A Column of Fire (24 page)

Pierre went red.

Louise turned away and spoke quietly to someone else, leaving Pierre and Sylvie staring at her back.

Sylvie was mortified. The marchioness had taken against her fiancé, and Sylvie felt sure she would never change her mind. Worse, many in the congregation had heard, and everyone would know about it before the hall was empty. Sylvie feared that now they might never accept Pierre as one of them. She was crestfallen.

Then she looked at Pierre, and saw on his face an expression he had never previously worn. His mouth was twisted into a line of resentment, and hatred blazed from his eyes. He looked as if he could have killed Louise.

My goodness, Sylvie thought, I hope he never looks at me like that.

*

B
Y BEDTIME
A
LISON
was exhausted, and she felt sure Mary must feel the same, but the greatest trial was yet to come.

The celebrations were lavish, even by the standards of royal Paris. After the wedding there was a banquet at the archbishop’s palace, followed by a ball. Then the entire wedding party moved to the Palais de la Cité – a short journey that took hours because of the crowds – for a masked ball, with special entertainments including twelve mechanical horses on which the royal children could ride. Finally, there was a buffet supper featuring more pastries than Alison had ever seen in one room. But now, at last, all was quiet, and there was only one ceremony left to perform.

Alison pitied Mary this last duty. The idea of lying with Francis as a woman lies with a man was unpleasant, like doing it with a brother. And if anything went wrong it would be a public catastrophe, talked about in every city in Europe. Mary would want to die. Alison dreaded the thought of her friend suffering such humiliation.

Royal people had to bear this kind of burden, she knew; that was part of the price they paid for their privileged lives. And Mary had to go through it all without her mother. Marie de Guise ruled Scotland, standing in for Mary, and could not risk leaving that country even for her daughter’s wedding, so tenuous was the hold of the Catholic monarchy on the quarrelsome, rebellious Scots. Sometimes Alison wondered if it would not be better to be the carefree daughter of a baker, petting in a doorway with a randy apprentice.

Alison was only one of the ladies of the court assembled to wash and dress the bride for her deflowering. But she needed just a minute alone with Mary before the big moment.

They undressed her. Mary was nervous and shivering, but she looked beautiful: tall, pale and slim, with perfect shallow breasts and long legs. The women washed her with warm water, trimmed her fair pubic hair, and doused her with perfume. Finally they helped her dress in a nightgown embroidered with gold thread. She put on satin slippers, a lace nightcap, and a light cloak of fine wool to keep her warm between the dressing room and the bedchamber.

She was ready, but none of the women showed any inclination to withdraw. Alison was forced to speak to her in a whisper. ‘Tell them all to wait outside – I
must
speak to you alone!’

‘Why?’

‘Trust me – please!’

Mary rose to the occasion. ‘Thank you, ladies, all,’ she said. ‘Now please give me a few moments alone with Alison while I prepare my mind.’

The women looked resentful – most of them were superior in rank to Alison – but no one could refuse such a request from the bride, and reluctantly they trooped out.

At last Alison and Mary were alone.

Alison spoke in the same plain language Queen Caterina had used. ‘If Francis doesn’t fuck you, the marriage will be unconsummated, and that would mean it could be annulled.’

Mary understood. ‘And if that happens, I will never be queen of France.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But I don’t know if Francis can manage it!’ Mary looked distraught.

‘Nobody knows,’ Alison said. ‘So, whatever happens tonight, you’re going to
pretend
he’s done it.’

Mary nodded, and her face took on the determined expression that was one of the reasons Alison loved her. She said: ‘All right, but will people believe me?’

‘Yes, if you follow the advice of Queen Caterina.’

‘Is this why she summoned you yesterday?’

‘Yes. She says you must make sure Francis lies on top of you and at least pretends to fuck you.’

‘I can do that, but it may not be enough to convince the witnesses.’

Alison put a hand into her gown and withdrew what she had been carrying there. ‘The queen gave me this for you,’ she said. ‘There’s a pocket for it in your nightdress.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘Blood.’

‘Whose?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alison said, although she could guess. ‘Never mind where it comes from, the important thing is where it goes – onto the sheets of the bridal bed.’ She showed Mary the end of the thread that sealed the neck. ‘One pull on this will untie the knot.’

‘So they will all think I’ve lost my maidenhead.’

‘But no one must see the bag – so stuff it up inside yourself immediately, and leave it there until later.’

Mary looked horrified and disgusted, but only for a moment; and her brave spirit took over. ‘All right,’ she said, and Alison wanted to cry.

There was a knock at the door, and a woman’s voice called: ‘Prince Francis is ready for you, Queen Mary.’

‘One more thing,’ said Alison in a low voice. ‘If Francis fails, you must never tell anyone the truth – not your mother, not your confessor, not even me. You will always smile shyly and say that Francis did what a bridegroom should do, and he did it perfectly.’

Mary nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. The only sure way to keep a secret is eternal silence.’

Alison hugged Mary, then said: ‘Don’t worry. Francis will do anything you say. He adores you.’

Mary composed herself. ‘Let us go.’

Surrounded by ladies-in-waiting, Mary walked slowly down the staircase to the principal floor. She had to pass through the large guardroom of the Swiss mercenaries, then the king’s antechamber, stared at by everyone she passed, until she came to the royal bedchamber.

In the middle of the room was a four-poster bed covered only with fine white sheets. At each corner were heavy brocade and lace curtains, tied back to the posts. Francis stood waiting, dressed in a gorgeous gown over a cambric nightshirt, looking boyish in a nightcap too big for his head.

Standing and sitting around the bed were fifteen or so men and a handful of women. Mary’s uncles, Duke François and Cardinal Charles, were there, with the king and queen and a selection of important courtiers and senior priests.

Alison had not realized there would be so many.

They were talking in low voices, but fell silent when they saw Mary.

She stopped and said: ‘Are they going to draw the drapes?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Just the lace curtains,’ she said. ‘The act must be witnessed.’

Mary swallowed, then bravely moved forward. She took Francis’s hand and smiled encouragingly. He looked scared.

She stepped out of her slippers and let her cloak fall to the floor. Standing in front of all these fully dressed people, wearing only a white nightdress of fine fabric, she looked to Alison like a sacrifice.

Francis seemed paralysed. Mary helped him out of his gown, then led him to the bed. The two young people climbed onto the high mattress and pulled the single sheet over themselves.

Alison drew the lace curtains around them. It gave them only token privacy. Their heads were visible and the shapes of their bodies showed clearly under the sheet.

Alison could hardly breathe as she watched Mary snuggle up to Francis, murmuring in his ear, words that no one else could hear, probably telling him what he had to do or pretend to do. They kissed. The sheet moved, but it was not possible to see exactly what was going on. Alison felt painfully sorry for Mary. She imagined herself making love for the first time in front of twenty witnesses. It seemed impossible. But Mary was bravely going ahead. Alison could not read the expressions on the faces of the bridal couple, but she guessed Mary was trying to reassure Francis and get him to relax.

Then Mary rolled on her back and Francis clambered on top of her.

Alison found the tension almost unbearable. Would it happen? And, if not, would Mary succeed in pretending it had? Could all these older people be fooled?

The room was dead silent except for Mary’s words to Francis, murmured so low that the sense could not be made out. They could have been loving endearments or, equally, detailed instructions.

The two bodies manoeuvred awkwardly. From the position of Mary’s arms, it looked as if she was guiding Francis inside her – or pretending to.

Mary gave a short, sharp cry of pain. Alison could not tell whether it was genuine, but the audience muttered approval. Francis looked shocked and stopped moving, but Mary embraced him comfortingly under the sheets, pulling his body to her own.

Then the couple began to move together. Alison had never watched people doing this, so she had no idea whether it looked real. She glanced at the faces of the men and women around her. They were tense, fascinated and embarrassed, but not, she felt, sceptical. They seemed to believe they were watching actual intercourse, not a pantomime.

She did not know how long it was supposed to last. She had not thought to ask that question. Nor had Mary. Instinct told Alison that the first time might be quick.

