Was she, perhaps, a little more willing than usual to take the risk because this prospective convert was an alluring young man who seemed attracted to her? She told herself that this question was beside the point.
She had to put her life on the line, and pray for God's protection.
"Come to the shop this afternoon," she said. "Bring four livres. Buy a copy of The Grammar of Latin. Whatever you do, don't mention Erasmus."
He seemed startled by her sudden decisiveness, but he said: "All right."
"Then meet me back in the fish market at nightfall." The waterfront would be deserted at that hour. "Bring the Grammar."
"And then what?"
"And then trust in God." She turned and walked away without waiting for a reply.
As she headed for home, she prayed that she had done the right thing.
Paris was divided into three parts. The largest section, called the Town, was on the north side of the river Seine, known as the Right Bank. The smaller settlement south of the river, on the Left Bank, was called the University, or sometimes the Latin Quarter because of all the students speaking Latin. The island in the middle was called the City, and that was where Sylvie lived.
Her home stood in the shadow of the great cathedral of Notre Dame. The ground floor of the house was the shop, the books in mesh-fronted cupboards with locked doors. Sylvie and her parents lived upstairs. At the back was the print works. Sylvie and her mother, Isabelle, took turns minding the store while her father, Giles, who was not a good salesman, toiled in the workshop.
Sylvie fried the trout with onions and garlic in the kitchen upstairs and put bread and wine on the table. Her cat, Fifi, appeared from nowhere: Sylvie gave her the head of a trout, and the cat began to eat it delicately, starting with the eyes. Sylvie worried about what she had done this morning. Would the student show up? Or would a magistrate's officer come instead, with a party of men-at-arms, to arrest the whole family on charges of heresy?
Giles ate first, and Sylvie served him. He was a big man, his arms and shoulders strong from lifting the heavy oak forms full of lead-alloy type. In a bad mood he could knock Sylvie across the room with his left arm, but the trout was flaky and tender, and he was in a cheerful frame of mind.
When he had finished, Sylvie sat in the shop while Isabelle ate, then they changed places; but Sylvie had no appetite.
After the meal was over, Sylvie returned to the shop. There happened to be no customers, and Isabelle said immediately: "What are you so worried about?"
Sylvie told her about Pierre Aumande.
Isabelle looked anxious. "You should have arranged to meet him again, and learned more about him, before telling him to come to the shop."
"I know, but what reason would I have to meet him?" Isabelle gave her an arch look, and Sylvie said: "I'm no good at flirting, you know that, I'm sorry."
"I'm glad of it," Isabelle said. "It's because you're too honest. Anyway, we must take risks, it's the cross we have to bear."
Sylvie said: "I just hope he's not the type to have an attack of guilty conscience and blurt out everything to his confessor."
"He's more likely to get scared and back out. You'll probably never see him again."
That was not what Sylvie was hoping for, but she did not say so.
Their conversation was interrupted by a customer. Sylvie looked at him curiously. Most of the people who came into the shop were well dressed, for poor men could not afford books. This young man's clothes were serviceable but plain and well worn. His heavy coat was travel stained, and his stout boots were dusty. He must have been on a journey. He looked both weary and anxious. Sylvie felt a pang of compassion.
"I would like to speak to Giles Palot," he said in an out-of-town accent.
"I'll fetch him," said Isabelle, and she passed from the shop into the factory behind.
Sylvie was curious. What did this traveler want with her father, if not to buy a book? Probing, she said: "Have you come a long way?"
Before the man could answer, another customer entered. Sylvie recognized him as a clergyman from the cathedral. Sylvie and her mother were careful to bow and scrape to priests. Giles did not, but he was grumpy with everyone. Sylvie said: "Good afternoon, Archdeacon Raphael, we're very glad to see you, as always."
The young man in the dirty cloak suddenly looked annoyed. Sylvie wondered if he had a reason to dislike archdeacons.
Raphael said: "Do you have an edition of the Psalms?"
