9
Strolling along the southern side of the Île de la Cité on a sunny Friday in June, with the winged cathedral on one side and the sparkling river on the other, Sylvie Palot said to Pierre Aumande: ‘Do you want to marry me, or not?’
She had the satisfaction of seeing a flash of panic in his eyes. This was unusual. His equanimity was not easily disturbed: he was always controlled.
He regained his composure so quickly that she might almost have imagined the lapse. ‘Of course I want to marry you, my darling,’ he said, and he looked hurt. ‘How could you ask such a question?’
She regretted it instantly. She adored him, and hated to see him upset in any way. He looked especially lovable now, with the breeze off the river ruffling his blond mane. But she hardened her heart and persisted with her question. ‘We’ve been betrothed for more than a year. It’s too long.’
Everything else in Sylvie’s life was good. Her father’s bookshop was booming, and he was planning to open a second store on the other side of the river, in the university quarter. His illegal trade in French-language Bibles and other banned books was going even better. Hardly a day went by when Sylvie did not go to the secret warehouse in the rue du Mur for a book or two to sell to a Protestant family. New Protestant congregations were coming up like bluebells in spring, in Paris and elsewhere. As well as spreading the true gospel, the Palots were making healthy profits.
But Pierre’s behaviour puzzled and troubled her.
‘I need to finish my studies, and Father Moineau refused to allow me to continue as a married student,’ he said now. ‘I explained that to you, and you agreed to wait.’
‘For a year. And in a few days’ time lectures will be over for the summer. We have my parents’ consent. We have enough money. We can live over the shop, at least until we have children. But you haven’t said anything.’
‘I’ve written to my mother.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I’m waiting for her answer.’
‘What was the question?’
‘Whether she’s well enough to travel to Paris for the wedding.’
‘And if she’s not?’
‘Let’s not worry about that unless it happens.’
Sylvie was not happy with this response, but she let it drop for the moment, and said: ‘Where shall we have the official ceremony?’ Pierre glanced up at the towers of Notre Dame, and she laughed and said: ‘Not there. That’s for the nobility.’
‘At the parish church, I assume.’
‘And then we’ll have our real wedding at our own church.’ She meant the old hunting lodge in the forest. Protestants still could not worship openly in Paris, though they did in some French cities.
‘I suppose we’ll have to invite the marchioness,’ Pierre said with a grimace of dislike.
‘As the building belongs to her husband . . .’ It was unfortunate that Pierre had got off on the wrong foot with Marchioness Louise, and afterwards had not been able to win her round. In fact, the more he tried to charm her, the frostier she became. Sylvie had expected him to brush this aside with a laugh, but it seemed he could not. It made him furious, and Sylvie realized that her outwardly self-assured fiancé was, in fact, deeply sensitive to any kind of social slight.
His vulnerability made her love him more, but it also troubled her, though she was not sure why.
‘I suppose it can’t be helped,’ Pierre said, his tone light but his look dark.
‘Will you have new clothes?’ She knew how much he liked buying clothes.
He smiled. ‘I should have a sombre coat of Protestant grey, shouldn’t I?’
‘Yes.’ He was a faithful worshipper, attending every week. He had quickly got to know everyone in the congregation, and had been keen to meet people from other groups in Paris. He had even attended services with other congregations. He had badly wanted to go to the national synod in Paris in May – the first time French Protestants had dared to hold such a conference – but the arrangements were highly secret and only longstanding Protestants were invited. Despite this rebuff, he was a thoroughly accepted member of the community, which delighted Sylvie.
‘There’s probably a tailor specializing in dark clothing for Protestants,’ he said.
‘There is: Duboeuf in the rue St Martin. My father goes there, though only when Mother forces him. He could afford a new coat every year, but he won’t spend money on what he calls frippery. I expect he’ll buy me a wedding dress, but he won’t be happy about it.’
‘If he won’t, I will.’
She grabbed his arm, stopped him walking, and kissed him. ‘You’re wonderful,’ she said.
‘And you’re the most beautiful girl in Paris. In France.’
She laughed. It wasn’t true, although she did look fetching in the black dress with a white collar: Protestant colours happened to suit her dark hair and fresh complexion. Then she recalled her purpose, and became solemn again. ‘When you hear back from your mother . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘We must set a date. Whatever she says, I don’t want to wait any longer.’
‘All right.’
For a moment she was not sure whether to believe he had assented, and she hesitated to rejoice. ‘Do you mean it?’
‘Of course. We’ll set a date. I promise!’
She laughed with delight. ‘I love you,’ she said, and she kissed him again.
*
I DON’T KNOW how much longer I can keep this up, Pierre fretted as he left Sylvie at the door to her father’s shop and walked north across the Notre Dame bridge to the right bank. Away from the river there was no breeze, and soon he was perspiring.
He had already made her wait longer than was reasonable. Her father was even more grumpy than usual and her mother, who had always favoured Pierre, was inclined to speak curtly to him. Sylvie herself was besotted with him, but even she was discontented. They suspected he was dallying with her – and, of course, they were right.
But she was bringing him such a rich harvest. His black leather-bound notebook now contained hundreds of names of Paris Protestants and the addresses where they held their heretical services.
Even today she had given him a bonus: a Protestant tailor! He had made the suggestion half in jest, but his speculation had been right, and foolish Sylvie had confirmed it. This could be a priceless lead.
The files of Cardinal Charles were already bulging. Surprisingly, Charles had not yet arrested any of the Protestants. Pierre planned to ask him, before long, when he intended to pounce.
He was on his way to meet Cardinal Charles now, but he had time to spare. He went along the rue St Martin until he found the establishment of René Duboeuf. From outside it looked much like a regular Paris house, though the windows were larger than usual and there was a sign over the door. He went in.
He was struck by the air of neatness and order. The room was crammed, but everything was tidy: rolls of silk and woollen cloth on shelves, precisely aligned; bowls of buttons arranged by colour; drawer stacks all with little signs indicating their contents.
A bald man was stooping over a table, carefully cutting a length of cloth with a huge pair of spring scissors that looked very sharp. At the back a pretty woman sat under an iron chandelier, sewing in the light of a dozen candles: Pierre wondered if she bore a label that read ‘Wife’.
One more Protestant couple did not amount to much, but Pierre hoped to meet some of the customers.
The man put down his scissors and came forward to greet Pierre, introducing himself as Duboeuf. He looked hard at Pierre’s slashed doublet, apparently appraising it with an expert eye, and Pierre wondered if he thought it too ostentatious for a Protestant.
Pierre gave his name. ‘I need a new coat,’ he said. ‘Not too gaudy. Dark grey, perhaps.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the tailor warily. ‘Did someone recommend me to you, perhaps?’
‘Giles Palot, the printer.’
Duboeuf relaxed. ‘I know him well.’
‘He is to be my father-in-law.’
‘Congratulations.’
Pierre was accepted. That was the first step.
Duboeuf was a small man, but he lifted the heavy rolls of cloth down from the shelves with practised ease. Pierre picked out a grey that was almost black.
No other customers came in, disappointingly. Pierre wondered just how he could make use of this Protestant tailor. He could not stay in the shop all day waiting to meet clients. He could set a watch on the place – Gaston Le Pin, the captain of the Guise household guard, could find a discreet man – but the watcher would not know the names of the men who came and went, so the exercise would be pointless. Pierre racked his brains: there had to be a way of exploiting this discovery.
The tailor picked up a long strip of fine leather and began to measure Pierre’s body, sticking coloured pins into the strip to record the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms, and the circumference of his chest and waist. ‘You have a fine physique, Monsieur Aumande,’ he said. ‘The coat will look very distinguished on you.’ Pierre ignored this piece of shopkeeper’s flattery. How was he going to get the names of Duboeuf’s customers?
