A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

  The Alice had only twenty crew. Most ships of the same size had forty or more. The vessel did not need so many, but captains usually made generous allowance for deaths on voyage, not just from battle but from the fevers that so often broke out. Barney took a different approach. He thought men were more likely to catch infections in crowded ships, and had proved to his own satisfaction that it was better to start with fewer men in cleaner conditions. He also carried live cattle and barrels of apples and pears, so that the men had fresh food, a policy he had copied from the pirate Sir John Hawkins. And when he did lose men, despite his precautions, he replaced them with new recruits, always available in port cities – which was how come the Alice now had three dark-skinned African sailors picked up at Agadir.

  Towards the end of the afternoon he sent a boat party ashore. They bought chickens and pineapples, and scrubbed and filled the ship’s water barrels at the bright stream that flowed through the town. They reported that the residents were excited to hear about the Alice’s cargo: scissors and knives made of Toledo steel; bolts of fine Netherlands cloth; hats, shoes, and gloves – luxuries and essentials that could not be manufactured on this Caribbean island.

  Barney was sorely tempted to go ashore right away and look for Bella. On the long transatlantic journey, eager curiosity had grown into yearning. But he forced himself to wait. He did not know what to expect. It would be undignified for him to crash into what might be a cosy domestic scene. When he left Hispaniola she had been young and pretty; why would she not have married? On the other hand, she had a business of her own that made money, so she did not need a man to support her. Barney’s hope was that she might have been reluctant to yield her independence to a husband. She was certainly feisty enough to take such an attitude.

  If he approached her as an old friend, he would be able to deal with whatever he found. Should she have a husband, Barney would conceal his disappointment, shake hands, and congratulate the man on his good fortune. If she was single and alone – please, God! – he would take her in his arms.

  In the morning he put on a green coat with gold buttons. It gave him a formal air and partly concealed the sword hanging from his belt, not hiding it but making it a little less ostentatious. Then he and Jonathan Greenland went to call on the mayor.

  The town was bigger, but otherwise seemed unchanged. They were stared at crossing the central square, just as they had been nine years earlier, and probably by the same people. This time Barney stared back, looking for a beautiful African girl with blue eyes. He did not see her.

  In the cool of the palace they were made to wait for a period long enough to impress them with the high status of the personage they wanted to see.

  Then they were escorted upstairs by a man in a priest’s cassock who was either Father Ignacio or a replacement – Barney did not remember the original well enough.

  However, he vividly remembered the obese Alfonso, father of Bella. And the young man in the mayor’s office was definitely not him.

  ‘Don Alfonso is dead,’ said the man in Alfonso’s chair. ‘Five years ago.’ Barney was not surprised: immigrants to the Caribbean were highly vulnerable to strange tropical illnesses. ‘I am the mayor now.’ Alfonso’s replacement was young but he, too, might be short-lived: he had the yellow-tinged skin that was a symptom of jaundice. ‘My name is Don Jordi. Who are you?’

  Barney made the introductions, then they went through the ritual dance in which Don Jordi pretended not to want a bribe and Barney pretended not to offer him one. When they had agreed a price for a ‘temporary trading licence’, the priest brought a bottle and glasses.

  Barney sipped and said: ‘Is this Bella’s rum?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Don Jordi. ‘Who’s Bella?’

  That was a bad sign. ‘She used to make the best rum here.’ Barney hid his disappointment. ‘Perhaps she moved away?’

  ‘Very likely. Is this not to your taste?’

  ‘On the contrary. Here’s to friendship.’

  On leaving, Barney and Jonathan crossed the square to the house that had been Bella’s home and distillery. They passed under the central arch into the rear yard. The business had expanded: there were now two stills dripping liquor into barrels.

  A man with an air of authority came towards them. He was about thirty, and had dark African skin with straight hair, a combination that suggested he might be the son of a planter and a slave. He smiled in a friendly way. ‘Good day,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ve come to buy some of the best rum in the world.’ Barney thought apprehensively that this was exactly the kind of man Bella might have married.

