A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

  The Government began interning notorious Catholics as a precaution. Margery hoped the men of her family would be put in prison where they would be safe. However, Bart was not considered dangerous. He had never been part of any conspiracy. It was Margery who had been the secret agent in New Castle, and she had been so careful that no one suspected her.

  Then the weapons arrived.

  Two carts loaded with hay trundled into the castle, but when the hay was forked off, it was found to conceal half a dozen battleaxes, forty or so swords, ten arquebuses, a sack of bullets and a small barrel of gunpowder. Margery watched the ordnance being carried into the house and stashed in the old bread oven, then said to Bart: ‘What are these for?’

  She genuinely did not know. Would her husband fight for his queen and country, or for the Catholic Church?

  He quickly set her straight. ‘I will muster an army of loyal Catholic gentry and peasants, and divide them in two. I will lead half of them to Combe Harbour to greet the Spanish liberators, and Bartlet will lead the other half to Kingsbridge where they will take over the town and celebrate Mass in the cathedral – in Latin.’

  A horrified protest sprang to her lips, but she suppressed it. If she let Bart know how she felt, he would stop giving her information.

  Bart believed she was merely squeamish about bloodshed. But she was more serious than that. She was not content merely to look away. She had to do something to prevent this.

  Instead of protesting, she probed. ‘You can’t do all that on your own.’

  ‘I won’t be on my own. Catholic noblemen all over the country will be doing the same.’

  ‘How can you know?’

  ‘Your brother is in charge of it.’

  ‘Rollo?’ This was news to Margery. ‘He’s in France.’

  ‘Not any more. He’s organizing the Catholic nobility.’

  ‘But how does he know whom to organize?’ As she asked the question, Margery realized, with horror, what the answer would be.

  Bart confirmed her fear. ‘Every nobleman who has risked his life by harbouring a secret priest is willing to fight against Elizabeth Tudor.’

  Margery found herself short of breath, as if she had been punched in the stomach. She struggled to hide her feelings from Bart – who, fortunately, was not observant. ‘So . . .’ She swallowed, took a deep breath, and started again. ‘So Rollo has used my network of secret priests to organize an armed insurrection against Queen Elizabeth.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bart. ‘We thought it best not to tell you.’

  Of course you did, Margery thought bitterly.

  ‘Women dislike talk of bloodshed,’ Bart went on, as if he were an expert on feminine feelings. ‘But you were sure to find out eventually.’

  Margery was angry and sick at heart, but she did not want Bart to know it. She asked a mundane question. ‘Where will you keep the weapons?’

  ‘In the old bread oven.’

  ‘These aren’t enough for an army.’

  ‘There are more to come. And there’s plenty of room behind the oven.’ Bart turned to give instructions to the servants, and Margery took the opportunity to walk away.

  Had she been stupid? She knew perfectly well that Rollo would not hesitate to lie to her, nor would Bart. But she had thought that Rollo, like her, wanted no more than to help loyal Catholics receive the sacraments. Should she have guessed at his real intentions?

  Perhaps she would have seen through Rollo if she had been able to talk to him. But for years now she had only waved to him across the beach when he brought a new group of priests from the English College. The lack of contact had made it easier for him to fool her.

  She felt certain of one thing: she would no longer smuggle priests from Rollo’s college into England. She had done so in ignorance of their double role, but now that she knew the truth she would have nothing more to do with the business, nor with anything else her brother wanted. She would send him a coded message to that effect at the first opportunity. He would be furious, and that would give her some small satisfaction.

  She lay awake that night and several succeeding nights, then she decided to stop reproaching herself and do something. She was under no obligation to keep Rollo’s secrets, nor Bart’s. Was there anything she could do to prevent bloodshed and keep her sons safe?

  She resolved to speak to Ned Willard.

  Easter was a few days away, and as usual she would go to Kingsbridge with Bart and the boys for the Easter Fair. They would all attend the special services in the cathedral. Bart could no longer avoid attending Protestant services: it was too dangerous and too expensive – the fine for not going to church was now £20.

