by Ken Follett
Alison nodded. ‘But Charles is ten years old, so someone else would have to rule as regent on his behalf.’
‘And that position goes automatically to the first prince of the blood, who happens to be Antoine of Bourbon.’
‘Our great enemy.’ Alison foresaw a nightmare in which the Guise family lost all influence, and she and Mary Stuart became nobodies to whom people hardly bothered to bow.
She felt sure that Pierre shared the nightmare, but she saw that he was already thinking about how to deal with it. He never seemed daunted: she liked that. Now he said: ‘So the challenge for us, if Francis dies, will be to neutralize Antoine. Do you think that’s what Caterina wants to discuss with the Guise brothers?’
Alison smiled. ‘If anyone asks you, say you don’t know.’
An hour later, Alison and Pierre were standing side by side with Duke Scarface and Cardinal Charles amid the gorgeous décor of the presence room. A fire blazed in a massive fireplace. To Alison’s surprise, Antoine of Bourbon was also there. The rivals stared at each other across the room. Scarface was flushed with anger, and Charles was stroking his beard into a point as he did when he was truly furious. Antoine looked frightened.
Why was Caterina bringing these mortal enemies together? Would she instigate a gladiatorial combat to decide which faction would prevail if Francis died?
The others in the room were leading courtiers, most of them members of the king’s Privy Council, all of them looking bemused. Nobody seemed to have any idea what was going on. Was Antoine to be murdered in front of all these people? The assassin, Charles de Louviers, was not present.
Clearly something big was going to happen, but Caterina had been at great pains to keep it secret. Even Pierre did not know, and he usually knew everything.
It was unusual, Alison reflected, for Caterina to take the initiative like this. But the queen mother could be crafty. Alison recalled the little vial of fresh blood that Caterina had provided for Mary Stuart’s wedding night. She recalled the kittens, too, and realized that Caterina had a tough streak that she habitually concealed.
Caterina came in, and everyone bowed low. Alison had never before seen her look so commanding, and she realized that the black silk and the diamonds had been deliberately chosen to project authority. She was wearing the same outfit now but had added a headdress that looked like a crown. She crossed the room followed by four men-at-arms whom Alison had not seen before. Where had they come from? Also following her were two clerks with a writing desk and stationery.
Caterina sat on the throne normally used by Francis. Someone gasped.
Caterina was carrying two sheets of paper in her left hand.
The clerks set up the writing table and the bodyguards stood behind Caterina.
‘My son Francis is very ill,’ she said.
Alison and Pierre exchanged a glance. My son? Not his majesty the king?
She went on: ‘The surgeons can do nothing for him.’ Her voice faltered, in a moment of maternal weakness, and she touched a lace handkerchief to her eyes. ‘Dr Paré has told me that Francis is certain to die in the next few days.’
Aha, thought Alison; this is about the succession.
Caterina said: ‘I have brought my second son, Charles-Maximilien, from the Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and he is here with me now.’
That was news to Alison. Caterina had moved fast and shrewdly. In the dangerous moment when one king succeeded another, power could lie with whomever had possession of the person of the new monarch. Caterina had stolen a march on everyone.
Alison looked at Pierre again. His mouth was open in surprise.
Next to him, Cardinal Charles whispered angrily: ‘None of your spies told us this!’
Pierre said defensively: ‘They’re paid to spy on Protestants, not the royal family.’
Caterina separated the two papers in her hand and held one up. ‘However,’ she said, ‘King Francis has found sufficient strength to sign the death warrant of Louis of Bourbon, prince of Condé.’
Several courtiers gasped. Louis had been convicted of treason, but until now the king had hesitated to have him executed. To kill a prince of the blood was an extreme measure: all Europe would be horrified. Only the Guise brothers were keen to see Louis dead. But it looked as if they would get their way, as they usually did. It seemed as if Caterina was going to make sure that the dominance of the Guise family would continue.
Caterina waved the paper. Alison wondered whether the king really had signed it. No one could actually see.