  ‘We certainly have,’ he said. ‘And perhaps to sell you a pair of Spanish pistols.’

  ‘Come inside and taste the merchandise,’ he said. ‘I’m Pablo Trujillo, proprietor.’

  Barney could not control his impatience. ‘What happened to Bella?’

  ‘I bought the business from her two years ago. I still use her recipes, though.’ He led them into the house and began to squeeze limes just as Bella had.

  ‘Where’s Bella now?’ Barney asked.

  ‘She lives in a house on Don Alfonso’s estate. He’s dead, and someone else owns the plantation, but Alfonso left her a house.’

  Barney had a feeling Pablo was holding something back. ‘Is she married?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Pablo got out glasses and a bottle.

  Barney was embarrassed to be asking so much about Bella. He did not want people to think he was so soft-hearted as to cross the Atlantic for the sake of a girl. He refrained from further questions while they tasted the rum and agreed an absurdly low price for two barrels.

  When they were about to leave, he swallowed his pride and said: ‘I might call on Bella. Is there someone in town who might lead me there?’

  ‘Right next door. Mauricio Martinez takes a mule loaded with supplies up to the plantation every few days.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The neighbouring building was a fragrant general store with barrels of rice and beans, herbs in bunches, cooking pots and nails and coloured ribbons. Mauricio agreed to close the shop right away and take Barney to the plantation. ‘Must go soon anyway,’ he said. ‘Flour and olive oil needed.’ He spoke in abbreviated sentences, as if to get the maximum said in the time available.

  Barney sent Jonathan back to take care of the Alice.

  Mauricio saddled a horse for Barney, but he walked, leading the pack mule. They followed a dusty track out of town and up into the hills. Barney was not inclined for conversation, but Mauricio had plenty to say, in his condensed style. Fortunately, he did not seem to care whether Barney replied, or even understood. That left Barney’s mind free to wander through his memories.

  Soon they were alongside fields of sugar cane, the green stalks as high as Barney’s head. Africans moved along the rows, tending the crop. The men wore ragged shorts, the women had simple shift dresses, and the children went naked. They all had home-made straw hats. In one field they were digging holes and embedding new plants, sweating under the sun. Barney saw another group operating a huge wooden press, crushing the cane stalks until the juice ran down into a tank below. Then he passed a wooden building in which fire flickered and steam billowed, and Mauricio explained: ‘Boiling house.’

  Barney said: ‘In this weather, I wonder how people can survive, working in a place like that.’

  ‘Many don’t,’ Mauricio said. ‘Big problem, slaves dying in the boiling house. Costly.’

  At last a plantation house came into view, a two-storey building made of the same yellow-white coral limestone as the palace in the town. As they approached it, Mauricio pointed to a small wooden house in the shade of a pleasant grove of palm trees. ‘Bella,’ he said. He rode on towards the big house.

  Barney’s throat felt constricted as he dismounted and tied his horse to a palm trunk. Nine years, he thought. Anything can happen in nine years.

  He walked up to the house. The door was open. He step
ped inside.

  An old woman was lying on a narrow bed in the corner. There was no one else in the room. ‘Where’s Bella?’ Barney said in Spanish.

  The woman stared at him for a long moment then said: ‘I knew you’d come back.’

  The voice shocked him deeply. He stared at the old woman with incredulity and said: ‘Bella?’

  ‘I’m dying,’ she said.

  He crossed the little room in two strides and knelt beside the bed.

  It was Bella. Her hair was thin almost to baldness, her golden skin had become the colour of old parchment, and her once-sturdy body was wasted away; but he recognized the blue eyes. He said: ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Dandy fever.’

  Barney had never heard of it, but it hardly mattered: anyone could see that she was close to death.

