A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

  When the lids came off, Hal looked into each barrel. Bending over one, he reached inside and brought out two bottle-shaped objects wrapped in rags and tied with string.

  Ned allowed himself a satisfied sigh.

  Hal nodded to the boy, then crossed the courtyard to a doorway he had not used before and went inside.

  Ned followed rapidly.

  The door led to a set of rooms that appeared to be the publican’s home. Ned walked through a sitting room into a bedroom. Hal stood at an open cupboard, obviously stashing the two items he had taken from the barrel. Hearing Ned’s step on the floorboards, he spun round and said angrily: ‘Get out of here, these are private rooms!’

  Ned said quietly: ‘You are now as close as you have ever come to being hanged.’

  Hal’s expression changed instantly. He went pale and his mouth dropped open. He was shocked and terrified. It was a startling transformation in a big, blustering fellow, and Ned deduced that Hal – unlike poor Peg Bradford – knew exactly what kind of crime he was committing. After a long hesitation he said in a frightened voice: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am the only man in the world who can save you from the gallows.’

  ‘Oh, God help me.’

  ‘He may, if you help me.’

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘Tell me who comes to collect the bottles from Chartley, and brings you new ones to send there.’

  ‘I don’t know his name – honestly! I swear it!’

  ‘When will he next be here?’

  ‘I don’t know – he never gives warning, and his visits are irregular.’

  They would be, Ned thought. The man is careful.

  Hal moaned: ‘Oh, God, I’ve been such a fool.’

  ‘You certainly have. Why did you do it? Are you Catholic?’

  ‘I’m whatever religion I’m told to be.’

  ‘Greed for money, then.’

  ‘God forgive me.’

  ‘He has forgiven worse. Now listen to me. All you have to do is continue as you are. Give the courier the bottles, accept the new ones he brings, send them to Chartley, and bring back the replies, as you have been doing. Say nothing about me to anyone, anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t need to understand. Just forget that you ever met me. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, and thank you for being merciful.’

  You don’t deserve it, you money-grubbing traitor, Ned thought. He said: ‘I’m going to stay here until the courier comes, whenever that may be.’

  He arrived two days later. Ned recognized him instantly.

  It was Gilbert Gifford.

  *

  IT WAS A dangerous business, recruiting men to join a conspiracy to kill the queen. Rollo had to be very careful. If he picked the wrong man he could be in the deepest kind of trouble.

  He had learned to watch for a certain look in the eyes. The look combined noble purpose with a high-minded disregard for consequences. It was not madness, but it was a kind of irrationality. Rollo sometimes wondered whether he had that look himself. He thought not: he was cautious to the point of obsession. Perhaps he had had it when young, but he must surely have lost it, for otherwise he would by now have been hung, drawn and quartered like Francis Throckmorton and all the other idealistic young Catholics Ned Willard had caught. In which case, he would by now have gone to heaven, like them; but a man was not permitted to choose the moment he made that journey.

  Rollo thought that Anthony Babington had the look.

  Rollo had been observing Babington for three weeks, but from a distance. He had not yet spoken. He had not even gone into the houses and taverns that Babington frequented, for he knew they would be watched by Ned Willard’s spies. He got close to Babington only in places that were not Catholic haunts, and among groups of people so large that one extra was not noticeable: in bowling alleys, at cockfights and bear-baiting, and in the audience at public executions. But he could not carry on taking precautions for ever. The time had come when he had to risk his neck.

  Babington was a young man from a wealthy Derbyshire Catholic family that harboured one of Rollo’s secret priests. He had met Mary Stuart: as a boy Babington had been a page in the household of the earl of Shrewsbury, at the time when the earl was her jailer; and the boy had been captivated by the charm of the imprisoned queen. Was all that enough? There was only one way to find out for sure.

  Rollo finally spoke to him at a bullfight.

  It took place at Paris Gardens in Southwark, on the south side of the river. Entrance was a penny, but Babington paid twopence for a place in the gallery, removed from the jostling and smell of ordinary folk in the stalls.

