A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

  ‘Is seafaring going to be your life, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Barney had prospered. After leaving the Hawk, he had been made captain of another vessel, with a share in the profits, and then he had bought his own ship. He had their mother’s knack for making money.

  Ned looked across the market square to the house where he had been born. He loved the old place, with its view of the cathedral. ‘I’ll be glad to take care of it for you. Janet and Malcolm Fife will do the work, but I’ll keep an eye on them.’

  ‘They’re getting old,’ Barney said.

  ‘They’re in their fifties. But Eileen is only twenty-two.’

  ‘And perhaps she might marry a man who would like to take over Malcolm’s job.’

  Ned knew better. ‘Eileen will never marry anyone but you, Barney.’

  Barney shrugged. Many women had fallen hopelessly in love with him; poor Eileen was just another one.

  Ned said: ‘Aren’t you ever tempted to settle down?’

  ‘There’s no point. A sailor hardly ever sees his wife. What about you?’

  Ned thought for a minute. The death of his mother had made him aware that his time on earth was limited. Of course he had known that before, but now it was brought home to him; and it made him ask himself if the life he led was the one he really wanted. He surprised himself with his answer to Barney’s question. ‘I want what they had,’ he said, looking back at the grave where both parents lay. ‘A lifelong partnership.’

  Barney said: ‘They started early. They were married at twenty, or thereabouts, weren’t they? You’re already ten years behind schedule.’

  ‘I don’t live the life of a monk . . .’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘But somehow I never come across a woman I want to spend my life with.’

  ‘With one exception,’ said Barney, looking over Ned’s shoulder.

  Ned turned and saw Margery Fitzgerald. She must have been in church during the service, but he had not seen her in the crowd. Now his heart faltered. She had dressed sombrely for the funeral, but as always she wore a hat, today a purple velvet cap pinned at an angle to her luxuriant curls. She was speaking earnestly to old Father Paul, a former monk at Kingsbridge Priory, now a canon at the cathedral, and probably a secret Catholic. Margery’s obstinate Catholicism should have repelled Ned, but on the contrary he admired her idealism. ‘I’m afraid there’s only one of her, and she married someone else,’ he said. This was a fruitless subject of discussion, he thought impatiently. He said: ‘Where will your next sea voyage take you?’

  ‘I want to go to the New World again. I don’t like the slave trade – the cargo is too liable to die on the voyage – but over there they need just about everything, except sugar.’

  Ned smiled. ‘And I seem to remember you mentioning a girl . . .’

  ‘Did I? When?’

  ‘That sounds to me like a yes.’

  Barney looked bashful, as if he did not want to admit to a deeper feeling. ‘Well, it’s true that I’ve never met anyone like Bella.’

  ‘That was seven years ago.’

  ‘I know. She’s probably married to a wealthy planter by now, with two or three children.’

  ‘But you want to find out for sure.’ Ned was quite surprised. ‘You’re not very different from me after all.’

  They drifted towards the ruined monastery. ‘The Church never did anything with these old buildings,’ Ned said. ‘Mother had a dream of turning them into an indoor market.’

  ‘She was smart. It’s a good idea. We should do it one day.’

  ‘I’ll never have enough money.’

  ‘I might, though, if the sea is kind to me.’

  Margery approached, followed by a lady-in-waiting and a man-at-arms: she rarely went anywhere alone, now that she was the countess of Shiring. Her little retinue stood a few yards off as she shook Barney’s hand, then Ned’s, and said: ‘What a sad day.’

  Barney said: ‘Thank you, Margery.’

  ‘But a wonderful crowd for the funeral. Your mother was very much loved.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Bart begs your pardon for not being here – he had to go to Winchester.’

  Barney said: ‘Will you excuse me? I have to speak to Dan Cobley. I want him to invest in my next voyage – to spread the risk.’ He moved away, leaving Ned alone with Margery.

  Margery’s voice changed to a low, intimate tone. ‘How are you, Ned?’

