The Brethren (21 page)

“But now I’m all repentant,” she said, sobbing and crying hot tears.

I made sure her tears were real (knowing her to be so mischievous and the night being so dark) by drawing my finger under her eyes and finding it all wet. I was greatly moved by her chagrin, feeling as I did such deep friendship for her beyond the obvious attraction of our nocturnal games. “Hélix,” I said, “if this is how you feel, then we should stop altogether.”

“Oh no! No! No!” she cried. “Especially now that you’re going on eleven and getting to be a man, thank God!” And seizing my head passionately between her two thin little arms, she thrust it between her sweet breasts, which doubly reduced me to silence given that I was now effectively gagged and because I loved my gagging, despite my raw youth.

But she soon released me and started again to cry and tremble. “Oh I’m done for, my pretty little man,” she wept, her tears dropping on my chest, “when I think every day that I am going to burn in hell and horrible devils will skewer me in the flames with their pitchforks, now on this side, now on the other, so that I’ll be baked evenly all over, poor little Hélix, who loves God and Holy Jesus so much!”

“But no one can foretell who will be damned,” I said, more secure in my Huguenot theology than she was in hers.

“Oh yes they do!” she sobbed, blind to such nuances. “I know I’ll burn. I can already feel it in my bones. Oh if only I were as old as you, then I could claim, like la Maligou did, that as a poor serving girl I was forced to submit to my lord’s feudal rights. Then it wouldn’t be my fault and there’d be no sin.”

“And a nice lie that would be, Hélix! If you’ve forgotten all the tricks you started with, I’m going to make you remember them.”

“Oh no! I won’t listen, you rascal! Go away!” she said, pushing me away. “You enchanted me with your pretty golden hair which makes you look like a golden écu! But it’s all trickery and false appearances. You’re the Devil incarnate!”

“I am not and you know it!” I spouted. “Here is the Devil!” I said, touching the various parts of her body. “And if you dare repeat that I am the Devil, I’ll go sleep in Samson’s bed and you’ll never see me in yours again.”

“Oh no, no no!” she whined, immediately seizing me in her arms and squeezing me to her violently. “Don’t go away, I beg you, Pierre de Siorac! Or I’d be so unhappy I’d throw myself off the tower into the moat.” This threat did not move me. I’d too often heard my mother say it, and there wasn’t a woman in Mespech who didn’t go around repeating it after her. And yet I consoled little Hélix and gradually her tears ceased along with her sobs. And I thought her aslumber again, when she said in a piteous voice: “The truth is I’m too small for such a great sin.”

“But what can you do,” I reasoned naively, “since you don’t want to give it up?” (Nor, in truth did I.)

“I know!” she cried, sitting up suddenly in the bed. “We’ll both go and pray to the Holy Virgin to intercede for us with the Divine Child!”

“Pray to Mary?” I gasped indignantly. “But that would be pure idolatry! And for sure we’d be damned then!”

“For sure not! My mother secretly prays to her every day, and la Maligou and Little Sissy as well. And so do I!”

“What are you telling me?”

“The truth. La Maligou has set up a little altar to the Holy Virgin in the corner of the granary, with a beautiful image of Her and dried flowers. And it’s there we go to pray one after another, kissing the feet of the image, and always someone to keep watch.”

“Does my mother know?”

“Oh no! We don’t dare tell her.”

“Why not?”

“Because when she gets angry she can’t hold her tongue.”

“And when do you all do this?” I asked, utterly amazed.

“When the men have retired into the library for the evening.”

Certainly the moment was well chosen. In the great hall during the evening, there was always such a lot of coming and going, with the women engaged in housework and the men sitting around the fire roasting chestnuts over the coals and occupied in lively and loud discussion in the absence of their masters, that it was easy to sneak away without arousing suspicion.

“I shan’t pray to Mary,” I said resolutely. “Neither here nor in the loft. But go ahead, if that’s what you want.”

“But if I do it alone, it won’t help,” protested little Hélix. “We have to pray together, since we’ve sinned together.”

“And start in again together!” I thought to myself, half serious, half in jest, for I could sense the weakness of her reasoning. But, at her request, I promised to keep silent about their secret cult of Mary in our Huguenot stronghold. And I kept my promise, though not without a few pangs of conscience, my loyalty to my father pricking and stinging me. But I was too afraid that the Brethren would dismiss Barberine and little Hélix not to seal my lips on the matter.