  The bull was tethered in a ring but otherwise unconstrained. Six big hunting dogs were led in and immediately flew at the bull, trying to bite its legs. The big bull was remarkably agile, turning its head on the muscular neck, fighting back with its horns. The dogs dodged, not always successfully. The lucky ones were simply thrown through the air; the unlucky ones impaled on a horn until shaken off. The smell of blood filled the atmosphere.

  The audience yelled and screamed encouragement, and placed bets on whether the bull would kill all the dogs before succumbing to its wounds.

  No one was looking anywhere but the ring.

  Rollo began, as always, by letting his target know that he was a Catholic priest. ‘Bless you, my son,’ he said quietly to Babington, and when Babington gave him a startled look he flashed the gold cross.

  Babington was shocked and enthused. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jean Langlais.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘It is time for Mary Stuart.’

  Babington’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’

  He knew perfectly well what was meant, Rollo thought. He went on: ‘The duke of Guise is ready with an army of sixty thousand men.’ That was an exaggeration – the duke was not ready, and he might never have sixty thousand – but Rollo needed to inspire confidence. ‘The duke has maps of all the major harbours on the south and east coasts where he may land his forces. He also has a list of loyal Catholic noblemen – including your stepfather – who can be counted upon to rally to the invaders and fight for the restoration of the true faith.’ That was accurate.

  ‘Can all this be true?’ Babington said, eager to believe it.

  ‘Only one thing is lacking, and we need a good man to supply the deficiency.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A high-born Catholic whose faith is unquestionable must put together a group of similar friends and free Queen Mary from her prison at the moment of crisis. You, Anthony Babington, have been chosen to be that man.’

  Rollo turned away from Babington, to give him a moment to digest all that. In the ring, the bull and the dead or dying dogs had been dragged away, and the climactic entertainment of the afternoon was beginning. Into the ring came an old horse with a monkey in the saddle. The crowd cheered: this was their favourite part. Six young dogs were released. They attacked and bit the horse, which tried desperately to escape their teeth; but they also leaped at the monkey, which seemed to tempt them more. The spectators roared with laughter as the monkey, maddened with fear, tried frantically to escape their bites, jumping from one end of the horse to the other, and even trying to stand on the horse’s head.

  Rollo looked at Babington’s face. The entertainment was forgotten. Babington shone with pride, exhilaration and fear. Rollo could read his mind. He was twenty-three, and this was his moment of glory.

  Rollo said: ‘Queen Mary is being held at Chartley Manor, in Staffordshire. You must go there and reconnoitre – but do not attract attention to yourself by attempting to speak to her. When your plans are made, you will write to her, giving the details, and entrust the letter to me. I have a way of getting papers to her secretly.’

  The light of destiny shone in Babington’s eyes. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘And gladly.’

  In the ring the horse fell dow
n, and the dogs seized the monkey and tore it apart.

  Rollo shook Babington’s hand.

  Babington said: ‘How do I get in touch with you?’

  ‘You don’t,’ said Rollo. ‘I’ll contact you.’

  *

  NED TOOK GIFFORD to the Tower of London, his right arm roped to the left wrist of a guard. ‘This is where traitors are tortured,’ Ned said conversationally as they ascended the stone staircase. Gifford looked terrified. They went to a room with a writing table and a fireplace, cold in summer. They sat down on opposite sides of the table, Gifford still tied to the guard, who stood beside him.

  In the next room, a man screamed.

  Gifford paled. ‘Who is that?’ he said.

  ‘A traitor called Launcelot,’ said Ned. ‘He dreamed up a scheme to shoot Queen Elizabeth while she rode in St James’s Park. He proposed this murderous plan to another Catholic who happened to be a loyal subject of the queen.’ The second man also happened to be an agent of Ned’s. ‘We think Launcelot is probably a lunatic working alone, but Sir Francis Walsingham needs to be sure.’

