Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Carlos saw him at the same time. ‘Those boys seem to be looking for a fight,’ he said anxiously.

But the atmosphere in the meadow was peaceful and happy, and Ebrima said hopefully: ‘I think they’ll be disappointed today.’

‘What a lot of people,’ Carlos said.

‘How many, do you think?’

‘Thousands.’

‘I don’t know how we’re going to count.’

Carlos was clever with numbers. ‘Let’s say there’s half this side of the stream and half the other. Now imagine a line from here to the preacher. How many in the near quarter? Divide it into four again.’

Ebrima took a guess. ‘Five hundred in each sixteenth?’

Carlos did not respond to that, but said: ‘Here comes trouble.’

He was staring over Ebrima’s shoulder, and Ebrima turned to look for the cause. He saw at once what had alerted Carlos. Coming along the road through the wood was a small group of clergy and men-at-arms.

If they had come to break up the meeting, they were too few. This armed crowd, full of righteousness, would wipe them out.

In the centre of the group was a priest in his mid-sixties wearing an ostentatious silver cross outside his black robe. As he came closer, Ebrima saw that he had dark, deep-set eyes either side of a high-bridged nose, and a mouth set in a hard, determined line. Ebrima did not recognize the man, but Carlos did. ‘That’s Pieter Titelmans, dean of Ronse,’ he said. ‘The Grand Inquisitor.’

Ebrima looked anxiously at Matthus and his friends. They had not yet spotted the newcomer. What would they do when they realized that the Grand Inquisitor had come to spy on their meeting?

As the group approached, Carlos said: ‘Let’s stay out of his way — he knows me.’

But he was too late. Titelmans met his eye, registered surprise, and said: ‘I’m disappointed to see you in this nest of ungodliness.’

‘I’m a good Catholic!’ Carlos protested.

Titelmans tilted back his head, like a hungry hawk spotting movement in the grass. ‘What would a good Catholic be doing at a Protestant psalm-singing orgy?’

Ebrima answered him. ‘The city council needs to know how many Protestants there are in Antwerp. We’ve been sent here to count them.’

Titelmans looked sceptical and spoke to Carlos. ‘Why would I take the word of that Ethiopian? He’s probably a Muslim.’

If only you knew, thought Ebrima. Then he recognized one of Titelmans’s entourage, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and the flushed complexion of one who loves wine. ‘Father Huus, there, knows me,’ he said. Huus was a canon of Antwerp Cathedral.

Huus said quietly: ‘Both these men are good Catholics, Dean Pieter. They go to St James’s parish church.’

The psalm came to an end and the preacher began to speak. Some people pressed closer to hear his words shouted across the field. Others noticed Titelmans with his big silver cross, and there were angry mutterings.

Huus said nervously: ‘Sir, there are more Protestants here than we imagined possible and, if violence were to break out, we have too few men to protect you.’

Titelmans ignored him. Looking sly, he said: ‘If you two are what you claim to be, you can tell me the names of some of these wicked men.’ He indicated the congregation with a wide sweep of his arm.

Ebrima was not going to betray his neighbours to a torturer, and he knew Carlos would feel the same. He saw that Carlos was about to make an indignant protest, and forestalled him. ‘Of course, Dean Pieter,’ he said. ‘We’ll be glad to give you names.’ He made a pantomime of looking around, then said: ‘At the moment I don’t see anyone I know, unfortunately.’

‘That’s unlikely. There must be seven or eight thousand people here.’

‘Antwerp is a city of eighty thousand inhabitants. I don’t know them all.’

‘Just the same, you must recognize a few.’

‘I don’t think so. Perhaps it’s because all my friends are Catholics.’

Titelmans was stumped, and Ebrima was relieved. He had survived the interrogation.

Then he heard a voice cry out, in the local Brabant Dutch dialect: ‘Carlos! Ebrima! Good day!’

Ebrima spun around to see Albert Willemsen, his brother-in-law, the iron maker who had helped them when they first came to Antwerp six years ago. Albert had built a blast furnace just like theirs, and all had done well. With Albert were his wife, Betje, and their daughter, Drike, now fourteen, a slim adolescent with an angelic face. Albert and his family had embraced Protestantism.

‘Don’t you think this is great?’ Albert enthused. ‘All these people singing God’s word, and no one to tell them to shut up!’

Carlos said quietly: ‘Careful what you say.’

But the ebullient Albert had not noticed Titelmans or his cross. ‘Oh, come on, now, Carlos, you’re a man of tolerance, not one of those hardliners. You can’t possibly see anything here that would displease the God of love.’

Ebrima said urgently to Albert: ‘Shut up.’

Albert looked hurt and puzzled, then Betje pointed to the Grand Inquisitor, and Albert turned pale.

But others were noticing Titelmans, and most of the nearby Protestants had now turned away from the preacher to stare. Matthus and his friends were approaching, clubs in hands. Ebrima called out: ‘Stay back, you boys, I don’t want you here.’

Matthus ignored his stepfather and stood close to Drike. He was a big lad who had not yet grown used to his size. His adolescent face wore a look that was part threatening, part fearful. However, his attitude to Drike seemed protective, and Ebrima wondered if the boy might be in love. I must ask Evi, he thought.

Father Huus said: ‘We should return to the city now, Dean Pieter.’

Titelmans seemed determined not to go away empty-handed. Pointing to Albert, he said: ‘Tell me, Father Huus, what is that man’s name?’

Huus said: ‘I’m sorry, dean, I don’t know the man.’

Ebrima knew that was a brave lie.

Titelmans turned to Carlos. ‘Well, you obviously know him — he speaks to you like an old friend. Who is he?’

Carlos hesitated.

Titelmans was right, Ebrima thought: Carlos could not pretend not to know Albert, after such an effusive greeting.

Titelmans said: ‘Come, come! If you’re as good a Catholic as you claim to be, you’ll be glad to identify such a heretic. If you don’t, you shall be questioned in another place, where we have means of making you honest.’

Carlos shuddered, and Ebrima guessed he was thinking of Pedro Ruiz undergoing the water torture in Seville.

Albert spoke bravely. ‘I shan’t allow my friends to be tortured on my account,’ he said. ‘My name is Albert Willemsen.’

‘Profession?’

‘Iron maker.’

‘And the women?’

‘Leave them out of this.’

‘No one is left out of God’s mercy.’

‘I don’t know who they are,’ Albert said desperately. ‘They’re two prostitutes I met on the road.’

‘They don’t look like prostitutes. But I shall learn the truth.’ Titelmans turned to Huus. ‘Make a note of the name: Albert Willemsen, iron maker.’ He gathered up the skirts of his robe, turned, and walked back the way he had come, followed by his little entourage.

The others watched him go.

Carlos said: ‘Shit.’

The north tower of Antwerp Cathedral was more than four hundred feet high. It had been designed as one of a pair, but the south tower had not been built. Ebrima thought it was more impressive on its own, a single finger pointing straight up to heaven.

He could not help feeling awestruck as he entered the nave. The narrow central aisle had a vaulted ceiling that seemed impossibly high. It sometimes made him wonder if the god of the Christians might be real, after all. Then he would remember that nothing they built could compete with the power and majesty of a river.