by Ken Follett
Margery knew what he was talking about. Just before Christmas a group of Catholic earls had taken up arms against Queen Elizabeth in the only rebellion of her reign so far. They had celebrated a Latin Mass in Durham Cathedral, occupied several other towns in the north, and marched towards Tutworth, where Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned, with the evident intention of freeing her and proclaiming her queen of England. But the uprising had gained little support, the queen’s forces had put it down quickly, and Mary Stuart remained a prisoner.
Ned said: ‘It fizzled out.’
‘Five hundred men have been hanged!’ Bart said indignantly. ‘By the queen who complains of Mary Tudor’s cruelty!’
Ned said mildly: ‘Men who try to overthrow the monarch are generally executed, in every country in the world, I believe.’
Bart was a poor listener, like his father, and he responded as if he had not heard Ned. ‘The north is poor enough already, but it has been looted mercilessly, lands confiscated and all the livestock seized and driven south!’
Margery wondered whether this reminded Ned of how his own family had been mercilessly plundered by her father; but if he thought of that he hid his pain. He was not flustered by Bart’s tactless tirade, and Margery supposed that, spending his life among the queen’s advisors, Ned had learned how to remain calm during angry arguments. ‘I can tell you that the queen has not received much booty,’ he said in a reasonable tone of voice. ‘Certainly nothing approaching the cost to her of putting down the insurrection.’
‘The north is part of England – it should not be plundered like a foreign country.’
‘Then its people should behave like Englishmen, and obey their queen.’
Margery decided that this was a good moment to change the subject. ‘Ned, tell Bart about the problem in Wigleigh.’
‘It’s quickly stated, Bart. One of my tenant farmers has encroached on your land, and has cleared a couple of acres of forest on your side of the river.’
‘Then throw him off it,’ Bart said.
‘If you wish, I will simply tell him to stop using that land, of course.’
‘And if he disobeys?’
‘I’ll burn his crop.’
Margery knew that Ned was pretending to be harsh in order to reassure Bart.
Bart did not realize he was being manipulated. ‘It’s what he deserves,’ he said in a tone of satisfaction. ‘These peasants know the boundaries better than anyone: if he has encroached, he’s done so deliberately.’
‘I agree, but there might be a better solution,’ Ned said as if he hardly cared one way or the other. ‘After all, when peasants prosper, their landlords do too. Suppose I give you four acres of woodland somewhere else, in exchange for the two already cleared? That way, we both gain.’
Bart looked reluctant, but clearly could not think of a counterargument. However, he temporized. ‘Let’s pay a visit to Wigleigh together,’ he said. He was not good at abstract thinking, Margery knew: he would much prefer to make a decision while looking at the land in question.
Ned said: ‘Of course, I’d be glad to, especially if we can do so soon – I need to get back to London, now that my mother is buried.’
Margery felt a stab of disappointment, and realized she had been hoping that Ned would stay in Kingsbridge longer.
Bart said: ‘How about next Friday?’
Ned felt impatient, but suppressed the feeling: Margery could tell by his face, though probably no one else noticed. Clearly he would have preferred to settle this trivial matter right away so that he could get back to great affairs of state. He said: ‘Could you make it Monday?’
Bart looked annoyed, and Margery knew he was offended that he, an earl, should be asked to hurry up by a mere knight. ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t,’ he said mulishly.
‘Very well,’ said Ned. ‘Friday it is.’
*
IN THE DAYS following the funeral, Ned thought ahead to the time when he would meet his maker, and asked himself whether he would be proud of the life he had led. He had dedicated himself to a vision – one he shared with Queen Elizabeth – of an England where no one was killed for his religion. Could he say he had done everything possible to defend that ideal?
Perhaps the greatest danger was King Felipe of Spain. Felipe was constantly at war, often over religious differences. He fought the Ottoman Muslims in the Mediterranean Sea and the Dutch Protestants in the Netherlands. Sooner or later, Ned felt sure, he would turn his attention to England and the Anglican Church.
