Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

One day they would regret it.

Speaking a mixture of French and English, he found his way to a brick town house, large but not beautiful, in a street of shops and tenements. All his hopes were now invested in this disappointingly ordinary building. If England was to return to the true faith, and if Rollo was to be revenged on his enemies, it would all start here.

The door was open.

In the hall he met a lively pink-faced man about ten years his junior — Rollo was thirty-five. ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ he said politely.

‘You’re English, aren’t you?’ said the other man.

‘Is this the English College?’

‘It certainly is.’

‘Thank God.’ Rollo was relieved. It had been a long journey, but he had arrived. Now he had to find out whether it would live up to his hopes.

‘I’m Leonard Price. Call me Lenny. What are you doing here?’

‘I lost my livelihood in Kingsbridge because I wouldn’t sign the Thirty-Nine Articles.’

‘Good man!’

‘Thank you. I’d like to help restore the true faith in England, and I’ve been told that’s your mission here.’

‘Right again. We train priests then send them back home — clandestinely, of course — to bring the sacraments to loyal Catholics there.’

This was the idea that thrilled Rollo. Now that Queen Elizabeth was beginning to reveal her true, tyrannical nature, the Church would fight back. And so would Rollo. His life had been ruined, so he had nothing to lose. He should have been a prosperous Kingsbridge alderman, living in the best house in the city, destined eventually to be mayor like his father; but instead he was an outcast, walking the dusty roads of a foreign land. However, he would turn the tables one day.

Lenny lowered his voice. ‘If you ask William Allen — that’s our founder — he’ll say that training priests is our only mission. But some of us have bigger ideas.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Elizabeth must be deposed, and Mary of Scotland must be queen.’

That was what Rollo wanted to hear. ‘Are you really planning that?’

Lenny hesitated, probably realizing he had been indiscreet. ‘Call it a daydream,’ he said. ‘But it’s one shared by a lot of people.’

That was indisputable. Mary’s right to the throne was a constant topic of discussion at Catholic dinner tables. Rollo said eagerly: ‘Can I see William Allen?’

‘Let’s go and ask. He’s with a very important visitor, but perhaps they’d both like to talk to a potential new recruit. Come with me.’

Lenny led Rollo up the stairs to the next floor. Rollo was full of excitement and optimism. Perhaps his life was not over after all. Lenny tapped on a door and opened it onto a spacious, light room lined with books, and two men deep in conversation. Lenny addressed one of them, a thin-faced man a few years older than Rollo, untidily dressed in a way that reminded Rollo of his Oxford teachers. ‘Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but I thought you might like to meet someone newly arrived from England.’

Allen turned to his guest and said in French: ‘If you permit...?’

The second man was younger, but more richly dressed, in a green tunic embroidered with yellow. He was strikingly good-looking, with light-brown eyes and thick blond hair. He shrugged and said: ‘As you wish.’

Rollo stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘My name is Rollo Fitzgerald, from Kingsbridge.’

‘I’m William Allen.’ He shook hands then indicated his guest with a gesture. ‘This is a great friend of the college’s, Monsieur Pierre Aumande de Guise, from Paris.’

The Frenchman nodded coldly to Rollo and did not offer his hand.

Lenny said: ‘Rollo lost his livelihood because he refused to sign the Thirty-Nine Articles.’

‘Well done,’ said Allen.

‘And he wants to join us.’

‘Sit down, both of you.’

Monsieur Aumande de Guise spoke in careful English. ‘What education do you have, Rollo?’

‘I was at Oxford, then I studied law at Gray’s Inn, before entering my father’s business. I did not take holy orders, but that is what I want to do now.’

‘Good.’ Aumande was thawing a little.

Allen said: ‘The mission that awaits our students, at the end of their training, is to risk their lives. You do realize that? If caught you could be put to death. Please do not join us if you are not prepared for that fate.’

Rollo considered his answer. ‘It would be foolish to treat such a prospect lightly.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing Allen nod approvingly. He went on: ‘But with God’s help I believe I can face the risk.’

Aumande spoke again. ‘How do you feel about Protestants? I mean personally.’

‘Personally?’ Rollo began to compose another judicious answer, but his emotions got the better of him. He clenched his fists. ‘I hate them,’ he said. He was so moved he found it hard to get the words out. ‘I want to wipe them out, destroy them, kill every last one of them. That’s how I feel.’

Aumande almost smiled. ‘In that case, I think you may have a place with us.’

Rollo realized he had said the right thing.

‘Well,’ said Allen more cautiously, ‘I hope you will stay with us for a few days, at least, so that we can get to know each other better; then we can talk some more about your future.’

Aumande said: ‘He needs an alias.’

‘Already?’ said Allen.

‘The fewer people who know his real name, the better.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘Call him Jean Langlais.’

‘John the Englishman — in French. All right.’ Allen looked at Rollo. ‘From now on you are Jean Langlais.’

‘But why?’ said Rollo.

Aumande answered him. ‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘All in good time.’

England was in the grip of invasion panic that summer. People saw the Papal Bull as an incitement to Catholic countries to attack, and any day they expected to see the galleons come over the horizon, teeming with soldiers armed to the teeth, eager to burn and loot and rape. All along the south coast, masons were repairing age-crumbled castle walls. Rusty harbour-mouth cannons were cleaned, oiled and test-fired. Sturdy farm lads joined the local militia and practised archery on sunny Sunday afternoons.

The countess of Shiring was in a different kind of fervour. On her way to meet Ned, Margery visualized the things they would do together, and she felt the anticipatory moisture inside her. She had once heard someone say that French courtesans washed their private parts every day and perfumed them, in case men wanted to kiss them there. She had not believed the story, and Bart had certainly never kissed her there; but Ned did it all the time, so now she washed like a courtesan. She knew, as she did so, that she was getting ready to commit mortal sin, again; and knew, too, that one day her punishment would come; but those thoughts gave her a pain in her head, and she thrust them away.

She went to Kingsbridge and stayed in the house Bart owned on Leper Island. Her pretext was seeing Guillaume Forneron. A Protestant refugee from France, Forneron made the finest cambric in the south of England, and Margery bought shirts for Bart and, for herself, chemises and nightdresses.

On the second morning, she left the house alone and went to meet Ned at the home of her friend Susannah, now Lady Twyford. She still had the house in Kingsbridge that she had inherited from her father, and she usually stayed there when her husband was travelling. Ned had proposed this rendezvous, and both he and Margery felt sure they could trust Susannah to keep their secret.

Margery had got used to the knowledge that Susannah had once been Ned’s lover. Susannah had been bashful when Margery revealed that she had guessed the truth. ‘You had his heart,’ Susannah had said. ‘I just had his body, which, fortunately, was all I wanted.’ Margery was living in such a daze of passion that she could hardly think straight about that or anything else.