Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

His mother had drifted unhappily into old age. Alice seemed to have shrunk inside her skin, and she walked with a stoop. She seemed to have lost interest in the world outside the house: she asked Ned perfunctory questions about his work with the queen and hardly listened to the answers. In the old days she would have been eager to hear about political manoeuvrings, and wanted to know all about how Elizabeth ran her household.

However, since Ned had left the house this morning, something seemed to have changed. His mother was in the main hall with their three servants: Janet Fife, the housekeeper; her husband, lame Malcolm; and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Eileen. They all looked animated. Ned guessed right away that they had good news. As soon as his mother saw him she said: ‘Barney’s back in England!’

Some things went right, Ned reflected, and he managed a smile. ‘Where is he?’

‘He landed at Combe Harbour with the Hawk . We got a message: he’s only waiting to collect his pay — three years of it! — then he’s coming home.’

‘And he’s safe and well? I told you he’d been to the New World.’

‘But he’s come home unhurt!’

‘Well, we must prepare to celebrate — kill the fatted calf.’

Alice’s jubilation was punctured. ‘We haven’t got a calf, fatted or otherwise.’

Young Eileen, who had once had a childish crush on Barney, said excitedly: ‘We’ve got a six-month-old piglet out the back that my mother was planning to use for winter bacon. We could roast it on a spit.’

Ned was pleased. The whole family would be together again.

But Margery’s torment came back to him as he sat down with his mother for the midday meal. She chatted animatedly, speculating about what kind of adventures Barney might have had in Seville, Antwerp and Hispaniola. Ned let her talk flow over him while he brooded.

Margery’s idea had been to warn the Puritans so that they would come armed, and to hope that Swithin would die in the resulting brawl. But Ned had not known the full story, and despite the best of intentions he had put paid to her hopes. There would be no brawl, now: the relics would not be seen in the consecration ceremony, the Puritans would therefore not protest, and Swithin would have no pretext for a fight.

Could Ned now undo what he had done? It was next to impossible. Dean Luke would surely refuse to return to the original timetable in order to guarantee a riot.

Ned realized he could recreate the brawl scenario, simply by telling both sides that the relics would now be buried at dawn. But there was another snag. A brawl was unpredictable. Swithin might be hurt, but he might not. Ned needed to be surer than that, for Margery’s sake.

Was there a way to turn tomorrow’s burial ceremony into a trap for Swithin?

What if Ned could preserve Rollo’s violent plan, but remove the justification?

A scheme began to take shape in his mind. Perhaps he could lure Swithin to the cathedral with false information. But of course the Catholics would not trust Ned. Who would they trust?

Then he remembered what Margery had told him about Donal Gloster being a spy. Rollo would trust Donal.

Ned began to feel hopeful again.

He left his family’s dinner table as soon as he could. He walked down the main street, turned along Slaughterhouse Wharf, and went past the moorings to the Tanneries, a riverside neighbourhood of smelly industries and small houses. There he knocked on Donal Gloster’s front door. It was opened by Donal’s mother, a handsome middle-aged woman with Donal’s full lips and thick dark hair. She looked wary. ‘What brings you here, Mr Willard?’

‘Good afternoon, Widow Gloster,’ Ned said politely. ‘I want to speak to Donal.’

‘He’s at work. You know where Dan Cobley’s place of business is.’

Ned nodded. Dan had a warehouse down by the docks. ‘I shan’t disturb Donal at work. When do you expect him home?’

‘He’ll finish at sundown. But he usually goes to the Slaughterhouse tavern before coming home.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What do you want him for?’

‘I don’t mean him any harm.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, but she said it uncertainly, and Ned suspected she did not believe him.

He returned to the waterfront and sat on a coil of rope, gnawing at his plan, which was uncertain and dangerous, while he watched the bustle of commerce, the boats and carts arriving and leaving, loading and unloading grain and coal, stones from the quarry and timber from the forest, bales of cloth and barrels of wine. This was how his family had prospered: by buying in one place and selling in another, and pocketing the difference in the price. It was a simple thing, but it was the way to become rich — the only way, unless you were a nobleman and could force people to pay you rent for the land they farmed.

The afternoon darkened. The hatches were closed and the warehouses locked up, and men began to leave the docks, their faces eager for home and supper, or tavern and song, or dark lane and lover. Ned saw Donal come out of the Cobley building and head for the Slaughterhouse with the air of one who does not have to make a decision because he does the same thing every day.

Ned followed him into the inn. ‘A quiet word with you, Donal, if I may.’ These days, no one refused Ned a quiet word. He had become a man of power and importance, and everyone in Kingsbridge knew it. Strangely, this gave him no great satisfaction. Some men craved deference; others craved wine, or the bodies of beautiful women, or the monastic life of order and obedience. What did Ned crave? The answer came into his mind with a speed and effortlessness that took him by surprise: justice.

He would have to think about that.

He paid for two tankards of ale and steered Donal to a corner. As soon as they sat down, he said: ‘You lead a dangerous life, Donal.’

‘Ned Willard, always the cleverest boy in the class,’ said Donal with an unpleasant twist of his lips.

‘We’re not at the Grammar School any longer. There we were only flogged for our mistakes. Now we get killed.’

Donal looked intimidated, but he put on a brave face. ‘Then it’s a good thing I don’t make any.’

‘If Dan Cobley and the Puritans find out about you and Rollo, they’ll tear you to pieces.’

Donal turned white.

After a long moment he opened his mouth to speak, but Ned forestalled him. ‘Don’t deny it. That would be a waste of your time and mine. Focus on what you have to do to make sure that I keep your secret.’

Donal swallowed and managed a nod.

‘What you told Rollo Fitzgerald yesterday was correct at the time, but it has changed.’

Donal’s mouth dropped open. ‘How—?’

‘Never mind how I know what you told Rollo. All you need to understand is that the relics of the saint will be desecrated in the cathedral tomorrow — but the time has changed. Now it will be done at dawn, with few people present.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘So that you will tell Rollo.’

‘You hate the Fitzgeralds — they ruined your family.’

‘Don’t try to figure this out. Just do what you’re told and save your skin.’

‘Rollo will ask how I know about the change.’

‘Say you overheard Dan Cobley talking about it.’

‘All right.’

‘Go and see Rollo now. You must have some means of signalling that you need an urgent meeting.’

‘I’ll just finish my beer.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather be stone cold sober?’

Donal looked regretfully at his tankard.

Ned said: ‘Now, Donal.’

Donal got up and left.

Ned left a few minutes later. He walked back up the main street. He felt uneasy. He had a plan, but it relied on a lot of people doing what he expected: Dean Luke, Donal Gloster, Rollo Fitzgerald and — most important of all, and most wilful — Earl Swithin. If one part of the chain were to break, the scheme would fail.