Spain was the richest and most powerful country in the world, and no one knew how to defend England.
Ned shared his worry with his brother. ‘The only thing Queen Elizabeth will spend money on willingly is the navy,’ he said. ‘But we’ll never have a fleet to match King Felipe’s galleons.’
They were sitting in the dining room, finishing breakfast. Barney was about to leave for Combe Harbour, where his ship was taking on stores for the next voyage. He had renamed the vessel Alice after their mother.
‘England doesn’t need galleons,’ said Barney.
Ned was startled by that. He was in the act of giving a sliver of smoked fish to Maddie, the tortoiseshell cat – daughter or perhaps granddaughter of his childhood pet – but he froze, looked up at Barney and said: ‘What do we need, in your opinion?’
‘The Spanish idea is to have big ships to transport hundreds of soldiers. Their tactic is to ram, so that the soldiers can board the enemy ship and overwhelm the crew.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘And it often works. But galleons have a high after-castle with cabins for all the officers and noblemen on board. That structure acts like a sail that can’t be adjusted, and pushes the ship in the direction of the wind, regardless of where the captain wants to go. In other words, it makes the ship harder to steer.’
The waiting cat made a plaintive noise, and Ned gave her the fish, then said: ‘If we don’t need galleons, what do we need to protect ourselves?’
‘The queen should build ships that are narrow and low, and therefore more manoeuvrable. An agile ship can dance around a galleon, firing at it without letting the galleon get close enough for all those soldiers to board.’
‘I have to tell her this.’
‘The other main factor in sea battles is speed of reloading.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s more important than having heavy guns. My sailors are trained to clean out the barrel and recharge the cannon rapidly and safely. With practice they can do it in under five minutes. Once you’re close enough to hit the enemy ship with every shot, it’s all about the number of times you can fire. A relentless barrage of cannonballs will demoralize and devastate the enemy very quickly.’
Ned was fascinated. Elizabeth had no standing army, so the navy was England’s only permanent military force. The country was not wealthy, by European standards, but such prosperity as it had came from overseas trade. The navy was a formidable presence on the high seas, making others hesitate before attacking English merchant ships. In particular, the navy gave England dominance in the Channel, the waterway that separated the country from Europe. Elizabeth was parsimonious, but she had an eye for what was really important, and she paid careful attention to her ships.
Barney got up. ‘I don’t know when I’ll see you again,’ he said.
I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again, Ned thought. He picked up Barney’s heavy travelling coat and helped him on with it. ‘Be safe, Barney,’ he said.
They parted company with little ceremony, in the manner of brothers.
Ned went into the front parlour and sat at the writing table his mother had used for so many years. While the conversation was fresh in his mind he made a note of everything Barney had said about the design of fighting ships.
When he had finished, he looked out of the window at the west front of the cathedral. I’m thirty years old, he thought. When my father was this age he already had Barney and me. In another thirty years I may be lying in t
he cemetery next to my parents. But who will stand at my grave?
He saw Dan Cobley approaching the house, and put morbid thoughts out of his mind.
Dan walked in. ‘Barney’s just left,’ Ned said, assuming that Dan was here to talk about his investment in Barney’s voyage. ‘He’s taking the barge to Combe Harbour. But you might catch him at the dock, if you hurry.’
‘My business with Barney is settled, to our mutual satisfaction,’ Dan said. ‘I’ve come to see you.’
‘In that case, please sit down.’
At thirty-two Dan was plumper than ever, and still had a know-all air that struck Ned as adolescent. But Dan was a good businessman, and had expanded the enterprise he had inherited. He was now probably the richest man in Kingsbridge. He was looking for a bigger house, and had offered a good price for Priory Gate, though Rollo did not want to sell. Dan was also the undisputed leader of the town’s Puritans, who liked to worship at St John’s church in the suburb of Loversfield.
As Ned feared, Dan had come to talk about religion.
Dan leaned forward dramatically. ‘There is a Catholic among the clergy at Kingsbridge Cathedral,’ he said.
