Is Paris Worth a Mass?

Epilogue

1562 – Vassy, France

The sleeping valley lay folded in the arms of two gentle slopes, just beginning to receive the first tentative caress of the sun as it cleared away mist and dried the dew upon the fresh spring grass. Soon, the bright green leaves of the vineyards would spread in all directions; later they would darken and bear the fruit that served the people so well. In the shallow valley, a stream flowed toward its eternal destination and the clusters of houses that made up Vassy were beginning to be distinguishable, one from another. The rust red tiles of the roofs let off little curls of steam as sunbeams struck. The plaster walls took on a lighter, sandy hue and the stalks of vines curling up, over, and around trellises would, in another month, come to display their wealth of tiny, scented petals to the warmth of the sun. Jasmine and honeysuckle would vie to sweeten the air and to inspire the larks, swallows, and doves to welcome the soft awakening of dawn. Today there was only a teasing hint of spring in the damp smell of the earth and a softer breeze in the air.

On the outskirts of the town, the dirt road between the cottages was still, as though treasuring the respite from slicing hooves, grinding wheels, and the imprints of sturdy wooden shoes, which it bore year after timeless year. An inquisitive stray dog trotted out into the road and was quickly diverted by sound or smell into one of the little side alleys that led to the back of the cottages. One after another, the chimneys began to send up spirals of smoke as the inhabitants readied themselves for this day, like any other, only today was the Sabbath.

By the time the sun had clearly begun its ceaseless revolution in the sky, the inhabitants began to come from their cottages. They were neatly attired for Sunday service with white caps and aprons freshly washed. They silently walked to a lone building set somewhat back from the road and surrounded by patches of grass and a few ancient poplars. Their place of worship had once been a barn used for storing the harvested grain, but was now used for communal prayer. On its south side, a small orchard of fruit trees basked in the warmth of the sweet smelling air. Filing into their church, heads bent, their hands clasped their family bibles. Even the children were hushed. There was no priest, no elaborate altar, no stained glass windows or icons of Mary and Jesus for these were Huguenots, of a simple, direct faith with and in God.

* * *

On the far horizon, a black coach made its mark upon the road as it lumbered toward the quiet town. Beneath the fine dust on the side of the elaborate coach, a coat of arms was emblazoned. Francois de Guise, the Duke of Lorraine, sat within the plush interior, his gaze sweeping the passing landscape. Behind the coach came the Duke’s own personal army churning the road underfoot. The many hooves made the dust swirl and eddy. The Duke and his brothers had attained enormous holdings and the power that came with such acquisition of land, rents, and titles. His mind wandered back to the street urchin who had beseeched his brother, the Cardinal, for a copper. The boy’s face had been grimy and his clothes clearly castoffs. As was his inclination, upon occasion, Francois’s brother, Charles, had been lavish in his alms, tossing the lad a gold coin. The lad’s expression showed his incredulity at such largesse. He had whispered in awe, Thou art either Christ or the Cardinal of Lorraine. Brother Charles had chosen to be amused, but Francois knew that their name was one held in awe and fear for he was the warrior of the family, having served successive Valois kings, Francis I and Henry II, in their struggles against the Habsburg Emperor Charles V. The eventual settlement ending the war between the two powers at Cateau-Cambresis had not pleased Francois.

From a distance, the armed entourage resembled wooden soldiers that children coveted as toys. As they came closer, they became real, the smell of arrogant power permeating the sweat and creaking leather, the jangling of spur and sword. As they approached the somnolent town, the force of their intrusion became overwhelming and foreboding. As the coach and horses came to a halt, a stillness descended that only accented the occasional jangle, murmur, and impatient stamping of equine feet. The horses’ muscles bulged and rippled, flecked with foamy saliva as they tried to rid themselves of persistent flies that descended to feast on their blood. The liveried footman opened the door of the coach and efficiently assisted the Duke as he condescendingly emerged from the dim carriage into the bright, merciless sunshine. He let his gaze roam over the quiet street, but did not seem to appreciate its picturesque melding over time. His eyes came to rest upon the building that housed the worshippers. The Huguenot congregation had just finished their simple service, and those who were first to leave paused to take in the Duke’s ornate equipage and impressive retinue. Francois de Guise looked upon these … these heretics and felt a rage begin to build within him. His anger and frustration had been carefully kept tamped ever since the public colloquy of Poissy. It was all the Huguenots’ fault that the meeting there to resolve differences between Catholic and Protestant had gone so badly. And then Catherine, foolish woman, had her son King Charles IX issue the Edict of January, caving in to Huguenot demands. Francois’ rage grew; it began to bubble like molten lead just before it is poured into a mold to form a blade. There was only one true religion, Roman Catholicism! The muscles in the Duke’s jaw tightened as his anger swelled and sent splintering slivers through his frame. Throughout France these Huguenots had defied God and had set upon Catholics claiming their right to practice their religion of choice.