  Gifford’s smooth boyish face was deathly white, and his hands were shaking.

  Ned said: ‘If you don’t want to suffer what Launcelot is going through, you just have to cooperate with me. Nothing difficult.’

  ‘Never,’ said Gifford, but his voice shook.

  ‘After you collect the letters from the French embassy, you will bring them to me, so that I can make copies, before you take them to Chartley.’

  ‘You can’t read them,’ Gifford said. ‘Nor can I. They’re written in code.’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’ Ned had a genius codebreaker called Phelippes.

  ‘Queen Mary will see the broken seals on the letters and know what I’ve done.’

  ‘The seals will be restored.’ Phelippes was also a skilled forger. ‘No one will be able to tell the difference.’

  Gifford was taken aback by these revelations. He had not guessed how elaborate and professional Queen Elizabeth’s secret service was. As Ned had suspected from the start, Gifford had no idea what he was up against.

  Ned went on: ‘You will do the same when you pick up the letters from Chartley. You will bring them to me, and I will have them copied before you deliver them to the French embassy.’

  ‘I will never betray Queen Mary.’

  Launcelot screamed again, and then the scream died away and the man began to sob and plead for mercy.

  Ned said to Gifford: ‘You are a lucky man.’

  Gifford gave a snort of incredulity.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ned. ‘You see, you don’t know much. You don’t even know the name of the Englishman who recruited you in Paris.’

  Gifford said nothing, but Ned guessed from his expression that he did have a name.

  Ned said: ‘He called himself Jean Langlais.’

  Gifford was not good at hiding his feelings, and he let his surprise show.

  ‘That is obviously a pseudonym, but it’s the only one he gave you.’

  Once again Gifford appeared disheartened by how much Ned knew.

  ‘You’re lucky, because I have a use for you, and if you do as you’re told, you won’t be racked.’

  ‘I won’t do it.’

  Launcelot screamed like a man in hell.

  Gifford turned away and threw up on the stone floor. The sour smell of vomit filled the little room.

  Ned stood up. ‘I’ve arranged for them to torture you this afternoon. I’ll come and see you tomorrow. You’ll have changed your mind by then.’

  Launcelot sobbed: ‘No, no, please, stop.’

  Gifford wiped his mouth and whispered: ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘I need to hear you better,’ Ned said.

  Gifford spoke louder. ‘I’ll do it, God damn you!’

  ‘Good,’ said Ned. He spoke to the guard. ‘Untie the rope,’ he said. ‘Let him go.’

  Gifford could hardly believe it. ‘I can go?’

  ‘As long as you do what I’ve told you. You will be watched, so don’t imagine you can cheat me.’

  Launcelot began to cry for his mother.

  Ned said: ‘And the next time you come back here there will be no escape.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Go.’

  Gifford left the room, and Ned heard his hurried footsteps clatter down the stone stairs. Ned nodded to the guard, who also went out. Ned sat back in his chair, drained. He closed his eyes, but after a minute Launcelot screamed again, and Ned had to leave.

  He went out of the Tower and walked along the bank of the river. A fresh breeze off the water blew away the smell of puke that had lingered in his nostrils. He looked around him, at boatmen, fishermen, street hawkers, busy people and idlers, hundreds of faces talking, shouting, laughing, yawning, singing – but not screaming in agony or sweating in terror. Normal life.

  He crossed London Bridge to the south bank. This was where most of the Huguenots lived. They had brought sophisticated textile technology with them from the Netherlands and France, and they had quickly prospered in London. They were good customers for Sylvie.

  Her shop was the ground floor of a timber-framed building in a row, a typical London house, with each storey jutting out over the one below. The front door was open, and he stepped inside. He was soothed by the rows of books and the smell of paper and ink.

  Sylvie was unpacking a box from Geneva. She straightened up when she heard his step. He looked into her blue eyes and kissed her soft mouth.

  She held him at a distance and spoke English with a soft French accent. ‘What on earth has happened?’

