Authors: Ken Follett
Ned, like all Elizabeth’s advisors, feared more conspiracies. Everything he had worked for during the last fourteen years was now under threat. The dream of religious freedom could turn overnight into the nightmare of inquisition and torture, and England would again know the revolting smell of men and women being burned alive.
Dozens of wealthy Catholics had fled from England, and most of them came to France. Ned and Walsingham believed that the next plot against Elizabeth would be hatched here in Paris. It was their mission to identify the plotters, learn their intentions, and foil their plans.
The English embassy was a big house on the ‘left bank’, south of the river, in the university district. Walsingham was not a rich man, and England was not a rich country, so they could not afford the more expensive right bank where the French aristocracy had their palaces.
Today Ned and Walsingham were going to attend the royal court in the Louvre palace. Ned was looking forward to it. The gathering of the most powerful men and women in France was a rich opportunity to pick up information. Courtiers gossiped, and some of them let secrets slip. Ned would chat to everyone and chart the undercurrents.
He was just a little nervous, not on his own account, but on that of his master. Walsingham at forty was brilliant but lacked grace. His first appearance before King Charles IX had been embarrassing. A stiff-necked Puritan, Walsingham had dressed all in black: it was his normal style, but in the gaudy French court it was seen as a Protestant reproach.
On that first occasion, Ned had recognized Pierre Aumande de Guise, whom he had met at St Dizier with Mary Stuart. That had been eleven years ago, but Ned remembered Aumande vividly. Although the man had been good-looking and well-dressed, there was something creepy about him.
King Charles had pointedly asked Walsingham whether it was really necessary for Elizabeth to imprison Mary Stuart, the former queen of France, the deposed Queen of Scots, and Charles’s sister-in-law. Walsingham should have known the book of Proverbs well enough to remember
A soft answer turneth away wrath.
However, he had responded with righteous indignation – always a weakness in Puritans – and the king had become frosty.
Since then Ned had made a special effort to be more easy-going and amiable than his unbending boss. He had adopted a style of dress appropriate to a minor diplomat without rigid religious convictions. Today he put on a pastel-blue doublet slashed to show a fawn lining, an unostentatious outfit by Paris standards but, he hoped, stylish enough to distract from the appearance of Walsingham, who clung stubbornly to his black.
From his attic window Ned could see across the Seine river to the towers of the cathedral of Notre Dame. Beside his smoky mirror stood a little portrait Margery had given him. It was somewhat idealized, with impossibly white skin and rosy cheeks; but the artist had captured her tumbling curls and the mischievous grin he had loved so much.
He still loved her. Two years ago he had been forced to accept that she would never leave her husband, and without hope his passion had burned low, but the fire had not gone out, and perhaps it never would.
He had no news from Kingsbridge. He had not heard from Barney, who was presumably still at sea. He and Margery had agreed not to torture themselves by writing to one another. The last thing Ned had done, before leaving England, was to quash the arrest warrant for Stephen Lincoln, which had been issued on the basis of evidence invented by Dan Cobley. If Margery felt it her sacred duty to bring consolation to bereft Catholics, Ned was not going to let Dan Cobley stop her.
Adjusting his lace collar in front of the mirror, he smiled as he remembered the play he had seen last night, called
The Rivals
. Highly original, it was a comedy about ordinary people who spoke naturally, rather than in verse, and featured two young men, both of whom wanted to abduct the same girl – who turned out, in a surprise ending, to be the sister of one of them. The whole thing took place in one location, a short stretch of street, in a period of less than twenty-four hours. Ned had not before seen anything so clever in London or Paris.
Ned was just about ready to leave when a servant came in. ‘A woman has called, selling paper and ink cheaper than anywhere in Paris, she claims,’ the man said in French. ‘Do you care to see her?’
Ned used huge quantities of expensive paper and ink, drafting and encoding Walsingham’s confidential letters to the queen and Cecil. And the queen was as parsimonious with her spies as she was with everyone, so he was always looking for lower prices. ‘What is Sir Francis doing right now?’
‘Reading his Bible.’
‘Then I have time. Send her up.’
