Pierre was almost horrified by the speed and violence of Le Pin's attack. His blade flashed in the sunlight. He stabbed, sliced, and hacked, and with each swing of his arm a man was maimed or killed.
Then the other men-at-arms arrived. Pierre yelled encouragement to the newcomers, shouting: "Kill the heretics! Kill the blasphemers!"
The slaughter became general. The duke's troops forced their way into the barn and began to butcher men, women, and children. Pierre saw Rasteau attack a young woman with ghastly savagery, slashing her face again and again with his dagger.
Pierre followed the press of men-at-arms, always careful to be several steps behind the front line: it was not his role to risk his life in battle. Inside, a few Protestants were fighting back with swords and daggers, but most were unarmed. Hundreds of people were screaming in terror or in agony. Within seconds the barn walls were splashed with blood.
Pierre saw that at the far end of the barn there were wooden steps up to a hayloft. The steps were crammed with people, some carrying babies. From the loft they were escaping through the holes in the roof. Just as he noticed that, he heard a volley of gunfire. Two people fell back through the roof and crashed down to the barn floor. The arquebusiers of Cardinal Bottles had deployed their weapons.
Pierre turned, pushed against the press of soldiers still coming in, and fought his way outside for a better look.
The Protestants were still escaping through the roof, some of them trying to make their way down to the ground and others jumping onto the castle ramparts. The cardinal's gunmen were shooting the escapers. The light guns with their modern firing mechanism were easy to deploy and quick to reload, and the result was a constant hail of bullets that brought down just about everyone who ventured onto the roof.
Pierre looked across the cemetery to the market square. Townspeople were running into the square, alerted no doubt by the sound of gunfire. At the same time, more men-at-arms were coming out of the Swan, some still chewing their breakfasts. Clashes began as soldiers tried to prevent townspeople coming to the rescue of the Protestants. A cavalryman sounded a trumpet to muster his comrades.
Then it ended as fast as it had begun. Gaston Le Pin came out of the barn with the pastor, holding his prisoner's arm in an iron grip. Other men-at-arms followed them out. The flight of people through holes in the roof came to an end, and the arquebusiers stopped shooting. Back in the market square, captains were marshaling their men into squads to keep them under control, and ordering townspeople back to their homes.
Looking into the barn, Pierre saw that the fighting was over. Those Protestants still able to move were bending over those on the ground, trying to help the wounded and weeping over the dead. The floor was puddled with blood. Groans of agony and sobs of grief replaced the screaming.
Pierre could not have hoped for anything better. He reckoned that about fifty Protestants had been killed and more than a hundred wounded. Most had been unarmed, and some had been women and children. The news would be all over France in a few days.
It struck Pierre that four years ago he would have been horrified by the slaughter he had seen, yet today he was pleased. How he had changed! Somehow it was difficult to see how God could approve of this aspect of the new Pierre. A dim and nameless fear trickled into the depths of his mind like the darkening blood on the barn floor. He suppressed the thought. This was God's will; it had to be.
He could envisage the eight-page pamphlets that would soon pour from Protestant printing presses, each with a grisly front-page woodcut illustration of the slaughter in the barn. The obscure town of Wassy would be the subject of a thousand sermons all over Europe. Protestants would form armed militias, saying they could not be safe otherwise. Catholics would muster their forces in response.
There would be civil war.
Just as Pierre wanted.
Sitting in the tavern of St. Etienne, with a plate of smoked fish and a cup of wine in front of her, Sylvie felt hopeless.
Would there ever be an end to the violence? Most French people just wanted to live in peace with their neighbors of both religions, but every effort at reconciliation was sabotaged by men such as the Guise brothers, for whom religion was a means to power and wealth.
What Sylvie and her friends needed most was to find out how much the authorities knew about them. Whenever she could, she came to places like this tavern and talked to people involved in trying to catch heretics: members of the city militia, Guise family hangers-on, and anyone associated with Pierre. She picked up a lot of information from their loose gossip. But what she really needed was a sympathizer on the inside.