  She suffered a twinge of conscience as the family group approached Kingsbridge and the cathedral tower came into view over the treetops. Should she not be supporting this Spanish invasion and the associated Catholic rebellion? After all, the result might be that England would be Catholic again, and that had to be God’s will.

  Easter had become a dull affair under the Protestants. No longer were the bones of St Adolphus carried through the streets of Kingsbridge in a colourful procession. There was no mystery play in the cathedral. Instead, there was a troupe of actors in the courtyard of the Bell Inn every afternoon, performing a play called Everyman. The Protestants did not understand people’s need for colour and drama in church.

  But Margery at forty-five no longer believed that Protestantism was evil and Catholicism perfect. For her the important divide was between tyranny and tolerance; between people who tried to force their views on everyone else, and people who respected the faith of those who disagreed with them. Rollo and Bart belonged to the authoritarian group she despised. Ned was one of the rare people who believed in religious freedom. She would trust him.

  She did not run into Ned on her first day in Kingsbridge, nor the second. Perhaps he would not come this Easter. She saw his nephew, Alfo, now proudly married to Valerie Forneron. She also saw Ned’s German sister-in-law, Helga, but not Barney, who had returned from Cádiz with another small fortune in plunder and had gone back to sea after a short furlough. Margery was reluctant to question the family about Ned’s plans. She did not want to give them the impression that she was desperate to talk to him. She was, though.

  On Easter Saturday she was at the market in the old cloisters, now roofed over. She fingered a length of cloth in a dark wine-red colour that she thought might suit her now that she was, well, no longer a girl. Then she glanced across the quadrangle and saw the sturdy short figure of Ned’s wife, Sylvie.

  Sylvie was like Margery, and both women knew it. Margery did not have to be modest with herself, and she could see that both she and Sylvie were attractive women who were also intelligent and determined – in fact, rather similar to Ned’s formidable mother. Sylvie was a Protestant, of course, and a crusading one; but even there Margery could see a similarity, for they both took terrible risks for the sake of their faith.

  Margery wanted to speak to Ned, not Sylvie; but now Sylvie caught her eye, smiled, and came towards her.

  It occurred to Margery that she could give Sylvie a message for Ned. In fact, that might even be better, for then no one could cast suspicion on Margery by reporting to Bart that she had been talking to Ned.

  ‘What a pretty hat,’ Sylvie said in her soft French accent.

  ‘Thank you.’ Margery was wearing a sky-blue velvet cap. She showed Sylvie the cloth she was contemplating. ‘Do you like this colour?’

  ‘You’re too young to wear burgundy,’ Sylvie said with a smile.

  ‘That’s kind.’

  ‘I saw your two sons. Roger has a beard now!’

  ‘They grow up too fast.’

  ‘I envy you. I have never conceived. I know Ned is disappointed, though he doesn’t complain.’

  Sylvie’s intimacy with Ned’s unspoken feelings, so casually revealed, caused Margery to feel a hot wave of jealousy. You have no children, she thought, but you’ve got him.

  She said:
‘I’m worried about my boys. If the Spanish invade us, they will have to fight.’

  ‘Ned says the queen’s ships will try to prevent the Spanish soldiers landing.’

  ‘I’m not sure we have enough ships.’

  ‘Perhaps God will be on our side.’

  ‘I’m not as sure as I used to be about whose side God is on.’

  Sylvie smiled ruefully. ‘Nor am I.’

  Out of the corner of her eye Margery saw Bart enter the indoor market. She was forced to make a quick decision. ‘Will you give Ned a message from me?’

  ‘Of course. But he’s here somewhere—’

  ‘I’m sorry, there’s no time. Ask him to raid New Castle and arrest Bart, Bartlet and Roger. He will find weapons stockpiled in the old oven – they’re to support the invaders.’ Her plan was risky, she knew, but she trusted Ned.

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ Sylvie said, wide-eyed. ‘But why do you want your sons arrested?’

  ‘So that they won’t have to fight. Better in prison than in the graveyard.’