"Of course." Sylvie unlocked a cabinet and took out a Latin version, assuming that Raphael would not want a French translation, even one approved by the Faculty of Theology at the Sorbonne. She guessed that the archdeacon was buying a gift, for he must already have had the entire Bible. "This would make a beautiful present," she said. "The tooling on the binding is gold leaf, and the printing is in two colors."
Raphael turned the pages. "It is very pleasing."
"Five livres," said Sylvie. "A most reasonable price." It was a small fortune for ordinary people, but archdeacons were not ordinary.
At that moment a third customer entered, and Sylvie recognized Pierre Aumande. She felt a little glow of pleasure at the sight of his smiling face, but she hoped she had been right in thinking him discreet: it would be a catastrophe if he started talking about Erasmus in front of an archdeacon and a mysterious stranger.
Her mother emerged from the back of the premises. She spoke to the traveler. "My husband will be with you in a moment." Seeing that Sylvie was serving the archdeacon, she turned to the other customer. "May I show you something, monsieur?"
Sylvie caught her mother's attention and slightly widened her eyes in a warning expression, to indicate that the latest arrival was the student they had been talking about. Isabelle responded with an almost imperceptible nod, showing that she understood. Mother and daughter had become skilled in silent communication, living as they did with Giles.
Pierre said: "I need a copy of The Grammar of Latin."
"At once." Isabelle went to the appropriate cabinet, found the book, and brought it to the counter.
Giles appeared from the back. There were now three customers, two of whom were being served, so he assumed the third was the one who had asked for him. "Yes?" he said. His manner was usually gruff: that was why Isabelle tried to keep him out of the shop.
The traveler hesitated, seeming ill at ease.
Giles said impatiently: "You asked for me?"
"Um . . . do you have a book of Bible stories in French, with pictures?"
"Of course I do," said Giles. "It's my bestseller. But you could have asked my wife for that, instead of dragging me here from the print works."
Sylvie wished, not for the first time, that her father could be more charming to customers. However, it was odd that the traveler had asked for him by name before coming up with such a mundane request. She glanced at her mother and saw a slight frown that indicated that Isabelle, too, had heard a wrong note.
She noticed that Pierre was listening to the conversation, apparently as intrigued as she was.
The archdeacon said grumpily: "People should hear Bible stories from their parish priest. If they start reading for themselves they're sure to get the wrong idea." He put gold coins on the counter to pay for the Psalms.
Or they might get the right idea, Sylvie thought. In the days when ordinary people had been unable to read the Bible, the priests could say anything--and that was how they liked it. They were terrified of the light of the word of God being shone on their teaching and practices.
Pierre said sycophantically: "Quite right, Your Reverence--if a humble student may be permitted to express an opinion. We must stand firm, or we'll end up with a separate sect for every cobbler and weaver."
Independent craftsmen such as cobblers and weavers seemed especially liable to become Protestants. Their work gave them time alone to think, Sylvie supposed, and they were not as scared as peasants were of priests and noblemen.
But Sylvie was surprised at this
smarmy interjection from Pierre after he had shown interest in subversive literature. She looked curiously at him, and he gave her a broad wink.
He did have a very engaging manner.
Sylvie looked away and wrapped the archdeacon's Psalms in a square of coarse linen, tying the parcel with string.
The traveler bridled at the archdeacon's criticism. "Half the people in France never see their priest," he said defiantly. It was an exaggeration, Sylvie thought, but the truth was that far too many priests took the income from their post and never even visited their parish.
The archdeacon knew this, and had no answer. He picked up his Psalms and left in a huff.
Isabelle said to the student: "May I wrap this Grammar for you?"
"Yes, please." He produced four livres.
Giles said to the traveler: "Do you want this storybook, or what?"
The traveler bent over the book Giles showed him, examining the illustrations. "Don't rush me," he said firmly. He had not been afraid to argue with the archdeacon, and he seemed unaffected by Giles's bullying manner. There was more to this man than was apparent from his grubby appearance.
Pierre took his parcel and left. Now the shop contained only one customer. Sylvie felt as if the tide had gone out.
