A Column of Fire (87 page)

Pierre closed the door.

He looked at the sleeping Odette with loathing. Being bullied into marrying her had been his ultimate humiliation. He found himself shaking with a passionate desire. This would be his ultimate revenge.

He dragged a heavy chair across the room and pushed it up against the door so that no one could come in.

The noise woke Odette. She raised her head and said anxiously: ‘What’s happening?’

Pierre tried to make his voice soothing as he replied: ‘Alain is getting you a strengthening potion from the apothecary.’ He crossed the room to the bed.

Odette sensed danger. In a frightened voice she said: ‘Why have you barred the door?’

‘So that you’re not disturbed,’ Pierre said, and with that he snatched the feather pillow from under her head and put it over her face. He was just quick enough to stifle the scream that started from her throat.

She struggled with surprising energy. She managed to get her head out from under the pillow and draw a panicked breath before he was able to push it over her nose and mouth again. She wriggled so much that he had to get onto the bed and kneel on her chest. Even then she was able to use her arms, and she rained punches on his ribs and belly so that he had to grit his teeth to bear the pain and keep pressing the pillow.

He felt she might prevail, and he might fail to put an end to her; and that panicky thought gave him extra strength, and he pushed down with all his might.

At last she weakened. Her punches became feeble, then her arms dropped helplessly to her sides. Her legs kicked a few more times then went still. Pierre kept pressing on the pillow. He did not want to take the risk that she could revive. He hoped Alain would not return yet – surely it must take Giglio more time than this to make up the mixture?

Pierre had never killed anyone. He had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of heretics and many innocent bystanders, and he still had bad dreams about the piles of naked bodies on the streets of Paris during the Massacre of St Bartholomew’s Day. Even now he was planning a war with England that would kill thousands. But no one had died by his own hand until now. This was different. Odette’s soul was leaving her body while he stopped her breathing. It was a terrible thing.

When she had been still for a couple of minutes he cautiously lifted the pillow and looked at her face, gaunt from her illness. She was not breathing. He put his hand on her chest and felt no heartbeat.

She was gone.

He was possessed by exultation. Gone!

He replaced the pillow under her head. She looked peaceful in death. There was no sign on her face of the violence of her end.

His thrill of triumph passed its peak and he began to think about the danger of discovery. He moved the chair from the door. He was not sure exactly where it had stood before. Surely no one would notice?

Looking around for anything that might cause suspicion, he saw that the bedclothes were unusually rumpled, so he straightened them over Odette’s body.

Then he did not know what to do.

He wanted to leave the room, but he had promised Alain that he would stay, and he would look guilty if he fled. Better to feign innocence. But he could hardly bear to be in the room with the corpse. He had hated Odette, and he was glad she was dead, but he had committed a terrible sin.

He realized that God would know what he had done even if no one else did. He had murdered his wife. How would he obtain forgiveness for such a sin?

Her eyes were still open. He was afraid to look at them for fear they would look back. He would have liked to close them, but he dreaded to touch the corpse.

He tried to pull himself together. Father Moineau had always assured him of forgiveness, for he was doing God’s work. Did not the same apply here? No, of course not. This had been an act of utter selfishness. He had no excuse.

He felt doomed. His hands were shaking, he saw – the hands that had held the pillow over Odette’s face so firmly that she had suffocated. He sat on a bench by the window and stared out, so that he did not have to look at Odette; but then he had to turn around every few seconds to assure himself that she was lying still, for he could not help imagining her corpse sitting up in bed, turning its sightless face towards him, pointing an accusing finger, and silently mouthing the words
He murdered me.

At last the door opened and Alain came in. Pierre suffered a moment of pure panic, and almost shouted
It was me, I killed her!
Then his usual calm returned. ‘Hush,’ he said, though Alain had made little noise. ‘She’s sleeping.’

‘No, she’s not,’ said Alain. ‘Her eyes are open.’ He frowned. ‘You straightened the bedclothes.’

‘They were a bit rumpled.’

Alain’s voice showed faint surprise. ‘That was nice of you.’ Then he frowned again. ‘Why did you move the chair?’

Pierre was dismayed that Alain had noticed these trivial details. He could not think of an innocent reason for moving the chair, so he resorted to denial. ‘It’s where it always was.’