A minute later a woman of about thirty appeared. Ned looked at her with interest. She was attractive rather than beautiful, modestly dressed, with a determined look softened by blue eyes. She introduced herself as Thérèse St Quentin. She took samples of paper and ink out of a leather satchel and invited Ned to try them.
He sat at his writing table. Both paper and ink seemed good. ‘Where do you get your supplies?’ he asked.
‘The paper is made just outside Paris, in the suburb of Saint-Marcel,’ she said. ‘I also have beautiful Italian paper from Fabriano, in Italy, for your love letters.’
It was a flirty thing to say, but she was not very coquettish, and he guessed it was part of her sales pitch. ‘And the ink?’
‘I make it myself. That’s why it’s so cheap – though it’s very good.’
He compared her prices with what he usually paid and found that she was, indeed, cheap, so he gave her an order.
‘I’ll bring everything today,’ she said. Then she lowered her voice. ‘Do you have the Bible in French?’
Ned was astonished. Could this respectable-looking young woman be involved in illicit literature? ‘It’s against the law!’
She responded calmly. ‘But breaking the law no longer carries the death penalty, according to the Peace of St Germain.’
She was talking about the agreement that had resulted from the peace conference Ned and Walsingham had been sent to in St Germain, so Ned knew the details well. The treaty gave the Huguenots limited freedom of worship. For Ned, a Catholic country that tolerated Protestants was as good as a Protestant country that tolerated Catholics: it was the freedom that counted. However, freedom was fragile. France had had peace treaties before, all of them short-lived. The famously inflammatory Paris preachers ranted against every attempt at conciliation. This one was supposed to be sealed by a marriage – the king’s rackety sister, Princess Margot, was engaged to the easy-going Henri of Bourbon, Protestant king of Navarre – but eighteen months later the wedding still had not taken place. Ned said: ‘The peace treaty could be abandoned, and any day there could be a surprise crackdown on people like you.’
‘It probably wouldn’t be a surprise.’ Ned was about to ask why not, but she did not give him the chance. She went on: ‘And I think I can trust you. You’re Elizabeth’s envoy, so you must be Protestant.’
‘Why do you ask?’ Ned said cautiously.
‘If you want a French Bible, I can get you one.’
Ned was amazed by her nerve. And as it happened, he did want a French Bible. He spoke the language well enough to pass as a native but sometimes, in conversation, he did not catch the biblical quotations and allusions that Protestants used all the time, and he had often thought he should read the better-known chapters to familiarize himself with the translation. As a foreign diplomat, he would not get into much trouble for owning the book, in the unlikely event that he was found out. ‘How much?’ he said.
‘I have two editions, both printed in Geneva: a standard one that is a bargain at two livres, and a beautifully bound volume in two colours of ink with illustrations for seven livres. I can bring them both to show you.’
‘All right.’
‘I see you’re going out – to the Louvre, I suppose, in that beautiful coat.’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you be back for your dinner?’
‘Probably.’ Ned felt bemused. She had taken control of the conversation. All he did was agree to what she proposed. She was forceful, but so frank and engaging that he could not be offended.
‘I’ll bring your stationery then, and two Bibles so that you can choose the one you prefer.’
Ned did not think he had actually committed himself to buying one, but he let that pass. ‘I look forward to seeing them.’
‘I’ll be back this afternoon.’
Her coolness was impressive. ‘You’re very brave,’ Ned commented.
‘The Lord gives me strength.’
No doubt he did, Ned thought, but she must have had plenty to start with. ‘Tell me something,’ he said, taking the conversational initiative at last. ‘How did you come to be a dealer in contraband books?’
‘My father was a printer. He was burned as a heretic in 1559, and all his possessions were forfeit, so my mother and I were destitute. All we had was a few Bibles he had printed.’
‘So you’ve been doing this for thirteen years?’
‘Almost.’
Her courage took Ned’s breath away. ‘During most of that period, you could have been executed, like your father.’
‘Yes.’
‘But surely you could live innocently, selling just paper and ink.’
‘We could, but we believe in people’s right to read God’s word for themselves and make up their own minds about what is the true gospel.’
