“Yes. But we are in the right, aren’t we? The Protestants are heretics.”

“Yes, you are a good Catholic and so am I, little Simon. But it is sad that Frenchmen should kill each other, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it is hoped that this marriage will help to stop any more fighting.”

“And after this marriage,” Simon asked, “will the Catholics and Protestants be able to agree?”

“That may be difficult. We just hope they won’t fight anymore.”

That was the official explanation. It satisfied many people. The boy seemed to believe it, anyway.

They were approaching the great bridge that led across to the Île de la Cité. This had been magnificently rebuilt in stone around the start of the reign of the great King François. As well as the roadway, its high arches also supported a line of tall, gabled houses that acted like a curtain, blocking off the view downstream. This was the way to Notre Dame.

But when they reached it, they found that the press of people was so great that it was impossible to cross. Simon was disappointed. He wanted to see the wedding. Guy was secretly glad. If there was going to be trouble, he’d sooner be here on the open Right Bank than trapped in the narrow confines of the city’s central island.

“We’ll try the next bridge,” he suggested.

But the Pont au Change, also covered with houses, was blocked too. And further downstream, the untidy old bridge of watermills—most of which had been converted into private houses now—had been sealed off to all traffic.

“I’m afraid we can’t get across,” Guy said. “And if we want to watch the nobles riding back afterward, we’d do better to find some open space. Let’s walk a bit farther.

Downstream from the bridges the view opened out a bit. Ahead, the towers of the old Louvre fort rose over an unfinished collection of royal buildings that seemed still to be struggling against each other to form a cohesive royal palace.

Simon wanted to run ahead a little way. The two men did not stop him.

They were coming level with the downstream tip of the island when Pierre turned to Guy and asked him quietly: “You seem uneasy. Why is that?”

“This wedding frightens me.”

“You don’t think it may bring peace to France?”

“No.” Guy glanced bleakly at Pierre. “I don’t think it’s intended to.”

“Explain to me. You know I am not worldly.”

“Who arranged this wedding?”

“The king and his mother, I suppose.”

“Forget the king. His mother. Catherine de Médicis. She was the one who was so determined on this marriage. When her daughter tried to refuse to marry a Protestant, she whipped her soundly. That’s the word I hear. Even tore out the poor girl’s hair.”

“That is terrible.”

“Now consider something else. For the last year or so, Catherine and her inner council have been courting Admiral Coligny, the Protestants’ great commander. Inviting him to visit them. Flattering him. And what does Coligny want?”