Page 244 of A Column of Fire
Rollo watched with interest the procession of emotions over Pierre’s face. At first, fleetingly, there was a look of hope, quickly repressed; then a mask of concern that did not quite convince Rollo; and finally an expression of brisk efficiency as he said: ‘Summon a doctor immediately. Run to the Louvre and fetch Ambroise Paré – I don’t care about the cost. My beloved Odette must have the best possible care. Go, boy, hurry!’ Pierre turned back to the duke and said: ‘If you have no further need of me, your grace . . .’
‘Go, Pierre,’ said Henri.
Pierre left the room, and Rollo thought: Now what was that pantomime about?
*
NEDWILLARD HADcome to Paris to meet Jerónima Ruiz, but he had to be very careful. If she were suspected of passing secret information to Ned, she would be executed – and so might he.
He stood in a bookshop in the shadow of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The shop had once been owned by Sylvie’s father. Ned had not known Sylvie at the time, but she had pointed out the place to him in 1572, when they were courting. Now the shop was owned by someone else, and Ned was using it as a convenient place to loiter.
He studied the titles on the spines of the books and, at the same time, kept an anxious eye on the great west front of the church with its twin towers. As soon as the tall church doors opened he abandoned his pretence of shopping and hurried outside.
The first person to emerge from the cathedral was Henri III, who had become king of France when his brother, Charles IX, died nine years ago. Ned watched him smile and wave to the crowd of Parisians in the square. The king was thirty-one. He had dark eyes and dark hair already receding at the temples to give him a widow’s peak. He was what the English called a ‘politician’ – in Frenchun politique– meaning that he made decisions about religion according to what he thought would be good for his country, rather than the other way around.
He was closely followed by his mother, Queen Caterina, now a dumpy old lady of sixty-four wearing a widow’s cap. The queen mother had borne five sons, but all had suffered poor health, and so far three had died young. Even worse, none of them had ever fathered a son, which was why the brothers had succeeded one another as kings of France. However, this bad luck had made Caterina the most powerful woman in Europe. Like Queen Elizabeth, she had used her power to arbitrate religious conflict by compromise rather than violence; like Elizabeth, she had had limited success.
As the royal party disappeared across the bridge to the right bank, there was a general exodus from the three arched doorways of the cathedral, and Ned joined the crowd, hoping he was inconspicuous among the many people who had come to look at the king.
He spotted Jerónima Ruiz in seconds. It was not hard to pick her out from the mob. She wore red, as usual. She was now in her early forties: the hour-glass figure of her youth had thickened, her hair was not so lush, and her lips were no longer full. However, she walked with a sway and looked out alluringly from under black eyelashes. She still radiated sex more powerfully than any other woman in sight – although Ned sensed that what had once been carelessly natural was now achieved with conscious effort.
Her eyes met his. There was a flash of recognition, then she looked away.
He could not approach her openly: their meeting had to look accidental. It also had to be brief.
He contrived to get close to her. She was with Cardinal Romero, though for the sake of appearances, she was not on his arm, but walking a little way behind him. When the cardinal stopped to speak to Viscount Villeneuve, Ned casually came alongside her.
Continuing to smile at no one in particular, Jerónima said: ‘I’m risking my life. We can talk for only a few seconds.’
‘All right.’ Ned looked around as if in idle curiosity while keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might notice the two of them.
Jerónima said: ‘The duke of Guise is planning to invade England.’
‘God’s body!’ said Ned. ‘How—’
‘Be quiet and listen,’ she snapped. ‘Otherwise I won’t have time to tell you everything.’
‘Sorry.’
‘There will be two incursions, one on the east coast and one on the south.’
Ned had to ask: ‘How many men?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please go on.’
‘There’s not much more. Both armies will muster local support and march on London.’
‘This information is priceless.’ Ned thanked God that Jerónima hated the Catholic Church for torturing her father. It struck him that her motivation was similar to his own: he had hated authoritarian religion ever since his family had been ruined by Bishop Julius and his cronies. Any time his determination weakened, he thought of how they had stolen everything his mother had worked for all her life, and how a strong and clever woman had seemed to fade away until her merciful death. The pain of the memory flared like an old wound, and reinforced Ned’s will.
He glanced sideways at Jerónima. Close up, he could see the lines on her face, and he sensed a hard cynicism below her sensual surface. She had become Romero’s mistress when she was eighteen. She had done well to maintain his affection into her forties, but it had to be a strain.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said. His gratitude was heartfelt. But there was something else he needed to know. ‘The duke of Guise must have English collaborators.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
