by Ken Follett
Sylvie liked Barney immediately: most women did, Ned told her with a smile. Barney wore a sailor’s baggy breeches with tightly laced shoes and a fur hat. His red beard was luxuriant, covering most of his weather-beaten face. He had a rapscallion grin that Sylvie guessed would make many girls go weak at the knees. When they arrived at the house opposite the cathedral, he embraced Ned warmly and kissed Sylvie a little more enthusiastically than was quite appropriate.
Both Ned and Sylvie were expecting his son to be a baby, but Alfo was nine years old. He was dressed in a miniature version of Barney’s seafaring outfit, including the fur hat. The child had light-brown skin, curly red hair like Barney’s, and the same green eyes. He was obviously African, and even more obviously Barney’s son.
Sylvie crouched down to talk to him. ‘What’s your name?’ she said.
‘I am Barnardo Alfonso Willard.’
Barney said: ‘We call him Alfo.’
Sylvie said: ‘Hello, Alfo, I am your Aunt Sylvie.’
‘I am pleased to meet you,’ the boy said formally. Someone had taught him good manners.
Ned said to Barney: ‘And his mother?’
Tears came to Barney’s eyes. ‘The loveliest woman I ever knew.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In a graveyard in Hispaniola, New Spain.’
‘I’m so sorry, brother.’
Alfo said: ‘Eileen looks after me.’
The house was still cared for by the Fifes, now an elderly couple, and their daughter Eileen, who was in her twenties.
Ned smiled. ‘And soon you’ll go to Kingsbridge Grammar School, like your father and me, and you’ll learn to write Latin and count money.’
‘I don’t want to go to school,’ Alfo said. ‘I want to be a sailor, like the Captain.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Barney. To Ned he explained: ‘He knows I’m his father, but on board ship he got into the habit of calling me Captain, as the men do.’
On the day after they arrived, Ned took Sylvie to meet the Fornerons, Kingsbridge’s leading Huguenot family, and they all chattered in French. Sylvie’s English was coming along fast, but it was a relief to be able to relax and talk without having to search for words. The Fornerons had a precocious ten-year-old daughter, Valerie, who took it upon herself to teach Sylvie some useful English phrases, which amused everyone.
The Fornerons wanted to know all about the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, which was still being discussed with horror all over Europe. Everyone Sylvie met asked about it.
On the third day Sylvie received a costly gift, a bolt of fine Antwerp cloth, enough to make a dress, from Dan Cobley, the richest man in town. Sylvie had heard his name before: she and Ned had sailed from Paris to London on one of Dan’s ships. ‘He wants to ingratiate himself with me,’ Ned said, ‘just in case one day he needs a royal favour.’
Dan called the next day, and Sylvie took him into the front parlour, the room with the view of the cathedral, and gave him wine and cakes. He was a pompous fat man, and Ned spoke to him in uncharacteristically curt tones. When Dan had gone, Sylvie asked Ned why he disliked Dan so much. ‘He’s a hypocritical Puritan,’ Ned said. ‘He dresses in black and complains about kissing in plays, then he cheats people in business.’
A more important blank in the story of Ned’s life was filled in when they were invited to dinner at the home of Lady Susannah Twyford, a voluptuous woman in her fifties. It took Sylvie about a minute to figure out that Susannah had been Ned’s lover. She talked to him with an easy intimacy that could only come from a sexual relationship. Ned looked happy and relaxed with her. Sylvie felt bothered. She knew Ned had not been a virgin when they married, but actually seeing him smiling fondly at an old flame was a bit hard to take.
Susannah must have picked up Sylvie’s anxiety, for she sat down next to her and held both her hands. ‘Ned is so happy to be married to you, Sylvie, and I can see why,’ she said. ‘I always hoped he would meet someone courageous and bright as well as beautiful. He’s a special man and he deserves a special woman.’
‘He seems very fond of you.’
