by Ken Follett
Mary Stuart’s fifteen-year-old husband, soon to be King Francis II, became infantile. He lay in bed, moaning incomprehensibly, rocking in a lunatic rhythm, and had to be restrained from banging his head against the wall. Even Mary and Alison, who had been his friends since childhood, resented that he was so useless.
Queen Caterina, who had never really possessed her husband, was nevertheless distraught at the prospect of losing him. However, she showed her ruthless side by banning her rival, Diane of Poitiers, from the king’s presence. Twice Alison saw Caterina deep in conversation with Cardinal Charles, who might have been giving her spiritual consolation but more probably was helping her plan a smooth succession. Both times they were attended by Pierre Aumande, the handsome, mysterious young man who had appeared from nowhere a year or so ago and was at Charles’s side more and more often.
King Henri was given extreme unction on the morning of 9 July.
Shortly after one o’clock that day, Mary and Alison were at lunch in their rooms at the château when Pierre Aumande came in. He bowed deeply and said to Mary: ‘The king is sinking fast. We must act now.’
This was the moment they had all been waiting for.
Mary did not pretend to be distraught or to have hysterics. She swallowed, put down her knife and spoon, patted her lips with a napkin, and said: ‘What must I do?’ Alison felt proud of her mistress’s composure.
Pierre said: ‘You must help your husband. The duke of Guise is with him now. We are all going immediately to the Louvre with Queen Caterina.’
Alison said: ‘You’re taking possession of the person of the new king.’
Pierre looked sharply at her. He was the kind of man, she realized, who saw only important people: the rest were invisible. Now he gave her an appraising look. ‘That’s exactly right,’ he said. ‘The queen mother is in agreement with your mistress’s Uncle François and Uncle Charles. At this moment of danger, Francis must turn for help to his wife, Queen Mary – and no one else.’
Alison knew that was rubbish. François and Charles wanted the new king to turn to François and Charles. Mary was merely their cover. In the moment of uncertainty that always followed the death of a king, the man with the power was not the new king himself but whoever had him in his hands. That was why Alison had said possession of the person – the phrase that had alerted Pierre to the fact that she knew what was going on.
Mary would not have figured this out, Alison guessed; but that did not matter. Pierre’s plan was good for Mary. She would be all the more powerful in alliance with her uncles. By contrast, Antoine of Bourbon would surely try to sideline Mary if he gained control of Francis. So, when Mary looked at Alison enquiringly, Alison gave a slight nod.
Mary said: ‘Very well,’ and stood up.
Watching Pierre’s face, Alison saw that he had not missed that little interaction.
Alison went with Mary to Francis’s room, and Pierre followed. The door was guarded by men-at-arms. Alison recognized their leader, Gaston Le Pin, a tough-looking character who was chief of the Guise family’s paid roughnecks. They were willing to hold Francis by force if necessary, Alison deduced.
Francis was weeping, but getting dressed, helped by his servants. Both Duke Scarface and Cardinal Charles were there, watching impatiently, and a moment later Queen Caterina came in. This was the group taking power, Alison realized. Francis’s mother had made a deal with Mary’s uncles.
Alison considered who might try to stop them. The leading candidate would be the duke of Montmorency, who held the title of Constable of France. But Montmorency’s royal ally, Antoine of Bourbon, never quick off the mark, had not yet arrived in Paris.
The Guises were in a strong position, Alison saw. All the same, they were right to act now. Things could change quickly. An advantage was no use unless it was seized.
Pierre said to Alison: ‘The new king and queen will occupy the royal apartments at the Louvre palace immediately. The duke of Guise will move into the suite of Diane of Poitiers, and Cardinal Charles will occupy the rooms of the duke of Montmorency.’
Clever, Alison thought. ‘So the Guise family will have the king and the palace.’
Pierre looked pleased with himself, and Alison guessed that might have been his idea.
She added: ‘So you have effectively neutralized the rival faction.’