  He leaned over to kiss her. She turned her head away, saying: ‘I am hideous.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘My beloved Bella,’ he said. He felt so overwhelmed by grief that he could hardly speak. He fought back unmanly tears. Eventually he managed to say: ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Anything.’

  Before she could name it, Barney heard a child’s voice behind him say: ‘Who are you?’

  He turned. A small boy stood in the doorway. He had golden skin, his curly African hair was reddish brown, and he had green eyes.

  Barney looked at Bella. ‘He’s about eight years old . . .’

  She nodded. ‘His name is Barnardo Alfonso Willard. Look after him.’

  Barney felt as if he had been knocked down by a charging horse. He could hardly catch his breath. Two shocks: Bella was dying, and he had a son. His life had been turned upside down in a minute.

  Bella said: ‘Alfo, this is your father. I’ve told you about him.’

  Alfo stared at Barney, his face a mask of childish rage. ‘Why did you come here?’ he burst out. ‘She’s been waiting for you – now she’ll die!’

  Bella said: ‘Alfo, be quiet.’

  ‘Go away!’ the boy yelled. ‘Go back to England! We don’t want you here!’

  Bella said: ‘Alfo!’

  Barney said: ‘It’s all right, Bella. Let him yell.’ He looked at the boy. ‘My mother died, Alfo. I understand.’

  The boy’s rage turned to grief. He burst into tears and threw himself on the bed beside his mother.

  Bella put a bony arm around his shoulders. He buried his face in her side and sobbed.

  Barney stroked his hair. It was soft and springy. My son, he thought. My poor son.

  Time went by without talk. Alfo eventually stopped crying. He sucked his thumb, staring at Barney.

  Bella closed her eyes. That’s good, Barney thought. She’s resting.

  Sleep well, my love.

  19

  Sylvie was busy – dangerously so.

  Paris was full of Huguenots who had come for the royal wedding, and they bought a lot of paper and ink at the shop in the rue de la Serpente. They also wanted illegal books – not just the Bible in French, but the inflammatory works of John Calvin and Martin Luther attacking the Catholic Church. Sylvie was run off her feet going to the warehouse in the rue du Mur and delivering the contraband books to Protestant homes and lodging houses all over Paris.

  And it all had to be done with total discretion. She was used to it, but not at this level of activity. She was risking arrest three times a day instead of three times a week. The increased strain was exhausting.

  Spending time with Ned was like resting in an oasis of calm and security. He showed concern, not anxiety. He never panicked. He thought she was brave – in fact, he said she was a hero. She was pleased by his admiration, even though she knew she was just a scared girl.

  On his third visit to the shop, her mother told him their real names and asked him to stay for midday dinner.

  Isabelle had not consulted Sylvie about this. She just did it, taking Sylvie by surprise. Ned accepted readily. Sylvie was a bit taken aback, but pleased.

  They closed and locked the street door and retired to the room behind the shop. Isabelle cooked fresh river trout, caught that morning, with marrow and aromatic fennel, and Ned ate heartily. Afterwards, she produced a bowl of greengages, yellow with red speckles, and a bottle of golden-brown brandy. They did not normally keep brandy in the house: the two women never drank anything stronger than wine, and they usually diluted that. Obviously Isabelle had quietly planned this meal.

  Ned told them the news from the Netherlands, which was bad. ‘Hangest disobeyed Coligny’s orders, walked into an ambush, and was soundly defeated. He’s a prisoner now.’

  Isabelle was interested in Ned, not Hangest. ‘How long do you think you’ll stay in Paris?’ she asked.

  ‘As long as Queen Elizabeth wants me here.’

  ‘And then I suppose you’ll go home to England?’

  ‘I’ll probably go wherever the queen wants to send me.’

  ‘You’re devoted to her.’

  ‘I feel fortunate to serve her.’

  Isabelle switched to another line of enquiry. ‘Are English houses different from French ones?’ she said. ‘Your home, for example?’

