by Ken Follett
Véronique had treated him with mild disdain when he had first met her, but she had gradually warmed to him. Everyone knew he was only the son of a country priest, but they also knew he was close to the powerful Cardinal Charles, and that gave him a special status.
He bowed to her and asked if she was enjoying the tournament.
‘Not much,’ she said.
He gave her his most charming smile. ‘You don’t like watching men ride too fast and knock each other off their horses? How strange.’
She laughed. ‘I prefer dancing.’
‘So do I. Happily there’s a ball tonight.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
‘I look forward to seeing you there. I must speak with your Uncle Charles. Excuse me.’
Walking away, he felt good about that brief encounter. He had made her laugh, and she had treated him almost as an equal.
Charles was in a side room with a small boy who had the blond hair of the Guises. This was his nephew Henri, aged eight, eldest son of Scarface. Knowing that the boy might one day be the duke of Guise, Pierre bowed to him and asked if he was having a good time. ‘They won’t let me joust,’ Henri said. ‘But I bet I could. I’m a good rider.’
Charles said: ‘Run along, now, Henri – there’ll be another bout in a minute and you don’t want to miss it.’
Henri left and Charles waved Pierre to a chair.
In the year and a half that Pierre had been spying for Charles, their relationship had altered. Charles was grateful for the names and addresses Pierre had brought him. The cardinal’s file on clandestine Paris Protestants was far better than it had been before Pierre had come along. Charles could still be scornful and patronizing, but he was like that with everyone, and he seemed to respect Pierre’s judgement. They sometimes talked about general political issues and Charles even listened to Pierre’s opinion.
‘I made a discovery,’ Pierre said. ‘Many of the Protestants use a tailor in the rue St Martin who keeps a little book with all their names and addresses.’
‘A gold mine!’ said Charles. ‘Dear God, these people are getting brazen.’
‘I was tempted to pick it up and run off down the street with it.’
‘I don’t want you to reveal yourself yet.’
‘No. But one day I’ll get hold of that book.’ Pierre reached inside his doublet. ‘Meanwhile, I wrote down as many of the names and addresses as I could memorize.’ He handed the sheet to Charles.
Charles read the list. ‘Very useful.’
‘I had to order a coat from the tailor.’ Pierre raised the price. ‘Forty-five livres.’
Charles took coins from a purse. He gave Pierre twenty gold ecus, each worth two and a half livres. ‘Should be a nice coat,’ he said.
Pierre said: ‘When will we pounce on these deviants? We have hundreds of Paris Protestants in our records.’
‘Be patient.’
‘But every heretic is one less enemy. Why not get rid of them?’
‘When we crack down, we want everyone to know it’s the Guises who are doing it.’
That made sense to Pierre. ‘So that the family wins the loyalty of the ultra-Catholics, I suppose.’
‘And people who advocate tolerance – the middle-of-the-roaders, the moyenneurs – will be labelled Protestant.’
That was subtle, Pierre thought. The Guise family’s worst enemies were people who advocated tolerance. They would undermine the entire basis of the family’s strength. Such people had to be pushed to one extreme or the other. Charles’s political shrewdness impressed him repeatedly. ‘But how will we come to be in charge of stamping out heresy?’
‘One day young Francis will be king. Not yet, we hope – we need him first to establish his independence from Queen Caterina, and come completely under the influence of his wife, our niece, Mary Stuart. But when it happens . . .’ Charles waved Pierre’s sheet of paper. ‘That’s when we use this.’
Pierre was downcast. ‘I hadn’t realized your thinking was so long-term. That gives me a problem.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been engaged to Sylvie Palot for more than a year, and I’m running out of excuses.’
‘Marry the bitch,’ said Charles.
Pierre was horrified. ‘I don’t want to get stuck with a Protestant wife.’
Charles shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘There’s someone I would like to marry.’
‘Oh? Who?’
It was time to tell Charles what reward he wanted for his work. ‘Véronique de Guise.’
