by Ken Follett
They walked down the main street together in late-afternoon light. Rollo wondered whether he had been right to assure his father and the bishop that Donal would crack. If Donal had sobered up by now he might be tougher. He could apologize for talking trash while drunk and deny point-blank that he had ever been to any kind of Protestant service. Then it would be hard to prove anything.
Passing the wharves, Rollo was greeted by Susan White, a baker’s daughter of his own age. She had a heart-shaped face and a sweet nature. When they were both younger they had kissed, and tried other mild experiments. That was when Rollo had realized that sex did not have the power over him that it had over boys such as Donal Gloster and Ned Willard, and his dalliance with Susan had come to nothing. He might marry anyway, one day, in order to have someone to manage his household, but in that event he would hope for someone of higher rank than a baker’s daughter.
Susan bore him no resentment: she had had plenty of boyfriends. Now she looked sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry you lost your cargo,’ she said. ‘It seems unfair.’
‘It is unfair.’ Rollo was not surprised that the story was getting around. Half of Kingsbridge was involved, one way or another, in trading by sea, and everyone was interested in good or bad shipping news.
‘You’re due for some good luck next,’ Susan said. ‘That’s what people say, anyway.’
‘I hope it’s true.’
Susan looked with curiosity at Osmund, evidently wondering what he and Rollo were up to.
Rollo did not want to have to explain, so he brought the conversation to an end. ‘Forgive me, I’m in a hurry.’
‘Goodbye!’
Rollo and Osmund walked on. Donal lived in the south-west of the city, the industrial quarter known as the Tanneries. The north and east had long been the desirable neighbourhoods. The priory had always owned the land upstream of Merthin’s Bridge, and there the water was clean. The borough council directed industry downstream, and all of Kingsbridge’s dirty enterprises – leather tanning, textile dyeing, coal washing, paper making – sluiced their filth into the river here, as they had done for centuries.
Tomorrow was Sunday, and people would be exchanging news at church, Rollo reflected. By the evening everyone in Kingsbridge would know what had happened to the St Margaret. They might sympathize, like Susan, or they might think Sir Reginald was a fool to let himself be cheated, but either way they would regard the Fitzgeralds with a mixture of pity and scorn. Rollo could hear them being wise after the event, saying: ‘That Philbert’s a sly one. He never sold anyone a bargain. Sir Reginald should have known that.’ The thought made Rollo cringe. He hated the idea of people looking down on his family.
But they would change their tune when Philbert was arrested for heresy. It would be seen as Philbert’s punishment. People would say: ‘It doesn’t pay to swindle Sir Reginald – Philbert should have known that.’ The honour of the family would be restored, and once again Rollo’s chest would swell with pride when he told people his name.
If he could get Donal to talk.
Rollo led the way to a small house beyond the docks. The woman who opened the door had Donal’s sensual good looks. She recognized Osmund and said: ‘Mercy! What’s my boy done?’
Rollo pushed past her into the house, and Osmund followed.
‘I’m sorry he got drunk,’ she said. ‘He suffered a terrible disappointment.’
Rollo said: ‘Is your husband at home?’
‘He’s dead.’
Rollo had forgotten that. It made things easier. ‘Where’s Donal?’
‘I’ll fetch him.’ She turned away.
Rollo caught her arm. ‘When I speak to you, you must listen to what I say. I didn’t tell you to get him. I asked you where he is.’
Her brown eyes flashed anger, and for a moment R0llo thought she was going to tell him she would do as she pleased in her own house; then she got herself under control, no doubt fearing that defiance would make things worse for her son. Eyes downcast, she said: ‘In bed. First door at the top of the stairs.’
‘You wait here. Osmund, come with me.’
Donal was prone on the bed, fully dressed except for his boots. There was a smell of puke, though it seemed his mother might have cleaned up the worst of it. Rollo shook him awake. He came round blearily. When he saw Osmund he sat bolt upright and said: ‘Jesus Christ save me!’
