by Ken Follett
Huus said quietly: ‘Both these men are good Catholics, Dean Pieter. They go to St James’s parish church.’
The psalm came to an end and the preacher began to speak. Some people pressed closer to hear his words shouted across the field. Others noticed Titelmans with his big silver cross, and there were angry mutterings.
Huus said nervously: ‘Sir, there are more Protestants here than we imagined possible and, if violence were to break out, we have too few men to protect you.’
Titelmans ignored him. Looking sly, he said: ‘If you two are what you claim to be, you can tell me the names of some of these wicked men.’ He indicated the congregation with a wide sweep of his arm.
Ebrima was not going to betray his neighbours to a torturer, and he knew Carlos would feel the same. He saw that Carlos was about to make an indignant protest, and forestalled him. ‘Of course, Dean Pieter,’ he said. ‘We’ll be glad to give you names.’ He made a pantomime of looking around, then said: ‘At the moment I don’t see anyone I know, unfortunately.’
‘That’s unlikely. There must be seven or eight thousand people here.’
‘Antwerp is a city of eighty thousand inhabitants. I don’t know them all.’
‘Just the same, you must recognize a few.’
‘I don’t think so. Perhaps it’s because all my friends are Catholics.’
Titelmans was stumped, and Ebrima was relieved. He had survived the interrogation.
Then he heard a voice cry out, in the local Brabant Dutch dialect: ‘Carlos! Ebrima! Good day!’
Ebrima spun around to see Albert Willemsen, his brother-in-law, the iron maker who had helped them when they first came to Antwerp six years ago. Albert had built a blast furnace just like theirs, and all had done well. With Albert were his wife, Betje, and their daughter, Drike, now fourteen, a slim adolescent with an angelic face. Albert and his family had embraced Protestantism.
‘Don’t you think this is great?’ Albert enthused. ‘All these people singing God’s word, and no one to tell them to shut up!’
Carlos said quietly: ‘Careful what you say.’
But the ebullient Albert had not noticed Titelmans or his cross. ‘Oh, come on, now, Carlos, you’re a man of tolerance, not one of those hardliners. You can’t possibly see anything here that would displease the God of love.’
Ebrima said urgently to Albert: ‘Shut up.’
Albert looked hurt and puzzled, then Betje pointed to the Grand Inquisitor, and Albert turned pale.
But others were noticing Titelmans, and most of the nearby Protestants had now turned away from the preacher to stare. Matthus and his friends were approaching, clubs in hands. Ebrima called out: ‘Stay back, you boys, I don’t want you here.’
Matthus ignored his stepfather and stood close to Drike. He was a big lad who had not yet grown used to his size. His adolescent face wore a look that was part threatening, part fearful. However, his attitude to Drike seemed protective, and Ebrima wondered if the boy might be in love. I must ask Evi, he thought.
Father Huus said: ‘We should return to the city now, Dean Pieter.’
Titelmans seemed determined not to go away empty-handed. Pointing to Albert, he said: ‘Tell me, Father Huus, what is that man’s name?’
Huus said: ‘I’m sorry, dean, I don’t know the man.’
Ebrima knew that was a brave lie.
Titelmans turned to Carlos. ‘Well, you obviously know him – he speaks to you like an old friend. Who is he?’
Carlos hesitated.
Titelmans was right, Ebrima thought: Carlos could not pretend not to know Albert, after such an effusive greeting.
Titelmans said: ‘Come, come! If you’re as good a Catholic as you claim to be, you’ll be glad to identify such a heretic. If you don’t, you shall be questioned in another place, where we have means of making you honest.’
Carlos shuddered, and Ebrima guessed he was thinking of Pedro Ruiz undergoing the water torture in Seville.
Albert spoke bravely. ‘I shan’t allow my friends to be tortured on my account,’ he said. ‘My name is Albert Willemsen.’
‘Profession?’
‘Iron maker.’
‘And the women?’
‘Leave them out of this.’
‘No one is left out of God’s mercy.’
‘I don’t know who they are,’ Albert said desperately. ‘They’re two prostitutes I met on the road.’
