by Ken Follett
Suddenly Philbert’s voice was heard, loud and surprisingly strong: he must have been saving his remaining energy for this. ‘I thank God that my agony has almost ended, Julius – but yours has yet to begin, you blaspheming devil.’ There was a gasp of shock at this insult, and Julius leaped to his feet, outraged; but a condemned man was traditionally allowed his say. ‘Soon you will go to hell, where you belong, Julius, and your torment will never end. And may God damn your eternal soul.’
The curse of a dying man was especially potent, and though Julius would have scorned such superstition, nevertheless he was trembling with rage and fear. ‘Take him away!’ he shouted. ‘And clear the church – this court is closed!’ He turned and stormed out through the south door.
Ned and his mother went home in a grim silence. The Fitzgeralds had won. They had killed the man who cheated them; they had stolen the Willards’ fortune; and they had kept their daughter from marrying Ned. It was total defeat.
Janet Fife served them a desultory supper of cold ham. Alice drank several glasses of sherry wine. ‘Will you go to Hatfield?’ she asked him as Janet cleared away.
‘I still haven’t decided. Margery isn’t married yet.’
‘But even if Bart were to drop dead tomorrow, they still wouldn’t let her marry you.’
‘She turned sixteen last week. In five years’ time, she’ll be able to marry whoever she likes.’
‘But you can’t stand still, like a ship becalmed, for so long. Don’t let this blight your life.’
She was right, he knew.
He went to bed early and lay awake. Today’s dreadful proceedings made him more inclined to go to Hatfield, but still he could not make up his mind. It would be giving up hope.
He drifted off to sleep in the small hours, and was awakened by sounds outside. Looking out of his bedroom window he saw men in the market square, their movements illuminated by half a dozen flaming torches. They were bringing dry sticks for the execution. Sheriff Matthewson was there, a big man wearing a sword, supervising the preparations: a priest could condemn a man to death, but could not carry out the sentence himself.
Ned put on a coat over his nightshirt and went outside. The morning air smelled of wood smoke.
The Cobley family were there, and most of the other Protestants arrived shortly afterwards. The crowd swelled within minutes. By first light, as the torch flames seemed to fade, there were at least a thousand people in the square in front of the cathedral. The men of the watch forced the spectators to keep their distance.
The crowd was noisy, but they fell silent when Osmund Carter appeared from the direction of the Guild Hall, with another watchman, the two men again carrying Philbert between them on a wooden chair. They had to force their way through the crowd, who made way reluctantly, as if they would have liked to obstruct the progress of the chair but did not quite have the courage.
The women of the Cobley family wailed piteously as the helpless man was tied upright to a wooden stake in the ground. He kept slipping down on his useless legs, and Osmund had to bind him tightly to keep him in place.
The watchmen piled firewood around him while Bishop Julius intoned a prayer in Latin.
Osmund picked up one of the torches that had lit their night-time labours. He stood in front of Philbert and looked at Sheriff Matthewson, who held up a hand indicating that Osmund should wait. Matthewson then looked at Julius.
In the pause, Mrs Cobley started screaming, and her family had to hold her.
Julius nodded, Matthewson dropped his arm, and Osmund put the torch to the firewood around Philbert’s legs.
The dry wood caught quickly and the flames crackled with hellish merriment. Philbert cried out feebly at the heat. Wood smoke choked the nearest watchers, who backed away.
Soon there was another smell, one that was at once familiar and sickening, the smell of roasting meat. Philbert began to scream in pain. In between screams he yelled: ‘Take me, Jesus! Take me, Lord! Now, please, now!’ But Jesus did not take him yet.
Ned had heard that merciful judges sometimes allowed the family to hang a bag of gunpowder around the neck of the condemned man so that his end would be quick. But Julius evidently had not permitted that kindness. The lower half of Philbert’s body burned while he remained alive. The noise he made in his agony was unbearable to hear, more like the squealing of a terrified animal than the sound of a man.