Rollo sat on the edge of the bed and said: ‘Christ will save you, if you tell the truth. You’re in trouble, Donal.’
Donal was bewildered. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘Don’t you recall our talk in the Slaughterhouse?’
Donal looked panicky as he tried to remember. ‘Um . . . vaguely . . .’
‘You told me you attended Protestant services with the Cobley family.’
‘I never said anything of the kind!’
‘I’ve already spoken to Bishop Julius. You’re going to stand trial for heresy.’
‘No!’ Trials rarely found men not guilty. The general view was that if a man were innocent he would not have got into trouble in the first place.
‘You’ll be better off if you tell the truth.’
‘I am telling the truth!’
Osmund said: ‘Shall I beat it out of him?’
Donal looked terrified.
Then his mother’s voice was heard from the doorway. ‘You’re not going to beat anyone, Osmund. My son is a law-abiding citizen and a good Catholic boy, and if you touch him you’re the one who’ll be in trouble.’
It was a bluff – Osmund never got into trouble for beating people – but it gave heart to Donal. Looking braver, he said: ‘I have never attended a Protestant service, with Philbert Cobley or anyone else.’
Mrs Gloster said: ‘You can’t hold a man to account for what he says when drunk, and if you try to, you’ll make a fool of yourself, young Rollo.’
Rollo cursed inwardly. Mrs Gloster was getting the better of him. He saw that he had made a mistake in questioning Donal here at home, with his mother to stiffen his nerve. But he could soon put that right. He was not going to let a woman stand in the way of the Fitzgerald family revenge. He stood up. ‘Get your boots on, Donal. You’ll have to come with us to the Guild Hall.’
Mrs Gloster said: ‘I’ll come, too.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Rollo.
Mrs Gloster’s eyes flashed mutiny.
Rollo added: ‘And if I see you there, you will be arrested too. You must have known Donal was going to blasphemous services – so you’re guilty of concealing his crime.’
Mrs Gloster lowered her eyes again.
Donal put his boots on.
Rollo and Osmund escorted him up the main street to the crossroads and took him into the Guild Hall through the basement entrance. Rollo sent one of the watchmen to fetch Sir Reginald, who arrived a few minutes later accompanied by Bishop Julius. ‘Well, young Donal,’ said Reginald with a pretence of affability. ‘I hope you’ve seen the sense of making a clean breast of things.’
Donal’s voice was shaky, but his words were brave enough. ‘I don’t know what I said when drunk, but I know the truth. I’ve never been to a Protestant service.’
Rollo began to worry that he might not crack after all.
‘Let me show you something,’ said Reginald. He went to a massive door, lifted the heavy bar, and opened it. ‘Come here and look.’
Donal obeyed reluctantly. Rollo followed. They looked into a windowless room with a high ceiling and an earth floor. It smelled of old blood and shit, like an abattoir.
Reginald said: ‘You see that hook in the ceiling?’
They all looked up.
Reginald said: ‘Your hands will be tied behind your back. Then the rope from your wrists will be looped around that hook, and you will be hoisted up.’
Donal groaned.
‘The pain is unbearable, of course, but at first your shoulders will not dislocate – it doesn’t happen that quickly. Heavy stones will be attached to your feet, incr
easing the agony in your joints. When you pass out, cold water will be thrown in your face to bring you round – there’s no relief. As the weights get heavier, so the pain gets worse. Eventually your arms spring from their sockets. Apparently that is the most dreadful part.’
Donal was white, but he did not give in. ‘I’m a citizen of Kingsbridge. You can’t torture me without a royal command.’
That was true. The Privy Council had to give permission for torture. The rule was often broken, but Kingsbridge people knew their rights. There would be an outcry if Donal was tortured illegally.
‘I can get permission, you young fool.’
‘Then do,’ Donal said in a voice shrill with fear but still determined.
Rollo was downcast to think that they might have to give up. They had done everything possible to scare Donal into a confession, but it had not quite worked. Perhaps Philbert would not be punished after all.