‘Yes,’ Susannah admitted. ‘And I’m fond of him. But he’s in love with you, and that’s so different. I do hope you and I can be friends.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Sylvie. ‘I met Ned when he was thirty-two, so I’d be foolish to imagine I was the first woman he fell for.’
‘Funny, though, how we do sometimes imagine silly things when we’re in love.’
Sylvie realized this woman was wise and kind, and she felt easier in her mind.
Sylvie entered the cathedral for the first time on Whit Sunday for the festival of Pentecost. ‘This is wonderful,’ Sylvie said as they walked along the nave.
‘It’s a magnificent church,’ Ned agreed. ‘I never tire of studying it.’
‘It is, but that’s not what I mean. There are no marble statues, no garish paintings, no jewelled boxes of ancient bones.’
‘Your Huguenot churches and meeting halls are like that.’
Sylvie switched to French in order to express herself better. ‘But this is a cathedral! It’s huge and beautiful and hundreds of years old, the way churches are supposed to be, and it’s Protestant too! In France a Huguenot service is a hole-in-corner affair in some kind of improvised space, never seeming to be quite the right thing. To have a Protestant service in a place where people have worshipped God for centuries makes me rejoice.’
‘I’m so glad,’ said Ned. ‘You’ve been through more misery than any five other people. You’re entitled to some happiness.’
They approached a tall man of about Sylvie’s age, with a handsome face reddened by drink, his stout figure clad in a costly yellow coat. ‘Sylvie, this is Bart, the earl of Shiring. An earl is the same as a count.’
Sylvie remembered that Ned had to check on the local Catholics, of whom Bart was the most prominent. She curtsied.
Bart smiled, inclined his head in a slight bow, and gave her a roguish look. ‘You’re a sly one, Ned, to come home with a pretty French wench,’ he said.
Sylvie had an idea that the word wench was not quite polite, but she decided to ignore it. The earl had an expensively dressed little boy at his side, and she said: ‘And who is this young man?’
‘My son, Bartlet, the viscount,’ Bart said. ‘He’s just had his ninth birthday. Shake hands, Bartlet, and say how do you do.’
The boy complied. He had the same vigorous physical presence as his father, despite being small. Sylvie smiled to see a wooden sword at his belt.
Ned said: ‘And this is Countess Margery.’
Sylvie looked up and saw, with a shock, the woman in the little painting. It was a second jolt to realize that in real life she was much more striking. Although older than the painting – she had a few faint lines around her eyes and mouth, and Sylvie put her age at thirty – the living woman had an air of vivacity and charisma that was like the charged atmosphere of stormy weather. She had luxuriant curly hair, imperfectly tamed, and wore a little red hat at an angle. No wonder he loved you, Sylvie thought immediately.
Margery acknowledged Sylvie’s curtsey, studying her with frank interest; then she looked at Ned, and Sylvie saw love in her eyes. Margery radiated happiness as she said hello to Ned. You haven’t got over him, Sylvie thought. You’ll never get over him. He’s the love of your life.
Sylvie looked at Ned. He, too, looked happy. He had a big place in his heart for Margery, there was no doubt about that.
Sylvie felt dismayed. Susannah Twyford had been a bit startling, but had been no more than fond of Ned. Margery had far stronger feelings, and Sylvie was unnerved. She wants my husband, Sylvie thought.
Well, she can’t have him.
Then Sylvie noticed a child of about two years, still unsteady on his legs, standing half-concealed by the full skirt of Margery’s red dress. Margery followed Sylvie’s look and said: ‘And this is my second son, Roger.’ She bent down and picked up the toddler with a swift motion. �
��Roger, this is Sir Ned Willard,’ she said. ‘He’s a very important person who works for the queen.’
Roger pointed at Sylvie. ‘Is she the queen?’ he said.
They all laughed.
Ned said: ‘She’s my queen.’
Thank you, Ned, Sylvie thought.
Ned said to Margery: ‘Is your brother here?’
‘We don’t see much of Rollo nowadays,’ Margery said.
‘Where is he, then?’
‘He has become a counsellor to the earl of Tyne.’