Alain looked puzzled but did not persist. He put a bottle on the little side table, and gave Pierre a handful of coins in change. He spoke to the dead body. ‘I got your medicine, Mother,’ he said. ‘You can have some right away. It has to be mixed with water or wine.’

Pierre wanted to scream at him:
Look at her – she’s dead!

There was a jug of wine and a cup on the side table. Alain poured some of the potion into the cup, added wine from the jug, and stirred the mixture with a knife. Then – at last – he approached the bed. ‘Let’s get you sitting up,’ he said. Then he looked hard at her and frowned. ‘Mother?’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Blessed Mary, no!’ He dropped the cup to the floor and the potion spilled oleaginously across the tiles.

Pierre watched him with horrid fascination. After a frozen moment of shock, Alain bounded forward and bent over the still form. ‘Mother!’ he shouted, as if a louder voice could bring her back.

Pierre said: ‘Is something wrong?’

Alain grabbed Odette by the shoulders and lifted her. Her head flopped back lifelessly.

Pierre moved to the bed, judiciously standing on the side opposite Alain, out of striking range. He was not afraid of Alain physically – it was the other way around – but it would be better to avoid a brawl. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

Alain stared at him in hatred. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing but watch over her,’ Pierre said. ‘But she seems to be unconscious.’

Alain laid her gently back on the bed, with her head on the pillow that had killed her. He touched her chest, feeling for a heartbeat; then her neck, for a pulse. Finally, he put his cheek next to her nose, to see if there was any breath. He stifled a sob. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Are you sure?’ Pierre touched her chest himself, then nodded sadly. ‘How terrible,’ he said. ‘And we thought she was recovering.’

‘She was! You killed her, you devil.’

‘You’re very upset, Alain.’

‘I don’t know what you did, but you killed her.’

Pierre stepped to the door and shouted for a servant. ‘In here! Anybody! Quickly!’

Alain said: ‘I’m going to kill you.’

The threat was laughable. ‘Don’t say things you don’t mean.’

‘I will,’ Alain repeated. ‘You’ve gone too far this time. You’ve murdered my mother, and I’m going to get you back. If it takes me as long as I live, I will kill you with my own hands, and watch you die.’

For a brief moment, Pierre felt a chill of fear. Then he shook it off. Alain was not going to kill anyone.

He looked along the corridor and saw Nath approaching, carrying a basket, evidently back from the market. ‘Come here, Nath,’ he said. ‘Quickly. A very sad thing has happened.’

*

S
YLVIE PUT ON
a black hat with a heavy veil and went to the funeral of Odette Aumande de Guise.

She wanted to stand beside Nath and Alain, both of whom were terribly upset; and she also felt an odd emotional link with Odette, because they had both married Pierre.

Ned did not come. He had gone to the cathedral of Notre Dame to see which prominent English Catholics were in Paris: perhaps the men who were collaborating with the duke of Guise might be foolish enough to reveal themselves.

It was a rainy day and the graveyard was muddy. Most of the mourners looked, to Sylvie, like minor Guise family members and maids. The only prominent ones who came were Véronique, who had known Odette since they were both adolescents, and Pierre himself, pretending to be stricken with grief.

Sylvie watched Pierre nervously, even though she felt sure he would not penetrate her disguise. She was right: he did not even look at her.

Only Nath and Alain wept.

When it was over, and Pierre and most of the mourners had departed, Sylvie, Nath and Alain stood under the canopy of an oak tree to talk.

‘I think he killed her,’ Alain said.

Alain had the Guise good looks, Sylvie noticed, even with his eyes red from crying. ‘But she was ill,’ Sylvie said.

‘I know. But I left her alone with him for just a few minutes, to fetch a potion from the apothecary, and when I got back she was dead.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sylvie. She had no idea whether what Alain said was true, but she felt sure Pierre was capable of murder.

‘I’m going to leave the palace,’ Alain said. ‘I have no reason to stay now that she’s not there.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I can move into my college.’

Nath said: ‘I have to leave, too. I’ve been dismissed. Pierre always hated me.’

‘Oh, dear! What will you do?’

