A matter of hours before the Saint Bartholomew’s Day m******e in Paris, old Gervese and his arthritic wife, Salvia, had fled the capital fearing for their lives and embarking on an arduous journey with their horse and cart to Beauvais. It was thought that this town was dominated by people of their own religious persuasion, Huguenots and, therefore, a safe haven. The couple were taking up a kind offer of accommodation from her brother, Michel.
Reining the horse to a standstill outside the house, a lad, as if from nowhere, appeared and grasped the bridle, announcing,
“Good day sire, madam. Leave it to me, I’ll see he’s fed and watered for the night.”
“You come at the right moment, boy, as if you knew of our arrival,” Gervese spoke softly.
“Ay, it’s a small place, that’s for sure…not good
