A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

  Margery was startled to see him. What could he possibly want with her?

  Lady Jane said: ‘The bishop has something to say to you.’

  ‘Sit down, Margery,’ said Julius.

  She did as she was told.

  ‘I’ve known you since you were born,’ he said. ‘You’ve been brought up a Christian and a good Catholic. Your parents can be proud of you.’

  Margery said nothing. She hardly saw the bishop. In her mind she watched again while Rollo viciously punched Ned’s dear face.

  ‘You say your prayers, you go to Mass, you confess your sins once a year. God is pleased with you.’

  It was true. Everything else in Margery’s life seemed wrong – her brother was hateful, her parents were cruel, and she was supposed to marry a beast – but at least she felt she was right with God. That was some consolation.

  ‘And yet,’ said the bishop, ‘suddenly you seem to have forgotten everything you were taught.’

  Now he had her attention. ‘No, I haven’t,’ she said indignantly.

  Her mother said: ‘Speak when the bishop asks you to, not otherwise, you impudent child.’

  Julius smiled indulgently. ‘It’s all right, Lady Jane. I understand that Margery is upset.’

  Margery stared at him. He was a living icon of Christ and the earthly shepherd of the Christian flock. His words came from God. What was he accusing her of?

  He said: ‘You seem to have forgotten the fourth commandment.’

  Suddenly Margery felt ashamed. She knew what he meant. She looked down at the floor.

  ‘Say the fourth commandment, Margery.’

  She mumbled: ‘Honour thy father and mother.’

  ‘Say it louder and more clearly, please.’

  She lifted her head but could not meet his eye. ‘Honour thy father and mother,’ she said.

  Julius nodded. ‘In the last month you have dishonoured your father and mother, haven’t you?’

  Margery nodded. It was true.

  ‘It’s your sacred duty to do as you’re told.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered miserably.

  ‘It’s not enough to repent, though, is it, Margery? You know that.’

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘You must cease to sin. You must obey.’

  She looked up and met his eye at last. ‘Obey?’

  ‘This is what God wants.’

  ‘Is it, really?’

  ‘It is.’

  He was the bishop. He knew what God wanted. And he had told her. She looked down again.

  ‘I want you to speak to your father, now,’ said Julius.

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘You know you must. And I think you know what you have to say. Do you?’

  Margery was too choked up to speak, but she nodded.

  The bishop made a sign to Lady Jane, who went to the door and opened it. Sir Reginald was waiting there, and he stepped in. He looked at Margery and said: ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she said.

  He said: ‘So you should be.’

  There was a pause. They were waiting for her.

  At last she said: ‘I will marry Bart Shiring.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he said.

  Margery stood up. ‘May I go?’

  Lady Jane said: ‘Perhaps you should thank the bishop for steering you back into the path of God’s grace.’

  Margery turned to Julius. ‘Thank you, bishop.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lady Jane. ‘Now you may go.’

  Margery left the room.

  *

  ON MONDAY MORNING Ned looked out of the window and saw Margery, and his heart quickened.

  He was standing in the parlour, and his tortoiseshell cat, Maddy, was rubbing her head against his ankle. He had named her Madcap when she was a kitten, but now she was an old lady who was pleased, in a restrained, dignified way, to see him home.

  He watched Margery cross the square to the Grammar School. Three mornings a week she held an infants’ class, teaching them numbers and letters and the miracles of Jesus, getting them ready for real school. She had been absent from her duties for the whole of January, but now she was returning, Ned assumed. Rollo was with her, apparently as an escort.

  Ned had been waiting for this.

  He had had romances before. He had never committed the sin of fornication, although he had got close once or twice; he had certainly felt himself very fond of Susan White and Ruth Cobley at different times. However, as soon as he had fallen for Margery he had known this was different. He did not want merely to get Margery behind the tomb of Prior Philip and kiss and caress her. He wanted that, yes, but he also wanted to spend long leisurely hours with her, to talk to her about plays and paintings, Kingsbridge gossip and English politics; or just to lie next to her on a grassy bank by a stream in the sunshine.