After a minute or two there was a sudden movement, as if Francis’s body was convulsing – or Mary was jerking her own body to make it look that way. Then the two of them relaxed and the movement stopped.

The audience looked on in silence.

Alison stopped breathing. Had they done it? If not, would Mary remember the little bag?

After a pause, Mary pushed Francis off her and sat upright. She wriggled under the sheet, apparently pulling her nightgown down around her legs, and Francis did something similar.

Mary spoke in a commanding tone. ‘Draw back the lace curtains!’

Several ladies hurried to do her bidding.

When the lace was tied back, Mary dramatically threw off the top sheet.

There was a small red bloodstain on the bottom sheet.

The courtiers burst into applause. The deed was done. The marriage had been consummated, and all was well.

Alison felt helpless with relief. She clapped and cheered along with the others, while wondering what had really happened.

She would never know.

7

Ned was furious when Sir Reginald Fitzgerald refused to sign the papers transferring ownership of the old priory to Alice Willard.

Reginald was the mayor of a trading city: it was shockingly bad for the town’s reputation. Most citizens were on Alice’s side. They, too, had contracts which they could not afford to see broken.

Alice had to go to court to force Sir Reginald to fulfil his promise.

Ned had no doubt that the court would uphold the contract, but the delay was maddening. He and his mother were keen to inaugurate their indoor market. While they waited for the hearing, days and weeks went by when the Willard family was not making money. It was fortunate that Alice had a modest income from the row of cottages in the parish of St Mark’s.

‘What’s the point?’ Ned asked in frustration. ‘Reginald can’t win.’

‘Self-deception,’ said Alice. ‘He made a bad investment, and he wants to blame everyone but himself.’

Four times a year, important cases were heard at the Quarter Sessions by two Justices of the Peace assisted by a Clerk of the Peace. Alice’s lawsuit was put down for the June Quarter Sessions, and was the first case of the day.

The Kingsbridge courthouse was a former dwelling house on the high street, next to the Guild Hall. The court sat in what had been the dining hall of the house. Other rooms were offices for the justices and clerks. The basement served as a jail.

Ned arrived at the court with his mother. A crowd of townspeople stood around the room, talking. Sir Reginald was already there, with Rollo. Ned was glad Margery was not present: he did not want her to see her father’s humiliation.

Ned nodded stiffly to Rollo. He could no longer act friendly with the Fitzgerald family: the lawsuit had put an end to that pretence. He still greeted Margery when he saw her in the street. She reacted with embarrassment. But Ned loved her, and he believed she felt the same, despite everything.

Dan Cobley and Donal Gloster were also in court. The ill-fated ship the
St Margaret
might be mentioned, and the Cobleys would want to hear anything that was said about them.

Dan and the other Protestants arrested in Widow Pollard’s barn had been released on bail, all but Philbert, who was undoubtedly the leader. Philbert was in the basement jail, having been interrogated by Bishop Julius. They would all be tried tomorrow, not at the Quarter Sessions but at the independent church court.

Donal Gloster had escaped arrest. He had not been with his employer at Widow Pollard’s barn: the story going around town was that he had been at home drunk, luckily for him. Ned might have suspected that Donal was the one who had betrayed the location of the Protestant service, except that his story had been confirmed by several people who had seen him staggering out of the Slaughterhouse that afternoon.

The clerk, Paul Pettit, called for silence, and the two justices came in and took their seats at one end of the room. The senior justice was Rodney Tilbury, a retired cloth merchant. He wore a rich blue doublet and several large rings. He had been appointed by Queen Mary Tudor, being a staunch Catholic, but Ned did not think that would make any difference today, for the case had nothing to do with religion. The second justice, Seb Chandler, was friendly with Sir Reginald, but again Ned did not see how he could go against the plain facts of the case.

The jury were sworn in: twelve men, all Kingsbridge citizens.

Rollo stepped forward immediately and said: ‘I will speak for my father this morning, with your worships’ permission.’

Ned was not surprised. Sir Reginald was irascible, and quite likely to spoil his own case by bad temper. Rollo was just as clever as Reginald, but better controlled.