Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Dan walked in. ‘Barney’s just left,’ Ned said, assuming that Dan was here to talk about his investment in Barney’s voyage. ‘He’s taking the barge to Combe Harbour. But you might catch him at the dock, if you hurry.’

‘My business with Barney is settled, to our mutual satisfaction,’ Dan said. ‘I’ve come to see you.’

‘In that case, please sit down.’

At thirty-two Dan was plumper than ever, and still had a know-all air that struck Ned as adolescent. But Dan was a good businessman, and had expanded the enterprise he had inherited. He was now probably the richest man in Kingsbridge. He was looking for a bigger house, and had offered a good price for Priory Gate, though Rollo did not want to sell. Dan was also the undisputed leader of the town’s Puritans, who liked to worship at St John’s church in the suburb of Loversfield.

As Ned feared, Dan had come to talk about religion.

Dan leaned forward dramatically. ‘There is a Catholic among the clergy at Kingsbridge Cathedral,’ he said.

‘Is there?’ Ned sighed. ‘How could you possibly know a thing like that?’

Dan answered a different question. ‘His name is Father Paul.’

Paul Watson was a gentle old priest. He had been the last prior of Kingsbridge, and he had probably never accepted the reformed religion. ‘And what is Father Paul’s crime, exactly?’

Dan said triumphantly: ‘He celebrates Mass, secretly, in the crypt, with the doors locked!’

‘He’s an old man,’ Ned said wearily. ‘It’s hard for such people to keep changing their religious convictions.’

‘He’s a blasphemer!’

‘Yes, he is.’ Ned agreed with Dan about theology; he differed only about enforcement. ‘You’ve actually witnessed these illegal rites?’

‘I have watched people creeping furtively into the cathedral by a side door at dawn on Sunday — including several I’ve long suspected of backsliding into idolatry: Rollo Fitzgerald, for one, and his mother, Lady Jane, for another.’

‘Have you told Bishop Luke?’

‘No! I’m sure he tolerates it.’

‘Then what do you propose?’

‘Bishop Luke has to go.’

‘And I suppose you want Father Jeremiah from St John’s to be made bishop.’

Dan hesitated, surprised that Ned had read his intentions so easily. He cleared his throat. ‘That is for her majesty to decide,’ he said with insincere deference. ‘Only the monarch can appoint and dismiss bishops in the Anglican Church, as you know. But I want you to tell the queen what is going on — and if you don’t, I will.’

‘Let me explain something to you, Dan — though you’re not going to like it. Elizabeth may dislike Catholics but she hates Puritans. If I go to her with this story she’ll have me thrown out of the presence chamber. All she wants is peace.’

‘But the Mass is illegal, as well as heretical!’

‘And the law is not strictly enforced. How could you not have noticed?’

‘What is the point of a law if it’s not enforced?’

‘The point is to keep everyone reasonably content. Protestants are happy because the Mass is illegal. Catholics are happy because they can go to Mass anyway. And the queen is happy because people are going about their business and not killing one another over religion. I strongly advise you not to complain to her. She won’t do anything about Father Paul, but she might do something about you.’

‘This is outrageous,’ said Dan, standing up.

Ned did not want to quarrel. ‘I’m sorry to send you away with a dusty answer, Dan,’ he said. ‘But this is the way things are. I’d be misleading you if I said anything else.’

‘I appreciate your frankness,’ Dan said grudgingly, and they parted with at least the semblance of cordiality.

Five minutes later, Ned left the house. He walked up the main street, past Priory Gate, the house he would always think of as having been built with money stolen from his mother. He saw Rollo Fitzgerald emerge. Rollo was in his middle thirties now, and his black hair was receding, giving him a high forehead. When Sir Reginald died, Rollo had applied to take his place as Receiver of Customs at Combe Harbour, but such plum posts were used by the sovereign to reward loyalty, and it had gone to a staunch Protestant, not surprisingly. However, the Fitzgerald family still had a large business as wool brokers, and Rollo was running that well enough, more competently than his father ever had.

Ned did not speak to Rollo but hurried on across the high street and went to a large old house near St Mark’s church. Here lived what remained of the Kingsbridge monks. King Henry VIII had granted a small stipend to some of those he dispossessed, and the few still alive continued to receive their pensions. Father Paul came to the door, a bent figure with a red nose and wispy hair.

He invited Ned into the parlour. ‘I’m sorry you’ve lost your mother,’ Paul said simply. ‘She was a good woman.’

The former bishop, Julius, also lived here, and he was sitting in a corner, staring at nothing. He was demented, and had lost all speech, but his face wore a furious expression, and he mumbled angry gibberish at the wall.

‘It’s good of you to take care of Julius,’ Ned said to Father Paul.

‘It’s what monks are supposed to do — look after the sick, and the poor, and the bereaved.’

If more of them had remembered that we might still have a monastery, Ned thought, but he kept it to himself. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The legendary Caris, who founded the hospital, was a nun at Kingsbridge.’

‘Rest her soul.’ Looking hopeful, Paul said: ‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’

Ned hated the fuddling effect of wine in the morning. ‘No, thank you. I won’t stay long. I came to give you a word of warning.’

An anxious frown crossed Paul’s lined face. ‘Oh, dear, that sounds ominous.’

‘It is, a little. I’ve been told that something is going on in the crypt at dawn on Sundays.’

Paul paled. ‘I have no idea—’

Ned held up a hand to stall the interruption. ‘I’m not asking you whether it’s true, and there’s no need for you to say anything at all.’

Paul was agitated, but quieted himself with a visible effort. ‘Very well.’

‘Whoever is using the crypt at that hour, for whatever purpose, should be warned that the town’s Puritans are suspicious. To avoid trouble, perhaps the services — if that is what they are — should be moved to a different venue.’

Paul swallowed. ‘I understand.’

‘Her majesty the queen believes that religion was given to us for consolation in this life and salvation in the next, and that we may disagree about it, but we should never let it be a cause of violence between one Englishman and another.’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps I don’t need to say any more.’

‘I think I understand you perfectly.’

‘And it might be best if you don’t tell anyone that I came to see you.’

‘Of course.’

Ned shook Paul’s hand. ‘I’m glad we had a chance to talk.’

‘Me, too.’

‘Goodbye, Father Paul.’

‘God bless you, Ned,’ said Paul.

On Friday morning, Margery’s husband felt ill. This was not unusual, especially after a good supper with plenty of wine the night before. However, today Earl Bart was supposed to go to Wigleigh and meet Sir Ned Willard.

‘You can’t let Ned down,’ Margery said. ‘He’ll have ridden there specially.’

‘You’ll have to go instead of me,’ Bart said from his bed. ‘You can tell me what it’s all about.’ Then he put his head under the blanket.

Margery’s spirits lifted at the prospect of spending an hour or two with Ned. Her heart seemed to beat faster and her breath came in shallow gasps. She was glad Bart was not looking at her.