Then Bishop Julius spoke. ‘I think you and I had better have a quiet talk, young Donal,’ he said. ‘But not here. Come with me.’
‘All right,’ said Donal nervously. He was apprehensive, but Rollo guessed he would agree to anything that would get him out of that basement.
Julius escorted Donal out of the Guild Hall. Rollo and Reginald followed a few yards behind. Rollo wondered what the bishop had in mind. Could he save the dignity of the Fitzgerald family after all?
They went down the main street to the cathedral. Julius led them through a small door in the north side of the nave. The choir was singing evensong. The interior of the church was dimly lit by candles that sent dancing shadows across the arches.
Julius picked up a candle, then took Donal into a side chapel with a small altar and a large painting of Christ crucified. He put the candle on the altar so that it lit up the picture. He stood with his back to the altar, and made Donal face him, so that Donal could see Jesus on the cross.
Julius motioned Rollo and Reginald to keep their distance. They remained outside, but they could see into the chapel and hear what was said.
‘I want you to forget about earthly punishments,’ Julius said to Donal. ‘Perhaps you will be tortured, and burned at the stake as a heretic, but that is not what you should be in fear of this evening.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Donal was mystified as well as scared.
‘My son, your soul is in mortal danger. Whatever you said earlier today in the Slaughterhouse doesn’t matter – because God knows the truth. He knows what you have done. The pain you would suffer in hell would be so much worse than anything that could happen to you here on earth.’
‘I know.’
‘But God gives us hope of forgiveness, you know. Always.’
Donal said nothing. Rollo stared at his face in the unsteady candlelight, but could not read his expression.
Julius said: ‘You must tell me three things, Donal. If you do, I will forgive your sins, and so will God. If you lie to me, you will go to hell. That’s the decision you must make, here and now.’
Rollo saw Donal’s head tilt back slightly as he looked at the picture of Jesus.
Julius said: ‘Where do they hold their services? When? And who goes? You must tell me, right now.’
Donal gave a sob. Rollo held his breath.
‘Let’s start with where,’ Julius said.
Donal said nothing.
‘Last chance of forgiveness,’ Julius said. ‘I won’t ask you again. Where?’
Donal said: ‘In Widow Pollard’s cowshed.’
Rollo expelled his breath silently. The secret was out.
Mrs Pollard had a smallholding at the southern edge of the city, on the Shiring road. There were no other houses close by, which would be why the Protestants had not been overheard.
Julius said: ‘And when?’
‘Tonight,’ said Donal. ‘Always on Saturday evening, at twilight.’
‘They creep through the streets in the dusk so that they won’t be noticed,’ Julius said. ‘Men love the darkness rather than the light, because their deeds are evil. But God sees them.’ He glanced up at the pointed arch of the window. ‘It’s almost nightfall. Will they be there now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Philbert, and Mrs Cobley, and Dan and Ruth. Philbert’s sister and Mrs Cobley’s brother, and their families. Mrs Pollard. Ellis the brewer. The Mason brothers. Elijah Cordwainer. That’s all I know. There might be others.’
‘Good lad,’ Julius said. ‘Now, in a few minutes I’m going to give you my blessing and you can go home.’ He raised a warning finger. ‘Don’t tell anyone we’ve had this conversation – I don’t want people to know where my information comes from. Just go back to your normal life. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, lord bishop.’
Julius looked towards where Rollo and Reginald stood, just outside the chapel. His voice changed from low and friendly to brisk and commanding. ‘Get down to that cowshed now,’ he said. ‘Arrest the heretics – every one of them. Go!’
As Rollo turned to leave, he heard Donal say in a low voice: ‘Oh, God, I’ve betrayed them all, haven’t I?’
Bishop Julius said smoothly: ‘You have saved their souls – and your own.’
Rollo and Reginald left the cathedral at a run. They went up the main street to the Guild Hall and summoned the men of the watch from the basement. They crossed the street to their house and buckled on their swords.
