Authors: Ken Follett
Henri now said: ‘The invasion force will need plans of suitable harbours for the landing.’
Rollo realized that Pierre had choreographed this event. He already knew the answers to every question. The point of the meeting was to let each attendee know that all the others were willing to play their parts.
Now Rollo said: ‘I will get the maps.’
Henri looked at Rollo. ‘On your own?’
‘No, duke, not alone. I have a large network of powerful and wealthy Catholics in England.’ It was Margery’s network, not Rollo’s, but no one here realized that. And Rollo had always insisted on knowing where his priests were being sent, on the pretext of making sure they would be compatible with their protectors.
Henri said: ‘Can you rely on these people?’
‘Your grace, they are not just Catholics. They are men who are already risking the death penalty for harbouring the priests I have been smuggling into England for the last ten years. They are utterly trustworthy.’
The duke looked impressed. ‘I see.’
‘Not only will they supply maps: they will be the core of the uprising that will support the invasion.’
‘Very good,’ said Henri.
Pierre spoke for the first time. ‘There remains one essential element: Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots. We cannot embark on this enterprise unless we have a clear commitment from her that she will support the rebellion, authorize the execution of Elizabeth, and assume the crown herself.’
Rollo took a deep breath. ‘I will undertake to make sure of her,’ he said. He silently prayed that he would be able to keep this ambitious promise.
Henri said: ‘But she is in prison, and her letters are monitored.’
‘That’s a problem, but not insuperable.’
The duke seemed satisfied with that. He looked around the room. With the brisk impatience common to powerful men, he said: ‘I think that’s all. Gentlemen, thank you for your attendance.’
Rollo glanced to the door and saw, to his surprise, that the three servants had been joined by a fourth person, a man in his early twenties whose hair was cut in the short style fashionable among students. He looked vaguely familiar. Whoever he was, he had presumably heard Rollo promise to betray his country. Unnerved, Rollo pointed and said loudly: ‘Who is that man?’
Pierre answered: ‘It’s my stepson. What the devil are you doing here, Alain?’
Rollo recognized him now. He had seen the boy several times over the years. He had the blond hair and beard of the Guise family. ‘My mother is ill,’ Alain said.
Rollo watched with interest the procession of emotions over Pierre’s face. At first, fleetingly, there was a look of hope, quickly repressed; then a mask of concern that did not quite convince Rollo; and finally an expression of brisk efficiency as he said: ‘Summon a doctor immediately. Run to the Louvre and fetch Ambroise Paré – I don’t care about the cost. My beloved Odette must have the best possible care. Go, boy, hurry!’ Pierre turned back to the duke and said: ‘If you have no further need of me, your grace . . .’
‘Go, Pierre,’ said Henri.
Pierre left the room, and Rollo thought: Now what was that pantomime about?
*
N
ED
W
ILLARD HAD
come to Paris to meet Jerónima Ruiz, but he had to be very careful. If she were suspected of passing secret information to Ned, she would be executed – and so might he.
He stood in a bookshop in the shadow of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The shop had once been owned by Sylvie’s father. Ned had not known Sylvie at the time, but she had pointed out the place to him in 1572, when they were courting. Now the shop was owned by someone else, and Ned was using it as a convenient place to loiter.
He studied the titles on the spines of the books and, at the same time, kept an anxious eye on the great west front of the church with its twin towers. As soon as the tall church doors opened he abandoned his pretence of shopping and hurried outside.
The first person to emerge from the cathedral was Henri III, who had become king of France when his brother, Charles IX, died nine years ago. Ned watched him smile and wave to the crowd of Parisians in the square. The king was thirty-one. He had dark eyes and dark hair already receding at the temples to give him a widow’s peak. He was what the English called a ‘politician’ – in French
un politique
– meaning that he made decisions about religion according to what he thought would be good for his country, rather than the other way around.
He was closely followed by his mother, Queen Caterina, now a dumpy old lady of sixty-four wearing a widow’s cap. The queen mother had borne five sons, but all had suffered poor health, and so far three had died young. Even worse, none of them had ever fathered a son, which was why the brothers had succeeded one another as kings of France. However, this bad luck had made Caterina the most powerful woman in Europe. Like Queen Elizabeth, she had used her power to arbitrate religious conflict by compromise rather than violence; like Elizabeth, she had had limited success.
