Authors: Ken Follett
And in a minute Rollo would be in their hands.
Throckmorton said: ‘I’ll tell my man to say I’m out.’ He opened the parlour door, but he was too late: Rollo heard the front door opening and the sound of demanding voices. Everything was moving too fast.
‘Go and stall them,’ said Rollo.
Throckmorton stepped into the entrance hall, saying: ‘Now, now, what’s all this racket?’
Rollo looked at the letters on the table. They were unmistakably incriminating. If they contained what he thought they did, they would condemn him and Throckmorton to death.
The entire scheme was in jeopardy, unless Rollo could get out of this in the next few seconds.
He picked up the letters and stepped through the half-open door into the back room. It had a window onto the yard. He opened it swiftly and clambered through. As he did so he heard the voice of Ned Willard, familiar to him since childhood, coming from the parlour.
In the middle of the yard was a fire of dead leaves, kitchen sweepings and soiled straw from the stable. Looking farther down the yard he saw, in the shifting red light of the bonfire, the outline of a man approaching through the trees. He must be a third member of Ned’s team, Rollo reckoned: Ned was meticulous, and he would not have omitted to cover the back exit from the house.
The man shouted at Rollo: ‘Hey, you!’
Rollo had to make a split-second decision.
Throckmorton was doomed. He would be arrested and tortured, and he would tell all he knew before he was executed. But he did not know the real identity of Jean Langlais. He could betray nobody except the laundress, Peg Bradford; and she was an ignorant labourer who would do nothing with her worthless life but give birth to more ignorant labourers. Crucially, Throckmorton could not incriminate Mary Stuart. The only proof against her was in the letters Rollo held in his hand.
He crumpled the letters and threw them into the bright yellow heart of the fire.
The third man ran towards him.
Rollo stayed precious seconds to see the paper flare up, blacken, and begin crumbling into ash.
When the evidence had been destroyed he surprised the third man by running straight at him. He gave the man a violent shove, causing him to fall to the ground, and ran on past.
Rollo ran down the length of the yard. It led to the muddy beach of the river Thames.
He turned along the waterfront and kept running.
*
I
N THE SPRING
of 1584, Pierre went to watch the marchioness of Nîmes being evicted from her house.
Her husband, the marquess, had got away with being a Protestant for decades, but Pierre had been patient. The country house in the suburb of St Jacques had continued to be a centre for heretical activities even after Pierre’s great coup in 1559 when he had had the entire congregation arrested. But now, in 1584, Paris was in thrall to an unofficial group called the Catholic League, dedicated to wiping out Protestantism, and Pierre had been able to haul the marquess before the supreme court called the Parlement of Paris and have him sentenced to death.
Pierre had never really been interested in the old marquess. The person he really hated was Marchioness Louise, now a glamorous widow in her forties. The property of heretics such as the marquess was confiscated, so his execution had left her destitute.
Pierre had waited twenty-five years for this moment.
He arrived just as the marchioness was confronting the bailiff in the entrance hall. He stood with the bailiff’s men, watching, and she did not notice him.
She was surrounded by the evidence of the wealth she had lost: oil paintings of country scenes on the panelled walls, carved hall chairs gleaming with polish, marble underfoot and chandeliers above. She wore a green silk gown that seemed to flow like water over her generous hips. When she was young every man had stared at her large bust, and she was still shapely.
‘How dare you?’ she was saying to the bailiff in a voice of authority. ‘You cannot force a noblewoman to leave her home.’
The bailiff had undoubtedly done this before. He spoke politely, but he was unyielding. ‘I advise you to go quietly, my lady,’ he said. ‘If you don’t walk, you’ll be carried, which is undignified.’
She moved closer to him and pulled back her shoulders, drawing attention to her breasts. ‘You can use your discretion,’ she said in a warmer voice. ‘Come back in a week, when I will have had time to make arrangements.’
‘The court gave you time, my lady, and that time is now up.’
Neither haughtiness nor charm had worked, and she allowed her despair to show. ‘I can’t leave my house, I have nowhere to go!’ she wailed. ‘I can’t even rent a room because I have no money, not one sou. My parents are dead and all my friends are terrified to help me for fear that they, too, will be accused of heresy!’
