Authors: Ken Follett
The watchmen all carried home-made clubs of different shapes and sizes. Osmund had a roll of stout cord for tying people’s wrists. Two of the men brought lanterns on poles.
Widow Pollard’s place was a mile away. ‘It would be quicker to ride,’ Rollo said.
‘Not much quicker, in the dark,’ his father replied. ‘And the sound of the horses would forewarn the Protestants. I don’t want any of those devils to slip through our fingers.’
They all marched down the main street, past the cathedral. People looked apprehensively at them. Clearly someone was in big trouble.
Rollo worried that someone friendly to the Protestants might guess what was happening. A fast runner could warn them. He quickened his pace.
They crossed Merthin’s double bridge to the suburb of Loversfield, then followed the Shiring road south. The outskirts of the city were quieter and darker. Fortunately, the road was straight.
Widow Pollard’s house gave on to the street, but her cowshed was set well back in an acre or so of land. The late Walter Pollard had kept a small dairy herd. After he died, his widow had sold the cattle. That was why she had a fine brick cowshed standing empty.
Osmund opened a wide gate, and they all followed the track the cows had used to take to milking. No light showed from the building: a cowshed had no need of windows. Osmund whispered to one of the lantern bearers: ‘Walk around quickly and see if there’s another way out.’
The rest went up to the wide double door. Sir Reginald put his finger to his lips, miming silence, and they all listened. From inside they could hear a murmur of several voices chanting something. After a minute Rollo recognized the Lord’s Prayer.
In English.
That was heresy. No more proof was needed.
The lantern bearer returned and whispered: ‘No other way in or out.’
Reginald tried the door. It seemed to be barred from the inside.
The sound alerted the people in the cowshed, and they fell silent.
Four of the watchmen charged the door, and it flew open. Reginald and Rollo stepped inside.
Twenty people sat on four benches. In front of them was a plain square table, covered with a white cloth, bearing a loaf of bread and a jug that presumably contained wine. Rollo was horrified: they were celebrating their own version of the Mass! He had heard that this went on but never thought he would see it with his own eyes.
Philbert stood behind the table, wearing a white smock over his doublet and hose. He was playing the part of a priest, even though he had never been ordained.
The intruders stared at the blasphemy going on in front of them. The congregation stared back, both sides equally stunned.
Then Reginald found his voice. ‘This is heresy, plain to see. You’re under arrest, every last one of you.’ He paused. ‘Especially you, Philbert Cobley.’
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.
*
P
IERRE 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.