A Column of Fire

by Ken Follett

  ‘At your service, sir.’

  Ned frowned. There was something familiar about Johnson. ‘Have I met you before?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Ned was not so sure, but it was hard to tell in the flickering torchlight.

  He turned to the firewood stack.

  There was a lot of it. Did Thomas Percy intend to start a conflagration? It would quickly blaze up to the wooden ceiling of the storeroom, which must be the floor of the chamber of the House of Lords. But this was an unreliable method of assassination. In all likelihood someone would smell smoke, and the royal family would be hustled out of the building in safety long before the place burned down. In order to be a serious danger, a fire would have to develop fast, with tar and turpentine, like a fireship, turning the building into an inferno before anyone could get out. Was there tar or turpentine here? Ned could not see any.

  He moved closer to the stack. As he did so, he heard Johnson stifle a protest. He turned and looked at the man. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Pardon me, sir, but your torch is giving off sparks. Please take care not to set light to the wood.’

  Johnson was unnecessarily jittery. ‘If the wood catches fire you can stamp it out,’ Ned said dismissively, and he went closer.

  The wood was stacked with meticulous neatness. Something deep in Ned’s memory was struggling to get out. This scene reminded him of another, long in his past, but he could not bring it to mind. He felt that he had stood like this, in a dark storeroom, looking at a pile of something, once before in his life, but he could not think when or where.

  He turned away from the stack to see that everyone else was watching him in silence. They thought he was crazy. He did not care.

  He looked again at Percy’s caretaker and noticed that the man was wearing spurs. ‘Going somewhere, Johnson?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then why are you wearing spurs?’

  ‘I was on horseback earlier.’

  ‘Hmm. Your boots seem remarkably clean, for a man who has been riding in November weather.’ Without waiting for an answer, Ned turned back to the firewood.

  An old table with a hole in its top stood near the stack, and Ned guessed that someone had stood on the table to place the topmost bundles carefully.

  Suddenly he remembered.

  It had been the terrible night of the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in Paris. He and Sylvie had taken refuge in the warehouse in the rue du Mur where she kept her secret store of banned books. They had listened to the muffled sounds of riot in the city, the hoarse shouts of men fighting and the screams of those wounded, the pop of gunfire and the demented ringing of hundreds of church bells. In the warehouse, by the light of a lamp, Ned had looked at a stack of barrels that appeared to fill the space floor to ceiling and side to side.

  But some of the barrels could be removed to reveal boxes of contraband literature.

  ‘By the Mass,’ Ned said softly.

  He handed his torch to another of the search party and clambered onto the table, careful not to put his foot through the hole.

  Once standing fairly securely on the table, he reached up and removed the top bundle of faggots. He threw it to the ground, then reached for another.

  He heard a scuffle and turned.

  John Johnson was making a run for it, dashing across the storeroom to the far end.

  Ned shouted a warning, but one of his companions was already acting. It was Edmund Doubleday, he saw, and he was running after Johnson.

  Johnson reached a door in the end wall, not previously visible in the dim light, and threw it open.

  At that moment Doubleday launched himself through the air. He cannoned into Johnson with an audible thud. Both men fell to the floor.

  Johnson tried to struggle up, and Doubleday grabbed his leg. Johnson kicked Doubleday in the face. Then the others surrounded them. As Johnson tried to get to his feet they shoved him down again. Someone sat on him. Another man grabbed his arms and a third sat on his legs.

  Johnson stopped struggling.

  Ned crossed the room and looked down at Johnson. His face was now clearly visible in the light of several lamps. ‘I recognize you,’ Ned said. ‘You’re Guy Fawkes.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ said Fawkes.

  Ned said: ‘Tie his hands behind his back and hobble his ankles so that he can walk but not run.’

  Someone said: ‘There’s no rope.’

  ‘Take off his breeches and tear them into strips.’ A man with no breeches would not get far.

  Something had triggered Johnson’s sudden flight. ‘What are you scared of?’ Ned asked thoughtfully.