She looked up from her lunch and saw Pierre's maid, Nath, walking in with a black eye.
Sylvie had a nodding acquaintance with Nath, but had never said more than hello to her. Now she reacted fast. "That looks sore," she said. "Let me buy you a drink of wine to ease the pain."
Nath burst into tears.
Sylvie put her arm around the girl. Her sympathy was not pretended: both Sylvie and her mother had suffered violence from the two-fisted Giles Palot. "There, there," Sylvie murmured.
The barmaid brought some wine and Nath took a large swallow. "Thank you," she said.
"What happened to you?" Sylvie asked.
"Pierre hit me."
"Does he hit Odette too?"
Nath shook her head. "He's too scared. She'd hit him back."
Nath herself was about sixteen, small and thin, probably incapable of hitting a man--just as Sylvie had been unable to fight back against her father. The memory made Sylvie angry.
"Drink some more wine," Sylvie said.
Nath took another gulp. "I hate him," she said.
Sylvie's pulse raced. For more than a year she had been waiting for a moment such as this. She had known it would come, if she was patient, because everyone hated Pierre, and sooner or later someone was bound to betray him.
Now at last the opportunity had arrived, but she had to handle it right. She could not be too eager or too obvious. All the same, she would have to take risks.
"You're not the only one who hates Pierre," she said cautiously. "They say he is the main spy behind the persecution of Protestants." This was not inside information: half Paris knew it.
"It's true," Nath said. "He's got a list."
Sylvie felt suddenly breathless. Of course he had a list, but what did Nath know about it? "A list?" Sylvie said in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. "How do you know?"
"I've seen it. A black notebook, full of names and addresses."
This was gold dust. It would be risky to try to subvert Nath, but the reward was irresistible. Making an instant decision, Sylvie took the plunge. Pretending to speak lightheartedly, she said: "If you want revenge, you should give the notebook to the Protestants."
"I would if I had the courage."
Sylvie thought: Would you, really? How would you square that with your conscience? She said carefully: "That would go against the church, wouldn't it?"
"I believe in God," Nath said. "But God isn't in the church."
Sylvie could hardly breathe. "How can you say that?"
"I was fucked by the parish priest when I was eleven. I didn't even have any hair between my legs. Was God there? I don't think so."
Sylvie emptied her cup, put it down, and said: "I've got a friend who would pay ten gold ecus for a look at that notebook." Sylvie could find the money: the business made a profit, and her mother would agree that this was a good way to spend it.
Nath's eyes widened. "Ten gold ecus?" It was more than she earned in a year--much more.
Sylvie nodded. Then she added a moral justification to the monetary incentive. "I suppose my friend thinks she might save a lot of people from being burned to death."
Nath was more interested in the money. "But do you mean it about the ten ecus?"
"Oh, absolutely." Sylvie pretended to realize suddenly that Nath was speaking seriously. "But surely . . . you couldn't get hold of the notebook . . .
could you?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"He keeps it at the house."
"Where in the house?"
"In a locked document chest."
"If the chest is locked, how could you get the notebook?"
"I can unlock the chest."
"How?"
"With a pin," said Nath.
The civil war was everything Pierre had hoped for. A year after the Massacre of Wassy the Catholics, led by Duke Scarface, were on the brink of winning. Early in 1563 Scarface besieged Orleans, the last Protestant stronghold, where Gaspard de Coligny was holed up. On February 18, a Thursday, Scarface surveyed the defenses and announced that the final attack would be launched tomorrow.
Pierre was with him, feeling that total victory was now within their grasp.
As dusk fell they headed back toward their quarters at the Chateau des Vaslins. Scarface was wearing a buff-colored doublet and a hat with a tall white feather: too highly visible to be sensible battlefield clothing, but he was expecting to meet his wife, Anna, that night. Their eldest son, Henri, now twelve years old, would also be at the chateau. Pierre had been careful to ingratiate himself with the duke's heir ever since they had met, four years ago, at the tournament at which King Henri II had received his fatal eye wound.
