Page 66 of A Column of Fire

‘Too young?’ Sylvie was outraged. ‘You never said I was too young to risk my life selling copies of the books you bring from Geneva!’

Several people began speaking at once, and Pastor Bernard stood up to appeal for calm. ‘We’re not going to resolve this issue in one afternoon,’ he said. ‘Let us ask Guillaume to communicate our concerns to John Calvin when he returns to Geneva.’

Luc Mauriac was dissatisfied with that, and said: ‘But will Calvin answer us?’

‘Of course he will,’ Bernard said, without giving any reason why he felt so confident. ‘And now let us close our fellowship with a final prayer.’ He shut his eyes, tilted his face up to heaven, and began to pray extempore.

In the quietness, Sylvie calmed down. She remembered how much she had looked forward to introducing Pierre to everyone, and hearing herself say the words:my fiancé.

After the final amen, the congregation began to talk among themselves. Sylvie led Pierre around the room. She was bursting with pride to have such an attractive man, and she tried hard not to look overly pleased with herself, but it was difficult: she was too happy.

Pierre was as engaging as ever. He spoke respectfully to the men, flirted harmlessly with the older women, and charmed the girls. He paid close attention to Sylvie’s introductions, concentrating on remembering all the names, and taking a polite interest in the details of where they lived and what work they did. The Protestants were always pleased by a new convert, and they made him feel welcome.

Things went wrong only when Sylvie introduced Pierre to Louise, the marchioness of Nîmes. She was the daughter of a prosperous wine merchant in Champagne. She was attractive, with a big bust, which was probably what had caught the attention of the middle-aged marquess. She was a tense girl, and had a haughty manner that she had adopted, Sylvie guessed, because she was not an aristocrat by birth, and felt unsure in her role as marchioness. But she could be witheringly sarcastic if crossed.

Pierre made the mistake of amiably treating her as a compatriot. ‘I’m from Champagne too,’ he said; then, with a smile, he added: ‘We’re country bumpkins in the city, you and I.’

He did not mean it, of course. There was nothing unsophisticated about him or Louise. His remark was a facetious pleasantry. But he had chosen the wrong subject for a joke. He could hardly have known it, but Sylvie understood that Louise’s greatest fear was that she would strike people as a country bumpkin.

Her reaction was instant. She paled, and her face froze into an expression of disdain. She tilted her head back as if there was a bad smell. Raising her voice so that people nearby could hear, she said frostily: ‘Even in Champagne, they should teach young men to be respectful to their superiors.’

Pierre went red.

Louise turned away and spoke quietly to someone else, leaving Pierre and Sylvie staring at her back.

Sylvie was mortified. The marchioness had taken against her fiancé, and Sylvie felt sure she would never change her mind. Worse, many in the congregation had heard, and everyone would know about it before the hall was empty. Sylvie feared that now they might never accept Pierre as one of them. She was crestfallen.

Then she looked at Pierre, and saw on his face an expression he had never previously worn. His mouth was twisted into a line of resentment, and hatred blazed from his eyes. He looked as if he could have killed Louise.

My goodness, Sylvie thought, I hope he never looks at me like that.

*

BY BEDTIMEALISONwas exhausted, and she felt sure Mary must feel the same, but the greatest trial was yet to come.

The celebrations were lavish, even by the standards of royal Paris. After the wedding there was a banquet at the archbishop’s palace, followed by a ball. Then the entire wedding party moved to the Palais de la Cité – a short journey that took hours because of the crowds – for a masked ball, with special entertainments including twelve mechanical horses on which the royal children could ride. Finally, there was a buffet supper featuring more pastries than Alison had ever seen in one room. But now, at last, all was quiet, and there was only one ceremony left to perform.

Alison pitied Mary this last duty. The idea of lying with Francis as a woman lies with a man was unpleasant, like doing it with a brother. And if anything went wrong it would be a public catastrophe, talked about in every city in Europe. Mary would want to die. Alison dreaded the thought of her friend suffering such humiliation.

Royal people had to bear this kind of burden, she knew; that was part of the price they paid for their privileged lives. And Mary had to go through it all without her mother. Marie de Guise ruled Scotland, standing in for Mary, and could not risk leaving that country even for her daughter’s wedding, so tenuous was the hold of the Catholic monarchy on the quarrelsome, rebellious Scots. Sometimes Alison wondered if it would not be better to be the carefree daughter of a baker, petting in a doorway with a randy apprentice.

Alison was only one of the ladies of the court assembled to wash and dress the bride for her deflowering. But she needed just a minute alone with Mary before the big moment.

They undressed her. Mary was nervous and shivering, but she looked beautiful: tall, pale and slim, with perfect shallow breasts and long legs. The women washed her with warm water, trimmed her fair pubic hair, and doused her with perfume. Finally they helped her dress in a nightgown embroidered with gold thread. She put on satin slippers, a lace nightcap, and a light cloak of fine wool to keep her warm between the dressing room and the bedchamber.

She was ready, but none of the women showed any inclination to withdraw. Alison was forced to speak to her in a whisper. ‘Tell them all to wait outside – Imustspeak to you alone!’

‘Why?’

‘Trust me – please!’

Mary rose to the occasion. ‘Thank you, ladies, all,’ she said. ‘Now please give me a few moments alone with Alison while I prepare my mind.’

The women looked resentful – most of them were superior in rank to Alison – but no one could refuse such a request from the bride, and reluctantly they trooped out.

At last Alison and Mary were alone.

Alison spoke in the same plain language Queen Caterina had used. ‘If Francis doesn’t fuck you, the marriage will be unconsummated, and that would mean it could be annulled.’