  There was no reply.

  It was when I threw down the second bundle of firewood, Ned thought. What was the significance of that?

  ‘Go through his pockets,’ he said.

  Doubleday knelt beside Johnson and searched him. Doubleday had a large red mark on his face from the kick, and it was already beginning to swell, but he appeared not to have noticed it yet.

  From inside Johnson’s cloak Doubleday produced a tinder box and a touchwood match.

  So, Ned thought, he was going to set fire to something. The match was notched, as if for the purpose of timing its burning – perhaps so that the person who lit it would be able to get away before . . .

  Before what?

  Ned looked over at the firewood stack, then at the man who was holding his flaming torch, and a terrifying possibility occurred to him.

  ‘Take my torch outside immediately, please, and put out the flames,’ he said, just managing to keep his voice calm. ‘Right now.’

  The man to whom he had given the torch stepped smartly outside. Ned heard the hissing sound of flames being extinguished in water, probably a nearby horse trough, and he breathed a little easier.

  The interior was still dimly lit by the lanterns held by the others in the search party. ‘Now,’ said Ned, ‘let’s see if this wall of firewood conceals what I think it does.’

  The younger men started moving the bundles. Almost immediately Ned saw a dark-grey powder on the floor. It was almost the same colour as the stones of which the floor was made. It looked like gunpowder.

  He shuddered to think how near to it he had stood with his flaming, sparking torch in his hand. No wonder Johnson had been nervous.

  Behind the bundles was a space, just as in Sylvie’s warehouse; but here it was not Bibles that were hidden, but barrels – dozens of them. One had been tilted off its base to spill a heap of powder on the floor. Ned held up a lamp to see more, and was awestruck. There were at least thirty barrels of various sizes – more than enough gunpowder to flatten the House of Lords and kill everyone inside.

  Including Ned Willard.

  He was surprised at how angry he felt at the thought that Rollo had planned to kill him, as well as the royal family and the rest of the Privy Council and most members of Parliament.

  He was not the only one to feel that way. Doubleday said: ‘They were going to murder us all!’ Several others voiced their agreement.

  One of the men standing over Fawkes kicked him in the balls, hard. Fawkes writhed in pain.

  Ned understood the impetus but stopped the violence. ‘We need him conscious and talking,’ he said. ‘He’s going to give us the names of all his collaborators.’

  ‘A pity,’ one of the men said. ‘I’d like to beat him to death.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ned. ‘In a few hours’ time he’ll be stretched on the rack. He’ll suffer screaming agony before he betrays his friends. And when he’s done that he’ll be hung, drawn and quartered.’ He stared at the man on the floor for a long moment. ‘That’s probably punishment enough,’ he said.

  *

  ROLLO RODE THROUGH the night, changing horses when he could, and reached New Castle on the morning of Tuesday, 5 November. There he and Earl Bartlet waited anxiously for the messenger from London who would bring them the joyous news of the death of the king.

  In the chap
el that was part of the castle complex were dozens of swords, guns and armour. As soon as he heard that the king was dead, Bartlet would summon loyal Catholics and arm them, and they would march on Kingsbridge, where Rollo would hold a Latin Mass in the cathedral.

  If something went wrong, and the news from London was not what Rollo expected, he had an alternative plan. A fast horse was standing by, and a pair of saddlebags packed with a few essentials. He would ride to Combe Harbour and take the first ship to France. With luck he would escape before Ned Willard closed England’s ports in his hunt for the gunpowder plotters.

  It was almost impossible that they would hear anything on the Tuesday, but all the same Rollo and Bartlet stayed up late just in case. Rollo spent a restless night and got up at first light on the Wednesday. Had the world changed? Was England in the midst of a revolution? They would surely know the answers before the sun went down today.

  They found out earlier than that.

  Rollo was at breakfast with Bartlet and the family when they heard hoofbeats pounding into the compound. They all jumped up from the table, rushed through the house and ran out of the main door, desperately eager to know what had happened.

