by Ken Follett
‘Yes.’
Even Queen Elizabeth frowned on this kind of thing. A lot of iconoclasm had gone on during the reign of Edward VI, but Elizabeth had passed a law making it a crime to destroy pictures and objects belonging to the Church. However, the ban had been only partially successful: there were a lot of ultra-Protestants. ‘I shouldn’t be so surprised,’ Rollo said.
‘I thought you’d like to know.’
He was right about that. A secret was a weapon. But more than that, the possession of knowledge that others did not share always filled Rollo with elation. He could hug it to himself at night and feel powerful.
He reached into his pocket and handed Donal five of the gold coins called angels, each worth ten shillings or half a pound. ‘Well done,’ he said.
Donal pocketed the money with a satisfied air. ‘Thank you.’
Rollo could not help thinking of Judas Iscariot’s thirty pieces of silver. ‘Stay in touch,’ he said, and left.
He crossed Merthin’s bridge to the city centre and walked up the main street. There was a cold autumn bite to the air that seemed to intensify his excitement. As he looked up at the ancient holy stones of the cathedral he thrilled with horror to think of the blasphemy that was planned, and he vowed to prevent it.
Then it occurred to him that he might do more than just prevent it. Was there a way he could turn the incident to advantage?
Walking slowly, thinking hard, he went into Priory Gate, his father’s palace. Building it had almost broken the Fitzgerald family. But, in the end, it was the Willard family who had been broken. Now five years old, the house had lost its brand-new sheen and had mellowed. The pale grey of the stones, from the same quarry as those of the cathedral, had darkened a little in the English rain and the smoke of two thousand Kingsbridge fireplaces.
Earl Swithin was visiting, with Bart and Margery. They had come for the consecration of the new bishop. They were staying at the earl’s house on Leper Island, but spent much of their time at Priory Gate, and Rollo hoped they were here now, for he was bursting to tell Swithin the news he had heard from Donal. The earl would be even more outraged than Rollo himself.
He went up the marble staircase and entered Sir Reginald’s parlour. Although there were grander rooms in the house, this was where people gathered to talk business. Sir Reginald, old enough now to be sensitive to cold weather, had a fire blazing. The guests were there, and a jug of wine stood on a side table.
Rollo felt proud to see the earl of the county making himself comfortable in the house. Rollo knew that his father was equally proud, though he never said so – but in Swithin’s presence he became more restrained and judicious in his conversation, presenting himself as a wise and experienced counsellor, repressing the impulsive, belligerent side of his character.
Bart was by Swithin’s side, physically a younger version of the earl, though not such a strong character. Bart revered his powerful, assertive father, but he might never match him.
The old guard are still here, Rollo thought, despite Elizabeth. They had suffered reverses but they were not beaten.
He sat next to his sister, Margery, and accepted a cup of wine from his mother. He was vaguely worried about Margery. She was only twenty, but looked older. She had lost weight, there was no colour in her cheeks, and she had a bruise on her jaw. She had always been proud of her appearance, to the point of vanity, in his opinion, but today she wore a drab dress and her hair was greasy and unkempt. He had no doubt that she was unhappy, but he was not sure why. He had asked her directly whether Bart was cruel to her, but she had said firmly: ‘Bart is a decent husband.’ Perhaps she was disappointed that she had not yet conceived a child. Whatever the reason for her unhappiness, he just hoped she was not going to cause trouble.
He took a gulp of wine and said: ‘I’ve got some disturbing news. I’ve been talking to Donal Gloster.’
‘Despicable character,’ said Sir Reginald.
‘Contemptible, but useful. Without him we would not know that Dan Cobley and the Puritans are planning an outrage on Sunday, at the consecration of Luke Richards, whom they find insufficiently heretical for their taste.’
‘An outrage?’ said his father. ‘What are they going to do?’
Rollo dropped his bombshell. ‘Desecrate the bones of the saint.’
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Margery whispered: ‘No.’
