Authors: Ken Follett
Time went by without talk. Alfo eventually stopped crying. He sucked his thumb, staring at Barney.
Bella closed her eyes. That’s good, Barney thought. She’s resting.
Sleep well, my love.
19
Sylvie was busy – dangerously so.
Paris was full of Huguenots who had come for the royal wedding, and they bought a lot of paper and ink at the shop in the rue de la Serpente. They also wanted illegal books – not just the Bible in French, but the inflammatory works of John Calvin and Martin Luther attacking the Catholic Church. Sylvie was run off her feet going to the warehouse in the rue du Mur and delivering the contraband books to Protestant homes and lodging houses all over Paris.
And it all had to be done with total discretion. She was used to it, but not at this level of activity. She was risking arrest three times a day instead of three times a week. The increased strain was exhausting.
Spending time with Ned was like resting in an oasis of calm and security. He showed concern, not anxiety. He never panicked. He thought she was brave – in fact, he said she was a hero. She was pleased by his admiration, even though she knew she was just a scared girl.
On his third visit to the shop, her mother told him their real names and asked him to stay for midday dinner.
Isabelle had not consulted Sylvie about this. She just did it, taking Sylvie by surprise. Ned accepted readily. Sylvie was a bit taken aback, but pleased.
They closed and locked the street door and retired to the room behind the shop. Isabelle cooked fresh river trout, caught that morning, with marrow and aromatic fennel, and Ned ate heartily. Afterwards, she produced a bowl of greengages, yellow with red speckles, and a bottle of golden-brown brandy. They did not normally keep brandy in the house: the two women never drank anything stronger than wine, and they usually diluted that. Obviously Isabelle had quietly planned this meal.
Ned told them the news from the Netherlands, which was bad. ‘Hangest disobeyed Coligny’s orders, walked into an ambush, and was soundly defeated. He’s a prisoner now.’
Isabelle was interested in Ned, not Hangest. ‘How long do you think you’ll stay in Paris?’ she asked.
‘As long as Queen Elizabeth wants me here.’
‘And then I suppose you’ll go home to England?’
‘I’ll probably go wherever the queen wants to send me.’
‘You’re devoted to her.’
‘I feel fortunate to serve her.’
Isabelle switched to another line of enquiry. ‘Are English houses different from French ones?’ she said. ‘Your home, for example?’
‘I was born in a big house opposite Kingsbridge Cathedral. Now it belongs to my elder brother, Barney, but I live there when I’m in Kingsbridge.’
‘Opposite the cathedral – that must be a pleasant location.’
‘It’s a wonderful spot. I love to sit in the front parlour and look out at the church.’
‘What was your father?’
Sylvie protested: ‘Mother, you sound like the Inquisition!’
‘I don’t mind,’ Ned said. ‘My father was a merchant with a warehouse in Calais, and after he died, my mother ran the business for ten years.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But she lost everything after you French took back Calais from us English.’
‘Are there any French people in Kingsbridge?’
‘Persecuted Huguenots have sought asylum all over England. Guillaume Forneron has a factory making cambric in the suburb of Loversfield. Everyone wants a shirt from Forneron.’
‘And your brother, what’s his living?’
‘He’s a sea captain. He has a ship called
Alice
.’
‘His own vessel?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Sylvie said something about a manor?’
‘Queen Elizabeth made me lord of a village called Wigleigh, not far from Kingsbridge. It’s a small place, but it has a manor house, where I stay two or three times a year.’
‘In France we would call you
Sieur de Wigleigh
.’
‘Yes.’ The name was difficult for French people to pronounce, like Willard.
‘You and your brother have recovered well from your father’s misfortune. You’re an important diplomat, and Barney owns a ship.’
Ned must have realized that Isabelle was establishing his social and financial status, Sylvie thought, but he did not appear to mind; in fact, he seemed eager to prove his respectability. All the same, Sylvie was embarrassed. Ned might think he was expected to marry her. To bring the interrogation to an end she said: ‘We have to open the shop.’
Isabelle stood up. ‘I’ll do that. You two sit and talk for a few more minutes. I’ll call you if I need you, Sylvie.’ She went out.
