by Ken Follett
‘So what you’re really interested in is government.’
‘I suppose so. I was always fascinated by what father said when he came back from attending Parliament: how people manoeuvred and negotiated, why they took one side or the other.’
Earl Bart himself had never found Parliament very interesting, and had attended the House of Lords as an obligation. But Roger’s real father, Ned Willard, was a political animal. Heredity was fascinating.
Margery said: ‘Perhaps you might become the Member of Parliament for Kingsbridge, and sit in the House of Commons.’
‘It’s not unusual for the younger son of an earl. But Sir Ned is the MP.’
‘He’ll retire sooner or later.’ He would be glad to do so, Margery guessed, if he could hand over to his son.
They all heard sudden loud voices downstairs. Roger stepped out and came back to say: ‘Uncle Rollo just arrived.’
Margery was shocked. ‘Rollo?’ she said incredulously. ‘He hasn’t come to New Castle for years!’
‘Well, he’s here now.’
Margery heard glad cries down in the great hall as Bartlet greeted his hero.
Cecilia spoke brightly to her two children. ‘Come and meet your great-uncle Rollo,’ she said.
Margery was in no hurry to greet Rollo. She handed Swifty to Roger. ‘I’ll join you later,’ she said.
She left the nursery and walked along the corridor to her own rooms. Her mastiff, Maximus, followed at her heels. Bartlet and Cecilia had naturally moved into the best rooms, but there was a pleasant suite of bedroom and boudoir for the dowager countess. Margery went into her boudoir and closed the door.
She felt a cold anger. After she had discovered that Rollo was using her network to foment a violent insurrection, she had sent him one short, coded message to say that she would no longer help smuggle priests into England. He had not replied, and they had had no further communication. She had spent many hours composing the outraged speech she would make if she ever saw him again. But now that he was here she suddenly did not know what to say to him.
Maximus lay down in front of the fire. Margery stood at the window looking out. It was December: servants crossed the courtyard muffled in heavy cloaks. Outside the castle walls, the fields were cold, hard mud, and the bare trees pointed forked limbs at the iron-grey sky. She had wanted this time to regain her composure, but she just continued to feel shocked. She picked up her prayer beads to calm herself.
She heard the sound of servants carrying heavy luggage along the corridor outside her door, and guessed that Rollo would be using his old bedroom, which was opposite her new one. Soon afterwards there was a tap at her door and Rollo came in. ‘I’m back!’ he announced cheerily.
He was bald now, she saw, and his beard was salt-and-pepper. She looked at him stone-faced. ‘Why are you here?’
‘And it’s lovely to see you, too,’ he said sarcastically.
Maximus growled quietly.
‘What on earth do you expect?’ said Margery. ‘You lied to me for years. You know how I feel about Christians killing one another over doctrine – and yet you used me for that very purpose. You’ve turned my life into a tragedy.’
‘I did God’s will.’
‘I doubt it. Think of all the deaths your conspiracy caused – including that of Mary Queen of Scots!’
‘She’s a saint in heaven now.’
‘In any event, I will no longer help you, and you can’t use New Castle.’
‘I think the time for conspiracy is over. Mary Queen of Scots is dead, and the Spanish armada has been defeated. But, if another opportunity should arise, there are places other than New Castle.’
‘I’m the only person in England who knows that you are Jean Langlais. I could betray you to Ned Willard.’
Rollo smiled. ‘You won’t, though,’ he said confidently. ‘You may betray me, but I can betray you. Even if I didn’t want to give you away, I probably would under torture. You’ve been concealing priests for years, and it’s a capital crime. You would be executed – perhaps in the same way as Margaret Clitheroe, who was slowly crushed to death.’
Margery stared at him in horror. She had not thought this far.
Rollo went on: ‘And it’s not just you. Both Bartlet and Roger helped smuggle the priests. So, you see, if you betray me, you would cause the execution of both your sons.’