‘I’m sure his legal training and business experience make him useful to the earl. Does he live at Tyne Castle?’
‘He’s based there, but the earl has properties all over the north of England, and I gather Rollo travels a lot on his behalf.’
Ned was still checking on the local Catholics, but Sylvie was looking at the little boy, Roger. There was something about him that bothered her, and after a minute she realized that the boy had a familiar look.
He resembled Ned.
Sylvie looked at Ned and saw him studying Roger with a faint frown. He, too, had noticed something. Sylvie could read his face effortlessly and she could tell, from his expression, that he had not yet figured out what was puzzling him. Men were not as quick as women to spot resemblances. Sylvie caught Margery’s eye, and the two women understood one another instantly, but Ned was merely puzzled and Earl Bart was oblivious.
The service began with a hymn, and there was no further conversation until the ceremony came to an end. Then they had guests for dinner, and with one thing and another Sylvie did not get Ned on his own until bedtime.
It was spring, and they both got into bed naked. Sylvie touched the hair on Ned’s chest. ‘Margery loves you,’ she said.
‘She’s married to the earl.’
‘That won’t stop her.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘Because she’s lain with you already.’
Ned looked cross and said nothing.
‘It must have been about three years ago, just before you came to Paris.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because Roger is two.’
‘Oh. You noticed.’
‘He has your eyes.’ She looked into Ned’s eyes. ‘That wonderful golden-brown.’
‘You’re not angry?’
‘I knew, when I married you, that I was not the first woman you’d loved. But . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘But I didn’t know you might still love her, or that she had had your child.’
Ned took both her hands in his. ‘I can’t tell you that I’m indifferent to her, or don’t care about her,’ he said. ‘But please understand that you are all I want.’
It was the right thing to say, but Sylvie was not sure she believed him. All she knew was that she loved him and she was not going to let anyone take him away. ‘Make love to me,’ she said.
He kissed her. ‘My goodness, you’re a hard taskmaster,’ he joked. Then he kissed her again.
But this was not enough. She wanted something with him that Susannah Twyford and Margery Shiring had never shared. ‘Wait,’ she said, thinking. ‘Is there something you’ve always thought about doing with a woman?’ She had never before talked like this to him – or to anyone. ‘Something that excites you when you imagine it, but you’ve never done it?’ She held her breath. What would he say?
He looked thoughtful and a little embarrassed.
‘There is,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I can tell.’ She was glad she could read his face so easily. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m embarrassed to say.’
Now he looked bashful. It was sweet. She wriggled closer to him, pressing her body against his. In a low voice she said: ‘Then whisper.’
He whispered in her ear.
She looked at him, grinning, a little surprised but also aroused. ‘Really?’
He shook his head. ‘No, forget it. I shouldn’t have said it.’
She felt excited, and she could tell he was, too. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But we could try it.’
So they did.
Part Four
1583 to 1589
22
Ned studied the face of his son, Roger. His heart was so full he could hardly speak. Roger was a child on the edge of adolescence, starting to grow taller but still having smooth cheeks and a treble voice. He had Margery’s curly dark hair and impish look, but Ned’s golden-brown eyes.
They were in the parlour of the house opposite the cathedral. Earl Bart had come to Kingsbridge for the spring court of quarter sessions, and had brought with him the two boys he thought were his sons: Bartlet, who was eighteen, and Roger, twelve. Ned, too, had come for the court: he was the Member of Parliament for Kingsbridge now.
Ned had no other children. He and Sylvie had been making love for more than ten years, with a fervour that had hardly diminished, but she had never become pregnant. It was a cause of sadness to them both, and it made Roger painfully precious to Ned.
Ned was also recalling his own adolescence. I know what you have in front of you, he thought as he looked at Roger; and I wish I could tell you all about it, and make it easier for you; but when I was your age I never believed older people who said they knew what the lives of younger ones were like, and I don’t suppose you will either.
