Read Online A Column of Fire by Ken Follett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ken Follett
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begun in the tavern. ‘Forget about the heart,’ said Rasteau. ‘Your point can slip over the ribs and give the man nothing worse than a scratch.’
‘What do you aim for? The throat?’
‘Too small a target. I go for the belly. A blade in the guts doesn’t kill a man straight away, but it paralyses him. It hurts so much that he can’t think of anything else.’ He gave a high-pitched giggle, an unexpected sound from such a rough-looking man.
Pierre soon found out where they were going. They turned into the Vieille rue du Temple. Pierre knew that this was where the Guise family had built their new palace, occupying an entire block. He had often dreamed of climbing those polished steps and entering the grand hall. But he was taken to the garden gate and through the kitchen entrance. They went down a staircase into a cheese-smelling basement crowded with barrels and boxes. He was thrust rudely into a room and the door was slammed behind him. He heard a bar drop into a bracket. When he tried the door it would not open.
The cell was cold, and stank like an alehouse privy. A candle in the corridor outside shed a faint light through a barred window in the door. He made out an earth floor and a vaulted ceiling of brick. The only furniture was a chamber pot that had been used but not emptied – hence the smell.
It was amazing how fast his life had turned to shit.
He was here for the night, he assumed. He sat down with his back to the wall. In the morning he would be taken before a judge. He had to think about what he would say. He needed a story to spin to the court. He might still escape serious punishment if he performed well.
But somehow he was too dispirited to dream up a tale. He kept wondering what he would do when this was over. He had enjoyed life as a member of the wealthy set. Losing money betting on dog fights, giving outsize tips to barmaids, buying gloves made from the skins of baby goats – it had all given him a thrill he would never forget. Must he give that up?
The most pleasing thing to him had been the way the others had accepted him. They had no idea that he was a bastard and the son of a bastard. There was no hint of condescension. Indeed, they often called for him on their way to some pleasure outing. If he fell behind the others for some reason, as they walked from one tavern to another in the university quarter, one of them would say: ‘Where’s Aumande?’ and they would stop and wait for him to catch up. Remembering that now, he almost wept.
He pulled his cloak more closely around him. Would he be able to sleep on the cold floor? When he appeared in court he wanted to look as if he might be a
bona fide
member of the Guise family.
The light in his cell brightened. There was a noise in the corridor. The door was unbarred and flung open. ‘On your feet,’ said a coarse voice.
Pierre scrambled up.
Once again his arm was held in a grip hard enough to discourage fantasies of escape.
Gaston Le Pin was outside the door. Pierre summoned up the shreds of his old arrogance. ‘I assume you are releasing me,’ he said. ‘I demand an apology.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ said Le Pin.
He led the way along the corridor to the back stairs, then across the ground floor and up a grand staircase. Pierre was now completely bewildered. He was being treated as a criminal, but taken to the
piano nobile
of the palace like a guest.
Le Pin led the way into a room furnished with a patterned rug, heavy brocade curtains that glowed with colour, and a large painting of a voluptuous naked woman over the fireplace. Two well-dressed men sat on upholstered armchairs, arguing quietly. Between them was a small table with a jug of wine, two goblets, and a dish piled with nuts, dried fruits and small cakes. The men ignored the new arrivals and carried on talking, careless of whether anyone heard.
They were obviously brothers, both well built with fair hair and blond beards. Pierre recognized them. They were the most
‘What do you aim for? The throat?’
‘Too small a target. I go for the belly. A blade in the guts doesn’t kill a man straight away, but it paralyses him. It hurts so much that he can’t think of anything else.’ He gave a high-pitched giggle, an unexpected sound from such a rough-looking man.
Pierre soon found out where they were going. They turned into the Vieille rue du Temple. Pierre knew that this was where the Guise family had built their new palace, occupying an entire block. He had often dreamed of climbing those polished steps and entering the grand hall. But he was taken to the garden gate and through the kitchen entrance. They went down a staircase into a cheese-smelling basement crowded with barrels and boxes. He was thrust rudely into a room and the door was slammed behind him. He heard a bar drop into a bracket. When he tried the door it would not open.
The cell was cold, and stank like an alehouse privy. A candle in the corridor outside shed a faint light through a barred window in the door. He made out an earth floor and a vaulted ceiling of brick. The only furniture was a chamber pot that had been used but not emptied – hence the smell.
It was amazing how fast his life had turned to shit.
He was here for the night, he assumed. He sat down with his back to the wall. In the morning he would be taken before a judge. He had to think about what he would say. He needed a story to spin to the court. He might still escape serious punishment if he performed well.
But somehow he was too dispirited to dream up a tale. He kept wondering what he would do when this was over. He had enjoyed life as a member of the wealthy set. Losing money betting on dog fights, giving outsize tips to barmaids, buying gloves made from the skins of baby goats – it had all given him a thrill he would never forget. Must he give that up?
The most pleasing thing to him had been the way the others had accepted him. They had no idea that he was a bastard and the son of a bastard. There was no hint of condescension. Indeed, they often called for him on their way to some pleasure outing. If he fell behind the others for some reason, as they walked from one tavern to another in the university quarter, one of them would say: ‘Where’s Aumande?’ and they would stop and wait for him to catch up. Remembering that now, he almost wept.
He pulled his cloak more closely around him. Would he be able to sleep on the cold floor? When he appeared in court he wanted to look as if he might be a
bona fide
member of the Guise family.
The light in his cell brightened. There was a noise in the corridor. The door was unbarred and flung open. ‘On your feet,’ said a coarse voice.
Pierre scrambled up.
Once again his arm was held in a grip hard enough to discourage fantasies of escape.
Gaston Le Pin was outside the door. Pierre summoned up the shreds of his old arrogance. ‘I assume you are releasing me,’ he said. ‘I demand an apology.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ said Le Pin.
He led the way along the corridor to the back stairs, then across the ground floor and up a grand staircase. Pierre was now completely bewildered. He was being treated as a criminal, but taken to the
piano nobile
of the palace like a guest.
Le Pin led the way into a room furnished with a patterned rug, heavy brocade curtains that glowed with colour, and a large painting of a voluptuous naked woman over the fireplace. Two well-dressed men sat on upholstered armchairs, arguing quietly. Between them was a small table with a jug of wine, two goblets, and a dish piled with nuts, dried fruits and small cakes. The men ignored the new arrivals and carried on talking, careless of whether anyone heard.
They were obviously brothers, both well built with fair hair and blond beards. Pierre recognized them. They were the most
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