He was right. Margery was trapped. Wicked though Rollo was, she had no choice but to protect him. She felt mad with frustration but there was nothing she could do. She glared at his smug expression for a long moment. ‘Damn you,’ she said. ‘Damn you to hell.’
*
ON THE TWELFTH day of Christmas there was a big family dinner at the Willard house in Kingsbridge.
The tradition of an annual play at New Castle had fallen away. The earldom had become less and less rich through the years of anti-Catholic discrimination, and the earl of Shiring could no longer afford lavish banquets. So the Willard family had their own party.
They were six around the table. Barney was at home, flush with the triumph against the Spanish armada. He sat at the head of the table, with his wife Helga on his right. His son Alfo sat on his left, and Sylvie noticed that he was becoming plump with prosperity. Alfo’s wife, Valerie, had a baby in her arms, a little girl. Ned sat at the end opposite Barney, and Sylvie sat beside him. Eileen Fife brought in a huge platter of pork roasted with apples, and they drank Helga’s golden Rhenish wine.
Barney and Ned kept recalling episodes from the great sea battle. Sylvie and Valerie chatted in French. Valerie breastfed the baby while eating pork. Barney said the child was going to look like her grandmother Bella: that was unlikely, Sylvie thought, for only one of the child’s eight great-grandparents was African, and at present she had unremarkable light pinky-tan skin. Alfo told Barney about further improvements he planned for the indoor market.
Sylvie felt safe, surrounded by her prattling family, with food on the table and a fire in the hearth. England’s enemies were defeated, for now, though no doubt there would always be more. And Ned had heard from a spy that Pierre Aumande was dead, murdered on the same day as his master, the duke of Guise. There was justice in the world.
She looked around the table at the smiling faces and realized that the feeling that suffused her was happiness.
After dinner they put on heavy coats and went out. To replace the play at New Castle, the Bell inn had a company of actors to perform on a temporary stage in the large courtyard of the tavern. The Willards paid their pennies and joined the crowd.
The play, Gammer Gurton’s Needle, was a broad comedy about an old woman who lost her only needle and could not sew. Other characters included a japester called Diccon who pretended to summon the devil and a servant called Hodge who was so frightened that he soiled his breeches. The audience laughed uproariously.
Ned was in a merry mood, and he and Barney left the courtyard to go into the tap-room and buy a jug of wine.
On stage, Gammer began a hilarious fist-fight with her neighbour Dame Chat. Sylvie’s eye was caught by one man in the courtyard who was not laughing. She felt instantly that she had seen that face before. It had a gaunt look of fanatical resolve that she would not forget.
He met her eye and seemed not to recognize her.
Then she remembered a street in Paris and Pierre Aumande standing outside his little house, giving directions to a priest with receding hair and a reddish beard. ‘Jean Langlais?’ she muttered incredulously. Could it really be the man Ned had been hunting for so long?
He turned his back on the play and walked out of the courtyard.
Sylvie had to make sure it was him. She knew she must not lose sight of him. She could not allow him to disappear. Jean Langlais was the enemy of the Protestant religion and of her husband.
It occurred to her that the man might be dangerous. She looked for Ned, but he had not yet returned from the tap room. By the time he came back, the man she thought might be Langlais could have vani
shed. She could not wait.
Sylvie had never hesitated to risk her life for what she believed in.
She followed.
*
ROLLO HAD DECIDED to return to Tyne Castle. He knew that he could no longer use New Castle for any secret purpose. Margery would not betray him intentionally – it would lead to the execution of her sons – but her vigilance might slip, and she would become a security risk. Better that she should know nothing.
He was still in the pay of the earl of Tyne, and in fact still carried out legal tasks for the earl from time to time to give credibility to his cover story. He was not sure what clandestine duties there might be for him to do now. The Catholic insurrection had failed. But he hoped fervently that sooner or later there would be a renewed effort to bring England back to the true faith, and that he would be part of it.