‘I don’t need employment. The book business keeps me run off my feet anyway.’ Nath was indomitable. Since Sylvie had turned her into a spy, all those years ago, she had just become stronger and more resourceful.

But now Sylvie was perturbed. ‘Do you have to leave? You’re our most important source of information on Pierre and the Guises.’

‘I’ve no choice. He’s kicked me out.’

‘Can’t you plead with him?’ Sylvie said desperately.

‘You know better than that.’

Sylvie did. No amount of pleading would make Pierre reverse an act of meanness.

This was a serious problem – but, Sylvie saw immediately, there was an obvious solution. She turned to Alain. ‘You could stay with Pierre, couldn’t you?’

‘No.’

‘We need to know what he’s doing!’

Alain looked tortured. ‘I can’t live with the man who murdered my mother!’

‘But you believe in the true, Protestant religion.’

‘Of course.’

‘And it’s our duty as believers to spread the word.’

‘I know.’

‘The best way for you to serve the cause might be to tell me what your stepfather is up to.’

He looked torn. ‘Would it?’

‘Become his secretary, make yourself indispensable to him.’

‘Last week I swore to him that I would kill him in revenge.’

‘He will soon forget that – too many people have sworn to kill Pierre. But surely the best way to avenge her death – and the way that would please the Lord – would be to cripple his efforts to crush the true religion.’

Alain said thoughtfully: ‘It would honour my mother’s memory.’

‘Exactly.’

Then he wavered again. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

Sylvie glanced at Nath, who discreetly pointed at herself in a gesture that meant
Leave this to me, I’ll take care of it.
She probably could, Sylvie decided: she had been a second mother to Alain.

Sylvie said to Alain: ‘I can’t overstate how important it is for us to know about English Catholics who contact the Guise family.’

‘There was a big meeting at the palace last week,’ Alain said. ‘They’re talking about invading England.’

‘That’s terrifying.’ Sylvie did not say that she already knew about the meeting. Ned had taught her never to let a spy know that there were other sources of information: that was a cardinal rule of the game. ‘Were there any Englishmen at the meeting?’

‘Yes, one, a priest from the English College. My stepfather has met with him several times. He’s going to contact Mary Stuart and make sure she supports the invasion.’

Jerónima Ruiz had not known this crucial piece of information. Sylvie could hardly wait to tell Ned. But there was one more key fact she needed. ‘Who is this priest?’ she said, and she held her breath.

Alain said: ‘He goes by the name of Jean Langlais.’

Sylvie breathed a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Does he, now?’ she said. ‘Well, well.’

23

Sheffield Castle was one of the more uncomfortable prisons in which Alison had spent the last fifteen years with Mary Stuart. It was three hundred years old, and felt it. The place was built at the confluence of two rivers and had a moat on the other two sides, and to say it was damp was a grim understatement. Its owner, the earl of Shrewsbury, had quarrelled with Queen Elizabeth about the meagre allowance she gave him for Mary’s keep; and in consequence Shrewsbury provided the cheapest food and drink.

The only redeeming feature of the place was a deer park of four square miles just across the moat.

Mary was allowed to ride in the park, though she always had to be accompanied by an escort of armed guards. On days when she did not want to ride, for any reason, Alison was allowed to go into the park on her own: no one cared if she escaped. She had a black pony called Garçon who was well-behaved most of the time.

As soon as she had the avenue of walnut trees in front of her she galloped Garçon for a quarter of a mile, to burn off his excess energy. After that he was more obedient.

Riding fast gave her a feeling of freedom that was brief and illusory. When she slowed Garçon to a walk, she remembered that she lived in a prison. She asked herself why she stayed. No one would stop her if she went back to Scotland, or France. But she was a prisoner of hope.

She had lived her life in hope – and disappointment. She had waited for Mary to become queen of France, then that had lasted less than two years. Mary had come home to rule Scotland, but had never been truly accepted as queen, and in the end they had forced her to abdicate. Now she was the rightful queen of England, recognized as such by everyone – except the English. But there were thousands, perhaps millions, of loyal Catholics here who would fight for her and acclaim her as their queen, and now Alison was waiting and hoping for the moment when they would get the chance to do just that.