A Column of Fire (69 page)

This was the idea that thrilled Rollo. Now that Queen Elizabeth was beginning to reveal her true, tyrannical nature, the Church would fight back. And so would Rollo. His life had been ruined, so he had nothing to lose. He should have been a prosperous Kingsbridge alderman, living in the best house in the city, destined eventually to be mayor like his father; but instead he was an outcast, walking the dusty roads of a foreign land. However, he would turn the tables one day.

Lenny lowered his voice. ‘If you ask William Allen – that’s our founder – he’ll say that training priests is our only mission. But some of us have bigger ideas.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Elizabeth must be deposed, and Mary of Scotland must be queen.’

That was what Rollo wanted to hear. ‘Are you really planning that?’

Lenny hesitated, probably realizing he had been indiscreet. ‘Call it a daydream,’ he said. ‘But it’s one shared by a lot of people.’

That was indisputable. Mary’s right to the throne was a constant topic of discussion at Catholic dinner tables. Rollo said eagerly: ‘Can I see William Allen?’

‘Let’s go and ask. He’s with a very important visitor, but perhaps they’d both like to talk to a potential new recruit. Come with me.’

Lenny led Rollo up the stairs to the next floor. Rollo was full of excitement and optimism. Perhaps his life was not over after all. Lenny tapped on a door and opened it onto a spacious, light room lined with books, and two men deep in conversation. Lenny addressed one of them, a thin-faced man a few years older than Rollo, untidily dressed in a way that reminded Rollo of his Oxford teachers. ‘Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but I thought you might like to meet someone newly arrived from England.’

Allen turned to his guest and said in French: ‘If you permit . . . ?’

The second man was younger, but more richly dressed, in a green tunic embroidered with yellow. He was strikingly good-looking, with light-brown eyes and thick blond hair. He shrugged and said: ‘As you wish.’

Rollo stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘My name is Rollo Fitzgerald, from Kingsbridge.’

‘I’m William Allen.’ He shook hands then indicated his guest with a gesture. ‘This is a great friend of the college’s, Monsieur Pierre Aumande de Guise, from Paris.’

The Frenchman nodded coldly to Rollo and did not offer his hand.

Lenny said: ‘Rollo lost his livelihood because he refused to sign the Thirty-Nine Articles.’

‘Well done,’ said Allen.

‘And he wants to join us.’

‘Sit down, both of you.’

Monsieur Aumande de Guise spoke in careful English. ‘What education do you have, Rollo?’

‘I was at Oxford, then I studied law at Gray’s Inn, before entering my father’s business. I did not take holy orders, but that is what I want to do now.’

‘Good.’ Aumande was thawing a little.

Allen said: ‘The mission that awaits our students, at the end of their training, is to risk their lives. You do realize that? If caught you could be put to death. Please do not join us if you are not prepared for that fate.’

Rollo considered his answer. ‘It would be foolish to treat such a prospect lightly.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing Allen nod approvingly. He went on: ‘But with God’s help I believe I can face the risk.’

Aumande spoke again. ‘How do you feel about Protestants? I mean personally.’

‘Personally?’ Rollo began to compose another judicious answer, but his emotions got the better of him. He clenched his fists. ‘I hate them,’ he said. He was so moved he found it hard to get the words out. ‘I want to wipe them out, destroy them, kill every last one of them. That’s how I feel.’

Aumande almost smiled. ‘In that case, I think you may have a place with us.’

Rollo realized he had said the right thing.

‘Well,’ said Allen more cautiously, ‘I hope you will stay with us for a few days, at least, so that we can get to know each other better; then we can talk some more about your future.’

Aumande said: ‘He needs an alias.’

‘Already?’ said Allen.

‘The fewer people who know his real name, the better.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘Call him Jean Langlais.’

‘John the Englishman – in French. All right.’ Allen looked at Rollo. ‘From now on you are Jean Langlais.’

‘But why?’ said Rollo.

Aumande answered him. ‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘All in good time.’

*

E
NGLAND WAS IN
the grip of invasion panic that summer. People saw the Papal Bull as an incitement to Catholic countries to attack, and any day they expected to see the galleons come over the horizon, teeming with soldiers armed to the teeth, eager to burn and loot and rape. All along the south coast, masons were repairing age-crumbled castle walls. Rusty harbour-mouth cannons were cleaned, oiled and test-fired. Sturdy farm lads joined the local militia and practised archery on sunny Sunday afternoons.