When all the measurements had been made, Duboeuf took a notebook from a drawer. ‘If I might take down your address, Monsieur Aumande?’
Pierre stared at the book. Of course, Duboeuf had to know where his customers lived, otherwise it would be too easy for someone to order a coat then change his mind and simply not return. And even if Duboeuf had a phenomenal memory, and could remember every customer and every order, the lack of a written record would surely lead to disputes about bills. No, the obsessively neat Duboeuf would have to keep notes.
Pierre had to get a look inside that book. Those names and addresses belonged in his own ledger, the one with the black leather cover, that listed all the Protestants he had discovered.
‘The address, Monsieur?’ Duboeuf repeated.
‘I’m at the College des Ames.’
Duboeuf found his inkwell dry. With a faintly embarrassed laugh, he said: ‘Excuse me one moment while I get a bottle of ink.’ He disappeared through a doorway.
Pierre saw his chance to look inside the book. But it would be better to get rid of the wife. He went to the back of the room and spoke to her. She was about eighteen, he guessed, younger than her husband, who was in his thirties. ‘I wonder – might I ask you for a small cup of wine? It’s a dusty day.’
‘Of course, Monsieur.’ She put down her sewing and went out.
Pierre opened the tailor’s notebook. As he had hoped, it listed the names and addresses of customers, together with details of garments ordered and fabric specified, and sums of money owed and paid. He recognized some of the names as those of Protestants he had already identified. He began to feel excited. This book probably listed half the heretics in Paris. It would be a priceless asset to Cardinal Charles. He wished he could slip it inside his doublet, but that would be rash. Instead, he began to memorize as many names as he could.
He was still doing so when he heard the voice of Duboeuf behind him. ‘What are you doing?’
The tailor looked pale and scared. So he should, Pierre thought: he had made a dangerous error in leaving the book on the table. Pierre closed the book and smiled. ‘Idle curiosity. Forgive me.’
Duboeuf said severely: ‘The notebook is private!’ He was unnerved, Pierre saw.
Pierre said lightly: ‘It turns out that I know most of your customers. I’m glad to see that my friends pay their bills!’ Duboeuf did not laugh. But what could he do?
After a moment, Duboeuf opened the new ink bottle, dipped his pen, and wrote down Pierre’s name and address.
The wife came in. ‘Your wine, sir,’ she said, handing Pierre a cup.
Duboeuf said: ‘Thank you, Françoise.’
She had a nice figure, Pierre noted. He wondered what had attracted her to the older Duboeuf. The prospect of a comfortable life with a prosperous husband, perhaps. Or it might even have been love.
Duboeuf said: ‘If you would be so kind as to come back a week from today, your new coat will be ready for you to try on. It will be twenty-five livres.’
‘Splendid.’ Pierre did not think he would learn much more from Duboeuf today. He drank the wine and took his leave.
The wine had not quenched his thirst, so he went into the nearest tavern and got a tankard of beer. He also bought a sheet of paper and borrowed a quill and ink. While drinking the beer he wrote neatly: ‘René Duboeuf, tailor, rue St Martin. Françoise Duboeuf, wife.’ Then he added all the names and addresses he could remember from the notebook. He dried the ink and put the sheet inside his doublet. He would transfer the information to his black book later.
Sipping his beer, he wondered impatiently when Cardinal Charles was going to make use of all this information. For the present, the cardinal seemed content to accumulate names and addresses, but the time would come when he would swoop. That would be a day of carnage. Pierre would share in Charles’s triumph. However, he shifted uneasily on his tavern stool as he thought of the hundreds of men and women who would be imprisoned, tortured and perhaps even burned alive. Many of the Protestants were self-righteous prigs, and he would be glad to see them suffer – especially Marchioness Louise – but others had been kind to him, made him welcome at the hunting-lodge church, invited him into their homes, and answered his sly questions with a frank honesty that made him wince when he thought how he was deceiving them. Only eighteen months ago, the worst thing he had ever done was sponge off a randy widow. It seemed longer.
He emptied his tankard and left. It was a short distance to the rue Saint-Antoine, where a tournament was being held. Paris was partying, again. The treaty with Spain had been signed, and King Henri II was celebrating the peace, and pretending he had not lost the war.
The rue Saint-Antoine was the widest street in Paris, which was why it was used for tournaments. Along one side was the massive, ramshackle Palace of Tournelles, its windows crowded with royal and aristocratic spectators, the colours of their costly clothes making a row of bright pictures. On the opposite side of the road the common people jostled for space, their cheap garments all in shades of faded brown, like a ploughed field in winter. They stood or sat on stools they had brought with them, or perched precariously on window ledges and rooftops. A tournament was a grand spectacle, with the added attraction of possible injury or even death to the high-born competitors.
As Pierre entered the palace he was offered a tray of cakes by Odette, a maid of about twenty, voluptuous but plain. She smiled flirtatiously at him, showing crooked teeth. She had a reputation for being easy, but Pierre was not interested in girls of the servant class – he could have got one of those back in Thonnance-lès-Joinville. All the same he was pleased to see her, for it meant that the adorable Véronique was nearby. ‘Where is your mistress?’ he said.
Odette pouted and said: ‘Mademoiselle is upstairs.’
Most of the courtiers were on the upper floor, which had windows overlooking the jousting ground. Véronique was sitting at a table with a gaggle of aristocratic girls, drinking fruit cordial. A distant cousin of the Guise brothers, she was among the least important family members, but nevertheless noble. She wore a pale green dress made of some mixture of silk and linen, so light it seemed to float around her perfect figure. The thought of having such a high-born woman naked in his arms made Pierre feel faint. This was who he wanted to marry – not the bourgeoise daughter of a Protestant printer.
Véronique had treated him with mild disdain when he had first met her, but she had gradually warmed to him. Everyone knew he was only the son of a country priest, but they also knew he was close to the powerful Cardinal Charles, and that gave him a special status.
He bowed to her and asked if she was enjoying the tournament.
‘Not much,’ she said.
He gave her his most charming smile. ‘You don’t like watching men ride too fast and knock each other off their horses? How strange.’
She laughed. ‘I prefer dancing.’
‘So do I. Happily there’s a ball tonight.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
‘I look forward to seeing you there. I must speak with your Uncle Charles. Excuse me.’
Walking away, he felt good about that brief encounter. He had made her laugh, and she had treated him almost as an equal.
Charles was in a side room with a small boy who had the blond hair of the Guises. This was his nephew Henri, aged eight, eldest son of Scarface. Knowing that the boy might one day be the duke of Guise, Pierre bowed to him and asked if he was having a good time. ‘They won’t let me joust,’ Henri said. ‘But I bet I could. I’m a good rider.’
Charles said: ‘Run along, now, Henri – there’ll be another bout in a minute and you don’t want to miss it.’
Henri left and Charles waved Pierre to a chair.
In the year and a half that Pierre had been spying for Charles, their relationship had altered. Charles was grateful for the names and addresses Pierre had brought him. The cardinal’s file on clandestine Paris Protestants was far better than it had been before Pierre had come along. Charles could still be scornful and patronizing, but he was like that with everyone, and he seemed to respect Pierre’s judgement. They sometimes talked about general political issues and Charles even listened to Pierre’s opinion.
‘I made a discovery,’ Pierre said. ‘Many of the Protestants use a tailor in the rue St Martin who keeps a little book with all their names and addresses.’
‘A gold mine!’ said Charles. ‘Dear God, these people are getting brazen.’
‘I was tempted to pick it up and run off down the street with it.’
‘I don’t want you to reveal yourself yet.’
‘No. But one day I’ll get hold of that book.’ Pierre reached inside his doublet. ‘Meanwhile, I wrote down as many of the names and addresses as I could memorize.’ He handed the sheet to Charles.
Charles read the list. ‘Very useful.’
‘I had to order a coat from the tailor.’ Pierre raised the price. ‘Forty-five livres.’