Charles laughed loudly. ‘You cocky little upstart! You, marry my relation? It’s the arrogance of the devil! Don’t be absurd.’
Pierre felt himself flush from forehead to throat. He had made an error of timing, and in consequence he was humiliated. ‘I didn’t think it too ambitious,’ he protested. ‘She’s only a distant relative.’
‘She’s a second cousin of Mary Stuart, who will probably be queen of France one day! Who do you think you are?’ Charles waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Go on, get out of here.’
Pierre got up and left.
*
ALISON MCKAY WAS enjoying life. Since Mary Stuart had become Francis’s wife, rather than merely his fiancée, her status had risen, and consequently so had Alison’s. They had more servants, more dresses, more money. People bowed and curtseyed to Mary deeper and longer. She was now incontestably French royalty. Mary loved it, and so did Alison. And the future held more of the same, for one day Mary would be the queen of France.
Today they were in the grandest room of the Tournelles Palace, in front of the largest window, where Mary’s mother-in-law, Queen Caterina, was holding court. Caterina wore a voluminous confection of gold and silver cloth that must have cost a fortune. It was late afternoon, but the weather was hot, and the window was open to welcome a light breeze.
The king came in, bringing with him a strong odour of warm sweat. Everyone except Caterina stood up. Henri looked happy. He was the same age as his wife, forty, and in his prime: handsome, strong, and full of energy. He loved jousting, and he was winning today. He had even unseated Scarface, the duke of Guise, his great general. ‘Just one more,’ he said to Caterina.
‘It’s getting late,’ she protested, speaking French with the strong Italian accent she had never lost. ‘And you’re tired. Why don’t you rest now?’
‘But it’s for you that I fight!’ he said.
This piece of gallantry did not go down well. Caterina looked away, and Mary frowned. Everyone had already seen that Henri was wearing on his lance ribbons of black and white, the colours of Diane of Poitiers. She had seduced Henri within a year of his marriage, and Caterina had spent the last twenty-five years pretending not to know. Diane was much older – she would be sixty in a few weeks’ time – and Henri had other mistresses now, but Diane was the love of his life. Caterina was used to it, but he could still wound her carelessly.
Henri left to put his armour back on, and a buzz of conversation arose from the ladies. Caterina beckoned to Alison. The queen was always warm to Alison because she had been a good friend to the sickly Francis. Now Caterina half turned her back on the rest of the group, indicating that their conversation was private, and said in a low voice: ‘It’s been fourteen months.’
Alison knew what she was talking about. That was how long Francis and Mary had been married. ‘And she’s not pregnant,’ Alison said.
‘Is something wrong? You would know.’
‘She says not.’
‘But you don’t believe her.’
‘I don’t know what to believe.’
‘I had trouble getting pregnant when I was first married,’ Caterina said.
‘Really?’ Alison was astonished. Caterina had borne ten children for Henri.
The queen nodded. ‘I was distraught – especially after my husband was seduced by Madame.’ This was what everyone called Diane. ‘I adored him – I still do. But she won his heart away. I believed I might win him back
with a baby. He still came to my bed – she ordered him to, I found out later.’ Alison winced: this was painful to hear. ‘But I did not conceive.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I was fifteen years old, and my family were hundreds of miles away. I felt desperate.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I spied on them.’
Alison was shocked and embarrassed by this intimate revelation, but Caterina was in the mood to tell the story. Henri’s thoughtless It’s for you that I fight had put the queen in an odd frame of mind.
‘I thought perhaps I was doing something wrong with Henri, and I wanted to see whether Madame had some different method,’ Caterina went on. ‘They used to go to bed in the afternoon. My maids found a place from which I could watch them.’
What an astonishing picture, Alison thought: the queen gazing through some kind of peephole at her husband in bed with his mistress.
‘It was very hard for me to look, because he obviously adored her. And I didn’t learn anything. They played some games I didn’t know about, but in the end he fucked her the same way he fucked me. The only difference was how much more he enjoyed it with her.’