Roger’s attitude to Ned was, naturally, quite casual. Ned was a friend of his mother’s, and Roger regarded him as an unofficial uncle. Ned could not display his affection except by listening carefully to the boy, taking him seriously and replying thoughtfully to what he said; and perhaps that was why Roger occasionally confided in him – something that gave Ned great joy.
Now Roger said: ‘Sir Ned, you know the queen. Why does she hate Catholics?’
Ned had not expected that, though perhaps he should have. Roger knew that his parents were Catholics in a Protestant country, and he had just become old enough to wonder why.
Ned played for time by saying: ‘The queen doesn’t hate Catholics.’
‘She makes my father pay a fine for not going to church.’
Roger was quick-thinking, Ned saw, and the little flush of pleasure he felt was accompanied by a painful stab of regret that he had to conceal his pride, most especially from the boy himself.
Ned said to Roger what he said to everyone: ‘When she was young, Princess Elizabeth told me that if she became queen, no Englishman would die for his religion.’
‘She hasn’t kept that promise,’ Roger said quickly.
‘She has tried.’ Ned searched for words that would explain the complexities of politics to a twelve-year-old. ‘On the one hand, she has Puritans in Parliament telling her every day that she’s too soft, and she should be burning Catholics to death, just as her predecessor Queen Mary Tudor burned Protestants. On the other hand, she has to deal with Catholic traitors such as the duke of Norfolk who want to kill her.’
Roger argued stubbornly: ‘Priests are executed just for bringing people back to the Catholic faith, aren’t they?’
Roger had been saving up these questions, Ned realized. He was probably afraid to challenge his parents about such matters. Ned was pleased the boy trusted him enough to share his worries. But why was Roger so concerned? Ned guessed that Stephen Lincoln was still living more or less clandestinely at New Castle. He would be tutor to Bartlet and Roger, and almost certainly said Mass regularly for the family. Roger was worried that his teacher might be found out and executed.
There were many more such priests than there had been. Stephen was one of the old diehards left over after Queen Elizabeth’s religious revolution, but there were dozens of new priests, perhaps hundreds. Ned and Walsingham had caught seventeen of them. All had been executed for treason.
Ned had questioned most of the seventeen before they died. He had not learned as much as he wished, partly because they had been trained to resist interrogation, but mainly because they did not know much. Their organizer worked under the obvious pseudony
m of Jean Langlais and gave them only the absolute minimum of information about the operation of which they were part. They did not know exactly where on the coast they had landed, nor the names of the shadowy people who welcomed them and set them on the road to their destinations.
Ned said: ‘These priests are trained abroad and smuggled into England illegally. They owe allegiance to the Pope, not to our queen. Some of them belong to a hard-line ultra-Catholic group called the Jesuits. Elizabeth fears they may conspire to overthrow her.’
‘And do they conspire?’ Roger asked.
If Ned had been arguing with an adult, he would have responded disputatiously to these questions. He might have scorned the naivety of anyone who supposed that clandestine priests were innocent of treachery. But he had no wish to win an argument with his son. He just wanted the boy to know the truth.
The priests all believed that Elizabeth was illegitimate, and that the true queen of England was Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots; but none of them had actually done anything about it – so far, at least. They had not tried to contact Mary Stuart in her prison, they had not called together groups of discontented Catholic noblemen, they had not plotted to murder Elizabeth.
‘No,’ he said to Roger. ‘As far as I know, they don’t conspire against Elizabeth.’
‘So they are executed just for being Catholic priests.’
‘You are right, morally speaking,’ Ned said. ‘And it is a great sadness to me that Elizabeth has not been able to keep her youthful vow. But politically it is quite impossible for her to tolerate, within her kingdom, a network of men who are loyal to a foreign potentate – the Pope – who has declared himself her enemy. No monarch on earth would put up with that.’
‘And if you hide a priest in your house, the penalty is death.’
So that was the thought at the heart of Roger’s worry. If Stephen Lincoln were caught saying Mass, or even proved to keep sacramental objects at New Castle, then both Bart and Margery could be executed.
