Paris: The Novel (62 page)

“Who arranged this wedding?”

“The king and his mother, I suppose.”

“Forget the king. His mother. Catherine de Médicis. She was the one who was so determined on this marriage. When her daughter tried to refuse to marry a Protestant, she whipped her soundly. That’s the word I hear. Even tore out the poor girl’s hair.”

“That is terrible.”

“Now consider something else. For the last year or so, Catherine and her inner council have been courting Admiral Coligny, the Protestants’ great commander. Inviting him to visit them. Flattering him. And what does Coligny want?”

“He wants freedom for Protestants to worship.”

“Yes, certainly. He also wants to help the Protestants in the Netherlands against their Catholic oppressors, the mighty Hapsburgs. Quite apart from the fact that I am a Catholic, I happen to think it’s madness. The last thing we need is to put ourselves at war with the Hapsburg king of Spain.”

“God forbid.”

“Indeed. Yet now, to please Coligny, Catherine has even sent some troops to the Netherlands to support the Protestants. What do you make of that?”

“To me, it is very strange.”

“Well, I think it’s more than strange. I think it’s unbelievable. Are we really suggesting that an Italian Médicis, the kinswoman of popes, is going to tolerate Protestants in her realm?” He paused. “There is one more person to consider. Who is Catherine’s greatest supporter?”

“I should say the Duke of Guise.”

“Indeed. The mighty house of Guise. Her closest counselors. The duke’s uncle is a cardinal in Rome. And let us not forget Mary, Queen of Scots. Devout Catholic. Rightful Queen of Scotland. Claimant to the throne of England. Elizabeth of England holds her in captivity now, and fears her. And who was the mother of Mary, Queen of Scots? The cardinal’s sister, Mary of Guise.”

“Unlikely sponsors of Protestants.”

“Exactly. Now I have one last question. Knowing what we do of Catherine de Médicis, by what principles will she be guided in all her actions?”

“By her faith, surely.”

“I said in her actions.”

“I do not understand.”

“You have heard of the great Machiavelli, I am sure.”

“Who has not? An evil man.”

“He merely described the ruthless cunning, the cold calculation, the poisonings and murders that he saw all around him among the rulers of Italy—the Florence of the Médicis in particular. Our queen mother will act exactly like that.”

“And so this wedding …?”

“Is a diabolical trap. Think of it. Coligny is here. Almost every leading Protestant in France has come into Paris for this wedding, along with their followers. What a chance.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She’s going to kill them all. She and the Guises.”

“But there are hundreds of them.”

“Thousands. It’s most convenient.”

“But that is evil. Unspeakably evil.”

“You have missed the point. It is logical.”

“But we are Christians.”

“You think the pope is going to object?”

“But what of Henry of Navarre? The bridegroom.”

“Ah. That is interesting. Catherine has already isolated him. Very cleverly.”

“In what way?”

“Who made Henry a Protestant in the first place?”

“His mother, the Queen of Navarre.”

“And what happened to her?”

“She died.”

“Exactly. Not long ago. When she was visiting the queen mother, who had begged her to come—so that they might learn to be friends.”

“What are you saying?”

“Catherine poisoned her.”

“There is no proof.”

“There never will be. But once Henry is left married to Catherine de Médicis’s daughter, with his mother gone, and Coligny and all his supporters murdered, he will be entirely isolated. He will either convert to Catholicism, or …”

“This is terrible.”

“I agree.”

“I shall pray that you are wrong.”

“Will you?” Guy gazed at him coolly. “Neither you nor I would do this deed. But will we regret it when it’s done?” He paused to let the cold truth sink in. “Do you want civil strife, Pierre? Do you want a Protestant king?”

But Pierre had done with questions.

“I thank God,” he said quietly, “that my home is a haven of peace.”

“May it always be so,” answered his cousin. “Ah, here comes young Simon, back again.”

They stayed out in the street several hours, and learned that the wedding had been safely accomplished, and saw many fine noblemen ride by that day.

And by evening, when nothing untoward had occurred, Guy almost dared to hope that he’d been wrong.

For Simon, the next three days were quite annoying. News came of the great feasts and tournaments taking place between the Louvre, the Île de la Cité and the Latin Quarter, and he would have liked to go and watch.

“Can we not see the knights jousting?” he cried.

But his father was always pleading that he was too busy, or giving some excuse why he couldn’t take his son out. He wouldn’t let the apprentice go either. And both his parents adamantly refused to let him wander off alone, even to one of the great aristocratic houses in the nearer part of the city, where he could at least have hung around by the gates and watched the parties of noblemen and their liveried retinues as they came and went between the celebrations.

If the royal marriage was intended to improve relationships between
the Catholic followers of the Duke of Guise and the Protestant followers of Coligny and Henry of Navarre, then things appeared to be getting off to a good start.

On Friday morning, Pierre had to go out to the market, but he made Simon stay at home.

At noon, his father came back ashen.

“Coligny has been attacked. Stabbed.”

“Is he killed?” asked Suzanne.

“No. Wounded but not badly. The assassin got away. Nobody knows who it was or where he is. But Coligny’s people are furious. Most of them think this was the work of the Guises, or even the king’s mother. One way or the other, everyone’s afraid there’s going to be a fight.”