The watchmen all carried home-made clubs of different shapes and sizes. Osmund had a roll of stout cord for tying people’s wrists. Two of the men brought lanterns on poles.
Widow Pollard’s place was a mile away. ‘It would be quicker to ride,’ Rollo said.
‘Not much quicker, in the dark,’ his father replied. ‘And the sound of the horses would forewarn the Protestants. I don’t want any of those devils to slip through our fingers.’
They all marched down the main street, past the cathedral. People looked apprehensively at them. Clearly someone was in big trouble.
Rollo worried that someone friendly to the Protestants might guess what was happening. A fast runner could warn them. He quickened his pace.
They crossed Merthin’s double bridge to the suburb of Loversfield, then followed the Shiring road south. The outskirts of the city were quieter and darker. Fortunately, the road was straight.
Widow Pollard’s house gave on to the street, but her cowshed was set well back in an acre or so of land. The late Walter Pollard had kept a small dairy herd. After he died, his widow had sold the cattle. That was why she had a fine brick cowshed standing empty.
Osmund opened a wide gate, and they all followed the track the cows had used to take to milking. No light showed from the building: a cowshed had no need of windows. Osmund whispered to one of the lantern bearers: ‘Walk around quickly and see if there’s another way out.’
The rest went up to the wide double door. Sir Reginald put his finger to his lips, miming silence, and they all listened. From inside they could hear a murmur of several voices chanting something. After a minute Rollo recognized the Lord’s Prayer.
In English.
That was heresy. No more proof was needed.
The lantern bearer returned and whispered: ‘No other way in or out.’
Reginald tried the door. It seemed to be barred from the inside.
The sound alerted the people in the cowshed, and they fell silent.
Four of the watchmen charged the door, and it flew open. Reginald and Rollo stepped inside.
Twenty people sat on four benches. In front of them was a plain square table, covered with a white cloth, bearing a loaf of bread and a jug that presumably contained wine. Rollo was horrified: they were celebrating their own version of the Mass! He had heard that this went on but never thought he would see it with his own eyes.
Philbert stood behind the table, wearing a white smock over his doublet and hose. He was playing the part of a priest, even though he had never been ordained.
The intruders stared
at the blasphemy going on in front of them. The congregation stared back, both sides equally stunned.
Then Reginald found his voice. ‘This is heresy, plain to see. You’re under arrest, every last one of you.’ He paused. ‘Especially you, Philbert Cobley.’
6
On the day before the wedding, Alison McKay was called to see the queen of France.
When the summons arrived Alison was with the bride, Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots. Alison had been painstakingly shaving Mary’s underarms, and she had managed to remove the hair without drawing blood. She was putting on oil to soothe the skin when there was a tap at the door and one of Mary’s ladies-in-waiting came in. It was Véronique de Guise: sixteen years old, she was a distant cousin, and therefore not very important, but she made up for that by being beautiful, poised and alluring. ‘A page came from Queen Caterina,’ she said to Alison. ‘Her majesty would like to see you right away.’
Véronique tagged on as Alison left Mary’s quarters and hurried through the gloomy rooms of the old palace of Tournelles towards Caterina’s apartment. ‘What do you think her majesty wants?’ Véronique asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Alison said. Véronique might be merely curious – or something more sinister, a spy reporting back to Mary’s powerful uncles.
‘Queen Caterina likes you,’ Véronique said.
‘She likes anyone who is kind to poor Francis.’ All the same, Alison felt apprehensive. Royal people were not obliged to be consistent, and a summons meant bad news as often as good.
They were stopped on their way by a young man Alison did not recognize. He made a deep bow and said to Véronique: ‘What a pleasure to see you, Mademoiselle de Guise. You are a ray of sunshine in this dismal castle.’
Alison had not met him before. She would have remembered him, for he was attractive-looking with waves of fair hair, and well dressed in a green-and-gold doublet. He was charming, too, though he was clearly more interested in Véronique than in Alison. He said: ‘Is there any way I can be of use to you, Mademoiselle Véronique?’