A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

She said nothing, but he could see, watching her face, that a struggle was going on inside her, and he waited.

  At last she said: ‘When Bart is away from home, Swithin comes to my bed at night.’

  Ned stared at her, aghast. She was being raped – by her father-in-law. It was obscene – and brutal. Hot rage possessed him, and he had to quell his emotions and think rationally. Questions leaped to his mind, but the answers were obvious. ‘You resist him, but he’s too strong, and he tells you that if you scream, he will say you seduced him, and everyone will believe him.’

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

  ‘The man is an animal.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you. But perhaps God will take Swithin’s life tomorrow.’

  And if God won’t, I will, Ned vowed, but he did not say it out loud. Instead he said: ‘I’ll talk to Luke again. I’ll make sure there’s a fight.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have to think.’

  ‘Don’t risk your own life. That would be even worse.’

  ‘Take your fish home,’ he said.

  She hesitated for a long moment. Then she said: ‘You’re the only person I can trust. The only one.’

  He nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Go home.’

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and left the cathedral, and he followed her out a minute later.

  If he had seen Swithin at that moment, he would have fallen on the earl and got his hands around the man’s throat and choked the life out of him – or, perhaps, been run through by Swithin’s sword, though he was too angry to fear that or anything else.

  He turned and looked back at the mighty west front of the cathedral, wet now with the persistent slow English rain. That was the doorway through which people went to find God: how could Ned think of murder there? But he could hardly think of anything else.

  He struggled to be cogent. Face it, he said to himself, in a fight with Swithin you might not win, and if you did, you would be hanged for murdering a nobleman. But you are smart, and Swithin is stupid, so come up with a clever way to put an end to him.

  He turned away and crossed the market square. It was busy every Saturday, but today it was teeming with all the visitors who had come for tomorrow’s ceremony. Normally, winding his way between the stalls, he would have automatically noted rising and falling prices, shortages and gluts, how much money people had and what they spent it on; but not now. He was aware of acquaintances greeting him, but he was too deep in thought to respond with more than a vague wave or a distracted nod. He reached the front door of the family house and went inside.

  His mother had drifted unhappily into old age. Alice seemed to have shrunk inside her skin, and she walked with a stoop. She seemed to have lost interest in the world outside the house: she asked Ned perfunctory questions about his work with the queen and hardly listened to the answers. In the old days she would have been eager to hear about political manoeuvrings, and wanted to know all about how Elizabeth ran her household.

  However, since Ned had left the house this morning, something seemed to have changed. His mother was in the main hall with their three servants: Janet Fife, the housekeeper; her husband, lame Malcolm; and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Eileen. They all looked animated. Ned guessed right away that they had good news. As soon as his mother saw him she said: ‘Barney’s back in England!’

  Some things went right, Ned reflected, and he managed a smile. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He landed at Combe Harbour with the Hawk. We got a message: he’s only waiting to collect his pay – three years of it! – then he’s coming home.’

  ‘And he’s safe and well? I told you he’d been to the New World.’

  ‘But he’s come home unhurt!’

  ‘Well, we must prepare to celebrate – kill the fatted calf.’

  Alice’s jubilation was punctured. ‘We haven’t got a calf, fatted or otherwise.’

  Young Eileen, who had once had a childish crush on Barney, said excitedly: ‘We’ve got a six-month-old piglet out the back that my mother was planning to use for winter bacon. We could roast it on a spit.’

  Ned was pleased. The whole family would be together again.

  But Margery’s torment came back to him as he sat down with his mother for the midday meal. She chatted animatedly, speculating about what kind of adventures Barney might have had in Seville, Antwerp and Hispaniola. Ned let her talk flow over him while he brooded.

  Margery’s idea had been to warn the Puritans so that they would come armed, and to hope that Swithin would die in the resulting brawl. But Ned had not known the full story, and despite the best of intentions he had put paid to her hopes. There would be no brawl, now: the relics would not be seen in the consecration ceremony, the Puritans would therefore not protest, and Swithin would have no pretext for a fight.

