by Ken Follett
Bart and Ruth disappeared from view, and Margery said: ‘Ned!’
He stopped and looked around, puzzled.
She pushed open the oven door. ‘In here!’
He did not need to be asked twice. He scrambled in with her and she shut the door.
It was pitch-dark, but they were lying knee to knee and chin to chin, and she could feel the length of his body. He kissed her.
She kissed him back hungrily. Whatever else happened, he still loved her, and for the moment that was all she cared about. She had been afraid that he would forget her in Calais. She thought he would meet French girls who were more sophisticated and exciting than little Marge Fitzgerald from Kingsbridge. But he had not, she could tell, from the way he hugged and kissed and caressed her. Overjoyed, she put her hands on his head and opened her mouth to his tongue and arched her body against his.
He rolled on top of her. At that moment, she would have opened her body to him gladly and let him take her virginity, but something happened. There was a thump, as if his foot had struck something, then a noise that might have been a panel of wood falling to the ground and suddenly she could see the walls of the oven around her.
She and Ned were both sufficiently startled to stop what they were doing and look up. They saw that the back of the oven had fallen away. Clearly it connected with another place that was dimly lit and Margery realized with trepidation that there might be people there who could see what she and Ned were doing. She sat upright and looked through the hole.
There was no one in sight. She saw a wall with an arrow-slit window that was admitting the last of the afternoon light. A small space behind the old oven had simply been closed off by the building of the new house. It led nowhere: the only access was through the oven. On the floor was a panel of wood that must have closed up the hole until Ned kicked it in his excitement. Margery could hear voices, but they came from the courtyard outside. She breathed more easily: they had not been seen.
She crawled through the hole and stood upright in the little space. Ned followed her. They both looked around wonderingly, and Ned said: ‘We could stay here for ever.’
That brought Margery back to reality, and she realized how close she had come to committing a mortal sin. Desire had almost overwhelmed her knowledge of right and wrong. She had had a lucky escape.
Her intention in bringing Ned here had been to speak to him, not kiss him. She said: ‘Ned, they want to make me marry Bart. What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ned.
*
SWITHIN WAS quite drunk, Rollo saw. The earl was slumped on a big chair opposite the stage, a goblet in his right hand. A young serving girl refilled his glass, and as she did so he grasped her breast with his maimed left hand. She squealed with horror and pulled away, spilling the wine, and Swithin laughed.
An actor came on stage and began a prologue, explaining that in order to tell a story of repentance it was necessary first to show the sin, and apologizing in advance if this should give offence.
Rollo saw his sister Margery come slinking into the room with Ned Willard, and he frowned in disapproval. They had taken advantage of the game of Hunt the Hart to go off together, Rollo realized, and no doubt they had got up to all kinds of mischief.
Rollo did not understand his sister. She took religion very seriously, but she had always been disobedient. How could that be? For Rollo, the essence of religion was submission to authority. That was the trouble with Protestants: they thought they had the right to make up their own minds. But Margery was a devout Catholic.
On stage a character called Infidelity appeared, identifiable by his oversized codpiece. He winked and spoke behind his hand and looked from left to right as if making sure he was not overheard by any other characters. The audience laughed as they recognized an exaggerated version of a type they all knew.
Rollo had been unnerved by the conversation with Sir William Cecil, but now he thought he might have overreacted. Princess Elizabeth probably was a Protestant, but it was too soon to worry about her: after all, Queen Mary Tudor was only forty-one and in good health, apart from the phantom pregnancies – she could reign for decades more.
Mary Magdalene appeared on stage. Clearly this was the saint before her repentance. She sashayed on in a red dress, fussing with her necklace, batting her eyes at Infidelity. Her lips were reddened with some kind of dye.
Rollo was surprised because he had not seen a woman among the actors. Furthermore, although he had not seen a play before, he was pretty sure women were not allowed to act. The company had appeared to consist of four men and a boy of about thirteen. Rollo frowned at Mary Magdalene, puzzled; then it occurred to him that she was the same size and build as the boy.
