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League of Spies: Fortunes of France 4 E-Book

Robert Merle

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Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
Sprache: Englisch
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The fourth book in the swashbuckling Fortunes of France series, in a brand new look An uneasy peace reigns in France, but behind the scenes Catholics, Protestants and the agents of foreign powers are still locked in secretive, bloody combat. As his country's future hangs in the balance, Pierre de Siorac's apparent employment as a doctor masks a more deadly occupation - as a spy working for King Henry IV and his ally Elizabeth I of England, using fair means and foul to protect the peace of two realms. As the plots against his king thicken and the Spanish Armada prepares to sail, Pierre finds himself struggling to save not only his country, but the lives of his entire family. With his back to the wall, he will need a keen wit and a steady sword arm to fight his way to safety. PRAISE FOR FORTUNES OF FRANCE 'Both wise and audacious, constantly nudging up against the extraordinary' - New York Times Book Review 'Swashbuckling historical fiction... the comparions with Dumas seem both natural and deserved' - Guardian Robert Merle (1908-2004) was born in French Algeria, before moving to mainland France in 1918. Originally an English teacher, Merle served as an interpreter with British Expeditionary Force during the Second World War, and was captured by the German army at Dunkirk, the experience of which served as the basis for his Goncourt-prize-winning Weekend at Zuydcoote. He published the 13 volumes of his hugely popular Fortunes of France series over four decades, from 1977 to 2003, the final volume appearing just a year before his death in 2004.

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Praise for Fortunes of France

“Modern-day Dumas finally crosses the channel” Observer

“An enjoyable read, distinguished by its author’s erudition and wit” Sunday Times

“Swashbuckling historical fiction… For all its philosophical depth [The Brethren] is a hugely entertaining romp… The comparisons with Dumas seem both natural and deserved and the next 12 instalments [are] a thrilling prospect” Guardian

“Historical fiction at its very best… This fast paced and heady brew is colourfully leavened with love and sex and a great deal of humour and wit. The second instalment cannot be published too soon” We Love This Book

“A highly anticipated tome that’s been described as Game of Thrones meets The Three Musketeers” Mariella Frostrup on BBC Radio 4’s Open Book

“A vivid novel by France’s modern Dumas… [there is] plenty of evidence in the rich characterisation and vivid historical detail that a reader’s long-term commitment will be amply rewarded” Sunday Times

“A sprawling, earthy tale of peril, love, lust, death, dazzling philosophical debate and political intrigue… an engrossing saga” Gransnet

“A master of the historical novel” Guardian

“So rich in historical detail… the characters are engaging” Sunday Express

“Compelling… a French epic” Kirkus Reviews

“This is old-fashioned story-telling. It has swagger and vibrancy with big characters… A gripping story with humour and strength and real attention to historical detail” Mature Times

“Swashbuckling” Newsday

“Cleverly depicts France’s epic religious wars through the intimate prism of one family’s experience. It’s beautifully written too” Metro

“A lively adventure… anyone keen on historical fiction [should] look forward to the next instalment” Daily Telegraph

“The spectacular 13-volume evocation of 16th–17th-century France” Independent

“The Dumas of the twentieth century” Neues Deutschland

“A wonderful, colourful, breathlessly narrated historical panorama” Zeitpunkt

“Robert Merle is one of the very few French writers who has attained both popular success and the admiration of critics. The doyen of our novelists is a happy man” Le Figaro

Title Page 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9101112131415About the AuthorAbout the PublisherCopyright

LEAGUE OF SPIES

1

IT WAS ONLY by the slimmest of chances that my good valet, Miroul, and I had finally made good our escape from the horrendous St Bartholomew’s day massacre, aided throughout by our massive Swiss Guard from Berne and our master-at-arms, Giacomi, and found refuge with the Baron de Quéribus in Saint-Cloud. As this gentleman had a rich estate in Carcassonne, he decided to head south, thereby providing a well-armed escort for the three of us as far as Périgord, warning us that the roads and towns of France were now quite dangerous for anyone reputed to be a Huguenot. And since Dame Gertrude du Luc, who’d managed to save the life of my beloved Samson by preventing him from returning to Paris, was desirous of accompanying us, I invited her and her chambermaid Zara to join us, knowing full well that her interest in meeting my father was motivated by her burning and tenacious desire to marry my brother.

We arrived at Mespech during the grape harvest, but after the initial delight of our reunion with my father and Uncle de Sauveterre, for the first time in my life I was unable to enjoy seeing the beautiful bunches of grapes trampled in the vats by the bare feet of our women, for the red juice which flowed from them suddenly brought back the horror of the oceans of blood we’d seen covering the streets of Paris on 24th August and the days following.