As the royal party disappeared across the bridge to the right bank, there was a general exodus from the three arched doorways of the cathedral, and Ned joined the crowd, hoping he was inconspicuous among the many people who had come to look at the king.
He spotted Jerónima Ruiz in seconds. It was not hard to pick her out from the mob. She wore red, as usual. She was now in her early forties: the hour-glass figure of her youth had thickened, her hair was not so lush, and her lips were no longer full. However, she walked with a sway and looked out alluringly from under black eyelashes. She still radiated sex more powerfully than any other woman in sight – although Ned sensed that what had once been carelessly natural was now achieved with conscious effort.
Her eyes met his. There was a flash of recognition, then she looked away.
He could not approach her openly: their meeting had to look accidental. It also had to be brief.
He contrived to get close to her. She was with Cardinal Romero, though for the sake of appearances, she was not on his arm, but walking a little way behind him. When the cardinal stopped to speak to Viscount Villeneuve, Ned casually came alongside her.
Continuing to smile at no one in particular, Jerónima said: ‘I’m risking my life. We can talk for only a few seconds.’
‘All right.’ Ned looked around as if in idle curiosity while keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might notice the two of them.
Jerónima said: ‘The duke of Guise is planning to invade England.’
‘God’s body!’ said Ned. ‘How—’
‘Be quiet and listen,’ she snapped. ‘Otherwise I won’t have time to tell you everything.’
‘Sorry.’
‘There will be two incursions, one on the east coast and one on the south.’
Ned had to ask: ‘How many men?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please go on.’
‘There’s not much more. Both armies will muster local support and march on London.’
‘This information is priceless.’ Ned thanked God that Jerónima hated the Catholic Church for torturing her father. It struck him that her motivation was similar to his own: he had hated authoritarian religion ever since his family had been ruined by Bishop Julius and his cronies. Any time his determination weakened, he thought of how they had stolen everything his mother had worked for all her life, and how a strong and clever woman had seemed to fade away until her merciful death. The pain of the memory flared like an old wound, and reinforced Ned’s will.
He glanced sideways at Jerónima. Close up, he could see the lines on her face, and he sensed a hard cynicism below her sensual surface. She had become Romero’s mistress when she was eighteen. She had done well to maintain his affection into her forties, but it had to be a strain.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said. His gratitude was heartfelt. But there was something else he needed to know. ‘The duke of Guise must have English collaborators.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘No. Remember, my source of information is pillow talk. I don’t get to ask probing questions. If I did, I would fall under suspicion.’
‘I understand, of course.’
‘What news of Barney?’ she said, and Ned detected a wistful note.
‘He spends his life at sea. He has never married. But he has a son, nineteen years old.’
‘Nineteen,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Where do the years go?’
‘His name is Alfo. He shows some signs of having his father’s aptitude for making money.’
‘A clever boy, then – like all the Willards.’
‘He is clever, yes.’
‘Give Barney my love, Ned.’
‘One more thing.’
‘Make it quick – Romero is coming.’
Ned needed a permanent channel through which to communicate with Jerónima. He improvised hastily. ‘When you get back to Madrid, a man will come to your house to sell you a cream to keep your face young.’ He was fairly sure he could arrange that through English merchants in Spain.
She smiled ruefully. ‘I use plenty of that kind of thing.’
‘Any information you give him will reach me in London.’
‘I understand.’ She turned away from Ned and beamed at the cardinal, sticking out her chest as she did so. They walked away together, Jerónima wiggling her ample behind. Ned thought they looked sad: a no-longer-young prostitute making the most of her tired charms to retain the affection of a corrupt, pot-bellied old priest.
Sometimes Ned felt he lived in a rotten world.
*
T
HE ILLNESS OF
Odette excited Pierre even more than the invasion of England.