Ned believed in that, too. ‘And you’re willing to risk your life for that principle.’ He did not mention that if caught she would undoubtedly have been tortured before being executed.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Ned stared at her, fascinated. She looked back at him boldly for a few moments, then she said: ‘Until this afternoon, then.’
‘Goodbye.’
When she had gone, Ned went to the window and looked out across the busy fruit-and-vegetable market of the place Maubert. She was not as afraid as she might have been of a crackdown on Protestants.
I
t probably wouldn’t be a surprise
, she had said. He wondered what means she had of finding out in advance about the intentions of the ultra-Catholics.
A few moments later she emerged from the door below and walked away, a small, erect figure with a brisk, unwavering step; willing to die for the ideal of tolerance that Ned shared. What a woman, he thought. What a hero.
He watched her out of sight.
*
P
IERRE
A
UMANDE
de Guise trimmed his fair beard in preparation for going to court at the Louvre Palace. He always shaped his beard into a sharp point, to look more like his young master and distant relative Henri, the twenty-one-year-old duke of Guise.
He studied his face. He had developed a dry skin condition that gave him red, flaking patches at the corners of his eyes and mouth and on his scalp. They had also appeared on the backs of his knees and the insides of his elbows, where they itched maddeningly. The Guise family doctor had diagnosed an excess of heat and prescribed an ointment that seemed to make the symptoms worse.
His twelve-year-old stepson, Alain, came into the room. He was a wretched child, undersized and timid, more like a girl. Pierre had sent him to the dairy on the corner to buy milk and cheese, and now he was carrying a jug and a goblet. Pierre said: ‘Where’s the cheese?’
The boy hesitated, then said: ‘They haven’t got any today.’
Pierre looked at his face. ‘Liar,’ he said. ‘You forgot.’
Alain was terrified. ‘No, I didn’t, honestly!’ He started to cry.
The scrawny maid, Nath, came in. ‘What’s the matter, Alain?’ she said.
Pierre said: ‘He lied to me, and now he’s afraid of a thrashing. What do you want?’
‘There’s a priest to see you – Jean Langlais.’
That was the pseudonym Pierre had given Rollo Fitzgerald, the most promising of the exiles studying at the English College. ‘Send him up here. Take this snivelling child away. And get some cheese for my breakfast.’
Pierre had met Rollo twice since that initial encounter, and had been impressed by him each time. The man was intelligent and dedicated, and in his eyes there was the burning light of a holy mission. He hated Protestants passionately, no doubt because his family had been ruined financially by the Puritans in Kingsbridge, the city from which he came. Pierre had high hopes for Rollo.
A moment later Rollo appeared, wearing a floor-length cassock and a wooden cross on a chain.
They shook hands, and Pierre closed the door. Rollo said: ‘Is that young lady your wife?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Pierre. ‘Madame Aumande de Guise was a lady-in-waiting to Véronique de Guise.’ That was not true. Odette had been a servant, not a lady-in-waiting, but Pierre did not like people to know it. ‘She’s out.’ Odette had gone to the fish market. ‘The woman who admitted you is just a maid.’
Rollo was embarrassed. ‘I do beg your pardon.’
‘Not at all. Welcome to our humble dwelling. I spend most of my time at the Guise family palace in the rue Vieille du Temple, but if you and I had met there we would have been seen by twenty people. This place has one great advantage: it is so insignificant that no one would bother to spy on it.’ In fact, Pierre was desperate to move out of this hovel, but had not yet managed to persuade the young duke to give him a room at the palace. He was now chief among the Guise family’s counsellors but, as always, they were slow to grant Pierre the status his work merited. ‘How are things in Douai?’
‘Excellent. Since the Pope excommunicated Elizabeth, another fifteen good young Catholic Englishmen have joined us. In fact, William Allen sent me here to tell you that we’re almost ready to send a group of them back to England.’
‘And how will that be organized?’
‘Father Allen has asked me to take charge of the operation.’
Pierre thought that was a good decision. Rollo clearly had the ability to be more than just a clandestine priest. ‘What’s your plan?’
‘We will land them on a remote beach at dusk, then they’ll travel through the night to my sister’s castle – she is the countess of Shiring. She has been organizing secret Catholic services for years, and she already has a network of undercover priests. From there they will spread out all over England.’