Charles took coins from a purse. He gave Pierre twenty gold ecus, each worth two and a half livres. ‘Should be a nice coat,’ he said.
Pierre said: ‘When will we pounce on these deviants? We have hundreds of Paris Protestants in our records.’
‘Be patient.’
‘But every heretic is one less enemy. Why not get rid of them?’
‘When we crack down, we want everyone to know it’s the Guises who are doing it.’
That made sense to Pierre. ‘So that the family wins the loyalty of the ultra-Catholics, I suppose.’
‘And people who advocate tolerance – the middle-of-the-roaders, the moyenneurs – will be labelled Protestant.’
That was subtle, Pierre thought. The Guise family’s worst enemies were people who advocated tolerance. They would undermine the entire basis of the family’s strength. Such people had to be pushed to one extreme or the other. Charles’s political shrewdness impressed him repeatedly. ‘But how will we come to be in charge of stamping out heresy?’
‘One day young Francis will be king. Not yet, we hope – we need him first to establish his independence from Queen Caterina, and come completely under the influence of his wife, our niece, Mary Stuart. But when it happens . . .’ Charles waved Pierre’s sheet of paper. ‘That’s when we use this.’
Pierre was downcast. ‘I hadn’t realized your thinking was so long-term. That gives me a problem.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been engaged to Sylvie Palot for more than a year, and I’m running out of excuses.’
‘Marry the bitch,’ said Charles.
Pierre was horrified. ‘I don’t want to get stuck with a Protestant wife.’
Charles shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘There’s someone I would like to marry.’
‘Oh? Who?’
It was time to tell Charles what reward he wanted for his work. ‘Véronique de Guise.’
Charles laughed loudly. ‘You cocky little upstart! You, marry my relation? It’s the arrogance of the devil! Don’t be absurd.’
Pierre felt himself flush from forehead to throat. He had made an error of timing, and in consequence he was humiliated. ‘I didn’t think it too ambitious,’ he protested. ‘She’s only a distant relative.’
‘She’s a second cousin of Mary Stuart, who will probably be queen of France one day! Who do you think you are?’ Charles waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Go on, get out of here.’
Pierre got up and left.
*
ALISON MCKAY WAS enjoying life. Since Mary Stuart had become Francis’s wife, rather than merely his fiancée, her status had risen, and consequently so had Alison’s. They had more servants, more dresses, more money. People bowed and curtseyed to Mary deeper and longer. She was now incontestably French royalty. Mary loved it, and so did Alison. And the future held more of the same, for one day Mary would be the queen of France.
Today they were in the grandest room of the Tournelles Palace, in front of the largest window, where Mary’s mother-in-law, Queen Caterina, was holding court. Caterina wore a voluminous confection of gold and silver cloth that must have cost a fortune. It was late afternoon, but the weather was hot, and the window was open to welcome a light breeze.
The king came in, bringing with him a strong odour of warm sweat. Everyone except Caterina stood up. Henri looked happy. He was the same age as his wife, forty, and in his prime: handsome, strong, and full of energy. He loved jousting, and he was winning today. He had even unseated Scarface, the duke of Guise, his great general. ‘Just one more,’ he said to Caterina.
‘It’s getting late,’ she protested, speaking French with the strong Italian accent she had never lost. ‘And you’re tired. Why don’t you rest now?’
‘But it’s for you that I fight!’ he said.
This piece of gallantry did not go down well. Caterina looked away, and Mary frowned. Everyone had already seen that Henri was wearing on his lance ribbons of black and white, the colours of Diane of Poitiers. She had seduced Henri within a year of his marriage, and Caterina had spent the last twenty-five years pretending not to know. Diane was much older – she would be sixty in a few weeks’ time – and Henri had other mistresses now, but Diane was the love of his life. Caterina was used to it, but he could still wound her carelessly.
Henri left to put his armour back on, and a buzz of conversation arose from the ladies. Caterina beckoned to Alison. The queen was always warm to Alison because she had been a good friend to the sickly Francis. Now Caterina half turned her back on the rest of the group, indicating that their conversation was private, and said in a low voice: ‘It’s been fourteen months.’
Alison knew what she was talking about. That was how long Francis and Mary had been married. ‘And she’s not pregnant,’ Alison said.
‘Is something wrong? You would know.’
‘She says not.’
‘But you don’t believe her.’
‘I don’t know what to believe.’
‘I had trouble getting pregnant when I was first married,’ Caterina said.
‘Really?’ Alison was astonished. Caterina had borne ten children for Henri.
The queen nodded. ‘I was distraught – especially after my husband was seduced by Madame.’ This was what everyone called Diane. ‘I adored him – I still do. But she won his heart away. I believed I might win him back with a baby. He still came to my bed – she ordered him to, I found out later.’ Alison winced: this was painful to hear. ‘But I did not conceive.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I was fifteen years old, and my family were hundreds of miles away. I felt desperate.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I spied on them.’
Alison was shocked and embarrassed by this intimate revelation, but Caterina was in the mood to tell the story. Henri’s thoughtless It’s for you that I fight had put the queen in an odd frame of mind.
‘I thought perhaps I was doing something wrong with Henri, and I wanted to see whether Madame had some different method,’ Caterina went on. ‘They used to go to bed in the afternoon. My maids found a place from which I could watch them.’
What an astonishing picture, Alison thought: the queen gazing through some kind of peephole at her husband in bed with his mistress.
‘It was very hard for me to look, because he obviously adored her. And I didn’t learn anything. They played some games I didn’t know about, but in the end he fucked her the same way he fucked me. The only difference was how much more he enjoyed it with her.’
Caterina spoke in a dry, bitter voice. She was not emotional, but Alison was close to tears. It must have broken Caterina’s heart, she thought. She wanted to ask questions, but she was afraid of disturbing this confiding mood.
‘I tried all kinds of remedies, some of them utterly disgusting – poultices of dung on my vagina, that kind of thing. Nothing worked. Then I met Dr Fernel, and I found out what was stopping me getting pregnant.’
Alison was fascinated. ‘What was it?’
‘The king’s cock is short and fat – adorable, but not long. He wasn’t putting it in far enough, and my maidenhead had never been broken, so the spunk didn’t go all the way up. The doctor broke the membrane with a special implement, and a month later I was pregnant with Francis. Pronto.’
There was a huge cheer from the crowd outside, as if they had been listening to the story and heard its happy ending. Alison guessed that the king must have mounted his horse for the next bout. Caterina put a hand on Alison’s knee, as if to detain her a moment longer. ‘Dr Fernel is dead, but his son is just as good,’ she said. ‘Tell Mary to see him.’
Alison wondered why the queen did not give this message to Mary herself.
As if reading her mind, Caterina said: ‘Mary is proud. If I give her the impression that I think she might be barren, she could take offence. Advice such as this comes better from a friend than from a mother-in-law.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do this as a kindness to me.’
It was courteous of the queen to request what she might command. ‘Of course,’ Alison said.
Caterina stood up and went to the window. The others in the room crowded around her, Alison included, and looked out.
Along the middle of the road, two fences enclosed a long, narrow track. At one end was the king’s horse, called Malheureux; at the other, the mount of Gabriel, count of Montgomery. Down the middle of the track ran a barrier to keep the two horses from colliding.
The king was talking to Montgomery in the middle of the field. Their words could not be heard from the palace window, but they seemed to be arguing. The tournament was almost over, and some spectators were already leaving, but Alison guessed the combative king wanted to play a final bout. Then the king raised his voice, and everyone heard him say: ‘That’s an order!’
Montgomery gave a bow of obedience and put his helmet on. The king did the same, and both men returned to the ends of the track. Henri lowered his visor. Alison heard Caterina murmur: ‘Fasten it shut, chérie,’ and the king turned the catch that prevented the eyepiece flying up.
