Page 203 of A Column of Fire
‘Now the Bourbons will be top family.’
Henri’s political calculation was correct, but his rage was undoubtedly fuelled by sexual jealousy. Margot was probably an exciting lover: she had that wild look. And now she had been taken from Henri – by a Bourbon.
Pierre was able to be calmer and think more clearly. And he saw something that had not occurred to young Henri. ‘The marriage still may never happen,’ he said.
Henri had his father’s soldierly impatience with doubletalk. ‘What the devil do you mean?’
‘The wedding will be the biggest event in the story of French Protestantism. It will be the triumph of the Huguenots.’
‘How can that be good news?’
‘They will come to Paris from all over the country – those who are invited to the wedding, and thousands more who will want just to watch the procession and rejoice.’
‘It will be a foul spectacle. I can just see them strutting through the streets, flaunting their black clothes.’
Pierre lowered his voice. ‘And then we’ll see trouble.’
Henri’s face showed that he was beginning to understand. ‘You think there may be violence between triumphant Protestant visitors and the resentful Catholic citizens of Paris.’
‘Yes,’ said Pierre. ‘And that will be our chance.’
*
ON HER WAYto the warehouse Sylvie stopped at the tavern of St Étienne and ordered a plate of smoked eel for her midday meal. She also bought a tankard of weak beer and tipped the potboy to take it around the corner and deliver it to the back door of Pierre Aumande’s house. This was the signal for Pierre’s maid, Nath, to come to the tavern, if she could, and a few minutes later she appeared.
Now in her mid-twenties, Nath was as scrawny as ever, but she looked out at the world through eyes that were no longer frightened. She was a stalwart of the Protestant congregation in the room over the stables, and having a group of friends had given her a modest degree of confidence. Sylvie’s friendship had helped, too.
Sylvie got straight down to business. ‘This morning I saw Pierre with a priest I didn’t recognize,’ she said. ‘I happened to be passing the door when they came out.’ Something about the man had struck her vividly. His features were unremarkable – he had receding dark hair and a reddish-brown beard – but there was an intensity in his expression that made her think he was a dangerous zealot.
‘Yes, I was going to tell you about him,’ Nath said. ‘He’s English.’
‘Oh! Interesting. Did you get his name?’
‘Jean Langlais.’
‘Sounds like a false name for an Englishman.’
‘He’s never been to the house before, but Pierre seemed to know him, so they must have met somewhere else.’
‘Did you hear what they talked about?’
Nath shook her head. ‘Pierre closed the door.’
‘Pity.’
Nath looked anxious. ‘Did Pierre see you, when you walked by?’
She was right to be concerned, Sylvie thought. They did not want Pierre to suspect how closely he was being watched by the Protestants. ‘I don’t think he did. I certainly didn’t meet his eye. I’m not sure he’d recognize me from behind.’
‘He can’t have forgotten you.’
‘Hardly. He did marry me.’ Sylvie grimaced at the loathsome memory.
‘On the other hand, he’s never mentioned you.’
‘He thinks I’m not important any more. Which suits me fine.’
Sylvie finished her meal and they left the tavern separately. Sylvie walked north, heading for the rue du Mur. Ned Willard would be interested to hear about the visiting English priest, she guessed.