They had to cross a small river by a ferry that took only three people. Pierre, Scarface, and Gaston Le Pin stayed back while the others in the entourage led the horses across. Scarface said conversationally: "You've heard that Queen Caterina wants us to make peace."
Pierre laughed scornfully. "You make peace when you're losing, not when you're winning."
Scarface nodded. "Tomorrow we'll take Orleans and secure the line of the river Loire. From there we will drive north into Normandy and crush the remnants of the Protestant army."
"And that's what Caterina is afraid of," Pierre said. "When we've conquered the country and wiped out the Protestants you, duke, will be more powerful than the king. You will rule France."
And I will be one of your inner circle of advisers, he thought.
When all the horses were safe on the far bank, the three men boarded the little ferry. Pierre said: "I hear nothing from Cardinal Charles."
Charles was in Italy, at the city of Trento, attending a council convened by Pope Pius IV. Scarface said contemptuously: "Talk, talk, talk. Meanwhile we're killing heretics."
Pierre dared to differ. "We need to make sure the church takes a tough line. Otherwise your triumphs could be undermined by weak men with notions of tolerance and compromise."
The duke looked thoughtful. Both he and his brother listened when Pierre spoke. Pierre had proved the value of his political judgment several times, and he was no longer treated as a cheeky upstart. It gave him profound satisfaction to reflect on that.
Scarface opened his mouth to respond to Pierre's point, then a shot rang out.
The bang seemed to come from the riverbank they had just left. Pierre and Le Pin turned together. Although it was evening, Pierre saw the figure at the water's edge quite clearly. It was that of a small man in his middle twenties with a dark complexion and a tuft of peaked hair in the middle of his forehead. A moment later he ran off, and Pierre saw that he clutched a pistol in his hand.
Duke Scarface collapsed.
Le Pin cursed and bent over him.
Pierre could see that the duke had taken a bullet in the back. It had been an easy shot from a short range, helped by the duke's light-colored clothing.
"He's alive," said Le Pin. He looked again at the bank, and Pierre guessed he was calculating whether he could wade or swim the few yards back and catch the shooter before he got away. Then they heard hoofbeats, and realized the man must have tethered a horse not far off. All their mounts were already on the opposite bank. Le Pin could not catch him now. The shooting had been planned well.
Le Pin shouted at the ferryman: "Forward, go forward!" The man began to pole his raft more energetically, no doubt fearful that he might be accused of being in on the plot.
The wound was just below the duke's right shoulder. The ball had probably missed the heart. Blood was oozing onto the buff-colored doublet--a good sign, Pierre knew, for dead men did not bleed.
All the same, the duke might not recover. Even superficial wounds could become infected, causing fever and often death. Pierre could have wept. How could they lose their heroic leader when they were on the point of winning the war?
As the ferry approached the far bank, the men waiting there shouted a storm of questions. Pierre ignored them. He had questions of his own. What would happen if Scarface died?
Young Henri would become duke at the age of twelve, the same age as King Charles IX, and too young to take any part in the civil war. Cardinal Charles was too far away; Cardinal Louis was too drunk. The Guise family would lose all their influence in a moment. Power was terrifyingly fragile.
Pierre fought down despair and made himself continue to think ahead logically. With the Guise family helpless, Queen Caterina would make peace with Gaspard de Coligny and revive the edict of toleration, curse her. The Bourbons and the Montmorencys would be back in favor and the Protestants would be allowed to sing their psalms as loudly as they liked. Everything Pierre had striven for over the past five years would be wiped out.
Again he suppressed the feeling of hopeless despair. What could he do?
The first necessity was to preserve his position as key adviser to the family.
As soon as the raft touched the far bank, Pierre started giving orders. In a crisis, frightened people would obey anyone who sounded as if he knew what he was doing. "The duke must be carried to the chateau as quickly as possible without jolting him," he said. "Any bumping may cause him to bleed to death. We need a flat board." He looked around. If necessary they could break up the timbers of the little ferry. Then he spotted a cottage nearby and pointed to its entrance. "Knock that front door off its hinges and put him on that. Then six men can carry him."