Henri was impatient, and did not wait for the trumpet, but kicked his horse and charged. Montgomery did the same.
The horses were destriers, bred for war, big and tremendously strong, and their hooves made a noise like a titan beating the earth with giant drumsticks. Alison felt her pulse quicken with exhilaration and fear. The two riders picked up speed. The crowd cheered wildly as the warhorses pounded towards one another, ribbons flying. The two men angled their wooden lances across the central barrier. The weapons had blunted tips: the object was not to injure the opponent but simply to knock him from his saddle. All the same Alison was glad that only men played this sport. She would have been terrified.
At the last moment both men clamped their legs tightly into their horses and leaned forward. They met with a terrific crash. Montgomery’s lance struck the king’s head. The lance damaged the helmet. The king’s visor flew up, and Alison understood in a flash that the impact had snapped the visor catch. The lance broke in two.
The tremendous momentum of the horses continued to carry both men forwards, and a fraction of a second later the broken end of Montgomery’s lance struck the king’s face again. He reeled in the saddle, looking as if he might be losing consciousness. Caterina screamed in fear.
Alison saw Duke Scarface leap the fence and run to the king. Several more noblemen did the same. They steadied the horse, then lifted the king from the saddle, with great effort because of his heavy armour, and lowered him to the ground.
*
CARDINAL CHARLES ran after his brother Scarface, and Pierre followed close on his heels. When the king’s helmet was gingerly removed they saw immediately that he had suffered a serious wound. His face was covered in blood. A long, thick splinter of wood was sticking out of his eye. Other splinters were lodged in his face and head. He lay still, apparently numb to pain and barely conscious. His doctor was in attendance in case of just such an incident as this, and he now knelt beside the patient.
Charles looked hard at the king for a long moment then backed away. ‘He will die,’ he murmured to Pierre.
Pierre was thrown. What did this mean for the Guise family, whose future was Pierre’s future? The long-term plan that Charles had only just outlined to him was now in ruins. Pierre felt a degree of anxiety close to panic. ‘It’s too soon!’ he said. He realized that his voice was oddly high-pitched. Making an effort to speak more calmly, he said: ‘Francis cannot rule this country.’
Charles moved farther away from the crowd, to make sure they could not be overheard, though no one was paying attention to anyone but the king now. ‘According to French law, a king can rule at fourteen. Francis is fifteen.’
‘True.’ Pierre began to think hard. His panic evaporated and logic took over his brain. ‘But Francis will have help,’ he said. ‘And whoever becomes his closest advisor will be the true king of France.’ Throwing caution to the winds, he moved closer to Charles and spoke in a low, urgent voice. ‘Cardinal, you must be that man.’
Charles gave him a sharp look of a kind that Pierre recognized. It indicated that he had surprised Charles by saying something Charles had not thought of. ‘You’re right,’ Charles said slowly. ‘But the natural choice would be Antoine of Bourbon. He is the first prince of the blood.’ A prince of the blood was a direct male descendant of a French king. Such men were the highest aristocracy outside the royal family itself. They took precedence over all other noblemen. And Antoine was the most senior among them.
‘God forbid,’ said Pierre. ‘If Antoine becomes the principal advisor to King Francis II, the power of the Guise family will be at an end.’ And so will my career, he added silently.
Antoine was king of Navarre, a small country between France and Spain. More importantly, he was head of the Bourbon family who, together with the Montmorency clan, were the great rivals of the Guises. Their religious policies were fluid, but the Bourbon–Montmorency alliance tended to be less hard-line on heresy than the Guises, and were therefore favoured by the Protestants – a type of support that was not always welcome. If Antoine controlled the boy king, the Guises would become impotent. It did not bear thinking about.
Charles said: ‘Antoine is stupid. And a suspected Protestant.’
‘And, most importantly, he’s out of town.’
‘Yes. He’s at Pau.’ The residence of the kings of Navarre was in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains, five hundred miles from Paris.
‘But messengers will be on their way to him before nightfall,’ Pierre said insistently. ‘You can neutralize Antoine, but only if you act fast.’
‘I must speak to my niece, Mary Stuart. She will be queen of France. She must persuade the new king to reject Antoine as advisor.’
Pierre shook his head. Charles was thinking, but Pierre was ahead of him. ‘Mary is a beautiful child. She cannot be relied upon in something as important as this.’
‘Caterina, then.’
‘She is soft on Protestants and might have no objection to Antoine. I have a better idea.’
‘Go on.’
Charles was listening to Pierre as he might to an equal. Pierre felt a glow of pleasure. His political acumen had won the respect of the most able politician in France. ‘Tell Caterina that if she will accept you and your brother as the king’s leading counsellors, you will banish Diane of Poitiers from the court for the rest of her life.’
Charles thought for a long moment then he nodded, very slowly, once.
*
ALISON WAS SECRETLY thrilled by the injury to King Henri. She put on plain white mourning clothes and even managed to force tears occasionally, but that was for show. In her heart she rejoiced. Mary Stuart was about to be queen of France, and Alison was her best friend!
The king had been carried into the Palace of Tournelles, and the court gathered around his sick room. He took a long time dying, but there was little doubt about the eventual outcome. Among his doctors was Ambroise Paré, the surgeon who had removed the spearhead from the cheeks of Duke François of Guise, leaving the scars that had given the duke his nickname. Paré said that if the splinter had penetrated only the king’s eye he might have survived, provided the wound did not become fatally infected; but in fact the point had gone farther and entered the brain. Paré conducted experiments on four condemned criminals, sticking splinters into their eyes to replicate the wound, but all of them died, and there was no hope for the king.
Mary Stuart’s fifteen-year-old husband, soon to be King Francis II, became infantile. He lay in bed, moaning incomprehensibly, rocking in a lunatic rhythm, and had to be restrained from banging his head against the wall. Even Mary and Alison, who had been his friends since childhood, resented that he was so useless.
Queen Caterina, who had never really possessed her husband, was nevertheless distraught at the prospect of losing him. However, she showed her ruthless side by banning her rival, Diane of Poitiers, from the king’s presence. Twice Alison saw Caterina deep in conversation with Cardinal Charles, who might have been giving her spiritual consolation but more probably was helping her plan a smooth succession. Both times they were attended by Pierre Aumande, the handsome, mysterious young man who had appeared from nowhere a year or so ago and was at Charles’s side more and more often.
King Henri was given extreme unction on the morning of 9 July.
Shortly after one o’clock that day, Mary and Alison were at lunch in their rooms at the château when Pierre Aumande came in. He bowed deeply and said to Mary: ‘The king is sinking fast. We must act now.’
This was the moment they had all been waiting for.
Mary did not pretend to be distraught or to have hysterics. She swallowed, put down her knife and spoon, patted her lips with a napkin, and said: ‘What must I do?’ Alison felt proud of her mistress’s composure.
Pierre said: ‘You must help your husband. The duke of Guise is with him now. We are all going immediately to the Louvre with Queen Caterina.’
Alison said: ‘You’re taking possession of the person of the new king.’
Pierre looked sharply at her. He was the kind of man, she realized, who saw only important people: the rest were invisible. Now he gave her an appraising look. ‘That’s exactly right,’ he said. ‘The queen mother is in agreement with your mistress’s Uncle François and Uncle Charles. At this moment of danger, Francis must turn for help to his wife, Queen Mary – and no one else.’
Alison knew that was rubbish. François and Charles wanted the new king to turn to François and Charles. Mary was merely their cover. In the moment of uncertainty that always followed the death of a king, the man with the power was not the new king himself but whoever had him in his hands. That was why Alison had said possession of the person – the phrase that had alerted Pierre to the fact that she knew what was going on.