Sylvie said: ‘I’m sorry about her prying like that.’
‘Don’t apologize.’ Ned grinned. ‘A mother is entitled to know all about a young man who becomes friendly with her daughter.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
‘I can’t possibly be the first man who has been questioned by her in that way.’
Sylvie knew that she had to tell him her story, sooner or later. ‘There was someone, a long time ago. It was my father who questioned him.’
‘May I ask what went wrong?’
‘The man was Pierre Aumande.’
‘Good God! Was he a Protestant then?’
‘No, but he deceived us in order to spy on the congregation. An hour after the wedding we were all arrested.’
Ned reached across the table and took her hand. ‘How cruel.’
‘He broke my heart.’
‘I found out about his background, you know. His father’s a country priest, an illegitimate child of one of the Guise men. Pierre’s mother is the priest’s housekeeper.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The marchioness of Nîmes told me.’
‘Louise? She’s in our congregation – but she’s never told me this.’
‘Perhaps she’s afraid to embarrass you by talking about him.’
‘Pierre told me so many lies. That’s probably why I haven’t trusted anyone since then . . .’
Ned gave her an enquiring look. She knew it meant:
What about me?
But she was not yet ready to answer that question.
He waited a few moments, then realized she was not going to say any more. He said: ‘Well, that was a lovely dinner – thank you.’
She got up to say goodbye. He looked crestfallen, and her heart leaped in sympathy. On impulse, she went around the table and kissed him.
She intended it to be a friendly peck, but it did not work out that way. Somehow she found herself kissing his lips. It was like sweet food: one taste made her desperate for more. She put her hand behind his head and pressed her mouth to his hungrily.
He needed no more encouragement. He put both arms around her and hugged her to him. She was swept by a sensation she had forgotten, the joy of loving someone else’s body. She kept telling herself she would stop in another second.
He put both his hands on her breasts and squeezed gently, making a little sound in his throat as he did so. She thrilled to the feeling, but it brought her to her senses. She broke the kiss and pushed him away. She was panting. ‘I didn’t mean to do that,’ she said.
He said nothing, just smiled happily.
She realized she had given him the message she had wanted to withhold. But now she did not care. All the same she said: ‘You’d better go, before I do something I’ll regret.’
That thought seemed to make him even happier. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘When will I see you again?’
‘Soon. Go and say goodbye to my mother.’
He tried to kiss her again, but she put a hand on his chest and said: ‘No more.’
He accepted that. He went into the shop, saying: ‘Thank you, Madame Palot, for your hospitality.’
Sylvie sat down heavily. A moment later she heard the shop door close.
Her mother came into the back room, looking pleased. ‘He’s gone, but he’ll be back.’
Sylvie said: ‘I kissed him.’
‘I guessed that by the grin on his face.’
‘I shouldn’t have done it.’
‘I can’t think why not. I’d have kissed him myself if I were twenty years younger.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Mother. Now he will expect me to marry him.’
‘I’d do it quickly, if I were you, before some other girl grabs him.’
‘Stop it. You know perfectly well that I can’t marry him.’
‘I know no such thing! What are you talking about?’
‘We have a mission to bring the true gospel to the world.’
‘Perhaps we’ve done enough.’
Sylvie was shocked. Her mother had never talked this way.
Isabelle noticed her reaction and said defensively: ‘Even God rested on the seventh day, after he made the world.’
‘Our work isn’t finished.’
‘Perhaps it never will be, until the Last Trump.’
‘All the more reason to carry on.’
‘I want you to be happy. You’re my little girl.’
‘But what does God want? You taught me always to ask that question.’
Isabelle sighed. ‘I did. I was harder when I was young.’
‘You were wise. I can’t marry. I have a mission.’
‘All the same, regardless of Ned, one day we may have to find other ways of doing God’s will.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Perhaps it will be revealed to us.’
‘It’s in God’s hands, then, isn’t it, Mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘So we must be content.’
Isabelle sighed again. ‘Amen,’ she said, but Sylvie was not sure she meant it.
*
A
S
N
ED STEPPED
out of the shop he noticed, across the street, a shabby young man lounging outside a tavern, on his own, doing nothing. Ned turned east, heading for the English embassy. Glancing back, he saw that the shabby man was going the same way.
