A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

  He said nothing, just smiled happily.

  She realized she had given him the message she had wanted to withhold. But now she did not care. All the same she said: ‘You’d better go, before I do something I’ll regret.’

  That thought seemed to make him even happier. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘Soon. Go and say goodbye to my mother.’

  He tried to kiss her again, but she put a hand on his chest and said: ‘No more.’

  He accepted that. He went into the shop, saying: ‘Thank you, Madame Palot, for your hospitality.’

  Sylvie sat down heavily. A moment later she heard the shop door close.

  Her mother came into the back room, looking pleased. ‘He’s gone, but he’ll be back.’

  Sylvie said: ‘I kissed him.’

  ‘I guessed that by the grin on his face.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘I can’t think why not. I’d have kissed him myself if I were twenty years younger.’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar, Mother. Now he will expect me to marry him.’

  ‘I’d do it quickly, if I were you, before some other girl grabs him.’

  ‘Stop it. You know perfectly well that I can’t marry him.’

  ‘I know no such thing! What are you talking about?’

  ‘We have a mission to bring the true gospel to the world.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ve done enough.’

  Sylvie was shocked. Her mother had never talked this way.

  Isabelle noticed her reaction and said defensively: ‘Even God rested on the seventh day, after he made the world.’

  ‘Our work isn’t finished.’

  ‘Perhaps it never will be, until the Last Trump.’

  ‘All the more reason to carry on.’

  ‘I want you to be happy. You’re my little girl.’

  ‘But what does God want? You taught me always to ask that question.’

  Isabelle sighed. ‘I did. I was harder when I was young.’

  ‘You were wise. I can’t marry. I have a mission.’

  ‘All the same, regardless of Ned, one day we may have to find other ways of doing God’s will.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Perhaps it will be revealed to us.’

  ‘It’s in God’s hands, then, isn’t it, Mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So we must be content.’

  Isabelle sighed again. ‘Amen,’ she said, but Sylvie was not sure she meant it.

  *

  AS NED STEPPED out of the shop he noticed, across the street, a shabby young man lounging outside a tavern, on his own, doing nothing. Ned turned east, heading for the English embassy. Glancing back, he saw that the shabby man was going the same way.

  Ned was in high spirits. Sylvie had kissed him as if she meant it. He adored her. For the first time, he had met a girl who matched up to Margery. Sylvie was smart and brave as well as warm and sexy. He could hardly wait to see her again.

  He had not forgotten Margery. He never would. But she had refused to run away with him, and he had the rest of his life to live without her. He was entitled to love someone else.

  He liked Sylvie’s mother, too. Isabelle was still attractive in a middle-aged way: she had a full figure and a handsome face, and the wrinkles around her blue eyes gave character to her appearance. She had made it pretty clear that she approved of Ned.

  He felt angered by the story Sylvie had told about Pierre Aumande. He had actually married her! No wonder she had gone so long without marrying again. The thought of Sylvie being betrayed like that on her wedding day made Ned want to strangle Pierre with his own hands.

  But he did not let that bring him down. There was too much to be happy about. It was even possible that France might be the second major country in the world to adopt freedom of religion.

  Crossing the rue St Jacques, he glanced behind and saw the shabby man from the rue de la Serpente.

  He would have to do something about this.

  He paused on the other side of the street to look back at the magnificent church of St Severin. The shabby man came scurrying across the road, avoiding Ned’s eye, and slipped into an alley.

  Ned turned into the grounds of the little church of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. He walked across the deserted graveyard. As he turned around the east end of the church, he slipped into a recessed doorway that concealed him. Then he drew his dagger and reversed it so that the knob of the hilt stuck up between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

  As the shabby man drew level with the doorway, Ned stepped out and smashed the knob of the dagger into the man’s face. The man cried out and staggered back, bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth. But he recovered his balance quickly, and turned to run. Ned went after him and tripped him, and he fell flat. Ned knelt on his back and put the point of the dagger to his neck. ‘Who sent you?’ he said.

  The man swallowed blood and said: ‘I don’t know what you mean – why have you attacked me?’

  Ned pushed on the dagger until it broke the dirty skin of the man’s throat and blood trickled out.

  The man cried: ‘No, please!’

  ‘No one’s looking. I’ll kill you and walk away – unless you tell me who ordered you to follow me.’

  ‘All right, all right! It was Georges Biron.’

  ‘Who the devil is he?’

  ‘Lord of Montagny.’

  It rang a bell. ‘Why does he want to know where I go?’

  ‘I don’t know, I swear to Christ! He never tells us why, just sends us.’

  This man was part of a group, then. Biron must be their leader. He, or someone he worked for, had put Ned under surveillance. ‘Who else do you follow?’

  ‘It used to be Walsingham, then we had to switch to you.’

  ‘Does Biron work for some great lord?’

  ‘He might, but he doesn’t tell us anything. Please, it’s true.’

  It made sense, Ned thought. There was no need to tell a wretch such as this the reasons for what he was doing.

  He stood up, sheathed his weapon and walked away.