Earl Swithin said: ‘I’ll stick my sword in his guts, if he tries it.’
Rollo’s eyes widened. The violence might not be one-sided: he had not thought of that.
His mother spoke up feistily. ‘If you kill a man in church, Swithin, you’ll be executed. Even an earl can’t get away with that.’ Lady Jane’s perky charm allowed her to speak bluntly.
Swithin looked downcast. ‘You’re right, damn it.’
Rollo said: ‘I think she may be wrong, my lord.’
‘How?’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Jane, arching her eyebrows. ‘Tell us how I’m wrong, my clever son.’
Rollo concentrated, the plan forming in his mind while he spoke. ‘Committing a premeditated murder in a church: yes, even an earl might be executed for that. But think on. The mayor of Kingsbridge could tell a different story.’
Swithin looked baffled, but Reginald said: ‘Go on, Rollo – this is interesting.’
‘Any event may be good or evil, depending on the point of view. Consider this: a group of armed toughs enter a city, kill the men, rape the women, and make off with all the valuables; they are wicked criminals – unless the city is in Assyria and the victims are Muslims, in which case the armed men are not criminals but Crusaders and heroes.’
Margery said disgustedly: ‘And you’re not even being satirical.’
Rollo did not understand that.
Sir Reginald said impatiently: ‘So what?’
‘What will happen on Sunday is that the Puritans will attack the clergy and attempt to steal the relics, contrary to the law passed by Queen Elizabeth. Then faithful Christians in the congregation will leap to the defence of Elizabeth’s new bishop and save the bones of the saint. Even better if no swords are used, though, naturally, men will have with them the everyday knives they use to cut their meat at table. Sadly, in the ensuing melee the leader of the Kingsbridge Puritans, Dan Cobley, will be fatally stabbed; but, as he is the main instigator of the riot, it will be felt that this was God’s will. Anyway, it will not be possible to determine who struck the fatal blow. And you, Father, as the mayor of Kingsbridge, will write a report to her majesty the queen telling that plain story.’
Sir Reginald said thoughtfully: ‘The death of Dan Cobley would be a godsend. He’s the leader of the Puritans.’
‘And our family’s worst enemy,’ Rollo added.
Margery said severely: ‘A lot of other people could be killed.’
Rollo was not surprised by her disapproval. She was staunch, but she believed that the Catholic faith should be promoted by all means short of violence.
Earl Swithin said: ‘She’s right, it’s hazardous. But we can’t let that stand in our way.’ He smiled. ‘Women worry about such things,’ he said. ‘That’s why God made man the master.’
*
LYING IN BED, thinking over the day’s events, Margery despised Dan Cobley and the Puritans for planning such a dreadful desecration, but she felt almost as much contempt for her father and her brother. Their response was to exploit the sacrilege to strike a political blow.
Both Reginald and Rollo might be hurt in the fracas, but she found herself more or less indifferent to this danger. She had lost all feeling for them. They had used her ruthlessly for their own social advancement – just as they were planning to use the sacrilege of the Puritans. The fact that they had ruined her life meant nothing to them. Their care for her when she was a child had been such as they might have shown for a foal that promised to turn into a useful carthorse one day. Tears came to her eyes when she thought nostalgically of the childhood t
ime when she had thought they really loved her.
She was far from indifferent to the possibility that Swithin might be hurt. She longed with all her heart for him to be killed, or at least maimed so badly that he could never again force himself upon her. In her prayers she begged God to take Swithin to hell on Sunday morning. She went to sleep imagining a time when she was free of her tormentor.
She woke up realizing that it was up to her to make her wish come true.
Swithin was putting himself in danger, but there had to be a way for her to make it more certain that he would suffer injury. Because of her clandestine work with Stephen Lincoln, Rollo and Reginald regarded her as a rock-solid ally, and it never occurred to them to keep anything from her. She knew the secret, and she had to use it.