At last Philbert fell silent. Perhaps his heart gave out; perhaps the smoke suffocated him; perhaps the heat boiled his brain. The fire continued to burn, and the dead body of Philbert turned into a blackened ruin. The smell was disgusting, but at least the noise had stopped. Ned thanked God it was over at last.
*
In my short life I had never seen anything so dreadful. I did not know how men could do such things, and I did not understand why God would let them.
My mother said something that I have remembered all the subsequent years: ‘When a man is certain that he knows God’s will, and is resolved to do it regardless of the cost, he is the most dangerous person in the world.’
When the spectators began to drift away from the marketplace I remained. The sun rose, though it did not shine on the smouldering remains, which were in the cold shadow of the cathedral. I was thinking about Sir William Cecil, and our conversation about Elizabeth on the Twelfth Day of Christmas. He had said, ‘She has told me many times that if she should become queen, it is her dearest wish that no Englishman should lose his life for the sake of his beliefs. I think that’s an ideal worthy of a man’s faith.’
At the time it had struck me as a pious hope. But after what I had just seen, I thought again. Was it even possible that Elizabeth would get rid of dogmatic bishops such as Julius and end scenes such as the one I had just witnessed? Might there come a time when people of different faiths did not kill one another?
But would Elizabeth become queen when Mary Tudor died? That would depend, I supposed, on what kind of help she got. She had the formidable William Cecil, but one man was not enough. She needed an army of supporters.
And I could be one.
The prospect lifted my heart. I stared at the ashes of Philbert Cobley. I felt sure it did not have to be like this. There were people in England who wanted to stop this happening.
And I wanted to be with them. I wanted to fight for Elizabeth’s tolerant ideals.
No more burnings.
I decided to go to Hatfield.
8
Ned walked from Kingsbridge to Hatfield, a journey of a hundred miles, not knowing whether he would be welcomed and given employment, or sent ignominiously home.
For the first two days he was with a group of students going to Oxford. Everyone travelled in groups: a man on his own was in danger of being robbed; a woman on her own was more vulnerable to worse dangers.
As he had been taught by his mother, Ned talked to everyone he met, acquiring information that might or might not be useful: prices of wool, leather, iron ore, and gunpowder; news of plagues and storms and floods; bankruptcies and riots; aristocratic weddings and funerals.
Each night he stayed in taverns, often sharing beds, an unpleasant experience for a boy from the merchant class used to his own room. However, the students were lively companions on the road, switching from coarse jokes to theological arguments and back again effortlessly. The July weather was warm, but at least it did not rain.
During pauses in the conversation, Ned worried about what awaited him at Hatfield Palace. He hoped to be greeted as just the young assistant they were looking for. But Cecil might say: ‘Ned who?’ If he was rejected, he did not know quite what he would do next. It would be humiliating to return to Kingsbridge with his tail between his legs. Perhaps he would go to London, and try his luck in the big city.
In Oxford he stayed at Kingsbridge College. Established by the great Prior Philip as an outpost of Kingsbridge Priory, it had become independent of the monastery, but it still provided accommodation for students from Kingsbridge, an
d hospitality to Kingsbridge citizens.
It was more difficult to find travelling companions for the journey from Oxford to Hatfield. Most people were going to London, which was out of Ned’s way. While waiting he fell under the spell of the university. He liked the lively discussions about all kinds of topics, from where the Garden of Eden was to how the Earth could be round without people falling off it. Most students would become priests, a few lawyers or doctors; Ned’s mother had told him he would learn nothing at a university that could be of use to a merchant. Now he wondered if she had been right. She was wise, but not omniscient.
After four days he joined a group of pilgrims going to St Albans Cathedral. That took another three days. Then he took a chance and walked alone the last seven miles from St Albans to his destination.
King Henry VIII had confiscated Hatfield Palace from the bishop of Ely, and had used it as an occasional nursery for his children. Elizabeth had spent much of her childhood there, Ned knew. Now Queen Mary Tudor, Elizabeth’s older half-sister, liked to keep her there. Hatfield was twenty miles north of London, a day’s walk or half a day’s fast ride: Elizabeth was out of London, where she might have been a nuisance, but close enough to be watched. Elizabeth was not exactly a prisoner, but she was not free to come and go as she pleased.
