Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘Oh, dear,’ said Luke. ‘Then we’ll have to leave the saint inside his railings.’

Ned glanced across at the tomb of St Adolphus. The monument was closed off by locked iron railings. A little group of pilgrims were on their knees, staring through the grille at the reliquary. It was a gold casket in the shape of a church, with archways and turrets and a spire. Set into the gold were pearls, rubies and sapphires, glittering in the watery sunlight that came through the great east window.

‘I’m not sure that will be enough,’ Ned said. ‘Now that they’ve planned this, they may break down the railings.’

Luke looked panicky. ‘I can’t have a riot during my consecration!’

‘No, indeed. That would be almost as bad as cancellation, from the point of view of the queen.’

‘What, then?’

Ned knew what he wanted to do, but he hesitated. There was something Margery was not telling him. She had wanted him to arm the Puritans, not avoid the brawl altogether. It was surprising that she had taken that line, for she was strongly against religious violence of any kind. This thought had occurred to him vaguely while talking to her, but he saw it more clearly now in retrospect. Something else was going on, but he did not know what.

However, he could not base his actions on such nebulous notions. He put thoughts of Margery aside. He needed to offer Luke a safe way out. ‘We have to take the gunpowder out of the cannon,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have to get rid of the relics.’

Luke was shocked. ‘We can’t just throw them away!’

‘Of course we can’t. But we can bury them — with all due ceremony. Hold a funeral service tomorrow at first light — just you and one or two priests. Tonight, have George Cox dig a hole somewhere inside the cathedral — don’t tell anyone where.’ George Cox was the gravedigger. ‘Bury the bones, in the golden casket, and let George replace the stones of the floor so that no one can tell they’ve been disturbed.’

Luke was thinking this through with a worried frown. ‘When people arrive for the consecration it will already be done. But what will they say? They will see that the saint has gone.’

‘Put up a notice on the iron railings saying that St Adolphus is buried here in the cathedral. Then explain, in your sermon, that the saint is still here, blessing us with his presence, but he has been buried in a secret grave to protect his remains from people who might wish to violate them.’

‘That’s clever,’ Luke said admiringly. ‘The people will be content, but there will be nothing for the Puritans to object to. Their protest will be like gunpowder that has separated.’

‘A good image. Use it in your sermon.’

Luke nodded.

Ned said: ‘So that’s settled.’

‘I have to discuss it with the chapter.’

Ned suppressed an impatient retort. ‘Not really. You’re the bishop-elect.’ He smiled. ‘You may command.’

Luke looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s always better to explain to people the reasons for commands.’

Ned decided not to fight a hypothetical battle. ‘Do it your way. I’ll come here at dawn to witness the burial.’

‘Very well.’

Ned was not totally sure that Luke would go through with it. Perhaps a reminder of Luke’s debt to him would help. ‘I’m glad I was able to persuade the queen that you’re the right man to be bishop of Kingsbridge,’ he said.

‘I’m deeply grateful to you, Ned, for your faith in me.’

‘I believe we’ll work well together, in years to come, to prevent religious hatred.’

‘Amen.’

Luke could yet change his mind about the whole idea, if one of his colleagues objected to burying the relics, but Ned could do no more for now. He resolved to see Luke again before nightfall and make sure of him.

He took his leave and walked down the nave, between the marching pillars, the leaping arches and the glowing windows, thinking how much good and evil this building had seen in the last four hundred years. When he stepped out of the west door, he saw Margery again, returning to her house with her fish basket over her arm. She caught his eye and turned to meet him.

In the cathedral porch she said: ‘Did you do it?’

‘I think I’ve avoided violence,’ he said. ‘I’ve persuaded Luke to bury the bones clandestinely, tomorrow morning, so that there will be nothing to fight over.’

He expected her to be pleased and grateful, but to his consternation she stared at him in horror for a long moment then said: ‘No! That’s not it.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘There has to be a fight.’

‘But you were always so much against violence.’

‘Swithin has to die!’

‘Hush!’ He took her elbow and led her back inside. In the north aisle was a side chapel dedicated to St Dymphna. She was not a popular figure, and the little space was empty. The painting of the saint being beheaded had been taken down to appease the Puritans.

He stood in front of Margery, holding her hands, and said: ‘You’d better tell me what’s wrong. Why does Swithin have to die?’

She said nothing, but he could see, watching her face, that a struggle was going on inside her, and he waited.

At last she said: ‘When Bart is away from home, Swithin comes to my bed at night.’

Ned stared at her, aghast. She was being raped — by her father-in-law. It was obscene — and brutal. Hot rage possessed him, and he had to quell his emotions and think rationally. Questions leaped to his mind, but the answers were obvious. ‘You resist him, but he’s too strong, and he tells you that if you scream, he will say you seduced him, and everyone will believe him.’

Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

‘The man is an animal.’

‘I shouldn’t have told you. But perhaps God will take Swithin’s life tomorrow.’

And if God won’t, I will, Ned vowed, but he did not say it out loud. Instead he said: ‘I’ll talk to Luke again. I’ll make sure there’s a fight.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I have to think.’

‘Don’t risk your own life. That would be even worse.’

‘Take your fish home,’ he said.

She hesitated for a long moment. Then she said: ‘You’re the only person I can trust. The only one.’

He nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Go home.’

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and left the cathedral, and he followed her out a minute later.

If he had seen Swithin at that moment, he would have fallen on the earl and got his hands around the man’s throat and choked the life out of him — or, perhaps, been run through by Swithin’s sword, though he was too angry to fear that or anything else.

He turned and looked back at the mighty west front of the cathedral, wet now with the persistent slow English rain. That was the doorway through which people went to find God: how could Ned think of murder there? But he could hardly think of anything else.

He struggled to be cogent. Face it, he said to himself, in a fight with Swithin you might not win, and if you did, you would be hanged for murdering a nobleman. But you are smart, and Swithin is stupid, so come up with a clever way to put an end to him.

He turned away and crossed the market square. It was busy every Saturday, but today it was teeming with all the visitors who had come for tomorrow’s ceremony. Normally, winding his way between the stalls, he would have automatically noted rising and falling prices, shortages and gluts, how much money people had and what they spent it on; but not now. He was aware of acquaintances greeting him, but he was too deep in thought to respond with more than a vague wave or a distracted nod. He reached the front door of the family house and went inside.