At the end of the first week, however, remembering all my peregrinations on the highways of France and my incredible adventures in the capital, I began to feel some impatience with the quiet rusticity and slow pace of life in my father’s chateau. In any case, I’d already decided not to spend the winter with my family, but to move to Bordeaux to set up my medical practice there. But my readers know as well as I do that Fortune holds in great derision the will and projects of men, and plays at undoing them just as the waves of the ocean undo the sandcastles that children so painstakingly construct on the beach. I thought I’d stay but two months in Mespech. I stayed two years.

And though my primary object in these pages is to provide a portrait of my good sovereign, Henri III, as he really was, and not as he was so shamefully smeared by Guise’s people and others in league against him during his lifetime, who spewed out their hateful venom through thousands of libellous verses and lampoons, as well as execrable accusations made from the pulpit, this memoir is also intended to chronicle the life of my family. So I don’t want to rush through those two years of family joys and domestic sorrows shared by my beloved Samson, by my older brother François, by my little sister Catherine, by the Brethren (my father and Uncle de Sauveterre), by Dame Gertrude du Luc and by my Angelina. To the best of my memory the most contentious affair that clouded my return to Mespech in 1572 was the marriage of Samson to Gertrude, a union that should have seemed very advantageous to our Huguenot economy, since the lady wanted to offer him as dowry the flourishing apothecary shop of the Béqueret family in Montfort-l’Amaury.

“You shouldn’t let Samson do this!” snarled Uncle de Sauveterre to my father as we were riding, along with François, to visit Cabusse at le Breuil. “The lady’s a papist and has been on a pilgrimage to Rome!”

“Can I prevent my youngest son from such a marriage,” replied Jean de Siorac, “when I allowed myself to marry Isabelle de Caumont?”

“And you know what a bad decision that was! She’s such a devout Catholic!” croaked Sauveterre, who resembled more than ever an old crow, with his bent back and his increasingly thin neck.

“The mistake,” replied my father, whose bright eyes went sombre at the memory of it, “was to try to convert her publicly and by force, since the lady had so much tenacity and pride… But she was a good wife to me,” he continued, glancing at François and me, “and I loved her dearly.”

At this Sauveterre had no more to say. Although he was too good a man not to have tried valiantly to offer her his affection during her short life, he’d had more success in grieving her when she was dead than in cherishing her while she was alive. For Sauveterre, so biblically convinced as he was of the necessity of fecundity, believed that every woman was but a fertile womb by which God’s people grew and multiplied. But the fact that this fecundity required sowing one’s seed in such hostile ground left him quite devoid of sexual appetite and any feelings of tenderness.

“Have you thought about the fact,” he continued gravely, “that if this lady marries Samson, your grandchildren will suck the superstition and idolatry of the papists with every drop of their nurse’s milk?”

“Well, I’m not convinced that such milk counts for much,” answered Jean de Siorac. “Charles IX had a Huguenot nursemaid and you saw how much that mattered during the St Bartholomew’s day massacre! Moreover, my brother, since the persecution has broken out again, it may be a good time to disguise our faith. I’m more worried about Samson’s excess of zeal than about his lack of spine. Dame Gertrude will serve as a mask over his innocent face. Not to mention the fact that no one will want a Huguenot apothecary in a papist town! At the death of the first patient they’ll all be crying ‘Poison!’”

“I see that you’ve decided to support this business,” growled Sauveterre.

“Well, would you prefer to see Samson continue to live in sin? Or live emasculated like a monk in his cell?” replied my father, who must immediately have regretted this last phrase, since, as he glanced at Sauveterre, he saw his brother wince at the idea that chastity could be equated with impotence.

“At least, Baron de Mespech,” came Sauveterre’s icy reply, “see that these ladies depart as soon as possible. I’m tired of their cackling, their affectations and the way of life they’re imposing on us. Ever since their arrival, our expenses for meat, wine and candles have been exorbitant! Especially in candles! Why do Dame du Luc and her chambermaid require ten candles to be lit the minute the sun goes down, when one is enough for me in the library?”

“Ah, that’s because you don’t primp yourself enough!” smiled my father.

“But that’s the point!” growled Sauveterre. “What need have they, since the Lord gave them one face, which they hasten to counterfeit with another in its place?”

“Good écuyer,” soothed my father, “would you have blamed any of our soldiers of the Norman legion for burnishing his arms before a battle?”

“What battle are you talking about?” sputtered Sauveterre.

“The one they wage, day in, day out, against our defenceless hearts!”

“Defenceless!” gasped Sauveterre reproachfully. “A whole month! It’s been a whole month since this plague of locusts fell upon our wheat!”

“Since there are only two of them, they haven’t ruined much of the crop,” smiled Jean de Siorac. “And how can I chase them away? They can’t go off alone in their coach. You must realize they’re waiting for Quéribus to escort them back to Paris. The baron is enjoying himself at Puymartin’s estate…”

“Worse than just enjoying himself,” muttered Sauveterre.

“Yes, Puymartin is so taken with him that he insists on his staying every time Quéribus talks about returning to Paris.”

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