She got up early. Her mother was already in the kitchen, giving orders to the staff for the day’s meals. Lady Jane was perceptive, so she had to know that something was badly wrong in Margery’s life, but she said nothing. She would give advice if asked, but she would not probe uninvited. Perhaps there were things in her own marriage that she preferred to keep to herself.
She asked Margery to go to the riverside and see whether there was some good fresh fish for sale. It was a rainy Saturday morning, and Margery put on an old coat. She picked up a basket for the fish then went out. In the square, the market traders were setting up their stalls.
She had to warn the Puritans of the trap that awaited them, so that they would go to the cathedral armed to defend themselves. But she could not knock on Dan Cobley’s door and say she had a secret to impart. For one thing, she would be seen by passers-by, and the fact that Margery of Shiring had called on Dan Cobley would be surprising news that went around town in minutes. For another thing, Dan would not believe her, suspecting a trick. She needed some undercover means of warning him.
She could not think of a way out of this dilemma. She was deep in thought as she crossed the square. Her reverie was disturbed by a voice that made her pulse race. ‘I’m very glad to see you!’
She looked up, shocked and thrilled. There, in a costly black coat, looking the same as ever, was Ned Willard. He seemed to Margery to be a guardian angel sent by God.
She realized with dismay that she looked slovenly, her coat unflattering and her hair tied up in a rag. Fortunately, Ned did not appear to care. He stood there as if he would be happy to smile at her for ever.
‘You have a sword, now,’ she said.
Ned shrugged. ‘Courtiers wear swords,’ he said. ‘I’ve even had fencing lessons, just so that I know what to do with it.’
Getting over her surprise, she began to think logically. Clearly this was a chance to use the secret. If people noticed her talking to Ned, they would nod sagely and tell each other that she had never really got over him; and her family would think the same if they got to hear of it.
She was not sure how much to tell him. ‘There’s going to be a fight at the consecration,’ she began. ‘Dan Cobley is going to seize the bones of the saint.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Donal Gloster told Rollo.’
Ned raised his eyebrows. Of course he had not known that Dan Cobley’s right-hand man was a spy for the Catholics. But he made no comment, seeming to tuck the revelation away for future consideration.
Margery went on: ‘Rollo told Swithin, and Swithin is going to use it as an excuse to start a fight and kill Dan.’
‘In the church?’
‘Yes. He thinks he’ll get away with it because he will be protecting the clergy and the relics.’
‘Swithin’s not smart enough to think of that.’
‘No, it was Rollo’s idea.’
‘The devil.’
‘I’ve been trying to figure out how to warn the Puritans so that they can come armed. But now you can do it.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me.’
She resisted the temptation to throw her arms around him and kiss him.
*
‘WE MUST CALL off the ceremony,’ Dean Luke said when Ned told him what was going to happen.
‘But when would you reschedule it?’
‘I don’t know.’
They were in the chancel, standing next to one of the mighty pillars that held up the tower. Looking up, Ned recalled that this was Merthin’s tower, rebuilt by him after the old one caused a collapse, according to the history of Kingsbridge known as Timothy’s Book. Merthin must have built well, for that had been two hundred years ago.
Ned turned his gaze to Luke’s anxious face and mild blue eyes. He was a priest who would avoid conflict at all costs. ‘We can’t postpone the consecration,’ Ned said. ‘It would be a political blow to Queen Elizabeth. People would say that the Kingsbridge Puritans had prevented her from appointing the bishop of her choice. Ultra-Protestants in other cities would think they had the right to say who should be their bishop, and they might start copycat riots. The queen would crucify you and me for letting it happen.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Luke. ‘Then we’ll have to leave the saint inside his railings.’
Ned glanced across at the tomb of St Adolphus. The monument was closed off by locked iron railings. A little group of pilgrims were on their knees, staring through the grille at the reliquary. It was a gold casket in the shape of a church, with archways and turrets and a spire. Set into the gold were pearls, rubies and sapphires, glittering in the watery sunlight that came through the great east window.