  He restrained the impulse to rush out of the house now and accost her in the marketplace. He would speak to her when the class ended at noon.

  He spent the morning at the warehouse, making entries in ledgers. His older brother, Barney, hated this part of the work – Barney had always struggled with letters and had not learned to read until he was twelve – but Ned liked it: the bills and receipts, the quantities of tin and lead and iron ore, the voyages to Seville and Calais and Antwerp, the prices, and the profits. Sitting at a table with a quill pen and a bottle of ink and a fat book of lists, he could see an entire international business empire.

  However, it was now an empire on the edge of collapse. Most of what the Willard family owned was in Calais, and had probably been confiscated by the king of France. The stocks of materials here in Kingsbridge were valuable, but difficult to sell while cross-Channel shipping was restricted by war. Several employees had been dismissed because there was nothing for them to do. Ned’s ledger work consisted of trying to add up what was left and see whether it was enough to pay outstanding debts.

  His work was constantly interrupted by people asking him why he had a black eye. He told them the plain truth, just as he had told his mother: Bart and Rollo had beaten him up for kissing Margery. No one was shocked or even surprised: fist fights were not unusual among young men, especially at the end of the week, and it was commonplace to see bruises on Monday morning.

  Grandma had been indignant. ‘That Rollo is a sly fox,’ she had said. ‘He was a spiteful little boy and now he’s a vindictive big man. You be careful of him.’ Alice had cried over Ned’s lost tooth.

  When the daylight brightened towards midday, Ned left the warehouse and walked up the slushy main street. Instead of going into his home, he went to the entrance of the Grammar School. The cathedral bell struck noon just as he arrived. He felt decades older than the boy who had left that school three years ago. The dramas that had engaged him so powerfully then – tests, sports, rivalries – now seemed ridiculously trivial.

  Rollo came across the marketplace to the school. He was here to escort Margery home, Ned guessed. When Rollo saw Ned he looked startled and a bit scared. Then he blustered: ‘You stay away from my sister.’

  Ned was ready for him. ‘You make me stay away, you feeble-minded peasant.’

  ‘Do you want me to black your other eye?’

  ‘I want you to try.’

  Rollo backed down. ‘I’m not going to brawl in a public place.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Ned said contemptuously. ‘Especially now that you haven’t got your big friend Bart to help you.’

  Margery came out of the school. ‘Rollo!’ she said. ‘For heaven’s sake, are you trying to start another fight?’

  Ned stared at her, his heart in his mouth. She was tiny but magnificent, her chin tilted up, her green eyes radiating defiance, her young voice commanding.

  ‘You are not to speak to the Willard boy,’ Rollo said to her. ‘Come home with me now.’

  ‘But I want to speak to him,’ she said.

  ‘I absolutely forbid you.’

  ‘Don’t grab my arm, Rollo,’ she said,
reading his mind. ‘Instead, be reasonable. Stand by the door of the bishop’s palace. From there you can see us but not hear us.’

  ‘You have nothing to say to Willard.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I have to tell him what happened yesterday. You can’t deny that, can you?’

  ‘Is that all?’ Rollo said sceptically.

  ‘I promise you. I simply have to tell Ned.’

  ‘Don’t let him touch you.’

  ‘Go and stand by the bishop’s door.’

  Ned and Margery watched while Rollo walked twenty paces then turned round and stood glowering.

  Ned said: ‘What happened yesterday, after the fight?’

  ‘I realized something,’ Margery said, and tears came to her eyes.

  Ned had a doomed feeling. ‘What did you realize?’

  ‘That it is my holy duty to obey my parents.’

  She was crying. Ned reached into his pocket and took out a linen handkerchief his mother had made, hemmed and embroidered with acorns. He touched her cheeks gently with it, drying her tears; but she snatched it from him and wiped her eyes roughly, saying: ‘There’s nothing more to be said, is there?’