Odette was the only obstacle on his path to greatness. He was the duke’s principal advisor, listened to more carefully and trusted farther than ever before. He lived in a suite of rooms in the palace in the Vieille rue du Temple with Odette, Alain, and their long-time maid Nath. He had been given the lordship of a small village in Champagne, which permitted him to call himself
sieur de Mesnil
, a member of the gentry though not of the nobility. Perhaps Duke Henri would never make him a count, but the French aristocracy had won the right to appoint men to high clerical office without approval from Rome, and he could have asked Duke Henri to make him abbot of a monastery, or even a bishop – if only he had not been married.
But perhaps now Odette would die. That thought filled him with a hope that was almost painful. He would be free, free to rise up in the councils of the mighty, with almost no limit to how high he might go.
Odette’s symptoms were pain after eating, diarrhoea, bloody stools, and tiredness. She had always been heavy, but her fat had melted away, probably because the pain discouraged her from eating. Doctor Paré had diagnosed stomach fever complicated by dry heat, and said she should drink plenty of weak beer and watered wine.
Pierre’s only dread was that she might recover.
Unfortunately, Alain took good care of her. He had abandoned his studies and rarely left her bedside. Pierre despised the boy, but he was surprisingly well liked by the staff of the palace, who felt sorry for him because his mother was ill. He had arranged to have meals sent to their suite, and he slept on the floor of her room.
When he could, Pierre fed Odette all the things Paré said she should avoid: brandy and strong wine, spices and salty food. This often gave her muscle cramps and headaches, and her breath became foul. If he could have had the exclusive care of Odette he might have killed her this way, but Alain was never absent long enough.
When she began to get better, Pierre saw the prospect of a bishopric receding from his destiny, and he felt desperate.
The next time Dr Paré called he said Odette was on the mend, and Pierre’s heart sank farther. The sweet prospect of freedom from this vulgar woman began to fade, and he felt disappointment like a wound.
‘She should drink a strengthening potion now,’ the doctor said. He asked for pen, paper and ink, which Alain quickly supplied. ‘The Italian apothecary across the street, Giglio, can make this up for you in a few minutes – it’s just honey, liquorice, rosemary and pepper.’ He wrote on the piece of paper and handed it to Alain.
A wild thought came into Pierre’s head. Without working out the details he decided to get rid of Alain. He gave the boy a coin and said: ‘Go and get it now.’
Alain was reluctant. He looked at Odette, who had fallen asleep on her feather pillow. ‘I don’t like to leave her.’
Could he possibly have divined the mad idea that had inspired Pierre? Surely not.
‘Send Nath,’ Alain said.
‘Nath went to the fish market. You go to the apothecary. I’ll keep an eye on Odette. I won’t leave her alone, don’t worry.’
Still Alain hesitated. He was scared of Pierre – most people were scared of Pierre – but he could be stubborn at times.
Paré said: ‘Go along, lad. The sooner she drinks that potion, the sooner she will recover.’
Alain could hardly defy the doctor, and he left the room.
Pierre said dismissively: ‘Thank you for your diligence, doctor. It’s much appreciated.’
‘I’m always glad to help a member of the Guise family, of course.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell Duke Henri.’
‘How is the duke?’
Pierre was desperate to get Paré out of the room before Alain returned. ‘Very well,’ he answered. Odette made a faint noise in her sleep, and Pierre said: ‘I think she wants the piss pot.’
‘I’ll leave you, then,’ said Paré, and he went out.
This was Pierre’s chance. His heart was in his mouth. He could solve all his problems now, in a few minutes.
He could kill Odette.
Two things had kept him from doing it before she fell ill. One was her physical strength: he had not been sure he could overpower her. The other was the fear of Cardinal Charles’s wrath. Charles had warned that if Odette died he would destroy Pierre, regardless of the circumstances.
But now Odette was weak and Charles was dead.
Would Pierre be suspected anyway? He took pains to play the role of devoted husband. Charles had not been fooled, nor had Alain, but others had, including Henri, who knew nothing of the history. Alain might accuse Pierre, but Pierre would be able to portray Alain as a bereaved son hysterically blaming his stepfather for a quite natural death. Henri would believe that story.