The palace was visible from a distance, atop a rise. It looked like an enormous barn built of red brick with leaded windows. As he climbed the slope to the entrance arch, Ned saw that in fact it was four linked buildings in a square, enclosing a courtyard big enough to hold several tennis courts.
His apprehension grew as he saw the busy crowd in the yard, grooms and laundresses and delivery boys. He realized that even though Elizabeth was out of favour she was still royal, and she maintained a large household. Probably lots of people would like to work for her. Perhaps the servants turned applicants away every day.
He walked into the courtyard and looked around. Everyone was busy, no one noticed him. Cecil might be away, he realized: one reason the man needed an assistant was that he could not be at Hatfield all the time.
Ned went up to an older woman placidly shelling peas. ‘Good day, mistress,’ he said politely. ‘Where might I find Sir William Cecil?’
‘Ask the fat man,’ she said, jerking a thumb at a well-dressed heavy-set figure Ned had not previously noticed. ‘Tom Parry.’
Ned approached the man. ‘Good day, Master Parry,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Sir William Cecil.’
‘A lot of people would like to see Sir William,’ said Parry.
‘If you tell him Ned Willard from Kingsbridge is here, he will be glad of the information.’
‘Will he, now?’ Parry was sceptical. ‘From Kingsbridge?’
‘Yes. I walked here.’
Parry was unimpressed. ‘I didn’t think you’d flown.’
‘Will you be so kind as to give him my name?’
‘And if he asks me what business Ned Willard has with him, what shall I say?’
‘The confidential matter he and I discussed with the earl of Shiring on the Twelfth Day of Christmas.’
‘Sir William, and the earl, and you?’ said Parry. ‘What were you doing – serving the wine?’
Ned smiled thinly. ‘No. But the topic was, as I mentioned, confidential.’ He decided that if he submitted himself to any further rude interrogation he would begin to seem desperate, so he ended the conversation. ‘Thank you for your courtesy,’ he said, and turned his back.
‘All right, no need to take umbrage. Come with me.’
Ned followed Parry into the house. The place was gloomy and somewhat decrepit: Elizabeth might have a royal income, but clearly it did not stretch to refurbishing a palace.
Parry opened a door, looked in, and said: ‘Do you want to receive a Ned Willard from Kingsbridge, Sir William?’
A voice inside answered: ‘Very well.’
Parry turned to Ned. ‘Go in.’
The room was large, but not richly decorated; a working office, with ledgers on shelves, rather than a reception room. Cecil sat at a writing table, with pens and ink, paper and sealing-wax. He wore a black velvet doublet that looked too warm for summer weather – but he was sedentary, and Ned had been walking in the sun.
‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ Cecil said when he saw Ned. ‘Alice Willard’s boy.’ His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly, just a little wary. ‘Is your mother well?’
‘She’s lost all her money, Sir William,’ Ned replied. ‘Most of our fortune was in Calais.’
‘Several good men have suffered a similar fate. We were foolish to declare war on France. But why have you come to me? I can’t get Calais back.’
‘When we met, at the earl of Shiring’s banquet, you said you were looking for a young man a bit like myself, to help you in your work for the lady Elizabeth. My mother told you I was destined to work in the family business, and therefore unavailable – but now there is no business. I don’t know whether you found someone . . .’
‘I did,’ said Cecil, and Ned was crestfallen. Then Cecil added: ‘But he turned out to be a bad choice.’
Ned brightened again. ‘I would be honoured and grateful if you would consider me for the position,’ he said eagerly.
‘I don’t know,’ Cecil said. ‘This is not one of those posts that exists to provide an income for a courtier. It requires real work.’
‘I’m prepared to work.’
‘Perhaps, but to be frank, a boy from a rich background whose family have fallen on bad times does not usually make a good assistant: he’s liable to be too accustomed to giving the orders himself, and he may find it strange that anyone should expect him to do what he’s told promptly and conscientiously. He just wants the money.’