Mary would not have figured this out, Alison guessed; but that did not matter. Pierre’s plan was good for Mary. She would be all the more powerful in alliance with her uncles. By contrast, Antoine of Bourbon would surely try to sideline Mary if he gained control of Francis. So, when Mary looked at Alison enquiringly, Alison gave a slight nod.
Mary said: ‘Very well,’ and stood up.
Watching Pierre’s face, Alison saw that he had not missed that little interaction.
Alison went with Mary to Francis’s room, and Pierre followed. The door was guarded by men-at-arms. Alison recognized their leader, Gaston Le Pin, a tough-looking character who was chief of the Guise family’s paid roughnecks. They were willing to hold Francis by force if necessary, Alison deduced.
Francis was weeping, but getting dressed, helped by his servants. Both Duke Scarface and Cardinal Charles were there, watching impatiently, and a moment later Queen Caterina came in. This was the group taking power, Alison realized. Francis’s mother had made a deal with Mary’s uncles.
Alison considered who might try to stop them. The leading candidate would be the duke of Montmorency, who held the title of Constable of France. But Montmorency’s royal ally, Antoine of Bourbon, never quick off the mark, had not yet arrived in Paris.
The Guises were in a strong position, Alison saw. All the same, they were right to act now. Things could change quickly. An advantage was no use unless it was seized.
Pierre said to Alison: ‘The new king and queen will occupy the royal apartments at the Louvre palace immediately. The duke of Guise will move into the suite of Diane of Poitiers, and Cardinal Charles will occupy the rooms of the duke of Montmorency.’
Clever, Alison thought. ‘So the Guise family will have the king and the palace.’
Pierre looked pleased with himself, and Alison guessed that might have been his idea.
She added: ‘So you have effectively neutralized the rival faction.’
Pierre said: ‘There is no rival faction.’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Silly me.’
He looked at her with something like respect. That pleased her, and she realized that she was drawn to this clever, confident young man. You and I could be allies, she thought; and perhaps something more. Living most of her life at the French court, she had come to regard marriage the way noblemen did, as a strategic alliance rather than a bond of love. She and Pierre Aumande might be a formidable couple. And, after all, it would be no hardship to wake up in the morning next to a man who looked like that.
The party went down the grand staircase, crossed the hall, and walked out onto the steps.
Outside the gate, a crowd of Parisians waited to see what was going to happen. They cheered when they saw Francis. They, too, knew he would soon be their king.
Carriages stood in the forecourt, guarded by more of the Guises’ bully boys. Alison noticed that the vehicles were placed so that everyone in the crowd would see who got in.
Gaston Le Pin opened the door of the first carriage. The duke of Guise walked slowly forward with Francis. The crowd knew Scarface and they could all see that he had the king in his charge. This had been carefully choreographed, Alison realized.
Francis walked to the carriage, went up the single step, and got inside without making a fool of himself, to Alison’s great relief.
Caterina and Mary went next. At the step, Mary held back to let Caterina go first. But Caterina shook her head and waited.
Holding her head high, Mary got into the carriage.
*
PIERRE ASKED HIS confessor: ‘Is it a sin to marry someone you don’t love?’
Father Moineau was a square-faced, heavy-set priest in his fifties. His study in the College des Ames contained more books than Sylvie’s father’s shop. He was a rather prissy intellectual, but he enjoyed the company of young men, and he was popular with the students. He knew all about the work Pierre was doing for Cardinal Charles.
‘Certainly not,’ Moineau said. His voice was a rich baritone somewhat roughened by a fondness for strong Canary wine. ‘Noblemen are obliged so to do. It might even be a sin for a king to marry someone he did love.’ He chuckled. He liked paradoxes, as did all the teachers.
But Pierre was in a serious mood. ‘I’m going to wreck Sylvie’s life.’
Moineau was fond of Pierre, and clearly would have liked their intimacy to be physical, but he had quickly understood that Pierre was not one of those men who loved men, and had never done anything more than pat him affectionately on the back. Now Moineau caught his tone and became sombre. ‘I see that,’ he said. ‘And you want to know whether you would be doing God’s will.’
‘Exactly.’ Pierre was not often troubled by his conscience, but he had never done anyone as much harm as he was about to do to Sylvie.
‘Listen to me,’ said Moineau. ‘Four years ago a terrible error was committed. It is known as the Pacification of Augsburg, and it is a treaty that allows individual German provinces to choose to follow the heresy of Lutheranism, if their ruler so wishes. For the first time, there are places in the world where it is not a crime to be a Protestant. This is a catastrophe for the Christian faith.’
Pierre said in Latin: ‘Cuius regio, eius religio.’ This was the slogan of the Augsburg treaty, and it meant: ‘Whose realm, his religion.’
Moineau continued: ‘In signing the agreement, the emperor Charles V hoped to end religious conflict. But what has happened? Earlier this year the accursed Queen Elizabeth of England imposed Protestantism on her wretched subjects, who are now deprived of the consolation of the sacraments. Tolerance is spreading. This is the horrible truth.’
‘And we have to do whatever we can to stop it.’
‘Your terminology is precise: Whatever we can. And we now have a young king much under the influence of the Guise family. Heaven has sent us an opportunity to crack down. Look, I know how you feel: no man of sensibility likes to see people burned to death. You’ve told me about Sylvie, and she seems to be a normal girl. Somewhat too lascivious, perhaps.’ He chuckled again, then resumed his grave tone. ‘In most respects, poor Sylvie is no more than a victim of her wicked parents, who have brought her up in heresy. But this is what Protestants do. They convert others. And their victims lose their immortal souls.’
‘So you’re saying I will not be doing anything wrong by marrying Sylvie and then betraying her.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Moineau, ‘you will be doing God’s will – and you will be rewarded in heaven, I assure you.’
That was what Pierre had wanted to hear. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘God bless you, my son,’ said Father Moineau.
*
SYLVIE MARRIED PIERRE on the last Sunday in September.
Their Catholic wedding took place on the Saturday, in the parish church, but Sylvie did not count that: it was a legal requirement, nothing more. They spent Saturday night apart. On Sunday they had their real wedding at the forest hunting lodge that served as a Protestant church.
It was a mild day between summer and autumn, cloudy but dry. Sylvie’s dress was a soft dove-grey, and Pierre said the colour made her skin glow and her eyes shine. Pierre himself was devastatingly handsome in his new coat from Duboeuf. Pastor Bernard conducted the service, and the marquess of Nîmes was the witness. When Sylvie made her vows, she was overcome by a feeling of serenity, as if her life had at last begun.
Afterwards the entire congregation was invited back to the bookshop. They filled the shop and the apartment upstairs. Sylvie and her mother had spent all week preparing food: saffron broth, pork pies with ginger, cheese-and-onion tarts, custard pastries, apple fritters, quince cheese. Sylvie’s father was uncharacteristically genial, pouring wine into flat-bottomed glasses and offering platters of food. Everyone ate and drank standing up, except for the bridal couple and the marquess and marchioness, who were privileged to sit at the dining table.
Sylvie thought Pierre seemed a little tense, which was unusual for him: in general he was at his relaxed best on big social occasions, listening attentively to the men and charming the women, never failing to say that a new baby was beautiful, no matter what it looked like. But today he was restless. He went to the window twice, and when the cathedral bells struck the hour, he jumped. Sylvie guessed he was worried about being at a Protestant gathering in the heart of the city. ‘Relax,’ she said to him. ‘This is just an ordinary wedding celebration. No one knows we’re Protestants.’
‘Of course,’ he said, and smiled anxiously.