Simon wasn’t allowed even to go into the street after that. At the end of the afternoon his father went out again to gather news, but returned without anything definite.

Saturday morning came. Coligny was safely in his lodgings. The old hero had lost two fingers, but that was all. He was receiving people. The royal family had been to see him. They were determined to find his attacker. The only fear was of a Protestant backlash. And with large numbers of Protestant knights and men-at-arms being lodged in the buildings of the Louvre, this was frightening indeed. But as the hours passed, nothing happened. Whatever their suspicions might be, the Protestants were holding back.

It was a long, hot August day. As evening fell, a dusty warmth pervaded the streets. Tomorrow, in the calendar of the Catholic Church, it would be the Feast of Saint Bartholomew. Both the serving girl and the apprentice had been allowed to go to their families for the day, so Simon and his parents were quite alone in the house.

Dusk was just falling when there were the sounds of a horseman coming to the door of Pierre Renard’s little house. The horseman entered quickly. It was Guy.

He came into the room where the family was sitting. His face was pale.

“Pierre. You must take these.” He held out a handful of white objects to his cousin. Simon watched curiously as his father inspected them. They were white armbands. “Put them on. All of you. Keep them on. Don’t take them off even when you are sleeping. At dawn, you will hear bells. Stay indoors. Do not go outside. Whatever else you may hear, besides the bells, do not open the door. But if for some reason, Pierre, you should have
to step outside, then be sure to wear a white armband. On no account be in the street without it.”

“What is this about?” demanded Pierre.

“Do not ask. And do not speak of this to anyone else. I should not be here, but you are my family.”

“Should we be afraid?”

“No. Just thank the Lord that, in His grace, He has made you a member of the true Church. But stay indoors all the same. And speak to nobody.”

Simon watched his father’s face. Pierre was looking very grave, and thoughtful.

“This is terrible,” he said to Guy.

“I know.”

“Will people come to the door and ask to see the armbands?”

“They might. But it’s unlikely.” He gave his cousin a grim look. “We already know where all the Protestants live.”

“We? You are part of this?”

“I didn’t say I liked it.” He turned. “Do as I’ve told you, Cousin,” he said, and was gone.

The night was silent. The family slept in two rooms. Simon’s room was tiny, but it had a small, square window that looked out into the alley.

He slept soundly for several hours, even as a single bell began to toll, somewhere near the Louvre. Soon other bells were following, but still he slept.

Suddenly, he sat up in bed. He did not know it was a terrible scream that had awoken him. He listened. Then he got up and went to the window. It must be early morning, but without opening the shutter, it was hard to tell what time it might be. He hesitated. He heard a party of horses going by in the street at the end of the alley, but they didn’t turn into the alley itself. He went to the door of his room. A sound from the back of the house told him that his mother was in the kitchen downstairs. He went back to the shutters and pushed them open, just a little.

The alley was deserted. Usually, first thing in the morning, the yard gate to the wooden storehouse just up the alley was opened by an apprentice. But today was Sunday, and it was still closed. There was something, though. A sack, by the look of it, lying in the road. He couldn’t see it clearly enough to be sure what it was.

Then he heard another sound, nearby. A scuffling sound. It was almost under his window. A dog or a cat, perhaps. He pulled himself up, got his stomach on the window ledge and leaned out.

It was a dark-haired little girl. About five years old, by the look of her. She was wearing just a nightdress. Her small round face was looking straight up at him. Her eyes were wide with terror. She was trembling, white as a ghost. He gazed at her.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer. She was staring at him with fear.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

She continued to stare at him.

“Why are you all by yourself?” he asked.

She still didn’t answer.

“I’m Simon,” he said.

“That’s my mother,” she whispered. She pointed up the alley. And Simon realized that she was pointing at the shape he’d thought was a sack.

“Where’s your father?” he said.

She didn’t reply, but she shook her head in a way that was so final that he supposed it could mean only one thing.

“Wait,” he said.

He crept down the wooden stairs. At the bottom, he paused. He heard his mother shoveling ash out of the grate in the kitchen. She’d be taking the ash out into the little yard at the back. His father usually went into his small store, off the yard, first thing in the morning.

He knew he should go and ask his parents what to do. He knew that, on no account, should he open the door or go outside. So he did exactly what most children in his place would do.

Very carefully, he slid back the bolts of the street door. He looked outside. The little girl hadn’t moved. The alley was empty. He stepped out and took her hand.

“Shh,” he whispered, “Don’t say a word.”

They stepped inside. He closed the door carefully and bolted it again. He could still hear his mother in the kitchen. Softly he led the little girl to the stairs and they crept up together. He put her in his bed. She was shivering, so he covered her with a blanket. Then he sat down beside her.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

“Constance.”

“You’ll be all right here. But don’t make a noise. I wasn’t supposed to open the door.”

She lay still. She was still shivering a bit. She was watching him, still uncertain, he supposed, whether she was really safe there.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Nor do I,” he said.

For about a quarter of an hour they stayed like that. He said nothing. She watched him. Then he heard his mother’s voice, calling softly up the stairs to see if he was awake. He thought quickly. He didn’t want his parents coming up to his room.