  He crossed the place Maubert to the embassy and went in. Walsingham was in the hall. Ned said: ‘Do you know anything about Georges Biron, lord of Montagny?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walsingham. ‘He’s on a list of associates of Pierre Aumande de Guise.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Why he’s having you and me followed.’

  *

  PIERRE LOOKED AT the little shop in the rue de la Serpente. He knew the street: this had been his neighbourhood when he was a student, all those years ago. He had frequented the tavern opposite, but the shop had not existed then.

  Being here caused him to reflect on his life since then. That young student had yearned for many things that had since become his, he thought with satisfaction. He was the most trusted advisor to the Guise family. He had fine clothes and wore them to see the king. He had money, and something more valuable than money: power.

  But he had worries. The Huguenots had not been stamped out – in fact, they seemed to grow stronger. The Scandinavian countries and some of the German provinces were firmly Protestant, as was the tiny kingdom of Navarre. The battle was still being fought in Scotland and the Netherlands.

  There was good news from the Netherlands: the Huguenot leader Hangest had been defeated at Mons, and was now in a dungeon with some of his lieutenants, being tortured by the brutal duke of Alba. Triumphant Paris Catholics had devised a chant that could be heard every night in the taverns:

  Hang-est!

  Ha! Ha! Ha!

  Hang-est!

  Ha! Ha! Ha!

  But Mons was not decisive, and the rebellion was not crushed.

  Worst of all, France itself was lurching, like a drunk trying to go forwards but staggering back, towards the disgusting kind of compromise that Queen Elizabeth had pioneered in England, neither firmly Catholic
nor Protestant but a permissive mixture. The royal wedding was just a few days away and had not yet provoked the kind of riot that might have caused it to be called off.

  But it would. And when it did, Pierre would be ready. His black book of Paris Protestants had been augmented with visitors. And, in recent days, he and Duke Henri had made additional plans. They had worked out a matching list of ultra-Catholic noblemen who could be trusted to do murder. When the Huguenot uprising began, the bell of the church of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois would ring continuously, and that would be the signal for each Catholic nobleman to kill his assigned Protestant.

  All had agreed, in principle. Pierre knew that not every man would keep his promise, but there would be enough. As soon as the Huguenots revolted, the Catholics would strike. They would slay the beast by chopping its head off. Then the town militia could dispose of the rank and file. The Huguenot movement would be crippled, perhaps fatally. It would be the end of the wicked royal policy of tolerance towards Protestantism. And the Guises would once again be the most powerful family in France.

  Here in front of Pierre was a new address for his black book.

  ‘The Englishman has fallen in love,’ Georges Biron had told him.

  ‘With whom? Anyone we can blackmail?’ Pierre had asked.

  ‘With a woman stationer who has a shop on the left bank.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Thérèse St Quentin. She runs the shop with her mother, Jacqueline.’

  ‘They must be Protestants. The Englishman would not dally with a Catholic girl.’

  ‘Shall I investigate them?’

  ‘I might take a look myself.’

  The St Quentins had a modest house, he saw now, with just one upstairs storey. An alley the width of a handcart led, presumably, to a backyard. The façade was in good repair and all the woodwork was newly painted so presumably they were prospering. The door stood open in the August heat. In a window was an artistically arranged display: fanned sheets of paper, a bouquet of quill pens in a vase, and ink bottles of different sizes.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said to his bodyguards.

  He stepped into the shop and was astonished to see Sylvie Palot.

  It was definitely her. She was thirty-one, he calculated, but she looked a little older, no doubt because of all she had been through. She was thinner than before, having lost a certain adolescent bloom. She had the beginnings of wrinkles around her strong jaw, but her eyes were the same blue. She wore a plain blue linen dress, and beneath it her compact body was still sturdy and neat.

  For a moment he was transported, as if by a magic spell, to that era, fourteen years ago: the fish market where he had first spoken to her; the bookshop in the shadow of the cathedral; the illegal church in the hunting lodge; and a younger, less knowing Pierre who had nothing but wanted it all.

  Sylvie was alone in the shop. She was standing at a table, adding up a column of figures in a ledger, and at first she did not look up.

  He studied her. Somehow she had survived the death of her father and the confiscation of his business. She had taken a false name and had begun a new enterprise of her own – which had prospered. It puzzled Pierre that God permitted so many blasphemous Protestants to do well in business and commerce. They used their profits to pay pastors and build meeting rooms and buy banned books. Sometimes it was hard to discern God’s plan.

  And now she had an admirer – who was a detested enemy of Pierre’s.

  After a while he said: ‘Hello, Sylvie.’

  Although his tone had been friendly, she gave a squeal of fright. She must have recognized his voice, even after all these years.

  He enjoyed the fear on her face.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she said in a shaky voice.

  ‘Pure chance. A delightful surprise for me.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she said, and he knew, with pleasure, that she was lying. ‘What can you do to me?’ she went on. ‘You’ve already ruined my life.’

  ‘I could do it again.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t. We have the Peace of St Germain.’

  ‘It’s still against the law to sell banned books, though.’

  ‘We don’t sell books.’

