by Ken Follett
Pierre looked at the window. It was still dark and he could see nothing outside, but he could hear torrential rain drumming on the roof and spattering the windows. He was not going to learn more by lying in bed. He got up.
It was two days before Christmas 1588. They were in the royal château of Blois, more than a hundred miles south-west of Paris. It was a huge palace with at least a hundred rooms, and Pierre occupied a magnificent suite, the same size as that of his master, the duke of Guise, and almost as large as the king’s.
Like the king and the duke, Pierre had brought with him some of his own luxurious furniture, including his voluptuously comfortable bed and his symbolically enormous writing table. He also had a treasured possession, a pair of wheel-lock pistols with silver fittings given to him by King Henri. It was the first and only time he had received a gift from a king. He kept them beside his bed, ready to fire.
He had an entourage of servants headed by Alain, now twenty-eight, whom he had tamed completely and turned into a faithful aide. Also with him was his pleasantly cringing mistress, Louise de Nîmes.
Pierre had made Duke Henri of Guise one of the most important men in Europe, more powerful than the king of France. And Pierre’s own status had risen along with that of his master.
King Henri was a peacemaker like his mother, Queen Caterina, and had tried to go easy on the heretical French Protestants called Huguenots. Pierre had seen the danger in this right from the start. He had encouraged the duke to establish the Catholic League, a union of ultra-Catholic confraternities, to combat the drift to heresy. The League had been successful beyond Pierre’s dreams. It was now the dominant force in French politics, and controlled Paris and other major cities. So mighty was the League that it had been able to drive King Henri out of Paris, which was why he was now at Blois. And Pierre had managed to get the duke appointed lieutenant-general of the royal armies, effectively removing the king from control of his own military.
The Estates-General, the national parliament of France, had been in session here since October. Pierre advised the duke of Guise to pose as a representative of the people in negotiations with the king, though in fact he was the leader of the opposition to royal power, and Pierre’s real aim was to make sure the king gave in to all demands made by the League.
Pierre was somewhat concerned that his master’s arrogance was going too far. A week ago at a Guise family banquet Duke Henri’s brother Louis, the cardinal of Lorraine, had proposed a toast to ‘My brother, the new king of France!’ The news of this insult had, of course, reached the king in no time. Pierre did not think King Henri had the nerve to do anything in retaliation but, on the other hand, such gloating tempted fate.
Pierre dressed in a costly white doublet slashed to show a gold silk lining. The colour did not show the white dandruff that fell constantly from his dry scalp.
Midwinter daylight came reluctantly and revealed black skies and relentless rain. Taking with him a footman to carry a candle, Pierre walked through the dim passages and hallways of the rambling château to Duke Henri’s quarters.
The captain of the duke’s night watch, a Swiss called Colli, whom Pierre was careful to bribe, greeted him pleasantly and said: ‘He was with Madame de Sauves half the night. He got back here at three.’
The energetically promiscuous Charlotte of Sauves was the duke’s current mistress. He probably wanted to sleep late this morning. ‘I have to wake him,’ Pierre said. ‘Send in a cup of ale. He won’t have time for anything else.’
Pierre entered the bedchamber. The duke was alone: his wife was in Paris, about to give birth to their fourteenth child. Pierre shook the sleeping duke by the shoulder. Not yet forty, Henri was still vigorous, and he came awake quickly.
‘What is so urgent, I wonder, that the council can’t wait until men have had breakfast,’ the duke grumbled as he pulled on a grey satin doublet over his underclothes.
Pierre was unwilling to admit that he did not know. ‘The king is fretting about the Estates-General.’
‘I’d feign sickness, except that others might take advantage of my absence to plot against me.’
‘Don’t say might. They would.’ That was the price of success. The weakness of the French monarchy, which had begun with the premature death of King Henri II thirty years ago, had given the Guise family tremendous opportunities – but whenever their power grew, others tried to take it away from them.
