Authors: Ken Follett
Villeneuve wore an expensive red coat, but Sylvie was scared to see that he held his sword in his hand.
Lagny remained calm. ‘What brings you to my house at this time of night, Viscount?’
‘The work of Christ,’ said Villeneuve, and with a swift motion, he thrust his sword into Lagny’s belly.
Sylvie screamed.
Lagny screamed too, in agony, and fell to his knees.
As Villeneuve struggled to pull his sword out of Lagny’s guts, Sylvie ran along the hallway towards the back of the house. She threw open a door, dashed through, and found herself in a large kitchen.
In Paris, as everywhere, servants did not have the costly luxury of beds, but slept on the kitchen floor, and here a dozen staff were waking up and asking in scared voices what was going on.
Sylvie ran across the room, dodging the waking men and women, and reached the far door. It was locked, and there was no sign of a key.
She spotted an open window – letting air into a crowded room on an August night – and, without further thought, she scrambled through it.
She found herself in a yard with a henhouse and a pigeon loft. At the far side was a high stone wall with a gate. She tried to open the gate and found it locked. She could have wept with frustration and terror.
From the kitchen behind her she heard screams: Villeneuve and his men must have entered the kitchen. She guessed that they would assume all the servants were Protestants like their master – it was the usual way – and they would probably murder them all before coming after her.
She scrambled up onto the roof of the henhouse, causing a cacophony of squawking inside. Between the roof and the yard wall was a gap of only about a yard. Sylvie jumped it. Landing on the narrow top of the wall she lost her balance and fell to her knees painfully, but regained her balance. She dropped down the far side of the wall to a smelly lane.
She ran the length of the lane. It emerged into the rue du Mur. She headed for her warehouse, running as fast as she could. She reached it without seeing anyone. She unlocked the door, slipped inside, closed the door behind her, and locked it.
She was safe. She leaned on the door with her cheek against the wood. She had escaped, she thought with a strange sense of elation. A thought came into her mind that surprised her:
I don’t want to die now that I’ve met Ned Willard.
*
W
ALSINGHAM IMMEDIATELY SAW
the significance of the missing notebook, and assigned Ned and several others to call at the homes of prominent English Protestants in Paris, advising them to take refuge in the embassy. There were not enough horses for all and Ned went on foot. He wore high riding boots and a leather jerkin, despite the warmth of the night, and he was armed with a sword and a dagger with a two-foot-long sharpened blade.
He had completed his task, and was leaving the last of the houses assigned to him, when the bells began to ring.
He was worried about Sylvie. Pierre’s plan required the murders only of aristocratic Protestants, but once men started to kill it was hard to stop them. Two weeks ago Sylvie might have been safe, for her life as a Protestant bookseller had been a well-kept secret, but last week Ned had led Pierre to her home, and now she was probably on Pierre’s list. Ned wanted to bring her and her mother to the embassy for protection.
He made his way to the rue de la Serpente and banged on the door of the shop.
The upstairs window opened and a figure leaned out. ‘Who is it?’ The voice belonged to Isabelle.
‘Ned Willard.’
‘Wait, I’ll come down.’
The window was shut and, a few moments later, the front door was opened. ‘Come inside,’ said Isabelle.
Ned stepped in and she closed the door. A single candle lit the shelves with their ledgers and ink bottles. Ned said: ‘Where’s Sylvie?’
‘Still out warning people.’
‘It’s too late for warnings now.’
‘She may have taken refuge.’
Ned was disappointed and worried. ‘Where do you think she might be?’
‘She was going to work her way north along the rue St Martin and end up at the home of the marquess of Lagny. She might be there. Or . . .’ Isabelle hesitated.
Ned said impatiently: ‘Where else? Her life is in danger!’
‘There’s a secret place. You must swear never to reveal it.’
‘I swear.’
‘In the rue du Mur, two hundred yards from the corner of the rue St Denis, there is an old brick stable with one door and no windows.’
‘Good enough.’ He hesitated. ‘Will you be all right?’