The countess of Shiring was in a different kind of fervour. On her way to meet Ned, Margery visualized the things they would do together, and she felt the anticipatory moisture inside her. She had once heard someone say that French courtesans washed their private parts every day and perfumed them, in case men wanted to kiss them there. She had not believed the story, and Bart had certainly never kissed her there; but Ned did it all the time, so now she washed like a courtesan. She knew, as she did so, that she was getting ready to commit mortal sin, again; and knew, too, that one day her punishment would come; but those thoughts gave her a pain in her head, and she thrust them away.

She went to Kingsbridge and stayed in the house Bart owned on Leper Island. Her pretext was seeing Guillaume Forneron. A Protestant refugee from France, Forneron made the finest cambric in the south of England, and Margery bought shirts for Bart and, for herself, chemises and nightdresses.

On the second morning, she left the house alone and went to meet Ned at the home of her friend Susannah, now Lady Twyford. She still had the house in Kingsbridge that she had inherited from her father, and she usually stayed there when her husband was travelling. Ned had proposed this rendezvous, and both he and Margery felt sure they could trust Susannah to keep their secret.

Margery had got used to the knowledge that Susannah had once been Ned’s lover. Susannah had been bashful when Margery revealed that she had guessed the truth. ‘You had his heart,’ Susannah had said. ‘I just had his body, which, fortunately, was all I wanted.’ Margery was living in such a daze of passion that she could hardly think straight about that or anything else.

Susannah received her in her parlour, then kissed her on the lips and said: ‘Go on up, you lucky girl.’

An enclosed staircase led from the parlour up to Susannah’s boudoir, and Ned was waiting there.

Margery threw her arms around him and they kissed urgently, as though starved of love. She broke the kiss to say: ‘Bed.’

They went into Susannah’s bedroom and pulled off their clothes. Ned’s body was slender, his skin white, with thick dark hair on his chest. Margery loved just looking at him.

But something was wrong. Ned’s penis was unresponsive, limp. This happened quite often with Bart, when he was drunk, but it was the first time with Ned. Margery knelt in front of him and sucked it, as Bart had taught her to do. It sometimes worked with him, but today with Ned it made no difference. She stood up, put her hands to his face, and looked into his golden-brown eyes. He was embarrassed, she saw. She said: ‘What is it, my darling?’

‘Something on my mind,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘What are we going to do? What is our future?’

‘Why think about it? Let’s just love each other.’

He shook his head. ‘I have to make a decision.’ He put his hand into the coat he had thrown aside and took out a letter.

‘From the queen?’ Margery asked.

‘From Sir William Cecil.’

Margery felt as if the summer day had been blasted by a sudden winter wind. ‘Bad news?’

Ned threw the letter onto the bed. ‘I don’t know if it’s bad or good.’

Margery stared at it. The letter lay on the counterpane like a dead bird, its folded corners sticking up like stiffening wings, the broken red wax seal like a spatter of blood. Intuition told her that it announced her doom. In a low voice she said: ‘Tell me what it says.’

Ned sat up on the bed, crossing his legs. ‘It’s about France,’ he said. ‘The Protestants there – they’re called Huguenots – seem to be winning the civil war, with the help of a huge loan from Queen Elizabeth.’

Margery knew this already. She was horrified by the relentless success of heresy, but Ned was pleased about it; Margery tried not to think about this or any of the things that divided them.

Ned went on: ‘So, happily, the Catholic king is holding peace talks with the Protestant leader, a man called Gaspard de Coligny.’

At least Margery could share Ned’s approval of that. They both wanted Christians to stop killing each other. But how could this blight their love?

‘Queen Elizabeth is sending a colleague of ours called Sir Francis Walsingham to the conference as a mediator.’

Margery did not understand that. ‘Do the French really need an Englishman at their peace talks?’

‘No, that’s a cover story.’ He hesitated. ‘Cecil doesn’t say more in the letter, but I can guess the truth. I’ll happily tell you what I think, but you can’t tell anyone else.’

