Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Rollo met the duke in a small but opulent room that was hung with paintings of biblical scenes in which many of the women and men were naked. There was a distinct air of decadence that made Rollo uncomfortable.

Rollo was flattered, but somewhat intimidated, by the high status of the other attendees. Cardinal Romero was here to represent the king of Spain, and Giovanni Castelli the Pope. Claude Matthieu was the rector of the Professed Jesuits. These men were the heavy artillery of Christian orthodoxy, and he felt amazed to find himself in their company.

Pierre sat next to Duke Henri. Pierre’s skin condition had worsened over the years, and now there were red flaking patches on his hands and neck as well as at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and he scratched himself continually.

Three Guise attendants served wine and sweetmeats as the notables took their seats, then stood by the door awaiting further orders. Rollo assumed they were thoroughly trustworthy, but all the same he would have made them wait outside. Secrecy had become an obsession with him. The only person in this room who knew his real name was Pierre. In England it was the opposite: no one knew that Rollo Fitzgerald was Jean Langlais, not even his sister, Margery. Rollo was theoretically employed by the earl of Tyne, who was a timid Catholic, devout but frightened of conspiracy; the earl paid him a salary, gave him indefinite leave of absence, and asked no questions.

Duke Henri opened the discussion with a statement that thrilled Rollo: ‘We are here to talk about the invasion of England.’

This was Rollo’s dream. The work he had been doing for the last ten years, smuggling priests into England, was important, but palliative: it kept the true faith alive, but did nothing to change the status quo. Its true value was as preparation for this. An invasion led by Duke Henri could return England to the Catholic Church and restore the Fitzgerald family to its rightful position in the ruling elite.

He saw it in his mind: the invasion fleet with banners flying; the armoured men pouring onto the beaches; the triumphal entry into London, cheered by the crowds; the coronation of Mary Stuart; and himself, in bishop’s robes, celebrating Mass in Kingsbridge Cathedral.

Rollo understood, from his discussions with Pierre, that Queen Elizabeth was a major nuisance to the Guises. Whenever the ultra-Catholics got the upper hand in France, swarms of Huguenots sought asylum in England, where they were welcomed for their craft skills and enterprise. Prospering there, they sent money home to their co-religionists. Elizabeth also interfered in the Spanish Netherlands, permitting English volunteers to go there and fight on the rebel side.

But Henri had another motive. ‘It is insupportable,’ he said, ‘that Elizabeth, who has been declared illegitimate by the Pope, should rule England and keep the true queen, Mary Stuart, in prison.’

Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots, was Duke Henri’s cousin. If she became queen of England, the Guises would be the supremely powerful family of Europe. No doubt this was what was driving Henri and Pierre.

Rollo suffered a moment of doubt about the domination of his country by a foreign family. But that was a small price to pay for a return to the true faith.

‘I see the invasion as a two-pronged fork,’ Henri said. ‘A force of twelve thousand men will land at an east coast port, rally the local Catholic noblemen, and take control of the north of the country. Another force, perhaps smaller, will land on the south coast and, again, muster the Catholics to take control. Both groups, supplied and reinforced by English supporters, will march on London.’

The Jesuit leader said: ‘Very good, but who is going to pay for this?’

Cardinal Romero answered him. ‘The king of Spain has promised half the cost. King Felipe is fed up with English pirates attacking his transatlantic galleons and stealing their cargoes of gold and silver from New Spain.’

‘And the other half?’

Castelli said: ‘I believe the Pope will contribute, especially if shown a credible war plan.’

Rollo knew that kings and popes gave promises more readily than they gave cash. However, right now money did not matter quite as much as usual. Duke Henri had just inherited half a million livres from his grandmother, so he was able to meet some of the expense himself, if necessary.

Henri now said: ‘The invasion force will need plans of suitable harbours for the landing.’

Rollo realized that Pierre had choreographed this event. He already knew the answers to every question. The point of the meeting was to let each attendee know that all the others were willing to play their parts.

Now Rollo said: ‘I will get the maps.’

Henri looked at Rollo. ‘On your own?’

‘No, duke, not alone. I have a large network of powerful and wealthy Catholics in England.’ It was Margery’s network, not Rollo’s, but no one here realized that. And Rollo had always insisted on knowing where his priests were being sent, on the pretext of making sure they would be compatible with their protectors.

Henri said: ‘Can you rely on these people?’

‘Your grace, they are not just Catholics. They are men who are already risking the death penalty for harbouring the priests I have been smuggling into England for the last ten years. They are utterly trustworthy.’

The duke looked impressed. ‘I see.’

‘Not only will they supply maps: they will be the core of the uprising that will support the invasion.’

‘Very good,’ said Henri.

Pierre spoke for the first time. ‘There remains one essential element: Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots. We cannot embark on this enterprise unless we have a clear commitment from her that she will support the rebellion, authorize the execution of Elizabeth, and assume the crown herself.’

Rollo took a deep breath. ‘I will undertake to make sure of her,’ he said. He silently prayed that he would be able to keep this ambitious promise.

Henri said: ‘But she is in prison, and her letters are monitored.’

‘That’s a problem, but not insuperable.’

The duke seemed satisfied with that. He looked around the room. With the brisk impatience common to powerful men, he said: ‘I think that’s all. Gentlemen, thank you for your attendance.’

Rollo glanced to the door and saw, to his surprise, that the three servants had been joined by a fourth person, a man in his early twenties whose hair was cut in the short style fashionable among students. He looked vaguely familiar. Whoever he was, he had presumably heard Rollo promise to betray his country. Unnerved, Rollo pointed and said loudly: ‘Who is that man?’

Pierre answered: ‘It’s my stepson. What the devil are you doing here, Alain?’

Rollo recognized him now. He had seen the boy several times over the years. He had the blond hair and beard of the Guise family. ‘My mother is ill,’ Alain said.

Rollo watched with interest the procession of emotions over Pierre’s face. At first, fleetingly, there was a look of hope, quickly repressed; then a mask of concern that did not quite convince Rollo; and finally an expression of brisk efficiency as he said: ‘Summon a doctor immediately. Run to the Louvre and fetch Ambroise Paré — I don’t care about the cost. My beloved Odette must have the best possible care. Go, boy, hurry!’ Pierre turned back to the duke and said: ‘If you have no further need of me, your grace...’

‘Go, Pierre,’ said Henri.

Pierre left the room, and Rollo thought: Now what was that pantomime about?

Ned Willard had come to Paris to meet Jerónima Ruiz, but he had to be very careful. If she were suspected of passing secret information to Ned, she would be executed — and so might he.