  ‘My mother was sixty, so it wasn’t a shock to me,’ Ned said. That was what he told everyone, but it was glib, and he felt an urge to say more to Margery. He added bleakly: ‘But you only get one mother.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t even like my father, especially after he made me marry Bart, but still I cried when he passed away.’

  ‘That generation has almost gone.’ Ned smiled. ‘Remember that Twelfth Night party, twelve years ago, when William Cecil came? In those days they seemed to rule the world: your father, my mother and Bart’s father.’

  Margery’s eyes glinted with mischief. ‘Of course I remember.’

  Ned knew she was thinking of the fevered minutes they had spent kissing in the disused bread oven. He smiled at the memory. On impulse he said: ‘Come to the house for a cup of wine. Let’s talk about old times. This is a day for remembering.’

  They threaded their way slowly through the market. It was crowded: business did not stop for a funeral. They crossed the main street and went into the Willard house. Ned showed Margery into the little front parlour, where his mother had always sat, with the view of the west front of the cathedral.

  Margery turned to the two servants who had followed her in. ‘You two can go to the kitchen.’

  Ned said: ‘Janet Fife will give you a mug of ale and something to eat. And please ask her to bring wine for your mistress and me.’

  They went away, and Ned closed the door. ‘How is your baby?’ he said.

  ‘Bartlet isn’t a baby any longer,’ she said. ‘He’s six years old, walking and talking like a grown-up, and carrying a wooden sword.’

  ‘And Bart has no idea . . .’

  ‘Don’t even say it.’ Margery lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Now that Swithin’s dead, you and I are the only people who know. We must keep the secret for ever.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Margery was quite sure that Bartlet had been fathered by Swithin, not Bart; and Ned thought she was almost certainly right. In twelve years of marriage she had conceived only once, and that was when her father-in-law raped her.

  He said: ‘Does it change how you feel?’

  ‘About Bartlet? No. I adored him from the moment I saw him.’

  ‘And Bart?’

  ‘Also dotes on him. The fact that Bartlet looks like Swithin seems quite natural, of course. Bart wants to turn the boy into a copy of himself in every way . . .’

  ‘But that’s natural, too.’

  ‘Listen, Ned. I know men think that if a woman conceives that means she enjoyed it.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Because it isn’t true. Ask any woman.’

  Ned saw that she was desperate for reassurance. ‘I don’t need to ask anyone. Really.’

  ‘You don’t think I lured Swithin, do you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘I hope you feel sure.’

  ‘I’m more sure of that than of my own name.’

  Tears came to her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  Ned took her hand.

  After a minute she said: ‘Can I ask you another question?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Has there been anyone else?’

  He hesitated.

  The pause was enough for her. ‘So there has,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not a monk.’

  ‘More than one, then.’

  Ned said nothing.

  Margery said: ‘Years ago, Susannah Brecknock told me she had a lover half her age. It was you, wasn’t it
?’

  Ned was amazed by the accuracy of her intuition. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘It just seems right. She said he didn’t love her, but she didn’t care, because he was such fun to lie with.’

  Ned was embarrassed that two women had discussed him in this way. ‘Are you angry?’ he said.

  ‘I have no right to be. I lie with Bart, why should you be celibate?’

  ‘But you were forced to marry.’

  ‘And you were seduced by a woman with a warm heart and a soft body. I’m not angry, I just envy her.’

  Ned raised her hand to his lips.

  The door opened and Ned hastily pulled his hand away.

  The housekeeper came in with a jug of wine and a plate of nuts and dried fruits. Margery said kindly: ‘This is a sad day for you, too, Janet.’

  Janet burst into tears and left without speaking.

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Margery.

  ‘She’s worked for my mother since she was a girl.’ Ned wanted to hold Margery’s hand again, but he restrained himself. Instead, he brought up a new topic. ‘I need to talk to Bart about a small problem.’

  ‘Oh? What?’

  ‘The queen has made me lord of Wigleigh.’

  ‘Congratulations! Now you’ll be rich.’

