A Column of Fire by Ken Follett Page B

third customer entered, and Sylvie recognized Pierre Aumande. She felt a little glow of pleasure at the sight of his smiling face, but she hoped she had been right in thinking him discreet: it would be a catastrophe if he started talking about Erasmus in front of an archdeacon and a mysterious stranger.
    Her mother emerged from the back of the premises. She spoke to the traveller. ‘My husband will be with you in a moment.’ Seeing that Sylvie was serving the archdeacon, she turned to the other customer. ‘May I show you something, Monsieur?’
    Sylvie caught her mother’s attention and slightly widened her eyes in a warning expression, to indicate that the latest arrival was the student they had been talking about. Isabelle responded with an almost imperceptible nod, showing that she understood. Mother and daughter had become skilled in silent communication, living as they did with Giles.
    Pierre said: ‘I need a copy of
The Grammar of Latin
.’
    ‘At once.’ Isabelle went to the appropriate cabinet, found the book, and brought it to the counter.
    Giles appeared from the back. There were now three customers, two of whom were being served, so he assumed the third was the one who had asked for him. ‘Yes?’ he said. His manner was usually gruff: that was why Isabelle tried to keep him out of the shop.
    The traveller hesitated, seeming ill at ease.
    Giles said impatiently: ‘You asked for me?’
    ‘Um . . . do you have a book of Bible stories in French, with pictures?’
    ‘Of course I do,’ said Giles. ‘It’s my best seller. But you could have asked my wife for that, instead of dragging me here from the print works.’
    Sylvie wished, not for the first time, that her father could be more charming to customers. However, it was odd that the traveller had asked for him by name before coming up with such a mundane request. She glanced at her mother and saw a slight frown that indicated that Isabelle, too, had heard a wrong note.
    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 this
Grammar
for 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