Pierre said: ‘There is no rival faction.’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Silly me.’
He looked at her with something like respect. That pleased her, and she realized that she was drawn to this clever, confident young man. You and I could be allies, she thought; and perhaps something more. Living most of her life at the French court, she had come to regard marriage the way noblemen did, as a strategic alliance rather than a bond of love. She and Pierre Aumande might be a formidable couple. And, after all, it would be no hardship to wake up in the morning next to a man who looked like that.
The party went down the grand staircase, crossed the hall, and walked out onto the steps.
Outside the gate, a crowd of Parisians waited to see what was going to happen. They cheered when they saw Francis. They, too, knew he would soon be their king.
Carriages stood in the forecourt, guarded by more of the Guises’ bully boys. Alison noticed that the vehicles were placed so that everyone in the crowd would see who got in.
Gaston Le Pin opened the door of the first carriage. The duke of Guise walked slowly forward with Francis. The crowd knew Scarface and they could all see that he had the king in his charge. This had been carefully choreographed, Alison realized.
Francis walked to the carriage, went up the single step, and got inside without making a fool of himself, to Alison’s great relief.
Caterina and Mary went next. At the step, Mary held back to let Caterina go first. But Caterina shook her head and waited.
Holding her head high, Mary got into the carriage.
*
PIERRE ASKED HIS confessor: ‘Is it a sin to marry someone you don’t love?’
Father Moineau was a square-faced, heavy-set priest in his fifties. His study in the College des Ames contained more books than Sylvie’s father’s shop. He was a rather prissy intellectual, but he enjoyed the company of young men, and he was popular with the students. He knew all about the work Pierre was doing for Cardinal Charles.
‘Certainly not,’ Moineau said. His voice was a rich baritone somewhat roughened by a fondness for strong Canary wine. ‘Noblemen are obliged so to do. It might even be a sin for a king to marry someone he did love.’ He chuckled. He liked paradoxes, as did all the teachers.
But Pierre was in a serious mood. ‘I’m going to wreck Sylvie’s life.’
Moineau was fond of Pierre, and clearly would have liked their intimacy to be physical, but he had quickly understood that Pierre was not one of those men who loved men, and had never done anything more than pat him affectionately on the back. Now Moineau caught his tone and became sombre. ‘I see that,’ he said. ‘And you want to know whether you would be doing God’s will.’
‘Exactly.’ Pierre was not often troubled by his conscience, but he had never done anyone as much harm as he was about to do to Sylvie.
‘Listen to me,’ said Moineau. ‘Four years ago a terrible error was committed. It is known as the Pacification of Augsburg, and it is a treaty that allows individual German provinces to choose to follow the heresy of Lutheranism, if their ruler so wishes. For the first time, there are places in the world where it is not a crime to be a Protestant. This is a catastrophe for the Christian faith.’
Pierre said in Latin: ‘Cuius regio, eius religio.’ This was the slogan of the Augsburg treaty, and it meant: ‘Whose realm, his religion.’
Moineau continued: ‘In signing the agreement, the emperor Charles V hoped to end religious conflict. But what has happened? Earlier this year the accursed Queen Elizabeth of England imposed Protestantism on her wretched subjects, who are now deprived of the consolation of the sacraments. Toleran
ce is spreading. This is the horrible truth.’
‘And we have to do whatever we can to stop it.’
‘Your terminology is precise: Whatever we can. And we now have a young king much under the influence of the Guise family. Heaven has sent us an opportunity to crack down. Look, I know how you feel: no man of sensibility likes to see people burned to death. You’ve told me about Sylvie, and she seems to be a normal girl. Somewhat too lascivious, perhaps.’ He chuckled again, then resumed his grave tone. ‘In most respects, poor Sylvie is no more than a victim of her wicked parents, who have brought her up in heresy. But this is what Protestants do. They convert others. And their victims lose their immortal souls.’
