‘Perhaps it will be revealed to us.’
‘It’s in God’s hands, then, isn’t it, Mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘So we must be content.’
Isabelle sighed again. ‘Amen,’ she said, but Sylvie was not sure she meant it.
*
ASNED STEPPEDout of the shop he noticed, across the street, a shabby young man lounging outside a tavern, on his own, doing nothing. Ned turned east, heading for the English embassy. Glancing back, he saw that the shabby man was going the same way.
Ned was in high spirits. Sylvie had kissed him as if she meant it. He adored her. For the first time, he had met a girl who matched up to Margery. Sylvie was smart and brave as well as warm and sexy. He could hardly wait to see her again.
He had not forgotten Margery. He never would. But she had refused to run away with him, and he had the rest of his life to live without her. He was entitled to love someone else.
He liked Sylvie’s mother, too. Isabelle was still attractive in a middle-aged way: she had a full figure and a handsome face, and the wrinkles around her blue eyes gave character to her appearance. She had made it pretty clear that she approved of Ned.
He felt angered by the story Sylvie had told about Pierre Aumande. He had actually married her! No wonder she had gone so long without marrying again. The thought of Sylvie being betrayed like that on her wedding day made Ned want to strangle Pierre with his own hands.
But he did not let that bring him down. There was too much to be happy about. It was even possible that France might be the second major country in the world to adopt freedom of religion.
Crossing the rue St Jacques, he glanced behind and saw the shabby man from the rue de la Serpente.
He would have to do something about this.
He paused on the other side of the street to look back at the magnificent church of St Severin. The shabby man came scurrying across the road, avoiding Ned’s eye, and slipped into an alley.
Ned turned into the grounds of the little church of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. He walked across the deserted graveyard. As he turned around the east end of the church, he slipped into a recessed doorway that concealed him. Then he drew his dagger and reversed it so that the knob of the hilt stuck up between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
As the shabby man drew level with the doorway, Ned stepped out and smashed the knob of the dagger into the man’s face. The man cried out and staggered back, bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth. But he recovered his balance quickly, and turned to run. Ned went after him and tripped him, and he fell flat. Ned knelt on his back and put the point of the dagger to his neck. ‘Who sent you?’ he said.
The man swallowed blood and said: ‘I don’t know what you mean – why have you attacked me?’
Ned pushed on the dagger until it broke the dirty skin of the man’s throat and blood trickled out.
The man cried: ‘No, please!’
‘No one’s looking. I’ll kill you and walk away – unless you tell me who ordered you to follow me.’
‘All right, all right! It was Georges Biron.’
‘Who the devil is he?’
‘Lord of Montagny.’
It rang a bell. ‘Why does he want to know where I go?’
‘I don’t know, I swear to Christ! He never tells us why, just sends us.’
This man was part of a group, then. Biron must be their leader. He, or someone he worked for, had put Ned under surveillance. ‘Who else do you follow?’
‘It used to be Walsingham, then we had to switch to you.’
‘Does Biron work for some great lord?’
‘He might, but he doesn’t tell us anything. Please, it’s true.’