  ‘Not rich, but comfortable.’ Ned would collect rents from all the farmers in the village. It was how monarchs often paid their advisors – especially penny-pinching rulers such as Elizabeth.

  Margery said: ‘So now you’re Sir Ned Willard of Wigleigh.’

  ‘My father always said Wigleigh traditionally belonged to our family. He thought we were descended from Merthin the bridge-builder. According to Timothy’s Book, Merthin’s brother, Ralph, was lord of Wigleigh, and Merthin built the watermill that is still there.’

  ‘So you’re descended from nobility.’

  ‘Gentry, at least.’

  ‘So what’s the problem you need to discuss with Bart?’

  ‘One of my tenants has cleared some of the forest beyond the stream, on land that belongs to you. He had no right, of course.’ Tenants were always trying to increase the size of their holdings surreptitiously. ‘But I don’t like to punish enterprise, so I want to work out some agreement that will compensate Bart for the loss of a couple of acres.’

  ‘Why don’t you come to New Castle for dinner one day next week, and talk to him?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Friday at noon?’

  Suddenly Ned felt happy. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Friday is fine.’

  *

  MARGERY WAS ASHAMED of how excited she felt about Ned’s visit.

  She believed in fidelity. Even though she had been forced to marry Bart, her duty was to be loyal to him. It made no difference that he was growing more like his late father, oafish and bullying and promiscuous. There were no excuses for Margery: sin was sin.

  She was embarrassed by the flush of desire that had overwhelmed her when Ned promised to visit New Castle. She vowed to treat him with careful courtesy, and no more warmth than any polite hostess would show a distinguished guest. She wished he would fall in love and marry someone else, and lose interest in her. Then perhaps they could think of one another calmly, as old flames that had sputtered out long ago.

  The day before she had ordered the cook to kill and pluck a pair of fat geese, and in the morning she was heading for the kitchen to give instructions for the cooking when she saw a girl coming out of Bart’s room.

  It was Nora Josephs, she saw, the youngest of the housemaids at fifteen. Her hair was untidy and she had evidently dressed in haste. She was not pretty, but she had the plump kind of young body that appealed to Bart.

  They had had separate bedrooms for about five years now. Margery preferred it this way. Bart still came to her bed now and again, but less and less often. She knew that he had other women but, she told herself, she did not care, because she did not love him. All the same, she wished with all her heart that she could have had a different kind of marriage.

  As far as she knew, none of his mistresses had ever become pregnant. However, Bart seemed never to question why. He did not have a very logical mind, and if he thought about it at all he probably told himself it was God’s will.

  Margery was prepared to pretend she had not noticed, but young Nora gave her a saucy look, and that was a bad sign. Margery was not willing to be humiliated, and she decided she had better deal with Nora immediately. It was not the first time she had found herself in this situation, and she knew what to do. ‘Come with me, girl,’ she said in her most authoritative voice, and Nora did not dare to disobey. They went into Margery’s boudoir.

  Margery sat down and left Nora standing. The girl looked scared now, so perhaps there was hope for her. ‘Listen to me carefully, because the whole of the rest of your life depends on how you behave now,’ Margery said. ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘If you choose, you may flaunt your relationship with the earl. You can touch him in front of the other servants. You can show off the gifts he gives you. You can even shame me by kissing him in my presence. Everyone in this house and half the people in the county of Shiring will know that you are the earl’s mistress. You will feel proud.’

  She paused. Nora could not meet her eye.

  ‘But what will happen when he tires of you? I will throw you out, of course, and Bart won’t care. You will try to find work as a maid in another house, and then you’ll realize that no woman is going to take you on, because they’ll all think you’re going to seduce their husbands. And do you know where you’ll end up?’

  She paused, and Nora whispered: ‘No, madam.’

  ‘In a waterfront brothel at Combe Harbour, sucking the cocks of ten sailors a night, and you’ll die of a horrible disease.’

  Margery did not really know what went on in brothels, but she managed to sound as if she did, and Nora was fighting back tears.