‘They don’t look like prostitutes. But I shall learn the truth.’ Titelmans turned to Huus. ‘Make a note of the name: Albert Willemsen, iron maker.’ He gathered up the skirts of his robe, turned, and walked back the way he had come, followed by his little entourage.
The others watched him go.
Carlos said: ‘Shit.’
*
THE NORTH TOWER of Antwerp Cathedral was more than four hundred feet high. It had been designed as one of a pair, but the south tower had not been built. Ebrima thought it was more impressive on its own, a single finger pointing straight up to heaven.
He could not help feeling awestruck as he entered the nave. The narrow central aisle had a vaulted ceiling that seemed impossibly high. It sometimes made him wonder if the god of the Christians might be real, after all. Then he would remember that nothing they built could compete with the power and majesty of a river.
Above the high altar was the pride of the city, a large carving of Christ crucified between two thieves. Antwerp was wealthy and cultured, and its cathedral was rich in paintings, sculptures, stained glass, and precious objects. And today Ebrima’s friend and partner, Carlos, would add to that treasure.
Ebrima hoped that this would make up for their abrasive encounter with the loathsome Pieter Titelmans. It was a bad thing to have the Grand Inquisitor for an enemy.
On the south side was a chapel dedicated to Urban, the patron saint of winemakers. There the new painting hung, covered by a red velvet cloth. Seats in the little chapel had been reserved for Carlos’s friends and family and for the officials of the metalworkers’ guild. Standing nearby, eager to see the new picture, were a hundred or so neighbours and fellow businessmen, all in their best clothes.
Ebrima saw that Carlos was glowing with happiness. He was seated in a place of honour in the church that was the centre of the great city. This ceremony would confirm that he belonged here. He felt loved and respected and safe.
Father Huus arrived to perform the service of dedication. In his short sermon he said what a good Christian Carlos was, raising his children in piety and spending his money to enrich the cathedral. He even hinted that Carlos was destined to play a part in the city’s government one day. Ebrima liked Huus. He often preached against Protestantism, but preaching was as far as he wanted to go. Ebrima felt sure he must be reluctant to help Titelmans, and did so only under pressure.
The children became fidgety during the prayers. It was hard for them to listen for long to someone speaking their own language, let alone Latin. Carlos shushed them, but gently: he was an indulgent father.
As the service came to an end, Huus asked Carlos to step forward and unveil the painting.
Carlos took hold of the red velvet cover, then hesitated. Ebrima thought he might be about to make a speech, which would be a mistake: ordinary people did not speak out in church, unless they were Protestants. Then Carlos pulled at the velvet, nervously at first, then more vigorously. At last the cover came down like a crimson waterfall, and the picture was revealed.
The wedding was shown taking place in a grand town house that might have been the home of an Antwerp banker. Jesus sat at the head of the table in a blue robe. Next to him, the host of the feast was a broad-shouldered man with a bushy black beard, very like Carlos; and next to Carlos sat a fair smiling woman who might have been Imke. A buzz of comment arose from the group standing in the nave, and there were smiles and laughter as they identified other faces among the guests: there was Ebrima in an Arab-style hat, with Evi next to him in a gown that emphasized her large bust; a rich
ly dressed man next to Imke was clearly her father, Jan Wolman; and the empty wine jars were being examined by a tall, thin, dismayed-looking steward who resembled Adam Smits, Antwerp’s best-known wine merchant. There was even a dog that looked just like Carlos’s hound, Samson.
The painting looked fine in the chapel, up against the ancient stones of the cathedral, sunnily lit by a south-facing window. The robes of the wealthy guests glowed orange, blue and bright green against the white of the tablecloth and the pale walls of the dining room.
Carlos was visibly thrilled. Father Huus shook his hand then took his leave. Everyone else wanted to congratulate Carlos, and he went around the crowd, smiling and accepting the plaudits of his fellow citizens. Eventually, he clapped his hands and said: ‘Everybody! You’re invited to my house! And I promise the wine won’t run out!’
They walked in procession through the serpentine streets of the town centre to Carlos’s house. He led them to the upstairs floor where food and wine stood ready on tables in the grand drawing room. The guests dug in with enthusiasm. They were joined by several Protestants who had not been in the cathedral, including Albert and his family.