They hurried to obey, glad to be told what to do.
Gaston Le Pin was not as easily bossed around, so to him Pierre gave suggestions rather than orders. "I think you should take one or two men and horses, go back across the river, and chase the assassin. Did you get a good look at him?"
"Small, dark, about twenty-five, with a small tuft of hair at the front."
"That's what I saw, too."
"I'll get after him." Le Pin turned to his henchmen. "Rasteau, Brocard, put three horses back on the ferry."
Pierre said: "I need the best horse. Which of these is fastest?"
"The duke's charger, Cannon, but why do you need him? I'm the one who has to chase the shooter."
"The duke's recovery is our priority. I'm going to ride ahead to the chateau to send for surgeons."
Le Pin saw the sense of that. "Very well."
Pierre mounted the stallion and urged it on. He was not an expert horseman, and Cannon was high-spirited, but fortunately the beast was tired after a long day, and submitted wearily to Pierre's will. It trotted off, and Pierre cautiously urged it into a canter.
He reached the chateau in a few minutes. He leaped off Cannon and ran into the hall. "The duke has been wounded!" he shouted. "He will be here shortly. Send at once for the royal surgeons! Then prepare a bed downstairs for the duke." He had to repeat the orders several times to the stunned servants.
The duchess, Anna d'Este, came hurrying down the stairs, having heard the commotion. The wife of Scarface was a plain-looking Italian woman of thirty-one. The marriage had been arranged, and the duke was no more faithful than other men of wealth and power; but all the same he was fond of Anna and she of him.
Young Henri was right behind her, a handsome boy with fair curly hair.
Duchess Anna had never spoken to Pierre or even acknowledged his existence, so it was important to present himself to her as an authoritative figure who could be relied upon in this crisis. He bowed and said: "Madame, young monsieur, I'm sorry to tell you th
at the duke is hurt."
Henri looked frightened. Pierre remembered him at the age of eight, complaining that he was considered too young to take part in the jousting. He had spirit, and might become a worthy successor to his warrior father, but that day was far off. Now the boy said in a voice of panic: "How? Where? Who did it?"
Pierre ignored him and spoke to his mother. "I have sent for the royal surgeons, and I have ordered your servants to prepare a bed here on the ground floor so that the duke will not have to be carried upstairs."
She said: "How bad is the injury?"
"He has been shot in the back, and when I left him he was unconscious."
The duchess gave a sob, then controlled herself. "Where is he? I must go to him."
"He will be here in minutes. I ordered the men to improvise a stretcher. He should not be jolted."
"How did this happen? Was there a battle?"
Henri said: "My father would never be shot in the back during a battle!"
"Hush," said his mother.
Pierre said: "You are quite right, Prince Henri. Your father never fails to face the enemy in battle. I have to tell you there was treachery." He recounted how the assassin had hidden himself, then fired as soon as the ferry left the shore. "I sent a party of men-at-arms to chase after the villain."
Henri said tearfully: "When we catch him he must be flayed alive!"
In a flash, Pierre saw that if Scarface died the catastrophe could yet be turned to advantage. Slyly he said: "Flayed, yes--but not before he tells us whose orders he is following. I predict that the man who pulled the trigger will turn out to be a nobody. The real criminal is whoever sent him."
Before he could say whom he had in mind, the duchess said it for him, spitting the name in hatred: "Gaspard de Coligny."
Coligny was certainly the prime suspect, with Antoine de Bourbon dead and his brother Louis a captive. But the truth hardly mattered. Coligny would make a useful hate figure for the Guise family--and especially for the impressionable boy whose father had just been shot. Pierre's plan was firming up in his mind when shouts from outside told him the duke had arrived.
Pierre stayed close to the duchess as the duke was brought in and settled in a bed. Every time Anna expressed a wish, Pierre repeated it loudly as an order, giving the impression that he had become her right-hand man. She was too distraught to care what he might be scheming, and in fact appeared glad to have someone beside her who seemed to know what needed to be done.