  Margery went on: ‘Or you can treat me with respect. If the earl takes you to his bed, leave him as soon as he falls asleep, and return to the servants’ quarters. Refuse to answer the questions the others ask you. In the daytime, don’t look at him or speak to him, and never touch him in front of me or anyone else. Then, when he tires of you, you will still have a place here, and your life will return to normal. Do you understand the choice in front of you?’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Nora whispered.

  ‘Off you go.’ As Nora opened the door, Margery added bitterly: ‘And when you take a husband for yourself, pick one who is not like mine.’

  Nora scurried away, and Margery went to see about the cooking of the geese.

  Ned arrived at midday, wearing a costly black coat and a white lace collar – an outfit that was becoming the uniform for affluent Protestants, Margery had noticed. It looked a bit austere on Ned: she liked him in warm colours, green and gold.

  Margery’s dog, Mick, licked Ned’s hand. Bart, too, welcomed Ned in a friendly way, getting out the best wine for the midday dinner. That was a relief. Perhaps Bart had forgotten that Margery had wanted to marry Ned. Or perhaps he did not care, because he had got her anyway. To men such as Bart, winning was all-important.

  Bart was not a deep thinker, and he had never suspected Ned of planning the downfall and execution of Swithin. Bart had a different theory. He was convinced that Dan Cobley, the leader of the Puritans, had set the trap, as revenge on Sir Reginald and Rollo for the execution of his own father. And it was true that Dan still bore a poisonous grudge against Rollo.

  Margery also felt nervous about Stephen Lincoln, who joined them at table. Ned would guess Stephen’s role in the earl’s household, but he would not say anything. The presence of priests in the homes of Catholic noblemen was universally known but never acknowledged. Margery usually frowned on hypocrisy: the orphan whose father was known but never named; the nuns who shared a passionate love that everyone pretended not to notice; the unmarried housekeeper who bore a series of children all resembling
the priest who employed her. But in this case, the pretence worked in Margery’s favour.

  However, she was not sure that Stephen would be as tactful as Ned. Stephen hated Queen Elizabeth, to whom Ned owed his entire career. And Ned had reason to hate the Catholic Church, which had punished his mother so cruelly for usury. It might be a tense dinner.

  Bart said amiably: ‘So, Ned, you’re one of the queen’s most important advisors now, people tell me.’ There was only a touch of resentment in Bart’s tone. He thought the queen’s counsellors should be earls, not the sons of merchants; but he also knew in his heart that he could never give the queen guidance on the intricacies of European politics.

  ‘I work with Sir William Cecil, and have done for twelve years,’ Ned said. ‘He is the important one.’

  ‘But she has made you a knight, and now lord of Wigleigh.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to her majesty.’

  An unaccustomed feeling crept over Margery, sitting at the table and watching Ned as he talked. He had a quick intelligence, and his eyes crinkled with humour frequently. She sipped wine and wished this dinner could go on forever.

  Stephen Lincoln said: ‘What, exactly, do you do for Elizabeth, Sir Ned?’

  ‘I try to give her early warning of burgeoning problems.’

  Margery thought this sounded pat, as if Ned had been asked the question many times and always trotted out the same answer.

  Stephen gave a twisted grin. ‘Does that mean you spy on people who disagree with her?’

  Margery groaned inwardly. Stephen was going to be combative and spoil the atmosphere.

  Ned sat back and squared his shoulders. ‘She doesn’t care if people disagree with her, as long as they keep their views to themselves. I would have expected you to know that, Stephen, as Earl Bart regularly pays the fine of one shilling a week for not going to church.’

  Bart said grumpily: ‘I go to the big events at Kingsbridge Cathedral.’

  ‘And very wise you are, if I may say so. But in Elizabeth’s England no one is tortured for their religion, and no one has been burned at the stake – a stark contrast with the reign of her predecessor, Queen Mary.’

  Bart spoke again. ‘What about the Northern Rebellion?’