  A dozen men and horses milled around the courtyard. For a moment it was not clear who was in charge. Rollo scanned the faces, looking for someone familiar. All the men were heavily armed, some with swords and daggers, others with guns.

  Then Rollo saw Ned Willard.

  Rollo froze. What did that mean? Had the plan gone wrong? Or had the revolution begun, and was Ned part of a desperate rearguard action by the tattered remains of the Protestant government?

  Ned gave the answer immediately. ‘I found your gunpowder,’ he said.

  The words hit Rollo like bullets. He felt shot in the heart. The plot had failed. Rage boiled up in him as he thought how Ned had frustrated him again and again through the years. He wanted more than anything else to get his hands around Ned’s throat and squeeze the life out of him.

  He tried to suppress his emotions and think straight. So Ned had found the gunpowder – but how had he known that Rollo had put it there? Rollo said: ‘Did my sister betray me?’

  ‘She kept your secret thirty years longer than she should have.’

  Betrayed by a woman. He should never have trusted her.

  He thought of the waiting horse. Did he have a slim chance of escaping from this crowd of strong young men, reaching the stable, and riding away?

  Ned seemed to read his mind. He pointed at Rollo and said: ‘Watch him carefully. He’s been slipping through my hands for thirty years.’

  One of the men lifted a long-barrelled arquebus and aimed it at Rollo’s nose. It was an old gun with a matchlock mechanism, and he could see the glowing match ready to be touched to the firing pan.

  At that point Rollo knew it was all over.

  Earl Bartlet began a blustering protest, but Rollo felt impatient for the end. He was seventy years old and he had nothing more to live for. He had spent his life trying to destroy England’s heretical monarchy, and he had failed. He would not get another chance.

  Sheriff Matthewson, grandson of the sheriff Rollo remembered from his youth, spoke to Bartlet in a firm but calm voice. ‘Let’s have no trouble, please, my lord,’ he said. ‘It won’t do anyone any good.’

  The sheriff’s reasonable tones and Bartlet’s ranting both seemed to Rollo like background noise. Feeling as if he was in a dream, or perhaps a play, he reached inside his doublet and drew his dagger.

  The deputy holding a gun on him said in a panicky voice: ‘Drop that knife!’ The arquebus shook in his hands, but he managed to keep it pointing at Rollo’s face.

  Silence fell and everyone looked at Rollo.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ Rollo said to the deputy.

  He had no intention of doing anything of the kind, but he raised the knife high, careful not to move his head and spoil the deputy’s aim.

  ‘Prepare to die,’ he said.

  Behind the deputy, Ned moved.

  The deputy pulled the trigger and the lighted cord touched the gunpowder in the firing tray. Rollo saw a flash and heard a bang, and knew instantly that he had been cheated of an easy death. At the last split-second the barrel had been knocked aside by Ned. Rollo felt a sharp pain at the side of his head and sensed blood on his ear, and understood that the ball had grazed him.

  Ned grabbed his arm and took away the knife. ‘I’m not finished with you,’ he said.

  *

  MARGERY WAS summoned to see the king.

  It would not be the first time she had met him. In the two years of his reign so far she had attended several royal festivities with Ned: banquets and pageants and plays. Ned regarded James as a voluptuary, interested mainly in sensual pleasure; but Margery thought he had a cruel streak.

  Her brother, Rollo, must have confessed everything under torture, and therefore he would have implicated her in the smuggling of priests into England. She would be accused and arrested and executed alongside him, she supposed.

  She thought of Mary Stuart, a brave Catholic martyr. Margery wanted to die with dignity as Queen Mary had. But Mary was a queen, and had been mercifully beheaded. Female traitors were burned at the stake. Would Margery be able to retain her dignity, and pray for her tormentors as she died? Or would she scream and cry, curse the Pope and beg for mercy? She did not know.

  Worse, for her, was the prospect that Bartlet and Roger would suffer the same fate.

  She put on her best clothes and went to White Hall.