  Could Ned now undo what he had done? It was next to impossible. Dean Luke would surely refuse to return to the original timetable in order to guarantee a riot.

  Ned realized he could recreate the brawl scenario, simply by telling both sides that the relics would now be buried at dawn. But there was another snag. A brawl was unpredictable. Swithin might be hurt, but he might not. Ned needed to be surer than that, for Margery’s sake.

  Was there a way to turn tomorrow’s burial ceremony into a trap for Swithin?

  What if Ned could preserve Rollo’s violent plan, but remove the justification?

  A scheme began to take shape in his mind. Perhaps he could lure Swithin to the cathedral with false information. But of course the Catholics would not trust Ned. Who would they trust?

  Then he remembered what Margery had told him about Donal Gloster being a spy. Rollo would trust Donal.

  Ned began to feel hopeful again.

  He left his family’s dinner table as soon as he could. He walked down the main street, turned along Slaughterhouse Wharf, and went past the moorings to the Tanneries, a riverside neighbourhood of smelly industries and small houses. There he knocked on Donal Gloster’s front door. It was opened by Donal’s mother, a handsome middle-aged woman with Donal’s full lips and thick dark hair. She looked wary. ‘What brings you here, Mr Willard?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Widow Gloster,’ Ned said politely. ‘I want to speak to Donal.’

  ‘He’s at work. You know where Dan Cobley’s place of business is.’

  Ned nodded. Dan had a warehouse down by the docks. ‘I shan’t disturb Donal at work. When do you expect him home?’

  ‘He’ll finish at sundown. But he usually goes to the Slaughterhouse tavern before coming home.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘I don’t mean him any harm.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, but she said it uncertainly, and Ned suspected she did not believe him.

  He returned to the waterfront and sat on a coil of rope, gnawing at his plan, which was uncertain and dangerous, while he watched the bustle of commerce, the boats and carts arriving and leaving, loading and unloading grain and coal, stones from the quarry and timber from the forest, bales of cloth and barrels of wine. This was how his family had prospered: by buying in one place and selling in another, and pocketing the difference in the price. It was a simple thing, but it was the way to become rich – the only way, unless you were a nobleman and could force people to pay you rent for the land they farmed.

  The afternoon darkened. The hatches were closed and the warehouses locked up, and men began to leave the docks, their faces eager for home and supper, or tavern and song, or dark lane and lover. Ned saw Donal come out of the Cobley building and head for the Slaughterhouse with the air of one who does not have to make a decision because he does the same thing every day.

  Ned followed him into the inn. ‘A quiet word with you, Donal, if I may.’ These days, no one refused Ned a quiet word. He had become a man of power and importance, and everyone in Kingsbridge knew it. Strangely, this gave him no great satisfac
tion. Some men craved deference; others craved wine, or the bodies of beautiful women, or the monastic life of order and obedience. What did Ned crave? The answer came into his mind with a speed and effortlessness that took him by surprise: justice.

  He would have to think about that.

  He paid for two tankards of ale and steered Donal to a corner. As soon as they sat down, he said: ‘You lead a dangerous life, Donal.’

  ‘Ned Willard, always the cleverest boy in the class,’ said Donal with an unpleasant twist of his lips.

  ‘We’re not at the Grammar School any longer. There we were only flogged for our mistakes. Now we get killed.’

  Donal looked intimidated, but he put on a brave face. ‘Then it’s a good thing I don’t make any.’

  ‘If Dan Cobley and the Puritans find out about you and Rollo, they’ll tear you to pieces.’

  Donal turned white.

  After a long moment he opened his mouth to speak, but Ned forestalled him. ‘Don’t deny it. That would be a waste of your time and mine. Focus on what you have to do to make sure that I keep your secret.’

  Donal swallowed and managed a nod.

  ‘What you told Rollo Fitzgerald yesterday was correct at the time, but it has changed.’

  Donal’s mouth dropped open. ‘How—?’