  Sylvie appeared startled by that thought. Perhaps she had not imagined that children might bring pain as well as joy.

  Margery glanced at Bart. He had not yet noticed her. If she parted from Sylvie now he would not know that they had been talking. ‘Thank you,’ Margery said, and she walked away.

  She did see Ned the following day, in the cathedral at the Easter service. His familiar slim figure was dear to her still, after all these years. Her heartbeat seemed to slow, and she was suffused by a mixture of love and regret that gave her joy and pain in equal measure. She was glad she had put on a new blue coat this morning. However, she did not speak to him. The temptation was strong: she longed to look into his eyes and see them crinkle at the corners when he said something wry. But she resisted.

  She left Kingsbridge and returned to New Castle with her family on the Tuesday after Easter. On the Wednesday, Ned Willard came.

  Margery was in the courtyard when a sentry on the battlements called out: ‘Horsemen on the Kingsbridge road! Twelve . . . fifteen . . . maybe twenty!’

  She hurried into the house. Bart, Bartlet and Roger were in the great hall, already buckling on their swords. ‘It’s probably the sheriff of Kingsbridge,’ Bart said.

  Stephen Lincoln appeared. ‘The hiding place is full of weapons!’ he said in a frightened voice. ‘What am I to do?’

  Margery had thought about this in advance. ‘Take the box of sacramentals and leave by the back gate. Go to the tavern in the village and wait until you hear from us that the coast is clear.’ The villagers were all Catholic, and would not betray him.

  Stephen hurried away.

  Addressing the boys, she said: ‘You two are to say nothing and do nothing, do you hear? Leave it to your father to speak. Sit still.’

  Bart said: ‘Unless I tell them otherwise.’

  ‘Unless your father tells you otherwise,’ she repeated.

  Bart was not the father of either boy, but she had kept that secret well.

  She realized it was thirty years since she and Ned had met in this hall after he returned from Calais. What was the play they had seen? Mary Magdalene. She had been so excited after kissing him that she had watched the performance without taking any of it in. She had been full of hope for a happy life with Ned. If I had known then how my life was going to turn out, she thought, I might have thrown myself from the battlements.

  She heard the horses enter the courtyard, and a minute later the sheriff walked into the great hall. It was Rob Matthewson, the son of old Sheriff Matthewson, who had died. Rob was as big as his father and equally determined not to be ordered around by anyone but the queen.

  Matthewson was followed by a large group of men-at-arms, Ned Willard among them. Seeing Ned up close, Margery noticed that his face was beginning to show lines of strain around the nose and mouth, and there was a touch of grey in his dark hair.

  He was letting the sheriff take the lead. ‘I must search your house, Earl Bart,’ Matthewson said.

  Bart said: ‘What the devil are you looking for, you insolent dog?’

  ‘I have information that there is a Catholic priest called Stephen Lincoln here. You and your family must stay in this room while I look for him.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Bart said. ‘This is where I live.’

  The sheriff went out again, and his entourage followed. Ned paused at the door. ‘I’m very sorry this has happened, Countess Margery,’ he said.

  She went along with his act. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said, as if angry with him.

  He went on: ‘But with the king of Spain getting ready to invade us, no one’s loyalty can be taken for granted.’

  Bart gave a disgusted grunt. Ned said no more and went out.

  A few minutes later, they heard shouts of triumph, and Margery guessed that Ned had guided Matthewson to the hidey-hole.

  She looked at her husband, who had obviously made the same guess. Consternation and anger appeared on Bart’s face, and Margery knew there was going to be trouble.

  The sheriff’s men began to drag the weapons into the great hall. ‘Swords,’ the sheriff said. ‘Dozens of them! Guns and ammunition. Battleaxes. Bows and arrows. All tucked away in a little secret room. Earl Bart, you are under arrest.’

  Bart was apoplectic. He had been found out. He stood up and began to rage. ‘How dare you?’ he yelled. ‘I am the earl of Shiring. You cannot do this and expect to live.’ Red in the face, he raised his voice even more. ‘Guards!’ he shouted. ‘In here!’ Then he drew his sword.