Ebrima picked up a goblet and took a long swallow. Carlos’s wine was always good. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The wine warmed his blood and made him feel mellow. He talked amiably to Jan Wolman about business, to Imke about her children, and to Carlos briefly about a customer who was late paying his bill: the customer was here, enjoying Carlos’s hospitality, and Ebrima thought this was the moment to confront him and ask for the money, but Carlos did not want to spoil the mood. The guests became a little raucous. Children squabbled, adolescent boys tried to woo adolescent girls, and married men flirted with their friends’ wives. Parties were the same everywhere, Ebrima thought; even Africa.
Then Pieter Titelmans came in.
The first Ebrima knew of it was when a hush fell over the room, starting at the door and spreading to all four corners. He was talking to Albert about the merits of cast-iron cannons as compared with bronze when they both realized something was wrong and looked up. Titelmans stood in the doorway wearing his big silver cross, again accompanied by Father Huus and four men-at-arms.
Ebrima said: ‘What does that devil want?’
Albert said with nervous hopefulness: ‘Perhaps he’s come to congratulate Carlos on the painting.’
Carlos pushed through the quietened crowd and spoke to Titelmans with a show of amity. ‘Good day, Dean Pieter,’ he said. ‘Welcome to my house. Will you take a cup of wine?’
Titelmans ignored the question. ‘Are there any Protestants here?’ he said.
‘I don’t think so,’ Carlos said. ‘We’ve just come from the cathedral, where we unveiled—’
‘I know what you did at the cathedral,’ Titelmans interrupted rudely. ‘Are there any Protestants here?’
‘I can assure you, to the best of my knowledge—’
‘You’re about to lie to me. I can smell it.’
Carlos’s bonhomie began to crack. ‘If you don’t believe me, why ask the question?’
‘To test you. Now shut your mouth.’
Carlos sputtered: ‘I’m in my own house!’
Titelmans raised his voice so that everyone could hear. ‘I’m here to see Albert Willemsen.’
Titelmans seemed unsure which one was Albert – he had only seen him for a few minutes at Lord Hubert’s Pasture – and for a moment Ebrima hoped they might all pretend he was not present. But the crowd was not sufficiently quick-witted, and indeed many of them stupidly turned and looked directly at Albert.
After a moment of fearful hesitation, Albert stepped forward. With a show of bravado he said: ‘What do you want with me?’
‘And your wife,’ said Titelmans, pointing. Unfortunately Betje was standing close to Albert and Titelmans’s guess was correct. Looking pale and scared, Betje stepped forward.
‘And the daughter.’
Drike was not standing with her parents, and Titelmans surely would not remember a fourteen-year-old girl. ‘The child is not here,’ Carlos lied bravely. Perhaps she might be saved, Ebrima thought hopefully.
But she did not want to be saved. A girlish voice piped up: ‘I am Drike Willemsen.’
Ebrima’s heart sank.
He could see her, by the window, in a white dress, talking to his stepson Matthus, with Carlos’s pet cat in her arms.
Carlos said: ‘She’s a mere child, dean. Surely—’
But Drike was not finished. ‘And I am a Protestant,’ she said defiantly. ‘For which I thank the Lord.’
From the guests came a murmur of mixed admiration and dismay.
‘Come here,’ said Titelmans.
She crossed the room with her head held high, and Ebrima thought: Oh, hell.
‘Take the three of them away,’ said Titelmans to his entourage.
Someone shouted: ‘Why don’t you leave us in peace?’
Titelmans looked angrily towards the source of the jeer, but he could not see who had spoken. However, Ebrima knew: he had recognized the voice of young Matthus.
Another man shouted: ‘Yeah, go back to Ronse!’
The other guests started to cheer their approval and shout their own catcalls. Titelmans’s men-at-arms escorted the Willemsen family out of the room. As Titelmans turned to follow, Matthus threw a bread roll. It hit Titelmans’s back. He pretended not to notice. Then a goblet flew through the air and hit the wall close to him, splashing his robe. The booing became louder and cruder. Titelmans barely retained his dignity as he hurried through the door before anything else could threaten him.