  ‘Never mind how I know what you told Rollo. All you need to understand is that the relics of the saint will be desecrated in the cathedral tomorrow – but the time has changed. Now it will be done at dawn, with few people present.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘So that you will tell Rollo.’

  ‘You hate the Fitzgeralds – they ruined your family.’

  ‘Don’t try to figure this out. Just do what you’re told and save your skin.’

  ‘Rollo will ask how I know about the change.’

  ‘Say you overheard Dan Cobley talking about it.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Go and see Rollo now. You must have some means of signalling that you need an urgent meeting.’

  ‘I’ll just finish my beer.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather be stone cold sober?’

  Donal looked regretfully at his tankard.

  Ned said: ‘Now, Donal.’

  Donal got up and left.

  Ned left a few minutes later. He walked back up the main street. He felt uneasy. He had a plan, but it relied on a lot of people doing what he expected: Dean Luke, Donal Gloster, Rollo Fitzgerald and – most important of all, and most wilful – Earl Swithin. If one part of the chain were to break, the scheme would fail.

  And now he had to add one more link.

  He walked past the cathedral, the Bell inn, and the new Fitzgerald palace called Priory Gate, and went into the Guild Hall. There he tapped on the door of Sheriff Matthewson’s room and went in without waiting for an invitation. The sheriff was eating an early supper of bread and cold meat. He put down his knife and wiped his mouth. ‘Good evening, Mr Willard. I hope you’re well.’

  ‘Very well, sheriff, I thank you.’

  ‘Can I be of service to you?’

  ‘To the queen, sheriff. Her majesty has a job for you to do – tonight.’

  *

  ROLLO NERVOUSLY TOUCHED the hilt of his sword. He had never been in battle. As a boy he had practised with a wooden weapon, like most sons of prosperous families, but he had no experience of deadly combat.

  Sir Reginald’s bedroom was full of people, and unlit, but no one was in bed. From the windows there was a spectacular view of the north and west sides of Kingsbridge Cathedral. It was a clear night, and to Rollo’s dark-adapted eyes the glimmering starlight revealed the outline of the church, faint but clear. Under its pointed arches, all doorways and windows were deep pools of gloom, like the eye sockets of a man blinded for forging money. Higher up, the turrets with their crockets and finials were blackly silhouetted against the night sky.

  With Rollo were his father, Sir Reginald; his brother-in-law, Bart Shiring; Bart’s father, Earl Swithin; and two of Swithin’s most trusted men-at-arms. All wore swords and daggers.

  When the cathedral bell had struck four, Stephen Lincoln had said Mass and then had given all six of them absolution for the sins they were about to commit. They had been watching since then.

  The women of the house, Lady Jane and Margery, were in bed, but Rollo doubted that they were asleep.

  The market square, so crowded and noisy in the day, was now empty and silent. On the far side were the Grammar School and the bishop’s palace, both now dark. Beyond them the city sloped downhill to the river, and the close-packed roofs of the houses looked like the tiled steps of a giant staircase.

  Rollo hoped that Swithin and Bart and the men-at-arms, whose profession was violence, would do any fighting necessary.

  First light cracked the dome of stars and turned the cathedral from black to grey. Soon afterwards, someone whispered: ‘There.’ Rollo saw a silent procession emerge from the bishop’s palace, six dark figures, each carrying a candle lamp. They crossed the square and entered the church by the west door, their lamps vanishing as if extinguished.

  Rollo frowned. Dan Cobley and the other Puritans must already be inside the cathedral, he supposed. Perhaps they had crept through the ruined monastic buildings and entered by one of the doors on the far side, unseen by the group in Priory Gate. He felt uneasy, not knowing for sure; but if he said so, at this late stage, his doubts would be attributed to mere cowardice, so he kept quiet.

  Earl Swithin murmured: ‘We’ll wait a minute more. Give them time to get started on their satanic business.’

  He was right. It would be a mistake to jump the gun, and burst into the church before the relics were brought out and the desecration had begun.