The truth began to dawn on the audience, and there were murmurs of admiration and surprise. But Rollo also heard low but clear noises of protest and, looking around, he saw that they came from the corner where Philbert Cobley stood with his family. Catholics were relaxed about plays, provided there was a religious message, but some of the ultra-Protestants disapproved. A boy dressed as a woman was just the kind of thing to make them righteously indignant, especially when the female character was acting sexy. They were all stony-faced – with one exception, Rollo noticed: Philbert’s bright young clerk, Donal Gloster, who was laughing as heartily as anyone. Rollo and all the young people in town knew that Donal was in love with Philbert’s fair daughter, Ruth. Rollo guessed that Donal was Protestant only to win Ruth.
On stage, Infidelity took Mary in his arms and gave her a long, lascivious kiss. This caused uproarious laughter, hoots and catcalls, especially from the young men, who had by now figured out that Mary was a boy.
But Philbert Cobley did not see the joke. He was a beefy man, short but wide, with thinning hair and a straggly beard. Now he was red in the face, waving his fist and shouting something that could not be heard. At first no one paid him any attention, but when at last the actors broke the kiss and the laughter died down, people turned to look at the source of the shouting.
Rollo saw Earl Swithin suddenly notice the kerfuffle and look angry. Here comes trouble, Rollo thought.
Philbert stopped shouting, said something to the people around him, and moved towards the door. His family fell in behind him. Donal went along too, but Rollo saw that he looked distinctly disappointed.
Swithin got up from his chair and walked towards them. ‘You stay where you are!’ he roared. ‘I gave no one permission to leave.’
The actors paused and turned to watch what was going on in the audience, a reversal of roles that Rollo found ironic.
Philbert stopped, turned, and shouted back at Swithin: ‘We will not stay in this palace of Sodom!’ Then he continued marching towards the door.
‘You preening Protestant!’ Swithin yelled, and he ran at Philbert.
Swithin’s son, Bart, stepped into his father’s way, holding up a placatory hand, and yelled: ‘Let them go, Father, they’re not worth it.’
Swithin swept him aside with a powerful shove and fell on Philbert. ‘I’ll kill you, by the cross!’ He grabbed him by the throat and began to strangle him. Philbert dropped to his knees and Swithin bent over him, tightening his grip despite his maimed left hand.
Everybody began to shout at once. Several men and women pulled at Swithin’s sleeves, trying to get him away from Philbert, but they were constrained by fear of hurting an earl, even one bent on murder. Rollo stayed back, not caring whether Philbert lived or died.
Ned Willard was the first to act decisively. He hooked his right arm around Swithin’s neck, getting the crook of his elbow under the earl’s chin, and heaved up and back. Swithin could not help but step away and release his hold on Philbert’s neck.
Ned had always been like this, Rollo recalled. Even when he was a cheeky little boy at school he had been a fierce fighter, ready to defy older boys, and Rollo had been obliged to teach him a lesson or two with a bundle of birch twigs. Then Ned had matured and gro
wn those big hands and feet; and, even though he was still shorter than average, bigger boys had learned to respect his fists.
Now Ned released Swithin and smartly stepped away, becoming one of the crowd again. Roaring with fury, Swithin spun around, looking for his assailant, but could not tell who it had been. He might find out, eventually, Rollo guessed, but by then he would be sober.
Philbert got to his feet, rubbing his neck, and staggered to the door unobserved by Swithin.
Bart grabbed his father’s arm. ‘Let’s have another cup of wine and watch the play,’ he said. ‘In a minute Carnal Concupiscence comes on.’
Philbert and his entourage reached the door.
Swithin stared angrily at Bart for a long moment. He seemed to have forgotten whom he was supposed to be mad at.
The Cobleys left the room and the big oak door slammed shut behind them.
Swithin shouted: ‘On with the play!’
The actors resumed.