Pierre studied her, enjoying the tears on her face and the note of panic in her voice. It was the marchioness who had snubbed young Pierre, a quarter of a century ago. Sylvie had proudly introduced him to the young Louise, he had uttered some pleasantry that had displeased her, and she had said: ‘Even in Champagne, they should teach young men to be respectful to their superiors.’ Then she had pointedly turned her back. The memory still made him wince.
He relished the reversal of position now. He had recently been made abbot of Holy Tree, a monastery that owned thousands of acres of land in Champagne. He took the income for himself and left the monks to live in poverty, in accordance with their vows. He was rich and powerful, whereas Louise was penniless and helpless.
The bailiff said: ‘The weather is warm. You can sleep in the forest. Or, if it rains, the convent of St Marie-Madeleine in the rue de la Croix takes in homeless women.’
Louise seemed genuinely shocked. ‘That place is for prostitutes!’
The bailiff shrugged.
Louise began to weep. Her shoulders slumped, she covered her face with her hands, and her chest heaved with sobs.
Pierre found her distress arousing.
At that point he came to her rescue.
He stepped out of the little group by the door and stood between the bailiff and the marchioness. ‘Calm yourself, Madame,’ he said. ‘The Guise family will not allow a noblewoman to sleep in the forest.’
She took her hands from her face and looked at him through her tears. ‘Pierre Aumande,’ she said. ‘Have you come to mock me?’
She would suffer even more for not calling him Pierre Aumande de Guise. ‘I’m here to help you in your emergency,’ he said. ‘If you would care to come with me, I’ll take you to a place of safety.’
She remained standing where she was. ‘Where?’
‘An apartment has been reserved, and paid for, in a quiet neighbourhood. There is a maid. It is not lavish, but you won’t be uncomfortable. Come and look at it. I feel sure it will serve you temporarily, at least.’
Clearly she did not know whether to believe him. The Guises hated Protestants: why would they be good to her? But after a long moment of hesitation she realized she had no other options, and she said: ‘Let me put some things in a bag.’
The bailiff said: ‘No jewellery. I will inspect the bag as you leave.’
She made no reply, but turned on her heel and left the room with her head held high.
Pierre could hardly contain his impatience. Soon he would have this woman under his control.
The marchioness was no relation to the Guises, and stood on the opposite side in the religious war, but somehow in Pierre’s mind they were the same. The Guises used him as their advisor and hatchet man but, even now, they disdained him socially. He was their most influential and highly rewarded servant, but still a servant; always invited to a council of war and never to a family dinner. He could not be revenged for that rejection. But he could punish Louise.
She returned with a leather bag stuffed full. The bailiff, true to his threat, opened it and took everything out. She had packed dozens of pieces of beautiful silk and linen underwear, embroidered and beribboned. It made Pierre think about what she might be wearing beneath her green dress today.
With characteristic arrogance she handed the bag to Pierre, as if he were a footman.
He did not disillusion her. That would come, in good time.
He led her outside. Biron and Brocard were waiting with the horses. They had brought an extra mount for the marchioness. They rode out of the Nîmes estate, entered Paris through St Jacques Gate, and followed the rue St Jacques to the Petit Pont. They crossed the Île de la Cité and made their way to a modest house not far from the Guise palace. Pierre dismissed Biron and Brocard and told them to take the horses home, then he escorted Louise inside. ‘You have the top floor,’ he told her.
‘Who else lives here?’ she said anxiously.
He answered truthfully. ‘A different tenant on each floor. Most of them have done work for the Guises in the past: a retired tutor, a seamstress whose eyesight has failed, a Spanish woman who does translations occasionally. All very respectable.’ And none willing to risk losing their place by displeasing Pierre.
Louise looked somewhat reassured.
They went up the stairs. Louise was panting when they reached the top. ‘This climb is going to tire me out,’ she complained.
Pierre was pleased. That meant she was already accepting that she would live here.
The maid bowed them in. Pierre showed Louise the salon, the kitchen, the scullery, and finally the bedroom. She was pleasantly surprised. Pierre had said it was not lavish but, in fact, he had furnished the small apartment expensively: he planned to spend time here.