  Rollo imagined the priests walking down the aisle to the east end, unlocking the iron railings, and picking up the reliquary. What would they do next? Throw the bones into the river?

  ‘All right, let’s go,’ said Swithin.

  He led the way, and the others followed him down the stairs and through the front door. As soon as they were outside they broke into a run, and their footsteps seemed thunderous in the silence of the night. Rollo wondered if the people inside the cathedral could hear, and whether they would be sufficiently quick-witted to stop what they were doing and flee.

  Then Swithin flung open the great door and they drew their swords and rushed in.

  They were only just in time. Dean Luke stood in the middle of the nave, in front of the low altar, where a few candles burned. He had the golden reliquary in his hands, and he was holding it aloft, while the others sang something that was no doubt part of their devil-worshipping ritual. In the dim light it was hard to see just how many people stood in the shadows of the vast church. As the intruders ran along the nave towards the startled group at the altar, Rollo noticed that a hole had been dug in the church floor, and a large paving-stone stood to one side, propped against a pillar. Also beside the pillar was George Cox, the gravedigger, leaning on a shovel. This was not quite the scene Rollo had foreseen, but it hardly mattered: Dean Luke’s stance clearly revealed his blasphemous purpose.

  At the head of the group, Earl Swithin charged Luke with his sword raised. Luke turned around, still holding the reliquary high.

  Then George Cox raised his shovel and ran at the earl.

  At that moment, Rollo heard a baffling shout: ‘Stop, in the name of the queen!’ He could not see where the voice came from.

  Swithin slashed at Luke. Luke jerked back at the last instant, but the sword struck his left arm, ripping the black of his robe and slicing deep into the flesh of his forearm. He cried out in pain and dropped the reliquary, which hit the floor with a thud and a crash, dislodging precious jewels that rolled across the stone pavement.

  Rollo saw, out of the corner of his eye, a dim sign of movement in the south transept. A moment later, a group of ten or twelve men burst into the nave, wielding swords and clubs. They rushed at the intruders. The same vo
ice repeated the order to stop in the name of the queen, and Rollo saw that the man shouting the pointless instruction was Sheriff Matthewson. What was he doing here?

  George Cox swung his shovel, aiming at the earl’s head, but Swithin moved and the tool struck his left shoulder. Enraged, Swithin stabbed with his sword, and Rollo was horrified to see the blade pierce the gravedigger’s belly and come out of his back.

  The other priests knelt beside the dropped reliquary as if to protect it.

  The sheriff and his men were rushing at the earl and his group, and Rollo saw the leather helmet of Osmund Carter among the dim-lit heads. And was that the red-brown hair of Ned Willard?

  The earl’s side was outnumbered two to one. I’m going to die, Rollo thought, but God will reward me.

  He was about to rush forward into the fray when he was struck by a thought. The surprise presence of Ned Willard made him suspicious. This could not be a trap, could it? Where were the Puritans? If they had been hiding in the shadows, they would by now have charged into the light. But Rollo saw only the earl’s men on one side, the sheriff’s on the other, and the frightened priests between.

  Perhaps Donal Gloster’s information had been wrong. But the priests were here at dawn, as Donal had predicted, and they were undoubtedly doing something sinister with the relics. More likely Dan Cobley had changed his mind, and decided that a protest in an empty church was hardly worthwhile. More puzzling, why was the sheriff here? Had he somehow got wind of the earl’s intentions? That seemed impossible: the only people informed, outside the family, had been the two men-at-arms and Stephen Lincoln, all of whom were completely trustworthy. Dean Luke must have decided to be ultra-cautious. A guilty conscience was always full of fear.

  A trap, or a foolhardy adventure that had turned into a fiasco? It hardly mattered: the fight was on.

  The sheriff and the earl were the first to clash. Swithin was tugging at his sword, trying to pull it out of the body of George Cox, when the sheriff’s weapon came down on Swithin’s right hand. Swithin roared in pain and let go of the hilt of his weapon, and Rollo saw a detached thumb fall to the floor among the scattered jewels.