Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘Won’t they look here?’

‘Go all the way to the back and push against the wall. It leads to a secret room. Quickly!’

Stephen climbed inside with his box, and Margery shut the door.

Breathing hard, she retraced her steps to the front hall. Her mother was there, hair in a nightcap, looking worried. Margery pulled the wrapper more closely around her, then nodded to Nora. ‘Now you can open up.’

Nora opened the door.

Margery said brightly: ‘Good morning, Sheriff. How hard you knocked! Are you in a hurry?’

Matthewson was a big man who had a brusque way with malefactors, but he was uneasy confronting a countess. He tipped up his chin defiantly and said in a loud voice: ‘Her majesty the queen has ordered the arrest of the Catholic priest Stephen Lincoln, suspected of treasonously conspiring with the Queen of the Scots.’

The charge was ridiculous. Stephen had never met Mary Queen of Scots, and anyway he would not have the nerve for a conspiracy. The accusation was malicious, and Margery suspected that Dan Cobley was behind it. But she smiled and said: ‘Then you needn’t have woken us up so early. Stephen is not a priest, nor is he here.’

‘He lives here!’

‘He was the earl’s clerk, but he has left.’ Improvising desperately, she added: ‘I think he may have gone to Canterbury.’ That was enough detail, she decided. ‘Anyway, I’m quite sure he has never had anything to do with the Queen of the Scots. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey. But now that you’re here, would you and your men like some breakfast?’

‘No, thank you.’ He turned to his men. ‘Search the house.’

Margery heard Bart say: ‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ She turned to see him coming down the stairs. He was wearing his sword as well as his breeches and boots. ‘What the devil do you think you’re up to, Matthewson?’

‘Carrying out orders from the queen, my lord, and I hope you won’t offend her majesty by obstructing me.’

Margery stood between Bart and the sheriff and spoke in a low voice. ‘Don’t fight him. Don’t be executed like your father. Let him search the house. He won’t find anything.’

‘To hell with that.’

The sheriff said: ‘You’re suspected of harbouring a Catholic priest called Stephen Lincoln who is a traitor. It will be better for you to give him up now.’

In a louder voice, Margery said to Bart: ‘I’ve already explained that Stephen is not a priest and is no longer here.’

Bart looked mystified. He stepped closer to Margery and whispered: ‘But what about—’

‘Trust me!’ she hissed.

Bart shut up.

Margery raised her voice again. ‘Perhaps we should allow the sheriff to satisfy himself that we’re telling the truth. Then everyone will be content.’

Enlightenment dawned on Bart. He mouthed: ‘In the old oven?’

Margery said: ‘Yes, that’s what I think, let him search.’

Bart looked at Matthewson. ‘All right, but I won’t forget this — especially your part in it.’

‘It’s not my decision, my lord, as you know.’

Bart grunted contemptuously.

‘Get going, men,’ said the sheriff. ‘Pay special attention to the remains of the old castle — it’s sure to be full of hiding places.’ He was no fool.

Margery said to Nora: ‘Serve breakfast in the dining room — just for the family, no one else.’ There was now no point in pretending to be hospitable.

Bart went with ill temper to the dining room, and Lady Jane followed, but Margery could not summon enough sang-froid to sit and eat while the men looked for Stephen, so she followed the sheriff around the house.

Although his men searched the halls and parlours of the new house, he was more interested in the old castle, and carried a lantern to light dark places. He examined the church first. The tomb of a forgotten ancestor caught his eye, and he grasped the effigy of the knight on top and tried to move it, to test whether it might have been opened. It was firm.

The bakery was almost the last place he tried. He opened the iron door and shone his lamp inside, and Margery held her breath and pretended insouciance. He leaned forward, head and shoulders in the oven, and waved the lamp around. Was the door at the back as invisible as Margery remembered? Matthewson grunted, but she could not interpret the sound.

Then he withdrew and slammed the door.

Margery said gaily: ‘Did you think we might keep priests in the oven?’ Then she hoped he had not noticed the slight tremor in her voice.

He looked annoyed and did not trouble to answer her facetious question.

They returned to the entrance hall. Matthewson was angry. He suspected he had been hoodwinked but he could not figure out how.

Just as he was about to leave, the front door opened and Sir Ned Willard walked in.

She stared at him in horror. He knew the secret of the old bakery. Why was he here?

There was a light film of perspiration on his forehead, and he was breathing heavily: clearly he had been riding hard. She guessed that somehow he had heard about the sheriff’s mission. But what was his purpose? No doubt he was worried about Margery. But he was a Protestant, too: would he be tempted to flush out the fugitive priest? His loyalty to Queen Elizabeth was profound, almost like love: would it be outweighed by his love for Margery?

He gave Matthewson a hostile glare. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said.

The sheriff repeated his explanation. ‘Stephen Lincoln is suspected of treason.’

‘I haven’t heard of any such suspicion,’ Ned said.

‘As I understand it, Sir Ned, you haven’t been in London since before Easter, so perhaps you haven’t heard.’ The sheriff’s words were polite, but he said them with a sneer.

Ned felt foolish, Margery could tell by his face. He prided himself on knowing everything first. He had slipped — and undoubtedly it was because of her.

Margery said: ‘Stephen Lincoln is not here. The sheriff has searched my house very thoroughly. If we’d had a Catholic mouse in the pantry I believe he would have found it.’

‘I’m glad to hear the queen’s orders are being carried out so meticulously,’ Ned said, apparently changing sides. ‘Well done, sheriff.’

Margery felt so tense she wanted to scream. Was Ned about to say But did you find the secret room behind the old oven? Controlling her voice with an effort she said: ‘If that’s all, sheriff...’

Matthewson hesitated, but he had nothing left to do. Looking like thunder, he walked away, rudely without saying farewell.

One by one his men followed him through the door.

Bart came out of the dining room. ‘Have they gone?’ he said.

Margery could not speak. She burst into tears.

Bart put his arms around her. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘You were magnificent.’

She looked over his shoulder at Ned, who wore the face of a man in torment.

Rollo was going to have his revenge.

He was weary, dusty, and seething with hatred and resentment when he arrived at the university town of Douai, in the French-speaking south-west of the Netherlands, in July of 1570. It reminded him of Oxford, where he had studied: there were many churches, gracious college buildings, and gardens and orchards where teachers and students could walk and talk. That had been a golden age, he thought bitterly; his father had been alive and prosperous, a strong Catholic had sat on the throne of England, and Rollo had seemed to have an assured future.

He had walked a long way across the flat landscape of Flanders, but his feet were not as sore as his heart. The Protestants were never satisfied, he thought furiously. England had a Protestant queen, compliant bishops, an English Bible and a reformed prayer book. The paintings had been taken down, the statues beheaded, the golden crucifixes melted down. And still it was not enough. They had to take away Rollo’s business and his home, and drive him out of his own country.