The Brethren (27 page)

A deep silence followed this recital, which set all three of us to dreaming, and even my innocent little brother Samson was blushing.

“I’m afraid I don’t perceive the magic to this,” said Jean de Siorac.

Sarrazine batted her lashes. “But he had his way with me.”

“To some extent,” mused my father. “Nonetheless, if you insist, I must exercise my seigniorial justice and send Jonas bound hand and foot to the gallows.”

“Oh no, no, no!” cried Sarrazine passionately shaking her black mane. “This is no time to hang him, just when I want to marry him!”

“Now here’s a wench without rancour!” laughed my father. “And what about Jonas?”

“He wishes it too, according to your Huguenot rites.”

“But aren’t you a Catholic?” asked my father, suddenly growing serious.

“I was raised in the faith of the Prophet Muhammad,” explained Sarrazine simply. “But the Gypsies turned me into a Catholic. But from now on, I shall be of the religion of my husband.”

“Which is to say that a husband is worth a Huguenot service. Well then, cheer up, Sarrazine,” said Jean de Siorac. “You’ve not wasted your time going all that way from la Volperie to Jonas’s cave!”

“Well, I’ve thought a lot about it these four years, and I’ve never seen a prettier or stronger man than Jonas in the whole countryside of Montignac.”

My father burst out laughing. “Well, then it’s as good as done, Sarrazine.”

But she, ceasing her shaking and trembling for a moment, said gravely, “Not quite, My Lord.” (And here she made a curtsey as deep as the first.) “I do not wish to live in a cave like a savage, with goats and a wolf. You must give Jonas permission to build a proper house over the cave.”

“Ah, so that’s it, you clever scamp!” laughed my father.

At that moment we heard Sauveterre’s stumpy gait on the stair, then a knock on the door, and he appeared, frowning sourly as soon as he caught sight of Sarrazine. He immediately glanced apprehensively towards Jean de Siorac.

“Jean,” said Siorac, repressing the gaiety that Sarrazine had brought into our ranks, “this is Sarrazine, the hostage that you found work for in la Volperie. She wants to marry Jonas according to our religion, on condition that he build her a house over his cave.”

“A house!” exclaimed Sauveterre, scandalized, raising his eyes heavenward.

“Monsieur, you have everything you need for it and in abundance!” replied Sarrazine hotly and not without effrontery. “Stone for the roof and the walls, limestone and clay for mortar, chestnut trees for the beams and a stonemason to build it! And why should
Jonas, who serves you well and who fought for you bravely against the Gypsies, not have a house like a good Christian?”

“The wench has a well-oiled tongue, at least,” said Sauveterre little pleased by her speech. He sat down with a sigh, but said no more, already guessing what Siorac was thinking. Indeed, the two brothers left off speaking for some moments in order to avoid a confrontation.

“Sarrazine, what is this wicker basket you’re holding?” my father enquired, breaking the silence.

“A present I bring your household, My Lord,” replied Sarrazine, bobbing a curtsey, but this time refraining from the full bow, knowing how much it would distress Sauveterre. “I made it with my own hands,” she said proudly, “with willow shoots from the les Beunes farm which are plentiful down below the quarry.”

“Let’s see it,” said Sauveterre, reaching out and taking the basket from her, which he examined carefully on each side, testing its construction and weaving. “This is very good work, Sarrazine,” he continued, softening somewhat his tone. “You didn’t waste your time with the Gypsies.” He looked at her—certainly not in the way my father looked at her, but with a look reflecting his calculated meditation. “And do you know how to make a grape-gatherer’s hod?”

“I’ve already made one,” she replied with feigned feminine modesty, refraining from her usual bodily wiles for she could feel now that with Sauveterre things were beginning to go her way. “But,” she added, “it takes more time and bigger willow shoots.”

“So tell me,” said Sauveterre coldly, “could you make four hods a month?”

“I think so.”

Sauveterre glanced at my father and, in a single look, fell into agreement. “Well, then, we’ll build you a house to lodge the both of you, Sarrazine, and you shall make us four grape hods a month.
You’ll get no pay for the first year, but after that we’ll give you two sols a hod.”

“Three,” corrected my father.

“Three,” Sauveterre conceded, shrugging his shoulders with some vexation.