Caterina spoke in a dry, bitter voice. She was not emotional, but Alison was close to tears. It must have broken Caterina’s heart, she thought. She wanted to ask questions, but she was afraid of disturbing this confiding mood.
‘I tried all kinds of remedies, some of them utterly disgusting – poultices of dung on my vagina, that kind of thing. Nothing worked. Then I met Dr Fernel, and I found out what was stopping me getting pregnant.’
Alison was fascinated. ‘What was it?’
‘The king’s cock is short and fat – adorable, but not long. He wasn’t putting it in far enough, and my maidenhead had never been broken, so the spunk didn’t go all the way up. The doctor broke the membrane with a special implement, and a month later I was pregnant with Francis. Pronto.’
There was a huge cheer from the crowd outside, as if they had been listening to the story and heard its happy ending. Alison guessed that the king must have mounted his horse for the next bout. Caterina put a hand on Alison’s knee, as if to detain her a moment longer. ‘Dr Fernel is dead, but his son is just as good,’ she said. ‘Tell Mary to see him.’
Alison wondered why the queen did not give this message to Mary herself.
As if reading her mind, Caterina said: ‘Mary is proud. If I give her the impression that I think she might be barren, she could take offence. Advice such as this comes better from a friend than from a mother-in-law.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do this as a kindness to me.’
It was courteous of the queen to request what she might command. ‘Of course,’ Alison said.
Caterina stood up and went to the window. The others in the room crowded around her, Alison included, and looked out.
Along the middle of the road, two fences enclosed a long, narrow track. At one end was the king’s horse, called Malheureux; at the other, the mount of Gabriel, count of Montgomery. Down the middle of the track ran a barrier to keep the two horses from colliding.
The king was talking to Montgomery in the middle of the field. Their words could not be heard from the palace window, but they seemed to be arguing. The tournament was almost over, and some spectators were already leaving, but Alison guessed the combative king wanted to play a final bout. Then the king raised his voice, and everyone heard him say: ‘That’s an order!’
Montgomery gave a bow of obedience and put his helmet on. The king did the same, and both men returned to the ends of the track. Henri lowered his visor. Alison heard Caterina murmur: ‘Fasten it shut, chérie,’ and the king turned the catch that prevented the eyepiece flying up.
Henri was impatient, and did not wait for the trumpet, but kicked his horse and charged. Montgomery did the same.
The horses were destriers, bred for war, big and tremendously strong, and their hooves made a noise like a titan beating the earth with giant drumsticks. Alison felt her pulse quicken with exhilaration and fear. The two riders picked up speed. The crowd cheered wildly as the warhorses pounded towards one another, ribbons flying. The two men angled their wooden lances across the central barrier. The weapons had blunted tips: the object was not to injure the opponent but simply to knock him from his saddle. All the same Alison was glad that only men played this sport. She would have been terrified.
At the last moment both men clamped their legs tightly into their horses and leaned forward. They met with a terrific crash. Montgomery’s lance struck the king’s head. The lance damaged the helmet. The king’s visor flew up, and Alison understood in a flash that the impact had snapped the visor catch. The lance broke in two.
The tremendous momentum of the horses continued to carry both men forwards, and a fraction of a second later the broken end of Montgomery’s lance struck the king’s face again. He reeled in the saddle, looking as if he might be losing consciousness. Caterina screamed in fear.
Alison saw Duke Scarface leap the fence and run to the king. Several more noblemen did the same. They steadied the horse, then lifted the king from the saddle, with great effort because of his heavy armour, and lowered him to the ground.
*
CARDINAL CHARLES ran after his brother Scarface, and Pierre followed close on his heels. When the king’s helmet was gingerly removed they saw immediately that he had suffered a serious wound. His face was covered in blood. A long, thick splinter of wood was sticking out of his eye. Other splinters were lodged in his face and head. He lay still, apparently numb to pain and barely conscious. His doctor was in attendance in case of just such an incident as this, and he now knelt beside the patient.