Ned was in high spirits. Sylvie had kissed him as if she meant it. He adored her. For the first time, he had met a girl who matched up to Margery. Sylvie was smart and brave as well as warm and sexy. He could hardly wait to see her again.
He had not forgotten Margery. He never would. But she had refused to run away with him, and he had the rest of his life to live without her. He was entitled to love someone else.
He liked Sylvie’s mother, too. Isabelle was still attractive in a middle-aged way: she had a full figure and a handsome face, and the wrinkles around her blue eyes gave character to her appearance. She had made it pretty clear that she approved of Ned.
He felt angered by the story Sylvie had told about Pierre Aumande. He had actually married her! No wonder she had gone so long without marrying again. The thought of Sylvie being betrayed like that on her wedding day made Ned want to strangle Pierre with his own hands.
But he did not let that bring him down. There was too much to be happy about. It was even possible that France might be the second major country in the world to adopt freedom of religion.
Crossing the rue St Jacques, he glanced behind and saw the shabby man from the rue de la Serpente.
He would have to do something about this.
He paused on the other side of the street to look back at the magnificent church of St Severin. The shabby man came scurrying across the road, avoiding Ned’s eye, and slipped into an alley.
Ned turned into the grounds of the little church of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. He walked across the deserted graveyard. As he turned around the east end of the church, he slipped into a recessed doorway that concealed him. Then he drew his dagger and reversed it so that the knob of the hilt stuck up between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
As the shabby man drew level with the doorway, Ned stepped out and smashed the knob of the dagger into the man’s face. The man cried out and staggered back, bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth. But he recovered his balance quickly, and turned to run. Ned went after him and tripped him, and he fell flat. Ned knelt on his back and put the point of the dagger to his neck. ‘Who sent you?’ he said.
The man swallowed blood and said: ‘I don’t know what you mean – why have you attacked me?’
Ned pushed on the dagger until it broke the dirty skin of the man’s throat and blood trickled out.
The man cried: ‘No, please!’
‘No one’s looking. I’ll kill you and walk away – unless you tell me who ordered you to follow me.’
‘All right, all right! It was Georges Biron.’
‘Who the devil is he?’
‘Lord of Montagny.’
It rang a bell. ‘Why does he want to know where I go?’
‘I don’t know, I swear to Christ! He never tells us why, just sends us.’
This man was part of a group, then. Biron must be their leader. He, or someone he worked for, had put Ned under surveillance. ‘Who else do you follow?’
‘It used to be Walsingham, then we had to switch to you.’
‘Does Biron work for some great lord?’
‘He might, but he doesn’t tell us anything. Please, it’s true.’
It made sense, Ned thought. There was no need to tell a wretch such as this the reasons for what he was doing.
He stood up, sheathed his weapon and walked away.
He crossed the place Maubert to the embassy and went in. Walsingham was in the hall. Ned said: ‘Do you know anything about Georges Biron, lord of Montagny?’
‘Yes,’ said Walsingham. ‘He’s on a list of associates of Pierre Aumande de Guise.’
‘Ah, that explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Why he’s having you and me followed.’
*
P
IERRE LOOKED AT
the little shop in the rue de la Serpente. He knew the street: this had been his neighbourhood when he was a student, all those years ago. He had frequented the tavern opposite, but the shop had not existed then.
Being here caused him to reflect on his life since then. That young student had yearned for many things that had since become his, he thought with satisfaction. He was the most trusted advisor to the Guise family. He had fine clothes and wore them to see the king. He had money, and something more valuable than money: power.
But he had worries. The Huguenots had not been stamped out – in fact, they seemed to grow stronger. The Scandinavian countries and some of the German provinces were firmly Protestant, as was the tiny kingdom of Navarre. The battle was still being fought in Scotland and the Netherlands.
There was good news from the Netherlands: the Huguenot leader Hangest had been defeated at Mons, and was now in a dungeon with some of his lieutenants, being tortured by the brutal duke of Alba. Triumphant Paris Catholics had devised a chant that could be heard every night in the taverns: