Page 204 of A Column of Fire
She had liked Ned. So many men regarded a woman selling something as a fair target for sexual banter, or worse, as if she would suck a man off just to get him to buy a jar of ink. But Ned had talked to her with interest and respect. He was a man of some power and importance, but he showed no arrogance; in fact, he had a rather modest charm. All the same she suspected he was no softie. Hanging alongside his coat she had seen a sword and a long Spanish dagger that looked as if they were not merely for decoration.
No one else was in sight in the rue du Mur when Sylvie took the key from behind the loose brick and let herself into the windowless old stable that had served her for so many years as a hiding place for illegal books.
Her stocks were running low again. She would have to order more from Guillaume in Geneva.
Her correspondence with Guillaume was handled by a Protestant banker in Rouen who had a cousin in Geneva. The banker was able to receive money from Sylvie and have his cousin pay Guillaume. Sylvie still had to sail down the Seine to Rouen to do business, but it was a lot easier than going to Geneva. She would collect her shipment personally and bring it upriver to Paris. With the help of the cargo broker Luc Mauriac she paid all the bribes necessary to make sure that her crates of ‘stationery’ were not inspected by customs. It was risky, like any criminal activity, but so far she had survived.
She found two Bibles and packed them into her satchel, then walked to the shop in the rue de la Serpente, a narrow street in the university district. She went in by the back door and called to her mother: ‘It’s only me.’
‘I’m with a customer.’
Sylvie picked up the paper and ink ordered by Ned and stacked the parcels on a small handcart. She thought of telling her mother about the large order she had won from the charming Englishman, and found herself reluctant to do so. She felt a little foolish for being so taken with him after one short meeting. Isabelle was a strong character with decided opinions, and Sylvie always had to be ready either to agree or give good reasons for disagreeing. They had no secrets from one another: in the evening each would tell the other everything that had happened during the day. But by then Sylvie would have seen Ned again. She might not like him the second time.
‘I have a delivery to make,’ she called out, and she left the shop.
She pushed the handcart along the rue de la Serpente, past the grand church of St Severin, across the broad rue St Jacques, alongside the pale little church of St-Julien-le-Pauvre, through the crowded market of the place Maubert with its gallows, to the English embassy. It was hard work on the cobbled streets, but she was used to it.
It took only a few minutes, and when she arrived Ned had not yet returned from the Louvre. She unloaded his stationery from the cart and a servant helped her carry it upstairs.
Then she waited in the hall. She sat on a bench with her satchel at her feet. It had a strap that she sometimes fastened to her wrist, so that it could not be stolen: books were costly and Paris was full of thieves. But she reckoned she was safe here.
A few minutes later Walsingham came in. He had a hard, intelligent face, and Sylvie immediately put him down as a force to be reckoned with. He was dressed in black, and the white collar at his neck was plain linen, not lace. His hat was a simple cap without feathers or other decoration. Clearly he wanted everyone who looked at him to know immediately that he was a Puritan.
Ned came in behind him, in his blue doublet. He smiled when he saw her. ‘This is the young lady I told you about,’ he said to Walsingham, courteously speaking French so that Sylvie could understand. ‘Mademoiselle Thérèse St Quentin.’
Walsingham shook her hand. ‘You’re a brave girl,’ he said. ‘Keep up the good work.’
Walsingham disappeared into an adjoining room and Ned led Sylvie upstairs to the room that seemed to serve him as both office and dressing room. His stationery was on his writing table. ‘The king announced a date for the wedding,’ he said.
Sylvie did not have to ask which wedding. ‘Good news!’ she said. ‘Perhaps this peace treaty will be the one that lasts.’
Ned held up a cautionary hand. ‘It hasn’t happened yet. But it’s scheduled for the eighteenth of August.’
‘I can’t wait to tell my mother.’
‘Have a seat.’
Sylvie sat down. ‘I have some news that may interest you,’ she said. ‘Do you know of a man called Pierre Aumande de Guise?’
‘I certainly do,’ Ned said. ‘Why?’
‘An English Catholic priest using the name Jean Langlais visited him this morning.’
‘Thank you,’ Ned said. ‘You’re quite right to think that interests me.’
‘I happened to pass the house as the priest came out and I saw him.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘He wore a cassock and a wooden cross. He’s a little taller than average, but otherwise I noticed nothing distinctive about him. I only glimpsed him.’
‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘I think so.’
‘Thank you for telling me. You’re very well informed. How do you know Pierre Aumande?’
The answer to the question was personal and painful. She did not know Ned well enough to go into that. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said. To change the subject she asked: ‘Is your wife with you here in Paris?’