  ‘I had to perform an unpleasant duty. I’ll tell you, but I want to wash.’ He went out to the backyard, and dipped a bowl in a rain barrel, and washed his face and hands in the cold water.

  Back in the house, he went upstairs to the living quarters and threw himself into his favourite chair. He closed his eyes and heard Launcelot crying for his mother.

  Sylvie came upstairs. She went to the pantry, got a bottle of wine, and poured two goblets. She handed him a glass, kissed his forehead and sat close to him, knee to knee. He sipped his wine and took her hand.

  She said: ‘Tell me.’

  ‘A man was tortured in the Tower today. He had threatened the life of the queen. I didn’t torture him – I can’t do it, I don’t have the stomach for that work. But I arranged to conduct an interrogation in the next room, so that my suspect could hear the screams.’

  ‘How dreadful.’

  ‘It worked. I turned an enemy agent into a double agent. He serves me now. But I can still hear those screams.’ Sylvie squeezed his hand and said nothing. After a while he said: ‘Sometimes I hate my work.’

  ‘Because of you, men like the duke of Guise and Pierre Aumande can’t do in England what they do in France – burn people to death for their beliefs.’

  ‘But in order to defeat them I have become like them.’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘You don’t fight for compulsory Protestantism the way they fight for compulsory Catholicism. You stand for tolerance.’

  ‘We did, at the start. But now, when we catch secret priests, we execute them, regardless of whether they threaten the queen. Do you know what we did to Margaret Clitherow?’

  ‘Is she the woman who was executed in York for harbouring a Catholic priest?’

  ‘Yes. She was stripped naked, tied up, and laid on the ground; then her own front door was placed on top of her and loaded with rocks until she was crushed to death.’

  ‘Oh, God, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Sickening.’

  ‘But you never wanted it to be this way! You wanted people with different beliefs to be good neighbours.’

  ‘I did, but perhaps it’s impossible.’

  ‘Roger told me something you once said to him. I wonder if you remember the time he asked you why the queen hated Catholics.’

  Ned smiled. ‘I remember.’

  ‘He’s has
n’t forgotten what you told him.’

  ‘Perhaps I did something right. What did I say to Roger?’

  ‘You said that there are no saints in politics, but imperfect people can make the world a better place.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘That’s what Roger told me.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ned. ‘I hope it’s true.’

  *

  SUMMER BROUGHT NEW hope to Alison, who brightened with the weather. Only the inner circle at Chartley Manor knew of the secret correspondence with Anthony Babington, but Mary’s revived spirits heartened everyone.

  Alison was optimistic, but not blindly so. She wished she knew more about Babington. He came from a good Catholic family, but that was about all that could be said for him. He was only twenty-four. Would he really be able to lead a rebellion against the queen who had held on firmly to power for twenty-seven years? Alison wanted to know the plan.

  The details came in July of 1586.

  After the initial exchange of letters that served to establish contact and assure both parties that the channel of communication was open, Babington sent a full outline of what he proposed. The letter came in a beer barrel, and was decoded by Mary’s secretary, Claude Nau. Alison sat with Mary and Nau, in Mary’s bedroom at Chartley Manor, and pored over the paper.

  It was exhilarating.

  ‘Babington writes of “this great and honourable action” and “the last hope ever to recover the faith of our forefathers”, but he says more,’ said Nau, looking at his decrypt. ‘He outlines six separate actions necessary for a successful uprising. The first is the invasion of England by a foreign force. Second, that force to be large enough to guarantee military victory.’

  Mary said: ‘The duke of Guise has sixty thousand men, we’re told.’

  Alison hoped it was true.

  ‘Third, ports must be chosen where the armies can land and be resupplied.’

  ‘Settled long ago, I think, and maps sent to my cousin Duke Henri,’ said Mary. ‘Though Babington may not know about that.’

  ‘Fourth, when they arrive they must be met by a substantial local force to protect their landing against immediate counterattack.’