Étienne de La Boétie had done well to warn Geoffroy de Caumont about Montluc, for after hesitating for some time between the Roman Church and our own, this man had ended up choosing Catholicism because of his desire to advance his own fortunes at court, his greed to fill his coffers and the frightful pleasure he took in spilling blood. Physically, he was a dry, bony man, with an emaciated face, high and prominent cheekbones, angry eyebrows and pinched lips. Hardly a fanatic, he killed men not for love of any cause, but for political ends, out of resentment and for fun.

It was at Saint-Mézard in the Agenais region that, in February
1562, he gave the first measure of his cruelty. There was a small uprising of Huguenots in that village against Sire de Rouillac who had tried to keep his reformed subjects from breaking the icons in the church of Saint-Mézard and from stealing the chalices (for in these affairs looting always played some part). But he paid dearly for this, for the people rose up and besieged his house. However, he was luckier than Fumel, and did not pay with his life, being rescued just in time by neighbouring noblemen. But great bitterness and angry words ensued on both sides, especially concerning a large stone cross in the cemetery which some of the Huguenots had broken.

Montluc swept down on Saint-Mézard with his troops at dawn on 20th February, but since none of his men knew the place all of the Huguenots were able to escape, with the exception of a man named Verdier, two other devils and a young, eighteen-year-old deacon, who were all seized. They were bound and taken to the cemetery where Montluc, followed by his executioner, brought them before the two consuls of Saint-Mézard and a nobleman of the town.

“Traitors,” scowled Montluc, “is it true, as this gentleman and these two consuls claim, that when they told you the king would be displeased if you broke that cross, you answered, ‘What king? We are the kings. Your king is a little kinglet of dung. We’ll put sticks to him and teach him how to earn a living like other honest folk’?”

“Oh, Monsieur,” said Verdier, “pity for a poor sinner.”

“Miscreant,” answered Montluc, “how dare you seek mercy from me when you have no respect for your king?” So saying, he pushed him rudely down onto the fragments of the cross, ordering his executioner: “Strike, villain!” Whereupon the man beheaded Verdier right there on the cross. Two others were strung up from the elm in the cemetery. Which left the deacon. Montluc demonstrated on his behalf a strange sort of mercy: given his youth, he got off with a mere whipping—which lasted only until he died beneath the
blows. And it was thus that four of the king’s subjects were summarily executed without arrest, judges or trial.

In Cahors, meanwhile, the two civil commissioners sent by the queen mother conducted their inquest on the massacre at the Orioles temple. They indicted fifteen Catholics, whom they sent to the stake. Montluc immediately hurried to Fumel, and, passing through Sainte-Livrade on his way, was brought six Huguenots, whom he strung up without lingering over them. But as he was joined at Fumel by Monsieur de Burie, he had to follow a few more formalities and sent for two counsellors of the seneschalty of Agen to judge Baron de Fumel’s murderers. Which was done with great haste, and nineteen Huguenots were hanged.

From Fumel, Montluc travelled to Cahors to intimidate the two civil commissioners sent by the queen mother, who had been so bold as to imprison Monsieur de Vieule, the canon of Cahors, since they believed he had abetted the Orioles massacre. Scarcely had he arrived there than he confronted Geoffroy de Caumont, who had come to complain about him to Burie in the presence of a large assembly.

“Monsieur de Burie,” said Caumont, “Monsieur de Montluc has falsely claimed that a minister preaching in my presence at Clairac offended the person of the king.”

“I said as much, and it is no falsehood!” asserted Montluc, striding towards Caumont, his hand on his dagger and followed by fifteen of his gentlemen. “It is a great shame that you tolerated such words from your Huguenot preacher after all the benefits you have received from the king.”

Caumont grew pale with fury and stood his ground: “I have said, and I repeat, that I was not present when this minister gave his sermon, and in any case I am not answerable to you.” Whereupon Montluc took a step towards him, his dagger half drawn from its sheath. Caumont put hand to sword, but could not draw it, for
Montluc’s men were on him in a trice and would have killed him had not Burie intervened to push him outside, saving his life.

“And I,” shouted Montluc as Caumont was dragged over the threshold, “I have said, and I repeat, Abbot of Clairac, that you support the Huguenot sedition in Agen and Périgord and the king would be well advised to send you to the tower of Loches!…”

Once Caumont was out of the way, Montluc so terrified the civil commissioners by his insults and threats that they, too, fled from Cahors, leaving him lone judicial officer of the king, Burie no longer daring to oppose him.

The wind was indeed changing. The Duc de Guise (with the Church of France, the Pope and Felipe II of Spain behind him) quickly regained his absolute power. Of the whole cloud of forces now ready to descend on us, Montluc was but the willing and hostile instrument. The Brethren were well aware of this, and though they had had no part in the seditions of Périgord, they began to fortify Mespech.

The news from the north and from Paris was not slow to fan our fears. Accompanied by a large escort, Guise set out on 1st March for Paris from Joinville, where he had been visiting his mother. As it was Sunday and the morning well advanced, he stopped at Vassy to hear Mass. Never did a more brilliant assembly honour this humble church. The victor of Calais, superbly clad in his doublet and his scarlet satin shoes, wearing a red feather in his black velvet cap, was first to enter the nave, assuredly the most handsome and majestic of all the gentlemen in his retinue. He had other reasons too for holding his head so high at Vassy, for he considered himself lord of this city, since it belonged to his niece Mary Stuart.

But no sooner had he taken his seat in his golden chair in the choir than news was brought that some 500 reformers were celebrating
their cult in a barn a mere stone’s throw away. “What’s this?” he cried petulantly. “Am I not practically at home here? And since Vassy is a closed city, even the Edict of January does not give these heretics the scandalous right they so presumptuously assume. So this is what their beautiful gospel is all about! They always want to exceed their powers! Let’s go remind these reckless folk that as my subjects they’re badly mistaken to believe that they can offend me so.” So saying, he left the church with his retinue. Unfortunately, two of his impetuous gentlemen, going before him, entered the barn and provoked a tumult.

“Gentlemen,” the Huguenots said politely, “please join us.”

To which the young La Brousse replied, putting hand to sword, “’Sdeath! Let’s kill ’em all!”

At this blasphemy, the Huguenots rose up and threw the intruders out and barricaded the doors. A few, however, were so ill advised as to mount a scaffolding above the door and hurl stones at the duc and his party when they arrived.

These were riddled with bullets; the doors were broken in and any who tried to escape over the roofs were shot like pigeons. When the duc finally put a stop to the carnage, twenty-four Huguenots lay dead, over a hundred others gravely wounded. The political role which the duc had lately assumed gave great weight to this event. He had formed a triumvirate with Montmorency and the Marshal de Saint-André over the head of the regent, whom they judged too indulgent of the reform. Their aim was the eradication of all heresy from the kingdom, and they were seconded in this goal by the frightful counsel of the Pope to the young Charles IX “to spare neither fire nor sword”. And yet in Guise’s mind this was all a bit abstract. A great warrior, he was not innately cruel. He thought himself, on the contrary, good, courteous and chivalric. At Metz and Calais, he had acted with great humanity towards his prisoners. At his death,
he mentioned the Vassy massacre in his confession, but denied it was in any way premeditated.

My father, having served under him at Calais, liked and esteemed him, despite his Catholic zeal (which was not without its ambitious side), and always said that if the two sides had not quickly spoilt things at Vassy, the duc would likely have been content to reprimand his “subjects” for having broken the Edict of January, and let it go at that. In truth, my father claimed, events took François de Guise by surprise and their consequences quickly overwhelmed him.

In Cahors, the Orioles massacre had left many more dead than were counted at Vassy. But the man responsible was merely an old canon who had whipped up the zealots in the crowd. Both the canon and his zealots had been seized and executed for their excesses. But a lord more powerful than the king himself had presided over the carnage at Vassy. Guise had struck, and there was no one to call him to account, unless it was a prince like himself who was prepared for armed combat. Condé quickly understood his role, and began recruiting his soldiers.

Feeling that this incident did little for his reputation, Guise returned to Paris deeply troubled. The news of the massacre had preceded him and he was surprised to receive a hero’s welcome in this city, which had been fanaticized by the priests. When the hero appeared in the city—his scarlet satin doublet set off against his black Spanish jennet—the Parisians, massed from all quarters, shouted “Vassy! Vassy!” as if Vassy had been the greatest of his victories. Maids and matrons pressed breathless from all sides, their hearts beating at the sight of the beautiful red archangel, the sword-bearer of the Church against the heretics.