She opened a drawer in the table and showed him two single-shot pocket pistols with wheel-lock firing mechanisms, plus half a dozen balls and a box of gunpowder. ‘I keep these for when a drunk comes out of the tavern across the street and asks himself how hard it can be to rob a shop run by two women.’
‘Have you ever shot anyone?’
‘No. Waving the guns was always enough.’
He put his hand on the door handle. ‘Bar the door behind me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Make sure all your window shutters are tightly closed and latched on the inside.’
‘Yes.’
‘Put out your candle. Don’t open the door to anyone. If someone knocks, don’t speak. Let them think the building is empty.’
‘All right.’
‘Sylvie and I will come back here for you then all three of us will go together to the English embassy.’
Ned opened the door.
Isabelle grabbed his arm. ‘Take care of her,’ she said, and there was a catch in her voice. ‘Whatever happens, look after my little girl.’
‘That’s what I mean to do,’ Ned said, and he hurried away.
The bells were still ringing. There were not many people on the streets of the left bank. However, as Ned crossed the Notre Dame bridge with its expensive shops, he was shocked to see two dead bodies in the street. A man and a woman in nightwear had been stabbed to death. Ned was sickened by the domesticity of the sight: husband and wife lying side by side, as if in bed, except that their nightgowns were soaked with blood.
The door of a nearby jewellery store stood open, and Ned saw two men emerging with sacks, presumably full of looted valuables. The men glared aggressively at him and he hurried past. He did not want to be delayed by an altercation with them, and they clearly felt the same, for they did not follow him.
On the right bank he saw a group of men hammering at a door. They had strips of white cloth tied to their arms in what Ned guessed was a form of identification. Most were armed with daggers and clubs, but one, better dressed than the others, had a sword. This one shouted in an educated voice: ‘Open up, blaspheming Protestants!’
The men were Catholics, then, and they formed a squad led by an officer. Ned figured that they must be part of the town militia. Jerónima’s information had suggested a mass slaughter of Protestant noblemen, but the house he was passing was an ordinary residence, that of a craftsman or small merchant. As he had feared, the killing was spreading beyond the original aristocratic targets. The result could be truly horrifying.
He felt cowardly sneaking past the scene, hoping the men with the white armbands would not see him. But no other action made sense. On his own he could not save the occupants of the house from six attackers. If he confronted them, they would kill him, then return their attention to the house. And he had to find Sylvie.
Ned followed the broad rue St Martin northwards, keeping his eyes peeled in the starlight, looking down the side streets, hoping to see a small woman with an upright stance and a brisk step coming towards him with a relieved smile. Glancing down an alley he saw another group of men with white armbands, three of them this time, rough-looking, none carrying swords. He was about to hurry past when something about the scene arrested him.
The men had their backs to him, looking at something on the ground, and Ned spotted what was horribly like the graceful shape of a young woman’s leg.
He stopped and stared. It was dark, but one of the men held a lamp. As Ned peered more closely, he saw that a girl lay on the ground, and a fourth man was kneeling between her thighs. She was moaning, and after a moment Ned made out that she was saying: ‘No, no, no . . .’
He felt a powerful impulse to run away, but he could not. It looked as if the rape had not actually begun. If he intervened in the next few seconds he could prevent it.
Or he could get killed.
The men were intent on the woman, and had not seen him, but at any moment one of them might glance backwards. There was no time to think.
Ned set down his lantern and drew his sword.
He crept up behind the group. Before fear could stop him, he stuck the point of his sword in the nearest man’s thigh.
The man roared with agony.
Ned pulled his sword out. The next man was turning around to see what was happening, and Ned slashed at him. It was a lucky stroke, and the tip of the blade gashed the man’s face from the chin up to the left eye. He yelled in pain and put both hands to his face. Blood spurted through his fingers.
The third spectator looked at his two wounded comrades, panicked, and ran away down the alley.
After a moment, the two men Ned had stabbed did the same.
The man on his knees jumped up and followed, holding up his breeches with both hands.
Ned sheathed his bloody sword, then knelt beside the girl and pulled her dress down over her legs, covering her nakedness.