Charles looked hard at the king for a long moment then backed away. ‘He will die,’ he murmured to Pierre.
Pierre was thrown. What did this mean for the Guise family, whose future was Pierre’s future? The long-term plan that Charles had only just outlined to him was now in ruins. Pierre felt a degree of anxiety close to panic. ‘It’s too soon!’ he said. He realized that his voice was oddly high-pitched. Making an effort to speak more calmly, he said: ‘Francis cannot rule this country.’
Charles moved farther away from the crowd, to make sure they could not be overheard, though no one was paying attention to anyone but the king now. ‘According to French law, a king can rule at fourteen. Francis is fifteen.’
‘True.’ Pierre began to think hard. His panic evaporated and logic took over his brain. ‘But Francis will have help,’ he said. ‘And whoever becomes his closest advisor will be the true king of France.’ Throwing caution to the winds, he moved closer to Charles and spoke in a low, urgent voice. ‘Cardinal, you must be that man.’
Charles gave him a sharp look of a kind that Pierre recognized. It indicated that he had surprised Charles by saying something Charles had not thought of. ‘You’re right,’ Charles said slowly. ‘But the natural choice would be Antoine of Bourbon. He is the first prince of the blood.’ A prince of the blood was a direct male descendant of a French king. Such men were the highest aristocracy outside the royal family itself. They took precedence over all other noblemen. And Antoine was the most senior among them.
‘God forbid,’ said Pierre. ‘If Antoine becomes the principal advisor to King Francis II, the power of the Guise family will be at an end.’ And so will my career, he added silently.
Antoine was king of Navarre, a small country between France and Spain. More importantly, he was head of the Bourbon family who, together with the Montmorency clan, were the great rivals of the Guises. Their religious policies were fluid, but the Bourbon–Montmorency alliance tended to be less hard-line on heresy than the Guises, and were therefore favoured by the Protestants – a type of support that was not always welcome. If Antoine controlled the boy king, the Guises would become impotent. It did not bear thinking about.
Charles said: ‘Antoine is stupid. And a suspected Protestant.’
‘And, most importantly, he’s out of town.’
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‘Yes. He’s at Pau.’ The residence of the kings of Navarre was in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains, five hundred miles from Paris.
‘But messengers will be on their way to him before nightfall,’ Pierre said insistently. ‘You can neutralize Antoine, but only if you act fast.’
‘I must speak to my niece, Mary Stuart. She will be queen of France. She must persuade the new king to reject Antoine as advisor.’
Pierre shook his head. Charles was thinking, but Pierre was ahead of him. ‘Mary is a beautiful child. She cannot be relied upon in something as important as this.’
‘Caterina, then.’
‘She is soft on Protestants and might have no objection to Antoine. I have a better idea.’
‘Go on.’
Charles was listening to Pierre as he might to an equal. Pierre felt a glow of pleasure. His political acumen had won the respect of the most able politician in France. ‘Tell Caterina that if she will accept you and your brother as the king’s leading counsellors, you will banish Diane of Poitiers from the court for the rest of her life.’
Charles thought for a long moment then he nodded, very slowly, once.
*
ALISON WAS SECRETLY thrilled by the injury to King Henri. She put on plain white mourning clothes and even managed to force tears occasionally, but that was for show. In her heart she rejoiced. Mary Stuart was about to be queen of France, and Alison was her best friend!
The king had been carried into the Palace of Tournelles, and the court gathered around his sick room. He took a long time dying, but there was little doubt about the eventual outcome. Among his doctors was Ambroise Paré, the surgeon who had removed the spearhead from the cheeks of Duke François of Guise, leaving the scars that had given the duke his nickname. Paré said that if the splinter had penetrated only the king’s eye he might have survived, provided the wound did not become fatally infected; but in fact the point had gone farther and entered the brain. Paré conducted experiments on four condemned criminals, sticking splinters into their eyes to replicate the wound, but all of them died, and there was no hope for the king.