  ‘I was born in a big house opposite Kingsbridge Cathedral. Now it belongs to my elder brother, Barney, but I live there when I’m in Kingsbridge.’

  ‘Opposite the cathedral – that must be a pleasant location.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful spot. I love to sit in the front parlour and look out at the church.’

  ‘What was your father?’

  Sylvie protested: ‘Mother, you sound like the Inquisition!’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Ned said. ‘My father was a merchant with a warehouse in Calais, and after he died, my mother ran the business for ten years.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But she lost everything after you French took back Calais from us English.’

  ‘Are there any French people in Kingsbridge?’

  ‘Persecuted Huguenots have sought asylum all over England. Guillaume Forneron has a factory making cambric in the suburb of Loversfield. Everyone wants a shirt from Forneron.’

  ‘And your brother, what’s his living?’

  ‘He’s a sea captain. He has a ship called Alice.’

  ‘His own vessel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But Sylvie said something about a manor?’

  ‘Queen Elizabeth made me lord of a village called Wigleigh, not far from Kingsbridge. It’s a small place, but it has a manor house, where I stay two or three times a year.’

  ‘In France we would call you Sieur de Wigleigh.’

  ‘Yes.’ The name was difficult for French people to pronounce, like Willard.

  ‘You and your brother have recovered well from your father’s misfortune. You’re an important diplomat, and Barney owns a ship.’

  Ned must have realized that Isabelle was establishing his social and financial status, Sylvie thought, but he did not appear to mind; in fact, he seemed eager to prove his respectability. All the same, Sylvie was embarrassed. Ned might think he was expected to marry her. To bring the interrogation to an end she said: ‘We have to open the shop.’

  Isabelle stood up. ‘I’ll do that. You two sit and talk for a few more minutes. I’ll call you if I need you, Sylvie.’ She went out.

  Sylvie said: ‘I’m sorry about her prying like that.’

  ‘Don’t apologize.’ Ned grinned. ‘A mother is entitled to know all about a young man who becomes friendly with her daughter.’

  ‘That’s nice of you.’

  ‘I can’t possibly be the first man who has been questioned by her in that way.’

  Sylvie knew that she had to tell him her story, sooner or later. ‘There was someone, a long time ago. It was my father who questioned him.’

  ‘May I ask what went wrong?’

  ‘The man was Pierre Aumande.’

  ‘Good God! Was he a Protestant then?’

  ‘No, but he deceived us i
n order to spy on the congregation. An hour after the wedding we were all arrested.’

  Ned reached across the table and took her hand. ‘How cruel.’

  ‘He broke my heart.’

  ‘I found out about his background, you know. His father’s a country priest, an illegitimate child of one of the Guise men. Pierre’s mother is the priest’s housekeeper.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The marchioness of Nîmes told me.’

  ‘Louise? She’s in our congregation – but she’s never told me this.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s afraid to embarrass you by talking about him.’

  ‘Pierre told me so many lies. That’s probably why I haven’t trusted anyone since then . . .’

  Ned gave her an enquiring look. She knew it meant: What about me? But she was not yet ready to answer that question.

  He waited a few moments, then realized she was not going to say any more. He said: ‘Well, that was a lovely dinner – thank you.’

  She got up to say goodbye. He looked crestfallen, and her heart leaped in sympathy. On impulse, she went around the table and kissed him.

  She intended it to be a friendly peck, but it did not work out that way. Somehow she found herself kissing his lips. It was like sweet food: one taste made her desperate for more. She put her hand behind his head and pressed her mouth to his hungrily.

  He needed no more encouragement. He put both arms around her and hugged her to him. She was swept by a sensation she had forgotten, the joy of loving someone else’s body. She kept telling herself she would stop in another second.

  He put both his hands on her breasts and squeezed gently, making a little sound in his throat as he did so. She thrilled to the feeling, but it brought her to her senses. She broke the kiss and pushed him away. She was panting. ‘I didn’t mean to do that,’ she said.