A Column of Fire (116 page)

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.

*

M
ARGERY 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.’

‘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.

For a long moment he let her hold his hand without responding, and it lay limp in her grasp. Then, at last, she felt him squeeze her fingers, gently but firmly; and she knew it was going to be all right.

*

We hanged him in front of Kingsbridge Cathedral.

Margery and I did not want to join the crowd, but we could not be absent either, so we watched from the window of the old house. She burst into tears when they brought Rollo from the Guild Hall down the main street to the market square, and walked him up the scaffold.

When the support was jerked from beneath him, Margery began to pray for his soul. As a Protestant I never believed in prayers for dead souls, but I joined in for her sake. And I had done something more practical, also for her sake. Rollo should have been cut down and disembowelled while still alive, then hacked into pieces, but I had bribed the executioner, and so Rollo was allowed to choke to death before his body was ritually mutilated – to the disappointment of the crowd, who had wanted to see the traitor suffer.

After that I retired from court life. Margery and I came back to Kingsbridge permanently. Roger, who never found out that he was my son, took over from me as the Member of Parliament for Kingsbridge. My nephew Alfo became the richest man in Kingsbridge. I remained lord of Wigleigh – I had developed a strong affection for the people of my little village.

So Rollo was the last of the men I sent to the gallows. But there is one more part of the story to be told . . .

Epilogue

1620

At the age of eighty, Ned spent a lot of time sleeping. He napped in the afternoon, he went to bed early, and he sometimes nodded off after breakfast in the front parlour of the Kingsbridge house.

The house was always full. Barney’s son, Alfo, and Ned’s son, Roger, both had children and grandchildren. Roger had bought the house next door and the youngsters treated the two houses as one home.

Someone had told them that Grandpa Ned knew everything, and his great-grandchildren often came running into the parlour with questions. He was endlessly intrigued by what they asked him: How long does it take to get to Egypt? Did Jesus have a sister? What’s the biggest number?

He watched them with intense pleasure, fascinated by the random nature of family resemblances: one had Barney’s roguish charm, another Alice’s relentless determination, and one little girl brought tears to his eyes when she smiled just like Margery.

Inherited traits showed themselves in other ways, too. Alfo was mayor of Kingsbridge, as his grandfather Edmund had been. Roger was a member of King James’s Privy Council. Over at New Castle, Earl Swifty was, sadly, as much of a swaggering bully as Swithin, Bart and Bartlet had been.

The family had grown like a spreading tree, and Ned and Margery had watched its progress together, until her life had come to a peaceful end three years ago. Ned still talked to her sometimes, when he was alone. ‘Alfo has bought the Slaughterhouse Tavern,’ he would say as he got into bed at the end of the day. Or again: ‘Little Eddie is as tall as me, now.’ It hardly mattered that she made no reply: he knew what she would have thought. ‘Money sticks to Alfo like honey on his fingers,’ she would have said, and: ‘Eddie will be after girls any day now.’

Ned had not been to London for years, and would never go again. Strangely enough, he did not pine for the excitement of tracking down spies and traitors, nor for the challenges and intrigues of government. It was the theatre he missed. He had loved plays ever since he saw the story of Mary Magdalene performed at New Castle on that Twelfth Day of Christmas so long ago. But a play was a rare event in Kingsbridge: travelling companies came only once or twice a year, to perform in the yard of the Bell Inn. Ned’s consolation was that he had some of his favourite plays in book form, so he could read them. There was one writer he particularly enjoyed, though he could never remember the fellow’s name. He forgot a lot of things these days.

He had a book on his lap now, and he had fallen asleep over it. Wondering what had awakened him, he looked up to see a young man with Margery’s curly dark hair: his grandson, Jack, the son of Roger. He smiled. Jack was like Margery in other ways: good-looking and charming and feisty – and far too earnest about religion. His extremism had gone in the direction opposite to Margery’s and he was some kind of Puritan. This caused bad-tempered rows with his pragmatic father.

Jack was twenty-seven and single. To the surprise of his family he had chosen to be a builder, and had prospered. There were famous builders in the family’s past: heritage again, perhaps.

Now he sat in front of Ned and said: ‘I have some important news, Grandfather. I’m going away.’

‘Why? You have a successful business here in Kingsbridge.’

‘The king makes life uncomfortable for those of us who take the teachings of the Bible seriously.’

What he meant was that he and his Puritan friends stubbornly disagreed with the English Church on numerous points of doctrine, and King James was as intolerant of them as he was of Catholics.

‘I’ll be very sorry to see you go, Jack,’ Ned said. ‘You remind me of your grandmother.’

‘I’ll be sorry to say goodbye. But we want to live in a place where we can do God’s will without interference.’

‘I spent my life trying to make England that kind of country.’

‘But it’s not, is it?’

‘It’s more tolerant than any other place, as far as I know. Where would you go in search of greater freedom?’

‘The New World.’

‘God’s body!’ Ned was shocked. ‘I didn’t think you were going that far. Sorry about the bad language, you startled me.’

Jack nodded acknowledgement of the apology. He disapproved almost as much as the Catholics of the blasphemous exclamations Ned had learned from Queen Elizabeth; but he said no more about it. ‘A group of us have decided to sail to the New World and start a colony there.’

‘What an adventure! It’s the kind of thing your grandmother Margery would have loved to do.’ Ned felt envious of Jack’s youth and boldness. Ned himself would never travel again. Luckily he had rich memories – of Calais, of Paris, of Amsterdam. He recalled every detail of those journeys even when he could not remember what day of the week it was.

Jack was saying: ‘Although James will continue to be our king theoretically, we hope he will take less interest in how we choose to worship, since it will be impossible for him to enforce his rules at such a distance.’

‘I dare say you’re right. I wish you well.’

‘Pray for us, please.’

‘I will. Tell me the name of your ship, so that I can ask God to watch over it.’

‘It’s called the
Mayflower
.’

‘The
Mayflower
. I must try to remember that.’

Jack went to the writing table. ‘I’ll note it down for you. I want us to be in your prayers.’

‘Thank you.’ It was oddly touching that Jack cared so much about Ned’s prayers.