Sarrazine was overwhelmed and nearly jumped for joy when I walked her out to the main gate, reckoning twelve months’ labour of fingers, arms and back a small price to pay for the joy of living in a house built by her husband—a construction that could only enrich the two masters’ domain.

They were married, according to our Huguenot practice, two days later, since a longer wait was not feasible given that they already had carnal knowledge of each other. And straightaway afterwards, Sarrazine waded barefoot into the cold waters of the les Beunes river in search of willow shoots. And so it was that from that day on Mespech entered the business of selling wicker grape baskets, while the wine barrels made by Faujanet continued to sell at a brisk pace, an alliance which, if I may judge by the meticulous accounts kept by Sauveterre in the
Book of Reason
, turned a pretty penny.

The news of the defeat of our forces by Montluc at Vergt reached Guise while he was besieging the Huguenots at Rouen. That city was well defended by Montgomery, a tall, stiff young man for whom Catherine de’ Medici had conceived a mortal hatred ever since his broken lance had pierced her beloved husband’s eye during their jousting match. That the accident, now three years past, had happened completely by chance—Montgomery having run this last course at Henri’s express demand and entirely in self-defence—in no way altered the passionate Italian’s resentment. This little baby-faced cannonball of a woman with a carnivorous jaw had mastered
the art of dissimulation from the many humiliations of her reign, which included Henri’s preference for another woman. She could smile through those big wide eyes at her interlocutor even while she plotted his death, patiently biding her time, waiting for the right moment.

Montgomery’s time had now arrived. The Huguenot would pay twice over: once for his revolt against Charles IX, and again for the broken lance he’d neglected to throw to the ground. Every day, the regent went down into the trenches, braving the cannonades and musket fire, and exhorted her troops by her heroic example.

Guise had intended to make his first strike against Orleans, but when Condé abandoned le Havre to Elizabeth of England by virtue of the fateful Treaty of Hampton Court, which had so outraged the Brethren, he hurried to lay siege to Rouen to head off any English disembarkation, which would have caused panic in Paris. He could not count on Elizabeth’s lack of zeal in keeping her promises now that she had le Havre and could wait until the end of the war to exchange it for Calais.

The Catholic army felt victory within its grasp once it had taken Fort Sainte-Catherine, which dominated Rouen from the top of a bluff. This army was commanded in fact by Guise, though he belonged in principle to the triumvirate (Guise, Saint-André and the constable). Their ranks had lately swelled to four to include the king of Navarre, Anthoine de Bourbon. One of the first great lords besides Condé to have converted to the reform, Bourbon had a second time abjured his faith in return for a vague promise from Felipe II of Spain that he should regain Spanish Navarre, and once again heard Mass and worshipped the Virgin.

His wife, Jeanne d’Albret, scorned such recantations. She had remained in her little kingdom of Navarre, firm in her faith, disdaining the hypocrisies of the court. But Anthoine was a weak and
flighty man who always believed the last person to bend his ear and followed the first skirt to catch his eye. “
Totus est venereus
,” wrote Calvin, who had never trusted him.

At Rouen, he tried to match the queen mother’s bravery by his temerity in having his dinner table set directly behind a wall on which the Huguenots were firing. Having eaten his fill, and forgetting where he was, he stood up at the end of the meal and was immediately felled by enemy fire. Once the city was taken, he had himself carried through the streets by his soldiers on a litter to give himself the ultimate satisfaction of watching the massacre of the very Huguenots whom he had previously shared prayers with. That done, he immediately died as stupidly as he had lived, leaving behind a wife who was really the man of the family and a son who, luckily for the fortunes of France resembled his mother: the future Henri IV.

The sack of Rouen was the worst that can be imagined, but Catherine de’ Medici did not enjoy the particular pleasure she had been anticipating: Montgomery escaped. He leapt into a boat and was taken downriver. Reaching the chain that the Catholics had stretched across the Seine at Caudebec, he promised his galley slaves their freedom if they could save him. The convicts set to shouting, pressed their oars and headed straight at the obstacle, which gave way. Montgomery was thus able to reach the sea and, ultimately the English coast. But destiny did not let him off so easily for she arranged a second meeting with Catherine de’ Medici, two years later, this one ending in his death.

