Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Barney said: ‘In this weather, I wonder how people can survive, working in a place like that.’

‘Many don’t,’ Mauricio said. ‘Big problem, slaves dying in the boiling house. Costly.’

At last a plantation house came into view, a two-storey building made of the same yellow-white coral limestone as the palace in the town. As they approached it, Mauricio pointed to a small wooden house in the shade of a pleasant grove of palm trees. ‘Bella,’ he said. He rode on towards the big house.

Barney’s throat felt constricted as he dismounted and tied his horse to a palm trunk. Nine years, he thought. Anything can happen in nine years.

He walked up to the house. The door was open. He stepped inside.

An old woman was lying on a narrow bed in the corner. There was no one else in the room. ‘Where’s Bella?’ Barney said in Spanish.

The woman stared at him for a long moment then said: ‘I knew you’d come back.’

The voice shocked him deeply. He stared at the old woman with incredulity and said: ‘Bella?’

‘I’m dying,’ she said.

He crossed the little room in two strides and knelt beside the bed.

It was Bella. Her hair was thin almost to baldness, her golden skin had become the colour of old parchment, and her once-sturdy body was wasted away; but he recognized the blue eyes. He said: ‘What happened to you?’

‘Dandy fever.’

Barney had never heard of it, but it hardly mattered: anyone could see that she was close to death.

He leaned over to kiss her. She turned her head away, saying: ‘I am hideous.’

He kissed her cheek. ‘My beloved Bella,’ he said. He felt so overwhelmed by grief that he could hardly speak. He fought back unmanly tears. Eventually he managed to say: ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I need a favour.’

‘Anything.’

Before she could name it, Barney heard a child’s voice behind him say: ‘Who are you?’

He turned. A small boy stood in the doorway. He had golden skin, his curly African hair was reddish brown, and he had green eyes.

Barney looked at Bella. ‘He’s about eight years old...’

She nodded. ‘His name is Barnardo Alfonso Willard. Look after him.’

Barney felt as if he had been knocked down by a charging horse. He could hardly catch his breath. Two shocks: Bella was dying, and he had a son. His life had been turned upside down in a minute.

Bella said: ‘Alfo, this is your father. I’ve told you about him.’

Alfo stared at Barney, his face a mask of childish rage. ‘Why did you come here?’ he burst out. ‘She’s been waiting for you — now she’ll die!’

Bella said: ‘Alfo, be quiet.’

‘Go away!’ the boy yelled. ‘Go back to England! We don’t want you here!’

Bella said: ‘Alfo!’

Barney said: ‘It’s all right, Bella. Let him yell.’ He looked at the boy. ‘My mother died, Alfo. I understand.’

The boy’s rage turned to grief. He burst into tears and threw himself on the bed beside his mother.

Bella put a bony arm around his shoulders. He buried his face in her side and sobbed.

Barney stroked his hair. It was soft and springy. My son, he thought. My poor son.

Time went by without talk. Alfo eventually stopped crying. He sucked his thumb, staring at Barney.

Bella closed her eyes. That’s good, Barney thought. She’s resting.

Sleep well, my love.

Sylvie was busy — dangerously so.

Paris was full of Huguenots who had come for the royal wedding, and they bought a lot of paper and ink at the shop in the rue de la Serpente. They also wanted illegal books — not just the Bible in French, but the inflammatory works of John Calvin and Martin Luther attacking the Catholic Church. Sylvie was run off her feet going to the warehouse in the rue du Mur and delivering the contraband books to Protestant homes and lodging houses all over Paris.

And it all had to be done with total discretion. She was used to it, but not at this level of activity. She was risking arrest three times a day instead of three times a week. The increased strain was exhausting.

Spending time with Ned was like resting in an oasis of calm and security. He showed concern, not anxiety. He never panicked. He thought she was brave — in fact, he said she was a hero. She was pleased by his admiration, even though she knew she was just a scared girl.

On his third visit to the shop, her mother told him their real names and asked him to stay for midday dinner.

Isabelle had not consulted Sylvie about this. She just did it, taking Sylvie by surprise. Ned accepted readily. Sylvie was a bit taken aback, but pleased.

They closed and locked the street door and retired to the room behind the shop. Isabelle cooked fresh river trout, caught that morning, with marrow and aromatic fennel, and Ned ate heartily. Afterwards, she produced a bowl of greengages, yellow with red speckles, and a bottle of golden-brown brandy. They did not normally keep brandy in the house: the two women never drank anything stronger than wine, and they usually diluted that. Obviously Isabelle had quietly planned this meal.

Ned told them the news from the Netherlands, which was bad. ‘Hangest disobeyed Coligny’s orders, walked into an ambush, and was soundly defeated. He’s a prisoner now.’

Isabelle was interested in Ned, not Hangest. ‘How long do you think you’ll stay in Paris?’ she asked.

‘As long as Queen Elizabeth wants me here.’

‘And then I suppose you’ll go home to England?’

‘I’ll probably go wherever the queen wants to send me.’

‘You’re devoted to her.’

‘I feel fortunate to serve her.’

Isabelle switched to another line of enquiry. ‘Are English houses different from French ones?’ she said. ‘Your home, for example?’

‘I was born in a big house opposite Kingsbridge Cathedral. Now it belongs to my elder brother, Barney, but I live there when I’m in Kingsbridge.’

‘Opposite the cathedral — that must be a pleasant location.’

‘It’s a wonderful spot. I love to sit in the front parlour and look out at the church.’

‘What was your father?’

Sylvie protested: ‘Mother, you sound like the Inquisition!’

‘I don’t mind,’ Ned said. ‘My father was a merchant with a warehouse in Calais, and after he died, my mother ran the business for ten years.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But she lost everything after you French took back Calais from us English.’

‘Are there any French people in Kingsbridge?’

‘Persecuted Huguenots have sought asylum all over England. Guillaume Forneron has a factory making cambric in the suburb of Loversfield. Everyone wants a shirt from Forneron.’

‘And your brother, what’s his living?’

‘He’s a sea captain. He has a ship called Alice .’

‘His own vessel?’

‘Yes.’

‘But Sylvie said something about a manor?’

‘Queen Elizabeth made me lord of a village called Wigleigh, not far from Kingsbridge. It’s a small place, but it has a manor house, where I stay two or three times a year.’

‘In France we would call you Sieur de Wigleigh .’

‘Yes.’ The name was difficult for French people to pronounce, like Willard.

‘You and your brother have recovered well from your father’s misfortune. You’re an important diplomat, and Barney owns a ship.’

Ned must have realized that Isabelle was establishing his social and financial status, Sylvie thought, but he did not appear to mind; in fact, he seemed eager to prove his respectability. All the same, Sylvie was embarrassed. Ned might think he was expected to marry her. To bring the interrogation to an end she said: ‘We have to open the shop.’