A servant came in with a tankard of ale. The duke drained it in one long swallow, belched loudly, and said: ‘That’s better.’
His satin doublet was not warm, and the corridors of the palace were chilly, so Pierre held out a cape for him to wear on the walk to the council chamber. The duke picked up a hat and gloves, and they left.
Colli led the way. The duke did not go without a bodyguard, even when moving from one apartment to another within the palace. However, men-at-arms were not allowed to enter the council chamber, so Colli remained at the top of the grand staircase while the duke and Pierre went in.
A big fire blazed in the hearth. Duke Henri took off his cape and sat at the long table with the other councillors. ‘Bring me some Damascus raisins,’ he said to a servant. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat.’
Pierre joined the advisors standing up against the walls, and the council began to discuss taxes.
The king had summoned the Estates General because he needed money. The prosperous merchants who made up the Third Estate – after the aristocracy and the clergy – were obstinately reluctant to give him any more of their hard-earned cash. Insolently, they had sent accountants to examine the royal finances and had then declared that the king would not need higher taxes if only he would manage his money better.
The financial superintendent, François d’O, got straight to the point. ‘The Third Estate must reach a compromise with the king,’ he said, looking directly at Duke Henri.
‘They will,’ the duke replied. ‘Give them time. Their pride won’t allow them to give in immediately.’
This was all good, Pierre thought. When the compromise was eventually made, the duke would be the hero of the day for arranging it.
‘But this is not immediately, is it?’ said d’O stubbornly. ‘They have been defying the king for two months.’
‘They will come round.’
Pierre scratched his underarms. Why had the Privy Council been summoned so urgently? This was an ongoing discussion and it appeared that nothing new had happened.
A servant offered a plate to the duke. ‘Your grace, there are no raisins,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you some prunes from Provence.’
‘Give them here,’ said the duke. ‘I’m hungry enough to eat sheep’s eyes.’
D’O was not to be diverted. ‘Whenever we tell the Third Estate that they must be reasonable, do you know what they reply?’ he went on. ‘They say they don’t need to compromise, because they have the support of the duke of Guise.’ He paused and looked around the table.
The duke took off his gloves and began to stuff prunes into his mouth.
D’O said to him: ‘Your grace, you claim to be the peacemaker between king and people, but you have become the obstacle to settlement.’
Pierre did not like the sound of that. It was almost like a verdict.
Duke Henri swallowed a prune. For a moment he seemed lost for words.
As he hesitated, a door opened and Secretary of State Revol entered from the adjacent suite, which was the king’s apartment. Revol approached Duke Henri and said in a low, clear voice: ‘Your grace, the king would like to speak to you.’
Pierre was mystified. This was the second surprise of the morning. Something was going on that he did not know about, and he sensed danger.
The duke responded to the king’s message with an audacious lack of urgency. He took from his pocket a silver-gilt confit box in the shape of a shell, and put some prunes into it to take with him, as if he might casually eat a snack while the king was talking to him. Then he stood and picked up his
cape. With a jerk of his head he ordered Pierre to follow him.
A squad of the king’s bodyguards stood in the next room, captained by a man called Montséry, who now gave the duke a hostile glare. These highly paid elite guards were called the Forty-Five, and Duke Henri, prompted by Pierre, had proposed they be disbanded to save money – and, of course, to further weaken the king. It was not one of Pierre’s best ideas. The suggestion had been turned down, and the only consequence was that the Forty-Five hated the duke.
‘Wait here in case I need you,’ Duke Henri said to Pierre.
Montséry went to open the next door for the duke.
Duke Henri walked to the door, then stopped and turned again to Pierre. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, ‘go back to the Privy Council. You can let me know what they say in my absence.’
‘Very good, your grace,’ said Pierre.
Montséry opened the door to reveal King Henri standing on the other side. Now thirty-seven, he had been king for fifteen years. His face was fleshy and sensual, but he exuded calm authority. He looked at Duke Henri and said: ‘So here he is, the man they’re calling the new king of France.’ Then he turned to Montséry and gave a brief but unmistakable nod.