‘So you’re saying I will not be doing anything wrong by marrying Sylvie and then betraying her.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Moineau, ‘you will be doing God’s will – and you will be rewarded in heaven, I assure you.’
That was what Pierre had wanted to hear. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘God bless you, my son,’ said Father Moineau.
*
SYLVIE MARRIED PIERRE on the last Sunday in September.
Their Catholic wedding took place on the Saturday, in the parish church, but Sylvie did not count that: it was a legal requirement, nothing more. They spent Saturday night apart. On Sunday they had their real wedding at the forest hunting lodge that served as a Protestant church.
It was a mild day between summer and autumn, cloudy but dry. Sylvie’s dress was a soft dove-grey, and Pierre said the colour made her skin glow and her eyes shine. Pierre himself was devastatingly handsome in his new coat from Duboeuf. Pastor Bernard conducted the service, and the marquess of Nîmes was the witness. When Sylvie made her vows, she was overcome by a feeling of serenity, as if her life had at last begun.
Afterwards the entire congregation was invited back to the bookshop. They filled the shop and the apartment upstairs. Sylvie and her mother had spent all week preparing food: saffron broth, pork pies with ginger, cheese-and-onion tarts, custard pastries, apple fritters, quince cheese. Sylvie’s father was uncharacteristically genial, pouring wine into flat-bottomed glasses and offering platters of food. Everyone ate and drank standing up, except for the bridal couple and the marquess and marchioness, who were privileged to sit at the dining table.
Sylvie thought Pierre seemed a little tense, which was unusual for him: in general he was at his relaxed best on big social occasions, listening attentively to the men and charming the women, never failing to say that a new baby was beautiful, no matter what it looked like. But today he was restless. He went to the window twice, and when the cathedral bells struck the hour, he jumped. Sylvie guessed he was worried about being at a Protestant gathering in the heart of the city. ‘Relax,’ she said to him. ‘This is just an ordinary wedding celebration. No one knows we’re Protestants.’
‘Of course,’ he said, and smiled anxiously.
Sylvie was thinking mainly about tonight. She was looking forward to it eagerly, but she was also just a little nervous. ‘Losing your virginity doesn’t hurt much, and it’s only for a second,’ her mother had said. ‘Some girls hardly feel it. And don’t worry if you don’t bleed – not everyone does.’ Sylvie was not actually worried about that. She was longing for the physical intimacy of lying in bed with Pierre, kissing him and touching him to her heart’s content, without having to hold back. Her anxiety was about whether he would love her body. She felt it was not perfect for him. Statues of women always had perfectly matched breasts, whereas hers were not quite the same. And naked women in paintings had almost-invisible private parts, sometimes covered just with a faint down, but hers were plump and hairy. What would he think when he looked for the first time? She was too embarrassed to share these worries with her mother.
It crossed her mind to ask Marchioness Louise, who was only three years older, and had a conspicuously large bust. Then, just as she decided that Louise was not approachable enough, her thoughts were interrupted. She heard raised voices down in the shop, then someone screamed. Strangely, Pierre went to the window again, though the noise undoubtedly came from inside the building. She heard breaking glass. What was going on? It sounded more and more like a fight. Had someone got drunk? How could they spoil her wedding day?
The marquess and marchioness looked fearful. Pierre had turned pale. He stood with his back to the window, looking through the open door to the landing and the staircase. Sylvie ran to the top of the stairs. Through a rear window she saw some of the guests fleeing through the backyard. As she looked down the stairs, a man she did not know started to come up. He wore a leather jerkin and carried a club. She realized with horror that this was worse than a drunken brawl among the wedding guests; it was an official raid. Her anger turned to fear. Scared by the brute coming up the stairs, she ran back into the dining room.
The man followed her. He was short and powerfully built, and he had lost most of one ear: he looked terrifying. All the same, Pastor Bernard, who was a frail fifty-five-year-old, stood in front of him and said bravely: ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘I’m Gaston Le Pin, captain of the Guise family household guard, and you’re a blaspheming heretic,’ the man said. He raised his club and struck the pastor. Bernard turned away from the blow, but it caught him across the shoulders and he fell to the ground.