  ‘Oh, but there is.’ Ned gathered his wits. He knew that Margery was deeply pious at heart, despite also being passionate and strong-willed. ‘Isn’t it a sin to lie with a man you hate?’

  ‘No, that’s not part of the Church’s teaching.’

  ‘Well, it should be.’

  ‘You Protestants always want to revise God’s laws.’

  ‘I’m not a Protestant! Is that what this is about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What have they done? How did they get to you? Were you threatened?’

  ‘I was reminded of my duty.’

  Ned felt she was hiding something. ‘Who by? Who reminded you?’

  She hesitated, as if she did not want to answer the question; then she gave a little shrug, as if it did not make any real difference, and said: ‘Bishop Julius.’

  Ned was outraged. ‘Well, he was just doing your parents a favour! He’s an old crony of your father’s.’

  ‘He is a living icon of Christ.’

  ‘Jesus doesn’t tell us who we should marry!’

  ‘I believe Jesus wants me to be obedient.’

  ‘This is nothing to do with God’s will. Your parents are using your piety to manipulate you into doing what they want.’

  ‘I’m sorry you think that.’

  ‘You’re really going to marry Bart Shiring because the bishop told you to?’

  ‘Because God wishes it. I’m leaving now, Ned. In the future it will be best if you and I speak to one another as little as possible.’

  ‘Why? We live in the same town, we go to the same church – why shouldn’t we speak?’

  ‘Because my heart is breaking,’ said Margery, and then she walked away.

  4

  Barney Willard walked along the busy Seville waterfront, looking to see whether any English ships had come up the Guadalquivir river on the early tide. He was desperate to learn if his Uncle Dick was still alive, and whether his family had lost everything.

  A cold wind blew down the river, but the sky was clear and deep blue, and the morning sun was hot on his tanned face. After this he felt he would never again grow accustomed to the damp cold and cloudy gloom of English weather.

  Seville was built astride a bend in the river. On the inside of the curve, a broad beach of mud and sand sloped up from the water’s edge to firmer ground where thousands of houses, palaces and churches were packed close together in the largest city in Spain.

  The beach was crowded with men, horses and oxen as cargoes were discharged from ships to carts and vice versa, and buyers and sellers haggled at the tops of their voices. Barney surveyed the moored vessels, listening for the broad vowels and soft consonants of English speech.

  There was something about ships that made his soul sing. He had never been happier than on the voyage here. Despite the rotten food, the foul drinking water, the stinking bilges, and the frightening storms, he loved the sea. The sensation of speeding across the waves with the wind swelling the sails was a thrill as intense as lying with a woman. Well, almost.

  The ships at the water’s edge were packed side by side as close as the houses in the town. All were moored prow in, stern out. Barney was used to the docks at Combe Harbour, which would have five or ten ships at anchor on a busy day, but Seville regularly had fifty.

  Barney had a practical reason for visiting the waterfront early. He was living with Carlos Cruz, his second cousin, a metal worker. Seville manufactured weapons for the endless wars of King Felipe II, and there was never enough metal. Carlos bought everything exported by Barney’s mother: lead from the Mendip Hills for shot, tin from the mines of Cornwall for shipboard food containers and utensils, and – most important – iron ore. But ores and metals came into Seville by ship from other exporters, some in southern England, some in northern Spain, and Carlos needed to buy from them, too.

  Barney stopped to watch a new arrival being delicately nosed into a mooring. It looked familiar, and his heart lifted in hope. The ship was about a hundred feet long and twenty feet wide, the narrow shape popular with captains who liked to move fast. Barney guessed it displaced about a hundred tons. There were three masts, with a total of five square sails, for power, plus a triangular lateen on the middle mast for manoeuvrability. It would be an agile vessel.

  He thought it might be the Hawk, owned by Philbert Cobley of Kingsbridge, and when he heard the sailors calling to one another in English, he felt sure. Then a small man of about forty with a bronzed bald head and a fair beard waded through the shallows to the beach, and Barney recognized Jonathan Greenland, who frequently sailed as first mate with Captain Bacon.