‘Is there?’ Ned sighed. ‘How could you possibly know a thing like that?’
Dan answered a different question. ‘His name is Father Paul.’
Paul Watson was a gentle old priest. He had been the last prior of Kingsbridge, and he had probably never accepted the reformed religion. ‘And what is Father Paul’s crime, exactly?’
Dan said triumphantly: ‘He celebrates Mass, secretly, in the crypt, with the doors locked!’
‘He’s an old man,’ Ned said wearily. ‘It’s hard for such people to keep changing their religious convictions.’
‘He’s a blasphemer!’
‘Yes, he is.’ Ned agreed with Dan about theology; he differed only about enforcement. ‘You’ve actually witnessed these illegal rites?’
‘I have watched people creeping furtively into the cathedral by a side door at dawn on Sunday – including several I’ve long suspected of backsliding into idolatry: Rollo Fitzgerald, for one, and his mother, Lady Jane, for another.’
‘Have you told Bishop Luke?’
‘No! I’m sure he tolerates it.’
‘Then what do you propose?’
‘Bishop Luke has to go.’
‘And I suppose you want Father Jeremiah from St John’s to be made bishop.’
Dan hesitated, surprised that Ned had read his intentions so easily. He cleared his throat. ‘That is for her majesty to decide,’ he said with insincere deference. ‘Only the monarch can appoint and dismiss bishops in the Anglican Church, as you know. But I want you to tell the queen what is going on – and if you don’t, I will.’
‘Let me explain something to you, Dan – though you’re not going to like it. Elizabeth may dislike Catholics but she hates Puritans. If I go to her with this story she’ll have me thrown out of the presence chamber. All she wants is peace.’
‘But the Mass is illegal, as well as heretical!’
‘And the law is not strictly enforced. How could you not have noticed?’
‘What is the point of a law if it’s not enforced?’
‘The point is to keep everyone reasonably content. Protestants are happy because the Mass is illegal. Catholics are happy because they can go to Mass anyway. And the queen is happy because people are going about their business and not killing one another over religion. I strongly advise you not to complain to her. She won’t do anything about Father Paul, but she might do something about you.’
‘This is outrageous,’ said Dan, standing up.
Ned did not want to quarrel. ‘I’m sorry to send you away with a dusty answer, Dan,’ he said. ‘But this is the way things are. I’d be misleading you if I said anything else.’
‘I appreciate your frankness,’ Dan said grudgingly, and they parted with at least the semblance of cordiality.
Five minutes later, Ned left the house. He walked up the main street, past Priory Gate, the house he would always think of as having been built with money stolen from his mother. He saw Rollo Fitzgerald emerge. Rollo was in his middle thirties now, and his black hair was receding, giving him a high forehead. When Sir Reginald died, Rollo had applied to take his place as Receiver of Customs at Combe Harbour, but such plum posts were used by the sovereign to reward loyalty, and it had gone to a staunch Protestant, not surprisingly. However, the Fitzgerald family still had a large business as wool brokers, and Rollo was running that well enough, more competently than his father ever had.
Ned did not speak to Rollo but hurried on across the high street and went to a large old house near St Mark’s church. Here lived what remained of the Kingsbridge monks. King Henry VIII had granted a small stipend to some of those he dispossessed, and the few still alive continued to receive their pensions. Father Paul came to the door, a bent figure with a red nose and wispy hair.
He invited Ned into the parlour. ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost your mother,’ Paul said simply. ‘She was a good woman.’
The former bishop, Julius, also lived here, and he was sitting in a corner, staring at nothing. He was demented, and had lost all speech, but his face wore a furious expression, and he mumbled angry gibberish at the wall.
‘It’s good of you to take care of Julius,’ Ned said to Father Paul.
‘It’s what monks are supposed to do – look after the sick, and the poor, and the bereaved.’
If more of them had remembered that we might still have a monastery, Ned thought, but he kept it to himself. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The legendary Caris, who founded the hospital, was a nun at Kingsbridge.’