‘All right.’ Margery took part listlessly in this conversation, which had the effect of postponing the dreaded moment when she would know her fate.

‘Walsingham is a spy. The queen wants to know what the king of France intends to do about Scottish Mary. If the Catholics and the Huguenots really do make peace, the king might turn his attention to Scotland, or even England. Elizabeth always wants to know what people might be plotting.’

‘So the queen is sending a spy to France.’

‘When you put it like that, it’s not much of a secret.’

‘All the same I won’t repeat it. But please, for pity’s sake, what has this got to do with you and me?’

‘Walsingham needs an assistant, the man must speak fluent French, and Cecil wants me to go. I think Cecil is displeased with me for staying away from London so long.’

‘So you’re leaving me,’ Margery said miserably. That was the meaning of the dead bird.

‘I don’t have to. We could carry on as we are, loving one another and meeting secretly.’

Margery shook her head. Her mind was clear, now, for the first time in weeks, and she could think straight at last. ‘We take terrible risks every time. We will be discovered one day. Then Bart will kill you and divorce me and take Bartlet away from me.’

‘Then let’s just run away. We’ll tell people we’re married: Mr and Mrs Weaver. We can take a ship to Antwerp: I have a distant cousin there, Jan Wolman, who will give me work.’

‘And Bartlet?’

‘We’ll take him with us – he’s not really Bart’s son anyway.’

‘We’d be guilty of kidnapping the heir to an earldom. It’s probably a capital offence. We could both be executed.’

‘If we rode to Combe Harbour we could be at sea before anyone realizes what we’ve done.’

Margery yearned to say yes. In the past three months she had been happy for the first time since she was fifteen. The longing to be with Ned possessed her body like a fever. But she knew, even if he did not, that he could never be happy working for his cousin in Antwerp. All his adult life Ned had been deeply engaged in the government of England, and he liked it more than anything. He adored Queen Elizabeth, he revered William Cecil, and he was fascinated by the challenges facing them. If she took him away from all that she would ruin him.

And she, too, had her work. In recent weeks she had, shamefully, used her sacred mission as a cover for adulterous meetings, but nonetheless she was dedicated to the task God had assigned her. To give that up would be a transgression as bad as adultery.

It was time to end it. She would confess her sin and ask God’s mercy. She would rededicate herself to the holy duty of bringing the sacraments to deprived English Catholics. Perhaps in time she would come to feel forgiven.

As she reached her decision, she began to cry.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘We can work something out.’

She knew they could not. She embraced him and pulled him to her. They lay back on the bed. She whispered: ‘Ned, my beloved Ned.’ Her tears wetted his face as they kissed. His penis was suddenly erect. ‘Once more,’ she said.

‘It’s not the last time,’ he said as he rolled on top of her.

Yes, it is, she thought; but she found she could not speak, and she gave herself up to sorrow and delight.

*

S
IX WEEKS LATER
, Margery knew she was pregnant.

17

Sir Francis Walsingham believed in lists the way he believed in the Gospels. He made lists of who he had met yesterday and who he was going to see tomorrow. And he and Sir Ned Willard had a list of every suspicious Englishman who came to Paris.

In 1572, Walsingham was Queen Elizabeth’s ambassador to France, and Ned was his deputy. Ned respected Walsingham as he had Sir William Cecil, but did not feel the same breathless devotion. Towards Walsingham Ned was loyal rather than worshipful, admiring rather than awestruck. The two men were different, of course; but, also, the Ned who now served as Walsingham’s deputy was not the eager youngster who had been Cecil’s protégé. Ned had grown up.

Ned had undertaken clandestine missions for Elizabeth from the start, but now he and Walsingham were part of the rapidly growing secret intelligence service set up to protect Elizabeth and her government from violent overthrow.

The peace between Catholics and Protestants that had reigned in England for the first decade of Elizabeth’s rule had been thrown into jeopardy by the Papal Bull. There had already been one serious conspiracy against her. The Pope’s agent in England, Roberto Ridolfi, had plotted to murder Elizabeth and put Mary Stuart on the throne, and then marry Mary to the duke of Norfolk. The secret service had uncovered the plan and the duke’s head had been chopped off a few days ago. But no one believed that was the end of the matter.