On his way to Tyne he had stopped over at Kingsbridge where he joined up with a group of travellers heading for London. It happened to be the twelfth day of Christmas, and there was a play in the courtyard of the Bell, so they were going to see the show then set off the following morning.
Rollo had watched for a minute, but he thought the play vulgar. At a particularly uproarious moment he caught the eye of a small middle-aged woman in the audience who stared at him as if trying to place him.
He had never seen her before and had no idea who she was, but he did not like the way she frowned as if trying to remember him. He pulled up the hood of his cloak, turned away, and walked out of the courtyard.
In the market square he looked up at the west front of the cathedral. I might have been bishop here, he thought bitterly.
He went mournfully inside. The church was a drab and colourless place under the Protestants. Sculptured saints and angels in their stone niches had had their heads chopped off to prevent idolatry. Wall paintings were dimly perceptible through a thin coat of whitewash. Amazingly, the Protestants had left the gorgeous windows intact, perhaps because it would have cost so much to replace the glass; but the colours were not at their best on this winter afternoon.
I would have changed all this, Rollo thought. I would have given people religion with colour and costume and precious jewels, not this cold cerebral Puritanism. His stomach churned with acid at the thought of what he had lost.
The church was empty, all the priests having gone to the play, he thought; but, turning around, he looked back the length of the nave and saw that the woman who had stared at him in the market square had followed him into the cathedral. When he met her eye again, she spoke to him in French, and her words echoed in the vaulting like the voice of doom. ‘C’est bien toi – Jean Langlais? Is it really you – Jean Langlais?’
He turned away, mind racing. He was in terrible danger. He had been recognized as Langlais. It seemed she did not know Rollo Fitzgerald – but she soon would. At any moment she would identify him as Langlais to someone who knew him as Rollo – someone such as Ned Willard – and his life would be over.
He had to get away from her.
He hurried across the south aisle. A door in the wall there had always led to the cloisters – but now, as he jerked on the handle, it remained firmly shut, and he realized it must have been blocked off when the quadrangle had been turned into a market by Alfo Willard.
He heard the woman’s light footsteps running up the nave. He guessed that she wanted to see him close up – to confirm her identification. He had to avoid that.
He dashed along the aisle to the crossing, looking for a way out, hoping to disappear into the town before she could get another look at him. In the south transept, at the base of the mighty tower, there was a small door in the wall. He thought it might lead out into the new market but, when he flung it open, he saw only a narrow spiral staircase leading up. Making a split-second decision, he went through the door, closing it behind him, and started up the steps.
He hoped the staircase would have a door leading to the gallery that ran the length of the south aisle, but as he went farther up he realized he was not going to be that lucky. He heard footsteps behind him, and had no option but to carry on up.
He began to breathe hard. He was fifty-three years old, and climbing long staircases was more difficult than it had been. However, the woman chasing him was not much younger.
Who was she? And how did she know him?
She was French, evidently. She had addressed him by toi rather than vous, meaning either that she knew him intimately – which she did not – or that she did not think he was entitled to the respectful vous. She must have seen him, probably in Paris or Douai.
A Frenchwoman in Kingsbridge was almost certainly a Huguenot immigrant. There was a family called Forneron, but they were from Lille, and Rollo had never spent any time there.
However, Ned Willard had a French wife.
She must be the woman panting up the stairs behind Rollo. He recalled her name: Sylvie.
He kept hoping that, just around the curve, there would be an archway leading off the staircase to one of the many passages buried in the massive stonework, but the spiral seemed to go on forever, as if in a nightmare.
He was panting and exhausted when at last the steps ended at a low wooden door. He threw the door open, and a blast of cold air struck him. He ducked under the lintel and stepped out, and the door blew shut behind him. He was on a narrow stone-paved walkway at the top of the central tower that rose over the crossing. A wall no higher than his knees was all that stood between him and a drop of hundreds of feet. He looked down to the roof of the choir far below. To his left was the graveyard; to his right the quadrangle of the old cloisters, now roofed over to form the indoor market. Behind him, hidden from his view by the breadth of the spire, was the marketplace. The wind flapped his cloak violently.