At that moment Pierre realized that catastrophe was about to strike.
With a swift, smooth motion, Montséry drew a long dagger and stabbed the duke.
The sharp blade passed easily through the duke’s thin satin doublet and sank deep into his brawny chest.
Pierre was frozen with shock.
The duke’s mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came, and Pierre realized immediately that the wound must be fatal.
It was not enough for the guards, however, and they now surrounded the duke and stabbed him repeatedly with knives and swords. Blood came from his nose and mouth and everywhere else.
Pierre stared in horrified paralysis for another second. Duke Henri fell, bleeding from multiple wounds.
Pierre looked up at the king, who was watching calmly.
At last Pierre recovered his senses. His master had been murdered and he might well be next. Quietly but quickly he turned away and passed back through the door into the council chamber.
The Privy Councillors around the long table stared at him in silence, and he realized in a flash that they must have known what was going to happen. The ‘urgent’ meeting was a pretext for catching the duke of Guise unawares. It was a conspiracy, and they were all in on it.
They wanted him to say something, for they did not yet know whether the murder had been done. He took advantage of their momentary uncertainty to escape. He crossed the room swiftly, without speaking, and went out. He heard a hubbub break out behind him, cut off by the slamming of the door.
The duke’s bodyguard, Colli, stared at Pierre in puzzlement, but Pierre ignored him and ran down the grand staircase. No one tried to stop him.
He was aghast. His breath came in short gasps and he found he was perspiring despite the cold. The duke was dead, murdered – and it had clearly been done on the orders of the king. Duke Henri had become overconfident. So had Pierre. He had been sure that the weak King Henri would never be so courageous or decisive – and he had been disastrously, fatally wrong.
He was lucky not to have been killed himself. He fought down panic as he hurried through the château. The king and his collaborators had probably planned no farther ahead than the assassination. But now that the duke was dead, they would think about how to consolidate their triumph. First they would want to eliminate the duke’s brothers, Cardinal Louis and the archbishop of Lyon; and then their attention would turn to his principal advisor, Pierre.
But for the next few minutes all would be chaos and confusion, so Pierre had a brief chance to save himself.
Duke Henri’s eldest son, Charles, was now duke of Guise, Pierre realized as he ran along a corridor. The boy was seventeen, old enough to step into his father’s shoes – Henri himself had been only twelve when he became duke. If only Pierre could get out of here, he would do exactly as he had done with Henri: ingratiate himself with the mother, become the indispensable advisor to the youngster, nourish in both the seed of revenge, and one day make the new duke as powerful as the old.
He had suffered setbacks before, and had always returned stronger than ever.
He reached his quarters, breathing hard. His stepson Alain was in the sitting room. ‘Saddle three horses,’ Pierre barked. ‘Pack only money and weapons. We must be gone from here in ten minutes.’
‘Where are we going?’ said Alain.
The stupid boy should have asked why, not where. ‘I haven’t decided yet, just move,’ Pierre yelled.
He went into the bedroom. Louise, in her nightclothes, was on her knees at the prie-dieu, saying her prayers with beads. ‘Get dressed fast,’ Pierre said. ‘If you’re not ready I’m going without you.’
She stood up and came to him, her hands still folded as if in prayer. ‘You’re in trouble,’ she said.
‘Of course I’m in trouble, that’s why I’m running away,’ he said impatiently. ‘Put your clothes on.’
Louise opened her hands to reveal a short dagger and slashed Pierre’s face.
‘Christ!’ He yelled in pain, but the shock was worse. He could not have been more surprised if the knife had moved of its own accord. This was Louise, the terrified mouse, the helpless woman he abused just for fun; and she had cut him – not just a scratch, but a deep gash in his cheek that was now bleeding copiously down his chin and neck. ‘You whore, I’ll slit your throat!’ he screeched, and he lunged at her, reaching for the knife.