Antoine spoke up. ‘Your majesty, I beg you,’ he said, ‘please do not execute my brother. I swear he is innocent.’
‘Neither of you is innocent!’ Caterina snapped. Alison had never heard her use this tone of voice. ‘The main question confronting the king is whether you both should die.’
Antoine was bold on the battlefield and timid everywhere else, and now he became cringing. ‘I beg you, your majesty, spare our lives. I swear we are loyal to the king.’
Alison glanced at the Guise brothers. They could hardly hide their elation. Their enemies were being roasted – at just the right moment.
Caterina said: ‘If King Francis dies, and my ten-year-old second son becomes King Charles IX, how could you, Antoine, possibly act as regent, when you have taken part in a conspiracy against his predecessor?’
There was no proof that either Antoine or Louis had conspired against King Francis, but Antoine took a different line. ‘I don’t want to be regent,’ he said desperately. ‘I’ll renounce the regency. Just spare my brother’s life, and mine.’
‘You would give up the regency?’
‘Of course, your majesty, whatever is your wish.’
Alison suspected that Caterina’s purpose, from the start of the meeting, had been to get Antoine to say what he had just said. The guess was confirmed by what Caterina did next.
The queen mother brandished the second sheet of paper. ‘In that case, I want you to sign this document, in front of the court here today. It states that you relinquish your right of regency to . . . another person.’ She looked significantly at Duke Scarface, but did not name him.
Antoine said: ‘I’ll sign anything.’
Alison saw that Cardinal Charles was smiling broadly. This was exactly what the Guise brothers wanted. They would control the new king, and continue to pursue their policy of exterminating Protestants. But Pierre was frowning. ‘Why did she do this on her own?’ he whispered to Alison. ‘Why not bring the Guises in on the plot?’
‘Perhaps she’s making a point,’ Alison said. ‘They have rather ignored her since King Henri died.’
Caterina handed the document to the clerk, and Antoine stepped forward.
Antoine read the document, which was short. At one point he seemed surprised, and raised his head to look at Caterina.
In her new, sharp voice she said: ‘Just sign!’
A clerk dipped a quill in ink and offered it to Antoine.
Antoine signed.
Caterina got up from the throne with the death warrant in her hand. She walked over to the fireplace and threw the document on the burning coals. It flamed for a second and vanished.
Now, Alison thought, no one will ever know whether King Francis really signed it.
Caterina resumed her place on the throne. Clearly she had not yet finished. She said: ‘The accession of King Charles IX will begin a time of reconciliation in France.’
Reconciliation? This did not seem to Alison like any kind of bringing together. It looked more like a resounding victory for the Guise family.
Caterina went on: ‘Antoine of Bourbon, you will be appointed Lieutenant of France, in recognition of your willingness to compromise.’
That was his reward, Alison thought; the consolation prize. But it might help keep him from rebellion. She looked at the Guise brothers. They were not pleased by this development, but it was a small thing by comparison with the regency.
Caterina said: ‘Antoine, pl
ease read out the document you have just signed in front of the court.’
Antoine picked up the sheet of paper and turned to the audience. He looked pleased. Perhaps the post of Lieutenant of France was one he had longed for. He began: ‘I, Antoine of Bourbon, King of Navarre—’
Caterina interrupted: ‘Skip to the important part.’
‘I renounce my claim to the regency, and transfer all my powers in that regard to her royal majesty Queen Caterina, the queen mother.’
Alison gasped.
Duke Scarface leaped to his feet. ‘What?’ he roared. ‘Not me?’
‘Not you,’ said Antoine quietly.
Scarface stepped towards him. Antoine handed the document to Caterina. Scarface turned towards her. Her bodyguards moved closer, clearly having been forewarned of this possibility. Scarface stood helpless. The scars on his face turned liver-coloured as he flushed with fury. He shouted: ‘This is outrageous!’
‘Be silent!’ Caterina snapped. ‘I have not called upon you to speak!’