  He waited while Jonathan tied a rope to a stake driven deep into the beach. Back at home, men such as Jonathan could always get a glass or two of wine at the Willard house opposite Kingsbridge Cathedral, for Alice Willard had an insatiable appetite for news from anywhere. As a boy, Barney had loved to listen to Jonathan, for he spoke of Africa and Russia and the New World, places where the sun always shone or the snow never melted, and his reports of prices and politics were mixed with tales of treachery and piracy, riots and hijacking.

  Barney’s favourite story had told how Jonathan had become a seaman. At the age of fifteen he had got drunk in the Jolly Sailor at Combe Harbour on a Saturday night and had woken up the next morning two miles off shore and heading for Lisbon. He had not seen England again for four years, but when at last he got back he had enough money to buy a house. He recounted this as a cautionary tale, but the boy Barney had thought it a wonderful adventure and had wished it would happen to him. Now a man of twenty, Barney still found the sea exciting.

  When the Hawk was securely tied up, the two men shook hands. ‘You’re wearing an earring,’ Jonathan said with a surprised smile. ‘You’ve become exotic. Is that a Spanish fashion?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Barney. ‘It’s more of a Turkish thing. Call it my whim.’ He wore it because it made him feel romantic, and because girls found it intriguing.

  Jonathan shrugged. ‘I haven’t been to Seville before,’ he said. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘I love it – the wine is strong and the girls are pretty,’ Barney answered. ‘But what’s the news of my family? What happened in Calais?’

  ‘Captain Bacon has a letter for you from your mother. But there’s not much to tell. We’re still waiting for reliable information.’

  Barney was downcast. ‘If the English in Calais were being treated mercifully, and allowed to continue living and working there, they would have sent messages by now. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that they’ve been imprisoned, or worse.’

  ‘That’s what people are saying.’ From the deck of the Hawk someone shouted Jonathan’s name. ‘I have to get back on board,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have any iron ore for my cousin Carlos?’

  Jo
nathan shook his head. ‘This cargo is all wool.’ His name was called again, impatiently. ‘I’ll bring you your letter later.’

  ‘Come and dine with us. We’re in the nearest quarter of the city, where you can see all the smoke. It’s called El Arenal, The Sandpit, and it’s where the king’s guns are made. Ask for Carlos Cruz.’

  Jonathan swarmed up a rope and Barney turned away.

  He was not surprised by the news, or lack of it, from Calais, but he was dejected. His mother had spent the best years of her life building up the family business, and it made Barney angry and sad to think everything could just be stolen.

  He finished his waterfront patrol without finding any iron ore to buy. At the Triana Bridge he turned back and walked through the narrow zigzag streets of the town, hectic now as people left their homes to begin the day’s business. Seville was much wealthier than Kingsbridge, but the people looked sombre by comparison. Spain was the richest country in the world but also the most conservative: there were laws against gaudy clothing. The rich dressed in black while the poor wore washed-out browns. It was ironic, Barney thought, how similar extreme Catholics were to extreme Protestants.

  This was the least dangerous time of day to walk through the town: thieves and pickpockets generally slept in the morning, and did their best work in the afternoon and evening when men became careless from wine.

  He slowed his pace as he approached the home of the Ruiz family. It was an impressive new brick house with four large windows in a row on the main, upstairs floor. Later in the day those windows would be covered by a grille, and the overweight, breathless Señor Pedro Ruiz would sit behind one like a toad in the reeds, watching the passers-by through the screen; but this early he was still in bed, and all windows and grilles had been thrown open to let in the cool morning air.

  Looking up, Barney got what he hoped for: a glimpse of Señor Ruiz’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Jerónima. He walked even more slowly and stared at her, drinking in the pale skin, the lush waves of dark hair, and most of all the large, luminous brown eyes accentuated by black eyebrows. She smiled at him and gave a discreet wave.