She stepped back nimbly. ‘You fiend, it’s all over, I’m free now!’ she yelled; then she stabbed him in the neck.
With incredulity he felt the blade penetrate agonizingly into his flesh. What was happening? Why did she think she was free? A weak king had killed the duke and now a weak woman had knifed Pierre. He was bewildered.
But Louise was an incompetent assassin. She did not realize that the first thrust had to be fatal. She had bungled, and now she would die.
Rage directed Pierre’s actions. His right hand went to his wounded throat while his left knocked aside her knife arm. He was hurt but alive, and he was going to kill Louise. He ran at her, crashing into her before she could stab again, and she lost her balance. She fell to the ground and the knife dropped from her hand.
Pierre picked it up. Trying to ignore the pain of his wounds, he knelt astride Louse and raised the dagger. He paused for a moment, hesitating over where to stab her: the face? Breasts? Throat? Belly?
He was struck by a powerful sideways blow to his right shoulder that threw him to the left. For a moment his right arm went limp, and it was his turn to drop the dagger. He fell heavily, rolling off Louise and over onto his back.
Looking up, he saw Alain.
The young man was holding in his hands the wheel-lock pistols given to Pierre by King Henri, and he was pointing both at Pierre.
Pierre stared at the guns for a helpless moment. He had fired them several times and knew that they worked reliably. He did not know how good a shot Alain was, but standing only two paces away he could hardly miss.
In an instant of quiet Pierre heard the drumming of the rain. He realized that Alain had known in advance about the assassination of the duke – that was how come he had asked where and not why. Louise had known, too. So they had conspired together to kill Pierre in his moment of weakness. They would get away with it, too: everyone would assume Pierre had been killed on the orders of the king, as the duke had been.
How could this be happening to him, Pierre Aumande de Guise, the master of manipulation for three decades?
He looked at Louise, then up again at Alain, and he saw the same expression in both faces. It was hatred mixed with something else: joy. This was their moment of triumph, and they were happy.
Alain said: ‘I have no further use for you.’ His fingers tightened on the long serpentine levers protruding below the guns.
He opened his mouth to shout for help, but no sound came from his wounded throat.
The wheel locks spun, both guns sparked, then they went off with a double bang.
Pierre felt as if he had been hit in the chest by a sledgehammer. The pain was overwhelming.
He heard Louise speak as if from a very great distance. ‘Now go back to hell, where you came from.’
Then darkness descended.
*
EARL BARTLET NAMED his first son Swithin, after the child’s great-grandfather, and his second Rollo, after the child’s great-uncle. Both men had struggled bravely against Protestantism, and Bartlet was fiercely Catholic.
Margery was not pleased with either name. Swithin had been a loathsome man, and Rollo had deceived and betrayed her. However, as the boys’ own personalities began to emerge, so their names morphed: Swithin became a very fast crawler and was nicknamed Swifty, and plump Rollo became Roley.
In the mornings, Margery liked to help Bartlet’s wife, Cecilia. Today she fed Swifty a scrambled egg while Cecilia breastfed Roley. Cecilia tended to be anxious about the children, and Margery was a calming influence; probably all grandmothers were, Margery thought.
Her second son, Roger, came into the nursery to see his nephews. ‘I’m going to miss these two when I go to Oxford,’ he said.
Margery noticed how the young nurse, Dot, perked up in Roger’s presence. He was quietly charming, with a wry smile that was very engaging, and no doubt Dot would have liked to ensnare him. Perhaps it was a good thing he was leaving for the university: Dot was a nice girl and good with the children, but her horizons were too narrow for Roger.
That thought made Margery wonder what Roger himself saw on his horizons, and she said: ‘Have you considered what you might do after Oxford?’
‘I want to study law,’ Roger said.
That was interesting. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s so important. The laws make the country.’