‘I want more than the money.’
‘You do?’
‘Sir William, two weeks ago we burned a Protestant in Kingsbridge – our first.’ Ned knew he should not get emotional, but he could hardly help it. ‘As I watched him die screaming, I remembered what you said to me about Elizabeth’s wish that no one should be killed for his faith.’
Cecil nodded.
‘I want her to be queen one day,’ Ned said passionately. ‘I want our country to be a place where Catholics and Protestants don’t kill one another. When the moment comes, I want to be with you as you help Elizabeth to win the throne. That’s the real reason I’m here.’
Cecil stared hard at Ned, as if trying to look into his heart and determine whether he was sincere. After a long pause he said: ‘All right. I’ll give you a trial.’
‘Thank you,’ Ned said fervently. ‘I promise you won’t regret it.’
*
NED WAS STILL in love with Margery Fitzgerald, but he would have gone to bed with Elizabeth in a heartbeat.
And yet she was not beautiful. She had a big nose and a small chin, and her eyes were too close together. But, paradoxically, she was irresistibly alluring: astonishingly clever, as charming as a kitten, and shamelessly flirtatious. The effect was hardly reduced by her imperiousness and her occasional bad temper. Men and women adored her even after she had scolded them cruelly. Ned had never met anyone remotely like her. She was overpowering.
She spoke French to him, mocked his hesitant Latin, and was disappointed that he could not help her practise her Spanish. She let him read any of her books that he fancied, on condition that he discussed them with her. She asked him questions about her finances that made it clear she understood accounts as well as he did.
Within a few days he learned the answers to two key questions.
First, Elizabeth was not plotting against Queen Mary Tudor. In fact, she expressed a horror of treason that seemed genuine to Ned. However, she was preparing, quite methodically, to make a bid for the throne after Mary’s death, whenever that might be. Cecil’s Christmas trip to Kingsbridge had been part of a programme in which he, and other allies of Elizabeth, visited the most important cities in England to assess her support – and opposition. Ned’s admiration for Ce
cil grew fast: the man thought strategically, judging every issue by its long-term effect on the destiny of the princess he served.
Second, Elizabeth was a Protestant, despite Cecil’s pretence that she had no strong religious convictions. She went to Mass and performed every Catholic ritual that was expected of her, but that was for show. Her favourite book was Paraphrases of the New Testament by Erasmus. Most telling was her bad language. She used swear words that Catholics considered offensive. In polite company she chose phrases that were not quite blasphemous: ‘blood’ instead of ‘God’s blood’; ‘zounds’ for ‘God’s wounds’; and ‘marry’ for ‘Mary’. But in private she was more profane, saying: ‘by the Mass’ and – her favourite – ‘God’s body!’
In the mornings she studied with her tutor, and Ned sat in Cecil’s office with the ledgers. Elizabeth had a lot of property, and a major part of Ned’s job was making sure that she was paid the rents due to her in full and on time. After the midday meal Elizabeth relaxed, and sometimes she liked her favourite servants to chat with her. They would sit in a room known as the bishop’s parlour, which had the most comfortable chairs, a chess board, and a virginal on which Elizabeth would sometimes pick out tunes. Her governess, Nell Baynsford, was always there, and sometimes Tom Parry, who was her treasurer.
Ned was not a member of this exclusive inner circle, but one day, when Cecil was absent, he was called in to talk about plans for Elizabeth’s twenty-fifth birthday on 7 September, a couple of weeks away. Should they try to arrange a big celebration in London, which would require the permission of the queen, or something more modest here at Hatfield, where they could do what they liked?
They were deep in discussion when a surprise visitor arrived.
They heard the clatter of hooves as several horses came through the arched gateway into the central courtyard. Ned went to the leaded window and peered out through the smoky glass. There were six riders, and their mounts were powerful, costly beasts. Elizabeth’s grooms came out of the stables to deal with the horses. Ned looked harder at the leader of the group and was astonished to recognize him. ‘It’s Earl Swithin!’ he said. ‘What does he want here?’