Sylvie was thinking mainly about tonight. She was looking forward to it eagerly, but she was also just a little nervous. ‘Losing your virginity doesn’t hurt much, and it’s only for a second,’ her mother had said. ‘Some girls hardly feel it. And don’t worry if you don’t bleed – not everyone does.’ Sylvie was not actually worried about that. She was longing for the physical intimacy of lying in bed with Pierre, kissing him and touching him to her heart’s content, without having to hold back. Her anxiety was about whether he would love her body. She felt it was not perfect for him. Statues of women always had perfectly matched breasts, whereas hers were not quite the same. And naked women in paintings had almost-invisible private parts, sometimes covered just with a faint down, but hers were plump and hairy. What would he think when he looked for the first time? She was too embarrassed to share these worries with her mother.
It crossed her mind to ask Marchioness Louise, who was only three years older, and had a conspicuously large bust. Then, just as she decided that Louise was not approachable enough, her thoughts were interrupted. She heard raised voices down in the shop, then someone screamed. Strangely, Pierre went to the window again, though the noise undoubtedly came from inside the building. She heard breaking glass. What was going on? It sounded more and more like a fight. Had someone got drunk? How could they spoil her wedding day?
The marquess and marchioness looked fearful. Pierre had turned pale. He stood with his back to the window, looking through the open door to the landing and the staircase. Sylvie ran to the top of the stairs. Through a rear window she saw some of the guests fleeing through the backyard. As she looked down the stairs, a man she did not know started to come up. He wore a leather jerkin and carried a club. She realized with horror that this was worse than a drunken brawl among the wedding guests; it was an official raid. Her anger turned to fear. Scared by the brute coming up the stairs, she ran back into the dining room.
The man followed her. He was short and powerfully built, and he had lost most of one ear: he looked terrifying. All the same, Pastor Bernard, who was a frail fifty-five-year-old, stood in front of him and said bravely: ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘I’m Gaston Le Pin, captain of the Guise family household guard, and you’re a blaspheming heretic,’ the man said. He raised his club and struck the pastor. Bernard turned away from the blow, but it caught him across the shoulders and he fell to the ground.
Le Pin looked at the other guests, who were trying to press themselves into the walls. ‘Anyone else got any questions?’ he said. No one spoke.
Two more thugs came into the room and stood behind Le Pin.
Then, incomprehensibly, Le Pin addressed Pierre. ‘Which one is the marquess?’ he said.
Sylvie was bewildered. What was going on?
Even more bafflingly, Pierre pointed to the marquess of Nîmes.
Le Pin said: ‘And I suppose the bitch with the big tits is the marchioness?’
Pierre nodded dumbly.
Sylvie felt as if the world had been turned upside down. Her wedding had become a violent nightmare in which no one was what they seemed.
Marchioness Louise stood up and said indignantly to Le Pin: ‘How dare you?’
Le Pin slapped her face hard. She screamed and fell back. Her cheek reddened instantly, and she began to cry.
The portly old marquess half rose from his chair, realized it was pointless, and sat back down again.
Le Pin spoke to the men who had followed him in. ‘Take those two and make sure they don’t get away.’
The marquess and marchioness were dragged from the room.
Pastor Bernard, still on the floor, pointed at Pierre and said: ‘You devil, you’re a spy!’
Everything fell into place in Sylvie’s mind. Pierre had organized this raid, she realized with horror. He had infiltrated the congregation in order to betray them. He had pretended to fall in love with her only to win their trust. That was why he had dithered so long about the date of the wedding.
She stared at him aghast, seeing a monster where once there had been the man she loved. It was as if her arm had been chopped off and she was looking at the bleeding stump – except that this hurt more. It was not just her wedding day that was ruined, it was her whole life. She wanted to die.
She moved towards Pierre. ‘How could you?’ she screamed, advancing on him, not knowing what she intended to do. ‘Judas Iscariot, how could you?’
Then something hit her on the back of the head, and the world went black.
*
‘ONE THING TROUBLED ME about the coronation,’ said Pierre to Cardinal Charles.
They were at the vast Guise family palace in the Vieille rue du Temple, in the opulent small parlour where Pierre had first met Charles and his scarred elder brother, François. Charles had bought more paintings since then, all biblical scenes but highly charged with sexuality: Adam and Eve, Susanna and the elders, Potiphar’s wife.
Sometimes Charles was interested in what Pierre had to say; at other times he would shut Pierre up with a casually dismissive flick of his long, elegant fingers. Today he was in a receptive mood. ‘Go on.’
Pierre quoted: ‘Francis and Mary, by the grace of God king and queen of France, Scotland, England and Ireland.’
‘As indeed they are. Francis is king of France. Mary is the queen of Scots. And, by right of inheritance and by the authority of the Pope, Mary is queen of England and Ireland.’
‘And they have those words carved on their new furniture and embossed on the queen’s new dining plates for all to see – including the English ambassador.’
‘Your point is?’
‘By encouraging Mary Stuart to tell the world she is the rightful queen of England, we have made an enemy of Queen Elizabeth.’
‘So what? Elizabeth is hardly a threat to us.’
‘But what have we achieved? When we make an enemy there should be some benefit to us. Otherwise we have harmed only ourselves.’
A look of greed came over Charles’s long face. ‘We’re going to rule over the greatest European empire since Charlemagne,’ he said. ‘It will be greater than that of Felipe of Spain, because his dominions are scattered and therefore impossible to govern, whereas the new French empire will be compact, its wealth and strength concentrated. We will hold sway from Edinburgh to Marseilles, and control the ocean from the North Sea to the Bay of Biscay.’
Pierre took the risk of arguing. ‘If we’re serious, we would have done better to conceal our intentions from the English. Now they’re forewarned.’
‘And what will they do? Elizabeth rules a poor and barbarous country that has no army.’
‘It has a navy.’
‘Not much of one.’
‘But, given the difficulty of attacking an island . . .’
Charles gave the flick of the fingers that indicated he had lost interest. ‘On to a more immediate topic,’ he said. He handed Pierre a sheet of heavyweight paper with an official seal. ‘There it is,’ he said. ‘The annulment of your marriage.’
Pierre took the paper gratefully. The grounds were clear – the marriage had never been consummated – but even so it could be difficult to get an annulment. He felt relieved. ‘That was quick.’
‘I’m not a cardinal for nothing. And it was gutsy of you to go through with the ceremony.’
‘It was worth it.’ Hundreds of Protestants had been arrested all over the city in a co-ordinated series of raids planned by Charles and Pierre. ‘Even if most of them have been let off with fines.’
‘If they recant their beliefs we can’t burn them to death – especially if they’re aristocrats, like the marquess of Nîmes and his wife. Pastor Bernard will die – he refused to recant, even under torture. And we found parts of a French Bible in the print shop, so your ex-wife’s father can’t escape punishment by recanting. Giles Palot will burn.’
‘All of which makes the Guise family Catholic heroes.’
‘Thanks to you.’
Pierre bowed his head in acknowledgement, glowing with pride. His satisfaction was profound. This was what he had wanted: to be the trusted aide to the most powerful man in the land. It was his moment of triumph. He tried not to show just how exultant he felt.
Charles said: ‘But there’s another reason why I was in a hurry to get you an annulment.’
Pierre frowned. What now? Charles was the only man in Paris who was as devious as Pierre himself.
Charles went on: ‘There’s someone else I want you to marry.’
‘Good God!’ Pierre was rocked. He had not been expecting that. His thoughts immediately flew to Véronique de Guise. Had Charles changed his mind about letting Pierre marry her? His heart filled with hope. Was it possible that two dreams could come true?
Charles said: ‘My nephew Alain, who is only fourteen, has seduced a maid and got her pregnant. He can’t possibly marry her.’
Pierre’s spirits fell with a painful crash. ‘A maid?’
‘Alain will have an arranged political marriage, like all Guise men except those of us who are called to the priesthood. But I’d like to take care of the maid. I feel sure you’ll understand that, having been born in similar circumstances.’
Pierre felt sick. He had thought the triumph he and Charles had enjoyed might elevate his status closer to that of a member of the family. Instead, he was being reminded of how far below them he really was. ‘You want me to marry a maid?’
