘Yes, if you follow the advice of Queen Caterina.’
‘Is this why she summoned you yesterday?’
‘Yes. She says you must make sure Francis lies on top of you and at least pretends to fuck you.’
‘I can do that, but it may not be enough to convince the witnesses.’
Alison put a hand into her gown and withdrew what she had been carrying there. ‘The queen gave me this for you,’ she said. ‘There’s a pocket for it in your nightdress.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Blood.’
‘Whose?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alison said, although she could guess. ‘Never mind where it comes from, the important thing is where it goes – onto the sheets of the bridal bed.’ She showed Mary the end of the thread that sealed the neck. ‘One pull on this will untie the knot.’
‘So they will all think I’ve lost my maidenhead.’
‘But no one must see the bag – so stuff it up inside yourself immediately, and leave it there until later.’
Mary looked horrified and disgusted, but only for a moment; and her brave spirit took over. ‘All right,’ she said, and Alison wanted to cry.
There was a knock at the door, and a woman’s voice called: ‘Prince Francis is ready for you, Queen Mary.’
‘One more thing,’ said Alison in a low voice. ‘If Francis fails, you must never tell anyone the truth – not your mother, not your confessor, not even me. You will always smile shyly and say that Francis did what a bridegroom should do, and he did it perfectly.’
Mary nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. The only sure way to keep a secret is eternal silence.’
Alison hugged Mary, then said: ‘Don’t worry. Francis will do anything you say. He adores you.’
Mary composed herself. ‘Let us go.’
Surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, Mary walked slowly down the staircase to the principal floor. She had to pass through the large guardroom of the Swiss mercenaries, then the king’s antechamber, stared at by everyone she passed, until she came to the royal bedchamber.
In the middle of the room was a four-poster bed covered only with fine white sheets. At each corner were heavy brocade and lace curtains, tied back to the posts. Francis stood waiting, dressed in a gorgeous gown over a cambric nightshirt, looking boyish in a nightcap too big for his head.
Standing and sitting around the bed were fifteen or so men and a handful of women. Mary’s uncles, Duke François and Cardinal Charles, were there, with the king and queen and a selection of important courtiers and senior priests.
Alison had not realized there would be so many.
They were talking in low voices, but fell silent when they saw Mary.
She stopped and said: ‘Are they going to draw the drapes?’
Alison shook her head. ‘Just the lace curtains,’ she said. ‘The act must be witnessed.’
Mary swallowed, then bravely moved forward. She took Francis’s hand and smiled encouragingly. He looked scared.
She stepped out of her slippers and let her cloak fall to the floor. Standing in front of all these fully dressed people, wearing only a white nightdress of fine fabric, she looked to Alison like a sacrifice.
Francis seemed paralysed. Mary helped him out of his gown, then led him to the bed. The two young people climbed onto the high mattress and pulled the single sheet over themselves.
Alison drew the lace curtains around them. It gave them only token privacy. Their heads were visible and the shapes of their bodies showed clearly under the sheet.
Alison could hardly breathe as she watched Mary snuggle up to Francis, murmuring in his ear, words that no one else could hear, probably telling him what he had to do or pretend to do. They kissed. The sheet moved, but it was not possible to see exactly what was going on. Alison felt painfully sorry for Mary. She imagined herself making love for the first time in front of twenty witnesses. It seemed impossible. But Mary was bravely going ahead. Alison could not read the expressions on the faces of the bridal couple, but she guessed Mary was trying to reassure Francis and get him to relax.
Then Mary rolled on her back and Francis clambered on top of her.
Alison found the tension almost unbearable. Would it happen? And, if not, would Mary succeed in pretending it had? Could all these older people be fooled?
The room was dead silent except for Mary’s words to Francis, murmured so low that the sense could not be made out. They could have been loving endearments or, equally, detailed instructions.
The two bodies manoeuvred awkwardly. From the position of Mary’s arms, it looked as if she was guiding Francis inside her – or pretending to.
Mary gave a short, sharp cry of pain. Alison could not tell whether it was genuine, but the audience muttered approval. Francis looked shocked and stopped moving, but Mary embraced him comfortingly under the sheets, pulling his body to her own.
Then the couple began to move together. Alison had never watched people doing this, so she had no idea whether it looked real. She glanced at the faces of the men and women around her. They were tense, fascinated and embarrassed, but not, she felt, sceptical. They seemed to believe they were watching actual intercourse, not a pantomime.
She did not know how long it was supposed to last. She had not thought to ask that question. Nor had Mary. Instinct told Alison that the first time might be quick.
After a minute or two there was a sudden movement, as if Francis’s body was convulsing – or Mary was jerking her own body to make it look that way. Then the two of them relaxed and the movement stopped.
The audience looked on in silence.
Alison stopped breathing. Had they done it? If not, would Mary remember the little bag?
After a pause, Mary pushed Francis off her and sat upright. She wriggled under the sheet, apparently pulling her nightgown down around her legs, and Francis did something similar.
Mary spoke in a commanding tone. ‘Draw back the lace curtains!’
Several ladies hurried to do her bidding.
When the lace was tied back, Mary dramatically threw off the top sheet.
There was a small red bloodstain on the bottom sheet.
The courtiers burst into applause. The deed was done. The marriage had been consummated, and all was well.
Alison felt helpless with relief. She clapped and cheered along with the others, while wondering what had really happened.
She would never know.