How dare they! he hoarsely whispered. How dare they! he repeated, his voice rising in angry condemnation.

His men followed his gaze and knew the cause of this sudden outburst, and also knew it boded ill for all around. They shared his castigation of those who followed the new religion, blaming them for disrupting the long established harmony of unquestioning obedience to the Church. Thus, they sat more erect, steadied their mounts, checked their swords. Sharing their lord’s anger, they no longer thirsted for the soothing coolness of spring water from the communal well, but for the thicker, metallic taste of blood.

The rest of the villagers had slowly, hesitantly, come out the wrought iron hinged door and stood peering steadfastly at the Duke and his entourage. Children sidled up to their mothers, sensing the gathering tension, and jumped as the man screamed out his anger. The stray dog that had been nosing about the horses’ hooves slunk off, casting one fleeting backward glance, pausing as though imprinting the scene on his memory before disappearing into the stillness of the orchard.

"N’avez-vous pas honte? No fear for your eternal souls? This is blasphemy and must be stopped! Being stupid, ignorant peasants does not excuse you. God will not excuse you and neither will I!"

Perhaps de Guise thought of his father, Claude, who had been raised by King Francis I to peer of the realm for having exterminated the Anabaptists at Lupstein when they had tried to enter the French domain. Time has obscured Francois de Guise’s words, without which his men would not have acted. Men! Eliminate these miscreants from my sight. The villagers were frozen into immobility as the mounted horsemen encircled and pushed in upon them. Too late, they tried to flee, throwing their arms up in useless defense as swords hacked them to pieces. Blood was everywhere, and the once pristine white caps and aprons were drenched with it. How quickly evil can be done. In a few mere minutes, these villagers of Vassy were no more. Man, woman, child-none were spared. Now with a visage reflecting his grim satisfaction, the Duke retreated into his carriage and gave the signal to move on. As the last of the horses passed down the road, the stray dog silently crept toward the grotesque bodies, but no one stirred, there was no life. He paused, the rough fur on his back began to rise, and slowly he backed away from evil.

News of the massacre at Vassy spread rapidly and far to be received everywhere with heightened passion, some to anguish, others to triumph, over those who had been taken unto God. And this was only the beginning.

* * *

For centuries, the Roman Catholic Church had dominated life, from lord to peasant; it nourished and shaded all. But, as it aged, a shaft of dissent had rent it in two, as papal argument over legitimacy forced all to take sides with either Rome or Avignon. This Great Schism bewildered those not privy to the throes of power struggles and over time brought forth from passive acceptance of certitude, a questioning and then criticism as the tree struggled to survive. The cleft in its mighty trunk exposed the decay that seemed to claim more of its life with each passing decade. Those who spoke out were silenced. The Church was infallible. Or, at any rate, the Inquisition authorized by the Church was infallible. But the people searched for guidance within their souls and began to listen to those who tried to return to more Christian ways. Wycliffe and Huss became known throughout Europe for their attempts at reform during the 14th and 15th centuries. And then came Luther. Gradually gaining the certainty of his convictions, Martin Luther defied the Church at the Diet of Worms in 1521 and the tree was indeed cleaved in two as Protestantism swept through the German lands, the low countries and on into England. It found ready soil in Geneva and from this placid lakeside village emerged Calvin, originally from France, to strike a different path from Luther. Others would follow and interpret God’s will in myriad ways that suited their sense of His essence, but it was Calvinism that would sweep back into France supplanting early Lutheranism. Those who followed Calvin’s way became known as Huguenots.