Charles laughed. ‘Don’t speak as if it’s a death sentence!’
‘More like life imprisonment.’ What was he going to do about this? Charles did not like to be thwarted. If Pierre refused this demand it could blight his flowering career.
‘We’ll give you a pension,’ Charles said. ‘Fifty livres a month—’
‘I don’t care about money.’
Charles raised his eyebrows at the insolence of an interruption. ‘Indeed? What do you care about?’
Pierre realized there was one reward that might make the sacrifice worthwhile. ‘I want the right to call myself Pierre Aumande de Guise.’
‘Marry her, and we’ll see.’
‘No.’ Pierre knew he was risking everything now. ‘My name on the marriage certificate must be Pierre Aumande de Guise. Otherwise I will not sign it.’ He had never been this audacious with Charles. He held his breath, waiting for the reaction, dreading an explosion.
Charles said: ‘You’re a determined little bastard, aren’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t be so useful to you otherwise.’
‘That’s true.’ Charles was silent and thoughtful for a minute. Then he said: ‘All right, I’ll agree.’
Pierre felt weak with relief.
Charles said: ‘From now on you are Pierre Aumande de Guise.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The girl is in the next room along the corridor. Go and see her. Get acquainted.’
Pierre got up and went to the door.
‘Be nice to her,’ Charles added. ‘Give her a kiss.’
Pierre left the room without replying. Outside the door he stood still for a moment, feeling shaky, trying to take it all in. He did not know whether to be elated or dismayed. He had escaped from one unwanted marriage only to fall into another. But he was a Guise!
He pulled himself together. He had better take a look at his wife-to-be. She was low-class, obviously. But she might be pretty, given that she had enticed Alain de Guise. On the other hand, it did not take much to win the sexual interest of a boy of fourteen: willingness was the most important attraction.
He walked along the passage to the next door and went in without knocking.
A girl sat on the sofa with her head in her hands, weeping. She wore the plain dress of a servant. She was quite plump, Pierre saw, perhaps on account of the pregnancy.
When he closed the door behind him she looked up.
He knew her. It was plain Odette, the maid of Véronique. She would forever remind him of the girl he had not been allowed to marry.
Odette recognized him and smiled bravely through her tears, showing her crooked teeth. ‘Are you my saviour?’ she said.
‘God help me,’ said Pierre.
*
AFTER GILES PALOT was burned to death, Sylvie’s mother went into a depression.
For Sylvie this was the most shocking of the traumas she suffered, more seismic than Pierre’s betrayal, even sadder than her father’s execution. In Sylvie’s mind, her mother was a rock that could never crumble, the foundation of her life. Isabelle had put salve on her childish injuries, fed her when she was hungry, and calmed her father’s volcanic temper. But now Isabelle was helpless. She sat in a chair all day. If Sylvie lit a fire, Isabelle would look at it; if Sylvie prepared food, Isabelle would eat it mechanically; if Sylvie did not help her get dressed, Isabelle would spend all day in her underclothes.
Giles’s fate had been sealed when a stack of newly printed sheets for Bibles in French had been found in the shop. The sheets were ready to be cut into pages and bound into volumes, after which they would have been taken to the secret warehouse in the rue du Mur. But there had not been time to finish them. So Giles was guilty, not just of heresy but of promoting heresy. There had been no mercy for him.
In the eyes of the Church, the Bible was the most dangerous of all banned books – especially translated into French or English, with marginal notes explaining how certain passages proved the correctness of Protestant teaching. Priests said that ordinary people were unable to rightly interpret God’s word, and needed guidance. Protestants said that the Bible opened men’s eyes to the errors of the priesthood. Both sides saw reading the Bible as the central issue of the religious conflict that had swept Europe.
Giles’s employees had claimed they knew nothing of these sheets. They had only worked on Latin Bibles and other permitted works, they said; Giles must have printed the others himself, at night, after they had gone home. They had been fined just the same, but had escaped the death penalty.
When a man was executed for heresy, all his goods were confiscated. This law was applied patchily, and interpretation could vary, but Giles lost everything, and his wife and daughter were left destitute. They managed to escape with the cash in the shop before it was taken over by a rival printer. Later they went back to beg for their clothes and learned they had been sold – there was a big market for second-hand garments. They were now living in one room of a tenement.
Sylvie was a poor seamstress – she had been raised to sell books, not to make clothes – so she could not even take in sewing, the traditional last resort of the penniless middle-class woman. The only work she could get was doing laundry for Protestant families. Despite the raids, most of them still adhered to the true religion, and after paying their fines they had swiftly restarted their congregations, finding new places to worship in secret. People who knew Sylvie from the old days often paid her more than the usual price for laundry, but still it was not enough to keep two people in food and fuel, and gradually the money they had brought from the shop was spent. It ran out in a bitterly cold December, with an icy wind knifing through the high, narrow Paris streets.
One day when Sylvie was washing a bedsheet for Jeanne Mauriac in the freezing water of the Seine river, the cold hurting her hands so badly that she could not stop crying, a man passing by offered her five sous to suck his cock.
She shook her head silently and carried on washing the sheet, and he went away.
But she could not stop thinking about it. Five sous, sixty pennies, a quarter of a livre. It would buy a load of firewood, a leg of pork and bread for a week. And all she had to do was put a man’s thing in her mouth. How could that be worse than what she was doing now? It would be a sin, of course, but it was hard to care about sin when her hands were in such agony.
She took the sheet home and hung it across the room to dry. The last lot of wood was almost gone: tomorrow she would not be able to dry laundry, and even Protestants would not pay if she delivered their sheets wet.
She did not sleep much that night. She wondered why anyone would desire her. Even Pierre had only been pretending. She had never thought herself beautiful, and now she was thin and unwashed. Yet the man at the waterside had wanted her, so perhaps others would.
In the morning, she bought two eggs with the last of her money. She put the remaining fragments of wood on the fire and cooked the eggs, and she and her mother had one each, with the stale remains of last week’s bread. Then they had nothing. They would just starve to death.
God will provide, the Protestants always said. But he had not.
Sylvie combed her hair and washed her face. She had no mirror, so she did not know what she looked like. She turned her stockings inside out to hide the dirt. Then she went out.
She was not sure what to do. She walked along the street, but no one propositioned her. Of course not, why would they? She had to proposition them. She tried smiling at men as they walked by, but none responded. To one she said: ‘I’ll suck your cock for five sous,’ but he just looked embarrassed and hurried on. Perhaps she should show her breasts, but it was cold.
She saw a young woman in an old red coat hurrying along the street with a well-dressed middle-aged man, holding his arm as if afraid he might escape. The woman gave her a hard look that might have signified recognition of a rival. Sylvie would have liked to speak to her, but the woman seemed intent on going somewhere with the man, and Sylvie heard her say to him: ‘It’s just around the corner, my darling.’ Sylvie realized that if she succeeded in getting a customer she would have nowhere to take him.
She found herself in the rue du Mur, across the street from the warehouse where the Palot family had stored illegal literature. It was not a busy thoroughfare, but perhaps men would be more willing to deal with prostitutes in back streets. And, sure enough, a man stopped and spoke to her. ‘Nice tits,’ he said.
Her heart leaped. She knew what she had to say next: I’ll suck your cock for five sous. She felt nauseated. Was she really going to do this? But she was hungry and cold.
The man said: ‘How much for a fuck?’
She had not thought about that. She did not know what to say.
The man was irritated by her hesitation. ‘Where’s your room?’ he said. ‘Nearby?’
Sylvie could not take him back to where her mother was. ‘I haven’t got a room,’ she said.
‘Stupid cow,’ the man said, and he walked away.
Sylvie could have cried. She was a stupid cow. She had not worked this out.
Then she looked across the road at the warehouse.
The illegal books had presumably been burned. The new printer might be using the warehouse, or he might have leased it to someone else.