Seemingly, the fall of Rouen was but another jewel in Guise’s crown, which, it was rumoured, he intended one day to substitute for Charles IX’s. And yet, as he prepared to leave Rouen for Paris, the duc was exceedingly morose, for he had had to share the glory of this siege with three others: firstly with the constable, Montmorency,
who during his service to three kings had grown older without growing wiser; secondly with Marshal de Saint-André, who, though younger than the constable, had no greater talent; and thirdly with the poor fool Anthoine, of whom it was rumoured he’d had himself shot on purpose so that he could be carried through the town like a dying hero.

In Paris, Guise was surprised to learn that the Huguenot army, reinforced by 3,000 horsemen and 4,000 German infantrymen, had taken Étampes, la Ferté-Alais, Dourdan and Montlhéry. Certainly these were no great victories: the Huguenots were merely prowling the countryside around the capital. The towns taken merely served as fodder and booty for the German troops clamouring for their soldier’s pay. As that clamouring grew worse, Condé and Coligny decided to head for Normandy, attracted by the mirage of help and subsidy from Elizabeth of England. The Huguenots advanced westward, delayed by the heavy carts the German horsemen had loaded with their booty. The royal army rushed after them, and, despite their haste, were quickly at their heels. Coligny, fearing rearguard action by the royalists, convinced Condé to turn and face them. The spot was well chosen: Condé could deploy his horsemen on the Dreux plains.

Guise, positioned on the right flank of the royal army with his gentlemen and veteran bands of French soldiers, refused to give orders in this battle, little inclined to singe his hands again pulling chestnuts from the fire for others. Raised to his full height in the stirrups of his magnificent Spanish jennet, he commanded a full view of the entire theatre of battle, and watched without flinching as Condé and Coligny defeated the constable.

“Your Grace, the constable is being routed!”

“So I see,” Guise replied.

“Your Grace, the constable is wounded!”

“So I see.”

“Your Grace, the constable is taken!”

“So I see.”

Entirely absorbed in cutting their enemy to pieces, the Huguenots were already crying victory when Coligny spied Guise and his men waiting on their right and cried, “I see a cloud there about to rain its fury on us.”

A few moments later, Guise, judging his two adversaries to be exhausted, raised himself once again in his stirrups and cried: “Forward, my friends, the battle is ours!”

And with the Spanish infantrymen behind him, he routed the entire Protestant infantry. Condé was wounded in the hand and captured, and the Huguenots were put to flight. At four o’clock the battle appeared to be over.

At this point a force of 1,000 horsemen and 300 knights whom Coligny had succeeded in rallying fell on the victorious army’s own right. They broke through the Catholic cavalry’s lines but did not succeed in routing the battalion of French veterans armed with pikes. Coligny withdrew, but as everyone knew he was never so great as in defeat or retreat.

Guise did not dare pursue him too far. But he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams in defeating enemies and rivals alike: the constable was taken and the Marshal de Saint-André dead. The triumvirate had been reduced henceforth to one. The beautiful red archangel of the Catholic Church had thus become the only support of the throne.

He wrote several letters to Catherine de’ Medici filled with formulas of respect for herself and the king, detailing for her his stunning victory at Dreux. But this wasn’t enough. A month later he came to Blois, breaking in on the queen mother as she was going in to dinner and requesting an audience immediately after the meal.

“Jesus! My cousin!” cried the queen mother, astonished but feigning to be more so than she was. “What are you asking of me? An audience? And for what purpose?”

“I wish, Madame,” replied Guise, “to represent to the court everything I have done since my departure from Paris with your army.”

“But my cousin, I am well aware of all you have done. You’ve told me everything in your letters.”

“Madame,” said Guise with cool aplomb, “I want to tell you personally and to present to you all the royal captains who so bravely fought for you at Dreux.”

The queen mother acquiesced gracefully since she could hardly refuse. After dinner Guise reappeared before her dressed in crimson satin and surrounded by his captains like a king by his ministers. With a deep bow to the queen mother and Charles IX he began his epic adventure with a tale that appeared to be as naive as its purpose was calculated.

The queen mother listened, smiling with her large wide eyes and secretly gnashing her teeth inside her pretty plump cheeks. She realized Guise had found a way to win the battle of Dreux twice over: the first time on the battlefield and the second in its telling at the court.