Alison was flabbergasted. Caterina had fooled everyone and seized control. She had made herself effectively the monarch of France. The new power in France would not be Guise or Bourbon-Montmorency: it would be Caterina herself. She had slipped in between the two giants and disabled them both. How devious! There had been no hint of this plan. With skill and confidence she had carried out a manoeuvre that was nothing less than a coup d’état. Angry and disappointed though Alison was, in a part of her mind she could not help admiring Caterina’s strategy.
Still Caterina had not quite done.
‘And now,’ she said, ‘to seal the peace that has been won today, the Duke of Guise will embrace the King of Navarre.’
For Scarface, this was the ultimate humiliation.
Scarface and Antoine glared at one another.
‘Go ahead, please,’ said Caterina. ‘It is my command.’
Antoine moved first, stepping across the multicoloured tiled floor towards Scarface. The two men were almost the same age, but the resemblance ended there. Antoine had an apathetic air, and now underneath his moustache he wore what men sometimes called a shit-eating grin; Scarface was tanned, gaunt, disfigured and vicious. Antoine was not stupid, however. He stopped a yard from Scarface, spread his arms wide, and said: ‘I obey her majesty the queen mother.’
Scarface could not possibly say I don’t.
He stepped towards Antoine and the two men exchanged the briefest possible hug, then separated as if they feared catching the plague.
Caterina smiled and clapped, and the rest of the court followed suit.
*
IN THE TEEMING Mediterranean port of Marseilles, Sylvie transferred her cargo from the river barge to an oceangoing merchant ship. It took her through the Strait of Gibraltar, across the Bay of Biscay where she was miserably seasick, along the English Channel and then up the river Seine as far as Rouen, the most important northern port in France.
The city was one-third Protestant, and Sylvie attended a Sunday service that hardly troubled to hide its nature and took place in a real church. She could have sold all her books here. But the need was greater in Catholic Paris. And prices were higher in Paris too.
It was January, 1561, and in France the news was all good. After King Francis II died his mother, Queen Caterina, had taken charge and dismissed the Guise brothers from some of their political offices. She had issued new regulations that made life easier for Protestants, though these were not yet formally laws. All religious prisoners were to be released, heresy trials were suspended, and the death penalty for heresy was abolished. The Protestants, whom Sylvie now heard referred to by their new nickname of Huguenots, were rejoicing.
However, selling banned books was aggravated heresy, and still a crime.
Sailing upstream on a river boat to Paris, with the hold full of her boxes, she felt hope and fear in equal measure. She arrived on a cold February morning at the quai de la Grève, where dozens of ships and boats were moored along the banks or anchored in midstream.
Sylvie sent a message to her mother that she had arrived, and a note to Luc Mauriac saying she hoped to see him soon to thank him personally for helping her plan her successful trip. Then she walked the short distance to the customs house in the place de Grève. If she was going to have trouble, it would begin here.
She brought with her false receipts, carefully forged with Guillaume’s help, showing that she had bought one hundred and ten boxes of paper from a fictional manufacturer in Fabriano. She also brought her purse, ready to pay the import tax.
She showed the receipts to a clerk. ‘Paper?’ he said. ‘Plain paper, with nothing written or printed on it?’
‘My mother and I sell paper and ink to students,’ she explained.
‘You’ve bought a lot.’
She tried a smile. ‘There are a lot of students in Paris – luckily for me.’
‘And you went a long way to get it. Don’t we have our own paper manufacturers, in Saint-Marcel?’
‘Italian paper is better – and cheaper.’
‘You’ll have to talk to the boss.’ He gave her back her receipts and pointed to a bench. ‘Wait there.’
Sylvie sat down with a sense of inevitable doom. All they had to do was open the boxes and look carefully! She felt as if she had already been found guilty and was awaiting sentence. The tension was hard to bear. She almost wished they would put her in jail and get it over with.
She tried to distract herself by watching the way business was done here, and realized that most of the men who came through the door were known to the clerks. Their papers were handled with casual efficiency and they paid their dues and left. Lucky them.