2
Pierre Aumande made his living by relieving Parisians of their excess cash, a task that became easier on days like today, when they were celebrating.
All Paris was rejoicing. A French army had conquered Calais, taking the city back from the English barbarians who had somehow stolen it two hundred years ago. In every taproom in the capital men were drinking the health of Scarface, the duke of Guise, the great general who had erased the ancient stain on the nation’s pride.
The tavern of St Étienne, in the neighbourhood called Les Halles, was no exception. At one end of the room a small crowd of young men played dice, toasting Scarface every time someone won. By the door was a table of men-at-arms celebrating as if they had taken Calais themselves. In a corner a prostitute had passed out at a table, hair soaking in a puddle of wine.
Such festivities presented golden opportunities to a man such as Pierre.
He was a student at the Sorbonne university. He told his fellows that he got a generous allowance from his parents back home in the Champagne region. In fact, his father gave him nothing. His mother had spent her life-savings on a new outfit of clothes for him to wear to Paris, and now she was penniless. It was assumed that he would support himself by clerical work such as copying legal documents, as many students did. But Pierre’s openhanded spending on the pleasures of the city was paid for by other means. Today he was wearing a fashionable doublet in blue cloth slashed to show the white silk lining beneath: such clothes could not be paid for even by a year of copying documents.
He was watching the game of dice. The gamblers were the sons of prosperous citizens, he guessed; jewellers and lawyers and builders. One of them, Bertrand, was cleaning up. At first Pierre suspected that Bertrand was a trickster just like himself, and observed carefully, trying to figure out how the dodge was done. But eventually he decided there was no scam. Bertrand was simply enjoying a run of luck.
And that gave Pierre his chance.
When Bertrand had won a little more than fifty livres his friends left the tavern with empty pockets. Bertrand called for a bottle of wine and a round of cheese, and at that point Pierre moved in.
‘My grandfather’s cousin was lucky, like you,’ he said in the tone of relaxed amiability that had served him well in the past. ‘When he gambled, he won. He fought at Marignano and survived.’ Pierre was making this up as he went along. ‘He married a poor girl, because she was beautiful and he loved her, then she inherited a mill from an uncle. His son became a bishop.’
‘I’m not always lucky.’
Bertrand was not completely stupid, Pierre thought, but he was probably dumb enough. ‘I bet there was a girl who seemed not to like you until one day she kissed you.’ Most men had this experience during their adolescence, he had found.
But Bertrand thought Pierre’s insight was amazing. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Clothilde – how did you know?’
‘I told you, you’re lucky.’ He leaned closer and spoke in a lower voice, as if confiding a secret. ‘One day, when my grandfather’s cousin was old, a beggar told him the secret of his good fortune.’
Bertrand could not resist. ‘What was it?’
‘The beggar said to him: “When your mother was expecting you, she gave a penny to me – and that’s why you’ve been lucky all your life.” It’s the truth.’
Bertrand looked disappointed.
Pierre raised a finger in the air, like a conjurer about to perform a magic trick. ‘Then the beggar threw off his filthy robes and revealed himself to be – an angel!’
Bertrand was half sceptical, half awestruck.
‘The angel blessed my grandfather’s cousin, then flew up to heaven.’ Pierre lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I think your mother gave alms to an angel.’
Bertrand, who was not completely drunk, said: ‘Maybe.’
‘Is your mother kind?’ Pierre asked, knowing that few men would answer ‘No’.
‘She is like a saint.’
‘There you are.’ Pierre thought for a moment of his own mother, and how disappointed she would be if she knew that he was living by cheating people out of their money. Bertrand is asking for it, he told her in his imagination; he’s a gambler and a drunk. But the excuse did not satisfy her, even in his fantasy.
He pushed the thought from his mind. This was not the time for self-doubt: Bertrand was beginning to take the bait.
Pierre went on: ‘There was an older man – not your father – who gave you important advice at least once.’
Bertrand’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I never knew why Monsieur Larivière was so helpful.’