Only then did he look at her face and realize she was Aphrodite Beaulieu.
She was not even a Protestant. Ned wondered what she had been doing on the street at night. Her parents would not have allowed her to wander around alone even in the daytime. Ned thought she might have had an assignation, and remembered how happily she had smiled at Bernard Housse in the Louvre. And she would probably have got away with it, had this not been the night that someone decided to let slip the dogs of war.
She looked at him and said: ‘Ned Willard? Thank God! But how . . . ?’
He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘No time for explanations,’ he said. The Beaulieu mansion was not far away in the rue St Denis. ‘Let me take you home.’ He picked up his lantern and took her arm.
She seemed too shocked to speak or even cry.
Ned looked about him warily as they walked. No one was safe.
They were almost at her house when four men with white armbands came out of a side street and accosted them. One said: ‘Are you running away, Protestants?’
Ned’s heart went cold. He thought of drawing his sword, but they had swords too, and there were four of them. He had taken the last lot by surprise, and scared them, but these four stood facing him with their hands on their hilts, ready for action. He did not stand a chance.
He would have to talk his way out of this. They would automatically suspect any foreigner, of course. His accent was good enough to fool people – Parisians thought he came from Calais – but sometimes he made childish mistakes of grammar, and he prayed that he would not give himself away now by saying
le maison
instead of
la maison
.
He summoned up a sneer. ‘This is Mademoiselle Beaulieu, you damn fool,’ he said. ‘She’s a good Catholic, and the count of Beaulieu’s mansion is right there. You lay a finger on her and I’ll rouse the entire household.’ It was not an empty threat: he was within shouting distance. But Aphrodite gripped his arm harder, and he guessed she did not want her parents to know that she had been out.
The leader of the group looked sly. ‘If she’s a Catholic noblewoman, what’s she doing on the street at this time of night?’
‘We’ll get her father to answer that question, shall we?’ Ned maintained his pose of confident arrogance, but it was a struggle. ‘And then he can ask you what the devil you think you’re doing pestering his daughter.’ He took a deep breath and raised his head, as if about to shout for help.
‘All right, all right,’ said the leader. ‘But the Huguenots have risen up against the king, and the militia has been ordered to seek them out and kill them all, so you’d both better get inside the house and stay there.’
Ned did not let his relief show. ‘And you’d better be more careful how you address Catholic noblemen,’ he said, and he escorted Aphrodite past the men. Their leader said no more.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Aphrodite said: ‘I have to go in the back way.’
He nodded. It was as he had guessed. ‘Is there a door unlocked?’
‘My maid is waiting.’
It was the oldest of stories. Aphrodite’s maid was helping her mistress have an unauthorized romance. Well, that was none of Ned’s business. He walked her to the back of the house where she tapped on a high wooden gate. It was opened immediately by a young girl.
Aphrodite took Ned’s hand in a fierce grip and kissed his fingers. ‘I owe you my life,’ she said. Then she slipped inside, and the gate closed behind her.
Ned headed for the Lagny home, even more wary than before. He was alone now, and therefore more suspect. He touched the hilt of his sword nervously.
Many houses were now showing lights. The inhabitants, alarmed by the bells, had presumably got up and lit candles. Pale faces appeared at windows, staring out anxiously.
Fortunately, the Lagny place was not far. As he walked up the steps to the front door the building was dark and silent. Perhaps Lagny and his servants were pretending the house was empty, as Ned had urged Isabelle to do.
When he knocked on the door it moved. Apparently it had not been fully closed and now it swung open, revealing a dark hall. Ned smelled a disgusting odour, like a butcher’s shop. He held his lantern aloft and gasped.
There were bodies everywhere, and blood all over the tiled floor and the panelled wall. He recognized the marquess, lying on his back with stab wounds in his belly and chest. Ned’s heart stopped. He held his lantern over the faces of the other corpses, dreading that one of them would be Sylvie. They were all strangers, and by their dress he guessed servants.
He went into the kitchen, where there were more. He saw an open window leading to a yard, and hoped that some of the household had escaped that way.