But the key might still be behind the loose brick. Perhaps the warehouse could be her ‘room’.
She crossed the road.
She pulled out the loose half-brick next to the doorpost and reached inside. The key was there. She took it out and replaced the brick.
She cleared some rubbish from in front of the warehouse door with her foot. She turned the key in the lock, went inside, closed and barred the door behind her, and lit the lamp.
The place looked the same. The floor-to-ceiling barrels were still there. Between them and the wall there was enough space to do what Sylvie planned. There was a rough stone floor. This would be her secret room of shame.
The barrels looked dusty, as if the warehouse was no longer used much. She wondered whether the empty barrels were still in the same place. She tried moving one, and lifted it easily.
She saw that there were still boxes of books behind the barrels. A bizarre possibility occurred to her.
She opened a box. It was full of French Bibles.
How had this happened? She and her mother had assumed the new printer had seized everything. But clearly he had never found out about the warehouse. Sylvie frowned, thinking. Father had always insisted on secrecy. Even the men working for him had not known about the warehouse. And Sylvie had been ordered not to tell Pierre until after they were married.
Nobody knew except Sylvie and her mother.
So all the books must still be here – hundreds of them.
And they were valuable, if she could find people with the courage to buy them.
Sylvie took out a French Bible. It was worth a lot more than the five sous she had hoped to get on the street.
As in the past, she wrapped it in a square of coarse linen and tied it up with string. Then she left the warehouse, carefully locking it behind her and hiding the key.
She walked away full of new hope.
Back at the tenement, Isabelle was staring into a cold fire.
Books were costly, but to whom could Sylvie sell? Only Protestants, of course. Her eye fell on the sheet she had washed yesterday. It belonged to Jeanne Mauriac, a member of the congregation that used to worship at the hunting lodge in the suburb of St Jacques. Her husband, Luc, was a cargo broker, whatever that meant. She had not previously sold him a Bible, she thought, though he could certainly afford one. But would he dare, only six months after Cardinal Charles’s raids?
The sheet was dry. She made her mother help her fold it. Then she wrapped it around the book and took the package to the Mauriac house.
She timed her visit so that she would catch the family at the midday meal. The maid looked at her shabby dress and told her to wait in the kitchen, but Sylvie was too desperate to be thwarted by a maid. She pushed her way into the dining room. The smell of pork cutlets made her stomach hurt.
Luc and Jeanne were at the table with Georges, their son. Luc greeted Sylvie cheerily: he was always lively. Jeanne looked wary. She was the anchor of the family, and often seemed pained by the humorous banter of her husband and son. Young Georges had once been an admirer of Sylvie’s, but now he could hardly bring himself to look at her. She was no longer the well-dressed daughter of a prosperous printer: she was a grubby pauper.
Sylvie unwrapped the sheet and showed the book to Luc, who, she reckoned, was most likely to buy. ‘As I recall, you don’t have a Bible in French yet,’ she said. ‘This is a particularly beautiful edition. My father was proud of it. Take it, have a look.’ She had learned long ago that a customer was more likely to buy once he had held the book in his hands.
Luc leafed through the volume admiringly. ‘We should have a French Bible,’ he said to his wife.
Sylvie smiled at Jeanne and said: ‘It would surely please the Lord.’
Jeanne said: ‘It’s against the law.’
‘It’s against the law to be Protestant,’ her husband said. ‘We can hide the book.’ He looked at Sylvie. ‘How much is it?’
‘My father used to sell this for six livres,’ she said.
Jeanne made a sound of disapprobation, as if the price was far too high.
Sylvie said: ‘Because of my circumstances, I can let you have it for five.’ She held her breath.
Luc looked dubious. ‘If you could say four . . .’
‘Done,’ Sylvie said. ‘The book is yours, and may God bless it to your heart.’
Luc took out his purse and counted eight of the silver coins called testons, each worth ten sous, half a livre.
‘Thank you,’ said Sylvie. ‘And ten pennies for the sheet.’ She no longer needed the pennies, but she remembered how her hands had hurt washing it, and she felt the money was hers.
Luc smiled and gave her a small coin called a dixain, worth ten pennies.
Luc opened the book again. ‘When my partner Radiguet sees this, he’ll be envious.’
‘I don’t have any more,’ Sylvie said quickly. The rarity of Protestant books kept the price high, and her father had taught her never to let people know there were plenty. ‘If I come across another one, I’ll go and see Radiguet.’
‘Please do.’
‘But don’t tell him how cheaply you got it!’
Luc smiled conspiratorially. ‘Not until after he’s paid you, anyhow.’
Sylvie thanked him and left.
She was so weak with relief that she could not find the energy to feel exultant. She went into the next tavern she saw and ordered a tankard of beer. She drank it quickly. It eased the pain of hunger. She left feeling light-headed.
Closer to home she bought a ham, cheese, butter, bread and apples, and a small jar of wine. She also bought a sack of firewood and paid a boy ten pennies to carry it for her.
When she entered the tenement room, her mother gazed in astonishment at her purchases.
‘Hello, Mother,’ Sylvie said. ‘Our troubles are over.’
*
IN A MONUMENTAL sulk, Pierre got married for the second time three days after Christmas, 1559.
He was determined that the wedding would be a perfunctory affair: he was not going to pretend to celebrate. He invited no guests and planned no wedding breakfast. He did not want to look like a poor man, so he wore his new dark grey coat, which was appropriately sombre, fitting his mood. He arrived at the parish church as the clock was striking the appointed hour.
To his horror, Véronique de Guise was there.
She was sitting at the back of the little church with half a dozen Guise maids, presumably friends of Odette’s.
Nothing could be worse, to Pierre, than for Véronique to witness his humiliation. She was the woman he really wanted to marry. He had talked to her, charmed her, and done his best to give her the impression that they were on the same social level. This had been a fantasy, as Cardinal Charles had made brutally clear. But for Véronique to actually see Pierre marrying her maid was too excruciatingly painful. He wanted to walk out of the church.
Then he thought of his reward. At the end of this ordeal he would sign the register with his new name, Pierre Aumande de Guise. It was his dearest wish. He would be a recognized member of the lofty Guise family, and no one would be able to take that away from him. He would be married to an ugly maid who was pregnant with someone else’s child, but he would be a Guise.
He gritted his teeth and vowed to bear the pain.
The ceremony was short, the priest having been paid the minimum fee. Véronique and the other girls giggled during the service. Pierre did not know what was so funny, but he could not help feeling that they were laughing at him. Odette kept looking back over her shoulder at them and grinning, showing her crooked teeth, tombstones in an old graveyard, tightly packed and tilting in all directions.
When it was over, she looked proud to be walking out of the church on the arm of a handsome and ambitious bridegroom. She seemed to have forgotten that she had been foisted on him against his will. Did she pretend to herself that she had somehow won his love and affection?
As if that were possible.
They walked from the church to the modest house Cardinal Charles had provided for them. It was near the tavern of St Étienne in the neighbourhood of Les Halles, where Parisians did their everyday shopping: meat, wine and the second-hand clothes that all but the wealthy wore. Without invitation, Véronique and the maids followed. One of them had a bottle of wine, and they insisted on entering the house and drinking the health of the bride and groom.
At last they left, with many crude jokes about the couple being in a hurry to do what bridal couples are expected to do on the wedding night.
Pierre and Odette went upstairs. There was one bedroom and one bed. Until this moment, Pierre had not confronted the question of whether he would have normal sexual relations with his wife.
Odette lay down. ‘Oh, well, we’re married now,’ she said. She threw up her dress to reveal her nakedness. ‘Come on, let’s make the best of it.’
Pierre was utterly revolted. The sheer vulgarity of her pose disgusted him beyond measure. He was appalled.
At that moment he knew he could not have sex with her, today or ever.