  Bartlet and Roger followed suit.

  Margery screamed: ‘No!’ She had done this to keep her sons safe but instead she had put their lives in danger. ‘Stop!’

  The sheriff and his men drew too.

  Ned did not draw his sword, but held up his arms and shouted: ‘Hold it, everyone! Nothing will be achieved by a fight, and anyone who attacks the sheriff’s men will hang.’

  The two groups faced each other across the hall. Bart’s men-at-arms came in to stand behind their earl, and more of the sheriff’s men appeared. Margery could hardly believe how quickly this had gone wrong. If they fought, there would be terrible slaughter.

  Bart yelled: ‘Kill them all!’

  Then he fell over.

  He went down like a tree, slowly at first then faster, hitting the stone floor with a sickening thud.

  Margery had often seen him fall down drunk, but this was grimly different.

  Everyone froze.

  Margery knelt beside Bart and put her palm on his chest. Then she felt his wrist and his neck. There was no sign of life.

  She stared at her husband. He was a self-indulgent man who had done nothing but please himself, heedless of others, during his fifty years on earth.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she said.

  And all she felt was relief.

  *

  PIERRE AUMANDE went to the apartment where he kept Louise de Nîmes, his mistress for the last four years. He found her richly robed, with her hair in an elaborate coiffure, as if she were going to court, which, of course, she was never permitted to do. He always made her dress formally, for that intensified the pleasure of degrading her. Anyone could humiliate a servant, but Louise was a marchioness.

  He had not tired of the game, and he felt he never would. He did not often beat her, because it hurt his hands. He did not even fuck her much. There were more exquisite ways to give her pain. What he liked most was to destroy her dignity.

  She had run away from him once. He had laughed: he knew what would happen. Her few friends and relations were terrified that if they took her in they, too, would come under suspicion of heresy, so she had nowhere to go. Born to privilege, she was utterly incapable of making a living on her own. Like so many destitute women, she had ended up prostituting herself to avert starvation. After one night in a brothel she had asked him to take her back.

  Just for fun, he had pretended reluctance, forcing her to go down on her knee
s and beg. But of course she was too good to lose.

  Today he was mildly surprised to see his stepson, Alain, at the apartment, sitting close to Louise on a sofa, talking intimately. ‘Alain and Louise!’ he said.

  They both sprang up.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Alain.

  Alain pointed to a gown draped over a chair. ‘You told me to bring her that dress.’

  That was true, Pierre recalled. He said: ‘I didn’t tell you to spend the afternoon gossiping here. Go back to the palace. Tell Duke Henri that I’m on my way to see him and I have learned the king of Spain’s battle plan for the invasion of England.’

  Alain raised his eyebrows. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Never mind. Wait for me outside the duke’s apartment in the palace. You can take notes.’

  He went up to Louise and casually fondled her breasts.

  Alain left.

  Both Alain and Louise were scared of Pierre. In moments of self-awareness he knew that was why he kept them around. It was not because of Alain’s usefulness as a dogsbody, or Louise’s sexual appeal. Those things were secondary. He liked their fear of him. It gave him a boost.

  Did he care if they were friends? He saw no harm in it. He could even understand why Alain might sympathize with Louise. She was an older woman, a mother substitute.

  He squeezed her breasts harder. ‘These were always your best feature,’ he said.

  She made a grimace of distaste. The expression was fleeting, and she suppressed it immediately, but he saw it, and he slapped her. ‘Take that look off your face,’ he said.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said humbly. ‘Would you like me to suck you off?’

  ‘I don’t have time. I came to tell you that I’ve invited someone to dine here tomorrow. I want to reward the man who told me the Spanish battle plan. You will serve us dinner.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘In the nude.’

  She stared at him. ‘Nude,’ she said. ‘In front of a stranger?’

  ‘You will act perfectly normally, except that you will have no clothes on. I think it will amuse him.’