Two Years Earlier – 1560 – Château de Pau, Kingdom of Navarre

Henry! Henry, where are you? Jeanne d’Albret de Bourbon narrowed her eyes as she strove to discern her mischievous son in the shadows of the stable. She held herself erect, her posture exuding her determined will. Lines were beginning to etch her equally determined face. Although not beautiful, the intelligent clarity of her eye was arresting.

"I know you are here, petit coquin. Come, it is time for your lessons. The future king of Navarre cannot be an ignoramus nor can he be untutored in his faith."

Up in the loft the straw shifted infinitesimally and a few blades floated down through the dusty motes to the cobbled floor.

Perhaps I should get a pitchfork to test that the straw has been well turned, she mused aloud.

Realizing that his hiding place had been discovered, Henry sprang up and laughed at her mock anger and threat. "I’m coming, Maman, he responded with his most winsome grin, and before she could admonish him to use the ladder, he landed with a thump at her feet. Suddenly he realized that she was dressed for riding and giving crisp commands to the groom to prepare her mount. Where are you going? Can I come with you? Please say I may," said Henry in an imploring voice.

Not today, you have your lessons, that is your responsibility. I have mine, said his mother in a somewhat sterner tone.

Where are you off to? he insisted.

Somewhat reluctantly she replied, To see M. Coligny, now, off with you. And Henry, tidy up before presenting yourself! God does not like slovenly creatures. Do not loiter–make haste!

"Yes, Maman. No, Maman. Yes, Maman," he responded in dutiful tones which both of them knew belied the mischievous glint in his golden brown eyes. How she adored this son, this gift. The sun glinted off his dark brown, almost black locks, and his skin, although soft with youth, was also browned from constant exercise in the outdoors.

You are incorrigible! she laughed.

Suddenly he ran and threw his arms around her. His voice was soft but she still heard his question, You will be careful, won’t you?

"Oui, mon fils, je te promets." Then, in a more quelling voice that brooked no more procrastination, she commanded him to run to his tutor. Reluctantly he turned away and disappeared into the gardens that descended from the back of the castle. Jeanne waited impatiently for her horse, then, joined by her servant, she set off at a brisk pace and soon, she, too, had disappeared from sight.

You are late. Once again. These last words were drawn out and seemed to dance with heathenish glee over young Henry’s bowed head.

"Désolé, Monseigneur, I lost track of time. It will not… the boy paused unwilling to tell so monstrous a lie, … I will try not to do so again."

Monseigneur smiled inwardly. For all his faults, this boy did try to be honest and it was, to him, one of the child’s most endearing characteristics. Rarely did youth see both sides of an argument so quickly and seek a way of melding black and white into a satisfactory gray. His tutor enjoyed giving lessons to one so eager to learn.

Come, today we are to study David. I think you will like him. Also, if you are very quick and attentive, I have a treat for you, not that you deserve it for being tardy. Is that a wisp of straw on your collar? he intoned in forbidding inquiry. Henry wiggled his neck so that the offending piece slid inside his shirt. Quickly, to distract Monseigneur, he crossed to his desk and opened the Bible, which lay on its polished surface. He began to read the passage that had been marked.

Henry looked up, his inner gaze still focused on the dry hills of Israel and Judah. He could hear the faint echoes of war with the Philistines and see the result of David’s accurate slingshot bringing Goliath to the ground. His inner vision saw David dispensing justice, solving dilemmas, and aiding the prosperity of his people.

Well, what do you think of David? probed his mentor.

That is what I want to be, Henry replied in a surprisingly determined voice. To see that all are served by the king, no matter what station life has assigned them. It must have been hard to rule as God wished when there are so many problems the Bible doesn’t solve.

And what do you suppose guided David? asked Monseigneur.

A contented smile covered his face with the boy’s response, "His conscience, Monseigneur."

Monseigneur rose and walked to the bookshelf that lined the wall behind the desk. High, open windows on either side of it afforded light as his hand glided like a butterfly hovering over a fragile stem. Carefully, he withdrew a leather bound tome and brought it to the table. Glancing down, Henry read the inscription, Plutarch’s Parallel Lives.

Your mother desired that you should have this.

Who is he, Sir?

"A heathen, I’m afraid. He lived in Chaeronea and was one of the two priests of the temple of Apollo in Delphi. However, he was a very intelligent heathen, a Greek historian who lived in Athens in