  Pierre looked around the room. There were no printed books for sale, it seemed; just blank ledgers like the one she was writing in and smaller notebooks called livres de raison. Perhaps her evangelical zeal had been stifled by the sight of her father burning to death: it was what the Church always hoped for. But sometimes such executions had the opposite effect, creating inspirational martyrs. She might have dedicated her life to continuing her father’s mission. Perhaps she had a store of heretical literature somewhere else. He could have her followed, night and day, to find out; but, unfortunately, she was now forewarned, and would take extra precautions.

  He changed his line of attack. ‘You used to love me.’

  She went pale. ‘May God forgive me.’

  ‘Come, come. You liked kissing me.’

  ‘Hemlock in honey.’

  He took a threatening step forward. He did not really want to kiss her – never had. It was more exciting to frighten her. ‘You’d kiss me again, I know.’

  ‘I’d bite your damned nose off.’

  He had a feeling she meant that, but he kept up his banter. ‘I taught you all you know about love.’

  ‘You taught me that a man can be a Christian and a foul liar at the same time.’

  ‘We’re all sinners. That’s why we need God’s grace.’

  ‘Some sinners are worse than others – and some go to hell.’

  ‘Do you kiss your English admirer?’

  That really did scare her, he saw to his gratification. Evidently it had not occurred to her that he might know about Sir Ned. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ she lied.

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  She recovered her composure with an effort. ‘Are you satisfied with your reward, Pierre?’ She indicated his coat with a gesture. ‘You have fine clothes, and I’ve seen you riding side by side with the duke of Guise. You’ve got what you wanted. Was it worth all the evil you had to do?’

  He could not resist the temptation to boast. ‘I have money, and more power than I ever dreamed of.’

  ‘That wasn’t really what you longed for. You forget how well I know you.’

  Pierre suddenly felt anxious.

  She went on remorselessly: ‘All you wanted was to be one of them, a member of the Guise family that rejected you as a baby.’

  ‘And I am,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re not. They all know your true origins, don’t they?’

  A feeling of panic began to creep over Pierre. ‘I am the duke’s most trusted advisor!’

  ‘But not his cousin. They look at your fancy clothes, they remember that you’re the illegitimate child of an illegitimate child, and they laugh at your pretensions, don’t they?’

  ‘Who told you these lies?’

  ‘The marchioness of Nîmes knows all about you. She comes from the same region as you. You’ve married again, haven’t you?’

  He winced. Was she guessing, or did she know?

  ‘Unhappily, perhaps?’ she went on. He was unable to hide his feelings, and she read his face accurately. ‘But not to a noblewoman. To someone low-born – which is why you hate her.’

  She was right. In case he should ever forget how he won the right to use the Guise name, he had a loathsome wife and an irritating stepson to remind him of the price he had paid. He was unable to restrain the grimace of resentment that twisted his face.

  Sylvie saw it and said: ‘The poor woman.’

  He should have stepped around the table and knocked her down, then called his bodyguards from outside to beat her up; but he could not summon the energy. Instead of being galvanized by rage he found himself helpless with self-doubt. She was right, she knew him too well. She had hurt him, and he just wanted to crawl away and lick his wounds.

  He was turning to leave when her mo
ther came into the shop from the back. She recognized him instantly. She was so shocked that she took a step backwards, looking both fearful and disgusted, as if she had seen a rabid dog. Then her shock turned, with startling rapidity, to rage. ‘You devil!’ she shouted. ‘You killed my Giles. You ruined my daughter’s life.’ Her voice rose to yelling pitch, almost as if she had been seized by a fit of insanity, and Pierre backed away from her towards the door. ‘If I had a knife, I’d rip out your stinking guts!’ she screamed. ‘You filth! You discharge of an infected prostitute! You loathsome stinking corpse of a man, I’ll strangle you!’

  Pierre hurried out and slammed the door behind him.

  *

  RIGHT FROM the start, there was a bad atmosphere at the wedding.

  The crowd gathered early on Monday morning, for Parisians would never actually stay away from such a spectacle. In the square in front of the cathedral of Notre Dame an amphitheatre had been constructed, made of timber and covered with cloth-of-gold, with raised walkways to the church and to the neighbouring bishop’s palace. As a minor dignitary, Ned took his seat in the stand hours before the ceremony was due to begin. It was a cloudless day in August, and everyone was too hot in the sun. The square around the temporary construction was packed with sweating citizens. More spectators watched from windows and rooftops of neighbouring houses. All were ominously quiet. The ultra-Catholic Parisians did not want their naughty darling to marry a Protestant rotter. And their anger was stoked, every Sunday, by incendiary preachers who told them the marriage was an abomination.

  Ned still could not quite believe it was going to happen. The crowd might riot and stop the ceremony. And there were rumours that Princess Margot was threatening a last-minute refusal.

  The stand filled up during the day. At around three in the afternoon he found himself next to Jerónima Ruiz. Ned had planned to talk to her again, after their intriguing conversation at the Louvre palace, but he had not had the opportunity in the few days since. He greeted her warmly, and she said nostalgically: ‘You smile just like Barney.’

  ‘Cardinal Romero must feel disappointed,’ Ned said. ‘The marriage appears to be going ahead.’