‘He was sent by your angel. Have you ever had a narrow escape from injury or death?’
‘I got lost when I was five years old. I decided that my way home was across the river. I almost drowned, but a passing friar saved me.’
‘That was no friar, that was your angel.’
‘It’s amazing – you’re right!’
‘Your mother did something for an angel in disguise, and that angel has watched over you ever since. I know it.’
Pierre accepted a cup of wine and a wedge of cheese. Free food was always welcome.
He was studying for the priesthood because it was a way up the social ladder. But he had been at the university only a few days when he realized that the students were already dividing into two groups with radically different destinies. The young sons of noblemen and rich merchants were going to be abbots and bishops – indeed, some of them already knew which well-endowed abbey or diocese they would rule, for often such posts were effectively the private property of a particular family. By contrast, the clever sons of provincial doctors and wine merchants would become country priests.
Pierre belonged to the second group, but was determined to join the first.
Initially, the division was only dimly perceptible, and during those early days Pierre had attached himself firmly to the elite. He quickly lost his regional accent and learned to speak with an aristocratic drawl. He had enjoyed a piece of luck when the wealthy Viscount Villeneuve, having carelessly left home without cash, had asked to borrow twenty livres until tomorrow. It was all the money Pierre had in the world, but he saw a unique opportunity.
He handed the money to Villeneuve as if it were a trifle.
Villeneuve forgot to pay him back the next day.
Pierre was desperate, but he said nothing. He ate gruel that evening, because he could not afford bread. But Villeneuve forgot the following day, too.
Still Pierre said nothing. He knew that if he asked for his money back, Villeneuve and his friends would understand immediately that he really was not one of them; and he craved their acceptance more than food.
It was a month later that the young nobleman said to him languidly: ‘I say, Aumande, I don’t think I ever repaid you those twenty livres, did I?’
With a massive effort of will, Pierre replied: ‘My dear fellow, I have absolutely no idea. Forget it, please.’ Then he was inspired to add: ‘You obviously need the money.’
The other students had laughed, knowing how rich Villeneuve was, and Pierre’s witticism had sealed his position as a member of the group.
And when Villeneuve gave him a handful of gold coins, he dropped the money into his pocket without counting it.
He was accepted, but that meant he had to dress like them, hire carriages for trips, gamble carelessly, and call for food and wine in taverns as if the cost meant nothing.
Pierre borrowed all the time, paid back only when forced, and imitated Villeneuve’s financial absent-mindedness. But sometimes he had to get cash.
He thanked heaven for fools such as Bertrand.
Slowly but surely, as Bertrand worked his way down the bottle of wine, Pierre introduced into their chat the unique buying opportunity.
It was different every time. Today he invented a stupid German – the fool in the story was always a foreigner – who had inherited some jewels from an aunt and wanted to sell them to Pierre for fifty livres, not realizing that they were worth hundreds. Pierre did not have fifty livres, he told Bertrand, but anyone who did could multiply his money by ten. The story did not have to be very plausible, but the telling of it was crucial. Pierre had to appear reluctant to let Bertrand get involved, nervous of the idea of Bertrand buying the jewels, perturbed by Bertrand’s suggestion that Pierre should take fifty livres of Bertrand’s winnings and go away and make the purchase on Bertrand’s behalf.
Bertrand was begging Pierre to take his money, and Pierre was getting ready to pocket the cash and disappear from Bertrand’s life for ever, when the Widow Bauchene walked in.
Pierre tried to stay calm.
Paris was a city of three hundred thousand people, and he had thought there was no great danger of running into any of his past victims by accident, especially as he was careful to stay away from their usual haunts. This was very bad luck.
He turned his face away, but he was not quick enough, and she spotted him. ‘You!’ she screeched, pointing.
Pierre could have killed her.
She was an attractive woman of forty with a broad smile and a generous body. Pierre was half her age, but he had seduced her willingly. In return, she had enthusiastically taught him ways of making love that were new to him, and – more importantly – loaned him money whenever he asked.