Le Pin looked at the other guests, who were trying to press themselves into the walls. ‘Anyone else got any questions?’ he said. No one spoke.
Two more thugs came into the room and stood behind Le Pin.
Then, incomprehensibly, Le Pin addressed Pierre. ‘Which one is the marquess?’ he said.
Sylvie was bewildered. What was going on?
Even more bafflingly, Pierre pointed to the marquess of Nîmes.
Le Pin said: ‘And I suppose the bitch with the big tits is the marchioness?’
Pierre nodded dumbly.
Sylvie felt as if the world had been turned upside down. Her wedding had become a violent nightmare in which no one was what they seemed.
Marchioness Louise stood up and said indignantly to Le Pin: ‘How dare you?’
Le Pin slapped her face hard. She screamed and fell back. Her cheek reddened instantly, and she began to cry.
The portly old marquess half rose from his chair, realized it was pointless, and sat back down again.
Le Pin spoke to the men who had followed him in. ‘Take those two and make sure they don’t get away.’
The marquess and marchioness were dragged from the room.
Pastor Bernard, still on the floor, pointed at Pierre and said: ‘You devil, you’re a spy!’
Everything fell into place in Sylvie’s mind. Pierre had organized this raid, she realized with horror. He had infiltrated the congregation in order to betray them. He had pretended to fall in love with her only to win their trust. That was why he had dithered so long about the date of the wedding.
She stared at him aghast, seeing a monster where once there had been the man she loved. It was as if her arm had been chopped off and she was looking at the bleeding stump – except that this hurt more. It was not just her wedding day that was ruined, it was her whole life. She wanted to die.
She moved towards Pierre. ‘How could you?’ she screamed, advancing on him, not knowing what she intended to do. ‘Judas Iscariot, how could you?’
Then something hit her on the back of the head, and the world went black.
*
‘ONE THING TROUBLED ME about the coronation,’ said Pierre to Cardinal Charles.
They were at the vast Guise family palace in the Vieille rue du Temple, in the opulent small parlour where Pierre had first met Charles and his scarred elder brother, François. Charles had bought more paintings since then, all biblical scenes but highly charged with sexuality: Adam and Eve, Susanna and the elders, Potiphar’s wife.
Sometimes Charles was interested in what Pierre had to say; at other times he would shut Pierre up with a casually dismissive f
lick of his long, elegant fingers. Today he was in a receptive mood. ‘Go on.’
Pierre quoted: ‘Francis and Mary, by the grace of God king and queen of France, Scotland, England and Ireland.’
‘As indeed they are. Francis is king of France. Mary is the queen of Scots. And, by right of inheritance and by the authority of the Pope, Mary is queen of England and Ireland.’
‘And they have those words carved on their new furniture and embossed on the queen’s new dining plates for all to see – including the English ambassador.’
‘Your point is?’
‘By encouraging Mary Stuart to tell the world she is the rightful queen of England, we have made an enemy of Queen Elizabeth.’
‘So what? Elizabeth is hardly a threat to us.’
‘But what have we achieved? When we make an enemy there should be some benefit to us. Otherwise we have harmed only ourselves.’
A look of greed came over Charles’s long face. ‘We’re going to rule over the greatest European empire since Charlemagne,’ he said. ‘It will be greater than that of Felipe of Spain, because his dominions are scattered and therefore impossible to govern, whereas the new French empire will be compact, its wealth and strength concentrated. We will hold sway from Edinburgh to Marseilles, and control the ocean from the North Sea to the Bay of Biscay.’
Pierre took the risk of arguing. ‘If we’re serious, we would have done better to conceal our intentions from the English. Now they’re forewarned.’
‘And what will they do? Elizabeth rules a poor and barbarous country that has no army.’
‘It has a navy.’
‘Not much of one.’