Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Above the high altar was the pride of the city, a large carving of Christ crucified between two thieves. Antwerp was wealthy and cultured, and its cathedral was rich in paintings, sculptures, stained glass, and precious objects. And today Ebrima’s friend and partner, Carlos, would add to that treasure.

Ebrima hoped that this would make up for their abrasive encounter with the loathsome Pieter Titelmans. It was a bad thing to have the Grand Inquisitor for an enemy.

On the south side was a chapel dedicated to Urban, the patron saint of winemakers. There the new painting hung, covered by a red velvet cloth. Seats in the little chapel had been reserved for Carlos’s friends and family and for the officials of the metalworkers’ guild. Standing nearby, eager to see the new picture, were a hundred or so neighbours and fellow businessmen, all in their best clothes.

Ebrima saw that Carlos was glowing with happiness. He was seated in a place of honour in the church that was the centre of the great city. This ceremony would confirm that he belonged here. He felt loved and respected and safe.

Father Huus arrived to perform the service of dedication. In his short sermon he said what a good Christian Carlos was, raising his children in piety and spending his money to enrich the cathedral. He even hinted that Carlos was destined to play a part in the city’s government one day. Ebrima liked Huus. He often preached against Protestantism, but preaching was as far as he wanted to go. Ebrima felt sure he must be reluctant to help Titelmans, and did so only under pressure.

The children became fidgety during the prayers. It was hard for them to listen for long to someone speaking their own language, let alone Latin. Carlos shushed them, but gently: he was an indulgent father.

As the service came to an end, Huus asked Carlos to step forward and unveil the painting.

Carlos took hold of the red velvet cover, then hesitated. Ebrima thought he might be about to make a speech, which would be a mistake: ordinary people did not speak out in church, unless they were Protestants. Then Carlos pulled at the velvet, nervously at first, then more vigorously. At last the cover came down like a crimson waterfall, and the picture was revealed.

The wedding was shown taking place in a grand town house that might have been the home of an Antwerp banker. Jesus sat at the head of the table in a blue robe. Next to him, the host of the feast was a broad-shouldered man with a bushy black beard, very like Carlos; and next to Carlos sat a fair smiling woman who might have been Imke. A buzz of comment arose from the group standing in the nave, and there were smiles and laughter as they identified other faces among the guests: there was Ebrima in an Arab-style hat, with Evi next to him in a gown that emphasized her large bust; a richly dressed man next to Imke was clearly her father, Jan Wolman; and the empty wine jars were being examined by a tall, thin, dismayed-looking steward who resembled Adam Smits, Antwerp’s best-known wine merchant. There was even a dog that looked just like Carlos’s hound, Samson.

The painting looked fine in the chapel, up against the ancient stones of the cathedral, sunnily lit by a south-facing window. The robes of the wealthy guests glowed orange, blue and bright green against the white of the tablecloth and the pale walls of the dining room.

Carlos was visibly thrilled. Father Huus shook his hand then took his leave. Everyone else wanted to congratulate Carlos, and he went around the crowd, smiling and accepting the plaudits of his fellow citizens. Eventually, he clapped his hands and said: ‘Everybody! You’re invited to my house! And I promise the wine won’t run out!’

They walked in procession through the serpentine streets of the town centre to Carlos’s house. He led them to the upstairs floor where food and wine stood ready on tables in the grand drawing room. The guests dug in with enthusiasm. They were joined by several Protestants who had not been in the cathedral, including Albert and his family.

Ebrima picked up a goblet and took a long swallow. Carlos’s wine was always good. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The wine warmed his blood and made him feel mellow. He talked amiably to Jan Wolman about business, to Imke about her children, and to Carlos briefly about a customer who was late paying his bill: the customer was here, enjoying Carlos’s hospitality, and Ebrima thought this was the moment to confront him and ask for the money, but Carlos did not want to spoil the mood. The guests became a little raucous. Children squabbled, adolescent boys tried to woo adolescent girls, and married men flirted with their friends’ wives. Parties were the same everywhere, Ebrima thought; even Africa.

Then Pieter Titelmans came in.

The first Ebrima knew of it was when a hush fell over the room, starting at the door and spreading to all four corners. He was talking to Albert about the merits of cast-iron cannons as compared with bronze when they both realized something was wrong and looked up. Titelmans stood in the doorway wearing his big silver cross, again accompanied by Father Huus and four men-at-arms.

Ebrima said: ‘What does that devil want?’

Albert said with nervous hopefulness: ‘Perhaps he’s come to congratulate Carlos on the painting.’

Carlos pushed through the quietened crowd and spoke to Titelmans with a show of amity. ‘Good day, Dean Pieter,’ he said. ‘Welcome to my house. Will you take a cup of wine?’

Titelmans ignored the question. ‘Are there any Protestants here?’ he said.

‘I don’t think so,’ Carlos said. ‘We’ve just come from the cathedral, where we unveiled—’

‘I know what you did at the cathedral,’ Titelmans interrupted rudely. ‘Are there any Protestants here?’

‘I can assure you, to the best of my knowledge—’

‘You’re about to lie to me. I can smell it.’

Carlos’s bonhomie began to crack. ‘If you don’t believe me, why ask the question?’

‘To test you. Now shut your mouth.’

Carlos sputtered: ‘I’m in my own house!’

Titelmans raised his voice so that everyone could hear. ‘I’m here to see Albert Willemsen.’

Titelmans seemed unsure which one was Albert — he had only seen him for a few minutes at Lord Hubert’s Pasture — and for a moment Ebrima hoped they might all pretend he was not present. But the crowd was not sufficiently quick-witted, and indeed many of them stupidly turned and looked directly at Albert.

After a moment of fearful hesitation, Albert stepped forward. With a show of bravado he said: ‘What do you want with me?’

‘And your wife,’ said Titelmans, pointing. Unfortunately Betje was standing close to Albert and Titelmans’s guess was correct. Looking pale and scared, Betje stepped forward.

‘And the daughter.’

Drike was not standing with her parents, and Titelmans surely would not remember a fourteen-year-old girl. ‘The child is not here,’ Carlos lied bravely. Perhaps she might be saved, Ebrima thought hopefully.

But she did not want to be saved. A girlish voice piped up: ‘I am Drike Willemsen.’

Ebrima’s heart sank.

He could see her, by the window, in a white dress, talking to his stepson Matthus, with Carlos’s pet cat in her arms.

Carlos said: ‘She’s a mere child, dean. Surely—’

But Drike was not finished. ‘And I am a Protestant,’ she said defiantly. ‘For which I thank the Lord.’

From the guests came a murmur of mixed admiration and dismay.

‘Come here,’ said Titelmans.

She crossed the room with her head held high, and Ebrima thought: Oh, hell.

‘Take the three of them away,’ said Titelmans to his entourage.

Someone shouted: ‘Why don’t you leave us in peace?’