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 said to herself. 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 traveller 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 thisGrammarfor you?’
‘Yes, please.’ He produced four livres.
Giles said to the traveller: ‘Do you want this story book, or what?’
The traveller 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 traveller 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 jewellers 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.
