Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

And now he had to add one more link.

He walked past the cathedral, the Bell inn, and the new Fitzgerald palace called Priory Gate, and went into the Guild Hall. There he tapped on the door of Sheriff Matthewson’s room and went in without waiting for an invitation. The sheriff was eating an early supper of bread and cold meat. He put down his knife and wiped his mouth. ‘Good evening, Mr Willard. I hope you’re well.’

‘Very well, sheriff, I thank you.’

‘Can I be of service to you?’

‘To the queen, sheriff. Her majesty has a job for you to do — tonight.’

Rollo nervously touched the hilt of his sword. He had never been in battle. As a boy he had practised with a wooden weapon, like most sons of prosperous families, but he had no experience of deadly combat.

Sir Reginald’s bedroom was full of people, and unlit, but no one was in bed. From the windows there was a spectacular view of the north and west sides of Kingsbridge Cathedral. It was a clear night, and to Rollo’s dark-adapted eyes the glimmering starlight revealed the outline of the church, faint but clear. Under its pointed arches, all doorways and windows were deep pools of gloom, like the eye sockets of a man blinded for forging money. Higher up, the turrets with their crockets and finials were blackly silhouetted against the night sky.

With Rollo were his father, Sir Reginald; his brother-in-law, Bart Shiring; Bart’s father, Earl Swithin; and two of Swithin’s most trusted men-at-arms. All wore swords and daggers.

When the cathedral bell had struck four, Stephen Lincoln had said Mass and then had given all six of them absolution for the sins they were about to commit. They had been watching since then.

The women of the house, Lady Jane and Margery, were in bed, but Rollo doubted that they were asleep.

The market square, so crowded and noisy in the day, was now empty and silent. On the far side were the Grammar School and the bishop’s palace, both now dark. Beyond them the city sloped downhill to the river, and the close-packed roofs of the houses looked like the tiled steps of a giant staircase.

Rollo hoped that Swithin and Bart and the men-at-arms, whose profession was violence, would do any fighting necessary.

First light cracked the dome of stars and turned the cathedral from black to grey. Soon afterwards, someone whispered: ‘There.’ Rollo saw a silent procession emerge from the bishop’s palace, six dark figures, each carrying a candle lamp. They crossed the square and entered the church by the west door, their lamps vanishing as if extinguished.

Rollo frowned. Dan Cobley and the other Puritans must already be inside the cathedral, he supposed. Perhaps they had crept through the ruined monastic buildings and entered by one of the doors on the far side, unseen by the group in Priory Gate. He felt uneasy, not knowing for sure; but if he said so, at this late stage, his doubts would be attributed to mere cowardice, so he kept quiet.

Earl Swithin murmured: ‘We’ll wait a minute more. Give them time to get started on their satanic business.’

He was right. It would be a mistake to jump the gun, and burst into the church before the relics were brought out and the desecration had begun.

Rollo imagined the priests walking down the aisle to the east end, unlocking the iron railings, and picking up the reliquary. What would they do next? Throw the bones into the river?

‘All right, let’s go,’ said Swithin.

He led the way, and the others followed him down the stairs and through the front door. As soon as they were outside they broke into a run, and their footsteps seemed thunderous in the silence of the night. Rollo wondered if the people inside the cathedral could hear, and whether they would be sufficiently quick-witted to stop what they were doing and flee.

Then Swithin flung open the great door and they drew their swords and rushed in.

They were only just in time. Dean Luke stood in the middle of the nave, in front of the low altar, where a few candles burned. He had the golden reliquary in his hands, and he was holding it aloft, while the others sang something that was no doubt part of their devil-worshipping ritual. In the dim light it was hard to see just how many people stood in the shadows of the vast church. As the intruders ran along the nave towards the startled group at the altar, Rollo noticed that a hole had been dug in the church floor, and a large paving-stone stood to one side, propped against a pillar. Also beside the pillar was George Cox, the gravedigger, leaning on a shovel. This was not quite the scene Rollo had foreseen, but it hardly mattered: Dean Luke’s stance clearly revealed his blasphemous purpose.

At the head of the group, Earl Swithin charged Luke with his sword raised. Luke turned around, still holding the reliquary high.

Then George Cox raised his shovel and ran at the earl.

At that moment, Rollo heard a baffling shout: ‘Stop, in the name of the queen!’ He could not see where the voice came from.

Swithin slashed at Luke. Luke jerked back at the last instant, but the sword struck his left arm, ripping the black of his robe and slicing deep into the flesh of his forearm. He cried out in pain and dropped the reliquary, which hit the floor with a thud and a crash, dislodging precious jewels that rolled across the stone pavement.

Rollo saw, out of the corner of his eye, a dim sign of movement in the south transept. A moment later, a group of ten or twelve men burst into the nave, wielding swords and clubs. They rushed at the intruders. The same voice repeated the order to stop in the name of the queen, and Rollo saw that the man shouting the pointless instruction was Sheriff Matthewson. What was he doing here?

George Cox swung his shovel, aiming at the earl’s head, but Swithin moved and the tool struck his left shoulder. Enraged, Swithin stabbed with his sword, and Rollo was horrified to see the blade pierce the gravedigger’s belly and come out of his back.

The other priests knelt beside the dropped reliquary as if to protect it.

The sheriff and his men were rushing at the earl and his group, and Rollo saw the leather helmet of Osmund Carter among the dim-lit heads. And was that the red-brown hair of Ned Willard?

The earl’s side was outnumbered two to one. I’m going to die, Rollo thought, but God will reward me.

He was about to rush forward into the fray when he was struck by a thought. The surprise presence of Ned Willard made him suspicious. This could not be a trap, could it? Where were the Puritans? If they had been hiding in the shadows, they would by now have charged into the light. But Rollo saw only the earl’s men on one side, the sheriff’s on the other, and the frightened priests between.

Perhaps Donal Gloster’s information had been wrong. But the priests were here at dawn, as Donal had predicted, and they were undoubtedly doing something sinister with the relics. More likely Dan Cobley had changed his mind, and decided that a protest in an empty church was hardly worthwhile. More puzzling, why was the sheriff here? Had he somehow got wind of the earl’s intentions? That seemed impossible: the only people informed, outside the family, had been the two men-at-arms and Stephen Lincoln, all of whom were completely trustworthy. Dean Luke must have decided to be ultra-cautious. A guilty conscience was always full of fear.

A trap, or a foolhardy adventure that had turned into a fiasco? It hardly mattered: the fight was on.

The sheriff and the earl were the first to clash. Swithin was tugging at his sword, trying to pull it out of the body of George Cox, when the sheriff’s weapon came down on Swithin’s right hand. Swithin roared in pain and let go of the hilt of his weapon, and Rollo saw a detached thumb fall to the floor among the scattered jewels.