The crowd laughed and clapped his exit. But Ebrima knew there was nothing to smile about.
*
THE BURNING OF young Drike was scheduled for two weeks later.
It was announced in the cathedral. Titelmans said that Albert and Betje had recanted their Protestantism, asked God’s forgiveness, and begged to be received back into the bosom of the Church. He probably knew their confessions were insincere, but he had to let them off with a fine. However, to everyone’s horror, Drike had refused to renounce her religion.
Titelmans would not let anyone visit her in prison, but Albert bribed the guards and got in anyway. However, he was unable to change her mind. With the idealism of the very young, she insisted she was ready to die rather than betray her Lord.
Ebrima and Evi went to see Albert and Betje the day before the burning. They wanted to give support and comfort to their friends, but it was hopeless. Betje wept without stopping, and Albert could barely speak. Drike was their only child.
That day a stake was planted in the pavement in the city centre, overlooked by the cathedral, the elegant Great Market building, and the grand, unfinished city hall. A cartload of dry firewood was dumped next to the stake.
The execution was scheduled for sunrise, and a crowd gathered before dawn. The mood was grim, Ebrima noted. When hated criminals such as thieves and rapists were executed, the spectators mocked them and cheered their death agonies; but that was not going to happen today. Many in the crowd were Protestants, and feared this might one day happen to them. The Catholics, such as Carlos, were angered by the Protestants’ troublemaking, and fearful that the French wars of religion would spread to the Netherlands; but few of them believed it was right to burn a girl to death.
Drike was led out of the town hall by Egmont, the executioner, a big man dressed in a leather smock and carrying a blazing torch. She wore the white dress in which she had been arrested. Ebrima saw at once that Titelmans, in his arrogance, had made a mistake. She looked like a virgin, which she undoubtedly was; and she had the pale beauty of paintings of the Virgin Mary. The crowd gave a collective gasp on seeing her. Ebrima said to his wife, Evi: ‘This is going to be a martyrdom.’ He glanced at Matthus and saw that the boy had tears in his eyes.
One of the two west doors of the cathedral opened, and Titelmans appeared at the head of a little flock of priests like black crows.
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br /> Two men-at-arms tied Drike to the stake and piled the firewood around her feet.
Titelmans began to speak to the crowd about truth and heresy. The man had no sense of the effect he had on people, Ebrima realized. Everything about him offended them: his hectoring tone, his haughty look, and the fact that he was not from this city.
Then Drike began to speak. Her treble rose above Titelmans’s shout. Her words were in French:
Mon Dieu me paist soubs sa puissance haute
C’est mon berger, de rien je n’auray faute . . .
It was the psalm the crowd had sung at Lord Hubert’s Pasture, the twenty-third, beginning The Lord is my shepherd. Emotion swamped the crowd like a tidal wave. Tears came to Ebrima’s eyes. Others in the crowd wept openly. Everyone felt they were present at a sacred tragedy.
Titelmans was furious. He spoke to the executioner, and Ebrima was close enough to hear his words: ‘You were supposed to pull out her tongue!’
There was a special tool, like a claw, for removing tongues. It had been devised as a punishment for liars, but was sometimes used to silence heretics, so that they could not preach to the crowd as they were dying.
Egmont said sullenly: ‘Only if specifically instructed.’
Drike said:
. . . En tect bien seur, joignant les beaulx herbages,
Coucher me faict, me meine aux clairs rivages . . .
She was looking up, and Ebrima felt sure she was seeing the green pastures and still waters waiting in the afterlife of all religions.
Titelmans said: ‘Dislocate her jaw.’
‘Very well,’ said Egmont. He was of course a man of blunted sensibility, but this instruction clearly offended even him, and he did not trouble to hide his distaste. Nevertheless, he handed his torch to a man-at-arms.
Next to Ebrima, Matthus turned around and shouted: ‘They’re going to dislocate her jaw!’
‘Be quiet!’ said his mother anxiously, but Matthus’s big voice had already reached far. There was a collective roar of anger. Matthus’s words were repeated throughout the crowd until everyone knew.
Matthus shouted: ‘Let her pray!’ and the cry was repeated: ‘Let her pray! Let her pray!’