The traveler closed the book with a snap, straightened up, and said: "I am Guillaume of Geneva."
Sylvie heard Isabelle give a small gasp of surprise.
Giles's attitude changed. He shook Guillaume's hand and said: "You're very welcome. Come inside." He led the way upstairs to the private quarters.
Sylvie half understood. She knew that Geneva was an independent Protestant city, dominated by the great John Calvin. But it was two hundred and fifty miles away, a journey of a couple of weeks or more. "What is that man doing here?" she asked.
"The College of Pastors in Geneva trains missionaries and sends them all over Europe to preach the new gospel," Isabelle explained. "The last one was called Alphonse. You were thirteen."
"Alphonse!" said Sylvie, remembering a zealous young man who had ignored her. "I never understood why he was living here."
"They bring us Calvin's writings, and other works, for your father to copy and print."
Sylvie felt stupid. She had never even wondered where the Protestant books originated.
"It's getting dark outside," Isabelle said. "You'd better fetch a copy of Erasmus for your student."
"What did you think of him?" said Sylvie as she put on her coat.
Isabelle gave a knowing smile. "He's a handsome devil, isn't he?"
Sylvie's question had been about Pierre's trustworthiness, not his looks; but on reflection she was not keen to get into that conversation, in case it scared her too much. She mumbled a noncommittal reply and went out.
She headed north and crossed the river. The jewelers and milliners on the Notre Dame Bridge were getting ready to close their shops. On the Town side she walked along the rue St. Martin, the main north-south artery. A few minutes later she reached the rue du Mur. It was a back lane rather than a street. On one side was the city wall; on the other, the rear entrances of a few houses and the high fence of an unkempt garden. She stopped by a stable at the back of a dwelling lived in by an old woman who did not have a horse. The stable was windowless and unpainted, and had a patched and half-derelict look, but it was solidly built, with a strong door and a discreetly heavy lock. Giles had bought it years ago.
Beside the doorpost at waist level was a loose half brick. After making sure she was not observed, Sylvie pulled it out, reached into the hole, picked up a key, and replaced the brick. She turned the key in the door, entered, then closed and barred the door behind her.
There was a candle lamp in a holder on the wall. Sylvie had brought with her a tinderbox containing a flint, a steel in the shape of a capital letter D that fitted neatly around her slender fingers, some fragments of dry wood, and a twist of linen. When she struck the flint against the steel D, sparks flew into the box and ignited the wood fragments, which flamed rapidly. She then lit the end of the linen rag and used that to light the lamp.
The flickering light showed a wall of old barrels stacked floor to ceiling. Most were full of sand, and too heavy for one person to lift, but a few were empty. They all looked the same, but Sylvie knew the difference. She quickly moved one stack aside and stepped through the gap. Behind the barrels were wooden boxes of books.
The moment of greatest danger, for the Palot family, was when contraband books were being printed and bound in Giles's workshop. If the place was raided at just the wrong time, they would all die. But as soon as the books were finished, they were stashed in boxes--always with a layer of innocent Catholic-approved literature on top for camouflage--and trundled in a cart to this warehouse, whereupon the print works reverted to producing legitimate books. Most of the time the premises by the cathedral contained nothing remotely illegal.
And only three people knew about this store: Giles, Isabelle, and Sylvie. Sylvie had not been told until she was sixteen. Even the workers in the print factory did not know about it, although they were all Protestants: they were told that the finished books were delivered to a secret wholesaler.
Now Sylvie located a box marked "SA" for Sileni Alcibiadis, probably the most important work of Erasmus. She took out a copy and wrapped it in a square of linen from a stack nearby, then tied up the bundle with string. She replaced the barrels so that the boxes of books were once again out of sight, and all that could be seen was a room apparently half full of barrels.
As she retraced her steps along the rue St. Martin, she wondered whether her student would show up. He had come to the shop, as arranged, but he might yet get scared. Worse, he might arrive with some kind of official ready to arrest her. She was not afraid of death, of course--no true Christian was--but she was terrified of being tortured. She had visions of red-hot pincers entering her flesh, and had to thrust the images out of her mind by silent prayer.