Louise was evidently confused. Someone she thought of as an enemy was being generous to her. Pierre could see from her face that nothing was making sense. Good.
He closed the bedroom door, and she began to understand.
‘I remember staring at these,’ he said, and put his hands on her breasts.
She stepped back. ‘Did you expect me to become your mistress?’ she said scornfully.
Pierre smiled. ‘You are my mistress,’ he said, and the words delighted him. ‘Take off your dress.’
‘No.’
‘I’ll rip it off you.’
‘I’ll scream.’
‘Go ahead and scream. The maid is expecting it.’ He gave her a powerful shove and she fell back on the bed.
She said: ‘No, please.’
‘You don’t even remember,’ he snarled. ‘
Even in Champagne, they should teach young men to be respectful to their superiors.
That’s what you said to me, twenty-five years ago.’
She stared up at him in horrified incredulity. ‘And for that, you punish me like this?’
‘Open your legs,’ he said. ‘It’s only just begun.’
*
A
FTERWARDS
,
WALKING
to the Guise palace, Pierre felt as he sometimes did after a feast: sated but slightly nauseated. He loved to see an aristocrat humiliated, but this had almost been too much. He would go back, of course; but perhaps not for a few days. She was rich food.
When he arrived home, he found, waiting for him in the parlour of his apartment, Rollo Fitzgerald, the Englishman he had codenamed Jean Langlais.
Pierre was irritated. He wanted an hour to himself, to get over what he had just done, and let his turbulent thoughts become calm again. Instead he had to go right to work.
Rollo was carrying a canvas case which he now opened to produce a sheaf of maps. ‘Every major harbour on the south and east coasts of England,’ he said proudly. He put the maps on Pierre’s writing table.
Pierre examined them. They were drawn by different hands, some more artistic than others, but they all seemed admirably clear, with moorings, quays and dangerous shallows carefully marked. ‘These are good,’ he said, ‘though they’ve been a long time coming.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry,’ Rollo said. ‘But the arrest of Throckmorton set us back.’
‘What’s happening to him?’
‘He’s been convicted of treason and sentenced to death.’
‘Another martyr.’
Rollo said pointedly: ‘I hope his death will not be in vain.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is the duke of Guise still determined to invade England?’
‘Absolutely. He wants to see Mary Stuart on the English throne, and so does almost every important European leader.’
‘Good. Mary’s jailers have raised the level of security around her, but I will find a way to re-establish communication.’
‘So we could begin planning the invasion for next year, 1585?’
‘Absolutely.’
Pierre’s stepson came into the room. ‘News from Picardy,’ he said. ‘Hercule-Francis is dead.’
‘Dear God!’ said Pierre. Hercule-Francis was the youngest son of the late King Henri and Queen Caterina. ‘This is a catastrophe,’ Pierre said to Rollo. ‘He was the heir to the throne.’
Rollo frowned. ‘But there’s nothing wrong with King Henri III,’ he said. ‘Why are you worried about his heir?’
‘Henri is the third brother to be king. The previous two died young and without sons, so Henri may do the same.’
‘So, now that Hercule-Francis is dead, who is the heir to the throne?’
‘That’s the disaster. It’s the king of Navarre. And he’s a Protestant.’
Rollo said indignantly: ‘But France cannot have a Protestant king!’
‘It certainly cannot.’ And the king of Navarre was also a member of the Bourbon family, ancient enemies of the Guises, which was another compelling reason for keeping him far from the throne. ‘We must get the Pope to disallow the claim of the king of Navarre.’ Pierre was thinking aloud. Duke Henri would call a council of war before the end of the day, and Pierre needed to have a plan ready. ‘There will be civil war again, and the duke of Guise will lead the Catholic forces. I must go to the duke.’ He stood up.
Rollo pointed at his maps. ‘But what about the invasion of England?’
‘England will have to wait,’ said Pierre.
24
Alison went riding with Mary Stuart on Mary’s forty-third birthday. Their breath turned to mist in the cold morning air, and Alison was grateful for the heat of her pony, Garçon, under her. They were accompanied by a squadron of men-at-arms. Mary and all her people were banned from speaking to anyone outside the group at any time. If a child offered the queen an apple, it would be snatched away by a soldier.