‘I’m not sure that will be enough,’ Ned said. ‘Now that they’ve planned this, they may break down the railings.’
Luke looked panicky. ‘I can’t have a riot during my consecration!’
‘No, indeed. That would be almost as bad as cancellation, from the point of view of the queen.’
‘What, then?’
Ned knew what he wanted to do, but he hesitated. There was something Margery was not telling him. She had wanted him to arm the Puritans, not avoid the brawl altogether. It was surprising that she had taken that line, for she was strongly against religious violence of any kind. This thought had occurred to him vaguely while talking to her, but he saw it more clearly now in retrospect. Something else was going on, but he did not know what.
However, he could not base his actions on such nebulous notions. He put thoughts of Margery aside. He needed to offer Luke a safe way out. ‘We have to take the gunpowder out of the cannon,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have to get rid of the relics.’
Luke was shocked. ‘We can’t just throw them away!’
‘Of course we can’t. But we can bury them – with all due ceremony. Hold a funeral service tomorrow at first light – just you and one or two priests. Tonight, have George Cox dig a hole somewhere inside the cathedral – don’t tell anyone where.’ George Cox was the gravedigger. ‘Bury the bones, in the golden casket, and let George replace the stones of the floor so that no one can tell they’ve been disturbed.’
Luke was thinking this through with a worried frown. ‘When people arrive for the consecration it will already be done. But what will they say? They will see that the saint has gone.’
‘Put up a notice on the iron railings saying that St Adolphus is buried here in the cathedral. Then explain, in your sermon, that the saint is still here, blessing us with his presence, but he has been buried in a secret grave to protect his remains from people who might wish to violate them.’
‘That’s clever,’ Luke said admiringly. ‘The people will be content, but there will be nothing for the Puritans to object to. Their protest will be like gunpowder that has separated.’
‘A good image. Use it in your sermon.’
Luke nodded.
Ned said: ‘So that’s settled.’
‘I have to discuss it with the chapter.’
Ned suppressed an impatient retort. ‘Not really. You’re the bishop-elect.’ He smiled. ‘You may command.’
Luke looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s always better to
explain to people the reasons for commands.’
Ned decided not to fight a hypothetical battle. ‘Do it your way. I’ll come here at dawn to witness the burial.’
‘Very well.’
Ned was not totally sure that Luke would go through with it. Perhaps a reminder of Luke’s debt to him would help. ‘I’m glad I was able to persuade the queen that you’re the right man to be bishop of Kingsbridge,’ he said.
‘I’m deeply grateful to you, Ned, for your faith in me.’
‘I believe we’ll work well together, in years to come, to prevent religious hatred.’
‘Amen.’
Luke could yet change his mind about the whole idea, if one of his colleagues objected to burying the relics, but Ned could do no more for now. He resolved to see Luke again before nightfall and make sure of him.
He took his leave and walked down the nave, between the marching pillars, the leaping arches and the glowing windows, thinking how much good and evil this building had seen in the last four hundred years. When he stepped out of the west door, he saw Margery again, returning to her house with her fish basket over her arm. She caught his eye and turned to meet him.
In the cathedral porch she said: ‘Did you do it?’
‘I think I’ve avoided violence,’ he said. ‘I’ve persuaded Luke to bury the bones clandestinely, tomorrow morning, so that there will be nothing to fight over.’
He expected her to be pleased and grateful, but to his consternation she stared at him in horror for a long moment then said: ‘No! That’s not it.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘There has to be a fight.’
‘But you were always so much against violence.’
‘Swithin has to die!’
‘Hush!’ He took her elbow and led her back inside. In the north aisle was a side chapel dedicated to St Dymphna. She was not a popular figure, and the little space was empty. The painting of the saint being beheaded had been taken down to appease the Puritans.
He stood in front of Margery, holding her hands, and said: ‘You’d better tell me what’s wrong. Why does Swithin have to die?’