The waterfront was quiet at night. The fishmongers' stalls were shuttered and the gulls had gone to scavenge elsewhere. The river lapped softly on the foreshore.
Pierre was waiting for her, holding a lantern. His face lit from below looked sinisterly handsome.
He was alone.
She held up the book, but did not give it to him. "You must never tell anyone you have this," she said. "I could be executed for selling it to you."
"I understand," he said.
"You, too, will be risking your life if you accept it from me."
"I know."
"If you're sure, take it and give me back the Grammar."
They swapped packages.
"Good-bye," said Sylvie. "Remember what I said."
"I will," he promised.
Then he kissed her.
Alison McKay hurried through the drafty corridors of the palace of Tournelles with startling news for her best friend.
Her friend had to fulfill a promise she had never made. This had been expected for years, but all the same it was a shock. It was good news, and it was bad.
The medieval building on the eastern side of Paris was large and decrepit. Despite rich furnishings it was cold and uncomfortable. Prestigious but neglected, it was like its current occupier, Caterina de' Medici, queen of France, the wife of a king who preferred his mistress.
Alison stepped into a side room and found who she was looking for.
Two adolescents sat on the floor by the window, playing cards, lit by fitful winter sunshine. Their clothes and jewelry showed them to be among the richest people in the world, but they were excitedly gambling for pennies and having a wonderful time.
The boy was fourteen but looked younger. He was stunted in growth and seemed frail. He was on the verge of puberty, and when he spoke in his cracked voice he stammered. This was Francis, the eldest son of King Henri II and Queen Caterina. He was the heir to the throne of France.
The girl was a beautiful redhead, extraordinarily tall at the age of fifteen, towering over most me
n. Her name was Mary Stuart, and she was the queen of the Scots.
When Mary was five and Alison eight they had moved from Scotland to France, two terrified little girls in a strange country where they could not understand a word anyone said. The sickly Francis had become their playmate, and the three children had formed the strong mutual attachment of those who live through adversity together.
Alison felt affectionately protective of Mary, who sometimes needed looking after on account of her tendency to be impulsive and foolhardy. Both girls were as fond of Francis as they would have been of a helpless puppy or kitten. Francis worshipped Mary as a goddess.
Now the triangle of friendship was about to be rocked and perhaps destroyed.
Mary looked up and smiled, then saw Alison's expression and became alarmed. "What is it?" she said, speaking French with no remaining trace of a Scots accent. "What's happened?"
Alison blurted it out. "You two have to get married on the Sunday after Easter!"
"So soon!" said Mary, then they both looked at Francis.
Mary had become engaged to Francis when she was five, just before she moved to France to live. The engagement was political, like all royal betrothals. Its purpose was to cement the alliance of France and Scotland against England.
But as the girls grew older they had come to doubt that the marriage would ever happen. Relations among the three kingdoms shifted constantly. Power brokers in London, Edinburgh, and Paris talked frequently about alternative husbands for Mary Stuart. Nothing had seemed certain, until now.
Francis looked anguished. "I love you," he said to Mary. "I want to marry you--when I'm a man."
Mary reached out to take his hand sympathetically, but he was overcome. He burst into tears and scrambled to his feet.
Alison said: "Francis--"
He shook his head helplessly, then ran from the room.
"Oh, dear," said Mary. "Poor Francis."
Alison closed the door. Now the two girls were alone and private. Alison gave Mary her hand and pulled her up from the floor. Still holding hands, they sat together on a sofa covered in rich chestnut-brown velvet. They were quiet for a minute, then Alison said: "How do you feel?"
"All my life they've been telling me I'm a queen," Mary said. "I never was, really. I became queen of the Scots when I was six days old, and people have never stopped treating me like a baby. But if I marry Francis, and he becomes king, then I will be queen of France--the real thing." Her eyes glittered with desire. "That's what I want."