The walkway ran around the base of the spire. Above, at the point of the spire, was the massive stone angel that looked human-sized from the ground. He went quickly around the walkway, hoping that there might be another staircase, a ladder, or a flight of steps leading away. On the far side he glanced down into the marketplace, almost deserted now that everyone was in the Bell watching the play.
There was no way down. As he arrived back where he started, the woman emerged from the doorway.
The wind blew her hair across her eyes. She pushed her locks off her face and stared at him. ‘It is you,’ she said. ‘You’re the priest I saw with Pierre Aumande. I had to be sure.’
‘Are you Willard’s wife?’
‘He’s been searching for Jean Langlais for years. What are you doing in Kingsbridge?’
His surmise had been right: she had no idea that he was Rollo Fitzgerald. Their paths had never crossed in England.
Until today. And now she knew his secret. He would be arrested, tortured, and hanged for treason.
And then he realized that there was a simple alternative.
He stepped towards her. ‘You little fool,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know what danger you’re in?’
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she said, and she flew at him.
He grabbed her by the arms. She screamed and struggled. He was bigger, but she was a spitfire, wriggling and kicking. She got one arm free and went for his face, but he dodged her hand.
He pushed her along the walkway to the corner, so that her back was to the low wall, and somehow she squirmed around him. Then his back was to the sheer drop, and she shoved him with all her might. He was too strong for her, and forced her back. She was screaming for help, but the wind took her cries, and he was sure no one could hear. He pulled her sideways, so that she was off balance, then got on the other side of her, and almost had her over the edge, but she foiled him by going limp, and slumping to the floor. Then she twisted out of his grasp, scurried away, got to her feet and ran.
He followed her, careering along the walkway, darting around the corners, with the fatal drop just one misstep away. He could not catch her. She reached the doorway, but the door had blown shut again and she had to stop to open it. In tha
t split second he got hold of her. He grabbed her collar with one hand, and with the other grasped a fistful of the skirt of her coat, and jerked her out of the doorway back onto the walkway.
He dragged her backwards, her arms flailing, her heels dragging along the stone floor. She repeated her trick of going limp. However, this time it did not work, only making it easier for him to pull her. He reached the corner.
He put one foot on the top of the wall and tried to drag her over. The wall was pierced at floor level by drain holes for rainwater, and she managed to get her hand into one and grab the edge. He kicked her arm and she lost her grip.
He managed to pull her until she was half over the edge. She was face down and staring at the drop, screaming in mortal terror. He released her collar and tried to grab her ankles so that he could tip her over. He got hold of one ankle but could not grasp the other. He lifted her foot as high as he could. She was almost over now, clinging to the top of the wall with both hands.
He grasped one arm and pulled her hand off the wall. She tipped over, but grabbed his wrist at the last minute. He almost went over the side with her, but her strength failed her and she released him.
For a moment he teetered, windmilling his arms; then he was able to step back to safety.
She overbalanced in the other direction and tilted, with nightmare slowness, off the parapet. He watched, with a mixture of triumph and horror, as she fell slowly through the air, turning over and over, her screams a faint cry in the wind.
He heard the thud as she hit the roof of the choir. She bounced, and came down again with her head at a queer angle, and he guessed her neck was broken. She rolled limply down the slope of the roof and off the edge, struck the top of a flying buttress, fell to the lean-to roof of the north aisle, tumbled off its edge, and at last came to rest, a lifeless bundle, in the graveyard.
There was no one in the graveyard. Rollo looked in the opposite direction; he saw nothing but rooftops. Nobody had seen the fight.
He stepped through the low doorway, closed the door behind him, and went down the steep spiral staircase as fast as he could. He stumbled twice and almost fell, but he had to hurry.