  To her surprise Ned was waiting for her in the anteroom. ‘We’re going in together,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  He was tense, wound up tight, and she could not tell whether he was still angry with her. She said: ‘Am I to be executed?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Margery felt dizzy and feared she was going to fall. Ned saw her stagger and grabbed her. For a moment she slumped in his arms, too relieved to hold herself upright. Then she pushed herself away. She had no right to his embrace. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said.

  He held her arm a little longer, then released her, and she was able to support herself. But he still looked at her with an angry frown. What did it mean?

  She did not have long to puzzle over this before a royal servant nodded to Ned to indicate that they should go in.

  They entered the Long Gallery side by side. Margery had heard that King James liked to have meetings in this room because he could look at the pictures when he got bored.

  Ned bowed and Margery curtsied, and James said: ‘The man who saved my life!’ When he spoke he drooled a little, a mild impediment that seemed to go with his sybaritic tastes.

  ‘Your majesty is very kind,’ Ned said. ‘And of course you know Lady Margery, the dowager countess of Shiring and my wife of fifteen years.’

  James nodded but did not say anything, and Margery deduced from his coolness that he knew of her religious affiliation.

  Ned said: ‘I want to ask your majesty a favour.’

  James said: ‘I’m tempted to say Even unto the half of my kingdom, except that the phrase has an unlucky history.’ He was referring to the story of Salome, who had asked for the head of John the Baptist on a platter.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever asked your majesty for anything, although perhaps my service might have won me your good will.’

  ‘You saved me from those evil gunpowder devils – me and my family and the entire Parliament,’ said James. ‘Come on, out with it – what do you want?’

  ‘During the interrogation of Rollo Fitzgerald, he made certain accusations about crimes committed many years ago, during the 1570s and 1580s, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.’

  ‘What sort of crimes are we talking about?’

  ‘He confessed to smuggling Catholic priests into England.’

  ‘He’s going to hang anyway.’

  ‘He claims he had collaborators.’

&n
bsp; ‘And who were they?’

  ‘The late earl of Shiring, Bart; his then wife, Margery, who is now my wife; and their two sons, Bartlet, who is now the earl, and Lord Roger.’

  The king’s face darkened. ‘A serious charge.’

  ‘I ask your majesty to consider that a woman may be dominated by a strong-willed husband and an equally overpowering brother, and that she and her children are not entirely to blame for crimes committed under such strong masculine influence.’

  Margery knew this was not true. She had been the leader, not the follower. She might have said so, if her own life had been the only one at stake. But she bit her tongue.

  Ned said: ‘I ask your majesty to spare their lives. It is the only reward I ask for saving your own.’

  ‘I can’t say that this request pleases me,’ the king said.

  Ned said nothing.

  ‘But the smuggling of priests took place a long time ago, you say.’

  ‘It ended after the Spanish armada. From then on Rollo Fitzgerald did not involve his family in his crimes.’

  ‘I would not even consider this were it not for the remarkable service you have rendered the crown of England over so many years.’

  ‘My whole life, your majesty.’

  The king looked grumpy, but at last he nodded. ‘Very well. There will be no prosecutions of his collaborators.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You may go.’

  Ned bowed, Margery curtsied, and they left.

  They walked together, without speaking, through the series of anterooms and out of the palace into the street. There they both turned east. They went past the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields and along the Strand. Margery felt nothing but relief. All the lying and double-dealing was over.

  They passed the palaces along the Thames shore and entered the less affluent Fleet Street. Margery did not know what was going on in Ned’s mind, but he seemed to be coming home with her. Or was that too much to hope for?

  They entered the city through Lud Gate and started up the rise. Ahead of them, on top of the hill, St Paul’s Cathedral towered over rows of low, thatched houses like a lioness with cubs. Still Ned had not spoken, but Margery sensed that his mood had changed. His face slowly relaxed, the lines of tension and anger seemed to dissolve, and there was even a hint of his old wry smile. Emboldened, Margery reached out and took his hand in her own.