‘Rest her soul.’ Looking hopeful, Paul said: ‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’
Ned hated the fuddling effect of wine in the morning. ‘No, thank you. I won’t stay long. I came to give you a word of warning.’
An anxious frown crossed Paul’s lined face. ‘Oh, dear, that sounds ominous.’
‘It is, a little. I’ve been told that something is going on in the crypt at dawn on Sundays.’
Paul paled. ‘I have no idea—’
Ned held up a hand to stall the interruption. ‘I’m not asking you whether it’s true, and there’s no need for you to say anything at all.’
Paul was agitated, but quieted himself with a visible effort. ‘Very well.’
‘Whoever is using the crypt at that hour, for whatever purpose, should be warned that the town’s Puritans are suspicious. To avoid trouble, perhaps the services – if that is what they are – should be moved to a different venue.’
Paul swallowed. ‘I understand.’
‘Her majesty the queen believes that religion was given to us for consolation in this life and salvation in the next, and that we may disagree about it, but we should never let it be a cause of violence between one Englishman and another.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps I don’t need to say any more.’
‘I think I understand you perfectly.’
‘And it might be best if you don’t tell anyone that I came to see you.’
‘Of course.’
Ned shook Paul’s hand. ‘I’m glad we had a chance to talk.’
‘Me, too.’
‘Goodbye, Father Paul.’
‘God bless you, Ned,’ said Paul.
*
ON FRIDAY MORNING, Margery’s husband felt ill. This was not unusual, especially after a good supper with plenty of wine the night before. However, today Earl Bart was supposed to go to Wigleigh and meet Sir Ned Willard.
‘You can’t let Ned down,’ Margery said. ‘He’ll have ridden there specially.’
‘You’ll have to go instead of me,’ Bart said from his bed. ‘You can tell me what it’s all about.’ Then he put his head under the blanket.
Margery’s spirits lifted at the prospect of spending an hour or two with Ned. Her heart seemed to beat faster and her breath came in shallow gasps. She was glad Bart was not looking
at her.
But her reaction showed her how unwise it would be to do this. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she lied. ‘I’ve got so much to do here at the castle.’
Bart’s voice was muffled by the blanket, but his words were clear enough. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘Go.’
Margery had to obey her husband.
She ordered her best horse saddled, a big mare called Russet. She summoned the lady-in-waiting and the man-at-arms who usually accompanied her: they should be enough to keep her out of trouble. She changed into travelling clothes, a long blue coat and a red scarf and hat to keep the dust out of her hair. It was a practical outfit, she told herself, and she could not help it if the colours suited her complexion and the hat made her look cute.
She kissed Bartlet goodbye. She whistled for her dog, Mick, who loved to accompany her on a ride. Then she set off.
It was a fine spring day, and she decided to stop worrying and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. She was twenty-seven years old and a countess, rich and healthy and attractive: if she could not be happy, who could?
She stopped at an inn on the road for a glass of beer and a piece of cheese. Mick, who seemed tireless, drank at the pond. The man-at-arms gave each horse a handful of oats.
They reached Wigleigh in the early afternoon. It was a prosperous village, with some fields still cultivated on the old strip system and others belonging to individual farmers. A fast stream drove an old watermill for fulling cloth, called Merthin’s Mill. In the centre were a tavern, a church and a small manor house. Ned was waiting in the tavern. ‘Where’s Bart?’ he said.
‘He’s sick,’ Margery replied.
He looked surprised, then pleased, then apprehensive, all in quick succession, as he digested this news. Margery knew why he might be apprehensive: it was the risk of temptation. She felt the same anxiety.
Ned said: ‘I hope it’s not serious.’
‘No. It’s the kind of illness a man suffers after drinking too much wine.’
‘Ah.’
‘You get me instead – a poor substitute,’ she said with facetious modesty.
He grinned happily. ‘No complaints here.’
‘Shall we go to the site?’