An agonizing hour later she was shown upstairs to a larger office occupied by the Deputy Receiver of Customs, Claude Ronsard, a sour-looking individual in a brown doublet and a velvet cap. While he was asking her all the same questions, she wondered uneasily whether she was supposed to bribe any of these people. She had not noticed this happening downstairs but it would not be done openly, she supposed.
Eventually Ronsard said: ‘Your cargo must be inspected.’
‘Very well,’ she said, trying to affect a light tone of voice, as if this were a minor inconvenience; but her heart was pounding. She jingled her purse discreetly, hinting at bribery, but Ronsard seemed not to notice. Perhaps he took bribes only from people he knew well. Now she did not know what she had to do to save her cargo – and perhaps her life.
Ronsard stood up and they left his office. Sylvie felt shaky and walked unsteadily, but Ronsard seemed oblivious to any signs of her distress. He summoned the clerk whom Sylvie had spoken to first, and they walked along the quay to the boat.
To Sylvie’s surprise, her mother was there. She had hired a porter with a heavy four-wheeled cart to take the boxes to the warehouse in the rue du Mur. Sylvie explained what was happening, and Isabelle looked frightened.
Ronsard and the clerk went on board and selected a box to be unloaded and inspected. The porter carried it onshore and put it down on the quayside. It was made of light wood, nailed, and on its side were the Italian words: ‘Carta di Fabriano.’
Now, Sylvie thought, they were hardly likely to go to all this trouble without emptying the box – and then they would find inside forty Geneva Bibles in French, complete with inflammatory Protestant comments in the margins.
The porter prised open the box with a crowbar. There, on top, were several packages of plain paper.
At that moment, Luc Mauriac arrived.
‘Ronsard, my friend, I’ve been looking for you,’ he said breezily. He was carrying a bottle. ‘There’s a consignment of wine from Jerez, and I thought you ought to try some, just to make sure it’s, you know, what it should be.’ He winked broadly.
Sylvie could not take her eyes off the box. Just under those reams of paper were the Bibles that would condemn her.
Ronsard shook Luc’s hand warmly, took the bottle, and introduced the clerk. ‘We’re ju
st inspecting the cargo of this person,’ he said, indicating Sylvie.
Luc looked at Sylvie and pretended surprise. ‘Hello, Mademoiselle, are you back? You don’t need to worry about her, Ronsard. I know her well – sells paper and ink to the students on the Left Bank.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll vouch for her. Listen, old pal, I’ve just got a cargo of furs from the Baltic, and there’s a blond wolf that would look wonderful on Madame Ronsard. I can just see her hair against that fur collar. If you like it, the captain will give it to you – gesture of goodwill, you know what I mean. Come with me and take a look.’
‘By all means,’ Ronsard said eagerly. He turned to his clerk. ‘Sign her papers.’ He and Luc went off arm in arm.
Sylvie almost fainted with relief.
She paid the customs duty to the clerk. He asked for one gold ecu ‘for ink’, an obvious shakedown, but Sylvie paid without protest, and he went away happy.
Then the porter began to load the boxes onto the cart.
*
EARLY IN 1561, Ned Willard was given his first international mission for Queen Elizabeth. He was daunted by the weight of responsibility, and desperately keen to succeed.
He was briefed by Sir William Cecil at Cecil’s fine new house in the Strand, sitting in a bay window at the rear that looked over the fields of Covent Garden. ‘We want Mary Stuart to stay in France,’ Cecil said. ‘If she goes to Scotland as queen, there will be trouble. The religious balance there is delicate, and a strongly Catholic monarch will probably start a civil war. And then, if she should defeat the Protestants and win the civil war, she might turn her attention to England.’
Ned understood. Mary Stuart was the rightful queen of England in the eyes of most European leaders. She would be even more of a threat to Elizabeth if she crossed the Channel. He said: ‘And for that same reason, I suppose the Guise family want her in Scotland.’
‘Exactly. So your job will be to persuade her that she’s better off staying where she is.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Ned said, though for the moment he could not imagine how he could do it.
‘We’re sending you with her brother.’